A Reformed Rake (7 page)

Knowing all that didn’t help when she saw his height, a well-developed form enhanced by excellent tailoring and then there was that drift of premature white at his temples, frosting the blue black of his hair. But, why, when she’d known he was a rake ... Or perhaps, in her immaturity, that very danger had been...?

Harriet’s eyes opened, but she didn’t see the room in which she sat as she compared, mentally, the man she’d met in the wilds of Switzerland with the one she’d not been able to ignore eight years earlier. More white at the temples, of course. But the same healthy bronze to his skin, the same intelligence in those dark eyes. Or was it the same? Intelligence shined from his face, yes, but not the boredom or the arrogance. Nor did he seem to hold one at a distance as he’d done in the past.

Nor, she thought, a smile twitching at her mouth, was he totally preoccupied with another woman as had been the case at that London ball...

“Miss, er, Cole?” The hard featured matron, her hostess for the evening, had swept up to where the eighteen-year-old Harriet sat. Harriet, as usual, had been bored nearly to tears by the ball going on around her, a wallflower sitting amongst the chaperons and other unlucky young maidens who, for one reason or another, had not
taken.

Her hostess had a distracted Sir Frederick in tow and made the introduction. He bowed over the hand Harriet hesitantly presented. She saw that his eyes were directed elsewhere, however. “Your servant,” he said and asked, as forced to do by convention. “May I have the honor of this dance?” He still hadn’t truly looked at her.

Harriet hadn’t known what to do. She’d been warned to have nothing to do with Sir Frederick, but wouldn’t it be wrong to refuse when her hostess had made the presentation? She glanced at her stony-visaged chaperon who glared at their hostess, but that well-padded matron was oblivious to everyone and everything but her duty to see that all the young ladies had partners.

“Excellent. Very good,” muttered the hostess, already searching for other prey to introduce elsewhere. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Still hesitating, Harriet rose to her feet. She almost laughed, biting her lip hard to repress it, when Sir Frederick found himself facing a young woman only a few inches shorter than himself. He blinked, offered his arm and they joined a set—not the set nearest where Harriet had sat, but one farther down the room. Even so, as soon became apparent, it was not the set Sir Frederick had wished to join. The faint scowl he’d worn deepened as he stared at a couple in the set beyond theirs.

Harriet sighed. It would obviously be another miserable half-hour. She stood waiting for the music to begin, not quite knowing what to do with her hands. Sir Frederick was no help. He stared beyond her shoulder to where brittle laughter assaulted Harriet’s ears. But conversation was expected—or so it had been drilled into Harriet. She cleared her throat. “The weather has been unusually mild this winter, would you not agree?” she asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.”

“But spring seems delayed. I look forward to the flowers in the park.”

“As you say, Miss, er, Collins?” He glanced at her, his gaze resting just below her chin, which startled him. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

Harriet lowered her lids, seemingly demure, but really to hide a twinkle. Poor man. He so obviously wished to be elsewhere. But conversation. What could possibly interest the man? “What do you hear concerning the war in the Peninsula, Sir Frederick?”

“War?” Again his eyes flicked, impatiently, toward her; again they lifted to meet hers.

It was, she thought, quite horrid to be so tall. “Perhaps you would prefer to discuss horseflesh?” she suggested. “Or hunting? Do you hunt, Sir Frederick?”

“No.” This time he didn’t pretend to attend her.

Oh yes you do,
she’d thought, half scornful, half amused.
But not the poor fox or other creatures of the wild. And at the moment your prey seems quite happy with another. I hope she’s wise and avoids you altogether.
Similar contemptuous thoughts flittered through her mind as she waited.

The music struck up and, her mind on Sir Frederick, Harriet didn’t notice she moved with more grace than usual until the movement of the dance separated them and her new partner complimented her on her dancing. She blinked, chuckled, and decided she had discovered the secret of poise: one forgot oneself. When they met again, the forms bringing original partners back together, Harriet ventured another bit of conversation. “Do you think the king will be well enough to open Parliament this year, Sir Frederick? Or will there finally have to be a regency?”

“What?” He frowned, obviously straining to hear what his quarry in the next set said to her partner. A remnant of good manners brought his attention to his own partner. “I’m sorry, Miss, er, Collwood? I didn’t catch what you said?”

“ ’Twas nothing, Sir Frederick.” They swept apart.

When they met again Harriet suggested the moon might rise in the west for a change. Sir Frederick agreed. She thought the steam engine might replace sail upon the sea. Even this ridiculous suggestion brought nothing but preoccupied agreement. The dance ended—and the sport. For once Harriet found herself irritated a set was over.

She allowed Sir Frederick to guide her back to her seat. He bowed over her hand muttering politenesses far too quickly and rose, his eyes meeting hers for the last time. She made no effort to hide her disgust or her scorn, and he blinked, stared at her for a moment. “It’s been delightful, Miss, er...” he began, and realized for the first time that he didn’t know her name. His brows rose when she chuckled. “Er, I’m sure we’ll meet again,” he said. Sir Frederick then moved away but looked back once, a perplexed expression drawing his brows together. He was unused to a young lady treating him so cavalierly and—but only for a moment—he wondered at it.

So, thought Harriet, she’d made an impression on him. But obviously, he’d put her quickly from his mind and moved on to the circle surrounding the
ton’s
latest beauty. When the ball ended and she returned to her temporary home on Curzon Street, Harriet was unable to sleep. She sat at her desk and drew out writing materials, mending a pen before setting ink to paper:

Dear Papa,

Poor Mama will be so disappointed in her only daughter. I do not take. Ah, the horror of it, the disgrace, the tittle and the tattle as I walk in the park or am announced at a ball. The fear I have that my family will disown me! Oh, Papa, will you, truly, be disappointed if I return to you unwed?

Tonight was the latest of the society functions to which my revered chaperon has begged or borrowed or, for all I know, stolen an invitation. It was, as usual, a very boring evening—except for one incident, which I will relate in detail in a moment. Father, I have reached a decision. I will no longer pretend to be other than I am, despite my chaperon’s horror at my normal demeanor. I will enjoy myself in my own way, no longer caring how my behavior reflects upon the poor lady responsible for me. I will, for instance, urge her to get tickets for musical performances and the theater, which is good, when I can hear the actors—which is rarely! We will attend the lectures I enjoy so much and go to exhibits. Please say you will forgive me. Please allow me to return as soon as possible to the happy home from which I was thrust. Please, please, arrange my passage back to you and Mother!

Now let me tell you what happened. I am completely disillusioned, dear Papa, in the set of humanity designated
rake.
It is a hum. It is a bug-a-bear to scare young demoiselles, a story for children! Why the most notorious rake in London is nothing but a court-card...

Court-card? Harriet returned to the present, the word jarring her mind from the impassioned letter she’d written that long ago night. She stared blindly around the bedroom in the old inn in Calais. Never in his life, she thought, had Sir Frederick Carrington acted the mincing prattling court-card!

But, however that might be, dear Papa
had
arranged for her to return to Lisbon and, once there, she’d spent hours with her pen writing and polishing her “memoirs.” That writing, she thought, her eyes narrowing, had been a ridiculous collection of satires, setting far too many well-known
tonish
figures to ridicule. What had she done with it? She turned her head to where a highly polished wooden chest sat on a table and thought, drowsily, about unlocking it and searching it.

She hadn’t thought of those manuscript pages for years. If they still existed amongst the papers she toted wherever she went, they should be destroyed before, somehow, they chanced to fall into the wrong hands. She had not been kind to society in that writing. Perhaps, in her disillusionment and because she’d resented her lack of success, she’d been cruel in order to restore her own self-esteem? Yes, she thought and yawned, she really must look to see if those pages existed and, if they did, burn them. Another yawn and her head nodded. Snuggling into the corner of the high back of the chair, Harriet fell asleep.

Not half an hour later, a key turned softly in the door. A tall figure slipped into the room. The man moved on stealthy feet toward the fire and paused, staring pensively at the peacefully sleeping woman.

Four

Frederick ran his finger across the thin, black, stage-villain’s moustache he’d affected when he’d first realized he’d a reputation as a rake. He’d originally grown it while in the mood of thumbing his nose at society; now it was so much a part of him, he’d very likely not recognize himself if it were shaved off.

He certainly didn’t think of it as he wondered if he should awaken Harriet. She looked tired. Even in sleep she appeared tense and unhappy. She also looked younger with that strand of softly curling hair loosened from her usually well-disciplined French roll. Such beautiful hair. Such a strong young woman. He’d wondered about her, how she felt, what she was doing, on numerous occasions during their stay in Paris.

Then, when he’d gone out looking for feminine distraction, he could find none among the demimondaine who appealed to his senses. Now, quite suddenly, he understood why. None of them had pale blond hair. None of them were tall and slim and capable of calmly shooting at a villain attempting to ruin a girl in her charge. That Harriet had missed the villain and nicked the horse didn’t bother Sir Frederick. Dueling pistols were notoriously badly made and a wise man tested his, knew their every quirk. During their stay in the Swiss chateau, he’d enjoyed teaching her to handle the set which had belonged to her father.

But that was weeks ago, and the adventure still not finished. Before he could pursue his sudden impulsive decision concerning Miss Cole’s future, they must once again outwit the enemy. Carefully, gently, Frederick lay his hand over her mouth and stared into the grey eyes blinking open, widening. He put a finger across his lips, urging her to silence and, when she nodded, released her, seating himself in the chair opposite. He was bemused by the willpower required to move away from her.

“I’m aware it is common practice for you to invade a woman’s bedchamber, Sir Frederick,” she said keeping her voice low, but nevertheless scathing. “It is not, however, something with which I’ve had experience. Is there an etiquette of which I should be made aware?”

He smiled at her ice-coated question. “If I were here for the reasons you impute to me, I would gladly teach it to you. Since I’ve come to thicken the plot for your escape to England and for that only I must deny myself the pleasure. I believe,” he teased, his eyes running down her figure, barely hidden by her dishabille, “that I’d enjoy teaching you—”

“Enough!” Harriet blushed. “I well know I’m not the sort you prefer to, er, tutor, Sir Frederick.”

Piqued and repiqued! Frederick grinned appreciatively. She was obviously one who woke instantly and completely. Frederick tucked the knowledge away—as he hoarded every tiny clue to who and what she was.

After a moment in which she struggled to regain her dignity, Harriet asked, “In what way may I aid in our escape?”

“You may hold the tickets for your party’s embarkation this evening.”

Frederick dug the slim bundle from an inside pocket. It was necessary to open his jacket wide to do so, which gave Harriet, if he’d thought of it, a view of a strong broad chest covered by no more than the finest of white shirting. His low-cut silk vest was shaped to his body and didn’t interfere with her impromptu study. The sight sent shivers through her, which she controlled with great effort in the short time available while he rebuttoned his coat.

“You purchased them for us?” she asked, needing to say something, anything.

“Yes. On Madame’s orders. Yves and I bought them when we went for our own. We believe we’ve left a misleading trail for the comte. With luck he’ll believe you and the others intend to transfer from this hotel to another. You
will
leave here, but will go straight to the quay where the captain will expect you to arrive at the last possible moment. He’ll leave port the instant you and your luggage are aboard.”

“You’ve talked to the captain?”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“He will cooperate?”

Frederick remembered his first crossing of the Channel nearly a year earlier on this same packet when he’d made an effort to meet the captain. He’d spent a fascinating crossing talking to the greying man, hearing of adventures in the Royal Navy. Later Frederick had listened while the captain complained about the boring but responsible job of crossing and recrossing the Channel. Boring, yes, but the man had collected some hilarious tales about his passengers and had passed those on, too. The man would remember him and would cooperate. Frederick said, “I know the captain. I’ll tell him enough of the story to gain his assistance. That is not the problem. The hardest part, Miss Cole, will be leaving you behind and boarding early. I must, you see, trust you to arrange things so that you reach the quay at exactly the right moment.”

“You do not like leaving control in another’s hands, do you Sir Frederick?”

“Not when I deem it important nothing go wrong.”

He stood and Harriet rose as well. She pulled her robe around her slim form and, for the first time, remembered how she was dressed. Her cheeks warmed in embarrassment. Frederick tucked the loosened strand of hair back behind her ear. His touch left a trail of heat behind.

“You must go,” she whispered, her voice tight.

“Yes. It is highly improper for me to be here, but I cannot leave quite yet. Cob is to give us ten minutes and then, when the time is up, he’ll wait until the passage is clear before tapping at the door. If you do not trust me, you may join the others in the next bedroom.” Sir Frederick hoped the signal would come soon. He wasn’t entirely certain he trusted himself!

Given the opportunity to escape, Harriet found herself, perversely, unwilling to do so. “I do not understand you.” The thought had become a litany inside her head. Once again she said it aloud.
Someday,
she thought,
I’ll learn to keep my thoughts to myself.

“You have a distorted view of me, gained I know not where. I’d like to change that once we’ve reached safety, Miss Cole.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Why?” What reason would she accept? “Not long ago I discovered that a woman can be a man’s friend. It was a strange and wondrous revelation which has had months to take root and grow. I find I like the notion. I would like to be your friend, Miss Cole.”

She shook her head. “The ultimate rake? The most dangerous man in England for womankind wishes a woman for a
friend
?”

“Yes. I am not such a dangerous man, Miss Cole.”

“You have been our friend, more than once, now. I can make sense of it only if I believe you to have designs on Frani.”

“But I do not. She is a delightful chit, open and trusting, much like a kitten. But she doesn’t interest me in the way you wish to believe.” A sharp rap at the door said time was up. Wishing it were not so, Frederick made a movement of dismissal. He sighed as he accepted he must go. “We will continue this conversation another time, Miss Cole. Eventually, perhaps, you
will
understand me.”

“I think I wish to do so—I don’t know why.” The impulsive denial of comprehension brought more color into her pale cheeks.

You don’t know why, my love? Oh, but I think you do!
Even with that thought ringing in his head, Frederick managed to speak calmly. “Then, with any luck at all, we’ll eventually reach an understanding. I’ll next see you aboard the packet, Miss Cole.”

If all goes well,
they each added in the privacy of their thoughts.

Frederick slipped through the door and disappeared. Behind him the tall grey-eyed woman, her mind confused and heart rapidly beating, lifted her fingers and touched her cheek where he had briefly stroked her skin.

Oh no,
thought Harriet.
You’re not dangerous. No, not at all. Of course not!

She glared at the closed door. That man was a danger to even so staid and proper a lady as she’d become. In which case he was still more a danger to the young woman she had in her care.
Learn
to understand Sir Frederick Carrington? She understood quite enough, thank you, and would, in future, avoid him to whatever degree she could manage.

Or she would if she could rid herself of this idiotic compulsion consuming her. It
was
idiotic, the fact she wished to get to know his history, his thoughts and beliefs!

Harriet stared down at the tickets clutched in her hand. She counted them, found there were enough for their entire party. Madame, of course, had given him the number.

Whatever chaos ruled her heart, there was still their escape to plan. Harriet stalked to the connecting door, pulling the tie to her robe tighter. As she reached for the latch, she stopped. Madame, at least, would raise eyebrows that she’d received Sir Frederick while dressed thusly—not that he’d given her any choice in the matter, but Madame couldn’t know that.

Wondering where her wits had gone, Harriet dressed quickly. Once her hair was smoothed and tightly pinned back, when her neat grey dress rustled around shod feet, and, last but not least, after she’d recreated the poise which was usually so much a part of her
—then
she went into the connecting room, ready to organize her troops.

“Well, Cob, you’re looking much more cheerful.”

“We be going home, m’lad.”

Frederick turned toward the low window looking out over the noisy hotel yard. “Yes. You’ll be glad to return, will you not?”

“Well now,
that’s
the truth and all.” Cob folded another shirt and laid it in the portmanteau, which he filled quickly and neatly. For all the valet looked an ex-bruiser, which he was, he had a deft way with packing and a gentle touch with a razor—on those occasions when Frederick didn’t insist on shaving himself.

More than twenty years ago Robert Strong, called Cob for reasons no one but himself might know, had won Sir Frederick’s father a packet. He’d beaten his opponent to a bloody pulp in a makeshift ring well hidden from the eyes of disapproving authority, and he hadn’t come off unscathed himself.

The old baronet had asked the young man how he might reward him. Cob, hurting badly from two cracked ribs and a ringing head, told the baronet he’d like a change of occupation.

“And what might you be thinking would suit you, lad?” had asked Frederick’s father.

“Well, sir, I’d ambitions to be a valet before I got talked into fighting.”

“Valet?
Valet
?” The tall dark-haired man with wide white wings of hair drifting back from his temples threw back his head and laughed. “Well, and so it shall be,” he said when he’d stopped. He’d taken Cob home, introduced him to his sixteen-year-old son and told Cob to take care of the boy.

It was, mused Cob, one of the few good things the wicked old baronet had ever done. He and young Frederick had hit it off. And they’d been together ever since. He’d gone up to Cambridge with his charge, dragging the lad out of one sort of high jinks after another. And he’d seen the young man turn bitter after a petticoat affair when he’d just turned nineteen. Not that Sir Fred had a very high opinion of women before that contretemps, thought Cob—and with reason when one considered his willful selfish grandmother and cold, self-centered mother—but that experience had soured the lad, changed him into something close to a true woman-hater.

Then there’d been the danger they’d endured during the war—which had been both a good time and a bad. It had certainly been hard keeping his tongue between his teeth when, drinking with his colleagues, they’d sneered at Frederick’s self-proclaimed cowardliness!

More recently, there’d been that frisky miss who had, Cob believed, touched Frederick’s heart. That minx had almost got him, thought Cob, and wondered what had gone wrong. Something had. That slyboots, Chester, Frederick’s young tiger, had gone around smirking for weeks before Sir Frederick left England so precipitously. During those months preceding their flight, Frederick had swung wildly from mood to mood—until, early one morning, that dreadful message arrived from Dover that Cob was to pack for an extended tour of the Continent, that they were off to Paris.

Ol’ slyboots had had to find himself a new job, thought Cob, which was the only satisfaction he’d gotten from the move.

So. Now they were going home. Cob glanced to where his master still stared out the window. The mood had changed again, but Cob couldn’t yet tell if it were for the better—although, how could it not be? Inheriting all that money from that old bat in Florence had surprised Frederick more than anyone.

Cob recalled the day he’d followed his master to the cemetery where she’d been interred. Cob had waited for nearly an hour as Frederick stood before the ornate tomb complete with marble cherubs and laurel leaf swags. Frederick had stared at it, his body rigid with an emotion Cob had been unable to read.

But the money. The money would come in handy—if Sir Fred didn’t lose it at tables or turf. There had never been enough money—although Frederick had always managed, one way or another, to have the best. What plans had his master laid now that he was rich? He’d mentioned they’d return first to London where he must consult with his man of business—likely to see to the mortgages, thought Cob—and then they’d go on to the old estate where they’d stay awhile, Sir Fred had said.

But that decision was made before Sir Fred had his first run-in with the evil Frenchy, before he’d taken on responsibility for Madame’s party. Cob sniffed. The young one was just such a one as Frederick had run after in his search for revenge on fickle petticoats. Was he after this one?