The subject of rakes has, by This Author, been discussed with exhaustive frequency in these very columns. It is a matter upon which I have reached a firm and perhaps scandalous conclusion: rakes do indeed walk among us, stalking the velvet-lined corridors of Mayfair like hungry wolves in tailored evening capes. Chief among these predatory gentlemen is none other than Nicholas Hale.
Viscount Hale is a rake of the first water—a debauchee of such significant renown that his reputation often precedes him into a room, clearing a path of both hushed gasps and fluttering fans.
One might mistake a mere "rogue" for a man who is simply dense; however, This Author uses the term in its most literal, stinging sense. A rogue is a man who flaunts his inheritance with the grace of a peacock, considers only his own immediate whims, and remains—might I add—altogether IDIOTIC. He is a creature of impulse, lacking the wit to hide his sins.
A true Rake, however, is a more dangerous specimen entirely. He has no need to boast of his fortune, for the gold in his coffers is as evident as the arrogance in his stride. He is keenly aware of his station, and while he knows he is the subject of every scandalous whisper among the Ton, he wears that infamy with a bored indifference. He understands his place in the firmament of society, and most crucially, he is never—not even for a fleeting second—idiotic.
If that description does not fit the enigmatic Viscount Hale—a man who breaks hearts with the same clinical precision he uses to manage his estates—then This Author cannot think of another more deserving of the title. The question that lingers upon my mind, and indeed upon the minds of every hopeful mama in London, is this: Shall 1816 be the season the Viscount finally succumbs to the exquisite, suffocating bliss of matrimony?
If one were to ask This Author… perhaps not.
Lady Ravenscroft's Society Papers 20 April 1816
"That wretched piece of filth!"
The voice of Nicholas Hale thundered through the library, a room usually reserved for the quiet contemplation of philosophy and ledger books. With a violent jerk of his wrist, he crumpled the lilac-scented scandal sheet into a tight ball and hurled it toward the ornate silver wastepaper basket. It missed, skittering across the polished oak floor to rest near the hearth.
His younger brothers, Nathaniel and Noah, were currently draped over the leather armchairs like discarded coats, taking immense pleasure in his agitation. They each nursed a crystal glass of amber brandy, the sunlight catching the facets of the glass.
"I find I must offer my sincerest thanks to this Lady Ravenscroft," Noah remarked, his voice dripping with mock sincerity as he set his glass aside. "In twenty years of brotherhood, I have never managed to provoke you to such a magnificent, purple-faced state of fury."
"Did you happen to read her insolence?" Nicholas demanded, spinning around. His cravat, usually tied in a perfect 'Mathematical' knot, was slightly askew. He paced the length of the Persian rug, his boots clicking sharply.
Noah eyed the ball of paper on the floor. "Indeed. She named you a rake. Hardly news to anyone with a pulse in London, wouldn't you say?"
"A 'well-known' debauchee, if memory serves," Nathaniel added with a wicked smirk, leaning back and crossing his legs. "Quite a distinction. Most men have to work years for such a title; you seem to have earned it by simply standing still and looking brooding."
Nicholas stopped and stared at them in disbelief. He wondered, not for the first time, if the brandy had finally rotted their brains or if they were born with a natural immunity to dignity. "This shall tarnish my image! An image I have meticulously curated to be seen in a favorable light by the Lords of the Exchequer and the elders of the parish."
"Then perhaps," Noah suggested, swirling the liquid in his glass, "you should cease pursuing every silk skirt that swishes past you in Vauxhall Gardens."
"He does not limit himself to skirts, might I add," Nathaniel chimed in, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I saw him quite enamored with a pair of very fine trousers at the fencing academy last week."
Nicholas let out a guttural groan of frustration. "How am I to secure a wife—a respectable Viscountess to sit at the head of this table and manage this household—if this deranged woman persists in slandering my character to every breakfast table in the city?"
The room went deathly silent. The two younger brothers froze, their glasses halfway to their lips, staring at the Viscount as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head.
"You intend to marry?" Nathaniel asked, his voice dropping an octave. "The actual ceremony? The 'until death do us part' business? The iron shackles of commitment? I do not abhor the institution for others, but... you?"
Nicholas turned to his mahogany desk, pretending to be deeply fascinated by a stack of unpaid invoices. "I do. I have reached the age of nine and twenty, and the line must be secured. I plan to wed this very season. In fact, I intend to be engaged before the final ball of June."
"You!" Noah yelled, standing up so abruptly his chair nearly toppled.
"Is it so difficult to believe that a man of my standing wishes to fulfill his duty?"
"In a word? Yes," Nathaniel replied. He stood up and approached his elder brother with a look of genuine concern, reaching out a hand to press it against Nicholas's forehead.
Nicholas swatted the hand away with a hiss. "What on earth is the meaning of this?"
"I am searching for signs of an inflammation of the brain," Nathaniel said. "A fever, perhaps? Or a sudden, catastrophic break in your sanity brought on by too much brooding in the dark?"
"I am perfectly sane," Nicholas snapped, smoothing his waistcoat. "Now, sit down and stop acting like a pair of court jesters."
"Very well," Noah said, reclaiming his seat but leaning forward with intense curiosity. "Let us hear the grand plan. What are the requirements for the future Lady Hale? Surely you aren't just going to marry any lady who happens to drop a glove in your path."
Nicholas looked up. His gaze drifted to the massive oil painting above the fireplace—a portrait of their father. The late Viscount was captured in a moment of rare warmth, smiling down at their mother with a look of such profound, sickening devotion that Nicholas had always found it uncomfortable to look at. It was a look of vulnerability. A look of a man who had given his heart away and left himself at the mercy of another.
"I require a woman of sense," Nicholas said firmly.
Noah let out a short, dry chuckle. "A noble ambition, brother. Though I fear that in the ballrooms of Mayfair, sense is a far rarer commodity than French lace or Russian emeralds."
"I believe it is their duty to be sensible," Nathaniel noted, though he spoke with the ignorance of a man who avoided society.
"Brother," Noah interrupted, "you avoid the Ton as if it were the Great Plague. I, however, have suffered through the tea parties. Half the debutantes I have spoken with believe that Lyons is a province in the heart of Africa and that the sun revolves around their own particular bonnet."
Nicholas laughed, a rare, genuine sound, as he watched Nathaniel's jaw drop. "I suspect that is because they are denied the education we are privileged to receive. They are taught to sing, to paint mediocre watercolors, and to simper. I need more than a simpering doll."
"Alright, let us hear the next requirement on your list," Noah said.
Nicholas heaved a long, weary sigh. "I desire someone with whom I shall feel no sentimental attachment whatsoever. No passion. No grand romance. No... poetry."
"Say what now?" Nathaniel asked, thoroughly confused.
"I want a woman I can never fall in love with," Nicholas explained, his voice cold and clinical. "I want a partner. A woman who will make herself useful as the Viscountess, who will manage the servants, host the dinners, and provide the heirs. I want a marriage of cold, hard logic."
"You wish to marry without affection?" Noah's brows knit together. "That sounds like a recipe for a very long, very quiet life of misery."
"On the contrary," Nicholas countered. "It is a recipe for stability. I have seen what 'love' does to men. It turns them into fools. It turned our father into a man who couldn't breathe when Mother was out of the room. I refuse to be that weak."
"Well," Nathaniel said, "at least you are consistent in your cynicism. What else?"
"She must look the part," Nicholas added, taking a sip of water. "I am a Viscount; I cannot have a wife who looks like a frightened bird or... or a pig."
"True enough," Noah conceded. "Beauty is the currency of the realm."
"I want someone who is healthy, attractive, and sensible. Simple as that. It is a logical transaction."
"And how do you propose to find this 'sensible' creature who won't tempt your heart?" Noah asked. "The beauties of the season are designed for the very purpose of making men lose their wits. They are wrapped in tulle and smelling of roses specifically to bypass your logic."
A slow, predatory smile touched Nicholas's lips—the look of a wolf who had already spotted the deer. "That is precisely why I have decided on my target. I shall pursue the woman who is named the 'Diamond' of the season. Whoever the Queen chooses, that is the woman I shall wed."
Nathaniel let out a sharp, barking laugh. "The Diamond? Nick, the Diamond will be the most sought-after girl in London! She'll be surrounded by a swarm of poets, fortune hunters, and second sons. Why choose the one woman guaranteed to cause a spectacle?"
"Because," Nicholas explained calmly, "the Diamond is a title of social consensus. By choosing the woman the world deems perfect, I am choosing a known quantity. She will have been vetted by every sharp-tongued matron in the city. She will be polished, well-bred, and—most importantly—she will be so occupied with her own status and the maintenance of her 'Diamond' luster that she will not require my soul in exchange for her hand."
He picked up a heavy silver letter opener, turning it over in his hands. "I want a woman who understands that marriage is the apex of social achievement, not a romantic tryst. If she is the Diamond, she already knows her value is in her title. We will understand each other perfectly without ever needing to say a word of substance. We shall be a pair of statues atop a wedding cake."
"You're looking for a trophy," Noah muttered, his voice tinged with disappointment.
"I am looking for a Viscountess," Nicholas corrected him sharply. "One who can stand at the head of a ballroom and command respect without saying a word. I am doing her a favor, really. I will give her the most coveted title in the peerage, and in return, I only ask for her cooperation and her indifference."
Nathaniel shook his head, looking back at the portrait of their father. "Father would have hated this plan, Nick. He believed in the fire of the heart."
Nicholas's jaw tightened until it ached. "Father is gone. I am the Viscount now, and I will not leave the fate of this family to the mercy of a random whim of nature or a 'fire' that eventually burns out. The decree is made. Tonight is the Duchess of Devonshire's ball. We shall see what the market has to offer."
As the three brothers stood to move toward the dressing room to prepare for the evening's festivities, Nathaniel asked one final question, his voice echoing in the hall.
"And what if your logic fails you? What if you end up falling in love with this Diamond?"
Nicholas did not even turn around. "I won't. I have spent nine and twenty years building a fortress, Nathaniel. One season in London won't tear it down."
"I shall take you at your word," Nathaniel replied, following him out. "But truly... Africa?"