A Reformed Rake (28 page)

“It’ll be all right, Harriet,” he whispered into her hair.

“How can it be?” she mumbled into his coat.

Joanna, guessing at the half-heard exchange, said, “Frederick is correct. A nine day wonder at most, Harriet.”

“But what am I to
do
?”

“I still think she gives a questioner a look of blank incomprehension,” said Jo.

Frederick grimaced. “Do you think she’ll get away with that when she meets Tom Moore or Lord Winthrop?”

“When would she ever meet Moore?” For the moment, Joanna ignored Frederick’s reference to the poet.

“I had a note from him this morning. He requests an introduction—and promises he’ll not have drunk a drop. Last night, you see, I was told he wished to meet Harriet. I said I saw no reason why he should not—assuming he was sober. Word must have traveled like the wind to have reached him so quickly.”

“And Winthrop?”

“He was Moore’s petitioner. He, too, wishes to meet the new rising star upon London’s literary firmament.”

“He can’t have said that!” said Harriet, raising her head to look up at Frederick.

He smiled at her, glad to see she wasn’t totally downcast. “He said exactly that. It’s the way he always talks about literature, you see.”

“Surely not.”

“Oh,” said Joanna, “but he does. What a delightful subject for your viciously wicked pen, love.”

Harriet stiffened. “I’ll never write anything like that ever again,” she insisted.

“Have you seen them?” Jo asked Frederick.

“Not yet.”

Jo shuffled through the pages and found the one describing Frederick. With a grin, she handed it to him. He skimmed it, his cheeks reddening, looked down at Harriet’s pale gold head with a rueful expression in his dark eyes and handed the page back to Jo. “Something else, perhaps? I don’t think I quite properly appreciate that one!”

Harriet pulled away, startled from her preoccupation by his tone. She looked up at him, looked at Jo, looked at the thin sheaf of pages her friend held. She extended a hand. “Give those to me!”

“So that you can burn them? It will do no good. There are a dozen copies, at least, floating about London—and perhaps still more, moving, via the Royal Mails, to every corner of the land.”

“That need not be another. Give it to me, Jo.”

“No, Your Grace” said Frederick, “give it to
me.
I don’t wish to be put to the bother of tracking down another copy so that I may see if there is anything of too damaging a nature. If there is, then we’ll have to think of some means of defusing it.”

Jo handed them over, and Frederick slipped the roll into a pocket in his coattails. Harriet watched them disappear, still wistfully wishing she might burn them. She remembered what had been written about Frederick. It was the least accurate portrait of them all. Her hurt that he hadn’t bothered to hear her name properly, complicated by her infatuation, had colored her words, distorting reality far beyond what was allowed a proper satirist.

Jo broke the silence, asking quietly, “Can anything be done if she’s libelled someone?”

“Oh dear. Perhaps someone will sue!” suggested Harriet, a new fear rearing up to plague her.

“I doubt anyone would go so far. It would only make more of what is surely only a tempest in a teapot,” soothed Jo.

“Only time will tell, but I, too, doubt anyone would be so foolish as to draw attention to what they must hope may soon be forgotten. Harriet, you are still tired, are you not? I think perhaps you should rest again today.”

“Perhaps I will.” Harriet looked longingly at her bed. To cower down under the covers seemed a delightful escape from her problems. It had been one thing after another for months now. Firstly, Françoise’s irritating suitor had become an acute problem and, because of him, Madame was made ill. Then, her stupid feelings for Sir Frederick had settled into a constant nagging ache to plague her. Her playing in public had become an issue, one she’d lost, and, now, her ridiculous scribbles had come to light to haunt her. She wondered what would happen next to bedevil her.

Harriet returned to invalid status and had two full days of peace. She rose early the third morning feeling very much more herself and wondered why she had played the fool for so long.

“It is merely that when one is not feeling well, things are blown all out of proportion,” said Madame as she and Harriet drank their morning coffee together. “Now you are well again, and I am thankful. I should not have asked that you accompany Françoise out to that river cottage place. I should not have done so because you had been so recently ill, but I am very glad I did, if you had not been there, Harriet, Françoise would have been lost to us.”

“I think I had a relapse that day—and then that stupid satire.” Harriet shook her head. “Who can have found it and why?”

“Do you truly not know?” asked Madame, and Harriet met her gaze, her look questioning. “But that has been obvious from the beginning,
that.
Her precious ladyship, Françoise’s new grandmother, dislikes the both of you intensely. She dared do nothing to harm Frani. Therefore, she did what she could to harm you. I suspect she searched your box to find love letters or some incriminating document of that ilk. What she found was—or so she thought—much much better.”

“Joanna tells me it will be nothing but a nine days wonder. Three of those nine have passed,” said Harriet with a certain dryness. “Do you think I might remain ill for another six? Just think, it would all be forgotten, and I might forget it as well.”

“I believe the nine must be passed where the
ton
may at least see you if not speak with you. They will only postpone their curiosity until you do appear, so playing least-in-sight is not the answer.” Madame straightened. “Today I would enjoy a ride in the Park. Her Grace will join us, of course, and, I think, Lady Cowper? She is very grateful that you played for her musical, and she owes you a service in return, does she not? I will write her a note requesting her company.”

“You think to surround me with respectable women and hope that will take the sharp edges off the curiosity?”

“Something of the sort,” admitted Madame la Comtesse. “It will not hurt you to be seen with one of the patronesses, and you did not say anything about Lady Cowper so she’ll wish you no harm.”

“It would be better if I could be seen in the company of one I
had
harmed,” murmured Harriet.

“What? One you’ve harmed? But you’ve harmed no one. Me, I have read your words, you see. They are quite humorous, I think.”

“I should never have written any of it. When we were in Calais I thought of them for the first time in years. I remember thinking that I should find and destroy them—and then I went to sleep and forgot them again. How much trouble could have been saved if I had not!”

“What is done is done. Bring me my traveling writing desk, my dear. I must write notes to Her Grace and to Lady Cowper.”

“And then you must convince me that it is truly best for me to be seen in public. I’ve thought that perhaps I should return to the continent. I am certain that among your acquaintances there is
one
whom you might convince that, if they would only hire me, I would become an indispensable member of their staff.”

“Nonsense. You are an indispensable member of
my
staff, and I cannot part with you. Instead, we must see this threat of scandal is scotched—is that correct, scotched?”

“Yes. I cannot think where the expression comes from, though. I wonder ... from scorched, perhaps? Or scratched? Or the mixing of both?”

“While you wonder, Harriet, retrieve for me my desk!”

The carriage ride was difficult for Harriet, but Madame had been correct that she must be seen. To be seen in such company did her no harm, of course. No one spoke to Harriet about her writing except for Lady Cowper—who made one pouting comment that she felt slighted:
she
was not included among those about whom Harriet had written! No one
spoke,
but, again and again, Harriet felt the speculative looks turned her way. She flushed so often she was certain her cheeks would be permanently reddened.

Frederick drove in the park that day, warned by Jo that Harriet would be making an appearance. He’d debated whether it would do Harriet harm or good to be seen driving with him. Associating with him might cause worse gossip, thereby driving out the old, or it might rouse simple curiosity which would either dilute the tattle about her scribbling or stir it higher. Either seemed desirable to him.

Chester was the first to sight the barouche in which the women rode. “There’s that long meg you favor so much,” he grumbled.

“Where?” Frederick craned his neck.

“Just turning down by the Serpentine. And there’s that man in black you had me followin’.” Chester said the last in tones of deep disgust. “I still don’t see how that jessamy slipped my leash.”

“You’ve seen the man I set you onto? The one you lost?”

“Don’t go rabbin’ my nose in it, gov. Don’t know how the cove came to lose me that way. Haven’t felt the same since,” added Chester. “Must be losin’ me touch. Gettin’ old, maybe...”

Since Chester was very likely barely into his twenties, Frederick ignored his tiger’s grumbles. “I’d still like to know where he reports and where the man to whom he reports lives!”

Chester’s head came up, his long nose twitching. “I’ll try again.”

“No, you must have been spotted—no matter how difficult that is to believe.” Chester immediately preened at the compliment. “Find a boy to follow him,” suggested Frederick after a moment’s thought, “because, if he
has
noticed you once, he’ll have an eye out for you. So just follow him out whatever gate he leaves by and then set a likely looking lad on his tail.”

“Right you are, gov.” Chester dropped off the back of Frederick’s rig, moving off in the opposite direction from where the comte’s man stood.

Frederick put Chester and the enemy from his mind. Using all his skill to guide his team through the press of traffic, he came up with Madame and her party. Once there, he realized he should have ridden, that without Chester, he had no way of leaving his team so that he might join the women in their carriage. Sighing, he set his horses to pace alongside Madame’s, and for a few moments made light conversation with the ladies. When one of the
ton’s
more notorious gossips rode up to greet Lady Cowper, Frederick spoke a trifle loudly. “Miss Cole? I’d hoped you might come driving with me today but reached Halford House only to discover you’d already gone. May I have the pleasure tomorrow—assuming the weather continues good?”

Harriet looked first to Madame, then to Jo, and finally at Lady Cowper, who smiled at her. She looked back to Frederick and nodded.

He too smiled. “I shall look forward to it,” he said gently, nodded to the others and drove off.

So the next day Harriet rode with Sir Frederick. Some of the riders who approached his phaeton were not so reticent as had been the case the day before, and Harriet relied a great deal on Frederick to see her through the ordeal. She sighed in relief when he said it was time they return to Halford House—but the relief instantly turned to horror when he added, “After all, Harriet, you’ll need time to prepare for Major Morningside’s ball this evening, will you not?”

At breakfast Harriet had told everyone she was
not
going to the ball. She repeated her determination to remain at home to Frederick.

“Nonsense. Things are going very well as you would know if you had more experience. You must be seen, my love. Hold up your head, and all will go well. Hide or show fear, and the vultures will peck out your eyes. I’ll come early and escort you ladies.”

“I believe Lord Halford attends with Elizabeth.”

“Very good. I’ll have company, then, while propping up the walls, will I not?”

“Why should you prop the walls,” she asked suspiciously.

“Because you will be besieged with requests for dances and I’ve no desire to stand up with anyone but you.” Her cheeks glowed. He flicked one with a finger. “I like it when I achieve a blush in your cheek. I don’t think many can achieve such a coup, and it gives me hope you feel more for me than you’ll allow yourself to admit.” Again he touched her cheek in that especially tender way he had. “Perhaps one of these days, I’ll simply buy a special license and abduct you. That should solve all problems quite neatly.”

“As it did when you abducted Elizabeth?” asked Harriet with sudden sweetness.

Frederick flicked a look sideways. It was his turn to feel his ears heat and a flush redden his cheekbones. “That turned the tables quite neatly, did it not?” he asked.

“If you mean I managed to embarrass you for a change instead of you embarrassing me, then I suppose it did.”

“You are correct, of course, that it did not answer with Elizabeth—for which I thank my lucky stars. Besides, one should not repeat oneself. Repetition makes of one a bore. So I guess it will have to be Saint George, Hanover Square, after all. Now there’s an interesting social problem: living right there on the square, as you do, will you, my bride, call out a carriage to carry you to church, or will you walk the few yards required to reach its portals?”