A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  “Well, I think that went off all right. Did you talk to Lady Cowper, Frani?” asked Elizabeth, accepting one last glass of wine from the butler who carried a tray around to the drastically reduced number of people.

  “She was very nice. She talked about my mother.” Memories were dampening the girl’s eyes. “It’s good to know someone who remembers her.”

  “Your grandfather remembers her. I remember her.” Sir Frederick took snuff, brushed a few minuscule grains from his lapels. “We do not count as her friends?”

  “You are not female, Sir Frederick.”

  “No.” He grinned a quick flashing grin. “No, I most definitely am not female. Does that make a difference?”

  “Yes,” said Françoise, refusing to let his teasing change her mood, “I believe it does.”

  “I understand you, I think,” said Joanna. “Lady Cowper remembers the things important to a daughter, what she wore at her come-out and so on. Do not let the men tease you, Mademoiselle. You are right to appreciate someone who can recall those things your mother would have told you if she were here now and introducing you to the ton.”

  “Exactement. She did tell me about my mother’s introduction, the ball and what she wore. That sort of thing. Oh, I wish she were here!”

  Near tears, Françoise looked at Harriet who went immediately to her side. “Come, love. I believe it is time we retired. We’re not used to such late hours. Say good night to the company, Frani, and we’ll go up now.”

  Sir Frederick managed a few more words with his illusive love. “The opera? You will come if I arrange it?”

  She hesitated, glanced toward Joanna who was speaking to Robert. “Yes. If Joanna will chaperon me, I would love to hear the opera once again.”

  “Good.” He smiled at her and reached for her hand. “You see, Harriet? We find more and more reasons why we’d make a good couple. A mutual love of music is a lifelong bond, is it not?”

  “Do you play, Sir Frederick?”

  A flush reddened his cheekbones and he glanced around, bent near to her. “It is my darkest secret. You mustn’t tell a soul: I inherited a violin from my grandfather. I manage to squeak out a tune now and then. But do not allow word to get around. It is a strangely unmasculine talent in this modern era.”

  “You are serious!”

  “More or less. I’m not ashamed of it. I merely do not advertise it.”

  “We will attempt a duet someday soon.”

  “Yes. I would like that, Harriet.”

  She studied his bland features, nodded hesitantly, wondering at her impulsive invitation. But music was something which interested her deeply. She’d trained under some of the best European talent during her years on the continent. Music had, often, soothed the pain of the loss of her parents, soothed her when her situation as a servant became personally painful however kind and generous her employer and however much she loved Françoise.

  Music. Sir Frederick, the ultimate rake, was musical? Would wonders never cease?

  “You wanted to see me, Betty?” said Sir Frederick somewhat later that evening after a fast ride into Chelsea.

  “You took your sweet time getting here, Freddy m’ boy.”

  “Betty, I’m tired and it is, as you intimate, late. It is a long ride to Chelsea when I looked forward to my bed. Why the desperate sounding summons I found upon my return to my rooms tonight? Have you encountered problems? Has that Frenchie been bothering you?”

  “Not directly.” The young woman took a turn around her small parlor, stopped before the fireplace where she knew the light would shine through her peignoir. She pulled a tress of hair forward and played with it. “I suddenly discovered a flaw in our agreement, Freddy. That’s all.” She looked up at him from under her lashes.

  Frederick studied the stance, the beckoning expression, of the former demimondaine. He thought of pretending he didn’t understand but decided it wasn’t worth it. “I thought you’d retired, my girl,” he said.

  “Ah. That merely means I can pick and choose. But how can I choose when I must play the part of an innocent young lady?” She pouted. “A houseful of women does not agree with me, m’buck.”

  “You’re being paid well for your part in this game, Betty. And I do not believe it will be for long. The weather has cleared.”

  “I don’t know what the weather has to do with anything.” She approached him slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “I’m lonely, Freddy. And I miss...” she touched his chest just above where his vest dipped low and wiggled a finger between two tiny buttons to his flesh. “You know what I miss.”

  Frederick found her wrist, pulled her fingers away from his body. “I can’t help you, Betty.”

  She immediately put her arms around his waist and snuggled close. “But such a wonderful lover I’m told you can be, my lord! Even so, I think I can show you things you don’t know. Try me, my lord?”

  “Don’t, Betty. You know very well I’m not of the aristocracy. Calling me my lord is purely toadying.”

  “Pooh. A baronet is far above my station in life. Freddy...”

  “Betty, you’re a fine woman. Under certain circumstances I’d enjoy a liaison with you, but,” he sighed deeply, just a touch of regret in his eyes as he looked down into hers, “I cannot oblige you now.”

  “Why? Oh, I know,” she smiled and snuggled closer. “You think you cannot afford me. It is not like that any more, Freddy. I no longer need to ask great sums for my favors. You know that.”

  “If I tell you a secret, will you swear to keep a still tongue?”

  “You—” Her eyes widened, and she backed away from him. “—are, er, ill, Freddy?”

  He chuckled. “I see I should answer that positively since it cools your hot blood, m’girl, but no, I have not got the pox. No. I have—” He frowned. “You do not swear.”

  Betty bit her lip. Frederick knew what went through her mind: she’d keep her word if she gave it, but she was reluctant to do so. She wanted him, he knew, and had been celibate much longer than was usual with her. On the other hand she doted on secrets.

  “Oh, very well,” she pouted. “I’ll not tell.”

  “I have fallen deeply in love, Betty. I could not oblige you if I would. There is no woman alive except the one who holds my heart who affects me that way now.”

  “I believe I could tempt you, and you gave me leave to do so, Freddy.”

  Betty approached again, and again found that tempting route to his chest. She opened his shirt, spread her hand fully against his breast. A few moments later she backed away.

  “Or perhaps not.” She eyed him. “Is she prettier than me?”

  “Pretty?” Frederick turned and did up the opening not looking at her. His body, he’d just discovered, was not quite so innocent as his mind and heart! Thankfully she’d given up before he’d given away that interesting fact in obvious fashion. “I think the world will say not. But the world does not know her. She is too tall by society standards and far too intelligent. She hides a masculine sense of loyalty and bravery behind a very ladylike exterior. Tonight I discovered a new side to my lady: she has a magnificent touch on the pianoforte. She is unlike any woman I’ve ever known—and you’ll admit that I’ve known many.”

  “Tall.” Betty smiled, a speculative look in her eye. “And blond?”

  “Perhaps she is blond.” Sir Frederick’s eyes twinkled. He gave into her obvious curiosity. “Yes. She is currently companion to the endangered young woman you pretend to be.”

  “Ah well.” Betty twisted a strand of her long hair, the dusky coil winding around her wrist. “You say you believe this masquerade will not go on for long?”

  “Another day or two at most.”

  Betty turned away. “Then perhaps I will survive it. But then, Sir Frederick, I will present myself in Town to find myself a man.”

  “Once the crow watching you so closely is gone from his perch you are free to do as you please.”

  “Will you return, Sir Frederick?
”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it. I will send a message when I’m certain your part is played. Do remember the man is dangerous. Do not do anything foolish in the meantime. Stay with others who can protect you.”

  “I will do so. I have always believed in looking after my neck and so far have not failed to protect it.”

  Frederick left as he had come, that is, through the back door and down the garden to where he’d left his horse. Soon he cantered toward London, the faintest twinge of regret in his mind that he’d not taken Betty up on her offer. Celibacy had been little problem the long months in Europe, but now, with Harriet near to hand, seeing her every day, he found it more and more difficult to keep his hands off her—and relief from another source might not be a bad idea. And yet ... no, there was something in what he’d told Betty: she might give him physical relief, but she would not give him the soul deep peace which only his Harriet could provide. His very stubborn Harriet...

  His gelding dropped back to a walk, slowed more as Frederick mused about his love. Ah Harriet. Do not, he thought, keep me waiting long! Discovering his horse was chewing on the young spring leaves of a roadside bush, Frederick chuckled. “You’ll have oats in your stable, Ranger. Up, boy. I want my bed. My lonely, oh so lonely, bed!” The steed’s ears laid back, twitched once, and, obediently, he moved on.

  Ten

  Cob set the second boot aside and removed the soft cotton gloves he wore when handling them. As he picked up Frederick’s discarded coat and cravat, his eyes moved around the room, checking the fire, the decanter, the drapes. In the dressing room he held up the coat, searching for dirt or creases. He gave it a shake—and sneezed. Pulling the material close to his face he sniffed. And scowled. He turned his head to look through the open door to where Frederick lounged with a deep scowl of his own, sleeves rolled up and buttons open part way down his chest.

  Cob stalked to where he’d left the boots and picked them up, careful to avoid finger prints. He stood looking down at his master almost trembling with suppressed anger.

  Frederick glanced up after a time. “All right Cob. What is it?”

  “Feeling right proud of yourself, Sir Fred?”

  Frederick blinked. “Proud? What are you talking about?”

  “Took a little ride out to Chelsea, did you?”

  Frederick sighed. “You know I did. You gave me the message.”

  “Couldn’t just find out the problem and ride home, could you, Sir Fred?”

  “That’s exactly what I did.”

  Cob hugged the boots. “Didn’t think you’d ever start lying to me.”

  Brows climbing toward his scalp, Frederick’s mouth thinned. “Of what are you accusing me now?”

  Cob’s scowl deepened. “Don’t think I’ll ever get the stink of her perfume out of that coat.”

  “Then give it away.”

  “Certainly, Sir Fred. Might be for the best, Sir Fred.” Frederick stared into the fire, and Cob moved slowly toward the dressing room only to stop when Frederick spoke. “Cob.”

  “Yes, Sir Fred?”

  “You can stop Sir Fredding me. I’m innocent.”

  Cob blinked. “But...”

  “The, er, lady flung herself on my chest. I couldn’t very well let her fall.”

  Cob heard the dry humor in Frederick’s voice and relaxed. “I may have to give away the coat. You wouldn’t want the reputation of wearing that sort of scent.”

  “Do what you can, Cob.”

  Frederick heaved a sigh and wondered how many men went so far as he would go to appease their valets feelings. He grinned to himself: Perhaps if all men had for valet a friend as loyal and valued as Cob, then all would do as he did. He lay his head back and swirled his brandy round and round in his glass, his mind drifting from Cob to his lovely and beloved Miss Cole. Would he ever find a way of gaining her trust? Was music a means to that end? He looked across the room to the tall armoire. Laying, nearly hidden, atop it was the case to his long-ignored violin. Tomorrow he would tune it up and then he must spend his every free hour practicing. ... If music were the key, then let there be music!

  Not many streets away tired horses hung their heads when a much spattered traveling coach pulled to a stop. The guard climbed stiffly off the perch and opened the door. The dark cavern of the interior seemed empty at first. “Lady Crawford?” he questioned the seeming emptiness.

  “Knock, you fool. Do you expect me to stand in the street while waiting for the door to open?”

  His mouth thinning, Lord Crawford’s servant bowed, turned and climbed the short flight of steps to the heavily carved door. The knocker was off which gave him pause, but then, shrugging, he pounded loudly on the thick wood and waited. He tried again and again waited. He was just reaching out for the third time when the sound of bolts and chains being released could be heard on the inside.

  “Well?” asked a testy voice. “Who’s gettin’ me out o’ me bed this time o’ the night? ’Twill be dawn soon enough.”

  “Lady Crawford has arrived.”

  “So? What the Weedin’ bones am I to do about it?” “His lordship will have your head for washing if you don’t watch it.”

  “Since his lordship is nowhere about, he’ll not—if you say nothing, that is.”

  “Lord Crawford is out?”

  “Lord Crawford has not been in, if you get me meaning. I ain’t seen hide or hair o’ him since he ordered the house closed the end o’ last season.”

  “Where’s the butler?”

  “What butler?”

  “What do you mean, what butler? Lord Crawford’s butler, you doddering old fool!”

  “Ain’t nobody here but me. And I’m goin’ back to bed.”

  “Allen,” said Cressy from the coach, “what is the problem?”

  “The house has not been opened, my lady. This man says there is no one here but himself.”

  “But, then, where is Lord Crawford?”

  “I don’t know, my lady.”

  The door closed softly during this exchange. The guard swung around as the first bolt slid closed. He pounded out a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the solid oak. Another bolt slid shut and a chain rattled. “You old villain you! Open this door!”

  “Quiet!” hissed Cressy. “Do you wish to rouse the street?”

  The guard approached the carriage stiffly, disappointment a tight knot in his chest. He’d thought he could, finally, rid himself of his impossible mistress and, after a warm drink, fall into bed for hours and hours of much needed sleep. “What do you wish to do, my lady?”

  “Drive on to the Pulteney.”

  “A hotel, my lady?”

  There was only a suspicion of an insolent taunt in his question, but it made Cressida, Lady Crawford, bite her lip. She’d experienced great embarrassment the evening before when she’d stopped at a posting house. The landlord had not believed her to be Lady Crawford, but a totally different sort of woman—despite her arrival in Lord Crawford’s coach. With the crest on the door panel, he couldn’t deny that it was owned by his lordship—only that his lordship would allow his lordship’s wife to travel without female accompaniment.

  “Damn my maid anyway.”

  It wasn’t that poor woman’s fault she’d fallen down the stairs while carrying all Cressida’s bits and pieces from the posting house, but Cressy felt servants had no right to discommode their betters. The maid had broken her leg and, deciding she’d not be held up, Cressy had left the suffering Abigail behind, telling the landlord to bill Lord Crawford for expenses—including a doctor. That had been two nights ago, and now she was in the same fix as the evening before. No maid. She’d driven on far too many stages this day in order to avoid the embarrassment she’d be made to feel as a woman traveling alone. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, go to another hotel.

  “My lady?”

  “Be quiet. I’m thinking.”

  Where was Lord Crawford if he were not at his own town dwelling? And why was he not there? All her careful plotting and plann
ing could still turn to naught if she weren’t very careful indeed. Not come to London during the season! How dare his lordship forbid her to come to London?

  The guard shifted from one foot to the other and clenched his gloved fists, fighting back a snide comment. He’d wondered about this journey from the start. There was the express letter to his lordship, which her ladyship had opened despite Lord Crawford’s agent doing what he could to prevent her. The letter was read, thrown on the fire, and that action followed by the temper tantrum to end all tantrums.

  Then the whole household was thrown into a pelter, readying everything so that her ladyship could leave for London first thing the next morning. And now here they were in London and his lordship not at home, the house closed up as it was ninety-nine percent of the time—his lordship not having much liking for London and southerners, or northerners, or anyone, for that matter, his lordship keeping himself much to himself most of each year. “Well?”

  “My lady?”

  “I gave you an order.”

  The guard flushed. Deep in his own thoughts, he’d missed something. “Sorry, my lady. I’m that tired I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels. Where do you wish to go?” He gave her an expectant look as false as the smile she turned on him.

  “My brother’s,” she repeated with sickly sweetness. “We will go to Halford House. At once.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The guard closed the carriage door and climbed up on the perch beside the coachman, an old man even more exhausted than himself. Coachy was dozing and Allen, a kind-hearted lad, decided not to wake him. He took the reins from the gnarled hands and flipped them across the backs of the tired horses. On to her brother’s. Where he’d have to knock up another sleeping household. Hopefully one where there would be welcome, a long drink of warm punch—but more likely ale, given the hour—and a good warm bed. Any bed actually. He wouldn’t even ask that it be warm. Only that he be able to stretch out and sleep and sleep and sleep.