Rakes and Radishes (12 page)

“I wish my husband liked sentimental novels,” said the tired woman holding a fat, wiggling baby. “Your wife is very lucky indeed.”

“Oh, I’m not married,” replied Kesseley before he could think better of it.

Someone might as well have stood on a chair and announced to all the married ladies in the store that a pathetic gentleman buying
The Mysterious Lord Blackraven
on the third floor desperately needed marital advice.

An hour later, he left Hatchard’s significantly more enlightened than when he had entered. In the crook of his arm rested the three volumes of
The Mysterious Lord Blackraven
safely concealed in paper. He planned to study Lord Blackraven with the same scientific intensity that he did his soil composition. Break Blackraven down to his core components and experiment with his ratios.

What was it about Lord Blackraven that ladies craved? He was mean to the point of cruelty, violent and nearly insane. He could hold a grudge longer than anyone Kesseley knew. He lived alone in a ramshackle castle without making a single improvement to the property value. He was like some demonic variation of Kesseley’s father, except for the solitary part. The late Lord Kesseley had rarely been alone, and certainly not in his bed.

Kesseley contemplated the paradox on his way home. It was a mystery.

Damn it! Wait.
The Mysterious Lord Blackraven.

Mysterious.

Epiphany!

Ladies didn’t require some unknown continent to explore or virgin mountain peak to reach. They just needed a
mysterious
male who refused to be conquered. Never mind that he’s Bedlamite, hell, even better. It was the mystery. The unknown that supposedly holds the answers to our heart’s yearnings.

But the mystery was a lie! Blackraven could no more love another human being than Kesseley’s father could. It was as delusional as believing the right cut of coat or the way one tied a cravat raised one above the misery of humanity.

Maybe chasing the mystery keeps us blind to the ugly truth in ourselves, Kesseley thought, as he watched Henrietta through the window of his townhome. She sat alone in the parlor, reading by the fireplace. The firelight shimmered on the pretty raven locks falling about her face. She seemed so serene, as if untouched by the night before.

What he felt for her wasn’t a mystery—it was real—and it didn’t make sense to let go of anything real. Like when Arabellina said she recognized Lord Blackraven by his soul—

Oh dear God, he was comparing his life to a romance novel!

He couldn’t do this anymore.

He opened the door. His shoulders were weary, but he was resolved. He would apologize and give her his word never to press his romantic intentions upon her again. Then he’d get a mistress or a wife, whichever came first.

She must have seen him from outside, for she was standing in the hall when he entered, her book cradled in her elbow and a hopeful, yet pensive, look upon her face.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “I was worried. Are you well?” She gazed at him, concerned, a bit tired, but overall purely ignorant.

She didn’t remember!

Suddenly everything he felt—all the sadness, anxiety, frustration and despondency— crystallized into a white hot bolt of anger.
Are you well?
she had asked.
Hell no! Your lips were all over mine last night. It took every bit of restraint I had to be a gentleman. Then you called me Edward. I’ve had this weighing on me all day, aside from being poked and measured like a head of cattle, then humiliated at Hatchard’s. Let’s not even mention the incident involving Miss Barten’s toe and the palm plant. No, I am not well!

“I was at the club,” he said.

Her raised, expectant eyebrows hinted that she wanted him to continue. He didn’t.

“I-I just stayed here,” she said. “Reading.”

He looked closely at the book in her arm. Edward’s poetry, complete with dried flowers poking out of the pages. Kesseley brushed past her, angry at her, angrier at himself. What a pathetic fool he was.

She followed him, speaking to his back. “I’ve been invited to the ball this evening. Your mother says I can go. I’ll be playing cards, but I hope that you might save one dance for me.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” he said.

“Why?”

He spun around, his words exploding out of him. “Miss Watson, I am not a boy! I’m a man! Do you understand? I am here to find a wife, not be your dance partner or your shoulder to cry on, or your—your—” He threw up his hands. He could strangle her. “Last night you—I put you—we—damn it! Do you remember nothing?”

She bit her lip, still slightly swollen, and bowed her head. “I know. I shouldn’t have gone to the card party.”

“That wasn’t the only thing you shouldn’t have done!” He stormed away from her, not looking back.

***

Safe in his chamber, Kesseley sat at his desk, surrounded by his ledgers. He pulled the first volume of
The Mysterious Lord Blackraven
from its paper. The spine was stiff. He cracked it, bending the cover completely backward. He usually wasn’t so rough with his books, but this wasn’t about enjoyment, he thought, as he dipped his pen in the ink and began underlining:

Despite dire warning of Lord Blackraven’s dark ambitions, Arabellina could not believe one man capable of the crimes attributed to him. Upon the first meeting of this beast of a man with his hooded eyes and flying hair, Arabellina felt a shiver of terror run through her. Yet, dear reader, it was in that second look, the one that sees beyond the surface, into the deeper soul of existence, that she could see a small light burning in the darkness, and she instinctively knew only she could solve the mystery of his blackened soul.

Kesseley wrote
beast, shiver, terror
and
mystery
in the margins, then kept reading.

***

An hour later, Baggot tapped on the door. Kesseley marked his place in his book and concealed it under his ledger. He shuffled through the papers Henrietta gave him, finding what he wanted—a print of a dandy with those windblown curls everyone sported.

He locked his desk. “Come in,” he called to Baggot. The valet entered, holding Kesseley’s evening clothes on his arm. He laid them on the bed, muttering the inventory under his breath. “Shirt, collar, coat—”

“I’ve been thinking since coming here that I might like a different hairstyle. What do you think of this picture?” Kesseley handed the picture to his valet.

Baggot scrunched his eyes. “Them curls look like a girl’s.”

“They do not! I’ve seen many gentlemen wearing their hair this way. It’s quite stylish.”

“You’re going to need some papers to get those kind of curls.”

“My hair already curls. We just have to brush it correctly.”

Kesseley walked over to the mirror and looked at himself, then the picture. He had never really compared himself to another man. His face was leaner, his jaw squarer, everything harder than the rosebud-lipped fop in the picture. He took his brush and tried to subdue his curls into poetic windblown locks. It didn’t work. His hair only stuck together like a big brown bush.

Baggot spit twice in his hand and reached for Kesseley’s hair. Kesseley recoiled. “Don’t you dare put your spit in my hair!”

“That’s how ’em girls make curls.”

Kesseley licked his finger and wound a curl about it. Weren’t ladies clever! It made a pretty little ringlet, like a pigtail on his forehead. “Ain’t it dandy!” He made a row of little curls across his forehead.

“I picked out these nice clothes for you,” Baggot said.

Kesseley looked closely at the shirt. It had a big yellow stain on the front. When he pointed at it, his valet only shrugged. “No one will see it. It will be under your coat.”

When Baggot held out the cravat, Kesseley spoke without thinking. “At the tailor’s today, he showed me—”

“You went to a tailor without telling me!”

Kesseley had stepped right into it. “It was just a quick visit.”

“But I’m your valet.” Baggot’s big drooping lips began to shake.

“I didn’t plan it. It just happened. Anyway he showed me a new knot for my cravat.”

His scraggly eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “A new knot? I can’t do a new knot. I only have one hand and—”

“Fine. Fine. Forget the new knot.” Kesseley sighed, defeated.

Baggot smiled, his small world restored. “The old one is best for you. Not too dandy. Here.” He held out the end of the neck cloth. Kesseley took it as Baggot wound the other end under. Then Kesseley relinquished his end and took the other. Their old dance. When it was done, the cravat lay limp, like wilted cabbage around his neck.

“Don’t that look nice!” Baggot commented.

“Yes,” Kesseley said, more tersely than he intended. “That will be all, thank you.” The man hesitated.

“That will be all,” he repeated with more force.

Baggot scurried away liked an admonished child. Kesseley hung his head in his hands. Why was it so damn hard to have something exactly like he wanted it? It seemed everyone had a little hook in him, pulling him in every direction.

He felt like a cheating husband when he drew the paper out of his desk and began a letter to the tailor’s valet brother Frans, requesting his services. He could feel Baggot’s hurt and guilt tugging at him. But damn it, the man couldn’t do his job. Just how much longer must Kesseley suffer fools?

He would have two valets.

He folded the note and stuck it inside his coat to give to the footman and left. Coming around the stairwell, Henrietta came out of her chamber in her evening gown, looking, well, beautiful.

“Good God!” she cried when she saw him.

“What?”

She couldn’t seem to speak, as if horrified beyond words. She just moved her hands about her hair and cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing! It’s just—just—”

“Just what?”

She touched his curls. “Let me help.”

“No.” He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “I thought you wanted me to look like a fop.”

***

Kesseley just sat in the carriage with his silly curls, stiff and silent as a wall. He refused to talk to her, except a tight, begrudging compliment that her gown was “nice.” It was her best, an ivory tulle dotted with small white flowers and a matching sprig of flowers in her hair. She would have preferred
beautiful
or
lovely,
but perhaps a mere “nice” might be the best she could expect after the horrible exchange in the hall.

She should have realized Kesseley was trying to improve and been encouraging. Why didn’t she think? She always said the wrong thing!

Grosvenor Square was crammed with carriages stopped at every door. Soft gold light fell from the stories and stories of windows, making the thick, foggy air almost luminescent. Music from multiple orchestras mingled in the square.

The carriage swerved, finding an opening in the line and stopping before a red brick home with pilasters rising to the roof. The footman opened the door. Henrietta stepped out of the carriage first. The temperature had dropped, chilling her under her fashionable, yet very impractical spencer. She rubbed her arms with her hands.

“Are you cold?” Kesseley asked as he stepped down. The sound of his voice flooded her with relief. He had spoken to her! Almost kindly. She smiled.

His jaw stiffened as he offered his arm.

She took it, clutching on to him as the door opened to the magnificent entrance. All her sad thoughts momentarily vanished in the grandeur. The oval entrance reached up four flights to a white domed ceiling embellished with gilt hexagons and diamonds. The balustered stairs rose to the first floor, then split into two, crisscrossing like loose ribbons to the upper balconies.

The host and hostess came toward them. Quick introductions were made and the hostess, a wisp of a woman with slanting eyes in a pinched face, kissed Lady Kesseley’s cheek.

“You get more beautiful every year. I’m terribly jealous,” she said, then switched her attention to Henrietta. “And this must be your companion everyone is talking about. We’ve been waiting on you.”

Her husband was squat man with a happy round face. “Lord Kesseley, welcome to our home. I read your impressive article in the
Journal of Agriculture
just this morning.” He put his hand on Kesseley’s shoulders and drew everyone up the stairs to the first floor balcony.

They passed two enormous doors which opened into the ballroom. Henrietta glanced inside and saw beautiful couples sweeping across the floors in a graceful minuet. Edward and Lady Sara circled each other, hands clasped. Had not Lady Kesseley and the hostess been holding Henrietta, she would have stumbled.

Inside the card room all eyes turned to Henrietta.

“You shall be my partner,” the hostess said and led her to the center table. Guests crowded around as the cards were dealt.

Henrietta felt like an actress suddenly thrust on stage without knowing her part. The cards shook in her hand. What did these numbers mean? All she could see was Lady Sara in Edward’s arms. She scanned the room until she saw Kesseley, leaning against the wall by the door. His arms were crossed at his chest and those ridiculous curls drooped into his eyes. Knowing her old friend was there eased her mind. Her racing thoughts slowed to an easy flow. She took a slow breath, everything coming back, the numbers, the moves, the possibilities. She laid the ace of diamonds on the table.

***

Kesseley knew Henrietta would win. As applause broke out in the room, he quietly slipped out the door to the ballroom.

Let her go,
he reminded himself again as he looked upon the minuet dancers. He nervously brushed away one of his saliva-stiffened curls.

Just find a nice girl. No one too fancy. A wallflower that would appreciate some attention. Plain and sweet with an approachable chaperone.

But it was unavoidable, he was drawn to the most beautiful of them all. Lady Sara waited in the center of the room on a sofa. Her friends clustered about her.