“You mistake.” Frederick allowed only the faintest chill to enter his voice. “I know of no Henri and have no desire to run off with your ... sister? Put up the pistol now, do, and comfort the poor frightened child.”
His gaze slipped beyond the speaker in the window and drifted over a girl who looked to be about seventeen, perhaps eighteen. Dusky curls escaped the close brim of a traveling bonnet, touched the cheeks of a pert little face down which crystalline teardrops rolled one after another. A pretty child, he thought.
“Please cease crying, Mademoiselle,” said Frederick with a gentleness which would, once, have been foreign to his nature. “All danger is past. My friend and I will see you safe to your destination.”
“Me, I do not cry because we were attacked,” said a sweet voice with only the faintest of French accents. The girl’s tears ceased abruptly. “I cry because Harriet shot the horse, poor thing, when she meant to kill Henri for me.”
“Who is this Henri?”
“Henri de Vauton-Cheviot, Comte de Cheviot. Monsieur le Comte wishes to marry me, and me, I do not wish it at all. He is a horrible man. He wants my fortune and also that our marriage will justify his holding estates in France which were once my family’s. He thinks because my father is dead he can force me ... Oh, Harri, do stop shushing me!” Cherry red lips pouted, an endearing frown creasing the young brow. “Grand-mere, do tell Harri she is not to scold so.”
Sir Frederick became aware of the third woman tucked into the far corner of the carriage and felt a strong sense of relief that the two young and attractive women were not traveling alone. “Your servant.” Again he bowed over his saddle. “May I offer our protection?”
“Monsieur de Bartigues has done so. We would be pleased to accept.” The old woman nodded regally, her English also carrying a faint accent. Despite the situation, she had not lost a jot of the aristocratic bearing bred into her. Whimsically, Frederick thought he could almost see a battalion of ancestors ranked behind the stern-visaged, hawk-faced woman, supporting her and protecting her.
“No, Madame,” the one called Harri, whispered loudly—this time in Italian. “You must not. It would be to jump from the pan into the fire...”
“Silence, Harriet. I know this young man.” One gnarled hand gestured toward the window where Yves bent low over his horse’s neck, the better to see into the carriage. A grim smile warped the old mouth. “At least I know his family, which is more than can be said for the comte. One never knows with the new aristocracy. They themselves rarely have the least idea. Monsieur de Bartigues and his friend, Sir Frederick, have offered to see us on our way. We will not refuse their offer.”
“You do not understand...”
Grey eyes, thought Frederick, should never be so cold, a perfectly oval face so severe. The dueling pistol was still pointed directly at his chest, but at least she’d laid her finger along the barrel instead of on what was without doubt a hair trigger! He glanced back to the aged and aristocratic profile; one vein-heavy, age-spotted hand rested easily on her open window. The other was crimped tightly around the top of a cane. That last was the only sign of nerves Frederick could detect. Yves was making headway with the old woman so Frederick returned his attention to the antagonistic face of the one called Harri.
He smiled. If anything, the cool expression iced still more.
The younger girl leaned closer, eyes dry now, but still sparkling with a natural good humor that lit the pert face. “We should introduce ourselves, should we not?” she asked. Dimples showed beside the girl’s flashing smile, reminding Frederick painfully of the English love he’d handed, by his own decision, to his friend and rival. “Sir Frederick Carrington—” She gave the rrr’s a slight roll that was very attractive. “—that is Grand-mere, Hortense de St. Onge, Comtesse de Beaupre, and be pleased to know my companion, Miss Harriet Cole.” Harriet nodded, a stiff forbidding movement that lowered her chin barely an inch, her condemning gaze never leaving his. “And I,” said the girl, pointing to herself, “am Mademoiselle Françoise de Beaupre, daughter of Philippe de Reignan, Comte de Beaupre.”
“I believe, Mademoiselle, that I am already known, by repute, to Miss Cole.” There was wry self-derisive humor in Frederick’s tone. “Let it be stated quite clearly, Miss Cole, I am no danger to you or yours. Monsieur de Bartigues and I wish only to be of service.” He met her gaze firmly and hers wavered, dropped, and rose to meet his more fiercely than ever. Magnificent, he thought. Proud and courageous and magnificent. “Excuse me,” he said, wondering at the strong impression she’d made on him. “I must confer with my friend.”
Yves met him at the back of the carriage, his eyes wide with shock. “ ’Tis a pretty story, Frederick.”
“ ’Tis a common story,” answered Sir Frederick, thinking of his own attempt to wrest happiness by force. But the abduction he’d plotted and carried out had been based in an honorable emotion. There had been love in his heart which, when he discovered that the object of his affections had given hers elsewhere, thought first of her. The expression he’d seen in the eyes of today’s villain had, he felt sure, nothing whatever to do with love. “What is today’s destination?”
“Today to Madame’s cousin who owns a mountain chalet not far beyond the pass, but on to England by easy stages.” Yves indicated the direction of travel. “Frederick, do you know whom we have rescued?”
“We rescued?” Frederick flicked open his snuff box, pretended to take a pinch. “I believe Miss Cole had already achieved their rescue. The youngest is a surprisingly bloodthirsty young lady: She is unhappy Miss Cole hit the horse instead of the man!”
Yves laughed. “We ride with them?”
“Yes. I believe we must.”
Several hours later Frederick lolled in a hip bath placed conveniently near the fireplace in the room assigned him. A fire had been laid, for, at this altitude at most any time of year, the rooms were slightly chilly. His eyes rested on the windows which framed an unparalleled view of the Aletschhor and, beyond and to one side, the Jungfrau. Incredible.
He lifted his hand and watched the drops drip from the ends of his fingers as his thoughts drifted to the scene of their arrival at the Swiss chalet. That had been the first surprise, of course. The family might call it a mere chalet, but, by its size and furnishing, it was more of a French chateau. The second surprise was the warmth of the welcome extended himself and Yves. Miss Cole’s expression of horror when he and Yves were invited to break their journey and visit for a few days had been classic. She would never forgive him for accepting. And why had he when he knew he was not wanted—at least, not by one of the party? Oh those expressive eyes!
Ah, his question could be easily answered, could it not? For instance, the accommodations were far better than those he’d expected for this night—their original destination being a flea-ridden hostel on the south side of the mountain, just before one made the final climb to the pass. But, to reach the chalet, they’d already come through the pass. It would be absurd to go back.
And, as Yves reiterated more often than necessary, there was the fact they had no schedule, no definite plans. So why should they not rest a few days in this delightful chalet? There would be trails to explore, perhaps a day’s climbing with the husband of the de Beaupre Swiss cousin. Gerard Vaudray was, after all, a noted mountaineer.
So, why should they not? Frederick asked himself again and chuckled as he again remembered the look on Miss Cole’s face when the invitation was tendered. He’d like to change that look to quite another, he thought—and then pushed the salacious notion from his mind. Miss Cole might have been reduced to earning her living, but she was still very much a lady. Oh, but those eyes!
No, he would not tamper with her as he might well have done a year or so earlier. It was good he no longer felt the need to avenge himself on every woman he felt the least attraction to. He was a free man—a reformed man. Frederick, the Reformed Rake, he thought and chuckled, seeing, in his mind’s eye, a vision of himself d
ressed in badly tarnished armor!
So, if not for Miss Cole, then why else should he agree to stay? There was Madame’s granddaughter, of course, who was, quite simply, an imp. Frederick wondered why he felt no particular attraction to the child, who was very much the same type as the love he’d left in England months earlier. This girl aroused no feeling in him except a gentle sense of amusement.
No, not for the child. Much to his surprise, stern straight brows and an oval face were surprisingly intriguing. Miss Cole had a rare type of beauty ... but he’d only confirm her opinion of him if he were to pursue that thought and then to act upon it!
Cole. Where had he heard that name? He dismissed the question, allowing his mind to wander to more pleasant visions of a Harriet Cole who had put aside her distrust, becoming more agreeable ... Frederick chuckled ruefully. What a fickle soul he must have. Or was it simply his long period of abstemious self-denial that led to such delightfully prurient daydreams?
Frederick’s long-suffering valet opened the dressing room door and entered silently. He carried a coat of grey superfine and pantaloons in a lighter shade of grey, which he lay neatly on the bed beside his clothes, a pile of cravats, and a pristinely white shirt. He chose a vest of stiffly lined pique and added it to the collection before turning to where a towel, draped over a low screen near the fire, warmed itself. He straightened it, then waited for his master to finish his bath and rise from the water.
“Your accommodations satisfactory, Cob?” Frederick asked.
“Somewhat better than might be expected in foreign parts, Sir Fred.” The words were said grudgingly and the sentence was finished with a sniff, denoting the English valet’s opinion of all things foreign.
“You may put up a trundle bed in the dressing room if you prefer. I won’t mind.”
“No, Sir Fred. Not in this establishment, Sir Fred.”
“Ah. You approve.”
“It is quite a proper establishment.” Again the words were grudging. Those following were more hopeful. “Will we be staying, Sir Fred?”
“For a few days, I think.”
Cob eyed the master he’d served since, as a lad, the future baronet had first needed a valet. His voice was tinged with a question when he spoke again. “The young miss looks a proper chit.”
“Hold your tongue, Cob.” Frederick moved restlessly, sloshing water onto the hand-painted tiles fronting the fireplace. “I am a reformed character these days.”
“Hurrah, hurrah.” There was sarcasm and skepticism in the tone.
“Don’t mumble. And don’t look down your long nose either, my old friend.” Sir Frederick’s eyes warmed and a wry smile curved his lips. “You might come down off your high horse and stop ‘Sir Fred-ing’ me while you’re at it,” he teased.
“Yes, Sir Fred.”
Frederick’s chest rose and fell. “Cob, you know why we’ve come to the continent. Why I travel.”
“For so many months, Sir Fred? I do wish we might get back to a civilized world. I don’t much like foreigners.”
“I can send you home.”
“And then who would do for you?” A huge paw crumpled the towel, relaxed and smoothed it. “No. If you must travel, I must, too.”
“Paris was enjoyable, was it not?” coaxed the master. “And I know you liked Florence.” Their eyes met, both with a vision of a pert little maid in their minds. Cob actually blushed. “Now,” added Frederick quickly, looking away from Cob’s embarrassment, “we are in the most scenic portion of the entire world and—”
“Oh, scenery.” Cob sniffed. “Scotland has scenery if ’tis scenery you want.”
“The last time we were in Scotland you sulked the whole of our visit.”
Cob sniffed again. “Would you like more hot water, Sir Fred?”
Frederick shifted, the water lapping against his chest. He decided he’d soaked more than enough and reached for the pine scented soap. Anticipating the move, Cob reached it first, laying it in his master’s hand. The man tested the water in the remaining cans, lifted the first preparatory to rinsing off the soap and poured part of it over Frederick’s head when his master indicated he wished it. The rest Cob sloshed over his back, down long well-muscled flanks and, setting the last can aside, he lifted the towel. Frederick stepped out of the hip bath and took the long piece of soft linen, drying himself.
Yes, decided Frederick, they would remain a few days in this well-managed chateau if for no other reason than the hope that Cob’s temper might improve!
Harriet found the days crawling from one slow moment to the next treacle slow moment. She could not be satisfied. If Sir Frederick and his friend were within sight and sound, she feared for Françoise. If they were gone out with their host, Gerard Vaudray, it was worse. She hated the rampaging emotions roused by her bête noire and even more the jealousy she felt for petite dark-haired Françoise. It was wrong to feel either attraction to the rakish Frederick or jealousy for the charming child—but how did one control one’s feelings? How did one hide from the one that he made her heart beat faster and from the other ones stupidity in wishing one were other that one was?
Harriet stared out the chateau’s window toward the snow-covered peaks and told herself she could do no better than to remain cool toward Sir Frederick and calm and watchful where her charge was concerned. Surely it was a case where familiarity bred contempt. After all, wasn’t that all one should feel for a man such as Sir Frederick?
“Miss Cole, there you are. We have been looking for you,” said Yves de Bartigues, coming, into the big front room. “Frederick believes it would be wise if you were to learn the oddities of your father’s pistols. That way, if you were ever required to use them again, perhaps you would not shoot the horse?” He chuckled.
Both unwilling to hurt this lively and happy young man and finding his teasing amusing, Harriet turned, a smile lighting her expression. It faded when she saw that Sir Frederick had silently followed his friend into the room.
“Do come,” coaxed the younger man. “Monsieur Vaudray has given permission to test your pistols at the back of the garden.”
He offered his arm and somewhat against her better judgment, Harriet went. After all, she justified herself, Sir Frederick was correct in one respect: she should know how to properly use her father’s guns.
“Here we are,” said Yves. “You see? Vaudray has put up the targets against that low cliff and has had that table brought out for your powder and shot.” Yves looked around. “Do you need anything else, Frederick? No? Then we are off.”
“We?” asked Harriet quickly.
“Mademoiselle de Beaupre has accepted an invitation to join some local young people for a picnic. Do not worry. We will be well chaperoned, and I promise you we’ll not leave the group even for a moment. Mademoiselle will be perfectly safe, I assure you,” he said earnestly.
“Madame has given her permission,” added Frederick. “They will be within the neighbor’s grounds and Vaudray is sending armed servants to watch unobtrusively.”
“If Madame has said she may go,” said Harriet, frowning, “then I can have no objections.”
“Even if you do,” said Frederick softly.
She flicked a look his way only to wish she had not. He was too charming, too knowing. It wasn’t fair, she thought. Another thought rose to the surface of her mind. If de Bartigues was off with Françoise then she could not, as she’d almost decided to do, tell Sir Frederick she would try the guns another day. If she were to do that, then he might decide to join the picnic party. No, it would be best to pretend an interest in the pistols and keep him here and away from Frani.
Yves made his adieu and left as Harriet turned to stare at Sir Frederick. He was observing her thoughtfully, and a blush rose up her throat. She put a hand to it. “What do we do?” she asked, gesturing toward the table.
“First I would like to see you load one.”
Harriet threw him a look of dislike and moved to the table. Carefully she went through t
he routine she’d been taught and, with extra gentleness, laid the pistol back on the table. She had discovered the pistols did not have what was called a hair trigger, but they did fire easily, and she had great respect for them. Finished, she looked again at Sir Frederick. He nodded. “My father taught me,” she said.
“I assumed he did. I merely wished to assure myself that you’d not forgotten how much powder, for instance. Now, will you try that target?” He pointed to the nearest.
Harriet lifted the gun and extended her arm. She sighted as she’d been taught and carefully squeezed the trigger. The gun jerked.
“You did that well,” said Frederick.
Despite herself, Harriet felt a glow at the praise. She turned to reload the gun and found he’d readied the second pistol.
“Try this one on the second target. We must see if there is a particular pattern after several test shots.”
“Pattern?”
“You’ll see.”
Despite herself, Harriet became interested. She fired each gun several times at the designated target, and then Sir Frederick urged her along the path toward the cliff.
A touch of chagrin filled her when she neared them. In neither case had she, as she’d thought she’d do, come near the middle. In one case the shots were clustered toward the right side and in the other in the lower right quadrant. “I must truly be out of practice. I was certain I’d done just as Father taught me!”
“You did. See how closely patterned these holes are. What that indicates is that the gun is at fault not the shooter. If you were to aim it here—”He pointed to left of center. “—then I suspect you’d hit the target here.” Again he pointed, this time at the bull’s eye. “Will you try?”
“I’m to aim for this part of the target?”
“Yes.”
Harriet studied the other one. “And with this pistol, I must aim about here.” This time she pointed.
A Reformed Rake Page 2