When a Rake Falls

by Sally Orr

  He opened his mouth slightly and held his hands out. “Yes, yes, as soon as he said that, you could have knocked me over with a feather. He has a large circle of scientific acquaintances and is a fellow of many learned societies, so he is familiar with scientific letters.”

  His words reminded her that there were no guarantees the Royal Institute of Great Britain, or any other institution, would select their paper for presentation. Indeed, it might not be considered good enough even to publish. Yet Eve still had a small bud of hope that, with her name on the paper, she would solidify her reputation as a serious lady of science, whether she was able to present her data in person or not. “Our parhelia observation may not be significant enough for publication, so I do not want you to get your hopes up.”

  He groaned. “Is there any way to tell beforehand? I mean, if I cannot present in person, I will have to rejoin the race immediately, since I have less than a month left. My father was impressed by your tall tale of my heroics during our flight. So I must rejoin and win the race now that he is aware of my goal.” He twirled his pencil. “I don’t suppose we can try for France again?”

  “In my opinion, you have already won.”

  “How so?”

  “The earl would have to be a greater fool than I suspect if he awarded the Service to a Lady prize to anyone else. What other gentleman’s story could compete with helping a lady save humanity?”

  “Yes, yes, you have a point, but I don’t think the earl will see it that way. I really need to reach Paris and tell my tale. Hopefully, my story will win more than one of the challenges. With two victories, I could not fail to make a name for myself. Besides, who knows what the other fellows are doing. My friend Drexel, for example, doggedly droll, but he always ends up victorious. He’s one of those men who, when his valet quits, the best valet in Britain becomes available for hire. Or when his horse goes lame, some uncle dies and wills him the finest thoroughbred. So Drexel’s participation in the earl’s race means stiff competition. I really must win.”

  A wistful, aching feeling strangled her spirits. If granted one wish, right here and now, she’d wish his father had hesitated and carefully considered the situation before he had given his son the cut direct. The nickname Piglet Parker was unfair too. Together, these cruel circumstances had created his extraordinary urge to succeed and gain praise. “Let us write up the facts as we witnessed them. My father has suggested that once we finish, you present the paper after dinner, like a practice recital here at the priory. That way, any discrepancies can be cleared up before the letter is posted and considered for publication. You also should keep a copy, in case the institution invites you to present our results.”

  He tapped his finger on the table. “Right. What did we do first?” He winked at her. “I mean, after the tussle for the valve. You tussle very well, by the way.”

  For some inexplicable reason, this comment made her laugh. He had an extraordinary gift of setting her natural humor free. “Thank you. I mean, we did the bird experiments first: crow, pigeon, duck—”

  “I wish I knew if they landed all right.”

  Happiness welled up from her heart and found freedom. “I do not recommend searching for the birds. Since you speak fluent duck, he may have a few strong words for you.”

  “Ha!” He jumped up, swooped her off her chair, and swung her in circles. Seconds later, they fell upon a sofa against the wall, and he plopped her on his knee. “Indeed he would, probably give me an earful too.”

  He wore a cream-colored linen shirt and a velvet waistcoat the color of claret, so being near him gave her pleasant thoughts of thick cream and strawberries. “I don’t think this is proper,” she said. “What if someone enters the library?”

  “Then they will find two people hard at work saving humanity. Besides, recreating the tussle will help me remember.”

  Is he going to recreate every movement in the balloon? Kisses too? “It’s not necessary for us to relive every event. We need to concentrate on the facts.”

  A transitory wounded look shone in his eyes. “Right. You do the facts, and I will remember all the subjective bits.”

  “Since we are composing a scientific article, only the factual data is important.”

  “What exactly is the line between factual and subjective?” He cleared his throat. “There were some experiments I enjoyed very much. Isn’t my enjoying them a fact?”

  “Yes, but not an important one. If you said you felt cold when the temperature was eighty degrees, that is an example of where subjective data may be important. Now let us return to the table, so I can write all of this down.”

  “Go fetch your writing things and return here. I cannot remember the facts without you in my lap.” He smiled, quite pleased with his nonsensical directive. “You spent a great deal of time there, so it will help stimulate my memory.”

  Even though it proved to be a weak excuse, she wanted to comply. Maybe she’d take a page from his book and claim that his fetching brown locks stimulated her memory. A rampant blush claimed her cheeks. Blast. She only had limited time in his company, so she needed to remember everything about him before he left. Gathering up her paper and pencil, she did her best to sit nonchalantly upon his knee. “Am I too heavy?”

  “No, no. Light as a butterfly.” He gasped. “Wrong choice of creature. We must do our best to spare our readers about the fate of the butterfly—too traumatic. And of course, leave out the details about what the duck said. We don’t want to upset anyone.”

  Eve nodded. “Agreed.” Together they discussed all of the bird experiments and reached a consensus on the details of each bird’s flight. They also remembered every detail about the discovery of the parhelia.

  Finally, they found discord over an old argument. “It must be ‘living sparks tossed upon an inky vault.’ It really must,” he said.

  “How would you feel if a learned society mocked you for that nonscientific description?”

  He dropped his jaw. “Yes, yes, too unpleasant. A man must make concessions now and then. What boring, factual words did you use to describe the sky? I remember, black. The stars were…white.” He smirked. “Who could mock that?”

  “Perhaps we can keep the vault bit. How about ‘black vault’?”

  “I’ve decided to agree with you because I want to get to the huddle bit.” He enclosed her in an embrace. “We need to huddle now, so we can accurately remember how it felt.”

  “In the library?”

  “Why not? While I’m not a scientific sort of fellow, I do believe we should report that huddling, chafing, and kisses can prevent scientific investigators from suffering the effects of extreme chill.”

  Laughter gurgled up, and for the first time in her life, a song came to mind. She relished the thought of kisses being discussed in the lecture rooms of a learned institution. “That really is not necessary. Can you imagine gentlemen of science routinely kissing one another?” She laughed again. “Can you imagine father and Charles Henry kissing?”

  “Not on the lips—maybe on the cheek—if they want to survive. Might have to kiss everything in sight to live. Kiss the grapnel, kiss the wicker—I’m sure there is a song there. Let me see… Kisses to warm you, my friend, too la la.”

  She joined in. “Kisses to warm you, my friend, too la lee.”

  He pulled her closer to his chest. “Yes, that is the idea. Second verse is always the toughest. Maybe we should do a proper recital and open with a song.”

  His lips were inches from hers, but leaning in for his kiss was out of the question. Why, then, did it sound so delightful? Though technically betrothed, she changed her mind and decided one little stolen kiss couldn’t be of any harm. She stared at his slightly parted mouth. Seconds later, her only awareness was of the softness of his kiss, the hardness of his chest as she leaned full against him, and the smoothness of his locks as she entwined her fingers deep w
ithin his hair. The kiss seemed so right, neither of them made any motion to end it, so it continued for some unknown amount of time. It lingered lightly on their lips before the sound of their escalating breaths spurred a need to return to deep, wit-melting kisses. Then one or the other would chuckle in the middle of the kiss or sigh deeply, necessitating additional rounds of deep thrusts of tongue countered by a parry of kissing lips.

  In the end, he was the one who finally pulled back. With his soft lips touching her cheek, he whispered, “Eve, sweetheart, I heard a rumor today. I suspect it’s false, but if not, give me your word of honor that you will never marry that damnable fellow.”

  She pulled her mind out of a sensuous haze and assumed a carefree expression. “I don’t know what you mean. We really must get back to work.”

  “Trust your heart. Speak to Lady Buxton. She will be able to guide you.”

  His urgent plea pained her heart, but he did not ask her to marry him. Besides, she could never find happiness as the wife of an aristocrat. Her allegiance and duty belonged to her father and his needs. Fighting the beginning of tears, she turned to drink her fill of Parker’s handsome face. A single tear fell anyway. She leaped to her feet and turned her back to him. “I’ll send our letter to the Royal Institution in the morning post. Following luncheon, you will give your recital—”

  “I promise it will be a success,” he said, with a crack in his otherwise steady voice. “Facts only.”

  “You give your recital, and then we will say our farewells.” After she spoke the word farewell, her tears fell in earnest. “What happens after that is not important.” She left the room without glancing back.

  Fifteen

  Within the first ten minutes of drinking Madeira in the company of Mr. Mountfloy and Mr. Henry, Boyce easily recognized the additional spirits that laced his glass of wine. The overwhelming smell of pungent alcohol fumes when he brought the glass to his lips coupled with a liquid the color of light claret, instead of the deep reds of Madeira, hinted at the possibility of dilution with clear spirits. Since Eve’s father had requested this private conversation, Boyce concluded he—or Mr. Henry—wished him to become the worse for wine. Then once his mind was thoroughly muddled, his upcoming speech before the priory’s occupants would fail. This evidence of ill will did not concern him much because he only drank a polite, single glass, despite Mr. Henry’s repeated urging for him to drink another.

  After an hour without either of the two men of science saying anything of significance, just exchanging speaking glances, they left the room in a huff.

  Boyce’s tongue felt like sand, so he headed down to the kitchen. Whatever form of liquor was added to the Madeira, it had left him undeniably thirsty.

  In the hallway, he met Mr. Buxton. The MP had returned from London after dinner yesterday in time to join the men in drawing room. Today, he still wore his habitual city coat, gray trousers, gray waistcoat, and not a bright color or shiny fob anywhere. “Are you ready for your big speech?”

  “Of course, but I need a glass of water first. Your Madeira, when it’s poured by Mr. Mountfloy, can be a bit too strong.”

  “I don’t understand. Mother drinks the weakest Madeira in all of England. She claims the strong liquor upsets her constitution.”

  “You missed the point—when poured by Mr. Mountfloy.”

  “Ah, stiffened it with extra alcohol, did he?” Mr. Buxton patted him on the back and led him in the direction of the kitchen. “Come, we’ll get you some pure water straight from the tap. How did you know the drink was laced?”

  Boyce laughed, wishing the housekeeper with the pitcher of water poured it faster. “You ask me that question, my brother Henry’s boon companion?”

  “Ah, Henry, he lived for practical jests when young.” Mr. Buxton took two leaded cut glasses in hand, and the two men returned to the small parlor used as his study. “Frogs were his normal means of warfare against me. But I remember he swaddled a hedgehog once and put it in your crib. Evidently, your old nurse discovered nothing amiss for a whole day. The gig was up when a housemaid found you sleeping merrily in a cupboard. Your father, of course, was not pleased.”

  “Goes without saying that, as the youngest of eight brothers, I became a constant target. So a drink laced with excess liquor is child’s play in my book. It normally takes two or three bottles before I’m in my cups.”

  Buxton sat in an overstuffed leather chair by the fire and stretched out his long legs in front of him. “All I can say is one of those gentlemen aeronauts is an amateur and a swine. Do you want me to expel them with haste?”

  “No, no.” He held the glass of water up to eye level. “See, steady as a rock.” His hand shook, spilling water on his knee. “Steady as a pebble. Don’t worry. It will take more than a little wine to sabotage my speech. I have no intention of boring anyone with drunken rants or raves. Besides, I refuse to let Miss Mountfloy down.”

  “I’d say you’re more than just a little fond of that remarkable young lady.”

  Boyce gulped more water, contemplating his answer. Perhaps his brain had become muddled after all, since no suitable retort came to mind. “Yes, yes, she is remarkable, pretty too. My upcoming presentation of our data will be a great success and please her no end. I cannot wait.”

  * * *

  Just under an hour later, Boyce glanced around the room where—in fifteen minutes—he’d give his sun dog speech and tell everyone about his greatest triumph to date. It was an unfortunate circumstance that the music room was small and the Broadwood and Sons piano took up a quarter of the room. If that gleaming mahogany beast were removed, then the entire neighborhood could have been invited to hear his presentation. However, today’s small audience didn’t signify much, since once he presented in front of a venerable London institution and poured out his sage words, everyone in Britain would soon hear of his victory.

  Being the first to enter the room, Boyce arranged the wood chairs to his advantage. Unfortunately, the music room’s high ceilings necessitated a fire in the grate to chase out the damp, even though they were in the warmest days of summer. Not wanting his audience to become overheated, he pulled the chairs around a small podium moved in from the library. On the podium’s front gleamed the priory’s arms in painted wood. Heraldic ermine and stars composed the family’s arms, yet two greyhounds rampant supported the shield. The dogs stood on their hindquarters, forepaws raised, staring straight ahead with a fierce expression, their tongues sticking out. Boyce straightened. He too felt rampant and ready for the chase.

  As he waited for the others to arrive, he sang a few words of a new song brewing in his head, a song about remorse. He anticipated his father’s impending remorse upon giving his youngest son the cut direct. Even if, a year later, his father had forgotten the cut, Boyce’s successful speech could only go a long way toward making him proud.

  Eve entered the room and immediately joined him at the podium, looking neat as a ninepence in her wool gown. “Did you study last night? Do you remember the degrees observed from the main sun?”

  “Yes, yes, twenty-two degrees. I wonder if there is a word that rhymes with degrees? Knees?” He smiled at her wide eyes. “Lately I’ve thought about our discovery and how best to express its meaning. I’ve also written a new song.”

  “No.” She clutched his arm. “This is serious business. You must understand your speech is not a lark. You must present the results exactly as you would before a learned institution. Then everything will be at stake—my father’s reputation, our livelihood—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll include all of the details.” He inhaled a sharp breath, causing her pout to appear. For a moment, his brain became muddled by thoughts of apples and suns and kisses and kittens. He patted the top of her hand. “I won’t let you down. We should talk afterward, alone. There is something I wish to tell you.”

  Her pout vanished, an unspoken question appea
red in the gleam of her eyes. “Tell me?”

  The priory’s occupants began to enter the room. On the right side, Mr. Mountfloy and Mr. Henry sat and spoke in hushed tones.

  On the other side, Lady Buxton sat in the only upholstered chair while her maid fussed with a footstool.

  “Later then.” Eve flashed him a smile, then moved to sit next to Lady Buxton.

  The older woman quickly claimed her hand and patted it. “I am so looking forward to Boyce’s speech. Aren’t you, my dear?”

  “Yes, although I’m worried some of the others from the priory may become bored.” She flushed. “The speech has a lot of numbers, so it may not be meaningful to everyone. Mr. Henry and my father will comprehend the importance, but I fear the remainder of his audience may not fully understand. Then with the room so hot, they may fall asleep.”

  Lady Buxton chucked her under the chin. “My dear, whatever Boyce says can be trusted entirely because he always speaks from the heart. I may not understand a single word, but I know the speaker says it with great sincerity. No listener could ask for anything more. Don’t you agree?”

  Boyce did not hear her reply. Instead, he became distracted by Mr. Mountfloy’s fulminating frowns aimed in his direction. The older man clearly disliked him, and Boyce was at a loss to understand the precise reasons why. Yes, he refused to land the balloon before France, but that seemed like a small offense almost a week later. It certainly was not enough reason for the man to continue his glares, negative words, and a probable attempt to sabotage Boyce’s speech using alcohol. Boyce glanced again at the greyhounds supporting the family’s arms, rampant and ready to pounce.

  Mr. Buxton and his wife entered the room. Today, Lydia beamed brighter than any raging fire, and her gaze never left Buxton’s ear.

  Buxton seated his wife on the other side of his mother and then joined Boyce at the podium. Still wearing a drab gray coat, Boyce thought Buxton should have been more fashionably dressed for such a momentous occasion. “Ready, my friend?” Buxton said with a wink.