A Reformed Rake (8 page)

Cob didn’t approve of Frederick’s long war against womankind and had told him so more than once. Frederick’s new behavior while on the continent had led Cob to believe his master had given up his old ways.

Ah well, thought Cob philosophically. One could never say it was boring serving Sir Frederick. He’d watch. And, if necessary, stick his bit in the pot and stir it up to keep his master out of deep trouble. Women. They were, thought Cob, the bane of male existence.

Some hours later Frederick, Yves, and their valets boarded the packet to England. Two entered the skiff that took them out to the anchored ship with a last look at the quay and a long satisfied look at each other. The same dark man who had followed them to the ticket office watched them go. Of the other two men boarding the packet, one, a thin Frenchman dressed in the sober black of the proper valet, entered the boat with trepidation, winning grins from the sailors loading piles of luggage into a second boat. The last, Cob, took his place stoically, not looking forward to the journey over the rough Channel, but longing to reach England and home. Cob had had enough of foreign lands to last him the rest of his life—although if Sir Fred were to say they were off again, then off he’d go.

Back at the inn the three women ordered two long-suffering maids this way and that, changing their minds a dozen times. The day lengthened as the harried servants packed and repacked. Maria mumbled and Petra grumbled at Madame’s unusual vacillation.

Finally, late in the afternoon, the maids raised their eyes to heaven in silent thanks, followed their ladies into a hired carriage and looked forward to a good meal at the hostelry to which they were headed. Neither had had time for more than a roll and a bite of cheese at midday and each felt they deserved a rest.

But what was this? There was no hotel in this direction. The maids, Maria and Petra, looked at one another and the brighter of the two suddenly grinned. Both women knew the troubles their youngest lady was having with Monsieur le Comte. A fine trick this. Another thought followed on the first and, the sisters’ minds, working alike, formed identical frowns on nearly identical brows. A fine trick
if
it worked.

Three large skiffs and attendant sailors awaited them. The luggage was bundled into two boats in a rather helter-skelter fashion and rowed away. The other waited for the five women.

Harriet was concerned. “Madame, it is not too late for you to change your mind.”

“I’ll not rest until Frani is under the protection of her grandfather.”

“Grand-mere, we are warned,
oui?
We can protect ourselves. You are ill.”

“I am not ill. I am merely worried. Come, child. Let the man help you into the boat.” Both young women watched as Frani’s grandmother was settled on a seat and wrapped warmly. “Well?” Aristocratic always, Madame’s arrogance was obvious as she asked the sailors, “For what do we wait?”

Harriet felt a warm pride in the strength and courage of the old woman.

They were transferred to the deck of the packet and, almost before their feet were firmly settled on the well-scrubbed planks, the anchor weighed and the boat moved out. Sir Frederick stepped forward, his eyes going to Harriet first, but she dropped her gaze immediately. He turned to Madame. “I have reserved two cabins for your party. Would you care to remove to one now?”

Madame grimaced. “No. I know how I am on water. I learned many years ago I do much better if I stay on deck.”

“It will be cold.”

“I will be warmly wrapped.”

“As you wish.” Sir Frederick moved away, found a sheltered corner on the lee side, and had a long deck chair placed there.

Soon Madame settled, her head leaning against the caned back, her eyes closed. Harriet hovered until her mistress opened one eye. “See to Françoise. After all we’ve endured I do not want the minx lost by falling overboard,” finished Madame caustically.

“Sir Frederick thinks we should go to a cabin, but I do not believe that notion will serve. Frani is exploring under Monsieur de Bartigues’ careful eye.”

“Ah.” Harriet noted a speculative gleam in Madame’s eyes. “Monsieur de Bartigues. What do you think of the man, Harriet?”

“He seems,” said Harriet slowly, “a proper enough soul—although I doubt that, given he is friends with Sir Frederick.”

“You will not give the baronet an inch, will you, even after all he has done for us?”

“I remember being told that he is always in need of money, and Frani is a wealthy young woman.”

“When did you hear tales of his need, Harri? You’ve never explained where you first learned of his reputation.”

“It was years ago,” said Harriet shortly.

“And—as I have said before to you—times change.” The stubborn young woman Madame had hired to help care for Frani pressed her lips together. That had been a lucky day, thought Madame, the day she’d decided to hire Harriet. “Sir Frederick appears to be in funds now,” she added to see what reaction that would raise.

“Yes. And if he is, I wonder how he got it,” was the caustic response.

Madame chuckled. “Suspicious wench. Ah well, time will tell.”

“Will you rest now?” asked Harriet, obviously glad that Madame seemed willing to drop the subject of Frederick Carrington. “You are warm enough?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Best of all, we are safely away. If the comte were aboard, Sir Frederick would know. He’d have told us. We are, for a time, free from the man.”

The packet moved out of the harbor, slicing through waves that to Harriet’s eyes seemed large and dangerous but the sailors’ behavior seemed calm enough. The deck of the ship rose and fell, rose and fell, as it plowed through the huge swells. She saw Madame’s hand go to her stomach, her eyes close tightly and a frown appear.

Harriet, worried, asked, “Are you all right?”

“No of course I am not all right. I’ll not be right until we reach Dover,” said Madame crossly. “Do go away, Harriet, and let me survive this in my own way. See to the others.”

Feeling sympathy for the brave woman, Harriet was, nevertheless, glad she herself did not suffer from
mal de mer.
She started forward, but found the rest of their party approaching. Françoise, she thought, noting the girl’s set mouth and trembling limbs, was not to be so lucky. The girl leaned heavily on Yves’ arm.

“I will help her to our cabin,” said Harriet, perceiving that the crossing was going to be an exceedingly unpleasant experience since she’d spend all her time tending to the sick girl.

“No,” contradicted Sir Frederick. “I’ve asked that another chair be placed near her grandmother’s. She will, believe me, do better on deck in the fresh air.”

“She will be embarrassed if...”

“But far less ill even if she is to, er, shoot the cat,” he interrupted before she could find a polite way of finishing her sentence. He added in a soothing tone, “Please, Miss Cole, I know what I say.”

Half an hour later Françoise told Harriet in a cross voice to stop hovering. “If Grand-mere can survive without complaint, so may I,” she said.

With that the girl closed her eyes tightly, her mouth firmed. She would say no more. Harriet, looking from one sufferer to the other, frowned. She hesitated to leave them and finally moved no farther away than to the nearby ship’s rail.

Sir Frederick joined her there. “I have checked on your maids, Miss Cole.”

“And?”

“I was told to go away.” He grinned. “So far, we have two women under the weather, two very ill, who will not believe they’ll be better off on deck, and a valet who, between sieges, swears he’ll die—and that if he does
not
he’ll believe the good lord is punishing him for sins he cannot remember! The rest of us are managing quite well.”

“You neglect another.
Your own
valet is also suffering. He says, however, that he will not succumb.” She noted Sir Frederick’s swift frowning glance toward Cob. “You were unaware?”

“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.”