A Reformed Rake (18 page)

“We were not introduced earlier, Sir Frederick, and yes, we have just had a very disturbing conversation.”

“Care to discuss it?”

She looked at him, met his eyes which watched her kindly. “He tells me he is a relative, but I don’t remember my father speaking of him.”

“Markem is the last of his particular line and related to your mother’s family, I believe. He went off to India at an age when most men are thinking of settling down to a quiet and peaceful middle age. He returned a few years ago, but doesn’t much care for society, I understand, and is not well known.”

“I wonder how Elizabeth knew of him.”

“Not Elizabeth. Robert. I believe they’ve had some business dealings. You didn’t know he was related to you, Harriet?”

“No. Except that he tells me so, I still don’t know it!”

“Ah. But you must cozy up to the old gentleman and butter him up and get yourself into his will. Even if he left you only a pittance, a pittance of
his
wealth would be a fortune to those who have none at all.”

“Frederick, you are not serious.” She stared at him. “I
could
not do as you suggest ... Ah you are bamming me again. I wish you would not jest so.”

He chuckled. “You wish no such thing. But, since I know you could not become a toady and bow and scrape even to win yourself a fortune, I’ll admit I was teasing you. You’ve the least sense of self-interest of any woman I’ve ever met. Ah. I believe this interminable meal nears its end. Yes. Lady Elizabeth has risen.” Frederick, too, rose to his feet, helped Harriet to hers. “We’ll not sit long at our port, my dear—or so Robert informed me earlier.”

Harriet followed the women, her mind dazed by what had just passed. Markem a relative? Markem a
rich
relative? Would he really leave her something in his will as he’d suggested? Not that she wished him ill, but he was not young. Five years? Ten? Oh, no, she must not think of such things! Besides, perhaps the old man was merely talking and hadn’t meant a word of it—or like many older people, meant it when he said it, but would forget before tomorrow came. She must not count her chickens. And
he
said he was not rich—whatever Frederick and the world believed. So, even if he did leave her something, it might not be enough to live on. Harriet pushed the whole disturbing conversation from her mind.

One of the young ladies moved to the pianoforte and Elizabeth spent some moments with her sorting through the music. When the candles had been moved to just the right position and another stool found which pleased the lady better, Elizabeth came to sit beside Harriet. “I can’t recall. Were you introduced to Mr. Markem before dinner?”

“No. We introduced ourselves.”

“I noticed you had a long conversation with him there at the end,” said Elizabeth.

Harriet ignored the question Elizabeth was too polite to ask, and said, merely, “Yes. A most confusing conversation. Shush. Lady Mary is ready to play.”

It was torture. Harriet loved music. She’d begun training at her mother’s knee, but, when it became obvious she had at least a modicum of talent along with much enthusiasm, the Coles provided her with professional tutelage. Her music was another thing the chaperon, during her one season, had ignored, being totally unmusical herself and preferring to believe young ladies should not be encouraged to make fools of themselves. While in London, Harriet had practiced only when the lady napped or was out.

The men arrived and Lady Mary immediately began a long and painful rendition of a piano adaptation of Handel’s
Water Music.
Sir Frederick moved to stand behind Harriet’s chair. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “She should have been drowned at birth. Or a new law should be passed adding the murder of music to the overly long list of offenses punishable by hanging or transportation. I believe there are well over a hundred such on the books so another would surely be a mere bagatelle. The wince I saw you give as we entered, suggests you agree with me.”

Harriet stifled a giggle. “Do you enjoy music, Sir Frederick?” she asked once she was sure she could do so without laughing.

“Yes. But
that
is not music. I will get tickets for the opera and we will attend a newly mounted performance of Mozart’s
Magic Flute.
Would you like that?”

“Of all things, but I do not think Françoise should be seen in such a public place. Society parties are one thing, but the Opera—oh,
anyone
may go there who has the price of admission.”

“I do not believe,” said Sir Frederick pensively, “I said anything about inviting Mademoiselle Françoise. I shall make up a party with Pierce and Lady Jo.”

Harriet did not know how to answer. “We must be still.”

Indeed, several persons had noted the whispered conversation, and Harriet was quite certain rumors would circulate the
ton
at the earliest possible moment: Sir Frederick had new prey in mind which was of a surprising, perhaps one might say, incomprehensible sort. They would be watched wherever they were seen together and gossiped about.

Harriet wondered if perhaps Elizabeth
could
convince her lord to take Françoise out of London as she’d once suggested and away from all the eyes and ears and wagging tongues. The notion that Frederick was making her an object of gossip hurt. But there was nothing she could do. Honesty made her add an unpalatable truth: there was little she wanted to do. Sir Frederick had some magic about him that made fools of the women toward whom he turned his attentions, and she was no exception. She sighed.

Lady Mary was diplomatically forced to give up her place to another and, when that young lady had sung a ballad in a rather shrill voice, Françoise took her place. Frani, knowing her skill was minor, played and sang two charming folk songs, one in Italian and the other in German. Few in the room understood the words, but most enjoyed the light-hearted music—especially after suffering Lady Mary’s stilted playing and the attempt at song which had followed. When she finished, Françoise gestured toward Harriet. “If you wish to hear something really special, Miss Cole will oblige you, I’m sure.”

Harriet glared at an unrepentant Frani, glanced toward Elizabeth who nodded, toward Joanna who moved to join her and urge her to the instrument. “I remember how well you played in Portugal, Harriet, and I suspect you continued your training in Vienna. Please play for us.”

Harriet looked at Sir Frederick and noted the speculative tilt of his head. Suddenly determined to show him she was not totally without the skills thought necessary for young ladies in the
ton,
she rose and went to the keyboard. She thought a moment and then, setting her fingers to the keys, moved into the first movement of one of Herr van Beethoven’s newer pieces. The man’s work was only beginning to be known in England, but it had been very popular in Vienna. Harriet’s skill was such that silence descended around her. Even those who usually forced themselves to politely endure music, found their emotions touched by the power and verve of Harriet’s performance.

Hands clapped, bringing Harriet out of the almost trance-like state into which she always passed while playing. She blinked, looked up to see Sir Frederick leaning on the piano and staring at her, his pride in her obvious for all to see. She blushed, dipped her head to stare at her hands.

“Harri, play one of your own. That thing you call
Dance of the Elves,
maybe,” suggested Frani.

Harriet sent Françoise a look which would have singed her if the girl had not been armored behind a smug satisfaction at the impression her companion had made on Lady Elizabeth’s friends.

“Do play it for us, Harriet.” Joanna moved to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know how modest you are and that you prefer to hide your light under a bushel, but indulge us. Please.”

Harriet firmed her lips, looked around the room where—except for Lady Mary who pouted, her nose quite out of joint by the nearly professional performance they’d just heard—the guests nodded encouragement. She looked up at Sir Frederick. He, too, nodded. She sighed and, beginning softly, a few light dancing notes floated into the air. They became the theme underlying the more complicated movements, as she played Françoise’s favorite of the pieces she had composed for her own enjoyment. Harriet finished and refused to play any more.

“Wonderful,” said Lady Cowper, “It is always most agreeable when a new musician joins the ranks of the
ton.
We will hear you again soon, Miss Cole, if I have anything to say about it.”

Harriet did her best to fade into the background during the rest of the evening. She had one more brief conversation with her newfound cousin, but he said no more about adding her to his will and she was glad. She found his references to India interesting and was pleased when he invited her to come see his treasures. He said he would send her an invitation soon and took his leave. Others followed him and soon only the Mertons, the Restons, Yves, and Sir Frederick remained in the drawing room with Françoise and Harriet.

“Well, I think that went off all right. Did you talk to Lady Cowper, Frani?” asked Elizabeth, accepting one last glass of wine from the butler who carried a tray around to the drastically reduced number of people.

“She was very nice. She talked about my mother.” Memories were dampening the girl’s eyes. “It’s good to know someone who remembers her.”

“Your grandfather remembers her.
I
remember her.” Sir Frederick took snuff, brushed a few minuscule grains from his lapels. “We do not count as her friends?”

“You are not female, Sir Frederick.”

“No.” He grinned a quick flashing grin. “No, I most definitely am not female. Does that make a difference?”

“Yes,” said Françoise, refusing to let his teasing change her mood, “I believe it does.”

“I understand you, I think,” said Joanna. “Lady Cowper remembers the things important to a daughter, what she wore at her come-out and so on. Do not let the men tease you, Mademoiselle. You are right to appreciate someone who can recall those things your mother would have told you if she were here now and introducing you to the
ton
.”

“
Exactement.
She did tell me about my mother’s introduction, the ball and what she wore. That sort of thing. Oh, I wish she were here!”

Near tears, Françoise looked at Harriet who went immediately to her side. “Come, love. I believe it is time we retired. We’re not used to such late hours. Say good night to the company, Frani, and we’ll go up now.”

Sir Frederick managed a few more words with his illusive love. “The opera? You will come if I arrange it?”

She hesitated, glanced toward Joanna who was speaking to Robert. “Yes. If Joanna will chaperon me, I would love to hear the opera once again.”

“Good.” He smiled at her and reached for her hand. “You see, Harriet? We find more and more reasons why we’d make a good couple. A mutual love of music is a lifelong bond, is it not?”

“Do you play, Sir Frederick?”

A flush reddened his cheekbones and he glanced around, bent near to her. “It is my darkest secret. You mustn’t tell a soul: I inherited a violin from my grandfather. I manage to squeak out a tune now and then. But do not allow word to get around. It is a strangely unmasculine talent in this modern era.”

“You are serious!”

“More or less. I’m not ashamed of it. I merely do not advertise it.”

“We will attempt a duet someday soon.”

“Yes. I would like that, Harriet.”

She studied his bland features, nodded hesitantly, wondering at her impulsive invitation. But music was something which interested her deeply. She’d trained under some of the best European talent during her years on the continent. Music had, often, soothed the pain of the loss of her parents, soothed her when her situation as a servant became personally painful however kind and generous her employer and however much she loved Françoise.

Music. Sir Frederick, the ultimate rake, was musical? Would wonders never cease?

“You wanted to see me, Betty?” said Sir Frederick somewhat later that evening after a fast ride into Chelsea.

“You took your sweet time getting here, Freddy m’ boy.”

“Betty, I’m tired and it is, as you intimate, late. It is a long ride to Chelsea when I looked forward to my bed. Why the desperate sounding summons I found upon my return to my rooms tonight? Have you encountered problems? Has that Frenchie been bothering you?”

“Not directly.” The young woman took a turn around her small parlor, stopped before the fireplace where she knew the light would shine through her peignoir. She pulled a tress of hair forward and played with it. “I suddenly discovered a flaw in our agreement, Freddy. That’s all.” She looked up at him from under her lashes.

Frederick studied the stance, the beckoning expression, of the former demimondaine. He thought of pretending he didn’t understand but decided it wasn’t worth it. “I thought you’d retired, my girl,” he said.

“Ah. That merely means I can pick and choose. But how can I choose when I must play the part of an innocent young lady?” She pouted. “A houseful of women does not agree with me, m’buck.”