A REFORMED RAKE
Jeanne Savery
SCANDAL'S DARLING
Never one to resist an adventure, governess Harriet Cole was only too delighted to help her young charge flee France—and the designs of a despicable suitor. But more trouble soon arrived in the person of Sir Frederick Carrington, London's most notorious rake ... a man Harriet remembered none too fondly from her short-lived season just a few years before. And the seductive scoundrel would insist on providing safe escort—all the way back to England!
Though she deemed him far more dangerous than any band of brigands, Harriet secretly relished matching wits with the devilishly handsome nobleman. Then Sir Frederick took her in his arms for a tender kiss that revealed his character in a whole new light. Now, as intrigue ensnared them in its web, Harriet found herself caught in a passion's sensual spell. Could a lady find love with an incorrigible but irresistible rogue?
Prologue
Hortense de St. Onge, Comtesse de Beaupre stared down her aristocratic nose at Miss Harriet Cole, her granddaughter’s companion and music teacher. Harriet stared back in a composed way. The silence stretched.
“I cannot believe you suggested that. Not seriously, Harri.” The old woman chuckled. “Not that it would hurt our young lady to retire to a convent for a repairing lease! Is that correct, repairing lease?”
“Quite correct, Madame, assuming you mean a period of time during which one recovers from a hectic social season, rather than the meaning which implies an escape from one’s creditors until the dibs are in tune again—dibs, Madame,” she continued with a perfectly straight face, “is cant for money and if they are in tune, then one has some.”
“Thank you,” said Madame la Comtesse in an amused tone.
Harriet Cole grinned. “But Madame, if Françoise were at the convent, the comte could not continue to harass her! Or us, of course.” A thoughtful look crossed Harriet’s face. “Perhaps I was serious!”
“But, my dear, can you not imagine the poor Sisters’ state of mind after Françoise had been there several days? No, no, it would never do. The poor dears would never recover from the responsibility of caring for our Frani!”
The two women laughed comfortably. One was well up in years, having survived the French Revolution and Madame Guillotine and since, in exile, the years of war. Gradually, exile had changed from a temporary retreat to something which was truly home. Madame’s palazzo on Lake Como was both elegant and comfortable, and she loved it.
The other lady seated on the terrace overlooking the water was a youngish woman, in her middle twenties and, in the eyes of the world, no more than a hired companion and music teacher for the old woman’s granddaughter. Yet they understood each other very well and each found amusement in the company of the other.
After a long moment, Harriet asked, “Do you have a plan, Madame?”
Madame la Comtesse nodded, a sad expression blurring the strong lines of her face. Again the silence stretched, but Harriet waited patiently. She’d lived five years in the de Beaupre household and knew that Madame would explain eventually. At a minimum she would tell Harriet what was needed and, from that, Harriet would extrapolate the rest. Or as much as possible.
“I exaggerated when I said I had a plan,” began Madame. “What I have decided is that our Frani needs a male guardian. As much as you and I love her, Harriet, we are women and the comte discounts our ability to guard her.”
“But you have said there are none—outside of third and fourth cousins, few of whom you know and none of whom have the necessary authority.”
“That is on our side of the family, Harriet What I have not discussed is her mother’s.”
Harriet faced another high-nosed stare. This one she thought contained a question. “Her mother?” prodded Harriet, wondering where the conversation would now lead.
Madame dipped her chin, nodding in a stately way. “My daughter-in-law,” she said.
Harriet nodded in much the same manner, suppressing an imminent smile. Of course Frani’s mother was Madame’s daughter-in-law! But that, she knew was not the point. Madame was finding it difficult to discuss the woman.
“You wish to laugh at my lack of explanation,” said that perceptive lady. “It is because I do not know where to begin or how to ask the questions I wish to ask that I cannot yet explain.”
“Madame, you are insulting,” said Harriet, mildly scolding. “Do you not know me well enough, after all these years, to know I am discreet and will be as honest with you as I can?” Somehow she needed to help the old woman relax and confide in her. If there were a way they might prevent the persecution the comte visited on their small household, they should immediately set it in motion.
“You are right. But it is embarrassing to admit a father disinherited his daughter merely for marrying into one’s family.”
“Into your family? But it is one of the oldest lines in France! And you managed to extricate most of the family fortune from France before the Terror came. How could anyone object to such a marriage?” Harriet shook her head. “I do not believe it,” she said in a no-nonsense manner.
“Nevertheless, that is what Frani’s grandfather did. Would he, one wonders, visit his anger on his granddaughter? Or would he take her in hand and protect her from that villain?”
“Since I’ve no clue as to whom her grandfather is, how may I answer you? For that matter, how may I be of help in any case? I am unfamiliar with most of the French aristocracy.”
“But he is not French. I thought you knew.”
“Not French?”
“He is English.”
“Ah. Well, I do know a few amongst the English ton. We proceed.”
“I am aware you spent nearly the whole of your life at various embassies, but you will have heard the gossip and you will have learned the relationships amongst the English ton.” Madame fell silent again.
“I erred,” Harriet said lightly. “We don’t proceed at all. Madame, would you be pleased to inform me of the name of the British aristocrat so proud he would deny your family’s right to marry into his?”
“Have I not?” A faint color touched Madame’s cheeks. “Oh dear. I am not usually such a flutter-brain. That is right? Flutter-brain?”
“Or skitter-witted or addle-pated,” said Harriet absently. She leaned forward and grasped the old woman’s trembling hand. “Madame, is it so hard to say his name?”
After a moment Madame spate out, “Lord Crawford.”
Harriet jerked back, her sleepy grey eyes widening. “Crawford! But Madame, that is impossible. His daughter died in...” Harriet did some quick calculations. “Why, it was the year before our Frani was born! I was only five.”
“She didn’t die. She married my son in the year before Françoise was born.” Wise old eyes caught and held Harriet’s. “I told you. His lordship disinherited her. Why did you think her dead?”
Harriet’s lips firmed, anger growing within her. “Madame, she and my mother were in school together. Even though I was very young when the news came, I remember Mother’s tears and how she mourned. They were friends as well as cousins, you see.”
Madame la Comtesse reared back in shock. “Your cousin. Mon Dieu! For five years I have treated a connection of the family as a servant!”
Harriet chuckled. “Madame, if you were to treat all your servants as you and Frani do myself, then we would be one big happy family, would we not? The relationship to Crawford is not close. In one way or another most of the British ton is related. But that doesn’t answer the question of whether his lordship would protect his granddaughter.” Harriet frowned. “Madame, if we could give him a story which he could give the ton, I believe he would do so. He has a reputation of being quick-tempered—which would easily exp
lain his disinheriting his daughter—but also he is thought to be an intelligent man. I suspect he regretted that rash moment.” Harri paused for thought. “What,” she said, in a dreamy way, “if, on her deathbed, your daughter-in-law regained her memory?”
“Regained her memory?” Madame la Comtesse might have been said to gape at the notion, except, of course, she was far too aristocratic to do any such thing. “Harri, dear,” she said politely, “my daughter-in-law never lost her memory.”
“Oh, I’m sure she must have. After almost drowning—did I say that, according to her father, she drowned in a Channel crossing? Anyway, I think your son rescued her from a watery grave, and they fell in love—but she never remembered who she was or where she’d come from. They married, lived happily, had Frani and then ... the accident! At very nearly the moment of her death, your daughter-in-law told you the story of her life and, of course, who she was. You, loving Frani, came to what must be admitted was a rather selfish decision. You did not inform Lord Crawford of his daughter’s death. After all, he’d thought her dead for a very long time—why add the pain of knowing he might have had more years with her when he no longer could?”
“How is that selfish, Harri?” asked Madame, picking up on the one point Harriet had hoped she’d miss.
“Why, in not telling the man of his daughter’s life, you have avoided telling him of his granddaughter as well.”
“Hmm. But now, when I need him to protect her, I come crawling to him and ask his forgiveness?”
The high-nosed stare didn’t discommode Harriet, who chuckled. “Come down off your high horse, Madame. This is a game. And, as a game, it may be modified. Perhaps we could sacrifice my distant cousin, your daughter-in-law? Recently you found a diary in which she admits to regaining her memory, but remembers that her father told her that if she married her own true love he’d disinherit her, and she decided she would not contact him.”
“Hmm. But wouldn’t he wish to see the diary?”
“You burned it, of course. There was much in it you would not want your granddaughter to read.”
Hortense de St. Onge, Comtesse de Beaupre was silent for a very long time. “How fortuitous,” she said, at last, “that I chanced upon that diary.”
One
Spring 1817
Two men rode up out of Italy and into an Alpine valley. On all sides the musical rushing of falling melt sang a song of approaching summer. The steep green hillsides were dotted with the pale hides of brown mulch cows, the clitter and clang of cowbells sounding now and again as the herd moved slowly from one patch of flower-starred growth to the next. Above all, the peaks, an eye-blinding white, were covered with eternal snow and ice.
One of the two travelers was somewhat older than the other. His broad shoulders were set off by a well-tailored coat and, as he scanned the heights with eyes protected by heavy lids, he brushed thumb and fore-finger across the moustache he affected although such was not in style. Then he brushed back wind-ruffled wings of white at his temples and resettled his hat. His eyes passed over the gentle scene, and he sighed, a sound denoting contentment.
Last autumn he’d been right to leave Paris and move on to Italy. Now, after months in Italy he was returning to England and this incredible scenery was what his soul craved. Clear air was mountain cool and clean vistas soothing where Italy had merely amused and, last fall, the frantic pace of Parisian society had exacerbated the ache in his battered heart. This would surely finish his healing!
Ah, the wounds Eros inflicted on one! He had predicted that dark Roman beauties or those of Florence would provide the final cure, but they had not. Not entirely. Not that he ached as he had last summer. No, the wounds were thoroughly covered with scar tissue. They hurt now only when the tilt of a pert head or a friendly wide-eyed smile would remind him of the woman he’d left in England—in the arms of his best friend.
Love, decided Sir Frederick Carrington, was not at all what he’d assumed it to be during the nearly twenty years he’d played at it and teased it, but hadn’t really believed in it. When it came, pain came, too. The pain was deepened by the finality of his selfless decision to put his lady’s happiness before his own: He’d given her up to the man she loved. He sighed again, but this time with a touch of irritation.
Forcing the past from his thoughts, he allowed the awesome terrain to fill his mind, his very soul, with a peace he craved. The two men rode gently, not pushing their mounts as their way rose northward, and ever higher, toward the Simplon Pass. Sharp curves in the road built at Napoleon’s orders, when he required a better route into Italy, carried them back and forth, and gradually, nearer the top. There was no hurry—the small carriage provided for their luggage and the comfort of their valets would necessarily fall behind on the grades. Tall trees surrounded them now, but the mountainside was so steep they often looked through the tops of gently swaying branches, even, occasionally, over their tops.
“You are a silent companion today, Frederick.”
“ ’Tis like a cathedral, Yves, have you not noticed? The mountains demand silence of me.”
“I was not aware you loved the Church so well, my friend.” Yves’ dry humor was accompanied by twinkling eyes. In answer Frederick flicked a smile toward the young man.
Some months earlier Frederick had rescued Monsieur Yves de Bartigues from a pair of cutthroats in a narrow Paris street. Yves had won heavily that evening. When the young man left the card party, Frederick, too, had been collecting his cloak, hat, and the antique sword stick he’d begun carrying when he’d been a counter-spy in British service. Acquaintances, but hardly friends, the two men strolled along the boulevard, their way the same for some distance. Then, stopping only for brief farewells, they’d taken different routes.
Moments later Sir Frederick heard an outcry, and returning, found Yves defending his person and his purse from a pretty pair of ruffians. The villains were sent fleeing and a bond formed between the young Frenchman of twenty-three and Frederick, who had recently passed his thirty-seventh birthday. The odd friendship grew to the extent that Yves insisted he accompany Frederick when, tired of Pais, the latter decided to continue his exploration of a Europe freed from all threat of Napoleon’s ambition—a Europe which was finally at peace after more than twenty years of war.
“Do you think we’ll run into bandits, Frederick? The innkeeper was so very insistent that they are a constant menace.”
The thought jarred, and Frederick winced. “Do not, pray, sound as though the adventure were one to be desired, Yves. I feel much too pleasant to exert myself so. Don’t you think that, if our host had had his way, we’d have waited, perhaps for days, to join a large party—spending our coin freely at his inn while we did so?”
“You are a cynic, Frederick. But if you truly believe the landlord was telling tales to frighten children, then why are we prepared to defend ourselves from desperate men?” Yves held up one of the pistols which, primed and ready, rested in a saddle holster. “Ah, I rather wish we would meet up with such! It is just the sort of invigorating day in which I could enjoy ridding the world of one or two desperados.”
Frederick hoped it would not be necessary. It was much too peaceful. Overwhelmingly peaceful. Beautifully peaceful. Frederick badly needed that sense of peace.
Minutes later the peace was shattered by the sound of a pistol shot and a second. A horse neighed and rough voices, the words indistinguishable, intruded. The sound came from above, around the next curve or perhaps the next. Frederick grimaced. His eyes met Yves’ and his mouth turned down at the excitement he saw, the anticipation of adventure. He shrugged and gently lifted his pistol from its saddle holster. He heeled his mount and set it to a faster pace, Yves half a moment before him. They rounded the curve. Three rough-looking men held up a carriage; a fourth, mounted on a showy black gelding and, by his better dress, their leader, waited nearby.
One more shot sounded, followed by the piercing squeal of a wounded animal. The black gelding bucked, nearl
y unseated his foppishly dressed rider, and broke into a run. Frederick moved his mount to one side as the masked leader tore by. The man leaned into his mount’s mane as he grabbed at a dropped rein. For an instant their eyes met, and Frederick shivered: Wild eyes, hating eyes. Eyes glittering with madness? He hoped he never again met those eyes—particularly not in a dark alley some misty night!
He looked ahead to where Yves helped the coachman control a nervous team, glanced around, but found the other villains had melted into the wooded hillside. Pocketing his pistol, he joined Yves and helped settle the sweating horses. Only then did the two men separate, riding back on either side of the carriage. A very fine carriage, noted Sir Frederick, the high wheels picked out in crimson and the varnished panels decorated with gilded wreaths of flowers. There was, as well, an ornate coat of arms painted on the door—French, he thought.
And, from an open window, gleamed the long muzzle of a dueling pistol, the tip shaking ever so slightly.
“Good day, Madame,” said Frederick, speaking French to the dim figure holding the pistol. “If that thing is loaded I pray you point it elsewhere.”
“Who are you?”
Before he could respond, the woman leaned closer to the window, fine grey eyes narrowed, sharpened. Recognition gleamed in them. He bowed over his saddle, .his eyes never leaving the oval face framed by a grey scarf which covered a neat little hat and then wound around her neck. One end moved gently, fluttering against the young woman’s slim shoulder. “Sir Frederick Carrington at your service,” he said.
A faint gasp parted well-shaped lips. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.” The pistol steadied, again aiming for his heart, and straight brown-blond eyebrows pulled in to form a vee over wide-open eyes which matched the color of the scarf. The woman went on in English. “You are a friend of Henri,” she stated. “You’d best follow after and rescue him.” Scorn iced her words. “As you must know, he isn’t much of a horseman and ...” A sob from within the coach interrupted what threatened to be a blistering tirade. “Oh do be still, Frani. I’ll not allow Sir Frederick to run off with you.”
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