A Reformed Rake (23 page)

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 she 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.

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.

“Such 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?”