A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  Frederick looked down at the woman on his arm. “Harriet, will you do something for me?”

  “If I can. What do you wish?”

  “What I wish to do, I may not do.”

  She arched her brows at his teasing reference to making love to her. “Then what is it I may do for you?” she asked sternly.

  He turned them away from the water, steered her toward the steps up into the rose garden which occupied the level just above the one on which they strolled. “I want you to pretend to become very angry with me. I want you to stalk off and go to the house. I want you to find the steward and tell him to send at least ten men down to the river. Once you’ve done that, I want you to tell Robert and Pierce to join me here and tell Yves to take your minx into the house and into an upstairs room—with a chaperon, of course—and make her stay there until I think it safe she leave it.”

  “Frederick?”

  “I’ve no way of knowing if I’m right, but I don’t like the looks of the men fishing on the river. No, do not turn. Stop and glare at me. Say something. Raise your voice and show anger. And do it quickly, love. One man has his hands on the rope to one of the small boats tied to the barge.”

  The show Harriet put on was classic and, his back to the river, Frederick whispered, “Bravo, love. If I didn’t know you were not truly angry I’d be wondering what I’d done to deserve your ire. Now get help, Harriet. Quickly.” Harriet stomped away. She shook her head when Frederick called in a pleading tone that she return. Once at the second pair of steps, she lifted her skirts and hurried faster. Frederick should not have remained in the lower garden, she thought, half frantic. He was alone. He could not fight so many men. They’d be on him and might even kill him.

  Oh lord, she thought, nearly panicking, they very well might kill him! The comte hated Sir Frederick for his part in spoiling past plans! Could it possibly be true that those men had come for Françoise? Out of breath, Harriet rushed across the terrace to where the steward was overseeing the buffet. She pulled at his arm and drew them a little apart.

  “Men on the river,” said Harriet, panting. “Sir Frederick says to send at least ten men immediately. Please hurry. He’s alone there.” She turned on her heel, seeking out Robert or Pierce and found them at the same table. She gave them Frederick’s message and, ignoring Elizabeth’s shocked face and Jo’s stony look, searched for Françoise ... and couldn’t find her. “Where is she?” Harriet asked Elizabeth.

  “Where...?” began Elizabeth, but went on quickly, “Oh, Harri, how could you? How could you send our men into danger that way?”

  Jo rose and strolled toward the low stone barrier that edged the terrace. Elizabeth, her face white, joined her. Harriet, tugging at their sleeves, demanded their attention. “We, too, have work to do. Where is Françoise?” she asked, separating each word from the next and emphasizing it.

  Joanna came to Harriet’s conclusion. “She isn’t here.”

  “She didn’t say anything to either of you? A stroll somewhere? An exploration of something?” Harriet felt a touch of panic. “Where is she?”

  “I do not see Monsieur de Bartigues, either,” said Jo.

  “One must assume that they are together, so she isn’t without protection.” Joanna, her hands clenched lightly, looked back down toward the river. Three boatloads of rough men had left the barge. They rowed toward three widely-spaced points on the riverbank, separating their forces, and making it harder for a few men to stop them all. Joanna swore softly and glanced back to the guests. There were some men she thought might join the coming fray and quickly approached one after another.

  “A fight? What fun! Where?” asked one young gentleman overly loudly, alerting everyone—the duchess had hoped might remain in ignorance—that there was trouble.

  Before Joanna could prevent him, he jumped the low wall and took off, several young men following after him. Chaos erupted among the women. Shrieks and mild hysteria and, in one case, a dead faint, were enough to make Elizabeth lose control and burst into tears herself.

  Harriet went inside and made a quick search for Françoise. She came down from the upstairs to find the parlor full of women, Joanna soothed where she could and scolded elsewhere: Joanna no longer had time to worry about Pierce. Harriet discovered that Elizabeth was so afraid for Robert she’d stayed on the terrace to watch—although she could not distinguish him from the others who had joined to repel the invaders.

  But where was Françoise? Harriet hadn’t listened closely to the steward’s description of the property and its various points of interest, but she seemed to remember something about a man-made Gothic ruin, a picturesque note common to such properties—but where was it? After briefly searching for a servant to give her information, she stopped to think. She’d arrived on the west side of the property. She’d wandered around the south half and down near the river with Frederick. She’d searched the house. The only place she had not been was to the east side of the house. Just then a footman entered the hall. She called to him.

  He hesitated but came a few steps closer and bowed. “I am to join the fighting, madam. I must go at once.”

  “Many men are already fighting. I must find the young woman they defend, and I fear she may have gone to explore the Gothic ruin. Guide me to it at once.”

  “But...” He looked longingly in the other direction, sighed, and led her to a side door. They exited and hurried down a path between tall hedges. “There, madam,” said the footman. “It isn’t really much of a ruin...”

  His words were cut off by a scream. One quick look at Harriet, and an expression of sudden anticipation crossed his face. He was off at a run, Harriet after him.

  “Non, but non, you will not! You will not kill him,” screamed Françoise.

  Her voice came from the far side of the moss-covered stones tumbling from a half-destroyed wall, which had been carefully made to look as if it would fall in the next wind. Harriet noted a stake as big around as two thumbs which had been driven into the ground to support a young tree. After pulling it out, she lifted her skirts and raced toward the end of the folly nearest the road.

  As Harriet rounded the ruin’s end, she found, immediately in front of her, a struggling Françoise held high in the arms of the comte. Without thinking, she raised the stake and swung it, hard, at the comte’s legs. He dropped Françoise, who crawled away, climbed to her feet and, without looking to see how Harriet fared, ran back the way she’d come. The comte had fallen to one knee. He rose, a vicious, hateful look contorting his face, and reached toward Harriet’s throat. She pulled the stake back, preparing to swing again, and he turned, limping away into the shrubbery.

  For a long moment she listened, heard snapping twigs and swishing branches and, finally, silence. Slowly she let go of the stake, one finger loosening at a time. Slowly, she allowed herself to slide down the side of the folly until she was sitting on the ground, her head bowed over her knees, her hands holding her bent legs close to her body.

  So it was that Françoise and Yves found her some minutes later. Yves had a blood-stained handkerchief wound around his forehead, and Françoise was chiding him for insisting they find Harriet, convinced he should rest, should take care of himself...

  “But, oh, Harri,” she said when they came upon her. “I didn’t think. You! Are you hurt, too? Are you dead, maybe?” Françoise asked the last in a small voice as she dropped to her knees. She put her hand tentatively on Harriet’s shoulder. “Oh, surely you are not dead!”

  “Not dead. I can’t quit shaking,” murmured Harriet, her voice so low Françoise had to bend to hear her. “You were so brave,” said Frani.

  “I did what I had to do.” Harriet straightened, laid her head back against the sun-warmed wall. “Where’s the footman? Was he of no use?”

  “I sent him back for help,” said Yves, a trifle ruefully. “I didn’t know you’d sent the oh-so-dear comte off all by yourself with his tail between his legs.”

  “I couldn’t have done it, if
he hadn’t been so surprised by my sudden appearance.” She described what had happened from her point of view. Yves, recovering consciousness, had immediately had the presence of mind to ask Françoise how she’d escaped the comte’s trap and had heard the younger girl’s story then.

  Just then Joanna, a gun in her hand, arrived, guided by the footman, who was looking young and excited and obviously feeling important to have had a hand in rescuing the pretty young miss, even if it hadn’t been a very heroic one. Françoise and Harriet had to explain all over again. “Then,” said Joanna, “the fight by the river was merely a diversion to draw the men away.”

  “And he was lucky, the comte, that I had decided to explore instead of eat luncheon. Poor Monsieur de Bartigues is not so lucky. His poor head,” said Frani, looking sad. “It is broken.”

  “Merely scratched. Don’t make so much of it, mademoiselle.”

  “The last I looked,” said Jo, “the fight was about over. The men will return to the terrace with what captives they’ve taken and will want to know where we are. Especially, mademoiselle, they will wish to know that you are safe. We must return, if it is not too much for you, monsieur—or for you, Harri?”

  “I’ll make it back to the house, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

  “When we leave, you must come with me in my carriage,” said Joanna soothingly. “I will like to have the company,” she added, knowing how excellent a horsewoman Harriet was and fearing she might feel insulted by the offer.

  “I’ll gladly join you,” was the quiet response. “I was tired before from the ride, but now I feel utterly exhausted. Françoise,” added Harriet in a stronger tone, “I swear if something like this happens again, I’ll leave you to your fate. I don’t think I could survive, again, the horror I felt when I rounded that corner and saw you in that evil man’s arms!”

  They arrived at the side door through which Harriet had come a surprisingly few minutes earlier and found Sir Frederick just inside, a black eye coming up nicely and a frown of major proportions drawing his brows together. Pierce followed on his heels, a bruised jaw and scraped knuckles indicating his part in the recent melee. Behind him were Elizabeth and Robert. Robert, except for an open shoulder seam, looked unmarked, but Elizabeth was hanging on him as if she’d never let him out of her sight again.

  Sir Frederick glowered. “So,” he said. “We cannot leave you for more than a moment, and you find mischief to make us prematurely grey! How dare you all disappear like that. A gun, Your Grace?” he asked, seeing it for the first time.

  Françoise and Yves appeared from between the hedges, and the bloodstained bandage brought more words of concern. Finally the men quieted down enough to hear the tale and, with no thought to whom might be watching, Frederick pulled Harriet into his arms and held her close. “Don’t you ever do anything so foolish ever again, do you hear me?”

  “I am not allowed to be foolish, but it is quite all right for you to remain alone, where more than a dozen men intend to start a fight? Men who are the henchmen of a man who wishes you dead?”

  “Men are born with the right to be foolish,” soothed Frederick, but he was not unhappy with her sharp comment because of the caring he heard behind her words. “Women are supposed to have more sense!” When he thought again of what might have happened to her, he pushed her away enough to look into her eyes. “Harri, love, you are all right? He didn’t hurt you?”

  “He didn’t have time. I came upon him so suddenly we were neither prepared for it. But he had his arms full of Françoise and could do little. I, on the other hand, had a weapon and used it.” She shuddered again as, in memory, she felt the heavy stick thud against human flesh. It was a moment she’d long remember, very likely in nightmares. It had been awful, the sound and feel of it.

  Pierce, who had been quietly talking to Joanna, broke in on them. “No one will be satisfied with a rural idyll after all the excitement so I fear the day is ruined. Robert and I will organize the homeward trek. I think we should return now to the parlor where some sort of explanation must be made, and then the horses must be brought around. Harriet, do you think you can put a good face on things for just a little longer? Joanna and I have come up with a tale we think will cover everything and not result in scandal for Mademoiselle Françoise.”

  “I’ve been unable to see how we may avoid scandal, so if you’ve a notion, do let us hear it,” said Frederick.

  “If we suggest those men were a rabble roused by the high cost of bread and upset by our romping, we may assert that they wished to make a statement of sorts and may convince everyone it was merely an accident of time and place that they chose our particular party to attack. We’ll say nothing of you women and your trifling adventure, of course,” he added on a dry note, “but I don’t know where we can say Monsieur de Bartigues was fighting, because no one will have seen him by the river. Perhaps no one will think to ask, but, if they do, we must say something which will explain his bruised head.”

  “They will soon notice it was caused by a knife and not by fists,” said Françoise, clutching at Yves’ arm.

  “A knife? That leaves a distinctive scar. Blast. Some of those men carried bludgeons, but none were armed otherwise so far as I know.”

  “Perhaps a small mob arrived from the front? Perhaps I and a few footmen managed to run them off?”

  “Yes. We can say one of them pulled a knife on you. Good. Shall we join the rest?”

  The rest had lost the edge of hysteria, but were babbling about what had happened and were drinking more than might have been expected at a garden party. Any man who had been hurt in the fighting was basking in the attention of some young woman—except for those few with more serious hurts. These were dealt with by more practical older women, who allowed a younger female the important role of soothing the wounded male by holding his hand and telling him how wonderful he was.

  The duke soon took control of the noisy throng. He called for quiet, told the story they’d concocted for public consumption, and suggested that, since the day had been spoiled, perhaps they should leave as soon as horses and carriages could be brought around. They’d plan another party when there was no more danger of the sort that had ruined this one.

  Not, of course, that most of the adventurous young men felt it had been ruined! They, much to their womenfolk’s disgust, had enjoyed themselves hugely and said so.

  “Men,” decided Françoise, “are exceedingly strange creatures indeed, are they not?”

  Harriet was prone to agree.

  Fourteen

  When Madame was told of the latest attempt to take her granddaughter, she went off into a long tirade in such rapid French that even Harriet could not follow her thoughts. Everyone listened in awed silence. Françoise, who did understand, was the most silent of all until at last, agitated, she exclaimed, “No no, Grand-mere. Mais non! It is impossible that you do as you say!”

  “What is it?” asked a bewildered Elizabeth. “What did she say?”

  Ignoring her hostess, Françoise continued. “You cannot take a sword and run him through and through and through!” She put her arm around her grandmother and leaned her head into the old woman’s rigid shoulder. “Nor, I think, can you shoot him and shoot him or give him over to be guillotined! Me, I think the English do not have Madame Guillotine, is that not so? So it would be best,” she finished with a certain insouciance, “if you were to have him arrested. They could just hang him until he was dead.”

  The tension broke and everyone, including Madame la Comtesse, laughed. “An excellent notion, little one,” said His Grace, Pierce Reston, grinning broadly. “Unfortunately, under English law, that would require a trial, and you and Miss Cole would have to give evidence before the court. I think you’d not enjoy that, my child, so, although it is a very good idea, arresting the comte, I think we must come up with another.” The duke looked around the group. “Robert? Frederick?”

  Both men sighed and shook their heads. Robert
spoke slowly. “All we can do is as we’ve been doing. The women must go nowhere without protection. Big John will be warned the comte is now hiring bravos to aid him; and he must, therefore, have assistance as well. Are you listening, Elizabeth? You are to go nowhere unprotected. Françoise?”

  “I do not wish the evil comte to have me. I will be good,” promised Françoise. Then she shuddered. “I am afraid of him. He makes my flesh crawl, and when he touched me today, picked me up, I thought I would faint it was so awful—but I was worried about poor Yves so I didn’t. Is it so very bad, Monsieur de Bartigues’ head?” she asked with a pretty hesitancy.

  Yves had developed a very slight fever by the time they approached London and had been sent on, under protest, to Frederick’s rooms. Françoise was not easy to reassure, but a promise that the young man would visit her the next morning finally did the trick.

  Harriet had only just arisen from her sickbed, had ridden out to the party and there she’d undergone emotional ups and downs which had worn her to a thread. Frederick noticed how she drooped and went to her side. “You mustn’t worry about the minx, my dear. We’ll see your charge comes to no harm. You must trust us.”

  “I know you’ll do your best, but today proved one cannot foresee everything. If I had been only a few moments later, he’d have been gone and Françoise as well.” She trembled much as Françoise had done. “Frederick, it was awful, finding her in his arms, that way!”

  “At least you gave him something by which to remember his failure.” Frederick tipped up her chin, stared seriously into her eyes. “From what you said, he’ll be limping for several days! It was very well done of you!”