“But my ceiling! My important boarder! My tea is ruined! My life...”
“Nonsense. I will see that your ceiling is mended.”
“You will?” Madame de Daunay began to calm.
“We can brew fresh tea,” suggested Harriet.
The formerly hysterical woman looked surprised and then muttered, “I never thought of that.”
“You will find yourself another important boarder,” said Madame. Here her old acquaintance looked skeptical, but Madame went on without allowing her to deny the possibility. “Your life is not ruined, but think how terrible life would be for my precious Françoise if the comte had his way. Her life would truly be in shreds if he had taken her away.”
The old woman’s eyes widened, her returning confusion obvious. “But why do you say so? He wishes to marry her, does he not? I do not see why you have not arranged the match with all possible speed. When I was young, my father would have been delighted in such a match.”
“He’s a terrible creature. You believe I should give my granddaughter into the hands of one such as he?”
“He is a comte,” said the old lady stubbornly.
“Bah. He is of the new aristocracy and is nothing. Nothing. Never shall my Françoise wed such a one.”
Madame de Daunay blinked. “But—”
“Never.”
While the two old women argued, the runner returned to the house at the end of the street. He finally convinced the old man that four women were truly being held prisoner, and, once that was accomplished, he sent his servant off to Bow Street for yet another runner, a note from the first explaining what was wanted held tightly in the boy’s fist.
Once that was in motion, the runner went outside to reconnoiter. He was in time to see three men, none of whom looked like the women’s description of the comte, pounding on number thirty-five’s door. He strolled down the street and, approaching the arguing men, he eavesdropped shamelessly.
“I still say,” insisted Halford, “that we can’t just go haring off without some notion of what has happened.”
“You don’t know the comte,” said Yves desperately. “We must follow at once if we are to save my poor Fra ... I mean, mademoiselle from his clutches. He will...” He couldn’t finish the terrible thought of what de Vauton-Cheviot would do to Françoise the instant he felt himself safe to ravish her, stopping at an inn ... or perhaps even in the carriage...!
“Calm down. We do not know that they’ve left yet, or if they have, how they travel. For instance he may be inside and not wish to answer the door, knowing we’d thwart his plans. The best thing is to knock up the neighbors and see if anyone has heard or seen anything. Surely if a traveling coach loaded with baggage left this street today, someone will have noticed it and can describe it. Come now. You, Yves, cross the street and ask there. Robert, you take the houses on that side, and I’ll go this way ... excuse me,” he added, turning and bumping into the runner.
“Don’t think I will, not if you’re going to be a marplot just when I’m about to lay a real villainess by the heels. Jeremy Wickens, Bow Street,” he added, showing his baton of office, which he’d had hidden under his coat.
“Villainess? What villainess?” asked Yves. “We’re here to stop a villain.”
“A very brave lady inside has agreed to help bring an evil woman to justice, she has, and I don’t think she’d be too happy with you if you interfere with our plans. On the other hand, if you’ve a mind to, you can help the course of justice,” Jeremy finished, looking from one to the other.
“As Yves said, we’ve a villain to catch.”
“Hmm.” Jeremy nodded. “That’d be your comte. I heard all about the comte from the little mam’selle. Silly man, I think. But if he takes money from Ma, which I think he’ll do, mind, he’ll be implicated in selling a woman into slavery, won’t he? And that’s against English law. So. We can take the man when we take the woman. Howsoever that may be, it’s Ma Cooper I’m after, now, and you just remember that, hmm?”
“Slavery?” asked Halford, curiously.
“Ma Cooper!” said Frederick, horrified.
“What are you talking about? Françoise is in there and frightened and we must rescue her. At once,” said Yves, his mind capable of only the one thought as long as his love was in danger.
“Ma Cooper,” repeated Sir Frederick, “de Vauton-Cheviot intends to sell my Harriet to that woman? Does Harriet have any notion what that means?”
“I think you’ll find she has a fair idea,” said Jeremy calmly. “She wants to cooperate,” he added warningly when Sir Frederick seemed about to charge the closed and locked door and batter it down with his bare fists.
The men argued, Frederick insisting the runner must not put Harriet into danger, that there was no telling the many ways things might go wrong. Finally the runner convinced him that Harriet truly wished to help put the vicious Ma Cooper in prison.
“Yves,” said Frederick, sighing, “stop sputtering. Do you think I’m any less worried about my Harriet than you are about Mademoiselle Françoise? They are safe enough for the moment, at least. Much as I dislike the idea, we’ll have to wait to rescue them until the time is right. You’ve a plan?” asked Frederick, turning back to the runner.
“I do. And, since you’re here and my colleague is not, then you’ll have to follow orders, you hear that, good-fellow-my-lad?” he asked, turning on Yves.
“But Frani—she must be terror-stricken...”
“That the little dark-haired one?”
“Yes. Beautiful dark hair...”
“Well, last time I saw the chit, she didn’t look affeared to me. Her back was straight and she stood beside her grandmama and looked as if threats of that French invention of the devil, Madame Guillotine, wouldn’t make her turn a hair. She’ll do,” he added, high praise indeed from a man who’d always considered women more a nuisance than a help. “They’ll all do except maybe that watering pot what owns this ken—er, house, I mean.” He shook his head at his lapse into thieves’ cant. “Now then, I’ll tell you my plan...”
The men put their heads together, and soon Yves was sent to take his place above the women’s prison room, where he could spy on the comte’s entrance there. Also, while waiting, he could talk to his Françoise and reassure her. Moreover, he swore he’d shoot without compunction if it looked as if the comte meant to kill the older women before taking away the younger—but only if it came to that. Lord Halford hid behind his carriage a bit down the street. Sir Frederick, removing his jacket, hat, and cravat, rolled up his sleeves and squatted with the runner and dice in the area next door to number thirty-five. They waited. And waited. The runner began to wonder if the comte had gotten cold feet and decided to leave the women locked up while he made a run for the coast.
Just as everyone was about to give up in disgust, a seedy carriage pulled up in front of the watched house. An irate comte jumped down, handed the jarvey a coin and turned to help an exceedingly fat woman to the ground. “I tell you time is of the essence. We must hurry if all is not to be lost!”
“Hold your bonebox. At my age you don’t hurry for any reason at all.” Ma stood there getting her breath while the comte went to the door and unlocked it. “Now, you say she’s a real lady, do you? Don’t know as I believe you. No real lady would be caught dead in this street. Not a coming here all by herself, she wouldn’t.”
“Come and see for yourself.” The comte did everything but jump up and down in his nervous desire to be gone.
“You can judge if I’m telling the truth or not. One look at her will tell you.”
“Proud as the devil himself, you said,” said the woman, a speculative note to her voice.
“Prime goods, I tell you. Chaste and proud and not easily broken. I promise.” The comte hopped from one foot to the other. “Come. Do come.”
The two entered the house conveniently forgetting to close the door. The runner and Sir Frederick immediately took up positions on either side of it, t
heir ears cocked to what was going on inside.
“Well, now. Where is the goods, hmm?”
“Upstairs. I’ve locked her in with the others at the top of the house.”
“Then get her, fool. Don’t think I’ll climb myself up all those steps do you? Not when I’ve the girth on me I’ve got. Foolish man. Get her now if you’re in such a hank.”
“Such a what?” asked the confused comte, his foot on the bottom step, but half turned to question her.
The woman sighed. “Hank. A hurry. You are the one to insist time is of prime importance. Get her.”
“All right. All right. I’ll get her.”
The fat woman whistled softly through her teeth while she waited. It wasn’t long. Within minutes the comte returned, Harriet ahead of him, her arm forced into an uncomfortable position behind her back. She stared at the fat woman who stared back, still whistling.
“Did I lie? Did I? Is she gentry or is she not?”
“You didn’t lie about that, now did you? But she’s older than I like. Can’t offer more’n a monkey for one so long in the tooth as that. Even that’s too much.”
“A monkey! Only five hundred? You’ll make twice that on her first time out!”
“Yes, but then I won’t make much beyond it. Only virgin goods is worth so much. Those old goats who think virgin blood’ll cure ’em of what ails ’em are fools, that they are.” She laughed vilely. “And you know what’s said about fools, now.”
“Hand over the money. I haven’t all day. I must be on my way with the other one.”
“Other one?” The fat woman ceased to dig through the slits in her many petticoats, hunting for the one in which she’d put the roll of soft with which she’d pay for her new girl. “Maybe I’d pay better for the other one.” She pulled out the money at last, counted it quickly and handed it over.
The comte grabbed it. “You can’t have the other one. She’s mine. I’ll marry her as soon as we reach France, and I’ll never have to worry ever again...” Suddenly the comte’s eyes goggled, widening until the whites showed all around. “You! You’re at a prizefight!” he screamed as Sir Frederick entered the house right behind the runner.
“It only lasted four rounds, but really, Cheviot, this is becoming tedious,” said Frederick softly. “But this time you’ve gone too far. This time English law will put you away where you can harm no one for many a long year. Perhaps for the rest of your miserable life. Still better, perhaps you’ll hang, Cheviot. I hope so. Once too often you’ve terrified the innocent. You must pay, Comte, and pay you will.”
“Hear now? What’s this?” The fat woman had backed into a corner. Now she turned and waddled down the short hall toward the back of the house, where she hoped to find an escape route ... but, of course, she didn’t reach it. The runner was onto her and, shrugging, she returned to the others. “So, now what?” she grumbled, a sour look at the comte who had finally, after much talk, tempted her to come for Harriet. “What happens now?”
“Now I take you and the Frenchie to Bow Street where you’ll be charged with the buying and selling of human flesh. Slaves can’t be bought and sold in England, you know.”
“Who said anything about slavery?” asked the woman. “Don’t know what you’re thinking, dearie, but nothing like that going on here. No, no. Nothing like that,” said the fat woman, her eyes wide open with obviously pretended innocence.
“You just come along, Ma, and no arguments. This time we’ve got you and no mistake.”
“Now, you don’t want to bring that poor, sweet innocent into court, do you?” asked the woman, her tone wheedling. The runner refused to answer, and she turned to Sir Frederick whom, she assumed, would be easier to convince. “You won’t want the world to know how near your lady, there, came to becoming dirty goods, do you?”
“Won’t need to, Ma,” interrupted the runner. “Sir Frederick and I’ll be witness enough you gave money to the comte. He was selling her, and you was buying her. And that ain’t allowed, Ma. Her name never need come into it.”
The woman slumped, and she didn’t try anything else. She was an evil woman, but she was a realist. She knew when she was beaten. The comte was a different matter. He ranted and raved until the runner was tired of it. When a second runner appeared at the doorway, the two were put in his charge and carted off to Bow Street where they would disappear from society’s eyes forever.
Jeremy saw them off and returned to find that Sir Frederick had taken Harriet into his embrace and held her close. The runner shrugged and started up the stairs to release the other women. He returned with the others behind him and found that Lord Halford was leaning in the doorway, his eyes on his friend, and a smile on his face.
Sir Frederick’s murmurs could be heard by all. “My dearest love. My precious love. Don’t ever frighten me like that again, do you hear me? I’m getting too old for this sort of adventure. Oh, my dear heart, my girl, my Harriet ... Marry me? Please? I can’t stand this ... not ever again, Harriet. I must have you close. You don’t know how I feared for you. You must never leave my sight again. Harriet?”
Harriet turned up her face, looked at him. He looked at her. Then the two were reaching, clutching, their lips meeting in something very close to desperation. Frederick’s arms moved, his hands molding her into him as if he wished right then to make the two of them one flesh. Slowly the desperation turned to a gentler passion and then, slowly to love and affection. Finally, he lifted his face to look deep into her eyes. “Marry me?”
Harriet’s head cleared enough to look around. She blushed as she found Françoise cuddled next to Yves and smiling at her, a frowning Madame seated in regal dignity on a straight-backed chair someone had found for her, and Marie de Daunay with her mouth agape, obviously shocked nearly out of her wits by such goings on. The runner, Halford and Monsieur de Bartigues merely grinned.
“Now I’ve compromised you utterly, and you must marry me,” Sir Frederick whispered dramatically into one dust covered ear. Gently he brushed a cobweb from Harriet’s hair.
“Utterly compromised?” she returned, smiling mistily.
“Well, not quite, but it can be arranged if you wish it,” he answered. “I would prefer an outrageously extravagant wedding at Saint George’s, Hanover Square.”
Tears of happiness glistened in Harriet’s eyes. Somehow during her adventure, all her fears for their future had vanished. Now, in his arms, all was right with her world. “How amazingly conventional of you,” she teased.
“But how publicly I would proclaim to the world that, in the hands of the right woman, even the boldest of rakes may be reformed!”
“I think, Sir Frederick,” interrupted Madame, “that, given your current behavior, reformed may not be quite the correct word. You will unhand my servant at once—” Sir Frederick glowered, holding Harriet closer. “—until I myself may see to the immediate arrangement of a wedding.” Sir Frederick raised a brow, but Madame hadn’t finished. “Disgraceful, Harriet,” she scolded, her twinkling eyes contradicting her tone. “How could you lend yourself to such terrible impropriety in front of Françoise? My granddaughter, as well you know, has far too many rash notions in her head as it is. She is not in need of further instruction in improper behavior!” Françoise, flirting up at Yves, confirmed she did, indeed, have rash notions of her own. There was a distinctly speculative look in her eye, one returned by the young Frenchman holding her so comfortingly close.
Madame, observing this, modified her plan. There will be, she instantly decided, two weddings to celebrate—and then, with Françoise married and the comte at long last no more danger to anyone, she could retire to her beloved home on the banks of Lake Como and live out the rest of her life in splendid peace and quiet. Madame eyed Harriet and decided she’d have only one regret: she’d be unable to take the young English woman home with her.
Where, after all, wondered Madame la Comtesse, could she find another companion with a knowledge of English cant!
Dear Re
ader,
So! Sir Frederick turned out to be less of a villain than might have been expected when one finished Lady Jo’s story, The Widow And The Rake (Zebra, November, 1993 [ISBN, 0-8217-4382-1])!
My next book will be a Christmas Regency, available in November 1994: Ernestine Matthewson is sent to Portugal, charged with convincing her widowed sister to return to her father’s house in England, where she belongs. But Ernie’s older sister, Lenore Lockwood, insists that her missing-in-action, believed-dead husband still lives. Ernie is appalled to discover how the denial of grief has affected Lenore. She vows that she’ll never chance such misery by marrying a soldier—a vow which makes falling in love with Colonel Lord Summerton a serious error!
Happy reading!
Jeanne Savery
P.S. Letters sent to Jeanne Savery, P.O. Box 1771, Rochester, MI 48308 will reach me. I would enjoy hearing from my readers; if you wish a response, please enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope!
A Reformed Rake Page 30
