My Fake Rake

“Certain about this?” Rotherby asked above the din. “I can drive you wherever you wish. No need to bother with the discomfort of an anonymous mail coach.”

Seb gave his friend a rueful half smile. “To begin with, I don’t know where it is I’m heading. I plan on picking a vehicle at random and seeing where it takes me. It’s my custom.”

“I know that, but it’s just as easily done with my coachman. I can have him pick a destination at will.”

Seb pushed up his spectacles. There was no need to forgo them now. “In truth, I need the anonymity of a mail coach. To be amongst strangers with no idea who I am.”

“As it pleases you.” Rotherby looked as though he wanted to press the matter further, but he visibly bit back his words. The silence that fell wasn’t silent at all, filled as it was with shouts, horses’ neighs, and the clatter of wheels.

Rotherby’s footman handed Seb his battered pack, which he shouldered. It contained none of his rakish clothing. Seb had filled the rucksack in the predawn hours, stuffing it with his old garments and four anthropology books—everything from his previous life, when he’d dwelt in complacent ignorance, knowing nothing of his feelings for Grace.

Too late now. He might wear the clothes of Old Seb, but he wasn’t that man any longer. He knew now what it was to love, and to lose that love.

On the way to the coaching yard, he’d momentarily considered stopping at Grace’s home to say his final goodbye. Rotherby had even permitted him to direct the coachman to drive past Weymouth and Harley Streets. But in the end, he hadn’t the fortitude to see her face. He would have done something appalling, like beg her to abandon Fredericks and marry him. There were many reasons why this would have been a terrible idea, so when the carriage had slowed, he’d banged on the roof to signal not to stop. They’d driven on, to the coaching yard, where the next stage of Seb’s life was to begin.

“Sorry, old man,” Rotherby said gruffly. “Didn’t want things to turn out this way.”

“Likewise.” Seb faced his friend. “My thanks for . . . for everything.”

“We surely made a rake out of you.” The corner of Rotherby’s mouth turned up. “Quite a damned fine rake.”

“A hell of an experience.” He knew with certainty that writing a book, which would contain his observations on the structures and systems of the aristocratic elite, would involve an objectivity he’d never be able to achieve. Every line he penned would be about Grace, and that wound was far too fresh. It might never heal.

“Do you want news about her?” Rotherby asked.

“That way lies madness.” He might not be able to cauterize the injury, but he had to try. Otherwise, the rest of his existence would be an exercise in simply enduring rather than living.

Rotherby nodded. “I can’t feign that I know what you’re experiencing, but I hate that you’re hurting. That cursed woman,” he growled.

“No anger or blame.” Seb held up his hand. “Not for her. Not for anyone. Even Fredericks. I’ve learned that the human heart’s a willful beast, and it can’t be expected to obey or follow commands.”

“I’d horsewhip Fredericks in front of the Royal Society, but then, you’re a better man than me.”

“You’ll receive no argument from me on that point.”

Rotherby scowled good-naturedly.

Seb would be sorry to leave all of the other members of the union   of the Rakes behind, but it had been Rotherby who’d helped to guide him on this journey, even with his friend’s time so precious. And for twenty years, Rotherby had been his supporter, his staunch ally. That was something Seb prized above any first edition of a book.

Naturally, he couldn’t show or speak of this. Men simply understood each other.

Ah, the hell with it. When had adhering to codes of masculine conduct benefited anyone?

He wrapped an arm around a startled Rotherby’s shoulders and pulled him close in an embrace. “I’ll miss you.”

For a moment, Rotherby was rigid. Then, slowly, he raised his hands and patted Seb’s back. It wasn’t quite an unfettered display of affection, but it would take more than one hug to undo a lifetime of conditioning.