A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  “But I would be required to cut you in the street?” Yves scowled. “No. You know better, Frederick. I could not do it.”

  “Ah well,” suggested Frederick, bored with the subject, “when you become restless, you may always return to Paris.”

  “I will,” said Yves fervently, his hands moving in a very French manner, “never understand you. Never.” He entered the packet office in Frederick’s wake, shaking his head in disgust.

  Harriet Cole was unknowingly echoing Yves’ words. “I do not understand him. I only met the man once during my season. But during those weeks in London I observed his behavior often. He is everything black. Truly.”

  “That was,” said Madame, “eight years ago. Men may change, Harri.” The old woman lying in the big feather bed spoke firmly although her voice was weak.

  “Not that much.”

  “You can have no idea what happened to change him. The war, for instance, changed many men.”

  “He played no part in the war. He bore the label coward because he took no part in it.”

  “But he is not a coward,” spoke Françoise from the chair by the window. “He has, twice, come to my rescue. Me, I think that is not the behavior of a coward. You cannot say it is.”

  “I cannot believe he is helping us with no ulterior motive. He must be after you, Frani, whatever he says. You must be on guard always.”

  A weak chuckle from the bed turned to a body-wracking cough. When Françoise and Harriet had Madame quiet again and when, once again, she’d overruled their insistence they not leave that day for England, the old woman smiled at Harriet. “I suggested to your rake, my dear, that in order to protect Françoise from taint of his reputation, he pretend to be after you. He refused and was angry I’d suggest such a thing. Very angry. It was a test, you see. He passed it.”

  “Oh, no, he did not. I am not the sort he favors. Frani is. If he pretended to be angry, it was to fool you, Madame.”

  Wise old eyes stared up into Harriet’s and Harriet felt an inner confusion. Why was she so vehement? Did she give away those hidden and forbidden longings and desires which had touched her young heart during her aborted London season? And why had she been so foolish, then, to feel such yearnings for a heartless rake who couldn’t even remember her name for the duration of a dance? Did Madame guess those idiotic emotions had been rekindled all over again during those lazy days in Switzerland—that they had grown stronger while in Paris?

  Wishing to avoid Madame’s perceptive gaze, Harriet said, “I’m tired. I did not sleep well last night. If we are to leave on the evening packet, I will nap now. If you’ll excuse me?” She looked at Madame who smiled at her and nodded. She glanced at Françoise who picked up her book and sat down with it near the window.

  “Frani,” said Harriet, “you’ll not leave your grandmother, will you?”

  “I’ll be good. I do not wish to be kidnapped by Henri de Vauton-Cheviot.”

  “Excellent. Call me if I’m needed.” Harriet opened the door connecting with the second bedroom and pulled it wide. Before entering, she looked around carefully to see that no one was there. She had, she thought, learned caution too late, given it was from this room she and Françoise had been taken the preceding evening; but she had, she hoped, learned the lesson now. Harriet removed her dress and pulled a robe around her slim form. She sat before the fire Madame ordered, as always, to be lit in their rooms.

  Staring into the flames, Harriet’s mind wandering back over the years to the season she’d not wanted, but which had been thrust upon her by loving parents. There had been sad farewells at the Lisbon dock, the captain hovering in the background anxious to set sail. How unhappy she’d been when she’d left Portugal for London, the captain’s wife her chaperon until she reached that mecca for the marriage minded. Tall—too tall—and occasionally awkward with the extra inches she’d not quite learned to handle, Harriet had felt out of place, had sensed the disappointment in the distant relative hired to present her to the ton.

  Not surprising, thought Harriet bitterly, that the poor creature should feel disappointment. The fashion had been for petite blonds and although Harriet’s hair qualified, there was, in certain lights, a hint of despised red tinging it, an odd and unsuitable color. Nor was she petite by anyone’s definition!

  They’d been a penance, those weeks in London. She’d hated nearly every moment of it, her awkwardness increased by the insistence she rid herself of the odd sophistication she’d gained by being reared in foreign diplomatic circles. Although it was an education-based sophistication, her mentor swore it would be misinterpreted in one so young: Harriet would be labeled as coming, as far too forward, and perhaps worse. Horror of horrors, she might find herself labeled fast.

  Those despised inches had made Harriet taller than too many of the young men introduced to her. Besides, she’d scorned most of them as wastrels and fops. There’d been a very few men, older men, she’d admired, but she’d had no way of bringing herself to their attention. She had no title. She had no friends among the highest in the land. The daughter of a diplomat, a fifth son who’d had to make his own way in the world, there wasn’t even the lure of money to bring those men her way.

  Harriet’s eyes closed tightly, trying to banish memories of the ball where she’d been formally introduced to Sir Frederick. She’d seen him early in her stay while walking with her chaperon in the park. He’d ridden a magnificent stallion, one Harriet would have died to own, an animal she later learned he’d won in a wager. She’d been warned, of course. The baronet was dangerous and must be avoided and, besides, he lived from win to win, his estate badly depleted and heavily mortgaged. He was not eligible.

  Knowing all that didn’t help when she saw his height, a well-developed form enhanced by excellent tailoring and then there was that drift of premature white at his temples, frosting the blue black of his hair. But, why, when she’d known he was a rake ... Or perhaps, in her immaturity, that very danger had been...?

  Harriet’s eyes opened, but she didn’t see the room in which she sat as she compared, mentally, the man she’d met in the wilds of Switzerland with the one she’d not been able to ignore eight years earlier. More white at the temples, of course. But the same healthy bronze to his skin, the same intelligence in those dark eyes. Or was it the same? Intelligence shined from his face, yes, but not the boredom or the arrogance. Nor did he seem to hold one at a distance as he’d done in the past.

  Nor, she thought, a smile twitching at her mouth, was he totally preoccupied with another woman as had been the case at that London ball...

  “Miss, er, Cole?” The hard featured matron, her hostess for the evening, had swept up to where the eighteen-year-old Harriet sat. Harriet, as usual, had been bored nearly to tears by the ball going on around her, a wallflower sitting amongst the chaperons and other unlucky young maidens who, for one reason or another, had not taken.

  Her hostess had a distracted Sir Frederick in tow and made the introduction. He bowed over the hand Harriet hesitantly presented. She saw that his eyes were directed elsewhere, however. “Your servant,” he said and asked, as forced to do by convention. “May I have the honor of this dance?” He still hadn’t truly looked at her.

  Harriet hadn’t known what to do. She’d been warned to have nothing to do with Sir Frederick, but wouldn’t it be wrong to refuse when her hostess had made the presentation? She glanced at her stony-visaged chaperon who glared at their hostess, but that well-padded matron was oblivious to everyone and everything but her duty to see that all the young ladies had partners.

  “Excellent. Very good,” muttered the hostess, already searching for other prey to introduce elsewhere. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  Still hesitating, Harriet rose to her feet. She almost laughed, biting her lip hard to repress it, when Sir Frederick found himself facing a young woman only a few inches shorter than himself. He blinked, offered his arm and they joined a set—not the set nearest where Harriet had sat, but one farther down th
e room. Even so, as soon became apparent, it was not the set Sir Frederick had wished to join. The faint scowl he’d worn deepened as he stared at a couple in the set beyond theirs.

  Harriet sighed. It would obviously be another miserable half-hour. She stood waiting for the music to begin, not quite knowing what to do with her hands. Sir Frederick was no help. He stared beyond her shoulder to where brittle laughter assaulted Harriet’s ears. But conversation was expected—or so it had been drilled into Harriet. She cleared her throat. “The weather has been unusually mild this winter, would you not agree?” she asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “But spring seems delayed. I look forward to the flowers in the park.”

  “As you say, Miss, er, Collins?” He glanced at her, his gaze resting just below her chin, which startled him. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

  Harriet lowered her lids, seemingly demure, but really to hide a twinkle. Poor man. He so obviously wished to be elsewhere. But conversation. What could possibly interest the man? “What do you hear concerning the war in the Peninsula, Sir Frederick?”

  “War?” Again his eyes flicked, impatiently, toward her; again they lifted to meet hers.

  It was, she thought, quite horrid to be so tall. “Perhaps you would prefer to discuss horseflesh?” she suggested. “Or hunting? Do you hunt, Sir Frederick?”

  “No.” This time he didn’t pretend to attend her.

  Oh yes you do, she’d thought, half scornful, half amused. But not the poor fox or other creatures of the wild. And at the moment your prey seems quite happy with another. I hope she’s wise and avoids you altogether. Similar contemptuous thoughts flittered through her mind as she waited.

  The music struck up and, her mind on Sir Frederick, Harriet didn’t notice she moved with more grace than usual until the movement of the dance separated them and her new partner complimented her on her dancing. She blinked, chuckled, and decided she had discovered the secret of poise: one forgot oneself. When they met again, the forms bringing original partners back together, Harriet ventured another bit of conversation. “Do you think the king will be well enough to open Parliament this year, Sir Frederick? Or will there finally have to be a regency?”

  “What?” He frowned, obviously straining to hear what his quarry in the next set said to her partner. A remnant of good manners brought his attention to his own partner. “I’m sorry, Miss, er, Collwood? I didn’t catch what you said?”

  “ ’Twas nothing, Sir Frederick.” They swept apart.

  When they met again Harriet suggested the moon might rise in the west for a change. Sir Frederick agreed. She thought the steam engine might replace sail upon the sea. Even this ridiculous suggestion brought nothing but preoccupied agreement. The dance ended—and the sport. For once Harriet found herself irritated a set was over.

  She allowed Sir Frederick to guide her back to her seat. He bowed over her hand muttering politenesses far too quickly and rose, his eyes meeting hers for the last time. She made no effort to hide her disgust or her scorn, and he blinked, stared at her for a moment. “It’s been delightful, Miss, er...” he began, and realized for the first time that he didn’t know her name. His brows rose when she chuckled. “Er, I’m sure we’ll meet again,” he said. Sir Frederick then moved away but looked back once, a perplexed expression drawing his brows together. He was unused to a young lady treating him so cavalierly and—but only for a moment—he wondered at it.

  So, thought Harriet, she’d made an impression on him. But obviously, he’d put her quickly from his mind and moved on to the circle surrounding the ton’s latest beauty. When the ball ended and she returned to her temporary home on Curzon Street, Harriet was unable to sleep. She sat at her desk and drew out writing materials, mending a pen before setting ink to paper:

  Dear Papa,

  Poor Mama will be so disappointed in her only daughter. I do not take. Ah, the horror of it, the disgrace, the tittle and the tattle as I walk in the park or am announced at a ball. The fear I have that my family will disown me! Oh, Papa, will you, truly, be disappointed if I return to you unwed?

  Tonight was the latest of the society functions to which my revered chaperon has begged or borrowed or, for all I know, stolen an invitation. It was, as usual, a very boring evening—except for one incident, which I will relate in detail in a moment. Father, I have reached a decision. I will no longer pretend to be other than I am, despite my chaperon’s horror at my normal demeanor. I will enjoy myself in my own way, no longer caring how my behavior reflects upon the poor lady responsible for me. I will, for instance, urge her to get tickets for musical performances and the theater, which is good, when I can hear the actors—which is rarely! We will attend the lectures I enjoy so much and go to exhibits. Please say you will forgive me. Please allow me to return as soon as possible to the happy home from which I was thrust. Please, please, arrange my passage back to you and Mother!

  Now let me tell you what happened. I am completely disillusioned, dear Papa, in the set of humanity designated rake. It is a hum. It is a bug-a-bear to scare young demoiselles, a story for children! Why the most notorious rake in London is nothing but a court-card...

  Court-card? Harriet returned to the present, the word jarring her mind from the impassioned letter she’d written that long ago night. She stared blindly around the bedroom in the old inn in Calais. Never in his life, she thought, had Sir Frederick Carrington acted the mincing prattling court-card!

  But, however that might be, dear Papa had arranged for her to return to Lisbon and, once there, she’d spent hours with her pen writing and polishing her “memoirs.” That writing, she thought, her eyes narrowing, had been a ridiculous collection of satires, setting far too many well-known tonish figures to ridicule. What had she done with it? She turned her head to where a highly polished wooden chest sat on a table and thought, drowsily, about unlocking it and searching it.

  She hadn’t thought of those manuscript pages for years. If they still existed amongst the papers she toted wherever she went, they should be destroyed before, somehow, they chanced to fall into the wrong hands. She had not been kind to society in that writing. Perhaps, in her disillusionment and because she’d resented her lack of success, she’d been cruel in order to restore her own self-esteem? Yes, she thought and yawned, she really must look to see if those pages existed and, if they did, burn them. Another yawn and her head nodded. Snuggling into the corner of the high back of the chair, Harriet fell asleep.

  Not half an hour later, a key turned softly in the door. A tall figure slipped into the room. The man moved on stealthy feet toward the fire and paused, staring pensively at the peacefully sleeping woman.

  Four

  Frederick ran his finger across the thin, black, stage-villain’s moustache he’d affected when he’d first realized he’d a reputation as a rake. He’d originally grown it while in the mood of thumbing his nose at society; now it was so much a part of him, he’d very likely not recognize himself if it were shaved off.

  He certainly didn’t think of it as he wondered if he should awaken Harriet. She looked tired. Even in sleep she appeared tense and unhappy. She also looked younger with that strand of softly curling hair loosened from her usually well-disciplined French roll. Such beautiful hair. Such a strong young woman. He’d wondered about her, how she felt, what she was doing, on numerous occasions during their stay in Paris.

  Then, when he’d gone out looking for feminine distraction, he could find none among the demimondaine who appealed to his senses. Now, quite suddenly, he understood why. None of them had pale blond hair. None of them were tall and slim and capable of calmly shooting at a villain attempting to ruin a girl in her charge. That Harriet had missed the villain and nicked the horse didn’t bother Sir Frederick. Dueling pistols were notoriously badly made and a wise man tested his, knew their every quirk. During their stay in the Swiss chateau, he’d enjoyed teaching her to handle the set which had belonged to her father.

  But that
was weeks ago, and the adventure still not finished. Before he could pursue his sudden impulsive decision concerning Miss Cole’s future, they must once again outwit the enemy. Carefully, gently, Frederick lay his hand over her mouth and stared into the grey eyes blinking open, widening. He put a finger across his lips, urging her to silence and, when she nodded, released her, seating himself in the chair opposite. He was bemused by the willpower required to move away from her.

  “I’m aware it is common practice for you to invade a woman’s bedchamber, Sir Frederick,” she said keeping her voice low, but nevertheless scathing. “It is not, however, something with which I’ve had experience. Is there an etiquette of which I should be made aware?”

  He smiled at her ice-coated question. “If I were here for the reasons you impute to me, I would gladly teach it to you. Since I’ve come to thicken the plot for your escape to England and for that only I must deny myself the pleasure. I believe,” he teased, his eyes running down her figure, barely hidden by her dishabille, “that I’d enjoy teaching you—”

  “Enough!” Harriet blushed. “I well know I’m not the sort you prefer to, er, tutor, Sir Frederick.”

  Piqued and repiqued! Frederick grinned appreciatively. She was obviously one who woke instantly and completely. Frederick tucked the knowledge away—as he hoarded every tiny clue to who and what she was.

  After a moment in which she struggled to regain her dignity, Harriet asked, “In what way may I aid in our escape?”

  “You may hold the tickets for your party’s embarkation this evening.”

  Frederick dug the slim bundle from an inside pocket. It was necessary to open his jacket wide to do so, which gave Harriet, if he’d thought of it, a view of a strong broad chest covered by no more than the finest of white shirting. His low-cut silk vest was shaped to his body and didn’t interfere with her impromptu study. The sight sent shivers through her, which she controlled with great effort in the short time available while he rebuttoned his coat.