To Catch a Rake

by Sally Orr

  Two

  “He eats children! I told you so, Meta. You thought my comment was in jest,” Lily said, following Meta into the front parlor of the Drexel house. Before them they found a tall, dark man with a wooden figurine of a small boy in his mouth.

  While the torso protruding from the man’s mouth might be considered an alarming sight, his hands held several larger human figurines, so his mouth was probably the only place left to hold the wooden boy. In front of him, the large oak desk almost disappeared under piles of paper and small models of buildings. Directly under his scrutiny sat a model of a round structure, like a theater, with stairs descending on the inside.

  Meta expected that a gentleman interrupted by two women and a young man unknown to him would have immediately given them his attention.

  He did not.

  He blithely ignored all of them as he carefully balanced a small piece of wood along the final step at the bottom of the model’s stairs. Once the wood remained in place, he gingerly set a wooden figure of a soldier on the step. The soldier toddled on the slim piece of wood, causing the man to drop the other figurines on the pile of papers in order to steady the crimson-coated figurine with both hands. “Damnation,” he said from the side of his mouth.

  “Let me assist you,” Meta said, stepping forward to gather the figurines and pulling the boy from his mouth. She watched the man’s large hands deftly handle the wooden model and marveled at the combination of strength and dexterity in his active fingers. The gentleman before her must be an engineer, architect, or builder, not a scandalous man who could pen a field guide. So, before she could request him to change James’s mind, she had to devise a way to confirm his authorship, without insulting a busy, innocent man.

  He continued to have difficulties balancing the soldier on the piece of wood. “His legs are too wide. Set the boy in the exact position instead.”

  She held the boy inches over the bottom of the stairs. “Do you want him placed here?”

  “Yes, against the inner wall.”

  Once she finished her task, she gathered up the remaining figurines. “I’ll just hold these for you. Let me know when you need one.” She then examined the model to discover the other positions where a wooden figure might be placed.

  “Who in the blazes are you?”

  She looked up and found herself under his intense stare.

  He narrowed his dark eyes and then looked past her to Lily standing in the doorway. “Mrs. Morris!”

  Meta flinched at the shout just inches away from her ears. “Ah, allow me to give the proper introductions. My name is Mrs. Margaret Russell, the other lady is—”

  “I don’t care if she is the Queen come back to life.” He caught sight of Fitzy, who had stepped out from behind Lily and stood there mesmerized by the books, models, and drawings draped over every horizontal surface. “And you brought your son—that’s a first.” He whipped the figurines out of Meta’s hand. “I’ll take those. Now is not the time for this. Damnation, where can she be? Mrs. Morris,” he yelled again.

  “Is that your housekeeper?” Meta asked. “She showed us in and pointed to the drawing room, then hurried to the kitchen. Perhaps something downstairs required her attention. Now please let me finish the introductions. My name you already know, the other lady is my sister, Lily Broadsham, and the young man is my brother, Fitzhenry Broadsham.”

  He gave each of them the briefest of bows. Then he put down a figurine and strode to the mantel. “Please write your initials on these cards—your privacy will be assured—and the appropriate heading you desire in the next edition of the field guide.” He handed the two cards and pencils to Meta, since Lily stood by the door.

  Meta stared at the cards. “I don’t understand.”

  Fitzy had moved over to the table in the back of the room and now stood before a model of an unusual iron bridge.

  Mr. Drexel’s gaze followed him. “Don’t touch anything. All of my models are very fragile.”

  “Oh, no, I would never do that. I plan to be an artist, so I wish to admire these models and drawings for their artistic merit.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Drexel appeared satisfied that Fitzy would not harm his models, and Lily remained unmoving by the door, so he turned his focus back to Meta.

  Focus was indeed the correct word. He glanced carefully at the top of her head before he examined her face.

  She swallowed, a movement he noticed. Should she say something—anything—to break the awkward silence?

  Without a word, he studied her in some detail, as an engineer might study the framework of some building or bridge, from the solid foundation of her half boots to the decorative style of her hair. His gaze seemed to linger around her neck, so instinctively she reached her hand upward to adjust her intricate gathered lace collar. This movement caught his eye, most notably when her arm brushed over her bosom.

  She inhaled and attempted to stifle a blush, knowing full well her meager figure now came under his scrutiny. Unfortunately, her unsettled nerves necessitated an even deeper breath, which lifted her breasts upward.

  He acknowledged her action by a small, knowing smile.

  She froze. Mesmerized by his seductive perusal and significant physical allure, she felt the rapid warming of her cheeks. How could one glance from an unknown gentleman excite her the way this man did? Just gazing at him thrilled her with naughty, dangerous thoughts. Horrified, she closed her eyes and tried to divert her mind by recalling her breakfast.

  He stepped forward until he stood a mere foot or two away. “You have interrupted my concentration today. Let me guess. You wish to be considered a Happy Goer?”

  She held her breath. His question was followed by the wickedest smile Meta had ever seen given by a gentleman. Wicked because it revealed an intimate knowledge of Happy Goers. Wicked because it contained a veiled challenge for her to retaliate in kind. And wicked because, regardless of her response, he possessed complete confidence in his ultimate victory. She no longer entertained any doubts that the man standing before her wrote the field guide.

  “No words? Well, madam, you can beg”—his eyelids lowered slightly—“but since you have interrupted my work, I do not feel generous at the moment.” He stepped even closer.

  Her heartbeat thumped erratically. For every person she met, she tried to determine what they needed and if she might be able to help. For this man, she readily answered her own question. Whatever he needed, it wasn’t her assistance. Clearly his potent charm could easily obtain anything.

  “Meta, I really do believe he plans to eat you.” Lily’s voice trembled.

  He looked at her sister and made a low growl. “I see that lady learns fast.” His stare returned to Meta.

  She regained her composure and met his gaze. “Why are you pretending to be a rabid dog?”

  He lifted his chin, which was marked by a deep cleft in the center. “I’ll have you know, madam, my bear impersonation is much admired.”

  “Ah.” She shook her head. “Yes, I can see that now. Silly me. I should have thought of a bear first, but I was too lost in admiration of your baritone growl. Very exciting indeed.” Actually, she spoke the truth. The deep tone of his voice stimulated her and elicited wondrous memories, the low erotic grumble of a man fresh from sleep desiring a morning romp. The sensual nature of this response shocked and thrilled her in equal measure. This sudden attraction left her without a doubt that this man must have extensive experience with females. Moreover, for the first time, she understood the reputed, potent allure of a bona fide rake—some men just proved to be irresistible.

  “If you do not leave now, you will discover bears eat children.” He lowered the tone of his voice even more. “And ladies. The taste of ladies reminds me of…” He glanced at Fitzy. “A rather good mutton stew, don’t you agree?”

  With her wits muddled by his impossibly deep voice, she babbled on. “Oh no, not at all. I would imagine ladies would be rather tasty. Mutton stew is too bland. It’s not in the least my
favorite.”

  Lily nodded. “That’s because Cook always puts in too many carrots.”

  He glared at both of them, chuckled, and strolled around them to the door. “A decidedly salient and well-timed observation.” He opened the door.

  “I say, sir, this is rather splendid,” Fitzy said, from the back of the room. He held up a large diagram of a tunnel, showing little men shoveling dirt deep inside, but a hundred feet directly above them flowed a broad river. A large schooner seemed suspended in watery air above the men in the tunnel toiling below.

  Mr. Drexel ignored the ladies and moved to the back of the parlor to join Fitzy. “I’m pleased to hear someone say that. This drawing took sixteen days to finish. Do you know what it represents?”

  “A tunnel or shaft of some nature. Are they digging for coal, sir?”

  “Please,” he said with excitement, “any man who admires the skills of an engineer is a friend and can call me Drexel.” He pointed to a double row of tunnels, side by side, with vaulted roofs of elegant brickwork. “This is a diagram of the new Thames Tunnel.”

  Meta moved to admire the drawing too.

  He held it up to catch the meager light of an overcast day coming from the bow window, so they both could view it properly. “The Thames Tunnel is expected to provide an inexpensive way to cross the river. Mr. Marc Brunel, Esq. is the main inventor and engineer, while I work as a junior engineer. I also have taken my father’s seat on the tunnel’s board. I cannot wait to see the tunnel completed; it will be the eighth wonder of the world. Many foreign newspapers already describe our endeavors in great detail. Imagine it, a great tunnel under a navigable river. Not merely a coal tunnel under a stream, but pedestrians and carriages traveling just feet under the massive ships floating on the Thames. It will be a first, of course, and proudly constructed by Englishmen in England’s greatest city.”

  Watching him talk about his beloved tunnel, Meta marveled at the man standing next to her. His dark eyes lit with excitement and the barely veiled sarcasm and bad temper vanished. He transformed into an amiable, enthusiastic gentleman of some intellectual significance, a man to admire and respect.

  Fitzy’s fine blue eyes widened. “I have never heard of it. How far away from completion is the tunnel, sir?”

  Meta spoke to her brother. “So newspapers do have some use.”

  Fitzy wrinkled his nose.

  Mr. Drexel’s excitement about the tunnel continued. “We have only just started the assembly of the shield, a scaffold that will allow the miners to dig the proposed tunnel. With the current difficulty of obtaining funds, due to many of our subscribers losing money in the recent incident of reckless speculation, we are proceeding at a slower pace than initially planned. But we hope to start the lateral digging under the Thames in a fortnight.”

  She tried to remember what she heard about a previous attempt to dig a tunnel, in order to ease the traffic on London’s overcrowded bridges. “Wasn’t a tunnel under the Thames attempted before that suffered numerous leaks until it closed? Surely this failure proved the futility of such an endeavor?”

  “Yes, but that tunnel was poorly built; it was too small and collapsed due to engineering incompetence. We plan to shore up the walls with brickwork immediately after the men remove the dirt from in front of the frames.”

  Admiring his skills as a draftsman and speaker, Meta readily absorbed his enthusiasm. “What are the frames?”

  “Mr. Brunel came up with the idea of frames when he watched a shipworm bore through English oak. After he examined the creature’s head under a lens, he came up with the new idea of boring through dirt using a giant shield made of twelve frames. Each frame resembles a ladder with three men standing on it, one above the other. Think of the shield as the giant head of a mole tunneling through earth. The miners dig out four inches of dirt in front of them and then place a poling board against the dirt. When all of the dirt is removed from the face, they move their frame forward. Then brick walls are built behind them, using cement that sets within minutes to permanently keep out the Thames.”

  “What a marvel.” Fitzy reverently placed the drawing on the table and turned to address their host. “I plan to be a sculptor, but Meta suggested I needed to practice all forms of art to be a success. Your drawings have convinced me that significant skill and art can be found in engineering drawings. Perhaps I should take up the study of drafting buildings, bridges, and tunnels, since this is all very exciting.”

  Mr. Drexel smiled and gave her brother an encouraging pat on the back.

  Thankful for his welcome attentions to Fitzy, her opinion of his behavior softened. She realized all females would find this warm, charming side of him just as irresistible as the naughty side—irresistible enough to pave the way for his successes with the ladies. Knowledge he then used as the basis for his regrettable field guide.

  Fitzy’s newfound enthusiasm continued to grow. “I mean, humans are merely complicated objects to master, you know, all feet and limbs. Toes are particularly hard to get right. I admire this drawing of the tunnel, since there is a useful purpose behind the beauty. This really is a bang-up plan—imagine traveling under water. Oh, Drexel, I must see this tunnel in person. Will you show it to me?”

  “I’d be delighted, but not yet. We have dug the pit for the entrance and are in the middle of finishing the descending staircase, but the site is still dangerous. We expect the possibility of floods at any moment. That is why my drawing of a new drainage system is so important.”

  His warning about the dangers brought her mind back to the matter at hand. “Fitzy, we have paid a call on Mr. Drexel for a reason, and it does not include asking him to show you his tunnel.”

  Mr. Drexel faced her, his smile gone. “Let’s get to it then.”

  She straightened. “It’s about your field guide.”

  He frowned and nodded at the white piece of paper from the mantel still in her hands. “Please indicate your initials and the new position you desire on this card. Then hand it to my housekeeper. She will then see you out.” He yelled again, “Mrs. Morris.”

  Meta failed to understand his direction. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Begging, Mrs. Russell? You can beg to your heart’s desire, but it will not move you up.” The wicked smile returned.

  Lily, who had been watching the conversation with increasingly wide eyes, became alarmed by his change in mood. She moved closer to the door. “Meta, ask him to speak to James so we can leave immediately. This time I really do think he plans to eat you.”

  Mr. Drexel’s gaze never left Meta’s. “Your fate, madam?”

  “Pardon?”

  Before he could answer, an older gentleman with a full head of gray hair entered the room. He appeared slightly stooped, but otherwise many of his other features resembled those of the younger man. He introduced himself as Mr. Michael Drexel, then proved himself a gentleman of good manners by engaging in a pleasant conversation with each member of their party. Once he learned of Fitzy’s ambition to be an artist, he invited their party upstairs to the small gallery on the landing to view his collection of paintings.

  With great enthusiasm, Fitzy agreed.

  Lily requested to join her brother, since she appeared relaxed in Michael Drexel’s company, and without doubt, she seemed eager to escape the presence of the bear.

  The older man addressed his son. “Mrs. Morris has gone to help her sister for an hour, so there is no use bellowing.” He headed to the door, Fitzy and Lily following directly behind him. “You know, I once wanted to be a sculptor too,” Michael Drexel said, “but I quickly changed to being an engineer and inventor, because those professions suited my taste in all things mechanical. When you have more experience, you will find great beauty can be found in the diagrams of machines.”

  Fitzy enthusiastically agreed, and the party of three left the room and shut the door.

  “Please join them, madam,” Mr. Drexel said, holding out an arm.

  “No, thank you. I
wish to have a private word.”

  The frown returned to his lips. “Delighted, I’m sure.” He walked back to the desk by the bow window and picked up a figurine. Then he concentrated solely on the round model.

  If he never spoke another word during her visit, it would not surprise her. She took a moment to thoroughly examine the room. She noticed the lack of a flower arrangement or needlepoint display and the stale stench of tobacco, indicating the lack of a woman’s touch. Clearly this cluttered room was the realm of gentlemen only. Undaunted, she strode to stand by his desk. “We have paid a call today in order to request a favor.”

  He failed to look up. “Yes, well, as I explained before, take a card and write your initials and category of lady desired. If a second edition of the field guide is printed, I’ll see that the initials you give me are included.”

  “Oh, so that’s what the cards are for. No, that is not the reason for our visit.”

  He stilled, then straightened to face her. “I must say I’m shocked you do not wish to move to a higher category.”

  “I’m shocked you assumed my reasons to call upon you today.”

  His stare hardened. “Right. I’m busy. State your business.”

  Meta flashed him her cheeriest smile. “Yes, thank you.” She stepped next to his desk.

  In contrast to the disapproving frown on his face, he watched her move with a gleam in his eye.

  “Mr. Drexel, my family and I have come to express our concerns in regard to your field guide. I understand from the publisher that you are the person who penned this…I beg your pardon, effrontery to all womankind.”

  “All womankind?” He moved a foot away. “My dear, dear, what is your name?”

  “Mrs. Russell.”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Russell, but you are obviously not acquainted with all of womankind. Most ladies are not affronted in the least.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you have taken a survey of all of womankind about their feelings in regard to your field guide?”