Page 3 of Tall, Dark and December (The Rake Review #12)

CHAPTER THREE

WHERE A LADY PONDERS A RAKE’S IMPUDENCE

P enelope stared at the penny, a gleaming copper provocation.

“Lady Liberty,” she murmured and finally dared to pick it up.

Weston Whitaker was long gone, his carriage clattering away at full speed—much like the man. He wouldn’t be there to see her caress a coin warm from his touch, then pocket it for dangerous safekeeping. She sighed, eyeing the wrinkled gossip sheet. It was resting on her father’s weathered desk, begging for examination. As the mantel clock ticked off the seconds of her indecision, she took the page in hand with the same enthusiasm she had Mr. Whitaker’s penny.

Dearest Reader,

Ready your lorgnettes, for this Season’s intrigue has reached new heights! None other than Lady P_ was seen leaving the leased Marylebone terrace of Mr. W_W_ in the wee hours of dawn. Yes, you read that correctly—a lady of her standing, seen scurrying away under first light, leaving us all in a flutter!

Mr. W_W_, the long-lost, disgraced half-brother of the Duke of M_, clearly has London abuzz with his charm and scandalous habits. From midnight promenades to moonlit dinners, this audacious fellow seems intent on sweeping the women of society into whirlwinds of impropriety.

Now, whispers fly. Is Lady P_ besotted enough to disregard decorum, or is she simply indulging in a passing infatuation with our colonial upstart? Will this dalliance end in matrimony or, more likely, another feather in Mr. W_W_’s cap of discarded romances?

Until next time, my friends, as London's mischief continues to unfold.

The Brazen Belle

“He drove his own carriage away from here,” Isabella said from the doorway where she lingered. Penelope heard her arrive as her sister wasn’t a person to enter a room without notice. “Hopped right up on the seat with his coachman, a ragged brute of a man, and whipped the horses into a frenzy like he’d been born to it.” She stepped into the room, her voice threaded with delight. “Can you imagine Merchant steering his own team? Sent his mount into a ditch at Epsom last season. Not a talented equestrian.”

Penelope tucked the Brazen Belle’s latest edition beneath her ledger while adding a mental note to her client’s growing list. Men in society do not manage their own carriages unless entered in a race. “Lord Merchant rides as well as he needs to, Isa. A marquess doesn’t have to be anything but a marquess to impress.”

Unimpressed, her sister hummed and sank into the armchair Weston Whitaker had inhabited for all of two minutes. Where he’d then proceeded to prowl her parlor like a panther on the loose, looking for signs of life. Her life. He’d made no effort to hide his inquisitiveness as she planned to instruct him he should. When she didn’t put anything on display she wanted hidden. Not anymore. Never again.

Penelope closed the ledger before Isabella got a look at the sad state of their finances. “I know you don’t like Neville. You’ve made that clear.”

“I don’t dis like him.” Isabella drew her legs beneath her skirt and dropped her chin to her knees. Penelope’s heart ached in sympathy. Twenty-one years of age without a proper dowry, even if one had a respectable name, was a vulnerable place to reside. “I simply don’t think he’s good enough. You’re the most stunning woman in any ballroom, and he looks rather like a toad.” She trailed her fingernail along a scratch in the armchair’s leather. “An old toad. A dull as a rock toad.”

Beneath the desk, Penelope wiggled her worn slippers free and stretched her toes. One benefit to employing so few servants was the ability to be as relaxed as she liked at home, exploring her passions while maintaining a dignified front elsewhere. She’d learned the hard way that a decorous facade was of the utmost importance. The English didn’t keep the faded rugs out of the main parlors for nothing. “He’s forty, Isa. Only eleven years older than me and quite attractive in a distinguished manner. There would be absolutely nothing improper about the union. Second marriages are common. Third, even.”

Isabella chewed on her bottom lip, hesitating, then spilled her thoughts in a rush as was her way. “You’re considering his proposal because of me. I just know it. These gowns”—she pinched cream silk between her fingers—“cost a fortune. Not to mention the rest required to keep us looking like we still belong when we both know we don’t.”

Penelope collapsed in her chair in a sprawl similar to Mr. Whitaker’s. This conversation was overdue. “Of course, if I agree to marry Neville, I’m doing it for you. You have a Season coming up, and those aren’t without cost. A marquess’s sister by marriage isn’t anything but advantageous. However, I’d also be doing it for me, for our family, what’s left of it. Bessy’s hip is getting worse, and when she retires, it’s our duty to provide some type of pensioning for her. It won’t be what her mother received from our grandfather since the cottages in Derbyshire aren’t mine to lease anymore, but there must be funds for her to live on. Basil won’t be able to serve much longer, either, and he’ll need the same. We’ve done well so far. My tutoring, your embroidery, which brings in more than I’d imagined it could, have kept us afloat, but our expenses are greater than the money coming in.”

This statement was also true, though rarely mentioned, but it was time to mention it. “In addition, I’d like to have children, and I’m not getting any younger.”

Isabella grimaced, likely imagining what Penelope would have to do to get them, a fact she worried a little about as well.

“Basil is starting to look rather stooped, like a wilted daisy,” Isabella finally said, wrapping her arms around her legs and giving them a squeeze. “And my… embroidery projects can only sustain us for so long. That’s valid. I’ve sold something to almost every household in the ton .” Her gaze drifted away as it did when she was telling a fib, landing on the corner of the gossip sheet jutting from beneath the ledger. “So, how goes ‘Tall, Dark, and December’?”

“Bloody society and their monikers. I’d hoped you hadn’t read it,” Penelope whispered and yanked the column free, only to crumple it into a ball and toss it to the floor. “I suppose I should be thankful December’s article wasn’t as horrid as November’s, silver ornamentation to appendages and such.”

Isabella dropped her legs to the floor with a gasp of laughter. “This sounds like the Penny of old! The sister who would say anything, do anything. Run through the fields of Derbyshire and come home with brambles in her hair and one slipper missing!”

Whitaker’s coin burned where it sat in her pocket. Penny . No one called her Penny, not since her father’s death. But, oh , she’d adored that girl and her unflagging spirit. Until a senseless summer and the consequences that followed, she’d been quite fearless. Pushing aside a past she couldn’t change, Penelope wiggled into her slippers. The girl who’d routinely lost them in fields of clover was long gone. The girl who’d dreamed of art and love. “I was reckless.”

Isabella gave a forlorn groan. “You were fun.”

Her sister had been too young to understand, and thankfully, too young to be caught in the vortex. Penelope had spent the past seven years making up for her mistakes to ensure Isabella’s future wasn’t riddled with them.

Penelope scrubbed at the streak of paint Mr. Whitaker had been keen enough to notice, deciding she’d have to be more careful in the future. To save money, she only allowed herself to paint twice a week, and today had been one of those days.

“So, tell me!” Isabella clapped her hands. “How was he?”

“He was—” Penelope’s gaze traveled the route the cagey American had taken about the room as she debated what to confess. “Tall and dark, indeed.” His skin warmed by frequent exposure to sunlight, not a common attribute in England. And there’d been an earthy fragrance swirling about him. Wood shavings and something oddly metallic, not unlike her paints. Not unpleasant, merely foreign. Enticing. Perhaps it was the scent of labor.

What happened in places one went to get dirty.

The fissure of sensation was so unfamiliar Penelope bolted up in her chair to send it scurrying away.

“I heard he’s involved with the Royal Society and their research on steam engines, although one wonders if he’s merely getting by on his looks.” Isabella brought her hands to her cheeks and sighed. “I had a tough time seeing his face beneath that frightful hat, and I tried.”

“The hat was dreadful,” Penelope murmured, adding a tailor’s visit to her list and wondering where her sister was getting information about this American cad.

Although, the sheen of intelligence in Mr. Whitaker’s startlingly green eyes, his split-second calculation of her mathematical error, proved an astuteness beyond that of a frivolous man. A dangerous breed she avoided at all costs. The kind she’d expected to show up on her doorstep today—another silly Brazen Belle selection.

Instead, she suspected neither she nor Weston Whitaker were what they seemed. How appalling a notion. She loathed the slight prick of remorse she felt because, like he’d claimed, she had been judging him—when she’d spent a lifetime being judged herself.

Isabella swung her legs over the arm of the chair and exhaled dramatically. “You’re to beat the brashness out of him like you do your first-Season misses? I can’t wait to see it.”

Acting before she could talk herself out of it, like the impulsive girl she’d once been, Penelope wiggled the coin from her pocket and slid it across the desk.

Isabella took it with a fluttery breath. “Mr. December gave you this?”

Penelope nodded, unable to explain when she had no explanation.

Her sister tilted the coin in the lamplight, where the brand-new copper shone. “How very, very un-English of him.”

“Making him a better actor is all I can truly hope for,” Penelope said and beckoned for the return of her gift. She wanted the penny tucked safely in her pocket, a notion she had no intention of dissecting. “Mock modesty, a sheen of civility as false as gilt on cheap porcelain.”

She silently ticked off the items that had to occur before he was officially introduced to society.

The bruise on his jaw healed, the burns on his hands not as angry. A set of suitable clothing meant to make a statement unlike the farce in The Rake Review , a proper shave, and a stylish haircut. Courteous conversation centered around conciliatory topics. Cutlery used from the outside of the setting heading in the direction of the plate. Titles, titles, and more titles—one of which could help him greatly if he’d get over his stubborn wish to disregard it. Regrettably, she couldn’t do anything about the way he looked , a significant distraction. “Considering Miss Butterfield, who is now a countess, Mr. Whitaker can’t possibly be more of a challenge. Over the course of two grueling months, I turned that ragged young woman into the epitome of decorum, suitable for an earl holding one of the oldest designations in England.”

Isabella returned the coin with a thin glance. “Miss Butterfield was in love and willing to endure your guidance. It was affection to the extreme, or you wouldn’t have done it and neither would she. Making someone into something they’re not without reason goes against your principles. I know this, even if you won’t admit it. A rebellious American is a different story entirely.”

Penelope pocketed the penny without comment. Her sister was right, of course. She only accepted clients if her instructions were going to change someone’s life for the better. Dragging an unwilling victim into matrimonial hell wasn’t worth any amount she would be paid to do it. She knew what dire hopelessness felt like, and she’d never be a party to another woman’s unhappiness, only her own.

Mr. Whitaker, on the other hand, wanted the polish she was promising.

Penelope wasn’t dragging him anywhere.

“Nothing else to impart?” Isabella asked in a singsong tone, her legs swinging. “I feel like you’re hiding something. You never tell me anything.”

I had to remove my spectacles to dim his brilliance , she could have declared but didn’t dare.

“It’s not your fault your governess is as fetching as the first flower in spring,” Deke said and wiped his hand across his mouth. With a shiver, he ducked into the collar of his overcoat as he hopped from the carriage seat to the ground. “Godforsaken country, the wind bites harder than a mule wearing a poor-fitting harness.”

West drew a breath so crisp it hurt his lungs, although the scent of woodsmoke and frost riding the air calmed him. This little slice, aside from the briny aroma of the docks, felt like home. “As if what she looks like matters,” he muttered and tossed the carriage’s reins to his groom. He simply hadn’t expected to spend hours each week with someone who’d sent a lusty frisson streaking through him upon first sight.

An earl’s bleeding daughter, an untouchable.

Not that he was planning to touch.

He could, however, without being able to prevent it, want .

“Women like her are a fascinating mix,” Deke continued as they took the winding path leading to the front door of his terrace. He was an endless source of romantic guidance once you got him going. “An invitation and a refusal all at once can incite a fella beyond what’s wise. I had a lady friend in my younger days, the niece of a high-up politician, who presented a similar quandary. Lands, that girl, the trouble she got me into. She was wrapped up tight but loved being unwrapped if you get my meaning.” He stared into a midnight sky that had begun to spit snowflakes, his gaze misty with memories. “She’s married with four children now, last I heard. Or maybe it’s five.”

“Any news from our investigator about the identity of this Belle person?” West asked in an effort to change the subject as he sprinted up the stairs. They were marble and slick as shit, sending him skidding across the landing and shoulder to shoulder into the man waiting patiently beneath the alcove, hat in hand.

The headache pulsing gently in West’s temple flared at the sight of his half-brother, Tristan Tierney, the Duke of Mercer, who stepped back with an oath, clutching the bricks to keep his own feet from leaving him.

“Whitaker,” Mercer said in a perfectly enunciated drawl once he’d recovered his regal bearing. “I was hoping you had a moment to speak.”

West opened the door and gestured to the foyer. “You could have waited inside in this weather, Your Grace. I have staff, more than I care to employ, but every soul attached to the lease. One of them would have let you in with a forceful knock, even at this late hour. Hell, dukes are welcome everywhere at any time, aren’t they?”

“And families of dukes,” Mercer added and strolled into West’s terrace like he owned the place. After glancing around for a servant who wasn’t arriving, he shrugged from his greatcoat and hung it on the hall tree along with his hat.

Stepping inside, West gritted his teeth but avoided saying anything to start a fight. There was a spark in the air when men needed to settle things with their fists. The spark had been growing until it was an ember near to igniting. West wasn’t, for once—and with this man in particular—going to fall for it. “How about we discuss the matter in my study? Second door on the left.”

“Gads, it’s the brother,” Deke murmured as he followed them in, closed the door, and leaned against it.

West made a slashing gesture across his neck to quiet his friend and shadowed Mercer down the corridor. Once inside the room, his own coat and hat removed, he offered his guest a chair and strode to the sideboard. Tea before noon, liquor after. Fortunately, the rules were the same on both sides of the Atlantic.

At least, in this, he wouldn’t bungle the task.

When they were both seated before a hearth that smoldered only a little less than his temper, West held out until his brother buckled.

Fiddling with his glass, Mercer smoothed the beveled edge down the pleat in his trousers from thigh to knee. “I wanted to tell you… that is, I’m sorry you lost Sutherland’s funding over that senseless Rake Review prattle. Being married has saved me from such notoriety. Before Camille, I would have been a prime target. Our personas are alike in this regard.”

West shrugged and took his first sip of liquor in months while wishing the man sitting across from him didn’t look so much like him. Apparently, this town and its lunacy was going to lead him to drink. “Nothing to do with you.”

The duke laughed, a sound with a pained edge, and polished off his whisky in one shot. “You can’t be that na?ve, Whitaker.”

West gazed about a space he hoped didn’t reveal much about him, then turned back to his brother, giving in slightly. “It’s the eyes I’m told. A bit hard to deny.”

The Duke of Mercer glanced up slowly, as if a secret had been launched into the night. “I didn’t know about you. Not until I found the correspondence in our father’s papers. I grew up nearly the loneliest boy in Yorkshire, trust me on this. I would have loved to have someone to share that time with. Family might have”—he frowned into his glass—“kept me from Waterloo, even.”

West felt the pinch of compassion, although anger soon followed. He’d fought his own war on the rough streets of Philadelphia, he could tell His Grace. His mother had been bribed to leave England, leading her—and him—into a future with a decidedly troubled outlook.

Sitting forward, jamming his elbows on his knees, West growled, “What do you desire of me this evening, Your Grace, aside from reminiscing about a past neither of us can change?”

The duke’s familiar green eyes widened. West needed to remember that the English— always —preferred to dance around the subject. “Brixworth told me you’ve agreed to meet with Lady Penelope,” he offered rather than answer the question directly. “For direction meant to send you sailing smoothly into society. I’m sorry it’s necessary, but as you’re wooing the ton for your investments, I can guarantee it is.”

West laughed, deciding to enjoy his damned whisky. “Your little watchdog is on the ready, following instructions as attentively as one of your soldiers. What else did he tell you over a warm pot of tea and crumpets?”

Mercer paused, debating his next words, then he smiled, seizing his own enjoyment. His fingers tapping against cut crystal, he ticked off the points. “That you have a fiancée who sends you scented letters, and most of your attire is gravely in need of being tossed in the rubbish bin. That the Royal Society wants to work with you, and Cambridge is asking you to guest lecture on their campus.” At this, his eyebrow winged up, and if West didn’t know better, he would have thought it was the sign of a proud older brother. “When I only got so far as blowing up a laboratory at Eton. I was rusticated, of course, the polite English version for being expelled. It took me a year to pay off the damages, and two for my hair to grow back properly. I guess brilliance went your way, not mine. The drive . By God, I can see it pulsing off you in veritable waves.”

“I’m not engaged,” West blurted, immediately wishing he could erase the admission. “Nor am I anything but a modestly attentive engineer. I hear you’re quite the geologist, not exactly lacking in intelligence.”

His brother’s mouth kicked at the corner, pleased.

What a tangle . Bloodlines and brotherhood, debates fraught with complexities for ages. The truth being, West didn’t think he had the heart to give family another go. “If I do this, play along with this charade, attend your holiday ball, take the lessons, act the gentleman, the brother, it’s only for business. My business. Then I return where I belong, which is Philadelphia.” West let the last of his whiskey slither down his throat and roll with a burn into his belly. Liquid courage, as it were. “Are you agreeable?”

The duke settled back, seeming to claim a victory he damned well hadn’t earned. “Camille’s going to like you, and she’s a hard nut to crack. She’s vexed about the Brazen Belle’s slander whilst I don’t give a shite about pleasing them. They believe the war ruined me, and I let them. By the way, I’d be happy to join the ranks of those investing in steam engines, but I rather guess you’ll say no.”

West frowned, feeling caught. “Don’t drag your duchess into this.”

Mercer’s face softened at the mention of her. “She’s in my world, all of it, and always will be. Family, remember?”

West rose, ready for this meeting to end. “If you came to apologize about our relationship leading to my inclusion in that ridiculous column, Your Grace, I accept. Nothing but a harmless piece of commentary if I get my investments in line. I’ve made proper assurances to the lady in question, as she’s the one to be concerned about, when I’ll tell you, she wasn’t concerned so much as delighted to be mentioned.”

West didn’t cite his effort to find the Belle and end The Rake Review for good. It was the least he could do for this country seeing as he was half-English. And if he failed, no one need know that, either.

The duke placed his glass on a side table and got to his feet. “Tristan, my name is Tristan. I can’t stand being called His Grace, Your Grace, or the like. If you get to know me, you’ll understand I loathe the dukedom about as much as you do.” Chuckling, he headed for the door, seemingly content with what he’d gained this evening. Meaning West had given up too much. His brother knew when to stand down; he must have made an excellent leader. “Although Lady Penelope might advise you to keep it formal in public. She’s a stickler for society’s rules, I’ve heard.”

West followed the duke down the corridor and to the vacant foyer, thankful Deke had removed himself. His friend only stirred the pot in sticky situations. “Of course, I can’t wait to spend the next two weeks learning to sip tea with my pinky extended at the correct angle.”

Mercer shot a wicked glance over his shoulder as he jammed his arms into his coat sleeves. “At least she’s the loveliest corrector in England. Don’t forget to thank Brixworth for suggesting her, will you?” The duke shuddered and evidently not from the chill seeping through the front door’s gap. “He could have gone with Lady Horton, and trust me when I say, it’s better he did not.”

West watched his brother adjust his hat in the hall mirror in exactly the manner he adjusted his. “Lovely? I hadn’t noticed.”

The Duke of Mercer— Tristan —tossed his head back in glee at the absurd comment, almost losing his blasted hat in the process. “Keep telling yourself that, Weston, and see how that goes.”