A Reformed Rake by Jeanne Savery Page B

experience had soured the lad, changed him into something close to a true woman-hater.
    Then there’d been the danger they’d endured during the war—which had been both a good time and a bad. It had certainly been hard keeping his tongue between his teeth when, drinking with his colleagues, they’d sneered at Frederick’s self-proclaimed cowardliness!
    More recently, there’d been that frisky miss who had, Cob believed, touched Frederick’s heart. That minx had almost got him, thought Cob, and wondered what had gone wrong. Something had. That slyboots, Chester, Frederick’s young tiger, had gone around smirking for weeks before Sir Frederick left England so precipitously. During those months preceding their flight, Frederick had swung wildly from mood to mood—until, early one morning, that dreadful message arrived from Dover that Cob was to pack for an extended tour of the Continent, that they were off to Paris.
    Ol’ slyboots had had to find himself a new job, thought Cob, which was the only satisfaction he’d gotten from the move.
    So. Now they were going home. Cob glanced to where his master still stared out the window. The mood had changed again, but Cob couldn’t yet tell if it were for the better—although, how could it not be? Inheriting all that money from that old bat in Florence had surprised Frederick more than anyone.
    Cob recalled the day he’d followed his master to the cemetery where she’d been interred. Cob had waited for nearly an hour as Frederick stood before the ornate tomb complete with marble cherubs and laurel leaf swags. Frederick had stared at it, his body rigid with an emotion Cob had been unable to read.
    But the money. The money would come in handy—if Sir Fred didn’t lose it at tables or turf. There had never been enough money—although Frederick had always managed, one way or another, to have the best. What plans had his master laid now that he was rich? He’d mentioned they’d return first to London where he must consult with his man of business—likely to see to the mortgages, thought Cob—and then they’d go on to the old estate where they’d stay awhile, Sir Fred had said.
    But that decision was made before Sir Fred had his first run-in with the evil Frenchy, before he’d taken on responsibility for Madame’s party. Cob sniffed. The young one was just such a one as Frederick had run after in his search for revenge on fickle petticoats. Was he after this one?
    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