A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  “Whatever his wishes,” soothed Jo, “it is becoming known, the part he played. Stories get around, you know. The men who were in the government during the war now sit in their clubs drinking and reminiscing and, more than once, Robert or Pierce has been asked if he can verify such and such a tale. The tales are then told to wives. Or mistresses. Servants overhear and word spreads that way. One can keep nothing from the servants, you know. Sir Frederick has not long been back in London, Harriet. He does not know, yet, to what extent his reputation has changed.”

  “And when he does? When he begins to receive invitations from the matchmaking mamas and the chaperons urge their charges to be polite to him instead of fearing him?” Harriet spoke fiercely, frowning at the thought. “Ah,” she added, “then we’ll see!”

  When she didn’t go on, the duchess frowned. “See what, Harriet?”

  Harriet’s eyes met her friend’s, a startled look in them. “What? Oh.” She blushed. “I was thinking out loud. Please ignore me.”

  Joanna would have probed, but just then Lady Cowper joined them, and the conversation shifted to more general topics, including the Patroness’s promise that vouchers for that pinnacle of social acceptability, Almacks, would be sent on the morrow for both Françoise and Harriet. “I remember your mama, Miss Cole. One dislikes speaking ill of the dead, but your grandfathers were fools. Because of the silly feud their fathers began, they broke with their own children when the two insisted on wedding. Will you be seeing your uncles while you are in England?”

  “My uncles have ignored my existence all my life, Lady Cowper. My preference would be to ignore theirs, but I have sent polite notes of my return to London to those most closely related and, if they deign to acknowledge me, I will not be backward in showing them such respect as they deserve.”

  Lady Cowper laughed. “I see much of your father in your wording, Miss Cole. He was a brave and charming man, but he had that same tendency to say exactly what he thought.” Lady Cowper smiled. “No, don’t poker up. I once had a tendre for him, long ago in my salad days. Do not fear to take your proper place in our world, my dear. I will do what I can to smooth the way.”

  Harriet blushed and thanked Lady Cowper prettily. The lady flicked a finger against the younger woman’s cheek, smiled sweetly and moved on to join Elizabeth and the lady in the turban.

  Lady Jo had impatiently awaited her moment. “See what?” she hissed, referring back to Harriet’s comment about Sir Frederick, but again they were interrupted, this time by Lord Crawford. Crawford had married Joanna’s longtime rival and taken the woman away from London. For that the duchess felt she must be polite to the man. “Good evening, my lord,” she said. “I hear we are to congratulate you on the birth of a son.”

  Lord Crawford’s eyes narrowed, a sardonic twist to his lips. “Yes. A healthy boy with powerful lungs. I will pass on your words to my wife. Cressida will, of course, be delighted to hear from you.”

  “Of course.” Joanna’s tone was colorless. “And how is Cressy?”

  “In good health when I left her.”

  “Will she be coming to London later for part of the season?”

  “Probably not. The burden of motherhood...” He allowed the words to trail off. “I will write her concerning Françoise. She will, of course, be delighted to discover my daughter did not die as thought but lived many years happily married to de Beaupre.”

  “Of course she will.” Again the colorless tone, but this time Joanna blushed as the sardonic expression on his lordship’s face deepened into disbelief. Joanna refused to comment further, however.

  Harriet was glad when Marks announced dinner. Then she wished he hadn’t. It hadn’t occurred to her that Elizabeth, wishing to forward the growing relationship between them, had chosen Sir Frederick as Harriet’s dinner partner. Reluctantly, she placed the tips of her fingers on his offered arm and, finding the place toward the end of the procession protocol decreed was theirs, they followed the others. She searched for a conversational gambit to lighten the tension, but could think of nothing which was unprovocative.

  “You are in great looks tonight, Harriet.”

  “Thank you, Sir Frederick.”

  “Biting your lip, again. Now stop that,” he whispered near her ear. “It makes them rosy and inviting, and it is wrong of you to tempt me under these circumstances!”

  Harriet choked on a laugh, turned her eyes toward him briefly, but not so briefly she didn’t see his teasing look. “You are incorrigible. And wrong. Françoise forced me into this gown, Sir Frederick. I thought it would not be improper because I believed only very close friends were invited this evening. At some point the party grew far beyond Lady Elizabeth’s original plans.”

  “Improper? Harriet, I should spank you. Why do you feel you are improperly dressed? It is perfectly proper for you to wear the clothes chosen for you by your employers. If your employers are generous, then thank them prettily and enjoy what you are given. Will you be equally stubborn about wearing what your husband buys for you?”

  “You spoiled it. I was much in charity with your argument until you added that last question.”

  Frederick had seated her during their whispered conversation and now Harriet turned to her other dinner partner, another of the oddities pointed out by Joanna. If she remembered correctly, this one was called the Nabob. She introduced herself and asked his name since they had not been introduced earlier.

  “Timothy Markem, Miss Cole, at your service.” The man grimaced. “ ’Twould seem I’m your relative, Missy. On your mother’s side of the family. Sorry to say I totally lost track of Tim and Trillium years ago. The war, you know. And my years in India.”

  Harriet searched her memory but could recall no one named Markem. “Our relationship, sir?”

  “Cousin of some sort, missy. Taught ol’ Timmy to hunt, you know, when I’d be visitin’ your mother’s family.” The man’s eyes showed a disturbing tendency to dampen at the memory. “The boy was the only one of that bunch up at the manor worthy of my interest, or so I always thought. And your mother a jewel beyond price, o’course. And here’s their little girl. Well, well. The years come and the years go and one never knows just what they’ll bring, does one?” He heaved a sigh. But his attention turned to the servant offering the soup and, his spoon in use, his interest in Harriet disappeared.

  “Hurumph,” said Sir Frederick.

  “Hurumph yourself,” muttered Harriet as she too pretended great interest in her soup. A soft chuckle from Frederick made her flick her eyes toward him. But he had turned, at a question, to Lady Cowper on his other side.

  Course followed course and, finally, Timothy Markem heaved a sigh and patted his mouth. “Now that,” he said to Harriet, “is what I call a nice tidy English meal. Not so spicy as I like, o’course. Got used to the foods in India, you know, but find English cooking a nice change—once in a while, anyway.”

  Why the man wasn’t as fat as a flawn, assuming he ate that way most days, Harriet couldn’t imagine. By taking very small portions she’d managed to eat her way through many of the offerings, but she was already feeling over full and there was still the sweet course and the cheese and fruit course. “Lady Elizabeth has a fine cook,” she offered.

  “So she does. So she does.” Mr. Markem stared at her rather rudely she thought. “Ol’ Tim leave you well to do, Missy?”

  “Why no.” Harriet was so startled by the rude question, she answered truthfully. “I thought everyone knew. I am companion to Mademoiselle Françoise.”

  “Dressed up fit to kill, Missy.”

  Harriet bit her lip, suppressing a desire to tell the man it was none of his business. “Madame la Comtesse is a most generous employer,” she said repressively.

  “Hmm.” He was silent so long Harriet thought he’d finished but, just as she was turning toward Frederick, his hand caught hers, and she glanced from it to him. “Old man now. Not long for this world. Ol’ Tim was a good boy, and I liked him. M’godson, y’kn
ow. And Trillium. Pretty as a picture, your mother. I’m not a rich man, Missy, but I’ll do what I can for you. When I’m done with it all, you know.”

  “Sir!” Harriet blushed rosily. “I’m not sure I understand you, and this is no place for a conversation like this in any case!”

  “Now don’t go putting up your back. No one’s paying any attention to us. As private a place as one could wish, the dining table. People either intent on stuffing themselves or talking so loud they can’t hear anyone else talk anyway.” Which was true. The cloud of noise around the table was a loud buzz. “So. I’ll be visitin’ me solicitor tomorrow. Mind, I don’t intend to shuffle off soon jest to oblige you, but thought you might like to know my little bit will come your way when I do put my spoon in the wall. No gambler, me, so I’ll not be losin’ it at the tables or anything like that. No, you just be patient, missy. Someday you’ll be all right and tight.”

  Markem turned to the footman who stepped up to his elbow just then and glanced over the tray of tarts, pointing to several, which the servant carefully transferred to his plate. For a long moment Harriet watched him, shaking her head when the footman asked if she wished a sweet. “Sir.”

  “Hummm?” asked her boorish relative, his mouth full.

  “I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “Don’t need to say nothing. It’s all said.” He patted her hand, and his interest returned to his plate.

  “You seemed to be having a disturbing conversation with the Nabob, Harriet,” Sir Frederick said.

  “Why is he called Nabob?”

  “You don’t know who he is?”

  “We were not introduced earlier, Sir Frederick, and yes, we have just had a very disturbing conversation.”

  “Care to discuss it?”

  She looked at him, met his eyes which watched her kindly. “He tells me he is a relative, but I don’t remember my father speaking of him.”

  “Markem is the last of his particular line and related to your mother’s family, I believe. He went off to India at an age when most men are thinking of settling down to a quiet and peaceful middle age. He returned a few years ago, but doesn’t much care for society, I understand, and is not well known.”

  “I wonder how Elizabeth knew of him.”

  “Not Elizabeth. Robert. I believe they’ve had some business dealings. You didn’t know he was related to you, Harriet?”

  “No. Except that he tells me so, I still don’t know it!”

  “Ah. But you must cozy up to the old gentleman and butter him up and get yourself into his will. Even if he left you only a pittance, a pittance of his wealth would be a fortune to those who have none at all.”

  “Frederick, you are not serious.” She stared at him. “I could not do as you suggest ... Ah you are bamming me again. I wish you would not jest so.”

  He chuckled. “You wish no such thing. But, since I know you could not become a toady and bow and scrape even to win yourself a fortune, I’ll admit I was teasing you. You’ve the least sense of self-interest of any woman I’ve ever met. Ah. I believe this interminable meal nears its end. Yes. Lady Elizabeth has risen.” Frederick, too, rose to his feet, helped Harriet to hers. “We’ll not sit long at our port, my dear—or so Robert informed me earlier.”

  Harriet followed the women, her mind dazed by what had just passed. Markem a relative? Markem a rich relative? Would he really leave her something in his will as he’d suggested? Not that she wished him ill, but he was not young. Five years? Ten? Oh, no, she must not think of such things! Besides, perhaps the old man was merely talking and hadn’t meant a word of it—or like many older people, meant it when he said it, but would forget before tomorrow came. She must not count her chickens. And he said he was not rich—whatever Frederick and the world believed. So, even if he did leave her something, it might not be enough to live on. Harriet pushed the whole disturbing conversation from her mind.

  One of the young ladies moved to the pianoforte and Elizabeth spent some moments with her sorting through the music. When the candles had been moved to just the right position and another stool found which pleased the lady better, Elizabeth came to sit beside Harriet. “I can’t recall. Were you introduced to Mr. Markem before dinner?”

  “No. We introduced ourselves.”

  “I noticed you had a long conversation with him there at the end,” said Elizabeth.

  Harriet ignored the question Elizabeth was too polite to ask, and said, merely, “Yes. A most confusing conversation. Shush. Lady Mary is ready to play.”

  It was torture. Harriet loved music. She’d begun training at her mother’s knee, but, when it became obvious she had at least a modicum of talent along with much enthusiasm, the Coles provided her with professional tutelage. Her music was another thing the chaperon, during her one season, had ignored, being totally unmusical herself and preferring to believe young ladies should not be encouraged to make fools of themselves. While in London, Harriet had practiced only when the lady napped or was out.

  The men arrived and Lady Mary immediately began a long and painful rendition of a piano adaptation of Handel’s Water Music. Sir Frederick moved to stand behind Harriet’s chair. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “She should have been drowned at birth. Or a new law should be passed adding the murder of music to the overly long list of offenses punishable by hanging or transportation. I believe there are well over a hundred such on the books so another would surely be a mere bagatelle. The wince I saw you give as we entered, suggests you agree with me.”

  Harriet stifled a giggle. “Do you enjoy music, Sir Frederick?” she asked once she was sure she could do so without laughing.

  “Yes. But that is not music. I will get tickets for the opera and we will attend a newly mounted performance of Mozart’s Magic Flute. Would you like that?”

  “Of all things, but I do not think Françoise should be seen in such a public place. Society parties are one thing, but the Opera—oh, anyone may go there who has the price of admission.”

  “I do not believe,” said Sir Frederick pensively, “I said anything about inviting Mademoiselle Françoise. I shall make up a party with Pierce and Lady Jo.”

  Harriet did not know how to answer. “We must be still.”

  Indeed, several persons had noted the whispered conversation, and Harriet was quite certain rumors would circulate the ton at the earliest possible moment: Sir Frederick had new prey in mind which was of a surprising, perhaps one might say, incomprehensible sort. They would be watched wherever they were seen together and gossiped about.

  Harriet wondered if perhaps Elizabeth could convince her lord to take Françoise out of London as she’d once suggested and away from all the eyes and ears and wagging tongues. The notion that Frederick was making her an object of gossip hurt. But there was nothing she could do. Honesty made her add an unpalatable truth: there was little she wanted to do. Sir Frederick had some magic about him that made fools of the women toward whom he turned his attentions, and she was no exception. She sighed.

  Lady Mary was diplomatically forced to give up her place to another and, when that young lady had sung a ballad in a rather shrill voice, Françoise took her place. Frani, knowing her skill was minor, played and sang two charming folk songs, one in Italian and the other in German. Few in the room understood the words, but most enjoyed the light-hearted music—especially after suffering Lady Mary’s stilted playing and the attempt at song which had followed. When she finished, Françoise gestured toward Harriet. “If you wish to hear something really special, Miss Cole will oblige you, I’m sure.”

  Harriet glared at an unrepentant Frani, glanced toward Elizabeth who nodded, toward Joanna who moved to join her and urge her to the instrument. “I remember how well you played in Portugal, Harriet, and I suspect you continued your training in Vienna. Please play for us.”

  Harriet looked at Sir Frederick and noted the speculative tilt of his head. Suddenly determined to show him she was not totally without the skills though
t necessary for young ladies in the ton, she rose and went to the keyboard. She thought a moment and then, setting her fingers to the keys, moved into the first movement of one of Herr van Beethoven’s newer pieces. The man’s work was only beginning to be known in England, but it had been very popular in Vienna. Harriet’s skill was such that silence descended around her. Even those who usually forced themselves to politely endure music, found their emotions touched by the power and verve of Harriet’s performance.

  Hands clapped, bringing Harriet out of the almost trance-like state into which she always passed while playing. She blinked, looked up to see Sir Frederick leaning on the piano and staring at her, his pride in her obvious for all to see. She blushed, dipped her head to stare at her hands.

  “Harri, play one of your own. That thing you call Dance of the Elves, maybe,” suggested Frani.

  Harriet sent Françoise a look which would have singed her if the girl had not been armored behind a smug satisfaction at the impression her companion had made on Lady Elizabeth’s friends.

  “Do play it for us, Harriet.” Joanna moved to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know how modest you are and that you prefer to hide your light under a bushel, but indulge us. Please.”

  Harriet firmed her lips, looked around the room where—except for Lady Mary who pouted, her nose quite out of joint by the nearly professional performance they’d just heard—the guests nodded encouragement. She looked up at Sir Frederick. He, too, nodded. She sighed and, beginning softly, a few light dancing notes floated into the air. They became the theme underlying the more complicated movements, as she played Françoise’s favorite of the pieces she had composed for her own enjoyment. Harriet finished and refused to play any more.

  “Wonderful,” said Lady Cowper, “It is always most agreeable when a new musician joins the ranks of the ton. We will hear you again soon, Miss Cole, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Harriet did her best to fade into the background during the rest of the evening. She had one more brief conversation with her newfound cousin, but he said no more about adding her to his will and she was glad. She found his references to India interesting and was pleased when he invited her to come see his treasures. He said he would send her an invitation soon and took his leave. Others followed him and soon only the Mertons, the Restons, Yves, and Sir Frederick remained in the drawing room with Françoise and Harriet.