A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  “Harriet?”

  She looked up at Frederick, met his gaze and once again felt drawn into his soul through his eyes. “I believe I forgot, for a moment, my place in life, Sir Frederick—not that I should speak such words even if I were not a mere companion to dear Françoise.”

  “You felt you were among friends,” he interpreted. “Which you are.” She blushed slightly, but held his look steadily enough. He went on softly, “Cannot you bring yourself to call me Frederick? My friends do, you know.”

  That was too much. She looked over the railing toward the orchestra, as the musicians’ random twitterings and trills fell away into silence. Saved, she thought, by the curtain!

  The first interval brought curious acquaintances to the box. Conscious of how the ton would look upon her, a mere companion, intruding into such exulted society as that of the duke and duchess, Harriet tried to keep quietly in the background. Then Lord and Lady Cowper appeared. Joanna and Frederick had made it difficult to stay retired, but, when she was asked to sit beside Lady Cowper in the front of the box, it became impossible.

  “Are you enjoying the opera, Miss Cole?”

  “Very much, my lady. I have missed hearing it regularly since leaving Vienna. I became quite spoiled there, I fear.”

  “Yes, it must have been delightful during the Congress of Vienna.” Startled, Harriet stared. Lady Cowper chuckled. “Oh, not the dreadful diplomatic business of sorting out the problems caused by Napoleon’s ambition—but the music. I’ve heard wonderful tales of Viennese music.” Lady Cowper glanced around the boxes, waved to one lady, smiled at several more. “Well, I believe that will do. Miss Cole, I am hosting a musical evening next week. I wish you will indulge my guests with a piece or two?”

  “I...” Harriet, flustered by the sudden awareness Lady Cowper had been assuring Harriet’s success in the ton, didn’t quite know how to reply. It would be terribly rude to say no, but she never played in public!

  “I will send a note to Lady Halford tomorrow, of course, although I did mention the possibility the other evening when you played for us. Please do not say no, Miss Cole. It would be an excellent opportunity for you to meet a portion of London society which you’ll like. My guests will be chosen from among those who truly love and understand music, you see!”

  “You are too kind, my lady. I must consult with Madame, of course.”

  “I see the interval is about to end.” Lady Cowper rose to her feet and, with a mischievous look, said, “Believe me, Miss Cole, London will accept you with open arms.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Harriet blushed and, rising, curtsied as Lord Cowper came forward to offer his wife his arm. The door closed behind the last of the intruders, and Harriet dropped into a seat. “She is so kind!”

  “It is very easy to be kind to you, Harriet,” said Frederick, “but to what, specifically, do you refer?”

  She couldn’t voice her suspicion that Lady Cowper had come to their box for no other purpose than that the ton would see a patroness of Almack’s talking with an unknown young woman! So what could she say? “She has invited me to play at a musical evening next week.”

  “Excellent. I will beg, borrow or steal an invitation. To miss hearing you play would be more than I could bear,” said Sir Frederick.

  “Oh, flattery. I wish you will not.”

  He touched her hand, waited until she looked up at him. “Will you ever believe in me, Harriet?”

  She was surprised at the wistful note she thought she detected in his voice, more surprised to find the same emotion in his eyes as well. Her blood flowed faster. Again the music saved her from the necessity of forming a suitably polite reply. She shushed him, heard him sigh, and was relieved when he accepted they must be still.

  A few moments later, startled, she glanced down at his hand, long fingered, strong, and so warm and comforting as it clasped the slender bones of her own slim fingers, but then, when she tugged, he released them instantly—which, she found, didn’t make her happy, either! If only she could allow herself to believe him!

  “Lady wife,” said Crawford to Cressy that same evening when he found her in the palace’s card room, “we’ve been asked to present ourselves in the new throne room.”

  Cressida looked up, guiltily, from where she watched a game of whist. “I am not playing!”

  “No,” Lord Crawford’s eyes twinkled, “but removing you from temptation is the way of a wise man, m’dear.”

  Cressida bit her lip, but, meeting the humor in his gaze, she laughed. “I believe you are correct.” She placed her fingers on Lord Crawford’s arm and let him lead her from the card room to which she’d drifted almost as if her feet had a will of their own. She had refused a seat at one of the tables, but it had been hard—very nearly impossible. She’d known she should leave and, in a way, she was relieved her husband had come to find her. “Who, my lord, has asked for us? Or was that a polite ruse?”

  “No ruse my dear. And who else, my lady? The prince himself.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened.

  “Really. He wishes to congratulate us on the birth of our son.”

  “Have you...”

  When she stopped speaking, he halted their slow pace toward the designated audience chamber and looked down at her. “Have I what, Cressy?”

  “Oh,” she tossed her head, “I just wondered if you had had word as to how the boy goes on.”

  “Nanny writes with an impossible hand, but if I deciphered it properly he goes on famously. I will be glad to return to him, however.”

  “Two weeks.” Cressy clutched his arm. “You promised me two full weeks!”

  “Yes. You will have your treat, Cressy—if you will behave.”

  Cressida thought back over the last few days and knew she had not behaved. But it was so hard. Some demon drove her and he could not possibly understand. She didn’t really understand herself. Right now, at this moment, she hated her behavior, hated herself—but she knew it would not last. Oh, why was she so horrible? “Come along now, my lady wife.”

  The next day, standing at the top of the front stairs, Harriet pulled on gloves, preparatory for a walk to Hatchard and Son’s Bookstore where she hoped to find something in French which might interest Madame. The knocker clanked and, stepping back, she paused, waiting to see who arrived. Sir Frederick stepped in and spoke too softly for her to hear. Marks took the hat and gloves handed him, passed them to a footman and, with them, a message. The footman disappeared toward the back of the house and, after another word or two, Marks followed, leaving Frederick alone in the hall.

  This was such odd behavior that Harriet remained absolutely still, not certain she wished to encounter Sir Frederick so soon after their evening at the opera. Something in her vacillated wildly every time she saw him and every time it only got worse. Then Big John walked quietly toward Sir Frederick who drew him off to one side. She watched the expression on the big man’s face, the thinning of his mouth, the furrowing of his brow. His body stiffened at one point, then relaxed and he nodded as Frederick pursued the topic, speaking quickly but firmly.

  Harriet swallowed. She didn’t need to be told what subject was under discussion, she knew. The comte had come to London. He was here. Her heart pounded at the thought. When John, with one last firm nod of his head turned and strode away, she set her foot on the step and started down.

  “Harriet, love!”

  “Don’t. Not now. Not when he’s come again to plague us. The comte? He has arrived, has he not?”

  “Yes. But you mustn’t worry.” She stopped on the bottom step and glowered at him, causing him to chuckle. “Telling you that is like telling the tides to turn before time, is it not?” He strolled toward her as he spoke, taking her hand and lifting it. He turned it and opened the buttons at her wrist, bringing her hand to his mouth. His breath tickled. Worse, his tongue, trailing across her pulse, made deep slow shivers sweep through her body. His voice had a throaty note when he said, softly, “Ah, my dear, h
ow I long to make you mine.”

  “As you have many before me.”

  “You wound me to my soul, Harriet.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “So I hope. This is not the same as in the past, my Harri.” He put her hand, the palm flat, against his chest. “Don’t you feel it?”

  “Lust, Sir Frederick?”

  “Love. I can admit it now I’m certain. The two are quite different.”

  “Elizabeth...” Harriet almost choked on the name, and he touched her cheek with his free hand. “You wish to throw dust in the eyes of your friend,” she persisted. “While you pursue me, Lord Halford will believe you no longer feel anything for her.”

  “Harriet,” he said quietly, “I’ll not deny that Elizabeth changed my life. It would be both ungenerous and unfair to deny it. Because of her, my eyes are opened. I no longer seek to wound and take revenge, believing women a lesser and more despicable species. I know now that women, like men, come in all shapes and sizes, that some are good and some bad. Most are neither particularly good or bad. Because I now see clearly, I am free to love as others do. And I love you.”

  She could not, after that, doubt his sincerity, but she could doubt that his flattering observance would continue. This whim of his that he truly loved her would pass, and he’d go on to another love and another. She sighed, wishing she felt free to follow her heart and to the devil with the future.

  “You are dressed to go out,” he said when she didn’t respond. She explained her errand. “You would not go alone!” he said, his tone sharp.

  “No. I will ask John to attend me. Elizabeth says she’ll not need him until this afternoon.”

  He smiled. “Let us not bother Big John. I will escort you.”

  She hesitated and, then, giving in to the need to enjoy what she could of his company, nodded. He looked around, frowned slightly as he noticed a partly opened door a few feet down the hall. Had it been ajar earlier? He could not recall. And what did it matter? He called for Marks who appeared with his hat and gloves and, taking Harriet’s arm, smiled down at her.

  Oh such warmth in that look! If only she could trust in it, she thought, trust he’d not become bored with her as he had with so many in the past, trust that the love he professed to feel would last a lifetime. Their lifetime. Together.

  The front door closed behind them, and Marks returned to his pantry where he supervised the regular silver polishing. All was quiet in the hall and the partially open door, which had caught Frederick’s momentary attention, opened further. Cressida entered the foyer, her mouth set in a cold hard line. Her eyes, below hooded lids, burned with anger.

  How dare that woman—a servant—pretend to be indifferent to Frederick? No woman was indifferent to him. Cressida hated Frederick, but even she was not unmoved by his charm. Perhaps she could put a stick in the spokes by warning Harriet of his rakish background? Cressida tipped her head. No. The woman seemed aware of the danger and was holding herself separate from him—yet she had gone out with him for escort! Yes, she would definitely have a little talk with that cosseted and petted and overindulged companion to her unexpected and unwanted granddaughter.

  But what was that bit about Frederick and Elizabeth? Cressy’s smile was unpleasant. Perhaps she might have a talk with her brother as well. She yearned for revenge on the beastly baronet—and causing a break between Sir Frederick and Robert would certainly be that. Frederick would be hurt if Robert drew away from him. So, yes, she would have a little talk with Robert about dear Freddy and the much despised Elizabeth.

  Then there was that French girl. The idea of playing grandmother to a chit only ten years younger than herself was ridiculous, and she would not do it. Well, twelve years—if she were to be completely honest at least with herself, but a grandmother! A woman of her years! It was a ramshackle situation. Perhaps if the girl were an antidote or stupid or...

  Cressida reran those thoughts and bit her lip. Was she really such a self-centered and envy-filled creature? Oh well, there was nothing she could do to hurt Françoise, nothing she really wished to do. But Frederick. That was another matter entirely. Frederick deserved anything which would wound him!

  Cressida, thinking furiously, climbed the stairs and strolled down the hall to her bedroom. She opened the door and found a maid polishing the table in the window, the scent of lemon oil heavy in the room. “Haven’t you finished? You’re behind time.”

  The maid glanced guiltily at the clock, took a second look. She was not slow in her duties. Her ladyship was merely cross as a bear. As usual. The girl curtsied, gave the table one last swipe and, gathering up her basket of cleaning equipment, silently left the room.

  Cressy locked the door behind the maid and turned to stare at the huge armoire, which took up much of one wall. Ever since the guests had been shuffled and a maid had filled that monster with her clothes, Cressy’s mind had played with a memory from her girlhood. Now, with memory, came temptation. There once was a sliding panel at the back of that armoire which opened into the armoire in the room next door. Dear detested Harriet’s room. Supposing it still worked...

  When very young she’d wondered at the existence of such a contrivance, having accidentally discovered it. Now, knowing the family history and being old enough to understand such arrangements, she knew the panel had been her grandfather’s route to his sister-in-law. He’d had the room which was now Madame’s. That room had, then, had a dressing room which also opened into Françoise and the despised Harriet’s room. In her grandfather’s time it was a rarely used guest room. This room had been her great-aunt’s. It was a disgusting arrangement, that the old man, marrying one sister, had kept the other as his paramour, the secret panel his clandestine way of reaching her.

  Cressy opened the armoire and shoving, compressed her dresses into one end. Leaning in, she pushed sideways on the back. The panel moved a few inches, caught and held firm. She jiggled it, pushed again. Nothing happened. Something held it from opening further. She knelt on the floor and put an arm through the opening. It was an awkward position, but she found a polished wooden box shoved to the back of the matching armoire and pushed it aside. The panel slid open easily.

  Cressy hesitated. Miss Cole was out, but Françoise was not. Or what if the maids hadn’t finished in their room? She touched the box. A jewel box? Her hand slid around it, testing its size. Surely not. Neither girl had jewels to fill something that size. Cressy, letting curiosity get the better of her, pulled the box through the open panel and into her room. She set it on the table where she could study it and found brass initials, HMC, set into the side. Harriet something Cole. She attempted to lift the lid and found the chest locked. Blast. Again she studied the box.

  It was solidly made but it could be forced—and thereby reveal someone had been into it, of course. Or perhaps she could pick the lock?

  Cressy tried the keys she had to her trunks and jewel box. None worked. Then she tried various other things: a file, the points of her scissors—which slipped and left a scrape along the wood—a long stiff hairpin twisted into a semblance of a key shape ... and the lock clicked over.

  Her heart beating fast, Cressy lifted the lid. The first item was the card from Frederick and her anger, which had dissipated in the effort to open the case, returned.

  Friend, he had written! Frederick was friend to no woman. It was a new device in his war on her sex, that was all. Yet Cressy could feel the sincerity in the words, the firm strokes of his pen. She raged inwardly. What if Frederick truly loved Harriet?

  Love! Why should he be allowed that felicity when she had missed out on it all her life? Not, of course, that anything could come of it even if Harriet returned his love. Frederick’s pockets were always to let. Frederick could not afford to marry Harriet even if the two wished to do so because, with the birth of her son, Frederick’s pockets would remain empty. It had become necessary for Frederick to marry an heiress. For a moment Cressida gloated at the thought, but her curiosity took over and s
he dug more deeply, encountering hand-written music and then more of it. Was there nothing else?

  Near the bottom she found a packet of letters tied in ribbon and sighed with relief. Here she would find what she needed. Love letters. Cressy opened one. The pure and honest Harriet would be found to be no better than ... Her mother? thought Cressida in disgust. Harriet’s mother had signed each and every letter. Cressy threw down the packet in disgust and paced her room. Nothing.

  There was nothing she could use to discredit Harriet. The upstart was more sly than Cressy had thought. She looked at the clock on the mantel, shocked by how much time had passed. Returning to the table, she reached for the music, intending to stuff the box and return it to its place when her eye was caught by a sheaf of paper revealed by those she’d removed. She caught a name, that of an eccentric man around town, and, trembling, she reached for the packet. Greedily she read down the page, lifted it, read the next. A chuckle of real amusement escaped her, and she read on. A noise in the hall and a tap at the door swung her around, the papers guiltily if inadequately hidden behind her back.

  “What is it?” she called.

  “A luncheon is laid in the morning room, my lady.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  The sound of receding steps allowed Cressy to breathe freely again. She laid aside her find, replaced everything else and closed the lid. Damn. It had been locked. Oh well, Miss Cole could just wonder about it and would probably assume she’d forgotten to lock it. Cressy’s thumb ran along the scrape and she decided she’d better hide that. She had an oil she used as a base for a mixture for when her skin was chapped. A bit of that perhaps? It helped, darkening the scraped place.

  Very soon she slid the case back through the panel, set it where she’d discovered it and, a smile playing around her lips, closed the panel. As she straightened her clothes along the rod she wondered where to hide the papers she’d kept. She looked around her room and shrugged. Under the mattress would do for now.