The Curious Rogue

by Joan Vincent

  “Listen, Barney,” he commanded through his tears, “ye go with miss here. Guard her till I get back. Get now.” He rose and scuffed his foot at the dog.

  Reluctantly Barney yielded to Elizabeth’s tugs and followed. She did not halt till she had him safely in her room. “I must go down for breakfast now. When I return, we shall go for a nice long walk,” she told the dog patting his woolly head. With a prayer that the beast would not do too much damage, she left him.

  Returning a half hour later, breakfast having been bolted down, Elizabeth was overwhelmingly relieved to find Barney lying quietly by the fireplace. “Good boy,” she congratulated him. “Now for our walk.”

  Heaven knows the Comte de Cavilon will not be about at this early hour, she thought as they made their way down the stairs, but I wish not to delay. I shall await him... if he comes at all.

  Niles opened the door for the pair without showing a hint of surprise. But when he closed the door, he murmured, “Heaven preserve us.”

  Barney strained towards the stables, but he followed Elizabeth’s tugs. The dog trotted willingly at her side when they reached the woods. Arriving at the place she had named for their meeting, she gasped.

  Cavilon awaited her.

  “My lord, ‘tis so early,” Elizabeth stammered uncertainly.

  “Your note, ma petite, said the matter was most urgent. I knew you would come early. It would have been most ungentlemanly to have kept you waiting. Knowing your thoroughness, I concluded the hour would be sunrise. You disappoint me.” The comte sauntered forward slowly, halting but a step from her.

  “You can’t mean you... you were not—” Elizabeth stuttered, then read the tease in his eyes and sighed with relief.

  “Did you feel in danger that you must bring this?” Cavilon waved languidly at Barney.

  “Oh, no.” She blushed at his implication. “He is the reason I wrote. Well, not really. It is his master,” she stumbled over her words, disconcerted by his nearness.

  “Tom is being taken back to London,” she hurried on. “He ran away from his master, a cruel chimney-sweep master. I fear the man will... I fear for Tom.” She met his gaze.

  “You wish me to do something about this?” Cavilon took hold of her free hand.

  “Couldn’t you... Couldn’t you pay Mr. Bickle to release Tom?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly. His deep stare looked into her very soul.

  “And what would I be given for doing this?” he asked, then immediately placed a finger on her lips. “We shall speak of that another time. Do not fear. The lad shall be saved.” Cavilon leaned forward as he spoke. His lips softly claimed hers.

  “It shall be done for you, ma chère petite.”He stepped back and bowed with a flourish.

  Barney tugged at the rope, forcing Elizabeth to look away. When she turned back, Cavilon was gone. A mist of confusion swirled through her.

  Tom was saved, but what of her?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The afternoon of the Chatworths’ festivities proved splendidly un-English. Warm sunshine and a soft breeze dispelled the mist and any hint of clouds long before the guests arrived.

  Mrs. Chatworth beamed proudly as she watched the assembled party walking ahead of her in the large formal garden, which was her pride.

  The low, neatly trimmed hedges, planted in geometric patterns, gave mute testimony to the neatness of the English spirit. The gay flowering centres bespoke the lustiness of the English nature.

  Never had her gardens been so flourishing or her guests so elegant, she thought, her gaze resting upon Comte de Cavilon and her daughter Suzanne.

  Seeing that the gentlemen were becoming restless, Mrs. Chatworth directed the party to the broad green lawns beyond the gardens. Tables and chairs had been arranged in the shade of huge oaks and a plentiful supply of food and drink awaited the party.

  The group moved slowly, separating. The younger members took to the game of bowls which had been set up in one area or to a game similar to croquet in another. The older gentlemen happily sat down to a game of whist, while the ladies ensured proper chaperoning of the young people.

  Elizabeth’s trepidation at facing Cavilon after their encounter in the woods slowly dispelled. He was equally attentive to all the ladies. She was further relieved to find her uncle willing to abide the comte’s presence. Evading Lord Fromby’s grimly determined pursuit, she saw Suzanne’s frequent smile and knew who was responsible for his unwanted attention.

  There being no polite way to elude the man, Elizabeth endeavoured to make the best of the day. She consented to a game of croquet during which she tried to observe Cavilon and Suzanne without appearing obvious. She did not know whether to be chagrined or relieved that the comte had dropped his intimate manner and was coolly polite to her. Seeing Suzanne lay a hand on Cavilon’s arm and laugh at some comment he made, she tapped her ball without checking the direction.

  “Miss Jeffries,” Lord Fromby called her to task. “Where are you going? The hoop is in this direction. You shall never progress if you do not pay attention,” he complained. “I prefer a close game.”

  “I am sorry, my lord. I shall try to do better,” Elizabeth said sweetly as she walked to her ball. Determinedly making up the lost distance, she soon placed her ball near Fromby’s. Snapping the mallet sharply to her ball, she sent it roqueting against Fromby’s. “Is that better, my lord?” she asked, her mallet still poised above her head.

  “Yes, yes,” Fromby grumbled, wondering why he had ever let Miss Chatworth wheedle him into promising to flatter Miss Jeffries. He had disliked attending the day party, his distaste for such pleasures had long since ruled out simple country affairs, and now sought relief for his boredom. Glancing about, his eye lit upon Comte de Cavilon.

  “I say, Miss Jeffries, why do we not put our mallets up and watch those playing bowls. My lord Cavilon’s style should be excessively entertaining.”

  Elizabeth frowned at his tone but she permitted him to lead her to Mrs. Chatworth, who watched the game with interest.

  “Your daughter is excessively pretty,” Fromby noted archly, admiring Suzanne’s neat waist and flushed cheeks. “What a shame,” he mused.

  Their hostess turned questioningly to him. “Yes, my lord?”

  “It is only that your daughter appears partial to my lord Cavilon,” Frombv raised his voice slightly, “we all know that will lead to naught. The comte has never shown interest in any but his own petticoats.”

  Mrs. Chatworth and the women near Fromby gasped at his words. Elizabeth looked to Cavilon and was disappointed to see him pointedly ignoring the words.

  “Surely you would like some refreshment, my lord,” Lady Chatworth suggested, trying to draw the man towards the tables.

  “We must even be amazed his lordship consented to such a demanding form of entertainment,” Fromby continued, refusing to move. “One wonders if...”

  “My lord Fromby,” Elizabeth interrupted him, her colour high not only because of her anger at his words but also for the comte’s indifference to them. “Your manners are wanting.”

  Visions of her day party becoming a shambles spurred Mrs. Chatworth into action. “Elizabeth, I just remembered that Lady Madeline asked for a glass of lemonade. Would you please fetch it for her?

  “Lord Fromby, you were speaking...”

  He waved her words aside. Miss Jeffries, do I understand that you wish to defend my lord Cavilon?” He turned to those standing about. “I suppose it is only proper he be defended by a female,” Fromby sneered. “It is just as proper if you were to champion that notorious brigand Martin,” he continued sarcastically. “But perhaps that cause would be more worthwhile. The man may be a high-handed rogue and a blackguard, but at least he is a man.”

  “If you speak so highly of him, my lord, I could not but admire him,” Elizabeth returned hotly. Her checks burned beneath the embarrassed glances of those about them.

  Fromby was not to be put aside. “If you had encountered him as I have, you would not
speak so snappily.” He raised his head haughtily. “While I defended the shores of our dear homeland and successfully captured a vessel laden with contraband, he and his men attacked my ship.

  “Why, the man has only one name,” he sneered. “I imagine his mother could not pick out the father,” Fromby snorted, enjoying his crude jest. “This bastard had the audacity to attack us and threw everyone into the sea. Then he stole away. But I recovered all,” his lordship finished smugly.

  “La, Fromby, you are brave, n’est-ce pas?” Cavilon eyed the man disdainfully. “To think I was told that only you were thrown overboard and that your men were so glad to be rid of you that they assisted this Martin. But then,” he fluttered his lace, “one should never listen to a gabblemonger... should one?”

  Fromby failed to catch the comte’s point. “They shall not speak so when the rogue is captured. Just barely two months past that was almost achieved. Landing on the Dover coast, I pursued him to Folkestone. It was only the soldiers’ ineptness that permitted him to slip through my grasp. No doubt he was aided by someone of your persuasion.” He turned a condemning eye on Elizabeth.

  The name of Folkestone and the time mentioned brought a vivid memory to her. “What does this man look like?” she asked weakly.

  “He is a dark devil, a tall man. But for all his size,” Fromby snorted, “he has not dared show himself since that night. If they had allowed me to command, he would not now be free,” he bragged.

  “Come, Mrs. Chatworth.” Fromby offered his arm to his hostess. “I believe I would like a glass of sherry.”

  Suzanne joined Elizabeth as the others walked away. “Are you quite all right? You look as if a spirit appeared before you,” she attempted to joke lightly, but failed.

  “Do you remember,” Elizabeth said lowly, “in March, the man who forced his way into my coach? It must have been this Martin.”

  “Then you must be fortunate indeed if Lord Fromby’s words are to be believed,” Cavilon’s nasal drawl announced. “But I cannot wonder that this Monsieur Martin is a very dauntless fellow to have dared his lordship and you in one eve,” he teased.

  Some colour returned as Elizabeth searched the comte’s features, trying to understand his behaviour.

  “I believe you mentioned a stream, Miss Chatworth. Could we not seek out its beauty?” Cavilon suggested. His gaze flicked to Fromby and back.

  “Oh, yes. I am certain you will find it delightful,” Suzanne agreed readily. “Come with us, Elizabeth.”

  “I... I do not—”

  “Come. Father has had some of his rods placed near the stream. You know you love to fish,” the younger woman prompted.

  “Come, Miss Jeffries.” Cavilon stepped forward and offered his arm. “You must demonstrate this for me. Mayhaps you could ask Lady Waddington to join us,” he suggested to Suzanne.

  “An excellent idea.” She smiled broadly. “You two go on. We shall come at once.”

  “But Lady Madeline detests coming near water,” Elizabeth objected.

  “Then I shall ask Sir Henry or Father,” Suzanne said and hurried away.

  Cavilon nodded gravely and Elizabeth took his arm. She told him the direction of the stream as they walked along.

  After a brief silence Cavilon halted. “May I always be so ably defended,” he spoke quietly. “I thank you.”

  Blushing, Elizabeth dropped her gaze.

  “I notice that you do not have your guardian with you today,” the comte began, walking forward slowly again.

  “Guardian?” she questioned. “Oh, Barney.” She laughed, forcing her thoughts to the present. “He followed our coach, but we turned back and Uncle had him tied with a stout rope.

  “What of Tom?” Her eyes went to him eagerly.

  “The matter should be settled. The lad may he on his way back even now,” Cavilon told her as they halted before the stream. He studied her closely for a moment. “This man, Martin. Are you certain it was he whom you encountered?”

  “It matters not,” she said simply.

  “Then he did you no harm?”

  “No. He was almost... gallant,” Elizabeth answered softly, the inflection of her voice revealing much. Giving herself a shake, she eyed the comte critically.

  “Why did you let Lord Fromby speak so of you?”

  “What would you have me do? Challenge him? You forget your laws now frown on affairs of honour,” the comte told her. “Nor do I think our hostess would have approved.

  “But,” he looked away from her, “we are at the stream. Let us see if you can ply the rod as Miss Chatworth says. I do not care for the sport.”

  “A fish is hardly a dangerous adversary, my lord,” Elizabeth told him caustically. Seeing the rods, she picked one up and walked a short distance downstream. After a few adjustments, she baited the hook and cast the rod with precision.

  “Mayhaps I have misjudged the sport,” Cavilon said following her. “It does not appear difficult.”

  “There is no one preventing you from trying your hand,” she observed coldly.

  “But I must be shown how it is done,” he answered stepping very close. “If I could but put my hand upon yours as you throw it—”

  “Cast, my lord. One does not throw a line, but ‘casts’ it.” Elizabeth frowned more deeply, realizing that he again teased. Her breath was taken away as one of his hands closed firmly over hers on the pole. The other went about her waist.

  “My lord—”

  “Are you not going to cast?” he asked innocently, looking deep into her upraised eyes.

  At a deep growl Cavilon released his hold and turned ready to protective Elizabeth. The full force of Barney hit him as the dog leaped at him. Lying spread-eagled on the ground, the dog’s paws on his chest, Cavilon grinned wryly. “La, Miss Jeffries, I do believe the rope was not stout enough. I do hope the beast is not dangereux?”

  Barney lapped at Cavilon’s face. Elizabeth burst into laughter. She laid down her pole and tugged at the dog’s collar.

  “I do think he has taken a liking to you, my lord,” she managed between peals of laughter. “Now we are even,” she told him as Barney finally consented to move and the comte was able to rise.

  “But where is your coach to rescue me?” Cavilon motioned to his paw-printed pantaloons and jacket.

  Instant regret came to Elizabeth’s features. “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “It matters not,” he assured her as he brushed at the worst marks. “If it brought a smile to your lips, it cannot be but good. I regret only that it shall force me to depart.”

  “If only you could go without Lord Fromby seeing—”

  “His lordship’s words cannot harm me, ma petite. Only a man who has reason to be can be shamed.” Cavilon took her hand and kissed it.

  “Why, my lord,” Suzanne’s voice intruded, “what has happened? Isn’t that Barney?” she asked, seeing the dog at her friend’s side.

  “It is,” Elizabeth answered above Barney’s greeting.

  “I must take my leave,” Cavilon bowed. “My appearance, I fear, has suffered somewhat from our meeting.”

  Barney barked once more, then hung his head contritely.

  “What’s this?” Sir Henry asked, joining the group. “Lud, Cavilon, what’s happened to you?

  “Thought that beast was tied, Elizabeth,” he blustered. “My apologies, Cavilon.”

  A languid wave of the comte’s hand answered him. “No need, sir.”

  “What a bloody beast of a brute you have there,” Lord Fromby told Elizabeth as he sauntered up to them. “What happened, Cavilon? Trip on your lace?”

  Barney bristled and growled.

  Fromby stepped back. “Is the beast safe?”

  “Your animal has excellent taste, Miss Jeffries,” Cavilon told her loud enough for Fromby to hear.

  “What do you mean?” His lordship stepped towards the comte. “No popinjay of a dandy will insult me.”

  “Insult you, my lord? I shudder at the thought.” Cavilon�
�s kerchief fluttered to the ground. He stepped backward with feigned fright. “La, me,” he tisked, reaching to retrieve it.

  What happened next was not clear to anyone. Cavilon appeared to stumble and lurched forward and grab hold of Fromby’s jacket to right himself. The two men tripped in a circular movement, and in the end Fromby was pitched into the stream while the Cavilon mysteriously remained upright on the bank.

  Barney broke from Elizabeth’s hold and went after Fromby, yapping excitedly.

  Elizabeth managed to persuade the dog to return to her.

  Fromby, soaking wet and thoroughly outraged, climbed from the stream.

  “My lord,” Cavilon noted quietly as the enraged man moved slowly towards him, “it was a mere accident. I slipped upon my lace.”

  Suzanne and Elizabeth could no longer control themselves and burst into laughter. Even Sir Henry yielded to the ludicrous scene.

  With a fierce scowl for each, Fromby stalked away angrily.

  Lord Cavilon permitted a weary smile. “Never knew lace could be so dangerous.”

  Sir Henry clapped him on the back. “Mayhaps I erred in my judgment. Bloody well done,” he applauded.

  “Oh, I insist it was an accident,” the comte told him.

  “As you say,” Sir Henry agreed, but eyed him sternly. “There are some questions and answers we should discuss.” He motioned for Cavilon to follow him.

  The comte bowed elaborately to the two young women and excused himself.

  “I have never seen anyone like Lord Cavilon,” Suzanne told Elizabeth with an admiring sigh as they walked back to the lawns. “Do you think I shall be able to take his interest?”

  “I don’t know,” Elizabeth answered vaguely, wondering just what she herself thought of Cavilon.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cavilon returned home from the Chatworth party early in the eve. He immediately retired to his chambers on the ground floor of Tenbury’s manor house and sent for Leveque.

  “I am quite fatigued from the activities of the day,” he told the valet as he disrobed. “I wish to sleep late into the day on the morrow. See that I am not disturbed for any reason. I shall call you when I need you.” The comte waved dismissal.