Tender the Storm (17 page)

"Where does he take you?"
persisted
Francoise.

"Today,
he took me to
Gunters
."

"
Gunters
?"

"In Berkeley Square.
Number 7, to be precise.
It's a pastry shop and teahouse and sells the most delectably Savored ices. The marquess bought me one."

"You ate an ice in the middle of winter?"

Zoë dimpled. "I assure you,
Francoise,
the English set no store by the vagaries of their climate. The place was packed to the gunnels. The marquess ordered two ices for
himself
."

A small frown pleated Francoise's brow. "What is he up to?"

Zoë made no response to this moot question. From his lordship's conversation and manner, she very much feared that, if it were possible, he would adopt her and send her to the country to live with his nieces. But she had no wish to confide this mortifying intelligence to her friend, or to anyone, for that matter.

In point of fact, Rolfe's reasons for taking up Zoë were by no means clear, even to himself. Roberta Ashton, with her show of jealousy for the girl, had first given him the notion. He would confound the designs of his erstwhile mistress, and those of the husband he had cuckolded, by demonstrating an interest in another lady. Within days, he knew that his ploy had
succeeded,
either that or Roberta Ashton's veiled threats had been empty ones. Already there was an on
dit
circulating that he had been supplanted in the lady's affections, if not her bed, and the imperturbable husband gave no evidence of being shaken from his habitual indifference to his wife's peccadilloes.

But in spite of escaping Roberta Ashton's coils, Rolfe continued in his attentions to Zoë. That others saw the girl as something more than a child at first amused him, but very soon after became a cause for concern. The girl was a mere fledgling and far from conversant with the ways of the world. Moreover, to all intents and purposes, she was
atone
, without male relatives to protect her. From the most disinterested of motives, Rolfe decided that since he was the one who had rescued the child from
France,
it fell to him to stand in the role of guardian to her.

"How many others have you brought out of France?"

The question came from Housard as both gentlemen took a rest from their labors. They were in Tinteniac's office in Whitehall, and had spent the morning, as had become their custom in the last little while, painstakingly sifting through a plethora
of reports on recent émigrés from France.

"What?" asked
Rolfe.
"Oh!
Scores of them.
Why do you ask?"

"Are you in the habit of finding the direction of those you've rescued?"

"Certainly not."
There was a twinkle in the Frenchman's eye Rolfe found mildly annoying.

"Why is Zoë different? Why do you bother with her?" asked Housard.

Having no clear idea of why, indeed, he persisted in his attentions to the chit, Rolfe said something vague about feeling responsible and
adroidy
changed the subject.

They had one lead on
La Compagnie —a.
printer who they hoped would not prove too difficult to track down. Not only had they come up with a comprehensive description of the man, but he had a red rose
tatooed
on the back of one hand.

"It shouldn't be too difficult to locate him," said Rolfe.

"We should get Tinteniac on to this with the list of his known contacts."

"Then what?"

"We wait. We observe. We move in for the kill, but only when he's led us to the others."

"That may take months."

"True. And time is something I cannot spare at the moment. I must return to France soon." When Rolfe said nothing in reply, his companion grinned and went on, "I leave you in charge of this operation, Rivard. It shouldn't be too strenuous for the next week or so. However, I hope you will keep me informed. Tinteniac knows how to reach me."

"Thank you," said Rolfe and tried to look as if he meant it.

Housard was right about one thing. There was nothing for Rolfe to do in the next week or two except read through reports. It was inevitable that his mind would turn to Zoë and the problem she presented.

He hit upon the happy solution of placing her with his own family, as governess to his young nieces. The girls had a nurse, but had yet to begin their education proper. When he broached the subject with Zoë, however, he found her chary of the suggestion.

"You're too kind," said Zoë. "But please don't put yourself about on my account. Madame Bertaut is hopeful that I may be comfortably settled as soon as may be."

Frowning faintly, Rolfe said, "I wish you would tell me why you would be more comfortable with strangers."

Zoë faltered and said a few incoherent words before she tactfully changed the subject.

Her reasons for refusing the
marquess's
offer of employment were her own, and were confided to no one. Zoë was setting a strong guard over her wayward heart. The marquess, for reasons known only to
himself
, was pleased, for the moment, to single her out. He took her up in his carriage. She was invited to parties where she strongly suspected that his lordship had inveigled an invitation for her. He was kindness itself. But he did not love her. His whole manner, his address, was demonstrably
unloverlike
. Nothing but misery could attend her accepting a position in his household where she must be thrown continually in his way. She loved him, but she was far too sensible a girl to hope for the impossible. And since her love was unrequited, Zoë had determined that her best course was to put some distance between herself and the object of her love.

"You won't reconsider . . . ?"

"I can't go against Madame
Bertaut's
wishes. Please, try to understand." Zoë tried to soften the refusal with a smile.

When Rolfe set her down at Gloucester Road, his manner was chilly.

"Shall . . . shall I see you soon?" asked Zoë, her resolve to put some distance between herself and the marquess faltering at the first test.

"My good girl, I am not the gentleman of leisure you seem to think me. I have business which will take me to Kent for some few days." And having delivered this
setdown
, Rolfe inclined his head gravely and instructed his groom to give his wheel horses their heads.

Later that same evening, as he played a few indifferent rubbers of piquet at his club in St. James, Rolfe was joined by a distant relation on his mother's side with whom he was on the friendliest terms.

The duke of Crewe was something under forty and had a brood of growing hopefuls which, to his friends' disgust, had become almost his sole topic of conversation. The seed of an idea germinated in Rolfe's
brain,
and by the time he and His Grace settled themselves in a quiet alcove to crack a bottle of claret, it had grown to maturity.

After patiently attending His Grace as he described the latest hair-raising pranks of his hellion sons —a circumstance which seemed to occasion their sire, surprisingly, no little pride —Rolfe steered the conversation to a subject which was of more interest to him. The duke heard him out in silence, and seemed quite taken by what Rolfe proposed until a name was mentioned.

"Zoë Devereux," repeated the duke carefully. "You want me to find employment in my household for Miss Devereux?"

"I do," said Rolfe.

"I hope you are hoaxing me!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Zoë Devereux? Isn't she the lady whom you have been squiring about town this fortnight and more?"

"Scarcely that," answered Rolfe with a new reserve creeping into his voice. "The girl's circumstances, as I have explained, are not happy. My intention was merely to divert her."

"Is she your convenient?" asked the duke baldly. At the look of sudden fury which crossed the younger man's face, he quickly interjected in a placating tone, "No! No! It is not I who says so, but
— "

"But?" intoned Rolfe in a voice so soft, so menacing, that the duke began at once to cast around in his mind for words which would find favor.

Finding none, he said rather helplessly, "I collect that no one has told you that Miss Devereux's name figures in this establishment's betting book." He inhaled sharply and went on, "The odds are two to one that the offer you make her will be honorable rather than . . . that is . . .
er
. . . rather than . . . the other sort. You must see that if there is any
scandal attaching to this chit, it would be quite improper to take her on as my children's governess."

"There isn't any scandal," snarled Rolfe.

"If you say so, Rolfe," agreed the duke, and excused
himself
on the next breath to answer the signal of some crony who had, at that very moment, entered White's portals. Soon after, the duke observed that his young relative had quit the premises. Only then did he feel free to approach the gentleman who kept close tabs on White's infamous betting book.

"The Devereux chit," he said, and he placed his bet. From that moment on, the odds changed to three to one in favor of Rivard's taking the girl in holy matrimony.

Rolfe's frame of mind when he posted down to his estate in Kent was far from calm. He could not believe that his peers would misjudge him so —to cast him in the role of a debaucher of innocents! And the ill-bred speculation about little Zoë had him gnashing his teeth in impotent rage. That he had only
himself
to blame for this sad state of affairs was soon borne in upon him. Further reflection convinced him that if he wished to protect Zoë's reputation from malicious tongues it were best to sever the connection altogether.

Rivard Abbey, on this occasion, brought no ease - to Rolfe's restlessness. His mother, the dowager marchioness, was more assiduous than ever in her entreaties that he should settle down to do his duty. He answered her suitably, though very vaguely, and immersed himself in estate business with his steward. Even his nieces seemed to have lost their power
to charm him. For the first time he saw their scapegrace manners as a sad reflection on their management by their elders. His own neglect of his young wards he freely admitted.

Rolfe was not back in town a day but he began to have second thoughts about his conduct toward Zoë. Though he was fully sensible of the fact that he must not, on any account, compromise the girl's good name, on the other hand, in all conscience, he could not simply cut her from his acquaintance without offering some explanation. He might have written her a note. He chose not to do so, persuading himself that the written word was open to misinterpretation. No. He must see her in person and make her understand that it was for
her
sake he was forced to keep her at a distance.