A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  Remembering the vignette she’d read, Cressida chuckled all over again as she left her room. The piece was really very well written, very witty. Harriet, it seemed had all sorts of talents—at which thought Cressida scowled again, but it faded as she remembered this particular talent provided her with the ammunition needed to ruin the woman and, thereby, any hopes Frederick might have in that direction.

  “Well, my dear. You seem particularly happy.” Lord Crawford eyed his wife through his quizzing glass, speculatively.

  “My lord!”

  Lord Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “I think you must tell me what has pleased you so?”

  “ ’Twas something quite ridiculous, my lord,” improvised his wife quickly. She used the satiric vignette Harriet had written. “I was merely thinking of Poodle Bing and trying to decide which was the better groomed, his lordship or his ever present poodle.” A flush darkened her cheekbones, but she held his thoughtful gaze. “Think, my lord, which, for instance, would you judge to have the better coiffure?” She forced a disarming grin.

  “Hmm.” Lord Crawford smiled but still eyed her. “It is a problem, deciding between the man and his dog, is it not? I am on my way downstairs. Will you allow me to escort you, my dear?”

  Cressy, relieved she’d not given herself away, nodded and placed her hand on his arm. “Do you join us for luncheon, my lord?”

  “No. I’ve an appointment to see my solicitor. You have plans for this afternoon?”

  “Hmm, I thought I’d make a couple of calls, ladies I’ve not seen for some months, you know,” said Cressida vaguely.

  “Would I know the ladies perhaps?”

  “I believe not.” They had reached the foyer and Cressy, not wishing to tell him just whom she’d visit since she was not yet sure herself, turned away. “Have a good day, my lord.” She walked down the hall and entered the morning room which was in temporary use for informal meals while Elizabeth’s plans went forward for the breakfast room’s renewal.

  Lord Crawford stared after his wife, his fingers sliding up and down his jaw. Such pleased ebullience as she’d exhibited as she left her room was most unusual. He didn’t trust it. Or her. On the other hand, at the moment, he was too pressed for time to delve into new devilment on his wife’s part.

  Marks approached, and Lord Crawford forced his curiosity to the back of his mind. The appointment with his solicitor was important. A codicil must be added to his will concerning Françoise. Although he had no reason to believe he’d not live for many years, at his age such things were too important to delay.

  The girl would need nothing from him, but he wished to do something nevertheless. So, he would leave her her mother’s portion, which he’d withheld when his daughter had married in such a ramshackle way. Then, as well, he’d determined on an immediate gift, a life interest in a pleasant little estate situated on the Thames not too far from London. His observations had led him to believe Françoise would not settle in England, and he disliked the thought of losing her once she was freed from the danger the comte represented. He hoped the estate might draw her back for visits and, when visiting London, she might visit him as well.

  Lord Crawford had, as he knew all too well, ruined his relationship with his daughter. It was his goal, now, to find a place in his granddaughter’s affections. If it could be avoided, he’d not lose Françoise as well!

  Twelve

  The stroll to Hatchard’s was made enjoyable for Harriet by Sir Frederick’s light-hearted banter which he carefully kept away from the personal. At one point, he even had her giggling very like a girl still in the schoolroom—much to her disgust. How did he do it? What magic was there in him that he could turn a respectable, not to say staid and proper, spinster into an irresponsible child?

  Not that she felt like a child. Far from it. She felt more alert, far more alive, far far more the woman, than she ever did when he was not by. Again it was magic—some trick of voice or smile which kept her eternally teetering on the edge of the precipice leading to her own ruin. Just thinking of her weakness for the man brought to mind all her fears for the future. The joy faded. So did the day which, she was surprised to find, was overcast when she’d thought it bright and sunny. She sighed.

  “What is it, love?” he asked.

  “You shouldn’t call me that.”

  “I never do where strangers might overhear. I’ve sensibility enough to know how you’d dislike that. Do not refuse me the right to use endearments when alone with you, for I do not know what I should do if I must forever watch my tongue. But you do not answer me. Why do you sigh like Juliet at the moon?”

  “Perhaps for much the same reason?” she responded and then wished she’d not said something so very particular to their situation. “Please—do not put me to the blush. I cannot like it, this flirting...”

  Sir Frederick sighed in turn, but much more quietly than the wrenched breath about which he’d asked. “So,” he said and paused to think. “What may one safely discuss?” Again he searched his mind. “Hmm. We go to Hatchard’s. Is it possible you are unaware, my dear Miss Cole, that Hatchard’s is a meeting place for the more conservative element among intellectuals? One might even go so far as to say it is a hot-bed of Toryism.”

  Harriet thanked him with her eyes for changing the subject. “Be it stronghold for Tory or for Whig—or, for that matter,” she added, “a safe-house for Jacobites!—I would go there. I’ve never been in a better run bookstore or one in which the choice ranged so widely.”

  “Hatchard’s has been excellently run since it opened in 1787—or was it ’88...? I remember going with my grandfather when it was still quite new. He died not long after, but I’ve never forgotten that day in London tagging along with him when he went first to order a book and then to his solicitor’s in the city. We ate in a coffeehouse, a high treat for a lad my age! Later we rode in the park in what would now be considered an old-fashioned landau, but at the time it was quite slap up to the echo with the top folded down and his coachman up before. He was special, the old gentleman.”

  “You loved him, did you not?”

  He glanced down at her, his expression warm with remembered affection. “It doesn’t surprise me you’ve guessed. I’ve not thought of him for years now. I wonder what brought him to mind...”

  “You were telling me of coming to Hatchard’s when it first opened and now we’ve arrived at their door again.” She paused to look in the nearest of the windows. “Do you know if they’ve anything in the French tongue?” she asked quickly, wishing to keep the subject to the impersonal. She should not have asked that question about his affection for his progenitor. It had been a mistake, but how could she not hear his love, hear it in his voice...?

  “Now the war has ended, Hatchard’s begun bringing selected books over from the Paris publishers. I think you’ll find something to your taste.”

  “To Madame’s taste,” she corrected.

  Sir Frederick asked a clerk to show Harriet what they had and moved off to join acquaintances who were happily occupied in disparaging the latest Whig effort to reform the government. Frederick found the topic of interest but, since his sentiments leaned away from the Tory position, he didn’t attempt to enter the discussion: A lone voice among a multitude of Tory arguments would be lost—especially since Sir Frederick would have come down on the side of moderation which would have pleased no one—Tory or Whig.

  More acquaintances entered, one of whom seemed entirely out of place. That man, a gentleman Sir Frederick had never particularly liked, approached him as the only other sporting soul available. Frederick looked toward Harriet, discovered she was still turning over books, and set himself to be polite to the boor at his side. The conversation followed expected lines: a recent race, an upcoming pugilistic battle, the purlieus of which was still in doubt and, inevitably, the man’s latest mistress. Worst of all, the man went on to mention Harriet—whose presence he’d obviously not observed—in an insulting manner.

  “Suc
h a long meg she is,” he sneered and added, slyly, “And beyond her first youth, I believe? But there must be some reason you’ve taken such an interest in her. Mind you, there’s something about her looks which grows on one ... still, one assumes there is something not obvious to the casual glance—Perhaps you’ll give me the nod when you’ve finished with her?” The man gifted Frederick with a leer appropriate to his insinuation.

  Frederick stared at him, the stare verging on a glare. “I’ll thank you to speak with respect of the woman I hope to make my wife.”

  “Wife!” The man hooted, drawing eyes. He lowered his voice, but the tone of his conversation didn’t shift. “You? If you were to wed, it would never be to a chit so colorless and drab as that one—although, as I said, she grows on one ... But, married? The rake reformed! I wish I may live to see the day! No, no, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes.”

  The chill surrounding Frederick deepened. “I’ve no wish to do so.”

  A wary man would have backed down at Frederick’s tone. This one was too obtuse and merely leered knowingly.

  Frederick added, his voice dangerously soft: “I’ll only add that if I hear such views spreading around the ton, I’ll send you a message via my seconds, and we’ll meet.”

  “Meet?” The ice in Frederick’s eyes finally registered as the words had not. The man goggled. “A duel? Over her?”

  “You do not know her. Since I do not like you, you’ll have no chance to know her and will have to take my word that she’s a very special lady.”

  The boor backed down, retracting his words with alacrity, and, when Harriet approached a few minutes later, he was very nearly obsequious—which confused her no end. “What an oddity, that creature,” she said once she’d paid for the books and they’d left the shop.

  “No one to worry you.”

  “You do not like him.”

  “You can tell?”

  “It is in your eyes, in the set of your feature ... I don’t know. Something...”

  “If you can read that, why can you not read my love for you?” He laughed when Harriet quickly looked away, but there was a bitter note to it. “Suddenly, I understand. It is because you dare not look me in the face when I say such things. Are you afraid you will see that I do—or that I do not?”

  Harriet could not answer him. How could she when it was not so much what she might see now as what she’d see a year from now—months from now—weeks . . . even days, if he were to meet his next love so soon.

  “I did not mean to lower your spirits, my dear,” he said softly. “Why will you not trust me?”

  “Because I’m a coward?” she asked after a moment when his waiting silence grew unendurable.

  He chuckled. “No. I think I can attest to the fact that you are no coward. Whatever is wrong between us, my love, it is not that.”

  But it was. Harriet was relieved to discover she’d arrived at the Halfords’ front door and appreciative that it was opened immediately by the watchful Marks. She thanked Sir Frederick for his escort, thanked her lucky stars she’d been saved from attempting an answer to his last comment, and entered the house—where she changed from her walking dress and took the books to Madame.

  Madame was pleased to receive them and, one being an old favorite, immediately began reading bits to Harriet who was thankful for the distraction.

  The diversion didn’t last long. A footman arrived with a salver on which rested an old, rather grimy, calling card. The corner was turned down to indicate its owner had come in person and waited below.

  “Now who is this?” asked Madame. She peered at the ornate and spidery writing, deciphering it with difficulty. “Marie de Daunay. Can it possibly be she still lives? I’ve not thought of her for years. Still unmarried I see and no surprise, that. A tiresome girl and very likely a tiresome old woman.” She nodded. “I’ll see her. Bring her up.”

  “Madame, do you think you should?”

  “You fear she will bore me? Perhaps she will, Harriet, but she will be welcome even so. We will talk of our youth and when she leaves I will exult at how much better my life has been and how much wiser and full of fine happenings and everything else which is good.” Madame chuckled at Harriet’s bland look of disbelief. “But, Harriet,” she coaxed, “think what few pleasures are left to such an old woman as myself. You wait, my girl. You’ll grow old yourself one day! You’ll see! Leave me, Harriet, and, once you’ve ordered up refreshment appropriate to a morning call, you may have the afternoon to yourself. Go. Enjoy. Make memories so that someday you too may gloat over the good days of your past!”

  Harriet wondered how she would fill the unwanted hours, but she soon seated herself at the pianoforte in the music room. As was usual with her, Harriet was so lost in her music all her cares and worries flew away, and she was, for the moment, at peace.

  Not many streets away, Cressida was shown into the boudoir of a woman she knew more by reputation than otherwise, a woman carefully chosen from among half a dozen options.

  “Thank you for receiving me with no more notice than I’ve given you,” said Cressida carefully.

  Lady Munson’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve little time to give you since I am preparing to go out almost immediately. I’ll be frank. I receive you only because I know my abominable curiosity will allow me no rest if I do not discover what the notorious Cressida Merton wishes of me.”

  “You are, as I’d heard, frank to a fault—that is not an insult, my lady,” Cressy added when the woman’s chin rose an inch. “It is exactly as I wish it. I am, by the way, Lady Crawford now. We married at the end of last season, but perhaps you missed the announcement?”

  “I remember. It’s more that I can never think of you as married.”

  Cressy’s eyebrows arched.

  “You wish to know why? It is because I perceive marriage as the blending of minds and souls ... and cannot believe you capable of it. You are far too selfish, my dear,” explained her ladyship with just that touch of condescension certain to have Cressy gritting her teeth. “But no more sparring, my dear, enjoyable as such exchange may be. Cut line and speak. Why have you come to me? What is it that you wish of me?”

  Cressy drew in a deep breath, taking great care that her temper didn’t get out of hand. “I have discovered a viper worming its way into the bosom of the ton. I believe it must be defanged and removed from where it may very well do damage to one and all.”

  “Who is this woman you’ve taken in such dislike?” asked Cressida’s hostess shrewdly.

  “Did I say a woman?” Cressy shrugged. Since Lady Munson would have to know Miss Cole’s name there was no reason to play games. “You are correct, of course. It is a woman. And one I dislike. Which is why I’ve come to you. You see, whether I like her or not is irrelevant, but that would not be understood if I were to attempt her unmasking.”

  “You’ll have to explain that.”

  “Perhaps you can accept that, whatever my faults, I believe in protecting our own against the sort of poison she feeds onto paper with an inimitable style.” Cressy removed from an oversized reticule the pages she’d purloined from Harriet. She sorted through, looking for the one about Lady Munson. “Perhaps you’d care to read this?”

  Cressy’s acquaintance gave her a sharp look before accepting the vignette. Cressy watched her closely and was not in the least surprised when the woman’s eyes lit with amusement and, a few lines later, her ladyship actually chuckled.

  “You see how well the author catches one’s foibles, do you not? You are amused. But do try this one. Do you think Brummell would laugh? It is his privilege to stick pins into others, is it not? I cannot think he’d like the favor returned.”

  Lady Munson accepted the page eagerly. Again she chuckled. More than once. When she finished, she met Cressy’s gaze squarely. “You are aware, of course, that the author has a touch of genius. What is it you wish done?”

  Again Cressy swallowed unpalatable words. Why did everyone dote so on Harriet Cole! “I
wish done whatever you think should be done. I can do nothing for a variety of reasons—not least, as I’ve said, that anyone who knows me would assume I’m acting from mere spite. So I’ve come to you. You have a reputation for sound judgment I with regard to the written word. I’ll give you the work, and you will do with it what you think best.” Cressy held out the rest of the thin manuscript.

  “Perhaps I’ll decide to destroy it. This is the original, is it not? You’ve made no copies?”

  “So far as I know those pages are the original and only copy.”

  Rather warily Lady Munson eyed her guest, while thinking deeply. “I will read them, of course.” She chuckled. “I do not believe I could resist reading them, but I cannot think the author particularly vicious—and from these examples don’t understand your assurance that she is. Nor do I perceive where you see the venom.”

  “You are amused reading about yourself here in the privacy of your salon and with the knowledge that you hold the only manuscript. But would you care to see her words in print in a small leather bound volume with gold lettering? Perhaps launched with the publicity given Lady Caro’s roman a clef, Glenarvon? Or, since the author may not have access to a good publisher, she may decide to write a weekly column in one of the less discerning periodicals, a scandal sheet which enjoys stirring the pot now and again.”

  “Have you reason to believe she’ll publish?”

  “The creature in question has lived most of her life abroad. I cannot say what she’s done in the past—but if you had such talent, could you bear to have it hidden away where no one would ever read your words?”

  Lady Munson flushed hotly. It was well known she was a mediocre writer. True, she’d had an occasional essay published, but always it was through the influence of some particular friend who had taken a hand in editing it. Her own talent was small, and she knew it.

  In a related arena, however, she’d succeeded. Her expertise as a literary hostess was without limits, and invitations to her salon were coveted. In the last few years, she’d concentrated her special powers on discovering new talent and giving it a boost by introducing it to the old. However that might be, Cressy’s gibe hit home. It was very true that she could not have borne to hide away a gift such as the unknown authoress enjoyed.