Lord Harry's Folly (22 page)

Hetty thought fleetingly of Damien’s desire to enter the political arena. She wondered if he would have had an honored Tory member whip him into shape. Or would Sir Archibald have been his mentor? No, she couldn’t imagine it. According to Jack, Damien hadn’t even leaned toward Torydom, far from it.

Sir Archibald spoke no further of the marquess of Oberlon at lunch. Hetty sent a plea heavenward that once her sire got involved in his political activities in the afternoon, he would forget all about his matchmaking.

She excused herself shortly from the dining room, giving her father a hurried hug, and slipped out of the house to make her way to Lord Harry’s lodgings. She forced herself to be lighter of heart, for, even if Sir Archibald happened to approach Lord Oberlon, she was fairly certain that the damned marquess had found Henrietta Rolland such a repellent creature that he would never accept such an invitation to dine.

As she slipped into breeches, frilled shirt, and hessians, she quickly reviewed her schedule for the remainder of the day. First she would be meeting Sir Harry at Manton’s. Now that would be a most interesting experience. Lord Harry would start the worm of jealousy gnawing in Sir Harry’s breast. With any luck at all, that should make Sir Harry realize that Isabella was ripe for the plucking in more than one orchard.

Oh yes, Hetty thought as she bade Pottson a good afternoon, he must take a note to Melissande, inquiring if the fair lady would deign to ride again in the park with Lord Monteith.

At the thought of how she would be spending her evening, she grimaced in distaste. Impossible to extricate herself from going with Harry and Scuddy to that wretched cockfight.

Still, it was with a light step that Hetty strolled to meet Sir Harry at Manton’s, her face down against the winter wind.

As for the marquess, he neither felt light of step nor light of heart. Indeed, he was frozen with cold deadly anger as he listened to his friend, the earl of March.

“So, Julien, I’m now fast bidding to become a laughingstock of London, am I not?” His voice sounded so very calm that no one save his closest friends would have realized that his grace was ready to kill with his bare hands.

“Most likely,” the earl said.

“Now you will believe me that the young whelp wishes death by my hands?”

The earl paused an instant, seemingly intent upon removing a fleck of dust from his coat sleeve. “It’s all very strange,” the earl said at last. “I do agree that young Monteith wants something. Whether it’s death at your hands well, I must believe that a bit extreme.”

The marquess didn’t say anything. The earl sat forward in his chair. “You know, Jason, Kate immediately agreed with our conclusions that there is something driving the boy to behave in such an outrageous manner. You are certain that you have never before heard his name, that you can think of no insult ever made to him? Come, think, Jason.”

“Damn it, no, Julien. We’ve asked ourselves these questions, even before this latest exploit. I tell you, I know nothing about Monteith save that I intend to beat him to a bloody pulp, then kick his hide into a ditch.”

“Tell me, Jason, do you care so much about Melissande? I recall only the other day your telling me that you were rapidly becoming bored with her.”

“I’m not a fool, Julien,” the marquess said quietly. “It hardly matters what I think of her now. She is, after all, still under my protection.” He rose and strolled to the fireplace, his dark eyes resting a moment on the glowing coals. He turned to face the earl, digging his hands into his breeches pockets. “It’s now a question of honor, Julien. Surely you see that I can’t ignore this insult.”

The earl sighed and nodded slowly. “No, of course you can’t ignore it, and yet”

“And yet, you don’t want to see me kill the boy,” the marquess finished, gazing searchingly at the earl.

“Don’t think I’m becoming lost to all sense of honor, Jason. Yet again, I must concur with Kate’s opinion. There is something deuced unusual about Monteith, as if he were a complex puzzle whose pieces simply didn’t fit together. I ask only that you do not act rashly. Surely, if the lad continues in his outrageous behavior, you will have no choice but to call him out.”

“Strange you say Monteith is like a puzzle whose pieces do not fit together.”

“I thought it apt, Jason. Why?”

“It’s of no importance.” The marquess shrugged. “Damnation but this is an impossible situation. Were it a snake like Filey, I wouldn’t feel the slightest hesitation, indeed I’d welcome such a chance. But hellfire, Julien, as you say, Monteith is just a boy. The difference in our ages eight years at least and in our experience why, I would look little less than a murderer were I to call him out.”

“That’s true,” the earl said. “I think though, that if you remain, shall we say, impervious to the boy’s taunts, it is he who will call you out. Think on it, Jason. Now, I must be off. George informed me on my way out that Kate was preparing to direct the carpenters in the refurbishing of the nursery wing. If I know her, she will be climbing about the rafters with them.” The earl rose and clasped his friend’s hand.

“I’ll take your advice until I can do naught else, Julien. Give my love to Kate.”

The earl turned at the door of the drawing room and gave the marquess a lazy grin. “Are you certain, Jason, that one of your succulent beauties in Italy wasn’t distantly related to any Monteith? Say a virgin who wanted to get you out of your breeches and you couldn’t bring yourself to say no?”

“Damn you, St. Clair.”

After the earl of March had taken his leave, Jason Cavander, in a fit of excess energy, departed to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, where his hapless opponent in the ring took on the features of a fair, blue-eyed youth with a mouth that was filled with more insults than a bordello was filled with randy men.

“You what?” Sir Harry Brandon dropped his pistol into its case and turned in stunned surprise to Lord Harry.

“You really should be more careful with your guns, Harry. Thank God it wasn’t loaded. You might have shot your toe off or worse yet, my toe.”

“Damnation, Lord Harry, it’s bad enough that you must tweak Lord Oberlon’s nose by adding his mistress to your string of females, but you will leave Isabella alone.”

“But, Harry, I find Miss Isabella Bentworth very charming. Surely you remember that both Mavreen and Melissande are redheads. Isabella has the most beautiful black hair smooth and shiny like a bolt of black silk or do I mean a raven’s wing?”

Sir Harry ground his teeth. “I won’t have it, damn you. Isabella is pure and innocent. She won’t let you flirt with her, she’s not that kind of girl.”

“Ah, so that’s it. Don’t mistake my intentions, Harry. I don’t intend to trifle with the lady. She isn’t a brief amusement. After sitting with her an hour this morning, flirtation was the furthest thing from my mind. She’s a glorious creature, so soft and gentle, so sweetly deferential to my wishes.”

“But that’s impossible, utterly ridiculous” Sir Harry’s voice trailed off. He stared at Lord Harry in baffled silence. He leaned over and very carefully fastened the clasp on his gun case. As he straightened he said heavily, “Then you’re thinking of marriage, Lord Harry?”

“Perhaps.”

“But you’re younger than I!”

Hetty replied with a laugh, “Neither of us is in the infantry, old fellow. If you wish to admire the fair Isabella from afar until you have reached the exalted age of twenty-eight, in keeping with what you believe to be your brother-in-law’s edict, then you’d best give her up right now. Don’t you know that fortune-hunting mama of hers is fair to forcing Isabella to wed Filey by the end of the Season? Mayhap even before the end of the Season, to save money. Really, Harry, as a gentleman, I can’t allow that lecherous old satyr to warm her bed. It turns my stomach.”

“Yes, of course I knew that. But it’s nonsense. Her harridan of a mother can’t force Isabella to wed Filey. These are modern times, not the thirteenth century.” Sir Harry didn’t like this, any of it. Of course he knew about Filey’s attentions toward Isabella, and it irked him. But still, surely she wouldn’t marry the old fool.

Hetty gave him a look of utter disgust. “Are you pleased to wear blinders, Harry? Are you content to throw Isabella to Filey? Listen to me, young ladies don’t have the choices you seem to think they do.”

“You really believe that Isabella will be sold to that old lecher, Filey?”

“Don’t forget, Harry, that Filey is titled and as rich as Golden Ball. It would take a gentleman of similar qualifications and much persuasion to convince Isabella’s mama differently. The old eagle was appraising me openly this morning. Her questions were impertinent in the extreme. I think I found favor in her mercenary eyes, but not as yet as much favor as you have.” Hetty paused a moment, then added lightly, “But I daresay that I shall bring her around. After all, old boy, it isn’t as though I were cutting you out. You’ve left the field wide open.”

Sir Harry suddenly turned on her. “I don’t want you to see Isabella. You’re a damned rakehell, Lord Harry, and I’ll not let you break the poor girl’s heart.”

“Ah, but it won’t be I who will break her heart.”

“Damn you for a meddler.” Sir Harry flung from the shooting range into the large outer parlor at Manton’s.

Hetty grinned at his stiff back and followed him slowly, not at all displeased. If only she could enlist the help of the earl of March. A few well-chosen words from that powerful peer would hang the icicle on the eave. She sighed, knowing such a conversation with Harry’s brother-in-law was out of the question. Still, she’d done quite well enough, she told herself. She left Manton’s whistling.

Her complacency grew when, upon returning to Lord Harry’s lodgings, she found awaiting another flowery note from Melissande, begging Lord Monteith’s charming company for another ride in the park. Sir Harry’s problems slipped from her mind as, not long thereafter, she cantered through the London traffic to Melissande’s apartment, leading the docile Coquette. She found herself shivering with a kind of frightening anticipation. Surely Lord Oberlon must have found out about her meeting with Melissande the day before. She knew that no gentleman would accept such an insult. It can’t be much longer now, she told herself. No, not much longer now.

Melissande stood arrayed in the green velvet riding habit Lord Monteith had presented to her the day before, peeking through the curtains onto the street. She realized that she had, in all honesty, accepted yet another invitation to ride with the young Lord Monteith because she was indulging in a fit of pique. Not that she minded all the languishing phrases that seemed to flow in an endless stream from the young gentleman’s mouth. Yet, Lord Oberlon seemed not even to be aware of her minor transgressions, for after that altogether delightful evening spent at the Ranleaghs’ masquerade, he hadn’t come to call, hadn’t even sent her a note, hadn’t even sent a servant with a note to her.

Lord Monteith suddenly came into view astride his bay mare, leading her mare, Coquette. She pulled quickly back from the window and schooled her features into a welcoming smile. Perhaps his grace would come visiting while she was out with Lord Monteith. She shrugged an elegant shoulder. Well, if he did come, Jenny could simply inform him that Melissande was otherwise occupied. Should she have Jenny tell the marquess with whom she was otherwise occupied? Such a disclosure bothered her. She didn’t want Lord Oberlon to blow out Lord Harry’s brains. He was too pleasant a young gentleman to be dead.

“Ah, my dear sir,” she greeted Lord Monteith. “How kind of you to escort me again today.”

As Hetty was becoming more adept at her constantly shifting roles, she managed to greet Melissande with a soulful sigh and a profound look of admiration. “You have but to command me, my fair Melissande.” She tenderly brought Melissande’s white hand to her lips and kissed the soft skin. It tasted of jasmine. Very nice. “It is, of course, my good fortune to find you unoccupied. What a shame though to find you so much alone. And on such an excellent day. Not a single rain cloud in the sky. Ah, did I say something that upsets you, Melissande?”

Hetty wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. She’d just scored a major point. If nothing else, Melissande would be in a god-awful snit the next time she saw Lord Oberlon. Come to think of it, Melissande did deserve a bit more attention, didn’t she? Surely she was expensive. She realized then that a mistress was dependent upon her protector for all her needs. That of course wouldn’t advance Lord Harry’s goal. She wouldn’t dare ever mention another gentleman’s name in her master’s presence. Ah, Hetty thought, there were many others who would relish filling Lord Oberlon’s ears with tales of his mistress and another gentleman.

Melissande said, “Yes, it’s just as you say, my lord. But now that you are here, I won’t think of the marquess. Perhaps he isn’t even in London, for I’ve not heard from him.”

Hetty suddenly gulped down a sinking thought. Had Lord Oberlon perhaps dismissed the beautiful Melissande? Lord, if that were so, Lord Harry’s antics were not only needlessly expensive but also pointless. But as Hetty had no evidence that such a break had occurred between the marquess and his mistress, she was careful to maintain the depressingly romantic chatter that Melissande appeared so much to admire. She pressed Melissande to ride two turns about the park, ensuring again that the usual habitués had an excellent view of Lord Monteith in the company of Lord Oberlon’s mistress.

When Hetty returned to Lord Harry’s lodgings to change for dinner and the inevitable cockfight, she wanted nothing more than to sink chin deep in a hot bath. She could still sniff faint whiffs of Melissande’s heavy perfume.

Shortly after eight o’clock she took a hackney to Mr. Scuddimore’s lodgings on Queen Street, hopeful that the wretched cockfight wouldn’t last very long. There were several aspects about being a gentleman that made her stomach turn over.