Folly's Reward

“If thou remember’st not the slightest folly

That ever love did make thee run into,

Thou hast not loved.”

—As You Like It

“By God, travel is tiresome. Where the devil are we?”

The young man’s voice was slurred. He lounged gracefully on the carriage seat as if asleep, but now he lifted thick, dark lashes and glanced from the window.

“Never mind where we are, Grey. You’re too foxed to remember, even if I told you.”

“Not too foxed for vice, sir.”

Black hair fell over the young man’s forehead above a face boned finely enough to be unforgettable.

“Do you have adventurous tastes, Grey?” It was a drawl, filled with unpleasant insinuation.

“Try me,” the young man said with a slow smile.

Mr. Grey leaned his head against the cushions and listened to the crunch of snow beneath the wheels, before closing his lids over eyes of a remarkably deep blue.

“We are barely into the second week of the year, sir,” he went on. “1814 was deuced dull in my opinion. I am game for anything new that 1815 can show me—especially if she is clean of pox, sir, and speaks English.”

“Like a nice game pullet?”

The speaker gave the other three gentlemen a broad wink, and nodded knowingly at the young man who had joined their company by proving himself a wilder drinker and deeper gambler than any of them.

One of the other men spoke in an unpleasant whisper. “You never saw such a den of vice, sir. Madame Relet’s little
maison
has a certain reputation. I hope we’re all game.”

The deep blue eyes remained closed as the young man slid serenely to the floor of the carriage.

“What the devil!”

It was the man who had asked Mr. Grey about his tastes. The young man’s elbow had caught him hard in the shin, forcing him to pull his legs aside.

The man with the unpleasant whisper fared worse. A booted foot momentarily crushed his hand against the seat, causing him to curse and threaten retribution.

“Forget it,” the man next to him said, jerking his own feet out of the way. “He’s foxed. Mr. Grey has no idea where we are or what’s intended tonight. He can’t see straight.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Mr. Grey said.

He lay back among the booted feet of his companions, forcing them to make room for him or risk further injury, and pulled out an engraved pocket pistol. Everyone dived for cover as he began to shoot out the upholstered buttons inside the carriage with deadly accuracy.

“We’re almost to Paris,” he said. “And even three sheets to the wind I can shoot straight.”

He suppressed a most inappropriate upwelling of laughter. He was not drunk. His name was not Grey.

It was a glass-clear morning, shining suddenly in the gray days of March as a golden coin glints among pebbles. Prudence opened her parasol and watched Bobby run erratically down the beach. She tried to let the brightness of the sea and sky calm her fears. They were safe here, surely?

The child stopped and examined something at his feet. His blond head was supported on such a fragile neck above his lace collar. The little trousers buttoned to his pleated muslin jacket were much the same color as his hair under the straw hat, so that his entire figure blended into the pale wash of sand. The hat wobbled as he bent to pick up a shell.

Prudence felt a rush of love and protection for him.

It’s very absurd, she thought, for a five-year-old child to have to carry such a thing on his head. I shouldn’t make him wear it.

As if he heard the thought, Bobby took off the offending headgear and began to fill it with shells. He hunted through the sand, slowly moving away, until he disappeared for a moment behind a ridge of black rock, one of several that ran from the cliffs toward the sea.

Prudence immediately called to him. The child reappeared with the hat clutched to his chest.

“Pray, do not go out of my sight, young man!” Her voice was tinged with anxiety. “It isn’t the done thing, you know. I would not like it at all if I were to lose you.” She walked up to him and bent down, though the front of her brown worsted skirt trailed in the sand. “Did you find many shells?”

Bobby looked up at her. “I cannot carry them all,” he said seriously. “It’s a hard thing to find so many wondrous things on the beach and to have to leave so many behind.”

“But you would seem to have a veritable feast of shells in your hat.” Prudence tried to hide her delight. Bobby would always enchant her. “Didn’t you bring the best ones?”

Bobby set down his hat and reached for her hand. “I found something better than shells, Miss Drake. I think you would like it, too. I found a man.”

“Did you? Was he a shell man or a seaweed man?”

“No! No!” Bobby’s shrill voice filled with indignation. “A real man. He looks like the man from the song about the seals and he talks a magic language. He’s here, behind the rocks. Don’t you want to see?”

“Very well,” she said, humoring the child. “But then we must go.”

The proffered hand was slightly sticky with salt. Following Bobby’s sturdy little straw-colored figure, Prudence stepped to the other side of the rock shelf.

“Oh, good gracious!” she said, dropping both the child’s hand and her parasol. “It is a real man.”

The man was young, with an air of strength about him even though he lay abandoned and unconscious against the rock. His serge trousers and unbuttoned reefer jacket were soaked and discolored with salt water. He wore no cravat, and his shirt was torn at the front revealing a curve of taut muscle across his ribcage.

One hand, partly lying in a shallow pool, lay turned up on the sand. It was well formed and strong, with marked blisters across the palm. Yet it seemed he took care of his nails, and his sodden boots were of very fine quality.

Prudence moved a little closer and leaned down to look at his face. Beneath midnight hair, slick with salt water, the lines of his nose and chin were clean and hard, beautifully structured. Long black lashes lay against his high cheekbones. Yet they were not curved like her own, but thick and straight.

As she hesitated, the lashes lifted a little. Prudence had the impression for a moment that his eyes reflected the sky, before they closed again.

“Oh, gracious!” she said, jumping back. “He’s alive.”

“Of course he’s alive,” Bobby replied. “He already looked at me before.”

The eyes remained closed, but his lips moved a little. Prudence found herself watching them with an immodest fascination. Very attractive lips.

“
Diable!
” the man muttered. “
Nous ferons naufrage! Vogue la galère!
”

“It is a magic language, isn’t it?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Prudence could feel her heart leaping and pounding in her breast. “It isn’t the silkie’s language, Bobby. This man is French.”

The man turned his head and, revealing eyes the color of harebells, looked straight up into hers. He smiled.

“Not French, ma’am. I am sure of that at least.”

He spoke a perfectly modulated and very cultured English, with no trace of the soft Scots accent that colored her own. An Englishman, then.

“But see!” Bobby said. “His eyes are blue, like the silkie’s.”

To her immense surprise, the man laughed. He blinked against the bright sun for a moment, then pulled his hand out of the shallow pool to shade his eyes. He grimaced as moisture ran onto his face.

“By God, they are eyes filled unaccountably with salt. No doubt that blue is shot through with red, like the Union Flag. I feel as if I just took the worst from the knuckles of Gentleman Jackson.” He felt the back of his skull very carefully, and winced. “And a crack to the pate. No wonder I’m witless.”

Prudence had the wildest desire to run away and leave this unsettling find to wash away with the next tide.

“What are you doing here?” she asked instead.

He grinned. His teeth were very white and even.

“As to that, I have no idea. Is there some human habitation hereabouts, or are you an angel sent to accompany this charming cherub—in which case I shall never have cause to care for comfort again? I hate to admit it, but I’m devilish cold. I believe I may have been in the ocean all night.”

“Oh, good heavens! You must think me entirely lacking in wits. Are you shipwrecked? From the storm last night?”

The man sat up slowly and ran one hand over his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. His long fingers shook a little.

“I suppose I must be.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you know?”

He looked about at the sun-washed beach and the scattering of sea birds. “I am most dreadfully afraid that I do not.”

“But where do you come from? What is your name?”

He reached a little unsteadily for the rocks to pull himself to his feet. Prudence impulsively reached out a hand and he took it. It was obvious that he was considerably taller than she, even though he supported himself against the rocks.

He smiled down at her, and did not let go of her fingers. “It would seem, dear angel, that I am a foolish idiot, for however ramshackle it might appear to you, I don’t know that either.”

Prudence was uncomfortably aware that the grip of his naked hand against hers was most improper, though it was not at all unpleasant. She tried to ignore it.

“You don’t know who you are?”

“I can do nothing but supply you with doggerel. Rhymes ran through my head all night, though heaven only knows why.” He laughed. “Things like this:

A sodden young fellow was found

as he lay without name on the ground.

Though spared by the waves,

his fate was a knave’s,

to be hanged for a rogue when not drowned.”

He turned her fingers over in his. “What a shoddy bit of verse! My apologies.”

“But you must know your own name,” Prudence persisted.

“Like Abou Hassan, I might believe I am the caliph, for I’m damned if I know otherwise. I think my name might begin with ‘P’—no, ‘H’, perhaps. Or perhaps I have the name that Achilles took when he hid among women? A deuced depressing thought, since no one knows it.”

Prudence tried to pull her hand away. “Sir, I beg you will remain here while I go for help.”

He ran his fingers over hers, as if counting them. “I would much rather you stayed here with me, angel.”

“My name is Miss Prudence Drake, sir.”

“Miss? Then in spite of the golden hair you share, this cherub isn’t yours? For I can tell without asking that you are a lady of unimpeachable virtue.”

Prudence blushed scarlet. “I am a governess, sir. Bobby is in my charge.”

Then she realized that she had told him the truth as if it didn’t matter. She could easily have given a false name, pretended that Bobby was her child. No one would be looking for a mother and her son.

“You are ill, sir,” she snapped. “Pray, let me get help from the house.”

“Then there is a house? A nice, square, ordinary house, I hope, with a fire, and a kettle simmering over the hob. You won’t take me back to your fairy castle and put me under some spell, will you? I should hate to live out my days as a merry little pig among enchanted swine.”

Bobby giggled, and Prudence shook her head, surprised into laughter, which she bit back.

“It’s just a small manse, sir.”

The man grinned. “Excellent. No doubt in a minute or two I shall be perfectly competent to propel myself there with only a modicum of help from you.”

“And from me, sir?” Bobby asked.

“Without question, young fellow.”

“Until then, perhaps you might release my hand?” Prudence asked.

“Oh, no, I would much rather keep it. What remarkably elegant fingers you have, Miss Drake! I think I must gallantly kiss them as a mark of my gratitude for your rescue.”

Prudence stood nervously in front of him as he carried her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her knuckles. It was done with practiced grace.

“You may not know your name, sir,” she said. “And you are no doubt a victim of last night’s wreck. But I don’t think you’re an ordinary sailor. In fact, I believe you may be some kind of villain.”

The blue eyes laughed into hers. “Do you? Good heavens, I don’t think I’m a villain, truly. I shall try to prove myself merely a harmless, though possibly idiotic, gentleman, so that you may relax and feel moved to complete my rescue. In the meantime, I am to understand that a ship foundered off this coast last night?”

“If you will return my hand to my own possession, sir, I shall tell you.” With a rueful smile he dropped her fingers. Prudence stepped back, out of his reach. “There was a most dreadful storm last night and a brig from France was lost. It is thought she went down with all hands.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “From France?”

“So I was told. And since you did greet me with mutterings in French, I think we might assume that you have just come from that country.”

“What did I say?”

“Well, you began with an oath.” Prudence frowned at him as sternly as she was able. “Then you mumbled something about a shipwreck and let come what may.”