by Sally Orr
He took a step closer, almost touching her with his broad torso, his glance one of masculine intimacy. “Madam, this is an emergency. This leak could cost us thousands. Please do not paw me now.”
“I’m not—”
“Good day, madam.” Sporting his wicked grin, he spun and ran toward the staircase. “The Thames must be stopped.”
Six
Damn the woman.
At their arranged meeting a week later, George turned the corner and saw that infernal Russell woman standing on the steps of a London town house grand enough to take up half of the north side of a prominent square.
Mrs. Russell, a rather fetching, petite woman, smiled and waved as he approached.
He readily admired her steadfast willingness to “help.” Even when he responded with the full bear treatment, she retained her wit and courage—irresistible traits in a female. Irresistible enough that it led to the moment when he impulsively kissed her cheek. She had surprised him by not pulling away or feigning offense. No, clearly the widow enjoyed being kissed. Today, however, the meddlesome female deserved the bear treatment for hauling a gentleman out of his study, away from important work, just to testify before some Romeo who got cold feet at the thought of his upcoming leg shackle.
“Good day, Mr. Drexel.”
“Humph.”
“I am delighted that you appear to be your normal self today.” She held out her hand.
Feeling guilty about his grumpiness, but not enough to apologize, he took her hand and gave the smallest of bows. “Likewise.”
She paused and examined his countenance, most likely trying to determine if she should apologize too. “The normal bear and rabbit. All is in proper order in the animal kingdom.” She gave him a coy smile instead.
“Humph, if it were in proper order, the bear would’ve eaten the rabbit by now.”
“Oh no, rabbits run much faster than bears,” she beamed.
Upon her smile, George realized she was quite the stunner. Her walking dress appeared to be of expensive, shiny bronze fabric, and her bonnet was all the crack, covered in ribbons and fruit thingamabobs. All of these attractions were nothing more than a fine setting for the most intense blue eyes he had ever seen, their intensity no doubt highlighted by the contrast to her dark hair. Her expression too bespoke of her personal desire to attend to his welfare. This resulted in an urge to lure her to his cave and pleasure her until she begged for more—a thought that caused his body to stir, an inappropriate event for an afternoon call. So he hibernated the bear for the time being and sighed. “Yes, I am delighted to see you too, Mrs. Russell. You are looking togged out to the nines this morning.”
Ready compliments must have been rare for her, because this one left her quite unsettled. “Thank you…ah…and…thank you for agreeing to clear up this confusion about the field guide with James. This interview should not take long. Once you explain the simple misunderstanding, he will admit his mistake—”
“Ha.”
“Then you can plead—”
“Ha.”
She stiffened her spine. “Plead for him to resume his addresses to Lily.”
George admitted to himself that he found her more attractive than most women. This morning she really did resemble an innocent rabbit: bright blue eyes and a spencer trimmed in soft fur. But the woman must have gone stark raving mad. She belonged in Bedlam. “May I ask you a private question?” He gave her a brief pause to respond.
She batted her eyelids in confusion.
He softened his tone. “How many years were you married?”
She stepped backward, almost a hop. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes, I know. That is my point.”
She shook her head. “I married at eighteen years of age and lost my husband sixteen months later. While we had only a short time together, I can assure you that we were as close as any husband and wife.”
He bowed his condolences. “I was right then. You have little experience with men.”
She huffed.
“You just mentioned,” he said, eager to correct her error, “this James Codlington would admit to his mistake. A gentleman—admit—a mistake. Gentlemen rarely admit mistakes. I never do. And lastly, you are under the false impression that I am going to plead with another gentleman concerning his choice of a wife. The fact that you believe gentlemen admit mistakes and plead with other men about their lovers leaves me convinced that you know very little about men.”
“Don’t tell me that instead of clearing up this meddle of your making, you are going to stand fixed, like the proverbial suit of armor—no—the proverbial stuffed bear, and not say a word?”
“Of course not. I am grateful for your effort to discover new investors for the tunnel. Therefore, I will do my best to clarify the situation. I will explain…explain that Miss Broadsham’s name is not in the field guide, that I never had the pleasure of meeting Miss Broadsham, and that he must take my word as a gentleman. This simple explanation should be enough for any man.” He nodded once and pulled the doorbell.
She glared at him.
He chuckled, knowing full well that if she were a rabbit, her little pink nose would be moving up and down rapidly. He laughed aloud at her pursed-lipped reticence and decided that of all the rabbits he knew, Mrs. Russell was his new favorite. When younger, he would’ve set the fetching widow within his sights, her seduction guaranteed. But today the thrill of the chase seemed boring and dissolute in comparison to the excitement of building England’s iron future. He had even failed to visit his longtime mistress for several months now. He wondered if dear Lydia would be offended by his time away from her bed, or if she would even welcome him for an evening visit. “Madam, you will do me the courtesy of letting me speak.”
Mrs. Russell finally smiled and shook her head. “You are unbearable.”
He laughed. “No, I am just a very busy gentleman.” Of course, he really should thank her for the opportunity to right the misunderstanding created by his field guide. After all, if the Codlington match failed, the rumors of his involvement could expand, become out of control, and stain his reputation even more. But he’d save his gratitude for a later date, if at all. Right now he needed to save his breath for this wayward Romeo, since there was only so much talking a man could do in one day. “Let’s get this interview over with. Then you and your sister can return to your reason for living—planning a wedding—while this James can purchase leg shackles and resume fawning over your sister.”
She marched up beside him. “Indeed.”
Minutes later, they were shown into the library.
One glance around the room, and he became fixed on the jovilabe orrery in the center of a large mahogany table. Made of gleaming brass, except for the precious stones of Jupiter and its moons, the small gears for each moon grabbed his complete attention. He first examined the moon closest to Jupiter, the one with the shortest orbit, in hopes of detecting the gear movement. A minute later, he thought he might have seen the gear turn forward, if only slightly.
He glanced up to find her standing directly across from him, wearing that ravishing smile that changed his thoughts away from the orrery to something more intimate. “Do you admire machinery, Mrs. Russell?”
“Oh yes, not only for its beauty, of which this orrery is an excellent example, but for the skill and knowledge acquired to construct such a machine.”
Her enthusiasm created a desire to give her an all-encompassing hug, leading to something much more. He struggled to suppress these annoying wayward thoughts. “I see we have something in common—the appreciation of machines. I’m impressed.”
She gave him a slight nod.
Mr. James Codlington walked into the library and welcomed his guests.
Codlington impressed him as a drumble sort of fellow, a man suited to waste away his life as a civil servant or in government. “I say, Codlington, this orrery is magnificent. Can you tell me about the gears? Are they accurate, so that each moon rotates at the right speed in relat
ion to the other moons?”
His host appeared pleased by the compliment. “You must have experience with these machines, I see, Mr. Drexel. Unfortunately, the answer is no. The outer moons rotate too fast, but it takes a trained eye to observe the flaw.”
They spent the next twenty minutes discussing all varieties of gears and clock mechanisms before the conversation naturally turned to the tunnel.
Mrs. Russell returned to her seat, and for the first time in his experience, remained perfectly quiet.
Exceptionally wise woman.
By the time tea arrived, he and Codlington had a passing respect for the each other’s knowledge in relation to engineering. Codlington was not the dull sort of cove he initially thought, but the sort of man who does not show well the first time in the ring. He gulped half a cup of the strong heather-scented brew to fortify himself. Best to get this over with.
His favorite rabbit eyed him with a fixed stare and nodded.
“Right,” he began. “Now, Codlington, I’m here today to clear up a point of confusion I created unbeknownst to me. My field guide, you understand, is nothing more than popular fiction. A book to amuse gentlemen like us, sophisticated, town gentlemen desirous of a good laugh or two.” He winked.
Mrs. Russell cleared her throat.
“As I was saying, the initials L. B. in the field guide do not refer to Miss Broadsham’s. I have recently had the pleasure of meeting Miss Broadsham for the first time and she, in no way, resembles a Happy Go…”
Mrs. Russell’s eyes widened to the size of the orrery’s Jupiter. “Mr. Drexel did not mean—”
“Excuse me,” he continued, “Miss Broadsham is a happy…person, but not at all happy in the way presented in the field guide.” Damnation. He had just made a perfect hash of that explanation.
In stunned silence, Mrs. Russell poured everyone another cup of tea.
“Right. The thing is, Codlington, Miss Broadsham is not in the field guide, so there should be no impediment for you to resume your addresses.” He stated the facts; promise met. Eager to exit this stage of masculine mortification, he shifted forward in his chair.
“Are you sure?” asked Codlington.
“I am the author.”
“I see.” The young man took a minute to leisurely sip his tea. “I apologize for taking your time away from the tunnel.” He frowned in the direction of Mrs. Russell. “You must understand. I’ve been…advised that my living will be cut off, unless I wed a wife my mother feels will be respectable beyond reproach.”
A situation George understood well. He possessed a sufficient living to keep himself in the manner of a gentleman after his parents’ death. However, he might need additional capital for his engineering proposals. Or just to remain solvent, if one of his projects failed to reach the expected profits or an invention was stolen.
Codlington addressed Mrs. Russell. “I must marry a wife suitable for a lawyer with aspirations for the highest office in court. Right now, I suffer from conflicting obligations, and I don’t know what to do. Please understand, Meta.”
“You mean you hope Lily understands,” she said. “James, you are aware that Lily has a…significant dowry? Greater than even she is aware of.”
George wondered about the exact amount. Perhaps he should make addresses to Miss Broadsham, if this James fellow withdrew his cards from the game.
Mrs. Russell spoke in the well-practiced, irritating tone of a wronged female. “How could you be so unfeeling as to endanger her reputation?”
George stifled an urge to flee the room.
Their host did not reply; he seemed to be considering the situation. He closed his eyes and tilted his head down. “A member of my club asked me if the initials were Lily’s—asked me directly, to my face.”
She ignored the man’s distress. “How can you break her heart?”
Feminine manipulations depending heavily upon guilt did not surprise him. Time to set the matter to rights and move on. “I believe you missed my point, Codlington. Miss Broadsham is not in my field guide, so there could never be any scandal attached to the young lady. Moreover, I will do everything within my power to make sure those initials are removed from any second edition. I promise.”
Codlington nodded. “I have been at court for only a short time, but from what I have observed, the facts seldom matter in regard to public gossip.” He glanced up and sighed. “I believe you, sir, but I still believe her initials in a second edition will start a scandal, regardless of the veracity. And it might be even worse if her initials are removed altogether. People are clever and will notice. Then all sorts of speculation will arise about why they were removed.” He shook his head. “Whatever actions we take, I’m sure they will be misrepresented in the newspapers too, because people enjoy that sort of thing. They thrive on the latest on dits. Consider my circumstances. I cannot take that risk.”
“Right.” Like a great number of men, he and Codlington were in the same boat. “You must retain a spotless reputation to gain support of the superiors in your profession, a situation I know all too well.” If Mrs. Russell’s mawkish pleadings to spare her sister’s heart failed to change his mind, perhaps a reverse tactic on this reluctant Romeo might work. It was worth a try. “If I were a lawyer with higher aspirations, I certainly would not wed a sweet, young wife like Miss Broadsham. I compliment you, Codlington. What did you have in mind? Some ol’ harridan, plush in the pocket, to organize your life to the minute, who would be a skilled conversationalist around lawyers.” He turned toward Mrs. Russell and gave her a quelling look. Her eyes widened, and since she was no slow top, he felt confident she would not muddle the situation.
“Well,” James said, “I would not go that far—”
George caught Codlington’s gaze and then nodded his head sideways in the direction of Mrs. Russell. “I’m sure Mrs. Russell will forgive us for speaking in the common language of men.”
Thankfully, she remained silent—a probable first.
George’s confidence in the eventual success of his scheme grew. “A gentleman with ambitions like yours needs a skilled wife, skilled in Polite Society, skilled at handling the politics of the Court of the Common Pleas. Am I right?”
“Well, it never hurts to—”
“Mrs. Russell, once again I must apologize for my vulgarity, but as you are a widow, I consider you a woman of superior understanding. The subject of a wife is an important one to gentlemen like Codlington and myself. I too have no need for a beautiful, sweet wife that would never nag a fellow. A gentleman can always satisfy his desires for that elsewhere.”
She choked on a sip of tea.
“I would never—” Their host straightened.
“We both need a plain wife that will further assist our advancement. A hostess with expertise at seducing any gentleman to open his purse or advance her husband’s career. Of course, it goes without saying that she must have a flawless reputation. Therefore, all intelligent, beautiful women with these skills cannot be trusted.” He turned to address James in a sham lowered voice. “Likely a rake or two in her past, I dare say. That means you must search London’s older—and beg pardon—uglier widows. Then there would be no doubt whatsoever of a scandalous past.”
Mrs. Russell hiccuped.
George didn’t even glance in her direction. “I too will marry for wealth. Love has nothing to do with a choice of wife, not in the least. If I were you, Codlington, I too would take the easy route and not stand up to my mother. Standing up to Mater is serious business for a son. What is the importance of a lifetime of love anyway? Success in one’s profession wins over romance every time.”
Codlington narrowed his eyes, but George could not determine if his hard stare was a fulminating one, expressing protest over his indelicate feelings, or a censorious one, expressing condemnation over his vulgarity.
Codlington strode over to the orrery and stared at a small moon.
George winked at Mrs. Russell. Her expression did not change, a sign she mu
st be aware of his intentions to goad this reluctant Romeo into action. His plan might work. Codlington may indeed have the stuff to defy his mother. But to wager it all on romantic love? An impressive gesture, but thankfully, a wager he would never have to take.
Much to her credit, Mrs. Russell continued to remain silent.
He appreciated her reticence, but her expression of tight-lipped disapproval left him uneasy, like the sight of black clouds on the horizon.
James finally walked over and took the woman’s hand. “I apologize, Meta, but I have an appointment to keep in court, so I must be on my way. Mr. Drexel—I beg pardon—seems to lack a loving heart. Upon reflection, my decision to end my engagement to your amiable sister was a hasty one. I shall pay a call on her as soon as possible to resume my addresses, because I truly do love her. I’m confident that because of her sweet temperament, she will forgive me.”
Mrs. Russell hopped out of her chair. “Thank you, dear James. I know Lily will be delighted.” She grabbed both of his hands and gave him a brotherly kiss on the cheek. Then the two of them stood there beaming like idiots.
The young lawyer exhaled. “Do you know, I feel quite restored. I never realized how worried—couldn’t eat. I truly believed I’d never be happy again. Now we can move forward and finally announce the engagement as if nothing had interfered.” He turned to address George and frowned. “Obviously, Mr. Drexel here is ignorant of the benefits of a loving spouse.”
Mrs. Russell smirked. “I must agree with you on that point.”
“Humph.” They were right, of course, but he failed to see how it was his concern that this young Romeo decided to risk it all for the love of some schoolroom chit.
“Tell Lily,” James said, “that I apologize for my hasty decision to end our understanding. Tell her to expect me to call tomorrow. I cannot wait for this incident to be behind us, so we can contemplate our happy future instead.”
“Yes, yes.” She turned and approached him. “Thank you, Mr. Drexel. Let’s be on our way.”
After their farewells to Codlington, he offered to escort Mrs. Russell the few blocks to her house, and she took his arm. He whistled as they strolled. He could not remember being this happy in a long time. Upon entering the field of battle with her James, he withdrew the victor. The pressure on him eased, and he felt vindicated. He glanced down at Mrs. Russell and recognized his renewed desire to kiss her senseless or make love until she cried out his name.
