A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  Sir Frederick chuckled. “It has been said we English are a bloodthirsty lot which explains, perhaps, our predilection for prize fighting.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind watching,” said Yves. “Only participating!”

  They discussed the gossip Yves had heard in Jackson’s, where Frederick had introduced him to several friends before going to see Harriet. Frederick wended a way through Piccadilly’s confusing traffic, the vehicles of all types from sporting to heavy carrier carts, all trying to navigate among well-dressed pedestrians who were jostled by sellers of everything from hot meat pies to brooms and the latest broad sheets—along with more than a few pickpockets, just to make life interesting. Finally, he pulled up before the Albany where he’d taken rooms.

  “Take them away, Chester,” he told his now silent tiger. Frederick and Yves strolled inside and up the stairs. They were met in the hall by Frederick’s valet who had been hovering as inconspicuously as possible to head them off. “What is it, Cob?”

  “Your uncle arrived soon after you left. He’s waiting for you.”

  “Good.” Frederick frowned slightly. “But he can’t have had that express we sent him and already gotten himself to London. It isn’t possible.”

  “No. He discovered your direction from your man of business.” Cob added the doleful warning, “He appears to be in a cheerful mood ”

  “He does, does he? Then I suspect he thinks he has bad news for me.” Frederick chuckled. “Come and meet Mademoiselle Françoise’s grandfather, Yves. It sounds very likely he’s recently been made the father of a son.” They strolled into the cluttered masculine sitting room, and Frederick continued on to where his uncle slumped into a wide armchair, a bottle of port at his elbow. The good port, thought Frederick, and made a mental note to thank Cob for attempting to turn the old curmudgeon up sweet. Not that it would help, of course, but the thought was well taken!

  “Uncle!” said Frederick in a loud voice. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when you arrived. I hope my man has taken proper care of you?”

  “Hurumph?” The startled movement of one rudely awakened from a pleasant nap was replaced by a wide smile. “Ah. Freddy. How are you, m’boy?”

  “Fine. And you?” Frederick pretended innocence. “And your bride?”

  “Fine. Quite fine. Strong-minded filly, that woman.”

  “Is she in London?” Frederick did his best to mask his ambivalent feeling about that, but something must have slipped past his guard. His uncle eyed him shrewdly. Frederick laughed. “All right,” he said, “I’ll admit I’d be better pleased if she were not. There’s something you don’t yet know, but when you do, you’ll understand.”

  “Something you don’t know, too. What’s your news?”

  “Yours first, I think. My guess is that I’m to congratulate you on the birth of an heir, Uncle? I do. Sincerely. The trouble is, you now have two.”

  “Two?!” The man rose to his feet, eyeing Frederick warily. “What do you mean, two, man?”

  “No, not a by-blow—not an embarrassment of that sort. You’ve a granddaughter, however, much in need of your assistance.”

  “Granddaughter ... Françoise? How did you meet my granddaughter?”

  “You know of her? And never told me?” Frederick’s voice turned to ice. “Quite obviously I didn’t learn of her existence through you!” He glowered at Lord Crawford who glowered right back. “How could I have expected to meet up with Mademoiselle de Beaupre when I’d thought her mother dead these twenty years and more?”

  “Well,” the older man looked a trifle flustered, “having announced her death, I couldn’t very well raise her up again, Lazarus-like, could I?”

  “Yes you could. Or at least, you might have done so, if you weren’t the most pig-headed man alive.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” said Crawford with something nearing a pout. “And she is dead now. Unless that too is a lie?”

  Was there just a gleam of hope in his uncle’s eyes? “I’m sorry to disappoint .you. Your daughter is indeed dead. But her daughter is very much alive. And in danger.”

  “Danger!” Lord Crawford’s worried look changed to one of suspicion. “Danger? Surely she is no longer in danger. I’ll admit I worried a bit before, but the war is ended now.”

  “Not the war. A scalawag of a comte who has his eye on her fortune and wouldn’t mind acquiring the lady as well—particularly as marriage to her would be a sideways justification for his continuing to hold the French estates his father acquired along with a brand new title.”

  “Fortune?” Ignoring the bit about the estate, Crawford glared. “I will leave her nothing. Nothing, do you hear?”

  “Why not? No don’t answer that. You’ll punish the chit because of her mother’s fault. Typical. But, since she has no need of your fortune, it makes no odds. Her father left her very well provided for and her grandmother will add more to the pot, making her a very wealthy young lady indeed.”

  “Rich?” His uncle sat down slowly. “Rich you say?”

  “Just who did you think your daughter married?”

  “Some jumped up Frenchie who thought to line his pockets at my expense. One of the young émigrés living on his wits and smooth tongue.”

  “You’d have done well to find out the facts, my lord Uncle. This particular émigré was of a family which was canny enough to save its fortune.”

  The color faded from the high-boned cheeks and the man seemed to become smaller as remembered pain filled him. “I was angry with the chit.”

  “So you cut off your daughter without a penny, announced her demise to an unsuspecting world and then, later, when you’d come to your senses, could find no way to reverse it all and still save your pride. Perhaps you’ll be glad to know she had a happy life from then, so no very great harm was done.” The sharp old eyes lifted to pierce Frederick’s, but Frederick didn’t look away. His uncle’s fell. “Will you also let pride deny you a granddaughter?”

  The man suddenly looked older, his mop of white hair seeming less alive and his cheeks more hollow. “Tell me the whole, Frederick.”

  Between them, Frederick and Yves, who Frederick finally had a chance to introduce, did just that.

  “What’s your interest in this?” asked his uncle when a pause ensued, once again suspicious.

  “The interest any gentleman would have,” said Sir Frederick, promptly. “I wish to protect her from a villain.”

  “Villainy such as your own?” sneered Crawford.

  Yves bristled, but Frederick laid a hand on his arm and the younger man controlled his ire. “I don’t believe,” responded Frederick pensively, “I’ve ever indulged in attempted murder to remove blocks from my path.”

  His uncle had the grace to look apologetic. “True, there are villains and then there are villains.” After a moment’s silence he added, “What do you expect me to do about it?”

  “The girl is your responsibility.”

  “And, you think,” his uncle said with a wry look that reminded Yves of Frederick, “my wife’s as well?”

  “That has been worrying me—as I hinted earlier,” said Frederick. He flicked open his snuffbox and offered it around. When the others refused he closed it and returned it to his pocket. “She will not like Françoise, I fear. Not at all ”

  “A little beauty, is she?” For the first time his lordship showed some personal interest in his granddaughter. “Well, well, her mother was easy on the eyes.”

  “Not a beauty exactly,” objected Frederick. “More a minx. A delightful chit.”

  His uncle’s eyes narrowed. “The relationship is too close.”

  Frederick laughed. “Be easy. I have no interest of that sort in the child.”

  “Hmmm. I still don’t understand why you’ve bothered your head about her if it isn’t that.”

  “Why is irrelevant. I’ll take you to meet her tomorrow.”

  “You say the grandmother is not well?”

  “No. She wore herself to a thread bringing
the girl to you. I believe, too, she has not recovered from the poison she was given and that will make her convalescence difficult.”

  “I’ve no responsibility for an old lady. I won’t have it.”

  “I don’t believe you’ve been asked to take responsibility for Madame la Comtesse. Robert is willing to care for her and Miss Cole will be at hand.”

  “I thought this Miss Cole was Françoise’s companion.”

  “She is. But Lady Halford and Mademoiselle Françoise have become inseparable and Miss Cole is not the sort to sit and twiddle her thumbs when there is work to do. Besides, Miss Cole is genuinely fond of Madame.”

  “A pie-faced old twit, I suppose.” Those sharp eyes fastened on Yves when Yves choked back a laugh. “Or am I mistaken?”

  “Quite mistaken,” said Frederick in cool voice. “She is not in her first youth, but she is neither old, nor piefaced ... nor a twit.” He stood and strolled to look out the window, his gaze suddenly fastening on a thin, darkly clad man. “Yves, come here, but do not allow yourself to be seen. Look at that man. Isn’t it the one we sent off after that acting troupe on the wild-goose chase?”

  “I believe it is. The angle and the lighting are bad, but as nearly as one can judge, I’d say you’re correct.” Frederick pretended to yawn, moved cautiously away from the window. He moved quickly once beyond sight of the comte’s spy. “Cob,” he called and when the valet appeared, asked that Chester be sent for. Cob looked disapproving. “Don’t get up on your high horse. I have need of him.”

  “As you say, Sir Fred.” Cob bowed slightly, but his expression didn’t change as he backed out of the room.

  “I don’t see why you put up with such disrespect in your servants,” complained his uncle.

  “Cob is more than a servant as you well know. Ah,” he added as Chester arrived, his long nose fairly twitching in expectation of just the sort of order he liked to receive, “there you are. Out on the street is a tall man dressed in black. Cob can point him out to you. I want him followed and wish to know whom he contacts and where that contact lives. Don’t lose him.” Chester quivered in anticipation. “Cob will give you a purse for expenses. The man is very likely dangerous so take a barker. I’d prefer it, however, if you’d avoid the necessity of using it.”

  “I’ll play least in sight.”

  “You do that. But remember, a man is often like his master. This one’s employer has twice tried poison to rid himself of unwanted interference and will stop at nothing to achieve his end which is marriage with my cousin.”

  Chester’s eyes lit up, his satisfaction at a mystery explained obvious. “Ah, that explains the long meg. Cousin, is it?”

  “Miss Cole is no relation,” said Frederick, his voice chilling. “You will, however, remember to treat her with respect.”

  Confused again Chester said, “Gor-blimy, Sir Fred, what you be wanting to have anythin’ to do with a mort like that if she ain’t no relation?”

  “I don’t believe that is any business of yours. Cob? Prepare Chester and point out his quarry.”

  His uncle shifted in his chair when the three were again alone. “Where in Hades did you pick up that gallow’s bait?”

  “Chester has been very useful to me over the years. The game has changed, but his expertise will still come in handy.”

  “Which does not explain how you came to have him in your employ.”

  Frederick grinned. “I caught him picking my pocket. How else?”

  Yves chuckled. “And hired him on the spot, I suppose.”

  “Of course.”

  “ ’Taint no of course about it,” said Lord Crawford with a glowering look. “Should have turned him over to the nearest Charlie.”

  Yves looked confused and Frederick explained a Charlie was the nickname for the watchmen, originally employed during the reign of King Charles II for the hours of darkness and, later, also for daytime duty. He turned back to his uncle. “If I’d turned him in, I’d have lost a cunning and skillful servant—and that at a time when cunning was of prime value! Never mind. You will come with me to visit your granddaughter tomorrow?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You do not.”

  “Well, at least, this puts your nose well and truly out of joint.”

  “The dibs are in tune,” said Frederick carelessly, not ready to reveal his new wealth. “I think we should drink a toast to your son. What did you name him?” He poured drinks, which were eventually followed by a supper served by Cob. More liquor followed and the conversation wandered over a wide variety of subjects.

  Once the preliminary shifting and dodging had ended, Yves was surprised to find Crawford very good company indeed. The conversation was excellent and the wine better. All three men were a trifle fuzzy by the time they wandered off to bed.

  Lord Crawford freely admitted, “Not drunk as a wheelbarrow, exactly, but definitely above par...”

  “It isn’t that any of us have shot the cat...” agreed Sir Frederick, yawning.

  “We are, each of us, simply very well to go,” decided Yves, proud of having acquired the proper English cant phrase for the situation. It had been, all in all, a very interesting evening, decided Yves just before he drifted off to sleep.

  Eight

  Madame glared from Harriet to her granddaughter. “I will get up,” she insisted.

  Harriet and Françoise looked at each other and back to the bed. “Madame—” began Harriet but was interrupted.

  “Do not attempt to dissuade me. I will not meet the man who disinherited my son’s wife while lying in my bed. It would do nothing but further his wrong-headed opinion the child made a misalliance. I will not have it.”

  Madame was obviously very near to losing her temper, an energy draining emotion to be avoided at all costs. Harriet pinched Françoise into silence when the girl would have argued and offered a compromise. “If you would lay on the chaise longue—”

  Again she was interrupted. “Mon Dieu! I will not act the invalid in that man’s presence. Mais non! Never! That gentle giant, John Biggs, may carry me to the salon. Exactement!” she said, her French aroused by her determination to have her own way.

  Harriet gave it up. “We’ll leave you to rest and prepare yourself. He’ll not stay beyond the usual half-hour, I think, and you may return to bed immediately.”

  With her capitulation, Madame was immediately contrite. “You understand, Harriet, why I must do this?”

  Harriet smiled. “I understand. You are at least as proud and stubborn as the man in question!”

  Madame chuckled. “You do understand.”

  Harriet removed Françoise from the bedroom, leaving Madame to her maids. “I hope it is not too much for her.”

  “Why are you allowing her to do this?” scolded Madame’s granddaughter.

  “Frani, do you think I have it in my power to forbid her?”

  Françoise giggled. “No. No one does. But I wish—”

  “We both wish. I think her a trifle better this morning. Good food, rest, and the prospect of transferring her responsibility for you to other shoulders—she is recovering. But this visit from your grandfather will tire her, Françoise. Do not add to her burdens in any way.”

  Françoise pouted. “I am, it is true, interested in meeting the man, but I cannot like him.”

  “You will treat him with the deference a grandfather deserves.” Françoise shrugged. “I know he cast off your mother, but if she forgave him, and you know very well she did. If that is so you have no quarrel with the man. You must behave, Frani.”

  “I’ll try.” A mulish expression contorted the French girl’s features.

  Harriet sighed. “Frani, don’t make life more difficult for yourself than it already is.”

  “He will take me north into the wilds of nowhere as he did his new wife and bury me in a moldy castle, and I’ll never be happy again,” wailed Françoise, her greatest fear finally verbalized.

  “Where did you get that notion?”r />
  “Elizabeth has been telling me about him.” Françoise’s eyes widened. “Do you know the awful thing he did to his bride?”

  “I have heard she believed they would honeymoon in Paris. I have also heard, minx, that he had good reason to treat her as he did.”

  Françoise giggled. “Yes. Elizabeth does not like her at all. She says the woman was once her father’s mistre—” Frani clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “That gossip should never have reached your ears.” Harriet eyed her charge with a cold look that had Frani blushing. “I would suggest you turn yourself out in prime style and act the lady even though we both know you are not.’’ Harriet’s voice softened. “Off with you, child. I must change as well.”

  “You will wear the new yellow morning dress?”

  “I think not. I am, after all, your companion. It will not do to put the old man’s back up by dressing like laced mutton.”

  Françoise laughed merrily. “Harriet, you are a complete hand.”

  “You’ll refrain from using cant language as well, my girl.”

  “You did.”

  Harriet thought back and a conscious look filled her eyes with remorse. Put his back up? Laced mutton? How could she have allowed herself to think let alone say such things! “So I did.” Harriet took a breath and, adopting a prim manner, said, “I must not dress in a manner unsuited to my age and station in life. I must present a proper facade so as not to upset the old gentleman’s sensibilities of what is proper. There.” Her eyes twinkled. “Is that better?”

  “Oh, Harriet, I do love you.”

  “I love you, too, Françoise. Now off with you.”

  Harriet closed her door and leaned against it. The note from Sir Frederick which announced the unexpected arrival in London of his uncle had arrived early that morning and had set the whole household into a bustle.

  Elizabeth immediately consulted with her housekeeper on the subject of rigidly proper old men and how to turn them up sweet.