Authors: Jeanne Savery
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 dressed 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 the 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.
“Exactly.” He grinned as if she were a prize student.
Her voice sharp she said, “I am not stupid, Sir Frederick.”
“No. Most certainly,” he said softly, “you are not stupid.”
For a moment tension seemed to grow between them. With great effort Harriet pulled her gaze from his and turned back up the path. She must
not
allow her feelings to soften. She must
not
forget the sort of man he was.
Harriet picked up the gun and turned toward the targets. Again she raised her arm. Carefully she sighted toward the left. She shot—and nothing happened. She pulled the trigger again. She sighed. With a faintly rueful look at Sir Frederick, she muttered, “And I just said I am not stupid!”
He chuckled. Soon Harriet laughed as well. He took the gun from her. Harriet watched his hands as he deftly loaded it. Such long-fingered, strong-looking hands.
He’d make a pianist,
she thought. She glanced at her own long fingered hands and suddenly yearned for a piano on which to play out the emotions she could seem to control no other way. The piano had been her salvation when her parents died. Now she needed it again, but for very different emotions.