“Frani,” coaxed Harriet, once they’d reached their own room, “you aren’t thinking of those women, are you?” She’d become suspicious again when she’d overheard her charge asking Monsieur de Bartigues questions concerning the troupe.
“Who?” asked Françoise, pretending innocence. “Oh. The actresses. It is very sad, is it not?”
Harriet knew her charge Well. She realized she’d been taken for a flat—as the saying went. “You, my dear, are a basket-scrambler,” she said. Françoise had not heard the term and, after warning her it was not a phrase to be added to a young lady’s vocabulary, Harriet, glad of the chance to distract Françoise, explained. “It refers to someone who is always on the scramble to make ends meet, having to plot and improvise. It comes from being so poor that, when they travel, they must scramble for a place in the ‘basket’ at the rear of a stagecoach, exceedingly uncomfortable accommodations, I understand. So perhaps,” mused Harriet mischievously, “the term does not apply to you. More likely you are a here-n-therian—literally someone with no settled place of residence, but, by extension, a person of no consistency. One never knows what they will be up to next,” she added at Françoise’s questioning look.
They laughed and proceeded to while away the time with Harriet distracting Frani with some of the cant she’d learned over the years—the portion which would entertain but not suborn her charge, that is. The candles burned low and, twice, they added coals to the fire.
Harriet suggested they might go to bed but Françoise dawdled, one ear cocked to the comings and goings in the hall and, when, after a long period of silence, a new party arrived, their voices low but penetrating, she knew the time had come. The hall fell silent.
“I will meet them, you know,” said Françoise.
“Who?” Harriet responded, her tone sharp. “The actresses? It is not proper.”
“Who is to know? Will you come?”
Harriet sighed; she knew that stubborn look and that once it appeared there was nothing she could do—nothing short of chains and a convenient dungeon! “You are determined?” she asked, just to make certain.
“Oui.” There was no compromise in Frani’s tone. The single word said more than a paragraph.
Aware she should not, Harriet gave in. Françoise would go, and it was far better she not go alone—and if they were to go, then better to go at once; Harriet wanted to reach the women before they retired. If they were found in dishabille it would be bad enough, but to find the women visiting rooms in which they had no business, would be beyond anything—far worse than merely improper: Knowledge of the arrangements amongst the cast as to who slept in whose bed would be detrimental to the young girl in her charge. Besides, and it was the clinching argument, Harriet had something of a curiosity about the women herself! “Let us go, then.”
They were too late, in part. Gowns, ruffled and bowed and rather cheap-looking, decorated the bedpost, the open door to the armoire, and the back of a chair. The three actresses—dressed in diaphanous wraps that brought a flush to Harriet’s cheeks and had Françoise goggling—were, respectively, draped across the bed, standing near the mantel, backlit by the fire and, the eldest of the trio, leaning back against the door, the handle of which she still held, having just closed it.
Françoise recovered first. “I came to thank you for what you do for me,” she said prettily.
“Well, miss, now we see you, we can understand why your menfolk are a worryin’,” said the ethereal blond on the bed.
“What a Juliet she’d make,” said the dark-haired girl by the fire, sighing dramatically.
“A far better one than you,” retorted the blond who turned sideways and rested her gilt-haired head on one hand. “She, one can see, is properly innocent for the role.”
“Hold your tongues,” said the middle-aged woman at the door. “It is not proper for you to be here, Miss,” she scolded Françoise.
“So Miss Cole has told me, but I could not let you go without thanking you myself. Do be careful. The comte is a wicked man. He will be angry to be tricked so.”
The women laughed, knowing eyes meeting knowing eyes as they absorbed the girl’s warning. “He isn’t the first wicked man we’ve met, dearie,” soothed the eldest. “You needn’t worry your head about his particular sort of wickedness.”
“But this one is truly evil.”
“When and if he catches up with us, it will be the fault of the man who follows us, nothing to do with us. We’ll know nothing about it, will we? And don’t you worry none, dearie. The agent was pointed out to Henry who will keep a good eye out that the man not get too close too soon. We may be nothing more than a third-rate acting company, but we’re honest folk, child, and will do the work for which we are paid. We’ll give the man a good chase.”
“Which will give us time. We do need time. Please, take these as my personal thank you.” Françoise unscrewed the earrings she’d put on that evening. “And this,” she said and added the fine chain hanging around her neck with its amethyst pendant.
That was two pieces of jewelry, but there were three women. Françoise had, thought Harriet, not planned well. Reluctantly, Harriet stripped off a bracelet, one of the few pieces she’d inherited from her mother. She handed it toward the last of the actresses, but Françoise stopped her.
“No, Harri. Me, I am prepared.” Frani reached inside her skirt to the pocket hidden in her petticoat and pulled out another trinket, this time a pearl and diamond chip pendant shaped like a bird.
For a moment there was complete silence in the room. Then the youngest, who was silhouetted by the fire, spoke. “You’re a real lady, you are. We don’t meet many, but we know one when we do. Believe me, we’ll do our best to trick your wicked comte, my lady.”
“We ain’t actresses for nothin’,” said the older woman gruffly, holding up the amethyst.
The third, studying the earrings closely, smiled. “Aye, we’ll do our poor best. And good luck to you too, my lady.”
Harriet thought it best they disappear at this point, but Françoise asked a question about the lives the women led, then another. Soon the five were settled near the fire on chairs and a collection of stools, and Françoise was receiving an education few well-born young girls were allowed. If Harriet had been able to come up with a polite means of extracting her from the scene, she would have done so. As it was, she soon realized the actresses were trying hard to edit from their speech anything of too shocking a nature and her eyes met those of the eldest, speaking her thanks silently. She got a merry grin in return.
That woman it was who finally rose to her feet. “Well, dearie, you’ve had a fine adventure this evening, but we all have a long day ahead of us. I think we’d better part company and get ourselves to bed. I’ll just check the hall for you.”
The hall was not empty. Sir Frederick, a scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest, leaned against the wall opposite the door. His eyes, resting on Harriet, held condemnation. His gaze moved to Françoise, his look softening slightly. “Well minx?” he said. “Are you satisfied?”
“It’s been a very interesting evening, Sir Frederick.”
Harriet noticed the two younger actresses had changed in an unsubtle manner. Each posed in such a way as to catch the eye of the man in the hall. He ignored them. “I will escort you back to your rooms, where, little cat, you will stay.”
“I will?” Françoise’s dimples peeped, and Sir Frederick closed his eyes briefly.
“You will,” he said with a rather overly done sternness, “if you do not wish to be tipped up and spanked.”
Françoise pouted prettily, flirting up at him. “Surely you do not threaten me so.”
“Ah! But I will not do the spanking.” Frederick went on with pretended gravity, “Your new great-uncle will oblige you.”
Harriet suppressed the jealousy she felt at this whispered byplay. As she’d believed, Sir Frederick was interested in her charge. She sighed. “It is late, Françoise. Let us return
to our room.”
From behind the partly open door there were whispered invitations of a sort Harriet hoped Françoise would not understand. Again Sir Frederick ignored the actresses. He led Frani and Harriet down the hall, opened the door to their room, and looked in, checking for intruders. When Frani entered, he caught Harriet’s arm. “That was not wise, Miss Cole,” he said.
“They were careful not to sully her innocent ears too badly, Sir Frederick.”
“Yes. Even such as they recognize innocence when they see it. Whose idea was that imprudent visit? Or need I ask?” his eyes swept toward the partly open door behind which, he guessed, Françoise stood listening.
“Françoise wished to thank the women for their part in aiding her escape to London. As a proper chaperon it is my duty to encourage my charge in polite gestures,” said Harriet, perjuring her soul—not that she shouldn’t encourage courtesy, but it certainly wasn’t proper in this case.
“Oh Harriet,” they heard and detected laughter in the young voice.
Sir Frederick winked at Harriet, and she blushed. “You will inform your charge that a polite note would have been sufficient, that in future, she will remember that” This time there were giggles from behind the door. “And, Miss Cole, you will come to Lord Halford or myself if she ever again suggests something so improper. You, at least, knew it was against all the conventions of polite society.”
There was, again, reprimand in his tone, and Harriet bristled, ready to argue even though, secretly, she agreed with him. Before she could speak the door was jerked open. “You have no right to scold my dear friend.” Françoise scowled at Frederick. “Go away,” she ordered.
Sir Frederick bowed and Harriet curtsied, suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy of their argument and a realization of the impropriety of discussing anything at all while standing in the dimly lit hall. Neither spoke and Françoise, her nose in the air, waited only long enough for Harriet to sweep into the room before closing the door with a snap.
“How rude he is.” Frani bounced onto the bed, and assumed the very improper pose of the actress, her hand holding up her head. “Very rude. How can you like him, Harriet?”
So the rake had not, yet, made a positive impression on her charge. Harriet hid a sigh of profound relief and felt generous. “He has proved our friend, Frani. Thrice. More, if you count the escape plan which got us out of Calais and now this plot involving the acting troupe. Also, Françoise, he was correct. I should not have allowed you to visit those women. It was grossly improper.”
“How could you have stopped me?”
“Perhaps, as suggested, by telling tales to your new uncle?”
Frani, knowing Harriet would never do such a dishonorable thing, giggled. The young women hugged each other, Françoise yawning widely as they came apart. “I think I am going to like England. I didn’t think I would, but I have changed my mind.”
“I hope you like it very well, Françoise.” Thinking of her season, remembering the sort of young lady who was to be found in the midst of a court of adoring young men, Harriet added, “I believe, however you come to feel about England, England will like you very well indeed.”
A sleepy Françoise wanted to ask what her friend meant by such a strange prediction, but another yawn interfered. By the time she’d controlled it, she’d forgotten she’d had a question in mind.
It was probably just as well she’d forgotten, because Harriet couldn’t have explained her impulsive words—or wouldn’t have. Her intuition was based in a confusion of impressions, a pastiche of instances: Sir Frederick’s teasing the girl; Lord Halford’s obvious enjoyment of the chit; their obviously sincere assurance his lordship’s wife would love to have Françoise as a guest; her memories of bright young things dancing in candlelit ballrooms, flirting from carriages in the park, from horseback...
Yes, England was in for a treat. Françoise de Beaupre would sparkle and charm and, with any luck at all, fall deeply in love and make a proper match and, once married, be safe from the monster attempting to take her—and her fortune—for his own.
“Oh, you poor lady,” Elizabeth Merton, Lady Halford, exclaimed when Madame, leaning heavily on Robert’s arm, on one side and her cane on the other, entered her host’s London foyer. The butler stood to attention. The housekeeper bustled in from the back of the house and two footmen waited nearby to bring in the luggage. “You poor dear lady. Come, John,” Elizabeth motioned imperiously, “take our guest up to her room.” Rather highhandedly, she added, “Immediately, John!”
A third footman, his existence formerly obscured by the curve of the staircase, sidled forward. Françoise gasped and Harriet had some difficulty not staring. The man was a giant.
“This is John Biggs, known, so one might guess, as Big John.” Elizabeth smiled broadly, obviously pleased by their astonishment at John’s size. “John, these ladies have come for a visit.”
John smiled shyly, ducking his head in an awkward manner in response to the introduction. There was nothing awkward at all, however, in the gentle way he swung Madame up in his arms and started for the stairs.
“Young man, what do you think you are doing?” The only sign the ailing French aristocrat had difficulty maintaining her dignity while held against the huge chest was a slight thickening of accent.
“Taking you to your room, Madame,” the giant answered in a deep voice. He smiled down at her.
Françoise hid a giggle behind her hand, but could do nothing about the sparkle in her eyes. Elizabeth, meeting those eyes, lost the newly acquired dignity of her position as Halford’s Countess and hid a giggle of her own. Harriet, looking from one to the other, suspected the two together would be a handful. She motioned Madame’s maids ahead of her and started up behind the man carrying their mistress.
Madame’s bedroom was two flights up, a large, well-proportioned room furnished in the elegantly simple style known as Queen Anne. Still in the arms of the footman Madame gave one piercing look around, nodded and, more tired than she’d ever been, still managed a firm order that she be put on her feet. John obliged, carefully, as if the lady he carried were fragile and important—which she was.
“Merci. Thank you, I mean,” said Madame.
She got another of those sweet smiles and the man, using a long outdated custom found now only in the most remote of country regions, tugged at his forelock and, bashful once his job was finished, sidled out the door.
“Well!”
“It is well, is it not, Madame?” asked Harriet, looking around in turn.
Madame chuckled. “Yes. I believe it is.”
Elizabeth and Françoise arrived. “I have ordered a light meal, Madame, which will arrive directly. Would you prefer to go straight to bed or would you like to bathe first? My husband has fitted a room to the back of the house as a bathing room. I’ll have the tub filled for you if you’d like to soak out some of the aches and pains of travel?”
The housekeeper arrived with a tray, the chain and keys at her waist tinkling with her firm stride. She set out the meal on a table near the window and stood aside, her hands folded together, while Madame inspected the offering.
Almost, the comtesse could be heard to sigh. It was a barely delivered sound of satisfaction. She glanced at Harriet and noticed her blush. “Well, Miss?” she asked.
“Lord Halford inquired of me how you like things done, Madame,” she explained. “He sent off a messenger immediately.”
“It is well. Now I’d like to be alone, thank you.” Madame looked at her niece. “You, Françoise, will wish to become acquainted with our hostess.” Madame, despite the pain in her old body, bowed her straight back slightly. “I will beg the indulgence of a bath at a later time, my lady. Thank you for your care of us.” Elizabeth, nowhere near the society matron, the mannerisms of which she aped when it occurred to her to do so, blushed prettily. The old woman nodded her head as if something she’d believed had been confirmed: Young Lady Halford would be a proper friend to Françoise.
Harriet accepted the thin cup and saucer handed her by a silent maid and looked around the tastefully decorated room. The walls, covered in a lovely rose damask, beautifully set off the elaborate fireplace with its caryatids holding up the mantel and lovely airy fret-backed chairs ranged beside each of the doors. How strange that the bright bird-like Lady Elizabeth had not immediately replaced it all with something more modern! “What is exciting, my lady?’ she asked, remembering her manners.
“Why, finding out who you are, why you’ve come to us, everything. I want to know it all. Isn’t it just like a man to inform one three guests will arrive, do this, do that, but tell one nothing at all about them?”
Harriet blinked, but Françoise smiled. “My lady,” said the French girl, “I do not understand you. From the welcome we received, I assumed you had been told our history. Is it not so, my lady?”
“No! Not so at all, my new friends. Not a single word.” Elizabeth paused and raised a hand, “And I won’t have it! I get so tired of my lady this and my lady that. I am Elizabeth and you are—Harriet?—and this is Françoise.” Elizabeth, if she hadn’t appeared so much the lady, might almost have been said to grin. “That, my new friends, is all I know.”
“But...” Harriet blinked.
“Oh, my dearly beloved husband sent quite explicit directions for your care and welcome. He said Madame was ill and needed quiet and rest. He said you, Françoise, were French.” A gentle shrug and Elizabeth handed a plate of thinly sliced cake, dense with fruit and nuts and well soaked in brandy, to the maid who passed it around. “But that is all he said. It is all very much a mystery. I am very angry with his lordship for not telling me the secret.
A Reformed Rake Page 10
