A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  “I know of nothing.”

  “Shouldn’t we send for a doctor?”

  “I fear we’ll be unable to trust any doctor we might find in the immediate neighborhood.”

  Harriet bit her lip. “I’d not thought of that. She looks so terribly pale. She’s so weak.”

  “I believe she will recover, Miss Cole,” Sir Frederick reassured her. “We’ll see how she does in the morning. If she is well enough to travel we will take her to her goddaughter. If she is not...”

  Harriet chuckled although there was the slightest touch of hysteria in it. “If we must stay here, then I’ll review what I know of cookery. I can boil water. And, therefore, I can, I believe, boil eggs. We will use the tea from Madame’s private stock and perhaps we will not starve utterly before we may leave here.”

  “You are a very brave woman, Miss Cole.”

  “One does what one must, that is all. Inside I shake like a blancmange.”

  “But that is exactly what bravery is all about. One does what one must even in the face of a not unreasonable fear.” He reached for her hand, squeezed it gently. “You will do, my dear.” He turned and walked away, fearing he’d do something outrageous if he were to stay in her presence much longer. Perhaps something as simple as raising that long-fingered hand to his lips. Or perhaps more. He might pull her into his embrace and, once he’d gentled her, tip up her face and kiss her and then...

  Sir Frederick growled deep in his throat. This was no time for daydreams of what he’d very much enjoy doing with and to Miss Harriet Cole! He looked down the hall to where Yves stalked toward him, a frown on his face. Daydreams fled on the instant. “What has gone wrong now?” he asked, fearing the worst.

  “The men are sleeping soundly. All of them!”

  “As we were meant to be.” Sir Frederick sighed. “Well, Yves, we’ve a rather large responsibility this night. Can you do it? Or did you drink too much of that drugged brandy?”

  “I’m a bit woozy, but it will pass. What do we do?” They laid new plans and took up positions near the women’s rooms. They waited. The wait was not so long as might have been expected. About one in the morning a door along the corridor opened. A head poked out and looked in both directions.

  When the man sighted Yves and Sir Frederick, the head jerked back out of sight. Carefully, it showed itself again. Sir Frederick had very good hearing. The soft gutter French flowing from the room and down the hall brought a grin to his face! The door shut with a snap.

  The rest of the night passed without incident.

  Three

  Nearly a week passed before Harriet gave in to Madame’s urging that they go on. A carriage was converted for the use of the invalid who was still far from well. A makeshift bed was well padded with featherbeds in the hope the jouncing would be eased. Cushions were put in. In fact, everything the party could think to do for her comfort was done. They proceeded slowly toward Paris and Madame’s goddaughter’s where the women were made welcome and pampered and coddled.

  After assuring themselves the women were protected by old retainers long known to be loyal, Sir Frederick and Yves continued on to stay with Monsieur de Bartigues’ uncle until Madame was well enough to travel on.

  Sir Frederick began to chafe at the delay. At the time of their first adventure with the comte, he’d been returning to England. It was already weeks beyond the date on which he’d rather expected to cross the Channel. If Madame were slow to recover her strength, it might be still more weeks before they moved on. Frederick wanted to go home, but, hiding his impatience, he sent still another note to warn his friend in England that he’d been delayed and would, when he knew it, send information concerning his new arrival date.

  Sir Frederick’s impatience was based in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had the wealth necessary to carry through his dreams of renewing his wasted estate. His father had begun the rot. He’d mortgaged the land heavily and had no interest in his tenants or in modern agricultural methods. Inheriting debts rather than money, Frederick had been unable to do anything upon becoming baronet, but he’d planned what he would do if he ever had the means by which to do it—and now he did. Unexpectedly and from a surprising source, he’d inherited a fortune!

  While in Florence, he and Yves had quite literally stumbled over a sick old woman dressed in rusty black. She’d been on the steps to one of the city’s many churches, hunched into herself and coughing terribly. Something about the woman had roused compassion in Frederick and, although he was rather short of funds at that moment, he’d taken the creature in, called a doctor, and had seen she was cared for. Once she was well again and gone, he’d forgotten her. Barely a month later, he was accosted by a lawyer who informed him he was heir to the woman’s fortune.

  Frederick’s moment of compassion had unknowingly been made to one of the city’s eccentrics, an ancient miser who had outlived both family and friends and who, upon recovering from the chest ailment she’d had when Frederick found her, had changed her will to her rescuer’s advantage. Changing her will was something the old lady did with great regularity. This time she died before the next revision could be made, and Frederick was now a very rich man.

  As a result, Frederick wished to get himself home and put in motion the first of the plans for improving his land and making it, once again, as productive as it was in his grandfather’s day. On the other hand, Frederick was reluctant to take himself too far from the intriguing Miss Cole. He found himself dreaming of big grey eyes night after night and, during the days, making excuses to visit Madame for the purpose of spending a few moments with the disapproving Harriet.

  “How is Madame today,” he asked on one of those visits.

  “As well as can be expected,” said Miss Cole, her voice cool. “Frani, I believe it is the time you were to read to your grandmother. You had best go now.”

  “Harri!”

  “Françoise.”

  “Yes, Harriet.”

  But as the young girl said goodbye to Sir Frederick, Harriet was certain she saw the minx wink at him. It was too bad of her. She would have to have another talk with her charge.

  “Now tell me that you are not overdoing,” demanded her unwanted guest when they were alone.

  “I am not over-doing,” she repeated, seemingly dutiful. Harriet eyed him. He didn’t seem disturbed that Françoise had gone. If anything he seemed more relaxed than before. If only she understood him! She watched him studying her features thoughtfully and blushed, lowering her eyes.

  “I think you tell a lie, Miss Cole. Your face has fined down to the bones and your eyes look as if they haven’t known what sleep is, ever.”

  “In other words,” she said stiffly, “I look a hag.”

  “To the contrary. You look ethereal and as if a breeze would waft you away. Since I know you are not at all fragile, I can only assume you are taking too much onto those slim shoulders.” He sighed when she refused to rise to the bait. “Miss Cole, it will not do if you too were to fall ill.”

  Harriet bit her lip, quickly stopped the revealing action when his gaze slid to her mouth and something beneath the skin of his face seemed to intensify, tighten ... “As you say, I am not the type to succumb to a little hard work.”

  “That is not what I said at all.”

  A rueful look in his eyes, an almost smile, made Harriet want to smile in response. She forced herself to scowl lightly instead.

  “You deliberately do all you can to misunderstand me, do you not?” he asked gently. “I wish I knew what I had done to make you dislike me so.”

  “One cannot like everyone one meets.”

  “No. That isn’t it, I think. Well, never mind. Someday I will figure it out. But for now I must go.” He rose. “Good day, Miss Cole. You may now tell that little baggage in your charge that she may come out from behind the door and no longer need listen at keyholes.” He raised his voice slightly. “Good day, Mademoiselle.”

  To Harriet’s distress a faint giggle
was heard in response. Françoise came through the door to the adjoining salon immediately Sir Frederick left by the door to the hall. “He is such a funny one, Harriet. I cannot see why you do not like him. Especially when it is so obvious he likes you.”

  “Nonsense. He comes in pursuit of you, Françoise. It is too bad of you to encourage him as you do.”

  “Encourage him! I am not allowed to say a word to him.”

  Harriet frowned. “You are aware of what I mean, Frani. It is for your own good that I scold you. He is a dangerous man, my dear. If only we had other support for this journey, I would gladly see the back of him.” A faint pain settled in her temples and Harriet knew she lied. She would not be glad to see him go. “Oh, if only I understood him,” she exclaimed.

  As the days passed Miss Cole made it quite obvious she had no trust in Sir Frederick. She hovered, thin-lipped, near Françoise whenever the girl would speak with him. It became a game, almost, Sir Frederick teasing Frani and Harriet thinking up chores for the girl which would take her away from his contaminating presence—and with Françoise gone, he could enjoy some quiet moments with the object of his visit, although he was too experienced and too wary to allow Harriet to know his aim.

  Harriet Cole didn’t understand him. She said so. Often. Well, with luck, perhaps one day she would.

  At last they were on their final stage to Calais. Sir Frederick wrapped his fur-lined traveling cloak closer and set one well-shod foot against the opposite seat, bracing himself into the corner of the rocking carriage. He smiled as his companion did much the same in the opposite corner. “Ten months since I came to the continent. I can barely believe that, at last, we near Calais and the last » stop before England. I can barely comprehend it, Yves—so much has happened. What has not happened,” he added as another jounce shifted him in his seat, “is an improvement in the Paris to Calais road.”

  Yves de Bartigues shrugged. “No, it does not improve itself. But roads do not improve by themselves, do they, my friend? And who is there, in my battered land, to waste time on the road work?”

  Silence followed the exchange. At a particularly nasty lurch each reached for a strap hung from the frame for just such occurrences. Sir Frederick hoped Madame was not so uncomfortable as he was. She had not regained her strength to the degree he’d wished, but she’d insisted they must continue, that she could not rest until Françoise was in the hands of her grandfather. So they planned short stages between Paris and Calais and today was, Frederick hoped, their last day on French soil.

  As the men looked out the sides of the carriage over a sodden French countryside rapidly disappearing in a chilling evening mist, Monsieur de Bartigues wondered if he had made the right decision to continue his travels with his English friend.

  Sir Frederick mused as well: now that it was almost upon him, he wondered if he were, in truth, ready to face old friends and, most particularly, look again on the face of the young woman who, by now, was many months married to his closest friend. Odd, he thought. If I’d not saved his life on that Sussex beach he’d not have won from me the one woman I’ve ever loved ... But would I wish him dead? Certainly not, he decided—and meant it.

  Over the months, particularly those spent in Italy, Elizabeth’s features had blurred. Since meeting Madame la Comtesse and her party, more often than not, grey eyes had a place in his dreams rather than laughing blue. Serious grey eyes, which looked out of an oval face topped by pale yellow hair that glinted red gold in certain lights. He was, he decided, ruefully, merely fickle.

  The chilly air developed a hint of salty tang. Calais couldn’t be far, now and Sir Frederick was impatient for the day’s journey to end. A particularly bad rut caught an off wheel just then, jerked the carriage to one side, and, with a crack like a rifle shot, something broke. The carriage settled abruptly toward one corner, throwing the men together.

  Untangling themselves, they forced a way from the tilted chaise and climbed onto the road. Sir Frederick ran to the heads of the plunging team and jumped to reach the bit of the wild-eyed leader. The rearing animal was obviously about to tangle itself in the traces and would hurt himself and perhaps his teammates. Once the animals settled, Sir Frederick looked around. Yves knelt over the prone figure of the postillion. A groom leaned woozily against the frame of the carriage. Assuring himself the horses would harm neither themselves nor anyone else, he went to the groom.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t understand it,” muttered the man.

  A sudden suspicion filled Frederick’s breast. He looked down the road toward Calais, but the women’s coach had disappeared. He turned to the damaged wheel but, in the I bad light of the fading day, could not be certain there had been tampering ... but the accident was too pat, too providential, followed too soon after their last stop for rest and refreshment—and they must not take chances on the women’s safety. He moved to the horses and began unbuckling harness. “Yves, we must go on. Quickly now.”

  “You think...?” asked the younger man, turning to look at Frederick.

  “I do. Will that man survive?”

  “Yes. He’s in pain from a broken rib or two as well as a clean break in his left arm, but he’ll survive.”

  “We’ll send help as soon as we may. Do you understand me?” He spoke in French to the groom as he worked, frantically, to free a horse. The groom grunted. “You watch over the postillion. We aren’t far from Calaisso help shouldn’t be long coming.” As he talked, the first horse was loose. “Light the lamps so no one will run into the wreck ... Goodbye,” he added, pulling himself onto the broad back of the carriage horse.

  Yves was not far behind him, and the men urged their animals to make their best effort. Soon they started down the hill into Calais. It lay below, open to their view, lights flickering from a few small windows along the darker streets.

  “You think it is a plot on the part of the comte?” called Yves, his horse somewhat to the rear.

  “I’m almost certain of it,” responded Frederick, urging on his awkward mount.

  Again silence fell except for the clippity-clop of hooves on cobbled streets as they proceeded quickly through narrow ways to the chosen hostelry near the sea front. Frederick caught a glimpse of the choppy waters of the Channel. If the weather didn’t change overnight, it would be a rough crossing. The windy, cloud-studded sky was unfavorable to a gentle passage. They could wait, he supposed, for better conditions. Many travelers did so.

  He and Yves ducked as they rode under the arched entry to the inn yard. The fat landlord bobbed and smirked, but looked around himself a trifle uneasily.

  Frederick, in perfectly idiomatic, but languid French, asked if Madame’s carriage had arrived. He was informed it had and that Madame had gone up to the room ordered for her. Frederick’s breath whooshed out, his relief intense that his suspicions concerning the women’s safety had been wrong. “Then we require the rooms ordered ready for the two of us, stabling for the horses and, tout de suite, a meal in a private parlor.” The host bowed over his hands, which he rubbed and rubbed in an irritating manner and again Sir Frederick had a feeling the man was overly nervous.

  Suddenly a commotion arose off to one side of the yard and, idly, Frederick glanced that way. A stray beam of torchlight lit pale golden hair, and he peered more closely. With a word which shocked his friend, he touched Yves’ arm.

  “History, it seems,” said Sir Frederick to Yves, “repeats itself!” He raised his voice as he strode forward. “Monsieur le Comte, a word, if you please.”

  The melee stopped on the instant. The struggling women stilled in the arms of their rough captors and de Vauton-Cheviot, who had been directing the kidnapping, turned on his heel.

  “You!” he snarled.

  “We meet again. Good day, Miss Cole. May we be of service?”

  A response muffled by the dirty hand covering her mouth indicated yes, and probably, thought Frederick, in language unsuited to her sex and station. Her companion,
the lovely Françoise, stared over the grubby hand of another ruffian, her eyes wide with fright.

  “You ... you...”

  “You repeat yourself. Release the women.”

  “They are mine,” howled the comte.

  “They are not,” asserted Frederick sternly.

  A crowd gathered as the cloudy sky turned blood red under the setting of the sun. The French fop glanced around, a hunted expression on his face. He stared at Frederick, didn’t like the Englishman’s composure or his height or the strength of the arm holding a bared sword stick casually at rest.

  “You interfere once too often,” snarled the would-be villain. “I will not forget.” He made an abrupt movement and, so quickly were they freed, the ladies staggered, would have fallen, had Yves not reached steadying hands their way. The comte clambered into his carriage, shouting orders to his men. In moments the coach, faced to move from the yard as soon as he had the women aboard, left without the ladies.

  “You have made a dreadful enemy, my lord.” Françoise’s eyes filled with admiration.

  “How did that evil man manage to capture you this time?” Yves asked and led Frani toward the inn.

  Miss Cole, hesitating only a moment, placed her fingertips on Frederick’s offered arm. “We sink deeper and deeper into your debt, Sir Frederick.” She glanced at the carriage horse from which he’d dismounted. “Did something happen to your chaise?”

  “Yes.” He told her of the accident and was reminded to send help. Once he’d arranged for the rescue, he probed for information. “I’m as interested as Yves in how the comte managed this latest outrage.”

  Harriet sighed. “I don’t know how he could have entered our rooms and captured us. As you well know, Sir Frederick, we’ve been closely guarded ever since you met us in Switzerland. The only thing possible is that he managed to bribe Madame’s servants. Somehow.”

  It turned out she was wrong. Madame’s servants were discovered just then by a serving-wench who set up a screech. They’d been bound and gagged and stuffed into a storage room at the back of the inn and were beginning to recover from some drug. A new babble of voices exclaiming and disclaiming roused the inn all over again.