A Reformed Rake

by Jeanne Savery

  “Cob never complains. Our passage to France was smooth as silk, and I’m sure he had no trouble then. I had not thought—”

  “No. Why should you? He is just a servant.”

  “Scorn? In this case you are very wrong, Miss Cole. Cob is far more than a servant. He is my friend. He has been with me for over twenty years. On more than one occasion we’ve depended on each other to save our lives.” Frederick stared at the water. “He’s been more a father to me than my father ever was.”

  She blinked. “You are concerned, are you not?”

  “Yes. Perhaps another chair...”

  “Would he take it?”

  Frederick grinned at her sapient question. “We’ll have it available just in case he will do so. He’ll not remove to a cabin, of that I’m certain.” A third chair appeared and was placed a little apart from the others. When Sir Frederick returned to Harriet’s side, he leaned against the rail and studied her worried face. “You must not be so concerned. No one dies of mal de mer, no matter how much they may wish they might.”

  “Madame is old. She has been ill.”

  “Yes. But she is also determined. She will live to place Mademoiselle Françoise in the grandfather’s care. She is a strong woman, Miss Cole.”

  “I know.” Harriet turned to stare over the rolling waves. The wind caught the scarf she’d tied over her hat and blew the ends wildly. “It is getting worse.”

  “In its way, it is better. The stronger the wind, the sooner we’ll reach Dover. The captain predicts something under four hours.”

  “There is that.” They were quiet for a time.

  Sir Frederick broke the long silence. “I’ve been trying for weeks to remember why your name seems familiar.”

  Harriet glanced up at him, her eyes flashing daggers before turning away again. She thought of that dance where he’d called her three different names. He’d have no memory of that and couldn’t be referring to it. Ah well, she supposed she must attempt to answer as politely as he’d asked.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “you’ve heard of my father, Timothy Cole—since he was rarely in England, I’m certain you’d never have met him.”

  “Timothy Cole...” Frederick snapped his fingers. “The embassy staff in Lisbon and later in Vienna. Of course! Tongue Valiant Tim!”

  Harriet choked back a laugh and turned wary eyes on him. “He never liked that cognomen.”

  “But he deserved it.” Brown eyes met grey, and grey fled. “An admirable man, your father. With his intelligence he should have risen higher in the diplomatic corps than he, in fact, did. Telling his superiors what he thought of them did him no good. He couldn’t keep his tongue between his teeth, could he? I see where you acquired the trick of saying what you think.”

  Harriet frowned. “You met my father?”

  “Twice. Once in Lisbon and once in Vienna. We had, er—” He paused and his eyebrows rose. “—business—”

  Again he hesitated, wondering how much she knew of her father’s work.

  She glanced at him, away quickly, her hands tightening around the rail. “My father was involved in work he found shameful but necessary.”

  Finding he’d be giving away no secrets, Frederick nodded. “I know. Spying is not a gentlemanly endeavor. Luckily for myself, I was not much of a gentleman to begin with. I was, you see, a counterspy in England for most of the war. Very occasionally I was sent abroad.”

  Through Sir Frederick’s mind passed the cynical thought that it was unusual for him to feel the need to justify his existence in anyone’s eyes. It was, he decided, just one more indication Miss Cole meant a great deal to him.

  After a moment he continued. “It was a great loss when your father died, Miss Cole. He may not have approved of the coordination efforts he ran so beautifully, but he did it very well, and it was a much needed skill. I know of no one who could keep so many reins running smoothly, keep them untangled and doing their proper work.”

  Harriet brushed aside her wind-tossed scarf so she could stare at him. “I had not thought you were engaged in the war effort,” she said.

  “No man ... or woman ... is a flat two dimensional animal. We all have many facets to our souls, Miss Cole.” Frederick spoke dryly. He stared at her, wondering at her thoughts.

  Again she flicked a look his way. “I’ve painted you all black, have I not?”

  “I wish I knew why. I can’t have insulted you personally since we hadn’t met before this adventure threw us together—” his brows flew together at the wry smile his words induced “—or had we?”

  “Once. Long ago.”

  “Not in Lisbon. Nor in Vienna. I went nowhere where I’d be seen and recognized during either of those brief visits. So where? When?”

  “In London,” she admitted after a struggle to remain silent. “Nearly eight years ago.”

  “You’d have been very young.”

  “I was eighteen and reluctantly enduring a season.”

  Frederick thought back, but could no longer separate one season from another during that period of his life. “Perhaps I hurt some friend of yours?” he asked cautiously. “Surely I’d recognize you if we had been introduced.”

  “We were introduced,” she said, “You, however, were much preoccupied with another young lady and, I think, never heard my name. At least you called me by several different versions before our dance was finished.”

  “We danced?” He turned to stare at her. “Why don’t I remember?”

  “As I said, there was another lady, a very beautiful young lady. She was dancing in the next set.”

  Sir Frederick closed his eyes. He pulled in a long breath and let it go slowly. “I see. You are a woman scorned and not about to give an inch now we’ve met again.”

  “No. I’ve no wish for revenge. I had that—although you were unaware.” His mobile eyebrow rose, silently asking a question. “I made a May-game of you while we danced,” she explained. “It was the most enjoyable set of my whole miserable experience in London. I laughed about it for months.” When he asked how she’d done so, a twinkling eye telling her he’d not hold it against her, she described her small revenge. She finished, “Then I suggested the new steam engine might someday replace sail.”

  “I hope I agreed to that. It will, you know.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “No.”

  Sir Frederick explained why he believed it true. Harriet argued. He responded. Their discussion passed to other things and, slowly, but without their noticing, well over an hour passed. The moon peeked from between scudding clouds and Sir Frederick looked around. Yves lay on still another chair, wrapped tightly in a warm rug. Madame and Françoise slept uneasily. So did Cob.

  Farther along the railing stood a scowling stranger who occasionally glanced their way. Sir Frederick eyed him thoughtfully. Then he looked to where a sailor stood, arms folded, one knee bent and his foot steadying his bulky body as he leaned back against the superstructure. The captain had ordered that huge man to guard this party and the man was unquestioningly following orders. Frederick relaxed.

  “As much as I’m enjoying our conversation, Miss Cole, I think you should rest. You will be called when we reach Dover. Tomorrow, if Madame is able, we’ll travel on to London.”

  “You’ve arranged transport?”

  “So I hope. I’d no notion I’d have passengers when I first sent a message to my friend, but, if Lord Halford is in London, he will have purchased a team and carriage for me. It will be waiting in Dover. If he has failed me, then I’ll hire a post chaise. You ladies may have the coach and Monsieur de Bartigues and I will ride.” Frederick frowned. “I still do not like the notion that you’ll arrive in London under my care.”

  “Once in London you may leave us. I believe Madame intends hiring a suite at the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly. From there she will contact Lord Crawford.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Crawford.”

  “Crawford! But he can’t be Françoise’s grand
father. He has no grandchildren.”

  “There was a family argument when his daughter wished to marry Frani’s father. He disinherited her when she eloped.”

  “Impossible. His daughter drowned nearly twenty years ago. I remember it well. There is a memorial plaque in the castle chapel.”

  Harriet turned to lean back against the rail, eyed him. “How do you know so much?”

  Frederick’s grim expression softened. “Because, my suspicious one, she was my favorite cousin, one of the few females in the world I actually liked. I was devastated when she drowned.”

  “Your cousin? I’m sorry that I must tell you Lord Crawford lied. She died only five years ago.”

  Sir Frederick fell silent, staring over the phosphorescent tipped waves. “How could he have done such a thing? She was the old man’s only offspring. Or she was when I left England last spring.” He forced a chuckle. “I’ve been gone just long enough that it is possible his new wife has given him another. He remarried not long before I left, you see.”

  “Oh dear. I wonder if his wife will welcome Françoise.”

  “She will not.”

  “You sound very sure of that.”

  “I am. The woman my uncle married is a most vicious woman. She will be jealous of Mademoiselle Françoise’s beauty and still more jealous of her youth. Poor Cressida.”

  “Why do you call her so? She married a rich man by her own choice, I presume.”

  “And expected to honeymoon in Paris before returning to London where she hoped to live the lifestyle to which she’s always aspired. My uncle had concocted quite other plans after delving into her history. He took her to an island off the Scottish coast. A nearly deserted island with an old, uncomfortable and drafty castle. There he meant to keep her until she was pregna—er, I mean to say, increasing.”

  “Oh, the poor lady.”

  “She would be given a choice, my uncle informed me: give up society, the balls and whatnot and, I must add, the gaming tables, which she loves well—or agree to bear her new husband an heir. She will have had a hard choice since child-bearing is something she’s feared and carefully avoided.”

  “So, you may have been cut from his will?”

  “It is no longer important.” Again he felt that uncharacteristic need to explain himself. “Odd as it seems, while in Florence I did an old woman a good turn. She died soon after, and I found she’d left me a fortune I didn’t know she possessed.” Sir Frederick frowned. This compulsion to explain himself to Miss Cole was ridiculous. He never explained himself to anyone!

  “A fairy tale ending,” she said lightly.

  “So one might say.” Sir Frederick turned away.

  When he didn’t turn back, she said, “Thank you for the conversation and company, Sir Frederick, but I’ve become a trifle chilled and will go down to my cabin for a time.”

  “I apologize, Miss Cole,” said Frederick, suddenly stiff and formal, angry with himself for thoughtlessly keeping her out in the wind. “I should not have kept you standing about for so long.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Harriet responded crossly, her features showing no expression, her mind a muddle of new impressions. Exasperated with herself, her tone was chilling when she continued, “If I had wished to go sooner I would have gone. It is still several hours until we reach Dover. Until then, Sir Frederick.”

  She swept away toward the stairs leading to the cabins and disappeared. Sir Frederick, a wary eye occasionally checking the comte’s man, found his mind wandering from one thing to another. Why, when he’d fallen in love with a pert minx like Elizabeth only a year earlier, should he so soon find himself far more deeply in love with an utterly different style of woman? Then there were the inconsistencies of women: why, when they’d enjoyed a long, interesting, and non-aggressive discussion, had Miss Cole shifted, there at the end, from newfound friend to the icy shrew she’d shown herself to be from the time of their odd introduction in Switzerland?

  Down in her cabin, snuggled under blankets, and finally warm and drowsy, Harriet wondered much the same thing. They’d been getting along so well. Why, when he’d done nothing more than apologize in that ridiculously stiff way for keeping her out in the cold, had she suddenly felt rejected and lonely? Someday, my girl, she told herself, you’ll lose your temper in the wrong situation and find yourself well and truly in the basket!

  On deck, Sir Frederick scanned the sky. A storm, a bad one according to the captain, was brewing in the North Sea. When it broke, traffic on the Channel would cease, travelers held in port possibly for days. That was well and good, assuming the storm broke before the morning packet left Calais! On the other hand, here and now, he wished to protect the women from the elements, and he hoped the rain held off until he had them settled at the Ship Inn, Which should have rooms reserved in his name. He’d give them to the women if Madame had not foreseen the need to reserve rooms and the place was overcrowded, as it often was when careful travelers waited for calm, clear weather.

  He frowned toward where Madame lay. Her color was bad and there was a blueness around her mouth he didn’t like. She needed rest, but most of all, she needed freedom from worry. Would she find that once she’d handed Françoise into his uncle’s protection? Or would she discover that Crawford’s new wife was nearly as much a danger as the comte? Frederick sighed, wishing there were a simple answer.

  Dover’s famous white cliffs were visible now, ghostly pale in the skittish moonlight, the moon showing itself less and less often as the cloud cover worsened. They’d have been within sight of those cliffs some time ago if it were daytime and the sun shone on them. He cast another wary glance toward the billowing clouds whipping across the sky and prayed there would be time to disembark before the heavy-bottomed harbingers of the coming storm opened up and soaked the world.

  He looked ahead, his hands on the rail. At least here, in Dover, they would not have to transfer to small boats and be rowed in. there would be a gangplank down which they could walk and a hack or chairs in which the women could ride to the hotel. His grip tightened as he heard soft steps behind him, but he didn’t turn his head. Had he, carelessly, at the last moment, given the comte’s murderer a chance at him?

  “Sir Frederick?’’

  He relaxed at Harriet’s tentative question. “I was about to send for you. Did you rest, Miss Cole?”

  “Yes. Will it be long now?”

  “I believe something less than half an hour. There,” he pointed, “See? England awaits us.”

  “What a busy port even now, at night.”

  “Hmmm.”

  They reached simultaneously for Harriet’s scarf which blew across his face. Their hands met. Holding both her fingers and the soft material, Frederick turned. “Are you looking forward to being in London again, Miss Cole?”

  Harriet’s fingers trembled. His words were courteous, perfectly polite, but the gentle pressure of his hand and the warmth in his eyes were saying something different. She searched his face, barely hearing her own voice respond with a quiet negative. “I was not happy in London. I have no fond memories of my one and only stay there.”

  “It will be different this time, Miss Cole.”

  “How will it be different?”

  “You are older, for one thing.”

  She nodded. “And little better than a servant for another.”

  His hand tightened around hers. “You are much more than a servant!”

  Harriet looked away, refused to respond to such a silly comment.

  Sir Frederick sighed softly, but changed the subject to one she’d deem less controversial. “I have had an idea I believe will satisfy any fears you have about putting up at another hotel—even one so well run as the Pulteney. It should satisfy Madame as well. It will take time to contact my uncle who rarely visits London and is unlikely to be there when we arrive, and I think it will be best if you visit his new wife’s brother. Lord Halford has a moderately large and well-situated London house. He may be told the whole
story of the comte’s persecution of Mademoiselle with no concern that he’ll add the story to the London gossip mill. He will be prepared to protect Mademoiselle Françoise. Most important of all, with the connection through his sister, who is married to Frani’s grandfather, no eyebrows will be raised, and we’ll avoid scandal.”

  “You mean we need not be tainted by our association with yourself.”

  “Exactly.”

  “A confirmed rake worrying about the reputation of a beautiful young girl! You are a strange man, Sir Frederick.”

  “Only to a mind as suspicious as your own. Perhaps it is because I have led the life of a rake I know the dangers surrounding women such as yourself and wish to circumvent them.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze questioning.

  “Oh, not myself,” she responded. “I am well and truly on the shelf, a confirmed ape leader. At six and twenty I’ve given up all hopes of attaining the married state, of course. Furthermore, I am a companion, a servant, as I have said. Again there is no reputation to protect. But, for Françoise, I thank you.”

  Frederick’s lips tightened. “Miss Cole, somewhere deep within that poise and strength and loyalty you exhibit, there is an insecure and unhappy woman. Bid her adieu. On the instant! You are lovely. You are intelligent. And you are not on the shelf.” He scowled down at her, his fingers tightening around hers and the scarf. “Do not waste your visit to London as if you were a desiccated and torpid old woman.”

  The color in Harriet’s cheeks, already rosy from the wind, deepened. She tugged at the hand she’d forgotten he held. “We are nearly arrived. I must see to our baggage since it will be beyond our poor maids to direct its unloading.”

  He sighed softly, knowing he’d failed once again to reach the woman inside the lovely creature he would have for his own. “Your maids will not believe it, of course, but tell them their suffering is about to end.” He watched as she moved gracefully along the deck which, since they’d entered the harbor as they spoke and into the protection it provided, no longer rose and plunged so dangerously.