Stroke of Genius by Emily Bryan Read Free Book Online Page B

growing up wild as a thistle, with little help from the adults around him. The girls who worked there took little notice of him. They wandered about the house in various stages of undress, thinking it didn’t matter to such a youngster.
    But he noticed, and it did matter. He knew the line of a long feminine leg and the curve of a breast almost before he could talk. And they meant something to him. Enough for him to be sure he wouldn’t be happy as a molly’s pet.
    The girls talked over his head while he played with little wooden soldiers he’d carved himself. He knew which of the “gentlemen” were kind and which wererough, who had a short sword and who was gifted with a long one, but was loutish in his bed-play. He learned about every whore’s trick and every possible manner of coupling before he could read his first word.
    If Madame Peel was set on selling him, he’d have to run away. But he didn’t want to leave the Abbey. It was all he knew.
    So Crispin made himself useful at every opportunity. He spit-shined Madame’s black boots till she could see herself in the glossy leather. He ran errands for the girls while they slept in the mornings. He’d always been clever with his hands, so he drew pictures that pleased them, making the thin ones more plump and giving the chubby girls one less chin.
    He gave Madame no excuse to rid herself of him.
    And every evening when the “gentlemen” came, he crept to the garret and hid.

Chapter Six
    Pygmalion shunned the society of others, but that didn’t mean he had no need of it. Almost against his will, he found himself drawn into the swirl of life.
    The gas lamps of Vauxhall winked on throughout the pleasure garden like a long strand of glowing pearls. They cast the pavilions and statuary into a beguiling half-light, teasing the eye and tempting the senses. Strains of a sprightly tune wafted over the murky water of the Thames.
    “It’s like a magical kingdom,” Grace exclaimed as their boat docked at the garden’s stairs. The park was now accessible by land, thanks to the new Westminster Bridge, but her mother had wanted to ride one of the little ferries across the river from Whitehall.
    “There. You see, Horace? It’s just as I remember it.”
    Minerva had spent time in London with her English cousins as a child and Grace suspected she frequently embellished her memories. At her first sight of Vauxhall, Grace knew this was not one of those times.
    “The water trip adds so much to the experience.” Minerva clapped her gloved hands together in satisfaction.
    “It might if I were a duck,” her father said gruffly.
    Grace cast a quick glance at her earthbound father. All ledgers and schedules, Horace Makepeace was not one for flights of fancy. Even the idea of something as frivolous as a “pleasure garden” was abhorrent to him. Worse, he’d been abominably seasick on the voyageover from Boston. The ferry ride over the gentle swells probably seemed more rolling to him than to Grace and her mother.
    “Are you feeling all right, Papa?”
    “Never better.” He swiped his bald pate with his handkerchief. Grace knew the only thing Horace Makepeace detested more than tardiness was weakness, so he wouldn’t show any if he could help it. “Let’s not dawdle. We agreed to meet your cousins at nine sharp.” Horace consulted his filigreed pocket watch. “That gives us less than a quarter hour to find them in this confounded press.”
    “Never fear,” Minerva said as she took her husband’s arm and led him up the stone steps. “I know exactly where they’ll be.”
    Once they reached the gate, Grace’s father grumbled at the admission price. “Three shillings and six pence. Apiece! I thought you said it was only a shilling to get in here, Min.”
    “Hush, dear. Someone might hear you,” her mother scolded. “Times change and so do prices. Besides, it’s not as if we can’t afford it. And this is all for Grace, remember.”
    Her father’s expression