When a Rake Falls (3 page)

Overwhelmed by great affection for this plucky miss, he rocked her back and forth in his arms. “I have biscuits if we get hungry, and since the ground is speeding by, I'm sure we're halfway there already.”

“Paris must be three hundred miles from where we started.”

“I don't expect you to land us in front of Notre-Dame. Just over the Channel will do. What's that, a hundred miles? You don't want to deprive me of my chance at recognition.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“So you're going to be troublesome, eh? I will give you two choices. First, I can hold you in my arms all the way across the Channel. Once over French soil, I will release you, and we can descend. This is a fetching, warm, and satisfactory choice as far as I'm concerned. Or you can pick choice number two. I can let you go now, and we can complete the experiments that are so important to humanity. Of course, your release is dependent upon the condition you promise to cross over to France. The choice is yours. Remain in my warm, friendly arms, or save humanity. Well?”

Like every person of science who depended upon logic to make their decisions, Eve Mountfloy considered the variables and weighed the possible consequences. The results fell into two groups: choice number one or number choice two.

Choice number one, she could remain a hostage in his arms. As the gas eventually escaped the silk balloon, they would slowly descend. But how long would that take? After another peek at his face, she noticed his lips sported a soft yet seductive smile. She inhaled deeply.

The problem with the hostage choice was that the madman holding her was the most attractive young gentleman she had ever seen, much less spoken to. While she was a gentleman's daughter, he was a titled aristocrat—a lord no less. Indeed, if she had to classify him, it would be as a much-admired male specimen sometimes called a “Tulip of the Goes.” So if she wanted to spend time in the agreeable embrace of a cream of the fashionables, this was her chance. Because in reality, Tulips rarely noticed plain, bookish women like herself.

She stole another peek. This time his raised brow created an expectant expression. Due to their current altitude, his cheeks and nose were flushed, but that hardly detracted from his handsome face. A hint of masculine whisker growth gave him a rugged countenance, while his somewhat long sable hair had become completely disheveled. She gulped and told herself the altitude must have dried her throat.

Stop
dreaming
and
focus
.

Choice number one—to remain in his arms—did have some pleasing aspects, she had to admit. However, she would not be able to complete the experiments planned for this flight.

Next, she considered choice number two: agree to his tomfool plan but secretly change the conditions and only
pretend
to cross the Channel. This choice allowed her to complete the experiments, a definite advantage. Once she collected the data, she'd double-cross him and open the valve while he was not looking, so they could safely land in England. She glanced over to the draw line tied to the rigging. How long would it take for the gas to escape, and would the hissing gas and rapid descent avoid his detection? Of course, their descent must not be too fast, but slow enough to land gently, so as not to dash their brains against a tree.

The wind blew the madman's curls around in a mesmerizing manner, except for one perfect curl that found refuge on his cheek. She sighed over her crazy urge to softly stroke this protected curl.
Stop
daydreaming
and
use
logic
. She dragged her mind back to concentrate on the problem before her.

A new choice—number three—entered her mind. If she continued on to France, she would become the first woman, and perhaps the first person born in England, to complete the crossing. Considering the two men that had crossed the Channel together in 1784, Blanchard was born in France and Jeffries in America. That crossing took two and a half hours, and they had suffered problems once they neared France, but Eve had confidence in her newer, more modern balloon. The odds also seemed to be in their favor, because of unusually warm weather and a significant breeze. Unless the wind died altogether, they'd reach France before nightfall. Besides, if successful, her father would likely receive the needed funds to complete his experiments for many years to come. This meant he would also cease his demands for her to frighten respectable ladies and gentlemen using overly rapid ascents. However, she had no experience in long-distance balloon flights, so choice three was risky and dangerous. She rejected this choice and labeled it a product of silly dreams and vaulting ambition, an unrealistic goal for a female in her situation.

Eve decided on choice number two. While she had no idea how she might double-cross him and land before they reached the Channel, she would think of something later—some action more cunning than bludgeoning him until he became unconscious. She took a deep breath and answered her blackmailer's question. “The only choice is to save humanity.”

He flashed a broad smile for a second. “Yes, yes, France, here we come. I am going to release you now, so no tricks.”

She returned his smile with great artifice and batted her eyelashes.

“I like you.” He opened his embrace to release her.

This might have been easier than she had expected because of his trusting nature. Perhaps when the time came, she could tie him up with a rope before he caught on to her purpose. The box in the corner contained sufficient rope, so to be prepared, she must remember to casually remove it. The mental image of this Tulip trussed up made her gulp again.

Remember
your
goal
is
to
save
humanity.

She knelt to take several barometer readings. “My calculations indicate we are currently at an altitude of five thousand, two hundred feet.”

He peered ahead. “So that's the address of clouds.”

She grinned and pulled on the line to open the valve, so they could descend to four thousand feet, the predetermined altitude for the experiments to begin. After tying the line to the balloon's harness, she sat on a low seat and faced him. “Our first experiment will examine the capacity of air at this elevation to maintain flight. I mean normal flight—without a gas balloon. To accomplish this goal, we have cages containing various birds of different weights and wing lengths. So to test the thickness of the air, we will release each bird. If the air is too thin, they will not be able to fly. With multiple testing at many altitudes, men of science can discover the correct ratio of wing length to weight necessary for flight at various elevations. Your job will be to help me observe if the bird is able to fly away or if it falls. If the bird falls, it will be important to determine whether or not they are flapping their wings to limit their descent.”

Turning sideways, he glanced at the cages. “Please let me do it. You can watch me.”

“No.” She placed her hand on a wicker cage. “My father designed these experiments carefully. I must follow the experimental design precisely.” Opening the wooden box, she pulled out a piece of rope and big ledger book. Green leather covered the book's boards and on the front the word
Results,
embellished in gold letters, glinted in the sun. “This book is the most important item we have on board. All of the data we have collected this year is contained in this book. After our planned experiments are completed, my father and I will use the information to advance our knowledge of the air, and maybe even increase the accuracy of predicting England's weather. With routine storm prediction, many lives could be saved.”

“How exactly? I mean, when the rain falls on my nose, I'm not likely to die.”

She wondered if he understood the uncertain threats many people lived with every day—farmers, sailors, people other than Tulips. “My father and I started our experimentation after my brother's death. Tom was returning home from Gibraltar after the war. A nasty gale struck, and his ship foundered on the rocks.” She glanced over to discover true empathy in his countenance, a soft knowing in his green eyes. Perhaps reality was not a stranger to him, and he too at one time had lost a loved one. She drew a deep breath. “Twenty lives were lost. I was six years old. I don't remember him exactly but…” A wave of fragmented memories overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the rough wicker, and recalled Tom's last farewell.

Boyce remained silent.

Several minutes passed, the only sound being the soft wind and the creaking basket.

“I know why you hold your arms that way,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes and noticed she had held her arms slightly out to the side. “I didn't realize… Why?”

“When you remember Tom, what is he doing?”

She thought for a moment and remembered Tom bursting through the front door, his arms held wide ready to pick her up. “He's rushing toward me to give me a hug.”

“I lost my mother years ago. Now, whenever I remember her, I first see her when I was little, leaning forward to pick me up for a kiss. We instinctively open our arms for the embrace that will never come.”

She smiled wistfully at the meaning behind her gesture. “I guess holding them out in anticipation of a promised hug keeps their memory alive.”

“Tom sounds like a nice fellow.”

“Yes, he was.” Even though the high altitude had dried her eyes, she felt tears gathering. “My father and I dedicated our lives to helping others avoid the same tragedy.”

His hand stilled on the duck's cage, and he turned to face her. “I apologize, Miss Mountfloy. I did not know about the motives behind your research before now. Seems we both have sufficient reasons to continue. Don't we?”

The Tulip smiled. A charming gesture probably common to Tulips.

Nevertheless, she couldn't help but smile in return. Except, for some illogical reason, he believed the motives behind a silly challenge were equal to hers. Of course, he might be in love with Lady Sarah; that would explain his drive. But to Eve, no challenge could be more important than saving lives. “Imagine the importance of our research. When a storm brews, we can recognize the type of clouds formed. This, combined with other types of data, such as barometer readings and the behavior of air currents, will helps us be able to predict the severity of the storm. Ships can then be warned to remain at sea, or people on land advised to seek shelter. Thousands of people at one time may be saved. So now you know what I meant by saving humanity. Not nearly as important as, let's say…chasing a fortune.”

He blinked—twice. “I don't need a fortune. I want to distinguish myself by besting the other gentlemen in this race. The winner's story will be published in the papers, and my father will no doubt read it. I will no longer be the cork-brained youngest son, and he'll have to respect me for my achievements.” Pausing for a moment, his lightheartedness returned. “Anyhow, at the end of the race, one of the competitors and Lady Sarah will fall in love, and if that man is me, all the better. I promise to be the best of husbands. And she probably needs me right now without knowing it yet. So saving humanity means the chance to save every family, doesn't it?”

The madman spoke about love and family—unusual for a gentleman of such short acquaintance. She suspected she might be dealing with a rare male specimen. Perhaps there was an undiscovered depth of character lurking under those jesting green eyes. Maybe the amiable, charming Tulip was a fabricated facade, one meant to hide his sharp intelligence and true heart.
If
so
, she wondered,
why
the
deception?
“By the words ‘every family,' do you mean saving future families too?”

He slapped her on the back. “Yes, yes, you understand me. Ladies of science are impressive. Are there other ladies like you interested in science?”

Eve ignored him. Their altitude had not changed considerably, the sun was still high, and only a few cumulus clouds dotted the sky. However, the once-steady wind had lessened. If the wind dropped even more, they might have to land before the experiments were completed. “Yes, there are other female natural philosophers and chemists. Not many, I grant, but some have made significant discoveries. I'm not really one of these ladies though, since my father designs the experiments. I study his books in hopes of one day learning the scholarship necessary to plan them. Besides, females are normally expected to assist men of science or instruct others upon scientific principles. For example, one of my great inspirations is the famous author Mrs. Marcet. Have you heard of her?”

“No, is she a member of the
ton
? Would I find her at Court or Almack's?”

The mental picture of the brilliant Mrs. Marcet conversing with the illustrious toadeaters at Almack's elicited a chuckle.

“Wait. Give me a chance. The Royal Society of London?”

“A good guess, but no. Mrs. Marcet is a wife, mother, and inspiration to all who study science—not just women. I am sure every young person interested in chemistry or natural philosophy is reading her books now. In the future, I'll wager one of her students will become the world's greatest chemist. That is how influential her books are.”

“Books.” He rubbed his chin. “I publish books. Learned all about the editing business at my brother's publishing house. Found it a great deal of fun. In five years, I've published all sorts of books, comedies, handbooks, songs. I first published a book written by two of my old school friends and even wrote one myself. Although my father was not pleased…” He paused. “No, he was not pleased.”

“Really? What is the title of your book? Maybe I have read it.”

He was no longer looking at her directly. “No, no, I am sure you have not. Just a limited distribution of a small tome of comical songs.”

“I like songs.”

“Um, songs for gents.”

“Oh.”

His cheeks sported a rosy blush, a lovely contrast to the shadow of dark whiskers. “Continue. Tell me about our clever wife and mother. Maybe I've read her books.”

“Because she is a woman, she originally published her books anonymously, but now she is recognized as the author of my favorite book, titled
Conversations
on
Chemistry
. Have you read it?”

The Tulip tugged on his cravat. “Well, no. It doesn't sound like a page-turner. What's the book about? Are there knights a jousting?” He leaned close and whispered, “A lady reclining on a pile of skulls hears a noise behind her. What could it be?”

“Oh.” His vivid imagination made her stare at his dark whisker growth—not a beard, more like a roughness that demanded experimental touch—and she wanted to touch. She glared at him for having such an alluring chin. “Mrs. Marcet's book is a hypothetical conversation between a teacher, named Mrs. B., and two students, Emily and Caroline. The girls pose basic questions many of us would ask, then Mrs. B. answers them. A simple format that proves to be an effective instructional tool, in fact—”