Lord Harry's Folly (12 page)

“I will say only that she is quite well and, naturally, supremely happy.” Hetty silently toasted the absent Mavreen, praying that what she said was indeed true.

“Don’t suppose you will be coming with us again to Lady Buxtell’s,” Scuddy said over the rim of his champagne glass.

“Perhaps, if my little ladybird ceases to please me. Who knows? A gentleman’s taste changes swiftly and unexpectedly. Yes, we’ll see.”

Sir Harry carefully stored away Lord Harry’s words, changing them about just a bit so that they would be in his style, hopeful that at some time he could say them with the same negligent indifference to other gentlemen in his acquaintance.

Hetty rose, straightened her powder blue waistcoat and gave a salute to her friends. “Since you two are drinking up my assets, I can see that my only recourse lies with the luck of the cards downstairs. Now that I am an esteemed member, I can hold the faro bank. To your health, gentlemen.” She tossed down the remainder of champagne in her glass, and left Sir Harry and Mr. Scuddimore to their own devices. It was, in truth, her second glass.

When Hetty entered the elegant gaming salon, she felt a tinge of smugness mingle with her excitement at finally being an accepted member of this exalted male stronghold. She looked up at the heavy chandeliers, their twinkling prisms catching the glowing light from the candles and shimmering down upon the gentlemen’s heads, and gave them a conspiratorial wink. The array of black and gold clad footmen, the trademark of White’s, still impressed her with their silent efficiency. They hovered unobtrusively about the gaming tables, holding exquisite crystal decanters on silver trays, ready for the snap of a gentleman’s fingers.

She sauntered to the faro table and stood quietly at the elbow of Lord Alvaney, a very likable gentleman whose cravat styles she copied regularly. His amusing pronouncements upon the misfortune of existing in the same era as Beau Brummell made Hetty feel that he cared not a whit about the vagaries of his fellow men. She felt no fear of a snub at standing near to him.

She had thought Lord Alvaney engrossed in the play, and was surprised when his soft voice reached her, without his even looking up. “Ah, Monteith, allow me to felicitate you. New blood and youth you bring us. I daresay that you will stir up the arid old bones rattling around at White’s. You play at faro, my boy?”

“Yes, I much enjoy the game.”

“Sit, lad, sit. Ah, did I tell you how much I admired the distinctive style of your cravat this evening?”

She knew he was mocking her, but it was in gentle fun, and she merely grinned and sat down on a delicate French chair next to his lordship. “Now that I am a member, sir, I can hold the bank.”

Lord Alvaney smiled kindly at this ingenuous remark, and made his play. He didn’t guess aright, having forgotten the suits already placed to one side of the dealer, and grimaced slightly.

“What a ridiculous way to lose twenty guineas.” He rubbed his hand against his rather pointed chin. “Would you care to take on Sir Robert, Monteith? Robert, attend, old fellow, I am giving you a new lamb for the fleecing.”

Robert Montague, a tall, gaunt gentleman, renowned for his exquisite tact and near worship of propriety, raised his dark brown eyes to the newcomer. “Monteith? You hail from the North Country, I understand.”

Hetty knew that the gently phrased question cloaked the most vital of concerns to Sir Robert, namely whether Lord Harry’s pedigree and prospects were sufficient for him to be considered as a future son-in-law.

Not wanting to be considered anything remotely close to a possible son-in-law, she merely smiled, and nodded.

Hetty eased herself into the seat vacated by Lord Alvaney and sat forward to cut the deck. She lost the cut, not much liking it because Damien had always told her that being the dealer gave her not only the advantage but luck.

Sir Robert neatly inserted the shuffled deck into the faro box, an elegant, hand-lacquered affair, so exquisite a piece that it effectively masked its purpose of preventing the dealer from any false-carding. Sir Robert shoved the bank forward and withdrew the jack of diamonds from the box. The two of hearts followed, and Hetty set her memory into motion. It was vital to remember the suit and value of each card played, and Damien had taught her any number of quaint devices to remember the order of play. She repeated to herself that Jack loved the two of diamonds but the evil queen of spades must interfere. And on and on, weaving a nonsensical rhyme and story with each turn of the cards.

Sir Robert noted the intense concentration on Lord Monteith’s young face. After some five more minutes of play, he decided to offer a rather unusual wager, to test the young man’s mettle. He rather liked the thought of having a son-in-law who wasn’t a complete wastrel. “Twenty guineas, my lord, if you can call aright the last three cards in the box.”

The king lost his heart when the eight of spades clubbed the trey. Hetty looked up, eyes sparkling. “Yes, indeed, Sir Robert, I accept your wager. I declare the seven of hearts, the ace of spades, and the four of clubs, but I cannot guess at the order.”

The ace of spades slipped from the faro box. Next came the seven of hearts and finally, to Hetty’s incalculable delight, emerged the four of clubs.

Sir Robert, for the first time, was pleased that he’d lost. “Well done, my lad, well done,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You have your wits about you. Remarkable, I think, for one so young.”

“Monteith shows his prowess in other areas, I see,” came a drawling, mocking voice from behind Hetty’s shoulder. She turned quickly in her chair and looked up at Sir William Filey.

“Ah, what’s this, Sir William? In what other areas does young Monteith show prowess?” Sir Robert didn’t particularly care for Sir William Filey. He was vulgar, ruthless, and not at all likable. However, Sir Robert’s strict code of civility forbade him to ignore the gentleman.

Sir William’s eyes were narrowed on Lord Harry’s face. His hands fisted and opened at his sides, but when he spoke, it was with that same mocking drawl that made her skin crawl. “Quite a reputation Monteith is acquiring with the ladies. I, of course, use the term loosely, as the harlots in Lady Buxtell’s house can scarce lay claim to it.”

Hetty wanted to hit him, but she forced herself to perfect stillness. She saw Sir Robert’s dark eyes widen in surprise. Then she saw the disappointment. Damn Sir William.

Hetty said quietly, her eyes hard, “Perhaps, Sir William, the pot shouldn’t be calling the kettle black, particularly when the pot is renowned for boiling over on so many stoves.”

Sir William bared his teeth in a snarl, and she knew she’d gone too far. Not Sir William, dammit. But then she heard a laugh behind her and turned quickly. She swiveled in her chair to see Lord Oberlon standing negligently beside Sir Robert, an elegant Sevres snuffbox in his hand.

Oh, my God. She froze, not believing that he was here, that he’d overheard Sir William, that he was actually not three feet away from her. But not like this, she thought. She didn’t want to meet him like this.

Sir William ignored the marquess. He leaned down over Hetty’s chair. His voice was a soft hiss. “You’ve a careless tongue in your head, Monteith. I suggest you keep it behind your teeth, else you may find yourself quite mute one of these days.”

Hetty felt Lord Oberlon’s dark eyes upon her. I’m baiting the wrong man, she thought, but couldn’t help herself. Sir William was loathsome. Above all things, she would never let the marquess believe that she was a coward. She relaxed into her chair and lifted a booted leg over the brocade arm. “I fear you mistake my harmless metaphor, Sir William. When I spoke of the pot and the kettle, I was in error. Rather, sir, I should have said pot de chambre. It is much more fitting for you at least, don’t you agree?”

“You damned arrogant puppy.” Sir William’s large hand lifted to strike. “By God, I’ll make you pay for your ill manners.”

Lord Oberlon’s seeming indolence disappeared in that instant. Hetty sensed, actually sensed that his powerful body was tensing for action. “Hold, Filey. You provoked the lad, as I think Sir Robert will agree. I suggest you respond with wit rather than with threats or fists.”

Sir William turned angrily. “Your grace interferes with no invitation. Monteith needs to be taught manners.”

Sir Robert rose suddenly, his gaunt frame a looming shadow commanding attention. “I must concur with his grace, Sir William. Monteith is new to London ways, just today made a member here.”

Lord Oberlon said, “If it is a duel of honor you seek, Filey, turn your anger upon another man, not a mere boy. You know that I will most willingly oblige you. You have but to name your second and the time. Name your weapon.”

Sir William drew back, a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

“Ah, I see that you aren’t about to face me. By God, it’s your manners I find execrable, not the lad’s.” Jason looked toward the boy as he spoke. His face was pale, there was banked rage in his eyes, yet he held himself in excellent control. He was motionless, showing nothing of what he was feeling or of what he intended to do. The marquess was impressed.

Hetty felt as though someone had jerked the chair from under her. Damn Lord Oberlon for coming to her aid. She didn’t mind Sir Robert speaking up, but not this, not Jason Cavander being her knight, damn his eyes. Finally she’d managed to come face-to-face with him and what had it gained her? A damnable protector. This was her first opportunity. She couldn’t just let it slip by her. She uncoiled from her chair and rose to stand between Lord Oberlon and Sir William. Though her eyes were on a level with Sir William’s, she was forced to tilt back her chin to look into Lord Oberlon’s face.

In a calm low voice, she said, “I didn’t know your grace was a defender of all gentlemen who haven’t yet reached your exalted years. I’m not a callow youth who is in need of your protection, your grace. I shall fight my own fights, and find one bully much the same as another, no matter the guise. I do not wish or need your interference.”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind her, but whether it came from Sir William or Sir Robert, Hetty neither knew nor cared. She thought fleetingly of Signore Bertioli and his feigned optimism at her progress with the foil. Was she at last to be put to the test?

Not a flicker of emotion registered on Lord Oberlon’s face. He was very tanned, she thought, thinking of his time in Italy. She thought she saw a gleam of surprise in his dark eyes, but he looked down so quickly, she doubted what she saw. She found her hands balling into fists at her sides. Why didn’t he strike her?

With studied, almost indifferent movements, he flipped open the Sevres snuffbox, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, inhaled a pinch, then breathed deeply. He brushed a fleck of snuff from his sleeve, and to Hetty’s surprise, looked her full in the face and smiled gently.

He wanted to take the boy’s white neck between his long fingers and gently squeeze until he apologized for his unmeasured words. But he knew he couldn’t, at least not here at White’s. He wondered what was in the boy’s mind, why he was attacking him. For what purpose? It made no sense. He kept his own voice low, almost meditative. “It would appear, Filey, that Monteith has no use for either of us.” He paused yet again, his gaze roaming over Monteith’s face. “Your tongue is sharp, my boy, your words barbed. May I suggest that in the future, you temper your fits of arrogance and swagger, particularly in my presence.”

Sir William said, “You’d best heed his grace’s advice. You may be certain, callow youth or no, that you will pay for your insults.” Sir William sensed that young Monteith had so thoroughly offended Lord Oberlon that his own closing shot wouldn’t draw his grace’s wrath upon his own head. He glanced a final time with loathing upon the lad’s flushed face, turned abruptly and strode away.

Sir Robert, his mouth prim and disapproving, bowed with the slightest dip of his thin shoulders and retired to another table. Hetty found herself alone, facing her enemy. At last. She sensed his strength, his sheer physical power, and another power that was deep within him, that was part of him, that was, indeed, what made him what he was ruthless, utterly without morals, yet he’d defended Lord Harry Monteith, a perfect stranger to him. It made no sense and she refused to think about it, to grant him any credit. She thrust up her chin. A bullet or a foil would bring him to the ground. Let him be strong, let him be powerful, it mattered not. She was going to kill him. He deserved it.

He spoke again, the gentleness of his tone stark with naked warning. “You’re young, Monteith. Although I applaud your dislike of Sir William and indeed, find myself amused at your wit in felling him, you must take care. I don’t think you stupid, my lad, so attend me carefully. Know well your victim before you lash out with your cutting words.”

“Victim, your grace? How oddly that word sets upon your shoulders. I see you in the light of the predator, without conscience, without remorse. You may be certain that I will indeed know the predator before I lash out. I do heed your advice, your grace, with only the minor adjustment to your character.” She saw the smooth line of his jaw harden, the twitching of a small muscle beside his mouth. He will strike me now, she thought, bracing herself. An arrogant man as he is will never tolerate such insults.

Lord Oberlon slowly replaced his snuffbox in his waistcoat pocket. He gazed down at the boy standing stiff as a young sapling before him, not with anger, but with tolerance. Good lord, had he ever been so young? So arrogant? So utterly certain that he was invulnerable? Yet there couldn’t be more than seven or eight years between them. He supposed that he must have once been as great a fool. Most young gentlemen were. Of course, there’d been no excuse for the greatest foolishness of his life, none at all. He said finally, his voice amused, “I find you tolerably entertaining, Monteith. But really, lad, you call me a predator? I can’t imagine how you come to that conclusion. It would appear to me that you have decided to number your years by willy-nilly insulting every gentleman who is unlucky enough to come into the sphere of your spiteful tongue. I doubt you are twenty-one yet. If you wish to see another year, you’d best mind your tongue and your manners.”