Donna Lea Simpson The Last Days of a Rake (epub)

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.Edgar Lankin was determined, and Miss Bailey was oblivious.One month later, he had made little progress toward achieving his goal beyond a bet set up among new friends at his club.He had bragged so openly of his plan (only among those he knew receptive, of course, not among the older, more staid members of the society, and not naming the object of his intentions) that one gambling fellow had bet him he would not succeed.And so the betting book was laid open, and the bet, couched in suitably obscure phrases, was confirmed.But now it looked like he may have boasted too precipitously.His fellow clubmen, who did not know the young woman in question beyond her initials, S.B., had begun to taunt him with his failure.Fetes, balls, breakfasts and dinners were the only places he had been able to see Miss Bailey.Lankin recognized he was being led, by Susan and her chaperone, down a path that had forked from the one he had intended to firmly tread.Ahead, gleaming in the distance at the end of the path, was a church and Susan, guarded by the dragon, at a flower-decked altar.The vision horrified him.He needed to either scuttle away from the beautiful girl, or make his final assault on the fortress of her virtue.But in life, so much is chance.He was undecided which path he would take—defection or seduction—because despite his despicable intentions, he liked Susan Bailey.She was sweet and gentle, but not vacuous, nor thoughtless.There was little else to do most times in company for a young man and lady but talk, and she was well-informed, intelligent, with a bright vivacity that was pleasing to the most discriminating taste.If he had been a different kind of man, he said to himself often in his late night turmoil, she would make an ideal wife.Chance made his decision, or at least, he was willing to blame chance.When a bet is placed it has a time limit on its accomplishment, and one afternoon, as Lankin sprawled in a comfortable chair in the dark, smoky card room of his club, the bet holder, one George Sanders, approached him.“I say, Lankin, you ready to call it quits and pay out on the S.B.bet? I could use my winnings about now.”“What? I beg your pardon.What are you babbling on about, Sanders?” Lankin asked, peering up through a wreath of cigar smoke.The man leaned over and lowered his voice, slanting his gaze to both sides, as he said, “That bet, ‘bout the beauteous little filly you are set to debauch.The mysterious S.B., who is not such a mystery, by the way, my good fellow.Time’s ‘bout up! You lose.I want m’money.” He held out his hand and waggled his fingers.Lankin did not like Sanders’s tone, and the word “lose” held an unexpected sting.One such as he, with youth, wealth, looks and intelligence, could not lose to one such as Sanders, an aging, debauched, dim-witted, bulbous-nosed impecunious drunken gambler.He stood, towering over the other man.“Bring the betting book!” he commanded.When it was brought, he pointed one finger at the date.He had seven days to accomplish the deed before forfeiting.“But you said yourself the gel had gone off to her country haunt,” Sanders brayed.That was true.But the ace up Lankin’s sleeve had yet to be played.“But I have an invitation, old man,” he drawled, laying the card out on the table in the form of a written invitation.“I am going to accept, and follow my sweet girl down to the country.”Some of the others, those who had bet on Lankin’s success, applauded.“Make us proud!” one crowed.“I will,” Lankin said.Part 3 - The CountryTo plot someone’s downfall while they are unaware carries a thrilling, dangerous weight, and the power can be as intoxicating as a fine brandy.All the way to Miss Susan Bailey’s family home in Kent, Lankin pondered the approach, the seduction, the surrender and his triumph.By defying time-honored traditions, he thought, working up his courage (which, in truth, was flagging) he was striking a blow against societal expectations and all the traps set by scheming chaperones and duplicitous maidens to snare unwary, unsuspecting young men into precipitate marriages.As much as he liked the young lady, he was not about to commit to a lifetime of harnessed plodding.Miss Susan Bailey had a father, though he was rarely seen at the London gatherings planned to promote social intercourse.He left those matters to the chaperone he paid to guard his daughter’s most valuable commodity, her diamond-bright virtue.Lankin’s welcome by Mr.Bailey was gratifyingly hearty.He was given the best guest suite, with another room for his valet, then directed outdoors, where the young lady was spending the beautiful summer afternoon [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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