To Bait a Rake (Book 3 of the Rake Patrol Series)
By Donna MacMeans
Coming in 2016
ARE YOU A man interested in pleasure? Do you enjoy the fairer sex?
Abigail scribbled the beginnings of a very special personal ad for the Mayfair Messenger in the midst of the upper shelf of society.
“You can’t say ‘sex’ in the newspaper,” Sarah cautioned in a harsh whisper. She glanced right and left as if afraid someone might overhear in the busy Crescent Coffee Palace restaurant. “The paper has its standards. Otherwise, the light skirts on Flower Street might place advertisements.”
“Oh! We can’t have that.” Abigail drew a line through the offensive words and wrote ‘woman’ instead. As Sarah worked for the Mayfair Messenger, she would certainly know the paper’s standards. Abigail looked at the revised ad, imagining that it would attract that hideous toad, Cecil Abernathy, her late husband’s business partner.
“I’m not certain this will work,” Sarah said. “Advertising for rakes makes us little better than those light skirts. Think of our reputations.”
“You said your Rake Patrol has not been effective in identifying rakes,” Abigail said, with a tilt of her head. “A better way to study a rake might be to advertise for one.”
“She’s right,” Faith said, one of the beautiful members of the Rake Patrol that Abigail heard so much about. “We thought Ashton Trewelyn was a rake, but then he married Edwina so we were wrong about him. Claire thought Cameron McPherson was a rake based on that ad in the Messenger. She hurried off to Scotland to rescue me, but married Cameron instead. All of our rakes have not been rakes at all.”
“But what of our reputations?” Sarah asked. “We’ll be seen talking to these men. Won’t we be the subject of gossip?”
The two ladies turned as one unit to stare at Abigail, specifically her black gown that broadcast her widow status.
“Abigail should do it,” Faith decreed. “You’re new in town and no one knows you as yet. You should be safe from wagging tongues, and you’d suffer the least damage to your reputation.”
She should complain. She had no interest in speaking to roués and profligates, but the thought that these two women wanted her, needed her, was a bit overpowering. She felt a warm glow from the prospect.
“ I have no interest in marriage…or rakes, for that matter.” She glanced toward Faith. “But I agree with your mission to save women from the threat of a man seeking to take advantage.” It was a shame the Rake Patrol could not intercede on her behalf with Cecil. But that was another matter.
“So you think this will work?” Sarah asked again, pushing her glasses up her nose. “We’ve never advertised for rakes before.”
“And therein lies the problem.” Abigail scribbled another line to the ad before she handed the paper to Sarah. “Edmund always said that if you don’t receive your desired results, it was best to try a different approach to a problem.”
“Edmund?” Faith raised her brow.
“My dearly departed husband. He passed two years ago,” Abigail said. “Natural causes.” She didn’t bother to add that the causes were natural for a man slightly less than three times her age.
Sarah read the advertisement aloud: Are you a man interested in pleasure? Do you find it difficult to restrict your attention to one special woman? If so, come to the Crescent Coffee Palace on Friday, May fourteenth at two o’clock in the afternoon for particulars.
“The rakes will respond and we’ll choose the best ones for further study,” Abigail explained. She wasn’t sure how a “best” rake was determined, but they’d work that out.
“I’ll observe the men from a distant table to obtain characteristics for my newspaper article,” Sarah added.
“And Faith can hand the man a Temperance flyer on their way out,” Abigail said. It was a negotiated condition imposed by the Women for a Sober Society, the ones who owned the Crescent Coffee house, to have the men come to the coffee house.
“You two will have to handle this on your own,” Faith said, rising from the table. “I’m afraid I’ll be otherwise occupied when the grand interviewing process takes place.” She handed an envelope to Sarah.
“What’s this?” Sarah asked, opening the envelope while Abigail looked on. “It’s a party invitation.” She scanned the words, then looked up in surprise. “You’re getting engaged!” Sarah rose from the the table to hug Faith. “You never said that you found someone.”
Abigail offered congratulations but as neither of the women noticed, all of her early euphoria of being needed just evaporated. Clearly she was not yet considered one of the group.
“I don’t know Mr. Archibald Beckenham,” Faith admitted. “Which is why I’ll be unavailable to help you in this latest venture. I’ve been instructed to meet him directly and wisely utilize my time prior to the house party in Scotland three weeks hence.”
“I’m sure he’s a wonderful man,” Abigail said, though she knew marriages were generally arranged for a reason. She still remembered her own feelings of isolation and vulnerability when told she was to marry the widower in the large manor house on the hill. She shivered. At least those days were behind her.
Faith swiped at tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s much to do before I leave for Scotland.” She rushed out the door without waiting for a farewell from her friends.
“Poor Faith,” Sarah said, watching her friend depart.
“She’s such an attractive woman,” Abigail said, agreeing with Sarah’s sentiment. “I’m surprised no one has spoken for her.” She looked at Sarah. “I assume money, or lack of money, is at the heart?”
Sarah nodded. “Her parents have high expectations. I had hoped for a love match for her. I had understood that there was one man…” She shook her head. “I suppose that doesn’t matter now.”
Abigail broke their moment of morose silence. “So you’ll place the ad in next week’s Messenger, and we’ll meet tomorrow to compose our questions for the respondents?”
“Do you think many will come? This is a very public place to conduct interviews.”
Abigail looked about the room at the fashionable ladies chatting with other fashionable ladies with an occasional bored man sipping tea. Perhaps it wasn’t the best place, but she wasn’t expecting many men to respond to the ad. She still didn’t want to admit as much to Sarah.
“Let’s just hope that one of those rakes isn’t a Mr. Archibald Beckenham.”
ON FRIDAY, MAY fourteenth, Abigail donned her widow’s black silk then left determined to arrive at the Crescent early in case anyone should appear in response to the ad. She drew to a sudden stop as she approached the coffee house. A long line of men in top hats stood outside. The line stretched down XXX before it turned the corner. They stood mostly in clumps. One ingenious soul had a walking stick that turned into a stool and used it to advantage. Others checked their pocket watches with a scowl at the line in front of them.
“Dear Lord,” she gasped. “What have we done!”
Abigail hurried inside to find Sarah waiting at one of the tables. “Did you have any idea there would be so many?”
Her wide-eyed friend shook her head in wonder. “What are we going to do?”
Abigail took a long breath, then blew it out in a huff. Edmund had often remonstrated her that a venture begun must be a venture completed. She may not have begun this had she anticipated the result, but that was of little significance at this point.
“We see this through.” She started toward the door, and the progression of silk and beaver hats tipped like a row of dominoes. “But I can see we’ll need a lot more of those Temperance brochures.”
FOUR HOURS LATER and umpteen pots of tea, the line of men outside the windows of the coffee house were dwindling. Abigail had spoken with many, many flirtatious men whose seductive proposals of how the two of them might spend those nights of endless pleasure brought a bright hot flush to her cheeks. Her mourning attire seemed more inducement than constraint to their bold suggestions. Sometimes she wished she were the one with pen and paper to write down the outrageous propositions so she could remember them later. Were such positions and flagrant behavior even possible?
She had worked out a system of hand gestures to communicate with Sarah who sat at a nearby table where she could observe the men who responded to the ad. While many were indeed rakish in manner and dress, many of the men were not. They’d come out of curiosity, they said. Others had waited in line to call her names and preach repentance. In those instances, Sarah sought the assistance of the next man in line to help forcibly evict the abusive man from the premises. In a rather curious turn of events, Abigail noticed the other women in the establishment were hesitant to leave, entertained as they were by the proceedings. All in all, she guessed the Crescent Coffee house had their best day of sales ever, while she was exhausted by the experience. When the last man left, she slipped over to Sarah’s table.
“Did you get what you needed?” she asked, praying that the answer was yes. She certainly did not want to go through this experience again.
“I think so,” Sarah said, flipping through pages of lists. “But I only made notes about the appearances of the men. I’ll need your assistance about what was said in the course of your interview.”
Abigail’s cheeks flamed anew. To listen to the outrageous and indecent proposals was one thing, to actually speak about them was another.
She was saved from explaining why that would be difficult by the tinkling of the bell above the door to the coffee house. A man entered with his hat in his hand. He scanned the room looking for someone but not finding the one he sought.
And what a man! Abigail slowly straightened. At first, he seemed impossibly tall with a long face that held arresting beauty. No, not beauty. That was the wrong word for those prominent cheekbones and piercing eyes, but she didn’t know the right word to use. Haunting, perhaps? Black curly hair hid the tops of his ears, just has his long coat hid what she supposed was a lean, solid body. Her chest lifted, while an unfamiliar tension settled in her lower regions, though she had no idea why. Her eyes focused on his well-defined lips which did not tilt in a smile like all the others before him. A shiver dashed down her spine. This one meant business.