The Curious Rogue

by Joan Vincent

  “Yes, my lord,” Leveque murmured, assisting his master into his dressing gown. “Good eve, my lord.”

  Cavilon sat before the fireplace and contemplated the day’s happenings. When full darkness had fallen, he stepped quietly to the door and locked it. After drawing the drapes he pulled his powdered peruke from his head and began the transformation.

  When it was complete, Cavilon stood before his mirror once again the tall, dark Martin. But he did not feel the freedom he had expected. Somehow he was not just a prisoner of Cavilon but of Martin also.

  Extinguishing the lamps, he slipped out of one of the windows. With ease Cavilon extracted a mount from the stables. In moments he was riding through the woods connecting the Tenbury and Jeffries properties.

  When Ashly came into view, he drew his mount to a halt. The temptation to enter the house and visit Elizabeth was strong, but Cavilon quelled it. He knew nothing of the house’s arrangement and had no wish to encounter Barney.

  With regret he prodded the steed on towards Folkestone and its harbour and sailors. He hoped the latter would be able to give him the information he wished concerning the Chatworths’ obnoxious guest.

  Lord Fromby’s presence at the day party, an affair vastly out of the man’s general line, had been enough to rouse Cavilon’s suspicions. Fromby had appeared on the London scene only three years past and had dealt with the more raffish set of the ton. The fact that he was sporadically short of funds was well known by all but had not struck the comte as particularly notable until the comment made today about having regained his ship.

  The sloop had, Cavilon knew, been pirated in the first place. It seemed curious that it should have been in Fromby’s possession in February. That the man had regained it was very telling, and Cavilon believed that there was more to dislike in his lordship than his insulting manners. His suspicions, the comte hoped, would be satisfied this night. Then he would act.

  Cavilon began to relax as he rode—the freedom of movement a relief from the tedium of his other pose. A smile lightened his dark features as he thought of Sir Henry’s questions. The old man was keen on a scent that he could not risk having him follow.

  It would be embarrassing, Cavilon thought, to be undone in the end by an unsuspecting magistrate. Experience had taught him, however, that the more unlikely an event the more possible it became. His own foolishness had not helped him. It had been unwise to tumble Fromby, but vastly enjoyable. The thought made him frown.

  Never since his youth had Cavilon let the desire to please a woman guide him. It was not a good sign that he was bending the comte to please Elizabeth, for he could not be certain it was not his wealth that drew her.

  Was her sudden softening towards him due to it, or because of what he had done for the lad, Tom? Did he dare hope it was he who attracted her?

  Then he recalled the inflection of her voice when she had spoken, ever so briefly, of Martin. He had heard that tone in a woman’s voice many times, oft using what it bespoke to his own advantage. As long as Elizabeth could be drawn to the more attractive of his personalities, he was forced to doubt her. If given a choice now, he pondered, which would she choose?

  * * * *

  Waking in the morn from a fitful sleep, Elizabeth turned over to find Barney sitting at her bedside staring at her with large, soulful eyes. “You,” she accused, but then reached out and patted the shaggy head.

  “It was Lord Fromby you should have given a tumble to yesterday,” she told him as she sat up in bed. “I wonder what would have happened had you not come when you did.

  Well, it matters not what Comte de Cavilon meant to do, but what you did do. We must teach you better manners.” Elizabeth swung her feet out of bed, and the large dog ran to the door. “I suppose Niles is wondering where you are,” she said, following him. “Don’t drag the poor footman quite as far afield this morn,” she called after him as he pranced down the corridor.

  “I shall be glad when Tom returns.” She told herself, dressing. “I wonder how soon that shall be?” Musing over this brought to mind her brother. Tom reminded her of him in many ways. It had been too long since they had heard from her brother. Perhaps her uncle could learn how he was faring. Her toilet complete, she went down to breakfast.

  Sir Henry entered a few moments later, a letter in his hand and a large smile on his face. “This has just come,” he said, waving the missive at her. “I am certain it is from Morton.”

  “I was just thinking of him this morn,” she said eagerly. “Do open it. What of the messenger?”

  “The letter was brought by a local lad. He said someone had stopped him and paid him to bring it to me. He had never seen the man before. Nothing to be learned there. Those who ply between the shores these days are not eager to be known,” he answered as he broke the letter’s seal.

  “What does it say? Is he well?” Elizabeth asked, watching her uncle read. Seeing the worry flicker across his face, Elizabeth asked, “What is it?”

  “The boy sends his love,” Sir Henry answered. “He says that they have been treating him much the same as when he last wrote. The money I sent him arrived.”

  He read further. “He was able to get better food for a time.” There was another pause as he reread the next portion of the letter. “He has been moved to another prison. He says they were taken at night and it was raining. He has developed a cough.”

  “Then he is ill,” Elizabeth gasped. “Has a doctor seen him?”

  “It seems the money is all gone and medicines are very expensive, but he says he will probably be rid of the cough soon.” Sir Henry laid down the letter.

  “You would think they would have at least told him where he is being held.”

  “When was the letter written, Uncle Henry?”

  “Written?” He looked at the top of the page. “The date has been smeared. Heaven knows how many hands this has gone through in getting to us. It looks to be May... no, March,” he told her.

  “Why, that was almost three months past,” she exclaimed. “I wonder if he is better now?”

  “Little we can do, my dear,” her uncle noted matter-of-factly as he perused the letter once more. “Hrrummph, he says to give greetings to the Chatworths. Odd, I do believe he has mentioned them each time he has written. No matter.” Sir Henry shrugged the triviality aside.

  “Do wish we could learn where he is. Makes getting funds to him devilishly more difficult, if not bloody well impossible. I wonder if Cavilon would have any ideas? He would be familiar with the land and all.

  “Probably not. The man seems to take little note of anything important. Though at times...” His words trailed off.

  “Yes, Uncle?” Elizabeth wondered what he meant.

  “Nothing. We had better eat before the food grows cold. Oh, since the comte is now our neighbour, I have given him leave to call upon us. Yesterday he complained of country living being exceedingly dull. I decided it would do little harm to be neighbourly. Likely he will not remain here long.”

  “Did he speak of returning to London?”

  “Would you be sorry to see him go?” He cocked his head.

  “There is no reason for me to be. My mind has not been altered. I merely find him... amusing. Have you changed your thoughts about him?” she asked as she took a biscuit from the platter Niles had set before them.

  “No, and you’ll do wise to see he does no more than amuse you. There is something strange about Cavilon, something I cannot quite determine. It has nagged at me. For now let us say I would rather the fox be in my lair than I in his.” Sir Henry chuckled and refused to explain.

  * * * *

  “Good afternoon, Lady Waddington, Miss Jeffries.” Comte de Cavilon bowed with a flourish. “I hope my arrival is not an inconvenience.

  “Do join us, my lord,” Lady Madeline greeted him cheerfully. “Would you care to partake of a cup of tea with us?”

  “I have not yet accustomed myself to your English habit,” he declined graciously. “Is Sir Henry
at home?”

  “There was some matter he had to take care of in Ashford,” Lady Waddington answered. “It seems an unusual amount of contraband is arriving here, though how they know that, I do not understand. I think he shall return soon,” she told him.

  “Do be seated. Are you settled in at Tenbury?”

  “I have done little more than look over the property since I arrived. I find it difficult to begin. To make a house one’s home is a difficult task.”

  “Do you find our houses so very different from those in your own country?” Elizabeth asked.

  “England is now my country,” he returned softly.

  “I did not mean otherwise,” she met his gaze, “but surely you find things vastly dissimilar here. Do you have the comfort of hearing from your family still in France?”

  “I fear not, Miss Jeffries. There is none of my family left. What friends I had who did not escape died during the bloody days of the Terror. Why do you ask?”

  “I simply realized that you never mention anyone from France or even seem to have much to do with other émigrés. But then, I become too personal. My curiosity was prompted by something Uncle said this morn.” She looked back to the stitching she had laid aside.

  “A letter arrived this morn from Elizabeth’s brother, Morton,” Lady Waddington told Cavilon. “Sir Henry thinks that perhaps you might be able to tell us what prison he could have been moved to.”

  Cavilon shook his head questioningly, he raised a hand in a gesture of uncertainty.

  “Morton wrote of being moved. Uncle Henry thought you, having lived in France since your birth, would be familiar with the prisons that exist and know the most logical choice. I find it difficult to understand why Morton does not know where he is being held,” Elizabeth frowned.

  “That is not so difficult,” Cavilon explained. “The prisoners are moved only at night and the name of their new home is never spoken. It discourages escape attempts. I do hope your brother fares well.”

  “He has been, but in this letter he mentions a cough taking hold.”

  You know how dangerous that can be,” Lady Waddington sighed.

  “What does trouble me,” Elizabeth added, “is that the letter was written in March. So much could have happened to him since then.”

  “It is such a worry,” Lady Madeline sighed once again. “Henry is so concerned.”

  And with reason, Cavilon thought, knowing the pitiful conditions most prisoners of war were forced to endure. “I have heard from London,” he said, deciding that a different topic might prove more cheerful.

  “Elizabeth, Comte de Cavilon has news of the lad you brought with us,” Lady Waddington intruded into her niece’s thoughts.

  “I am sorry, my lord.” She smiled faintly. “You mentioned London?”

  “Tom will be returning to Ashford in a few days, perhaps a week,” Cavilon told her. “My agent has purchased his bond and has taken the boy into his home. There are a few matters of business he must attend, and then he shall bring the lad to me.”

  “Oh, that is good news. I do not know how to thank you,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Shall you take him into your household?”

  “I rather thought he might prefer to be with you... if that is acceptable to Sir Henry. That is what I wished to see him about,” Cavilon answered. “Does that displease you?” he asked seeing dismay in her eyes.

  “No, it is as I wish,” Elizabeth answered. “I was thinking once again of my brother.” The thought of Tom’s innocent faith had made her wonder if Morton also trusted them to find a way to help him. “It just seems that something could be done.”

  “Let us hope desperate measures are not called for,” Cavilon told her. “I would not care to think of you deciding to try to go to France and rescue him,” he teased.

  “If I were a man, I would do it,” she returned.

  “Elizabeth, such unladylike words. You must forgive her, my lord. She and her brother are very close,” Lady Waddington told the comte.

  “Of course,” he nodded. “It is completely understandable.

  May I ask,” he said, smoothly changing the conversation once again, “have you both recovered from yesterday’s exertions?”

  Elizabeth heard the words, but her mind remained on Cavilon’s joking suggestion. How, she wondered, would one go about freeing a person from a French prison?

  It is impossible, she scoffed, but the idea remained.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Niles came into the garden, where Elizabeth had gone to do some reading. “Miss Jeffries. This was just brought to the door. Since Lady Waddington has returned to London and Sir Henry, is gone for the day, I thought you might decide what is to be done. The person who brought it insists he will not leave without some answer.”

  Taking the letter from Niles’ tray, Elizabeth broke the seal and scanned the heavy scrawl. Her eyes flew back to the beginning and she began deciphering the script. “Tell the man to go to the Crown and Sword. He can get a mug of ale from the innkeeper by using my uncle’s name. Tell him word will be sent to him as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, miss.” Niles bowed and went to do as instructed.

  Elizabeth glanced over the letter again. How right I was to be concerned about Morton, she thought, the unease that had plagued her since the arrival of her brother’s last letter a week past filling her mind. This was written but three weeks past. There is hope help may reach Morton in time. At least this— she looked at the signature at the bottom, Captain Paraton is attempting to care for him. Oh, if only I were a man. I would go to France, Elizabeth thought, then put the useless wish aside.

  I must act quickly, she decided. What would be best to do? If only Uncle were not gone. It will be late this eve when he returns. I must do something before then.

  “What if the man will not wait?” Elizabeth said aloud as she rose. Her mind raced over whom she could go to today as she returned indoors. Now. Only one answer came. Cavilon.

  But there is nothing he could do... or would do, she thought.

  But he might, echoed in her mind.

  “Niles, have a mount readied for me,” Elizabeth ordered before going to her room. Changing into a riding habit as quickly as possible, she came from the house just as a groom brought the horse to the door. Mounted, she headed to Tenbury.

  Cavilon received word of Miss Jeffries’ arrival with concealed surprise and ordered that she be taken to the library.

  “This is a most unexpected pleasure,” he greeted her. His smile turned to concern when she faced him.

  “But you are distressed. What has happened?”

  “A second letter has reached us from France. It came this afternoon,” she explained. “It was written but three weeks past.”

  “It is not good news?”

  “No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “It was written for my brother by a Captain Paraton. I gather he is a fellow prisoner. He writes that Morton is very ill.” Her hands fluttered; tears came to her eyes.

  Cavilon was at her side at once. “Do sit down, Elizabeth. I will get you a glass of Madeira.”

  “That is not necessary,” she said but allowed him to lead her to a chair. Sitting, she continued. “Captain Paraton believes Morton has an inflammation of the lungs complicated by a putrid fever. He says it is very serious. In fact, Morton may die; but,” Elizabeth went on determinedly, “he says that if money can be sent at once, he may be able to bribe the guards to fetch a doctor.”

  Suspicious, the comte asked, “Does he propose how this is to be done?”

  “The man who brought the message insisted that some answer be given now. I instructed Niles to send him to the Crown and Sword to wait until he is sent for.

  “Uncle Henry will not return until this eve. I fear every moment may already be too late.” She raised eyes filled with quiet pleading.

  “Is there not something you could do?”

  Driven by some invisible force to follow the course he had already set with this young woman Cavilon tight
ened his affectatious pose. ““I?” He fluttered his kerchief. “But what could one such as I do?”

  Elizabeth rose, distressed. “I thought better of you,” she told him in a firmly controlled voice. “I regret to learn I was incorrect.”

  “Mayhaps I may be able to do something,” Cavilon said stung by her look. “There is a man I know who may have information that would be helpful to you,” he continued slowly. “Is there nothing else you can tell me? Where was your brother being held before the move?”

  “The last we knew of was a prison near Rennes.”

  “Rennes? Yes,” he mused, then looked at her

  “I wish you to return to Ashly. Say nothing until you have word from me.” Cavilon waved aside the objection she was about to voice. “There must be trust... just as when you asked that I assist you with the lad Tom.”

  “But if—”

  “Let me speak with the man I know. Then we shall decide what must be done.”

  “When... how long do you think—”

  “I shall call on you later this eve—in the morn at the latest.”

  “I pray you shall be successful,” Elizabeth told him, doubt lingering.

  “As I also do.” Cavilon took her arm and guided her towards the door. “You must trust me.” His dark eyes held hers.

  “Somehow... somehow I believe I do,” she answered, held fast by his gaze. Abruptly she turned from him and hastened away from his look, his touch. They threatened to make her forget her brother’s peril.

  Watching her go, Cavilon tapped his cheek. Martin would have one more task to do, he decided, other than the matter begun a week past. Fromby would have to be put aside until this matter was resolved.

  Halfway back to Ashly, Elizabeth realized that her reticule must have fallen to the floor when she sat in the library at Tenbury. In it was the letter from Captain Paraton.

  I must have it to show Uncle Henry, she thought, reining her mount to a halt. Reining about, she galloped back the way she had come.

  The Tenbury butler was surprised to find Miss Jeffries returned when he answered the impatient pounding at the door.