A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  Françoise shivered. “Who—”

  “Remember,” cautioned the woman. “Wait some minutes...”

  “Who are you?”

  There was no response. For a long moment Françoise didn’t dare to move. Then she turned and scanned the small shop, struggling against other patrons who crowded her close to the table. No one paid the least attention to her. No one looked as if they’d had a thing to do with her—but someone had recognized her, had accosted her, had given her a note. Someone, Françoise knew instinctively, who meant her no good.

  Her hands shaking, she searched her reticule and found the folded bit of paper. The message was short and to the point: Come without delay to the address below if you wish to see your grandmother alive. Tell no one. You are watched, and it will go badly with your friend if you do not obey. Françoise shuddered. Again, still more surreptitiously, she looked around. Still she saw no one with any obvious interest in her. What could she do? What could she do?

  Françoise scrambled through her mind for a way out of the trap which had been sprung. Oh, it was so terrible she could barely think. But, first, she must do nothing which would harm Elizabeth. That was very important. So how? Perhaps if she were to pretend to be ill, and they were to go home—perhaps she could find help there? Harriet? Harriet would know what to do.

  Françoise pushed away from the table, wanting a bit of room where she would not be jostled from all sides, somewhere where she could think, but the Arcade was overly full that day, and there was no room to be had. Home. She pushed through the crowd until she reached the shop door. She had to go home. Frantic, Frani searched faces for Elizabeth’s. She saw Big John, whose tall frame stood head and shoulders above everyone else. She threaded a way toward him, scattering apologies here and there as she stepped on a toe here or stumbled against someone there. She reached her quarry and, her eyes big with fright, stared up at him.

  “John?” she said. “Where is Lady Halford, John? I do not feel well. I must go. At once, John.”

  The gentle servant frowned down at her, saw how white and pulled about she looked and then, raising his gaze, scanned the shoppers. He peered through the window of the shop his mistress had entered. She wasn’t there. He looked into the next. “She is here, Mam’zelle, looking at silk stockings, I think. Follow me, little one.”

  Thankfully Françoise dropped in behind Big John and was swept along in his wake. “Elizabeth...” she began upon reaching her.

  “Françoise? Do look. I cannot believe the price! They seem first quality, do they not?” She turned. “I think I’ll have a dozen pair—Françoise? What...?”

  “I do not feel well. I am sorry, but may we go home? Now?”

  “Of course, we may. Why did you not tell me? We should never have come if you were not well.”

  Françoise allowed herself to be scolded and petted and herded back to the carriage which awaited them near the entrance. She was silent on the drive back to Halford House and, after an attempt or two to find out what was wrong with her guest, Elizabeth, too fell silent.

  I will have gotten Elizabeth out of it. She’ll be safe at home, thought Françoise frantically. But what next? Oh, if only the men had not gone away today. Why today of all days? Or, she wondered, not being exactly stupid, is that why today was chosen? Because, with them away, it was a good day in which to abduct me again? I get so tired of abductions. They are such a bore. She closed her eyes and turned her head against the squabs first one way and then the other. No. They are not a bore. They frighten me, I think. Oh Harriet what must I do? Grand-mere ... Dear God nothing must happen to Grand-mere...

  The carriage pulled up in front of the house. As Big John opened the low door and put down the steps, it occurred to Françoise that the friend mentioned in the note might mean Harriet and not Elizabeth as she’d first assumed. She opened her eyes wide, her flesh losing still more color. She mustn’t, couldn’t, ask Harriet for help. She mustn’t endanger Harriet. The evil comte would kill without compunction as he’d once tried to kill grand-mere with his poisons. It must not happen. Françoise shuddered and reached for Big John as her knees buckled.

  The huge man caught her, picked her up and, at a nod from Elizabeth, carried his slight burden into the house and straight up to the bedroom she still shared with Harriet. Harriet was there and, taking one look at her charge’s white pinched features said Françoise must go to bed. Frani, thinking of the order that she come immediately, grew very nearly hysterical, accusing Harri of smothering her, mothering her—demanded that she be left alone, that all she needed was to sleep and not be disturbed. Not at all.

  “Go away, Harri. Just go away and leave me alone,” she wailed, deeply worried as it became obvious Harriet meant to stay with her. “I don’t want anybody. I don’t want you.”

  That’s true enough, thought Françoise, but I don’t mean it as an insult, Harri—don’t take it that way. Please don’t look so cold. Oh, Harri, if only I could tell you, could explain...

  Huge tears dripped down Françoise’s face as her beloved Harri turned away. Hungrily, Frani’s huge eyes devoured the tall slim form of the woman she loved and admired so much. They’d never again see each other, and Harriet would never understand why she’d had to be so nasty, why she’d tricked her so...

  Françoise’s mind raced, but she turned her face away when Harriet looked back from the doorway. With a chilly reminder that she would stop in later, Harriet finally left, and Frani was alone. All alone.

  There would be no rescue, no one coming at the last moment to prevent the evil comte from doing as he willed with her. But Grand-mere...

  Whatever happened to herself, she must not fail her beloved grandmother. Nothing must happen to the valiant old lady simply because Françoise was too much a coward to face a future of utter misery with the comte as husband. A very brief picture of Monsieur de Bartigues flickered in and out of the girl’s mind. She pushed it away, clamped down on even the possibility of ever knowing the joy of Yves’ love, a possibility she’d recently begun to think very important indeed.

  The house was quiet. Harriet had picked up a pile of books from the lending library before she’d left the room, quite obviously intending to return them. She was gone. Elizabeth had muttered it was just as well they’d come home because she’d too long avoided a discussion with the housekeeper concerning the inadequacies of the second housemaid. Elizabeth would be occupied in the small office near the housekeeper’s rooms for some time if the situation were only half so dire as Elizabeth had suggested. Françoise tried to think where the servants would be at this hour, what they’d be doing. Enjoying their rest period, she decided, but it would not do for one of them to catch her sneaking out as she must now do and do quickly. She must be careful. Nothing must happen to Grand-mere!

  Françoise opened the door to the hall. No one. Good. Quietly she opened the door to the backstairs and listened intently. Again no one. She slipped down the steps and crossed the hall into the little salon at the back of the house, where she looked around fearfully. Still no one.

  Frani breathed in a huge breath and breathed it out again slowly. So far, so good. Crossing to the French doors at the back of the house, she peeked into the garden. Again no one.

  Drawing in another big breath, Françoise opened the doors and slipped along the balcony to the stairs which would take her down into the garden. Once on the garden path, she stopped again, her whole body trembling. What if Elizabeth saw her from a window? A servant? What could she say? How could she convince someone, anyone, she’d no choice? She must do as ordered?

  Calming herself, Françoise stared down the long beautifully planted garden toward the back gate. The bright flowers mocked her even as the gate beckoned. That was it. If she could reach that gate and slip through it, she’d be safe ... or rather, she’d never be safe again. She’d be in the comte’s hands. Françoise shuddered once again, gritted her teeth and moved swiftly down the gently curving path.

  The gate. Her hands
were on the latch. She lifted it. She slipped through the narrowest possible opening and closed it behind her.

  Françoise leaned against the gate and allowed a few tears to slip down her cheeks. Had she truly hoped she’d be seen, be stopped? How foolish she was to hope for rescue when Grand-mere’s very life depended on her.

  With renewed determination, the girl walked down the alley and along the street to where several hansom cabs waited in a row to be hired. Minutes later she was on her way to her fate. Frani stared blindly through the dirty windows not even noticing the smelly straw on the floor or the musty odor coming from the squabs. Such things didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing would matter ever again.

  Far too soon they reached the address, and the driver pulled his tired horse to a stop. “Here ye be, missy. Can’t think why you’d want to come to a place like this, but that’ll be five shillings, luv, there’s a dear.”

  Françoise paid without arguing the outrageous amount. She was doomed and the sooner she faced her doom, the better it would be. There. The door to number thirty-five. Climbing the steps, Françoise raised the knocker, allowed it to fall.

  Instantly the door opened. Wiry fingers grasped her wrist. She was yanked into the hall, and the door slammed.

  It was done. Françoise was in the hands of the comte.

  Across the street from number thirty-five two women stared. They looked at each other and then strolled on. “It was. I know it was,” said the actress who had laid on the bed and received Frani’s earrings.

  “What’s that sweet minx doing here?”

  “Ye don’t think it was that man we were hired to fool, do you?”

  “Whatever one thinks about that sly business, she’s no call to be visiting someone who’d treat her like that, do she now?”

  The cab, which had gone on to the corner to find room to turn, returned the way it had come. The actresses, acting as one, waved it down. They haggled with the driver before climbing in. The journey seemed to the worried young persons to take forever, but soon enough they pounded on the Halford House door.

  Marks opened it, took one look, and attempted to slam it shut. The blond actress put herself into the opening and would not move no matter what names Marks called her. “We have to see someone,” she insisted. “We have ta tell ’em what we seed. Now you slumguzzling ol’ fool, you let us in or you’ll be sorry, I tell you.”

  “The likes of you don’t come to the front door and don’t go around back because we don’t want the likes of you here at all.” Marks again tried to push the door closed, pressing it into the woman.

  “You stop that, you fat-bottomed, clapperdogeon, ol’ jack pudding. You’ll see...”

  The argument concerning the butler’s looks and antecedents might have gone on forever if Harriet hadn’t chosen that moment to return from the lending library. Marks had to open the door for her and the women slipped in before her. “What is the problem, Marks?”

  “These ... young persons ... insist they got news and must tell someone but it’s an old trick, Miss Cole. They’ll put their glims on what we got and where it is, then tonight or tomorrow night someone on the dub-lay—I mean housebreakers—will...”

  But Harriet had had time to look the women over and held up her hand. “I believe we met in Dover,” she said, quietly to the blond.

  “Yes’m, miss. That we did. You tell that cod’s head, here, we’re honest, we are.”

  “Yes, I agree you are honest. Certainly you did your work well for us. Now, tell me why you’ve come. Please?”

  “Rather tell one of the gentlemen,” said the spokeswoman, looking away and back. “Might not be proper for a lady’s ears.”

  Harriet frowned, looked at Marks who had his ears on the prick. She said, “Perhaps we should go into the back salon. Marks, please bring tea.” Once she’d closed the door on the curious butler, Harriet continued, “I fear you’ll have to reveal your secret to me. Lord Halford and his friends are gone for the day and although they’ve promised not to be late, I believe it will be sometime yet before they arrive.”

  The blond shook her head. “That’s a shocker, that is.” The woman sighed. “Rather tell a man which would be more proper-like, but since I can’t and the little lady may h’got herself into hotter water than she knows, here’s the way of it...”

  She described what they’d seen and Harriet glanced up at the ceiling, back to the women. “But that can’t be. Frani came home from shopping quite done up. She insisted she only needed to sleep, that I was to go away—that no one was to bother her...!”

  Harriet rose to her feet and lifted her skirts to an indecorous height. She raced from the room and up the stairs. For half a moment she hesitated to open the bedroom door. Then she did. She looked in. Empty. The dratted girl was gone!

  Fool. Idiot.

  Harriet didn’t know if she referred to Françoise or to herself for not guessing something had happened to push her charge into such shocking and uncharacteristic incivility. Instead, she’d allowed herself to feel hurt that Frani could accuse her of smothering her when it had only been love and a care for the danger the girl was in that had made Harriet perhaps a trifle more careful, more watchful than most chaperons. And then, because she’d allowed those few hasty words to overset her, she’d failed in her duty to protect Françoise when real danger appeared. But she mustn’t fail. She must go immediately to the rescue.

  Harriet opened a drawer in the dressing table and gently removed one of her father’s pistols. She checked it and put it in her reticule. When she looked into the mirror, she saw only a mental vision of Françoise. “I’m coming, child,” she said softly. “I’m coming, Frani.” Returning quickly to the salon, she asked the women to tell her how to find the house into which the French girl had been forced.

  The two looked at each other, shook their heads. “Can’t tell you the number, but it’s on Becclesway Street. About half way down, I’d guess.”

  “About that. Maybe a little closer to the High than otherwise?” said the darker actress doubtfully, speaking for the first time.

  “I could show you...” said the first.

  Harriet frowned, deciding what was for the best. “I think you must come with me,” she said, finally. “Then perhaps you’d be kind enough to return and wait to show the men where to come—just in case I have trouble. Let me think. Ah. I’ll leave a letter. Marks will let you in and feed you ... Can you think of anything else?” She looked from one to the other.

  “Sounds like you done thought of just about everything, it do,” said the younger woman admiringly.

  Harriet scribbled a quick letter to Lord Halford and rang for Marks. She gave him directions concerning the women’s return and asked that a hack be called.

  “You mean the carriage,” he said, much on his dignity.

  “If I’d meant a carriage I’d have said so. Marks, do not argue with me. Time is important. I don’t know quite...”

  When she trailed off he said, “Perhaps I should call her ladyship—”

  “Perhaps you should do as you are told!” snapped Harriet.

  Harriet was usually the kindest of mistresses, never raising her voice and, as a result, she was well-liked by those serving the Halford household. Marks flushed royal purple at her reprimand, knowing he must have overstepped badly if Miss Harriet were so angry that she’d not only raise her voice but be scathing about it as well. He bowed and left the room. Harriet and the women followed. Soon they were on their way.

  When they reached Becclesway, the jarvey pulled up and demanded his five shillings, not that he expected such luck as he’d had before with the dreamy little miss he’d brought earlier. A good thing he’d no such expectations. Harriet knew a point or two more than the devil, and even if the actresses hadn’t gasped, warning her she was being cheated, she’d not have paid so much. She pressed what money she had in her reticule onto the actresses and told them to pay the man what was owed once they’d returned to the Halfords.


  “I don’t think the men will be late. They are to come straight back and not go on to one of the suppers so common after such affairs.” She looked from one to the other. “Whatever happens, thank you. You’ve done well.”

  “Oh, well.” The actresses looked to each other. “Only did what was right, you know.”

  They watched as Harriet approached number thirty-five. No one answered, and they watched her try the door which was, it turned out, on the latch. They saw her push it open and look into a dark hallway. Waving the cabby to go on, Harriet entered the house, her fingers working at a knot to her reticule wishing she had the gun in her hand. Quietly, she moved toward the stairs. She was just beyond the sitting room door when, with a rush, the comte came up behind her and pulled her back against him, his arms squeezing her tightly.

  “How did you know where to come?” he growled into her ear.

  “How could I not know where to come?” she asked, irritated she’d been tricked so easily.

  “She left the note behind her, did she? Stupid chit. Hand it over.”

  Harriet immediately responded, “You think I’ve brought it with me?”

  “The devil take it. You’ve been a plague, a bane, a thorn in my flesh. I hate you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you? You thank me that I cannot stand the sight of you?”

  “Of course. For someone like yourself to like me would be the insult.”

  The comte stiffened, his arms squeezing her closer and beginning to pain her rather badly. Harriet wondered if she’d have a broken rib or two before he let her go. Her upper arms were tight against her sides, but her lower arms were free. Steadily she worked at the knot in her reticule ribbons. If only she’d not been in such a hurry to approach the house that she’d done them up badly after giving the actresses her money.