A Reformed Rake (6 page)

She chuckled, a chuckle which turned into a cough. When the spasm passed, she looked still more exhausted. “You are, behind that sardonic mask you wear so well, a good man, are you not, Sir Frederick,” she suggested.

“I doubt it,” he responded. His casual denial of humanity was spoiled when he added, “You must rest, Madame. We will speak when you are less tired.”

“Yes. On the packet. Or when we reach Dover.”

“You are determined to sail today?”

“The sooner we leave French soil, the sooner my granddaughter will be safe.”

Frederick didn’t attempt to argue with the determination he read in her words and expression—although it was his belief the comte wouldn’t let the English Channel interfere in his pursuit. “Monsieur de Bartigues and I will see to tickets for the packet, Madame.” Frederick rose and bowed, feeling great admiration for the proud old woman who would endanger her life to protect her grandchild. “Might I suggest that you pretend you are removing to another inn, not trusting the landlord at this one, but that you will wait elsewhere for a better crossing? That way, perhaps, if it is well-timed, you can be on the packet and away before the comte realizes you have escaped?”

“An excellent notion, Sir Frederick. You are not only a good man, you are a wise one as well.”

Ignoring her compliment he said, “I’ll reserve staterooms for your party.” He bowed again and let in the maid who stood guard at the door to Madame’s room. Speaking to her in soft French, he said, “Take care of your mistress. She is tired and not well.” The maid lifted her demurely lowered head, the look in her eyes scathing. He smiled. “I apologize. You know better than I her condition, but I cannot help worrying about her.” There was a slight softening in the hard features under the tight braid forming a high crown on the woman’s head. The maid nodded, and passed on to go to Madame. Frederick went to find Yves.

After a brief conference the two strolled down to the main taproom. They studied the men lounging there. Choosing one they believed they’d seen in the comte’s train, they took seats nearby. “I could not convince her to leave on today’s packet, Yves. And truly, she is too unwell to attempt it. But she will remove with Miss Cole and Mademoiselle to another inn. I wonder if we, too, should stay.”

“Her servants are warned. They will not be tricked again, I think.”

“I am needed at home. We delayed in Paris too long for added delay now.”

“Yes.” Yves scowled at his friend. “That express you received indicated speed was of the essence, but you
would
wait for the last of your order from the tailor there.”

Sir Frederick chuckled at his friend’s accusing tone. Yves must have taken part in amateur theatricals at some time in his young life, that he was able to deliver the falsehood with such believable vehemence! “I was much in need,” he said, his voice caressing, “of a new wardrobe. And it had been a very long time since I could afford one. Do you blame me, Yves?”

“Yes,” was the blunt response. Again the younger man took on a scolding tone. “If
I
had received such a summons...”

Sir Frederick, fearing Yves would over-do his play-acting, interrupted. “Madame and her charges are safe, I think, and I only promised that we’d see them to Calais. We will, as planned, leave for Dover on the evening packet.”

The two men finished their wine and strolled out into the bright day, the whipping clouds not yet thick enough to obscure the sun. Passage would be quick, the winds blowing, for once, in the right direction. Assuming, of course, that, fickle as such winds were, they continued to blow toward England. It would not, however, be an easy passage. Great swells rolled in, splashing up over the quay and wetting anyone unwary enough to get too near.

“That went well, I think,” said Yves, noting that the suspected man followed and was watching as they walked toward the packet office. “Will he come in and actually check that we take passage?”

“I think not. Especially if we hold tickets in our hand as we leave, only putting them away as we return to the inn. I will hide the tickets for Madame’s party and be very careful I’m not seen delivering them.”

“It’s as good a plan as we’ve time for,” said Yves with a shrug. “Once aboard we may relax for a time.”

“How wrong you are, Yves! We must watch ourselves while at sea. The comte will very likely send along a well-paid cutthroat to push us overboard if the chance arises.”

“That,” said a wide-eyed Yves, “would not have occurred to me.”

“You haven’t the mind for such deviousness.”

“You do?”

“What do you think?”

“It always surprises me when that side of you appears, Frederick,” said the young man, his tone completely serious. “It doesn’t often, but when it does, you are always right about the evils in the human soul or the folly to be found in those we meet. Where did you learn to see so clearly and act so quickly?”

“I had need of the twists and turns of an inventive mind when I worked against Napoleon during the war.”

“That, I think, surprised me most of all,” said Yves. “I discovered the languid self-centered man you pretend to be hid a strong patriotism and the ability to play the dangerous games involved in spy and counterspy.”

Frederick flushed slightly, wishing he’d not drunk so much the night he’d told Yves tales of his war experiences. “I was thought a coward by my countrymen. Why else, it was said, would I avoid joining the army in defense of my homeland? The canard was, of course, spread deliberately by the war office. After all,” a tiny smile played around Frederick’s mouth, “who would believe a coward to be a counterspy?”

“It was never revealed, the part you played?”

“No. I didn’t wish to be whitewashed by compliments to my bravery when my original reputation was built on another sin entirely.”

“It would have stilled the gossip you were a coward and proven you a patriot.’’

“Nothing could be said while the war continued. Then the war was over. I was what I was, a gamester and a known seducer of women. Patriotism,” he added, his cynicism surfacing, as it did so often, “is only revered when a country is in danger.”

“And your sudden wealth, what will be said about that?”

“Not the truth. That I selflessly helped a destitute old woman who turned out to be a wealthy woman and that shortly thereafter her heart gave out and she’d left it all to me? No. That is a fairy tale. There will be rumors ranging from marked cards and duellos in the dim light of dawn to outright murder and mayhem.”

“I can’t believe you are indifferent to what others will think!”

“Long ago I learned the shallow twisted nature of too many of those who comprise the
ton.
I am truly indifferent to what such as they think of me.”

“Your reputation in England is so truly black?”

A self-deriding smile twisted Frederick’s mouth. “Truly black.” He turned his head, and looked out over the cloud-shadowed water toward England. “You’d best desert me now and return to Paris, my friend. At my side you will not be well-received by the English
ton
.”

“
You
are not received?”

“Oh yes,” said Sir Frederick, carelessly, “By all but the highest of sticklers. And I’m perfectly welcome in the clubs and other haunts of men. But cautious mamas hide their daughters behind their skirts and, in mixed company, husbands and fathers keep a wary eye on me. You are more in the petticoat line than I, Yves,” he teased. “Associating with me will make the most innocent pursuit difficult for you. Perhaps,” he went on thoughtfully, “I could give you an introduction or two before it is known you arrived from France in my company. My friends will see you are given the entree.”

“But I would be required to cut you in the street?” Yves scowled. “No. You know better, Frederick. I could not do it.”

“Ah well,” suggested Frederick, bored with the subject, “when you become restless, you may always return to Paris.”

“I will,” said Yves fervently, his hands moving in a very French manner, “never understand you. Never.” He entered the packet office in Frederick’s wake, shaking his head in disgust.

Harriet Cole was unknowingly echoing Yves’ words. “I do not understand him. I only met the man once during my season. But during those weeks in London I observed his behavior often. He is everything black. Truly.”

“That was,” said Madame, “eight years ago. Men may change, Harri.” The old woman lying in the big feather bed spoke firmly although her voice was weak.

“Not
that
much.”

“You can have no idea what happened to change him. The war, for instance, changed many men.”

“He played no part in the war. He bore the label coward because he took no part in it.”

“But he is not a coward,” spoke Françoise from the chair by the window. “He has, twice, come to my rescue. Me, I think that is not the behavior of a coward. You cannot say it is.”

“I
cannot
believe he is helping us with no ulterior motive. He
must
be after you, Frani, whatever he says. You must be on guard always.”

A weak chuckle from the bed turned to a body-wracking cough. When Françoise and Harriet had Madame quiet again and when, once again, she’d overruled their insistence they not leave that day for England, the old woman smiled at Harriet. “I suggested to your rake, my dear, that in order to protect Françoise from taint of his reputation, he pretend to be after you. He refused and was angry I’d suggest such a thing. Very angry. It was a test, you see. He passed it.”

“Oh, no, he did not. I am not the sort he favors. Frani
is.
If he pretended to be angry, it was to fool you, Madame.”

Wise old eyes stared up into Harriet’s and Harriet felt an inner confusion. Why was she so vehement? Did she give away those hidden and forbidden longings and desires which had touched her young heart during her aborted London season? And why had she been so foolish, then, to feel such yearnings for a heartless rake who couldn’t even remember her name for the duration of a dance? Did Madame guess those idiotic emotions had been rekindled all over again during those lazy days in Switzerland—that they had grown stronger while in Paris?

Wishing to avoid Madame’s perceptive gaze, Harriet said, “I’m tired. I did not sleep well last night. If we are to leave on the evening packet, I will nap now. If you’ll excuse me?” She looked at Madame who smiled at her and nodded. She glanced at Françoise who picked up her book and sat down with it near the window.

“Frani,” said Harriet, “you’ll not leave your grandmother, will you?”

“I’ll be good. I do not
wish
to be kidnapped by Henri de Vauton-Cheviot.”

“Excellent. Call me if I’m needed.” Harriet opened the door connecting with the second bedroom and pulled it wide. Before entering, she looked around carefully to see that no one was there. She had, she thought, learned caution too late, given it was from this room she and Françoise had been taken the preceding evening; but she had, she hoped, learned the lesson now. Harriet removed her dress and pulled a robe around her slim form. She sat before the fire Madame ordered, as always, to be lit in their rooms.

Staring into the flames, Harriet’s mind wandering back over the years to the season she’d not wanted, but which had been thrust upon her by loving parents. There had been sad farewells at the Lisbon dock, the captain hovering in the background anxious to set sail. How unhappy she’d been when she’d left Portugal for London, the captain’s wife her chaperon until she reached that mecca for the marriage minded. Tall—too tall—and occasionally awkward with the extra inches she’d not quite learned to handle, Harriet had felt out of place, had sensed the disappointment in the distant relative hired to present her to the
ton.

Not surprising, thought Harriet bitterly, that the poor creature should feel disappointment. The fashion had been for petite blonds and although Harriet’s hair qualified, there was, in certain lights, a hint of despised red tinging it, an odd and unsuitable color. Nor was she petite by anyone’s definition!

They’d been a penance, those weeks in London. She’d hated nearly every moment of it, her awkwardness increased by the insistence she rid herself of the odd sophistication she’d gained by being reared in foreign diplomatic circles. Although it was an education-based sophistication, her mentor swore it would be misinterpreted in one so young: Harriet would be labeled as coming, as far too forward, and perhaps worse. Horror of horrors, she might find herself labeled
fast.

Those despised inches had made Harriet taller than too many of the young men introduced to her. Besides, she’d scorned most of them as wastrels and fops. There’d been a very few men, older men, she’d admired, but she’d had no way of bringing herself to their attention. She had no title. She had no friends among the highest in the land. The daughter of a diplomat, a fifth son who’d had to make his own way in the world, there wasn’t even the lure of money to bring those men her way.

Harriet’s eyes closed tightly, trying to banish memories of the ball where she’d been formally introduced to Sir Frederick. She’d seen him early in her stay while walking with her chaperon in the park. He’d ridden a magnificent stallion, one Harriet would have died to own, an animal she later learned he’d won in a wager. She’d been warned, of course. The baronet was dangerous and must be avoided and, besides, he lived from win to win, his estate badly depleted and heavily mortgaged. He was not eligible.