Lord Harry's Folly (23 page)

A closed carriage, the eagle and raven crest barely visible on its paneled doors, drew to a jolting halt on Thompson Street. A cloaked gentleman flung open the doors and alighted before the driver scarce had time to quiet the steaming horses.

“Walk the horses about, Silken. I shan’t be above thirty minutes within,” the gentleman said over his shoulder.

“Aye, your grace.”

The Marquess of Oberlon took the front steps two at a time. He felt such fury that he wanted to choke on it. He pounded his fist upon the closed oak door.

Pottson, who was enjoying a warm mug of ale, contemplating a quiet, uneventful evening by himself, jumped in his chair at the sudden loud knocking, spilling some of the lovely ale to the carpet. His eyes flew to the clock over the mantelpiece. It was scarcely after nine o’clock. It couldn’t be Miss Hetty, that was for certain. He set down his ale and hurried to the door.

“Who is there?” He pressed his ear to the door.

“Open the door, damn you. Be quick about it man, else I shall kick it in.”

Pottson fumbled with the latch, suddenly sweating with premonition. He pulled vigorously on the knob. He could practically hear another curse forming on the visitor’s tongue. No sooner had he unfastened the latch than the door burst open and a large, black-cloaked man strode past him into the room.

Lord Oberlon took in every empty corner of the small, cozy drawing room in an instant. He whirled about to the small, plump man who stood, mouth agape, in the open doorway.

“I presume you are Monteith’s man. Fetch the wretched young puppy this instant. I would have speech with him.”

Pottson knew without being told that he was face to face with the Marquess of Oberlon. Miss Hetty had succeeded.

He licked his tongue over his suddenly dry mouth and stammered, “I I am sorry, your grace, but Lord Harry isn’t here.”

“Your grace, huh? So, my good man, you know who I am. I should have expected as much.”

“Yes, your grace. You must believe me, Lord Harry won’t be back for hours. I don’t know where he is, but he’s with his friends so it will be very late before he returns.”

“Somehow I disbelieve you.” Lord Oberlon turned abruptly from the trembling Pottson down the small corridor to Lord Harry’s bedchamber.

It struck Pottson forcibly in the few moments he stood alone in the drawing room that making all sorts of plans and plots in no way came close to the dreadful reality he now faced. Obviously, his grace had discovered that his mistress had flaunted herself with Lord Harry and was now in the blackest of rages. Gawd, Pottson thought, his legs beginning to tremble beneath him, the marquess was fit to kill.

He searched about frantically in his mind for some way of protecting Miss Hetty. Of all evenings when she might return early, it was this evening. “That disgusting cockfight,” she’d said grimly. “I pray only that I won’t heave all over those pitiful birds.”

Pottson looked up helplessly as the marquess strode back into the room. “What in God’s name is this?” he shouted. He waved Miss Hetty’s gown in front of Pottson’s horrified eyes.

It’s all over now, Pottson thought, not without a feeling of relief. How stupid of him not to have hung up her gown. What an ironic way for all of Miss Hetty’s plans to come to an end. She would skin him alive. “It’s a dress, your grace,” he said, and waited. There was nothing else he could do. Just wait.

“Do you think me blind as well as stupid? Of course it’s a dress. It’s a lady’s gown. It’s obvious that your master is a dissolute young rakehell. Damn, his gall knows no bounds. Because I’m a gentleman, I didn’t search through the closet. If I had, I would have found a trembling naked young maiden awaiting Monteith’s return.”

Pottson thought the world had suddenly taken a faulty turn. He shook his head stupidly.

“You protect him, do you, my good fool? You may now tell me where I can find the perfidious young puppy, else I shall break your skinny neck.” The marquess flung down the gown and walked purposefully toward Pottson.

“I don’t know where Lord Harry is this evening.” Pottson drew himself up to his full diminutive height. “He’s with his friends, that’s all I know.”

Jason Cavander looked fully for the first time into the ashen-hued face of the terrified valet. Damn, the little man had pluck. He didn’t deserve to be beaten for his master’s sins. He reined in his black rage and forced himself to survey the situation rationally. It wouldn’t solve a thing were he to throttle the hapless valet. That the man was loyal to his master, well, he had to admire that, even if his master was a rotten little sod.

Perhaps it was just as well that he hadn’t found Monteith at home, for he admitted to himself, the consequences of his anger might have produced very unpleasant results. He felt like killing the young man, slowly, with great relish.

“Very well,” the marquess said finally. “You will tell your master that the Marquess of Oberlon is desirous of seeing him. If Monteith is not a coward, I shall expect him at White’s tomorrow evening. There, you may tell him, he will apologize to me, in full company.” The marquis paused a moment, then added with deadly preciseness, “If he doesn’t choose to make full apology, or if his bravado extends only to the bedroom, you may expect me to call again. Is that clear?”

“I’ll tell him, your grace.” Pottson had an almost irresistible urge to tell the marquess the truth. He couldn’t bring himself to serve her such a turn. He stood in miserable silence as the marquess swept past him and slammed the door behind him.

Pottson walked slowly over to Miss Hetty’s discarded gown and automatically picked it up, smoothing out the wrinkles. The marquess had held the answer to Lord Monteith in his hands, yet hadn’t realized the truth. She had fashioned herself too fine a reputation as a wild, dissolute young gentleman.

Pottson walked slowly into Lord Harry’s bedchamber and hung up her gown in the closet. He looked about the room. Had the marquess not been so angry, he would have noticed the ribbons and hairbrushes scattered about on the dressing table.

Pottson walked back into the drawing room, his shoulders hunched forward. The marquess’s words burned into his mind. There would be no going back now.

Signore Bertioli faced the sweating, red-faced Lord Monteith. He placed his foil carefully into its velvet case and handed the young gentleman a white lawn handkerchief to mop his brow.

“You fight with the calm desperation of a man who knows the test of his courage to be near,” Signore Bertioli said softly. “The vendetta, it draws to a close, my lord?”

Hetty’s lungs were going to burst, she knew it. She tried to answer him but couldn’t. Signore Bertioli gently removed the foil from her unresisting hand and waited patiently.

“Yes, Signore, as you say, the vendetta draws itself to a close.” She read concern in the Italian’s dark eyes. “Ah, don’t fear for the outcome, Signore. All will be resolved with pistols, not foils. I am an excellent shot.”

Signore Bertioli frowned. “Then why have you pushed yourself to learn the tricks of the masters, my young lord?”

“They say, Signore, if a man goes into battle with but one weapon and a prayer on his lips, he is a fool. In all truth, I would have much preferred foils, yet despite your excellent instruction, I must face the fact that I have not the endurance nor yet the skill to dispatch my opponent.”

Signore Bertioli wanted very much to know the name of Lord Monteith’s enemy, yet he knew the young man would never tell him. “Your opponent, my lord, he is much skilled with the foil?”

“Yes, so I have heard. And he has at least eight more years experience than I have.”

“Then he also has at least eight more years experience with a pistol as well.”

“True, but as I told you, I’m quite excellent with a pistol. If you have a biblical turn of mind, you could liken me to the small David. The tiny ball from my pistol will bring down my Goliath. The pistol levels all our differences. Now, Signore, I must leave you. It will be a most interesting evening and I have no wish to be late.”

Hetty shrugged into her greatcoat and drew on black leather gloves. She said as she turned, “Signore, thank you. I’ve been a disappointment to you. I’m sorry for that. If I don’t see you again, well, you will know that the young lion had no more than a great roar. Goodbye, Signore.”

Hetty gazed with glittering eyes about the vast gaming salon at White’s, noting that fewer gentlemen than usual lounged about the gaming tables. She registered surprise until she remembered the races at Newmarket. Many of the ton were drawn away to wager their guineas in the company of the Regent.

She turned to a footman who stood at her elbow balancing a silver tray that held an array of liquor. “Have you yet seen Sir Harry Brandon?”

“Yes, my lord. He’s at the faro table.”

“Has the marquess of Oberlon yet arrived?”

“I haven’t seen his grace, my lord.”

Hetty nodded and walked to the far corner of the room where the faro tables were set up. Her footsteps were sure, her back straight. She wouldn’t allow herself any doubts about what she would do.

She saw Sir Harry lounging in one of the Louis XV chairs, observing the game’s progress. She wondered why he wasn’t playing.

Sir Harry was depressed. He’d already drunk too much brandy, and his bowels were fiery warm. If only he could wipe away Isabella’s pale, pensive face from his mind. He hadn’t meant to argue with her over receiving Lord Harry, yet when she herself had spoken so enthusiastically about Lord Monteith, he hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut. She’d said to him in a tight little voice, “I would rather marry him than Sir William Filey,” and he’d yelled at her, “Ah, then do it, Madam. Both are rakehells. Yes, take the younger, why not? He’ll show no more fidelity, you’ll see.”

He gulped down another swig of brandy, and gazed morosely into the glass.

“I’m glad you are come tonight, Harry.”

Sir Harry looked up into the face of Lord Harry and grunted. “You said it was urgent that I come to White’s this evening. What is it you wish to announce your marriage to Isabella?”

Harry looked like hell, she thought. “No, this has nothing to do with Isabella, though there is much I could tell you on that score, would you but listen.”

Sir Harry gave Lord Harry a nasty look then drank more brandy.

“Don’t become foxed, Harry. I have need of you this evening. I need you clearheaded. I need you with me.”

Sir Harry looked up quickly. “What the devil are you talking about? What are you brewing? You sound damned serious and I don’t like it.” Lord Harry turned suddenly, his attention riveted toward the doorway.

He followed Lord Harry’s gaze and quickly placed his brandy glass on the table. In the doorway stood the Marquess of Oberlon and Harry’s brother-in-law, the Earl of March. He felt Lord Harry stiffen beside him.

“Come, Harry, you must not fail me. I can count on you, can’t I?”

“Of course.” Harry rose quickly to stand next to Lord Harry. “Dammit, tell me what’s going on. By God, what have you done?” Even across the room, he sensed the tension from the earl and the marquess. He saw the tight closed look on Lord Harry’s face. He walked beside his friend toward the earl and marquess. As they drew closer, he saw his brother-in-law’s cool gray eyes alight upon him, first in surprise, then in anger. He would have liked to stop dead in his tracks, yet his feet moved forward.

“So you have come.”

The marquess spoke directly to Lord Harry, his words so very simple, yet Harry felt the icy spray of unspoken words fill the air.

“Yes, I am come. I have many failings, your grace, but I submit that cowardice and arrogant cruelty aren’t among them. Perhaps your grace would care to elaborate upon these most interesting flaws of character.”

Sir Harry was too stunned by his friend’s insult to do more than gaze at him openmouthed.

Strangely enough, at least in Sir Harry’s eyes, the Marquess of Oberlon didn’t so much as flick an eyelid at Lord Harry’s outrageous remarks. Indeed, his dark eyes seemed to gleam all the brighter.

Actually, Jason Cavander felt a strange sense of anticipation. He’d known that young Monteith wouldn’t apologize to him. He didn’t know why he was so certain, but he was. He’d hoped at the very least to push the young gentleman into explaining his obvious hatred for him. So, he would just have to push a bit more. He raised a black brow that made him look haughtier than the Prince Regent, and drawled with an obnoxious sneer, “You have but to provide me with suitable circumstances and I would be most willing to explain cowardice and cruelty to you, Monteith. Without a frame of reference, though, I fear I am unable to the task. If you wish to pursue flaws of character, perhaps you can readily enlighten me upon the seduction of other men’s women. It begins to seem that you’re another Sir William Filey in the making. Shall I counsel you to beware of the pox or are you already well schooled on the pitfalls of falling in bed with so many women?”

He’d turned her own arguments against her. He was a master at this, she’d known that he must be. He was a nobleman, a Corinthian, a man who was ruthless, a man who would do whatever was necessary to gain his own ends. Knowing all that, she hadn’t been prepared. She could but try. She raised her chin, trying to achieve that disdain, that cold ridicule that flowed so easily from him, that contempt that told her without words that she was less than a fly on the table, that she was nothing.

She said, “How very interesting that you mention Sir William, your grace. I had thought him the most vile of creatures when I first came to London, yet, I found readily enough that I was quite mistaken. Vile though he may be, he wears his villainy openly and doesn’t slither about like a snake, hiding his dishonor under his belly.”

“Your insults wander about in too many different directions, Monteith. They have no substance, and no ring of truth to them. Are you too shy to speak your mind? Perhaps you are afraid to say what you mean? If so, you may simply apologize to me and I shall gladly be rid of your irritating presence. I am finding you frankly annoying. I do not like to be annoyed.”