My Fake Rake

“Yes,” Rotherby said lowly, “a visit to my tailor is definitely on the agenda.” He waved toward the men outside. “Some of these chaps are trying too hard. They’re aping the Bond Street Roll and styling themselves like dandies. Pay no attention to them,” he added in a high-handed tone.

“Why not?” Grace demanded.

“Observe,” the duke said, flicking his finger in the direction of two men, one in a green waistcoat and the other in a pair of polished, tasseled boots.

As Seb and Grace looked on, a pretty young lady neared the pair. The men quickly pasted smirks on their faces, as if they were possessors of a secret about the woman that she herself could never know.

“Good God, their faces,” Seb noted under his breath. “As if anyone couldn’t see what they’re doing.”

“What are they doing?” Rotherby asked pointedly.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re trying to inflate their own social value while simultaneously diminishing her. Sorry,” he added with a deliberately condescending look to Rotherby. “Making themselves out to be grand so she feels small.”

“I know what you meant,” his friend snapped.

“With the intention that she will seek to raise her sense of worth by associating with them.” Grace sent Rotherby a patronizing glance. She spoke to him with an exaggeratedly slow and loud voice. “They want her to feel special if they talk to her.”

“I know what you meant, too,” Rotherby grumbled. “I did go to Oxford, for God’s sake. I’m not a completely overbred ninny.”

Grace caught Seb’s eye, and they both suppressed their laughter. It wasn’t fair to torment poor Rotherby—he was doing them a favor—but it was hugely entertaining to dent his ducal pride, and sharing the teasing with Grace made it even better.

“I see what you two are doing,” Rotherby said with annoyance. “And it’s fortunate I’m a man with a very long fuse or else I’d chase the both of you out into the street.”

“I run very quickly,” Seb countered.

“And having a brother makes me an expert in dodging a grumpy older man,” Grace added.

“Four and thirty is not old! To blazes with both of you.” Clearly irate, Rotherby started to rise, but when Grace lifted her hand in a placating gesture, Seb took hold of his friend’s jacket cuff.

“We’ll stop,” Grace said at the same time Seb insisted, “Here, now, we’re sorry.”

Looking somewhat mollified, Rotherby sat back down. “Don’t forget, I have six estates managers who report to me. Not to mention I’ve got Liverpool’s ear, so we can stop with the Rotherby’s a Buffoon tomfoolery.”

“Look outside,” Grace said, thankfully drawing attention to something other than mollifying Rotherby. “The woman just passed right by the dandies. Good lass.”

The two would-be rakes appeared momentarily crushed by being ignored, but only for a moment before donning their condescending expressions once more and swaggering down the street.

“A failure in every way,” Rotherby declared. “Too much affectation. Too desperate.”

One of the tearoom employees set a plate of cakes and little sandwiches on the table. “With Mr. Mohan’s compliments,” she said. “The cakes are baked fresh daily by Catton’s.” She curtsied and backed away.

“Then what do we look for?” Grace asked, picking up a sandwich.

“All well and good to tell us what not to do,” Seb agreed. He took a bite of cake. “Somebody out there has to be an example of a true and successful rake.”

“There.” Rotherby’s gaze skimmed back to the street. “The bloke in the burgundy coat. He knows what he’s doing.”

Curious, Seb turned his attention to the man in question. He moved easily, without exaggerated movement, but possessing sleek agility that carried with it an animal quality. Seb couldn’t quite determine what contributed to the man’s air, only that it subtly advertised erotic possibility. Perhaps it was his upright but not rigid posture. Perhaps it was the minute forward tilt to his pelvis, drawing attention there.