A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  “I could not deprive you of your library, Lord Halford.”

  “You will not do so. I am off immediately.”

  “To one of your clubs, my lord?”

  “To Tattersall’s. There is a mare at which Sir Frederick has asked me to look and perhaps put a bid in on. He cannot do it himself since he is forced by circumstances to take a drive out to Chelsea.”

  Harriet’s color faded slightly and again a faint wariness entered her eyes. “A mare, my lord?”

  “Yes. Fred thinks it will make a spirited lady’s mount.” Harriet’s eyebrows rose. She pretended indifference. “Then, of course, you must see to its immediate acquisition, my lord. His current ladylove will be impatient to receive the gift.”

  “So he hopes, but he believes there is little likelihood of her making use of it in the near future. She is stubborn, you see.”

  At the dry note reminiscent of Sir Frederick, Harriet glanced at her host. “Lord Halford...”

  “Yes, Miss Cole?” he asked with pretended innocence.

  “Ah, no ... it was nothing.”

  “I believe you prevaricate and it actually was something,” he teased. “And the answer to your unasked question is yes. I truly believe my friend has, at last, lost his heart, and I can only wish him well.”

  Robert bowed and left her. Harriet’s agile mind took his last comment and pursued it along the lines suggested. Sir Frederick had loved Elizabeth. Lord Halford was concerned about his friend’s feelings for his wife. If Sir Frederick pursued Harriet, seriously pursued her, then Lord Halford could believe the old passion dead. And if Sir Frederick still felt deeply for his friend’s wife, he would do whatever necessary to mislead his friend, Lord Halford.

  Even to the point where he’d marry a tall beanpole of a woman with neither fortune nor status? But someone as unimportant as herself would have no champions on whom she could call if the marriage turned out to be a sham. Her uncles, following the lead of her grandfathers who should have taken her part, had long ago washed their hands of her father and mother and, as a result, of herself. Oh, it was all so dreadful. If only her heart would behave, would stop yearning for the love she knew would be denied her.

  To the devil with Sir Frederick Carrington anyway. He had no right to be so attractive to her. The emotions making her blood flow faster only confused her and made rational thought next to impossible!

  Made it more than impossible: Unruly thoughts took a far from modest and ladylike turn so that Harriet was actually relieved when Marks announced Joanna and she was forced to stop daydreaming. Harriet rose to her feet, a glad smile lighting her face. “Jo! Oh, you have not changed a jot!”

  “Nor you, my dear.”

  They held hands and closely scrutinized each other. Harriet decided that perhaps her friend had changed. The constant tension Joanna had betrayed when Harriet knew her in Portugal had gone. Her features were relaxed and happiness shown from her eyes.

  “I was wrong, Jo. You have changed. There’s a new composure, a quiet happiness, and I believe you are more lovely than ever.”

  Jo laughed, squeezing Harriet’s hands. “I know what you mean. I loved my Reggie, but one could never relax with him. All that energy! And his constant need for excitement and distraction! My life with Pierce is very different. I am happy, Harriet.”

  “You once mentioned a man named Pierce. I believed you hated him.”

  “There is an old saying that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. I hated him because I believed he’d betrayed my innocent feelings for him. A woman, pretending to be a friend, told me lies, and I believed them. Pierce and I straightened that out and my old love for him returned stronger than ever.”

  “So—you are married. And children?”

  Jo blushed. “We’ve been married less than a year, but yes. I believe so. I’ve told no one else, Harriet.”

  Harriet squeezed the hands she still held. “Then your suspicions are very new.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll not tell. Oh, Jo, it is so good to see you!”

  They talked and talked, telling each other what had happened in their lives. Jo felt guilty at her friend’s recent history. “If only I had known! We shouldn’t have lost touch when I left Portugal. After Reggie died at Waterloo I returned to chaperon Elizabeth for my brother, and I didn’t hear of your parent’s deaths. I would have had you come to me, Harri. I was so lonely, and your company would have been a boon.”

  “I would have liked that, but if I had come to you, I would not have met Françoise. She is a delight, Jo. You will meet her tonight at the party, I believe.”

  Jo glanced at the mantel clock. “Oh dear. It is late. I must go immediately if I’m to return, properly gowned, in time for dinner. We’ll meet often now that we can, will we not? Isn’t it wonderful?” She hugged Harriet, and they smiled at each other.

  Harriet walked Her Grace into the foyer and then, the pleasure of meeting Jo past, she felt guilty that she’d forgotten her duties. She lifted her skirts and took the stairs at anything but a ladylike pace, going first to Madame’s room, where she found the old woman sleeping peacefully with one of her maids sewing by candlelight in one corner. Then she went to Françoise’s room, where she found her charge preparing to go down to the bathing room.

  Harriet could not find it in herself to approve the arrangement. It was not comfortable, the idea a woman might run into a man while going to or from that bathing room! Only when Françoise had gone down, returned, and shut her door behind her did Harriet close her own door and begin preparing herself for the evening.

  The maid came to do her hair and Harriet, her dress laid out on her bed, sat before her mirror, bemused by the softer style the girl achieved. Should she allow it? Françoise came in without asking permission. She glared at the dress on the bed before bundling it up any which-way. The moment the girl finished Harriet’s hair she thrust it at the maid. “See this is burned. It is old and, me, I have tired of it many ages ago. I will not have it, Harri. You have all those new things in your wardrobe, the things Elizabeth and I have chosen especially for you, yet you persist in donning the old. We are in England now.”

  “Yes. Where the strictures of society are more rigid than anywhere else in the world. I must not embarrass you or Madame, Frani.”

  “You embarrass me when you persist in playing a backward role,” scolded the girl. She opened the wardrobe and picked over the three new evening gowns. “This one, I think,” she said as she removed a silvery blue slip with an over dress of white lawn decorated with fine embroidery. “Elizabeth swore this would become you, and I believe she is correct. She has wonderful taste, has she not?”

  “She forgets I am a companion and servant.”

  “We’d all forget it, but you will not.” Françoise pouted. “I wish you will wear it.” She eyed Harriet and a sly look appeared. “You must obey me if you are, as you insist, a servant, my dear Harri, and, me, I say you are to wear it so you will, non?”

  Harriet laughed. “You are a rogue. You cannot have it both ways, Frani. Either you order me around like a servant, which means I play that part, or I am your friend and you accept that I cannot step outside my place in life.”

  “Wear the dress. Please?” begged Françoise, her eyes big and round and pleading.

  Harriet sighed. The maid had obeyed Frani and gone off with her old gown. If she did not wear the dress Françoise had chosen, she must wear an older and rather badly trimmed gown which she detested. “All right,” she said slowly, “I believe none but friends will be at tonight’s party. Perhaps it will serve—just this once.”

  The maid returned carrying two delicate bouquets. One she handed to Françoise who reached anxiously for the card. The other the maid took to Harriet who stared from one bouquet to the other.

  “Did Lord Halford send them, Frani?”

  Her charge blushed rosily, holding a tightly bunched nosegay of bluish-purple petals. “This is from Monsieur de Bartigues. He says he bel
ieves the blue of the violets is dimmed by the blue of my eyes. Is that not pretty?”

  “How kind of Monsieur de Bartigues. And, as you say, very prettily said. They would look well in your hair, Françoise, if you wish to wear them.” She caught and held Françoise’s gaze. “Just remember, Frani, that, if you do so, you are encouraging the young man to hope his feelings for you are returned.”

  Françoise frowned, glancing from Harriet to the bouquet in her hand. She stared at the card, at Harriet and, thoughtfully, left the room. Harriet, wishing the maid had also gone, turned her back and opened her own card.

  Firm black script wavered before her eyes as she noted the signature. She moved closer to the lamp and bent her head over the note: My friend, he wrote, I know you too well to believe you will wear any offering of mine for fear I will misinterpret your meaning. Believe me, I will not do so. These poor flowers are only a token of my esteem, and if you will wear them, I will count it no more than an indication that you have accepted my friendship. Your servant in all things, Frederick.

  The scent rising from the white freesia filled her senses. Friendship. Only in friendship. If only she could believe him, could stop worrying about his motives, his secret concerns. She stared at the flowers, stared at the lamp and then walked toward the mirror. Friendship. She had agreed to that, had she not? If she did not wear his flowers, would he believe she had changed her mind? And if she changed her mind, would he? She had to wear them, she decided. While she and Sir Frederick were friends, he would not harm Françoise!

  Harriet smiled grimly as she watched the maid set several stems of the flowers into her coiffure. How easily she had managed to rationalize her situation so that she could do as she wished to do! Friendship? Bah. She did not wish to be friends with Sir Frederick. She knew that. He knew that. He must know it, his long experience with women making it impossible he not read her mind and emotions. If Françoise were not in danger, did not need her, Harriet wondered if she would casually throw her bonnet over the moon and enjoy succumbing to Sir Frederick’s charm.

  Charm. Yes. He’d make a charming lover. Harriet sighed. She waited until the maid left the room before unlocking the box in which she kept her papers. She read the note again, and quickly thrust it in on top of the rest. It wasn’t exactly a love letter, but it was as close as she’d ever received. When she was old and alone she would take it out and read it again ... and smile over her memories of this period of her life! Ah, if only those memories could include more ... more intimate ... Her thoughts were interrupted.

  Françoise asked, “Harriet?”

  Harriet closed the wooden lid and locked it. She shoved the box back into the corner of the wardrobe before turning to Françoise. “Yes, love?”

  “Will this do?” Françoise turned so Harriet could see the back of her head. Nestled into her curls were two white flowers from a bouquet on a table in the girl’s room and woven in with them a few tiny bunches of violets.

  “You are asking how Monsieur de Bartigues will interpret your use of his offering?” asked Harriet.

  “Yes.”

  “That you don’t know your own mind, I suspect,” responded Harriet with such promptitude it made Françoise turn toward her.

  Frani’s face glowed with a smile of amusement. “That is how you interpret it. I asked how he might do so.”

  Harriet’s smile faded. “I think he will understand, Frani. But do not tease the man. I think he has become seriously enamored of you. It would not be kind to give him hope if there is none.”

  “I understand. Were your flowers from Sir Frederick?”

  “Yes, my innocent, but Sir Frederick is a man of the world. His note makes it possible for me to wear them without giving him one jot of hope.”

  “Hmm. I think Monsieur de Bartigues should take lessons. Oh, Harriet, I do not know what I feel for him. He amuses me and,” she turned her eyes sideways to look at Harriet from under her lashes, “he makes my blood beat faster, and when he touches me, my heart thumps. I do not know what that means.”

  “It means you do not find him unattractive, but that is not love, Françoise. Attraction is important in a marriage, but friendship and companionship are equally as important—perhaps more so.” Friendship and companionship ... which Frederick offered?

  “I will think about it.”

  “Yes, you do that.” And so will I, thought Harriet, as she followed her charge into Madame’s room. Friendship. It was important, but was not enough. Not for her. Love. That was what she wanted. What she’d always wanted.

  She forced her thoughts from Frederick to Madame whom they discovered was awake and looking much more the thing, far better than one might have expected given her exciting and tiring morning.

  “You both look charming,” said the recuperating woman.

  “You look lovely yourself, Madame,” said Harriet, smiling at the lacy cap tied in a bow under Madame’s chin. An equally lacy bed jacket showed above covers turned neatly over the thin body. “Are you expecting company?”

  “No. I merely felt as if much of the weight of my responsibilities had been lifted from my shoulders and therefore felt like clothing them to match my mood. I think, much to my surprise, I will actually like your grandfather, Françoise.”

  “I have not yet made up my mind.”

  “That mulish look does not add to your beauty, my child.”

  Françoise chuckled at her grandmother’s sharpness. “He is an odd man, is he not?”

  “Odd? Perhaps one might describe him so.” Madame added, thoughtfully, “Eccentric is a kinder word, I think.”

  “I reserve judgment, Grand-mere—if you will allow me to do so?”

  “Allow you? He is your grandfather, Françoise. As long as you show him the respect his position deserves you may feel for him what you will.”

  “Oh. Respect.” Françoise grimaced.

  “Yes,” laughed Harriet. “Such a dull thing, is it not? We must go, Madame, or be late downstairs.”

  “Run along and enjoy yourselves.” Rings flashed on the gnarled fingers waved them on their way, and Harriet noted the book laid to one side. If Madame felt well enough to read to herself she was improving. Harriet moved gracefully to the bedside and leaned down to kiss the wrinkled cheek. Françoise did likewise and the girls, both wondering what their first evening at a London entertainment would bring them, wished Madame good night before going down to join their host and hostess.

  Nine

  Harriet curtsied deeply to His Grace, Pierce Reston, Duke of Stornway. He reached for her hand and raised her. Lifting her wrist with his own, he bent gracefully to kiss her hand. “Your Grace?” she asked with something between a social smile and a frown of concentration.

  “Miss Cole?”

  Harriet turned to Joanna who held her husband’s free arm. “I think I understand.”

  “I knew you would.” There was a humor-touched aura of smugness about Joanna. “And you, My Lord Duke?”

  “I have always believed you an excellent judge of character, Jo. Your Harriet is exactly as you said she’d be.”

  “A diplomat as well as all else?” Harriet smiled.

  The duke smiled. “All else?” he asked.

  “Oh no. I will not add to your consequence. You need none of my compliments, Your Grace.”

  “Diplomat,” he mused. “Why did she say I am a diplomat?”

  Joanna’s eyes met Harriet’s and the two women chuckled. “You, my beloved, may puzzle that out for yourself,” said Joanna. “Go away now.”

  He bowed and moved to join Robert near the fireplace. Others arrived, several of whom Harriet had not met.

  Beginning to worry that she’d chosen wrongly when deciding to wear a new gown, Harriet asked, “I thought this a small dinner for close friends?”

  “Elizabeth has already become something of a society hostess, much to everyone’s surprise,” Jo responded. “Tonight she has leavened friendship with a few oddities to amuse your Mademoiselle Françoise
.” Joanna nodded toward the grey-haired woman, a shocking turban balanced on her head, sitting stiffly on a straight-backed chair where an equally grey-haired man spoke in eloquently flowing periods. “They are an odd couple indeed. They’ve been courting, you see, for longer than you and I have been alive!

  “Then,” Joanna continued softly, “she added a very few who will be useful to our program for introducing Mademoiselle Françoise to the ton. Lady Mary is a bore, but her mother is one of the nicest women anywhere. And I hope Elizabeth reminded your charge that Lady Cowper,” Joanna discreetly pointed to where that best-loved of the Almacks’ patronesses talked to Lord Crawford, “must be pleased. Not,” added Joanna when Harriet frowned, “that that will be difficult. Lady Cowper remembers Françoise’s mother and will wish to do what she can for the girl.”

  “How will she overcome the fact Françoise’s mother was believed to have died, drowned, I think, it was?”

  “That is all arranged. Lord Crawford has just recently discovered,” said Joanna with just the proper degree of restrained drama, “that his daughter did not die. She did, however, lose her memory. So sad. Only recently, on her deathbed, actually, has the truth been discovered. All these years the poor man has mourned his daughter when he might have been enjoying both her and his granddaughter’s existence.”

  “What an affecting history. Whose idea was that?” asked Harriet innocently.

  Joanna chuckled. “Can you not guess?”

  Harriet grimaced. “I presume you mean it was Sir Frederick’s. That man is the most devious of creatures, Jo,” she added and didn’t reveal that she herself had concocted that particular story while still in Italy.

  “Actually, I believe he and Robert made it up between them. Robert told my Pierce it was just like old times when he and Frederick used their wits to trap a French spy.”

  “Why does Sir Frederick refuse to allow knowledge of his part in the war to circulate among the ton? Oh,” she added, hurriedly, “I know what he says, but I cannot believe he truly likes his black reputation. However perverse he may pretend to be, that goes too far.”