“You purchased them for us?” she asked, needing to say something, anything.
“Yes. On Madame’s orders. Yves and I bought them when we went for our own. We believe we’ve left a misleading trail for the comte. With luck he’ll believe you and the others intend to transfer from this hotel to another. You will leave here, but will go straight to the quay where the captain will expect you to arrive at the last possible moment. He’ll leave port the instant you and your luggage are aboard.”
“You’ve talked to the captain?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“He will cooperate?”
Frederick remembered his first crossing of the Channel nearly a year earlier on this same packet when he’d made an effort to meet the captain. He’d spent a fascinating crossing talking to the greying man, hearing of adventures in the Royal Navy. Later Frederick had listened while the captain complained about the boring but responsible job of crossing and recrossing the Channel. Boring, yes, but the man had collected some hilarious tales about his passengers and had passed those on, too. The man would remember him and would cooperate. Frederick said, “I know the captain. I’ll tell him enough of the story to gain his assistance. That is not the problem. The hardest part, Miss Cole, will be leaving you behind and boarding early. I must, you see, trust you to arrange things so that you reach the quay at exactly the right moment.”
“You do not like leaving control in another’s hands, do you Sir Frederick?”
“Not when I deem it important nothing go wrong.”
He stood and Harriet rose as well. She pulled her robe around her slim form and, for the first time, remembered how she was dressed. Her cheeks warmed in embarrassment. Frederick tucked the loosened strand of hair back behind her ear. His touch left a trail of heat behind.
“You must go,” she whispered, her voice tight.
“Yes. It is highly improper for me to be here, but I cannot leave quite yet. Cob is to give us ten minutes and then, when the time is up, he’ll wait until the passage is clear before tapping at the door. If you do not trust me, you may join the others in the next bedroom.” Sir Frederick hoped the signal would come soon. He wasn’t entirely certain he trusted himself!
Given the opportunity to escape, Harriet found herself, perversely, unwilling to do so. “I do not understand you.” The thought had become a litany inside her head. Once again she said it aloud. Someday, she thought, I’ll learn to keep my thoughts to myself.
“You have a distorted view of me, gained I know not where. I’d like to change that once we’ve reached safety, Miss Cole.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Why?” What reason would she accept? “Not long ago I discovered that a woman can be a man’s friend. It was a strange and wondrous revelation which has had months to take root and grow. I find I like the notion. I would like to be your friend, Miss Cole.”
She shook her head. “The ultimate rake? The most dangerous man in England for womankind wishes a woman for a friend?”
“Yes. I am not such a dangerous man, Miss Cole.”
“You have been our friend, more than once, now. I can make sense of it only if I believe you to have designs on Frani.”
“But I do not. She is a delightful chit, open and trusting, much like a kitten. But she doesn’t interest me in the way you wish to believe.” A sharp rap at the door said time was up. Wishing it were not so, Frederick made a movement of dismissal. He sighed as he accepted he must go. “We will continue this conversation another time, Miss Cole. Eventually, perhaps, you will understand me.”
“I think I wish to do so—I don’t know why.” The impulsive denial of comprehension brought more color into her pale cheeks.
You don’t know why, my love? Oh, but I think you do! Even with that thought ringing in his head, Frederick managed to speak calmly. “Then, with any luck at all, we’ll eventually reach an understanding. I’ll next see you aboard the packet, Miss Cole.”
If all goes well, they each added in the privacy of their thoughts.
Frederick slipped through the door and disappeared. Behind him the tall grey-eyed woman, her mind confused and heart rapidly beating, lifted her fingers and touched her cheek where he had briefly stroked her skin.
Oh no, thought Harriet. You’re not dangerous. No, not at all. Of course not!
She glared at the closed door. That man was a danger to even so staid and proper a lady as she’d become. In which case he was still more a danger to the young woman she had in her care. Learn to understand Sir Frederick Carrington? She understood quite enough, thank you, and would, in future, avoid him to whatever degree she could manage.
Or she would if she could rid herself of this idiotic compulsion consuming her. It was idiotic, the fact she wished to get to know his history, his thoughts and beliefs!
Harriet stared down at the tickets clutched in her hand. She counted them, found there were enough for their entire party. Madame, of course, had given him the number.
Whatever chaos ruled her heart, there was still their escape to plan. Harriet stalked to the connecting door, pulling the tie to her robe tighter. As she reached for the latch, she stopped. Madame, at least, would raise eyebrows that she’d received Sir Frederick while dressed thusly—not that he’d given her any choice in the matter, but Madame couldn’t know that.
Wondering where her wits had gone, Harriet dressed quickly. Once her hair was smoothed and tightly pinned back, when her neat grey dress rustled around shod feet, and, last but not least, after she’d recreated the poise which was usually so much a part of her—then she went into the connecting room, ready to organize her troops.
“Well, Cob, you’re looking much more cheerful.”
“We be going home, m’lad.”
Frederick turned toward the low window looking out over the noisy hotel yard. “Yes. You’ll be glad to return, will you not?”
“Well now, that’s the truth and all.” Cob folded another shirt and laid it in the portmanteau, which he filled quickly and neatly. For all the valet looked an ex-bruiser, which he was, he had a deft way with packing and a gentle touch with a razor—on those occasions when Frederick didn’t insist on shaving himself.
More than twenty years ago Robert Strong, called Cob for reasons no one but himself might know, had won Sir Frederick’s father a packet. He’d beaten his opponent to a bloody pulp in a makeshift ring well hidden from the eyes of disapproving authority, and he hadn’t come off unscathed himself.
The old baronet had asked the young man how he might reward him. Cob, hurting badly from two cracked ribs and a ringing head, told the baronet he’d like a change of occupation.
“And what might you be thinking would suit you, lad?” had asked Frederick’s father.
“Well, sir, I’d ambitions to be a valet before I got talked into fighting.”
“Valet? Valet?” The tall dark-haired man with wide white wings of hair drifting back from his temples threw back his head and laughed. “Well, and so it shall be,” he said when he’d stopped. He’d taken Cob home, introduced him to his sixteen-year-old son and told Cob to take care of the boy.
It was, mused Cob, one of the few good things the wicked old baronet had ever done. He and young Frederick had hit it off. And they’d been together ever since. He’d gone up to Cambridge with his charge, dragging the lad out of one sort of high jinks after another. And he’d seen the young man turn bitter after a petticoat affair when he’d just turned nineteen. Not that Sir Fred had a very high opinion of women before that contretemps, thought Cob—and with reason when one considered his willful selfish grandmother and cold, self-centered mother—but that experience had soured the lad, changed him into something close to a true woman-hater.
Then there’d been the danger they’d endured during the war—which had been both a good time and a bad. It had certainly been hard keeping his tongue between his teeth when, drinking with his colleagues, they’d sneered at Frederick’s self-proclaimed cowardliness!
/> More recently, there’d been that frisky miss who had, Cob believed, touched Frederick’s heart. That minx had almost got him, thought Cob, and wondered what had gone wrong. Something had. That slyboots, Chester, Frederick’s young tiger, had gone around smirking for weeks before Sir Frederick left England so precipitously. During those months preceding their flight, Frederick had swung wildly from mood to mood—until, early one morning, that dreadful message arrived from Dover that Cob was to pack for an extended tour of the Continent, that they were off to Paris.
Ol’ slyboots had had to find himself a new job, thought Cob, which was the only satisfaction he’d gotten from the move.
So. Now they were going home. Cob glanced to where his master still stared out the window. The mood had changed again, but Cob couldn’t yet tell if it were for the better—although, how could it not be? Inheriting all that money from that old bat in Florence had surprised Frederick more than anyone.
Cob recalled the day he’d followed his master to the cemetery where she’d been interred. Cob had waited for nearly an hour as Frederick stood before the ornate tomb complete with marble cherubs and laurel leaf swags. Frederick had stared at it, his body rigid with an emotion Cob had been unable to read.
But the money. The money would come in handy—if Sir Fred didn’t lose it at tables or turf. There had never been enough money—although Frederick had always managed, one way or another, to have the best. What plans had his master laid now that he was rich? He’d mentioned they’d return first to London where he must consult with his man of business—likely to see to the mortgages, thought Cob—and then they’d go on to the old estate where they’d stay awhile, Sir Fred had said.
But that decision was made before Sir Fred had his first run-in with the evil Frenchy, before he’d taken on responsibility for Madame’s party. Cob sniffed. The young one was just such a one as Frederick had run after in his search for revenge on fickle petticoats. Was he after this one?
Cob didn’t approve of Frederick’s long war against womankind and had told him so more than once. Frederick’s new behavior while on the continent had led Cob to believe his master had given up his old ways.
Ah well, thought Cob philosophically. One could never say it was boring serving Sir Frederick. He’d watch. And, if necessary, stick his bit in the pot and stir it up to keep his master out of deep trouble. Women. They were, thought Cob, the bane of male existence.
Some hours later Frederick, Yves, and their valets boarded the packet to England. Two entered the skiff that took them out to the anchored ship with a last look at the quay and a long satisfied look at each other. The same dark man who had followed them to the ticket office watched them go. Of the other two men boarding the packet, one, a thin Frenchman dressed in the sober black of the proper valet, entered the boat with trepidation, winning grins from the sailors loading piles of luggage into a second boat. The last, Cob, took his place stoically, not looking forward to the journey over the rough Channel, but longing to reach England and home. Cob had had enough of foreign lands to last him the rest of his life—although if Sir Fred were to say they were off again, then off he’d go.
Back at the inn the three women ordered two long-suffering maids this way and that, changing their minds a dozen times. The day lengthened as the harried servants packed and repacked. Maria mumbled and Petra grumbled at Madame’s unusual vacillation.
Finally, late in the afternoon, the maids raised their eyes to heaven in silent thanks, followed their ladies into a hired carriage and looked forward to a good meal at the hostelry to which they were headed. Neither had had time for more than a roll and a bite of cheese at midday and each felt they deserved a rest.
But what was this? There was no hotel in this direction. The maids, Maria and Petra, looked at one another and the brighter of the two suddenly grinned. Both women knew the troubles their youngest lady was having with Monsieur le Comte. A fine trick this. Another thought followed on the first and, the sisters’ minds, working alike, formed identical frowns on nearly identical brows. A fine trick if it worked.
Three large skiffs and attendant sailors awaited them. The luggage was bundled into two boats in a rather helter-skelter fashion and rowed away. The other waited for the five women.
Harriet was concerned. “Madame, it is not too late for you to change your mind.”
“I’ll not rest until Frani is under the protection of her grandfather.”
“Grand-mere, we are warned, oui? We can protect ourselves. You are ill.”
“I am not ill. I am merely worried. Come, child. Let the man help you into the boat.” Both young women watched as Frani’s grandmother was settled on a seat and wrapped warmly. “Well?” Aristocratic always, Madame’s arrogance was obvious as she asked the sailors, “For what do we wait?”
Harriet felt a warm pride in the strength and courage of the old woman.
They were transferred to the deck of the packet and, almost before their feet were firmly settled on the well-scrubbed planks, the anchor weighed and the boat moved out. Sir Frederick stepped forward, his eyes going to Harriet first, but she dropped her gaze immediately. He turned to Madame. “I have reserved two cabins for your party. Would you care to remove to one now?”
Madame grimaced. “No. I know how I am on water. I learned many years ago I do much better if I stay on deck.”
“It will be cold.”
“I will be warmly wrapped.”
“As you wish.” Sir Frederick moved away, found a sheltered corner on the lee side, and had a long deck chair placed there.
Soon Madame settled, her head leaning against the caned back, her eyes closed. Harriet hovered until her mistress opened one eye. “See to Françoise. After all we’ve endured I do not want the minx lost by falling overboard,” finished Madame caustically.
“Sir Frederick thinks we should go to a cabin, but I do not believe that notion will serve. Frani is exploring under Monsieur de Bartigues’ careful eye.”
“Ah.” Harriet noted a speculative gleam in Madame’s eyes. “Monsieur de Bartigues. What do you think of the man, Harriet?”
“He seems,” said Harriet slowly, “a proper enough soul—although I doubt that, given he is friends with Sir Frederick.”
“You will not give the baronet an inch, will you, even after all he has done for us?”
“I remember being told that he is always in need of money, and Frani is a wealthy young woman.”
“When did you hear tales of his need, Harri? You’ve never explained where you first learned of his reputation.”
“It was years ago,” said Harriet shortly.
“And—as I have said before to you—times change.” The stubborn young woman Madame had hired to help care for Frani pressed her lips together. That had been a lucky day, thought Madame, the day she’d decided to hire Harriet. “Sir Frederick appears to be in funds now,” she added to see what reaction that would raise.
“Yes. And if he is, I wonder how he got it,” was the caustic response.
Madame chuckled. “Suspicious wench. Ah well, time will tell.”
“Will you rest now?” asked Harriet, obviously glad that Madame seemed willing to drop the subject of Frederick Carrington. “You are warm enough?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Best of all, we are safely away. If the comte were aboard, Sir Frederick would know. He’d have told us. We are, for a time, free from the man.”
The packet moved out of the harbor, slicing through waves that to Harriet’s eyes seemed large and dangerous but the sailors’ behavior seemed calm enough. The deck of the ship rose and fell, rose and fell, as it plowed through the huge swells. She saw Madame’s hand go to her stomach, her eyes close tightly and a frown appear.
Harriet, worried, asked, “Are you all right?”
“No of course I am not all right. I’ll not be right until we reach Dover,” said Madame crossly. “Do go away, Harriet, and let me survive this in my own way. See to the others.”
Feeling sympathy for
the brave woman, Harriet was, nevertheless, glad she herself did not suffer from mal de mer. She started forward, but found the rest of their party approaching. Françoise, she thought, noting the girl’s set mouth and trembling limbs, was not to be so lucky. The girl leaned heavily on Yves’ arm.
“I will help her to our cabin,” said Harriet, perceiving that the crossing was going to be an exceedingly unpleasant experience since she’d spend all her time tending to the sick girl.
“No,” contradicted Sir Frederick. “I’ve asked that another chair be placed near her grandmother’s. She will, believe me, do better on deck in the fresh air.”
“She will be embarrassed if...”
“But far less ill even if she is to, er, shoot the cat,” he interrupted before she could find a polite way of finishing her sentence. He added in a soothing tone, “Please, Miss Cole, I know what I say.”
Half an hour later Françoise told Harriet in a cross voice to stop hovering. “If Grand-mere can survive without complaint, so may I,” she said.
With that the girl closed her eyes tightly, her mouth firmed. She would say no more. Harriet, looking from one sufferer to the other, frowned. She hesitated to leave them and finally moved no farther away than to the nearby ship’s rail.
Sir Frederick joined her there. “I have checked on your maids, Miss Cole.”
“And?”
“I was told to go away.” He grinned. “So far, we have two women under the weather, two very ill, who will not believe they’ll be better off on deck, and a valet who, between sieges, swears he’ll die—and that if he does not he’ll believe the good lord is punishing him for sins he cannot remember! The rest of us are managing quite well.”
“You neglect another. Your own valet is also suffering. He says, however, that he will not succumb.” She noted Sir Frederick’s swift frowning glance toward Cob. “You were unaware?”
A Reformed Rake Page 7
