Lord Harry's Folly (5 page)

The young gentleman didn’t take his words as a frivolous joke, Signore Bertioli thought. He paused and cocked his thin, intense face to one side. “You press yourself, young sir, far beyond the limits of most of the young gentlemen who come to me. It is certainly not to prepare yourself for war. You English, after all, have finally dispatched that pig Corsican to his island hell. And even if it were for war, young sir, the art of the foil becomes outmoded, just as the bow and arrow. Were I not in England, my lord, I would think that you prepare to execute a vendetta.”

“Vendetta, Signore?”

“A vendetta is a sworn act of revenge. In my country a vendetta can carry from father to son for many generations. Many times the cause for revenge is lost over the years. Yet the desire for revenge upon one’s enemies remains, as if it were born into the soul itself.”

“I like your word vendetta. Yes, it is perfect.”

“If you carry such an idea for revenge, my lord, I would suggest the pistol. You have a keen eye, and to kill a man with the little ball requires no more strength than your cows or girls have.”

“You must know, Signore, that in England, in a duel of honor, the one who wishes the revenge cannot select the weapon. I am an excellent shot, Signore, but it is not enough. You must teach me so that my vendetta isn’t simply an empty wish.”

Signore Bertioli gazed down into the young set face. But a boy the lord was, a mere boy, with smooth cheeks and many years of life before him. He felt sudden fear for Lord Monteith. If he was truly in earnest about a duel of honor, Signore Bertioli seriously doubted his ability to endure in the face of a more powerfully built and skilled opponent. He said quietly, “Yes, I will teach you. We will contrive. If you are rested, my lord, there is much more for you to learn today.”

“Thank you, Signore,” Hetty said simply, and rose with new energy to her feet. “Yes, I am rested.”

“En garde, then, young sir.” Signore Bertioli slashed his foil through the silent air, its gleaming steel soon connecting with Lord Harry’s blade.

At each clash, the impact sent quivers of pain up Hetty’s arm. She gritted her teeth, silently repeating her catechism of hate against the Marquess of Oberlon, to keep her mind from the pain. I shall send you to hell, your grace, just as you sent Damien to his death. As your blood flows from your body, I shall tell you who I am and why you are dying. I’ll stand over you and laugh when you draw your last breath.

“I say, Lord Harry, you’re not looking at all the thing tonight. Some bleater insult the cut of your trousers?” Scuddy leaned his yellow and green striped elbows on the card table to look more closely into his friend’s exhausted face.

Hetty’s arm was so sore that Pottson had had to take great care when assisting her into her coat. “No, it was Signore Bertioli. He’s a stern taskmaster, Scuddy, as I’ve often told you. He very nearly unmanned me today with the pace he set. I’ve taken lessons with him for nearly as long a time as I’ve known the both of you, yet I still stagger out of his apartment like a drunken loon.”

“Any hope for you, Lord Harry?” Sir Harry asked with a wide grin. “Surely there’s hope. You’re endowed with superior physical stamina, just look at the size of your muscles, pathetic little mounds of nothing, but hey, you’re a smart fellow, for what that’s worth.”

“You mean,” Hetty said, “that God couldn’t make me both strong and smart so he gave me the smart only?”

“That’s it, only I said it in a more clever way. Now, as I was saying, I’m just really guessing about your muscles since you insist on wearing your bloody clothes so damned loose. Tell us, are your muscles superior? Or just your brain?”

“In my case, it’s both. Why, superior is just the word Signore Bertioli used for me. He said I could have butchered you months ago.”

“Well, in all fairness,” Sir Harry said on a sigh, “my own sister did nail me when we fenced. Of course that was before I bought a commission and went to Spain. Now I’m up to snuff, my boy, so don’t try to insult me. I just hope you aren’t too tired for what I have planned for tonight. Time to test your northern mettle.”

“What northern mettle? You want me to trounce you in piquet again, Harry? I’ve already fleeced you of five guineas. You’re an abominable player.”

“Lord Harry’s got you there, Harry,” Scuddy said. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve always told me what an accomplished player you were. Lord Harry’s beaten you regularly. Now what is this about northern mettle?”

“Much you would know about any sort of mettle,” Sir Harry said. You’re naught but a lazy hedonist. Just look at that belly of yours, oozing from beneath your waistcoat. It turns my stomach, and at your age, too, Scuddy.”

Scuddy said after he’d poured another long drink of wine down his gullet, “Where did you learn that word hedonist? Ha, you must have got it from your sister or her husband. Lord knows you aren’t all that much into words longer than a grunt.”

Hetty sat back in her chair, amused by their squabbling. She twirled a delicate crystal goblet of wine between her fingers, only halfheartedly listening to their bickering. The four months she had been Lord Harry Monteith seemed an eternity to her, the demands of being a young gentleman exhausting, sometimes dangerous, but always exhilarating. How very lucky she had been that Sir Harry Brandon and Mr. Scuddimore had so quickly and unreservedly taken her under their collective wings. Her thoughts went back to that first evening, four months ago, when she had emerged from Thompson Street as Lord Harry Monteith. Her deep fear had been that the first gentleman she would meet would look at her, stare in the direction of her womanly parts, then look horrified. She had pomaded down her normally fluffy blond curls and tied the queue securely with a black ribbon. Her cravat had caused her to gulp with fresh anxiety, for to any experienced masculine eye, it was indeed an abomination. She’d forced herself to leave the apartment, all her thoughts firmly focused on swaggering like a young gentleman, her hips resisting every urge to sway. She had tried to nonchalantly swing her black malacca cane in her hand, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, and had made her way to Drury Lane, whistling and humming even as her heart pounded against her ribs.

She would never forget her first evening at the theater, the title of the melodramatic play, The Milkmaid’s Dilemma, and the freak accident that had brought her together with Harry and Scuddy. A very rowdy play it was, following the adventures of a seductive milkmaid who, in the most maddening manner, refused to be bedded by her ardent young man. The hero had finally been about to succeed in his amorous endeavors when the milkmaid’s cow a very real bovine specimen became suddenly irked with the proceedings, mooed loudly, kicked over the milk can, and after gazing balefully at the uproarious audience, took violent exception. But a moment later, the cow lumbered off the stage, down into the pit, with frantic stagehands, a harried director, and the tousled heroine chasing behind her. The laughter suddenly turned to panic and Hetty found herself being pommeled and pushed roughly this way and that by the now stampeding audience.

“Out of me way, m’lad,” a very fat man yelled behind her, buffeting her on the shoulder. She would have gone sprawling to the ground had not a strong hand grabbed her arm and pulled her upright and back from the aisle.

“I say, old fellow,” a laughing voice said. “You really must keep out of the way of the rabble, you know. Hope that damned cow kicks in a few of their heads.”

Hetty looked up into twinkling blue eyes, set in a quite handsome young face. “Thank you, sir. It’s my first visit to the theater. Does this sort of thing happen very often?” Oh God, had she squeaked? Or had her voice been low enough?

The young gentleman grinned. “We were lucky tonight. They usually don’t have livestock that’s truly alive onstage. Once the audience threw rotten apples at the players. You should have seen the look on poor Macbeth’s face. Ho! They’ve finally got the poor beast in tow.” A sudden look of surprise crossed the young gentleman’s face. “First time to Drury Lane, you say?”

Hetty nodded. “Yes, I’ve just arrived in London from the North. It is all rather new to me.”

“Don’t mean to tell me you’re a rustic? Well, I’ll be damned. Hey, Scuddy, pay attention, old boy, we’ve got an oddity here and I saved him from being trampled.”

Hetty looked past her rescuer at a heavyset, cherubic-faced young man who had an openness about him that made her lips curl into an instant smile. Not a drop of guile in him. Probably not many brains either.

“What’s your name? It’s only fair that you tell me since I saved your hide.”

“Monteith. Lord Harry Monteith.”

The cherubic-faced young man blinked. “Damned coincidence. His name is Harry, too Sir Harry Brandon. Me, well, you can call me Scuddy.” He gave Hetty a plump hand that had probably never rubbed down a sweating horse in its life.

Hetty had worried about her soft white hands, but had discarded gloves. She would worry no longer.

Sir Harry poked Scuddy in the ribs. “His name’s actually Mr. Thayerton Scuddimore, but we don’t like to hang the poor fellow with that mouthful, so Scuddy it is. He doesn’t deserve such a noble name either.”

“It’s a pleasure, Scuddy.” So far, so good, she thought to herself. Both Harry and Scuddy appeared bluff and good-natured. She couldn’t help but wonder just how they would have introduced themselves had they known she was a female.

Sir Harry turned to gaze at the now empty stage. “Well, it looks as though our milkmaid ain’t going to tumble in the hay after all, at least tonight. Scuddy and I were going to White’s for a late supper. Why don’t you come along with us.”

Hetty said slowly, “You see, because I’m so new to London and have no friends here, I’m not a member of White’s. I’m not a member of anything.”

“Scuddy and I are,” Sir Harry said. “You may come along as our guest. No harm done there.”

“I say, Lord Harry.” She heard Scuddy’s voice, impatient now, “I’ve asked you the same question three times.”

Hetty blinked away her memories and brought her attention back to the present. “I was just thinking about the cow at Drury Lane.”

Scuddy laughed and thumped the table with the palm of his hand. “Damned funny sight. First time we met you, eh, Lord Harry? Damn it seems longer than what four months ago?”

“Well, it was four months ago,” Sir Harry said, his voice testy, an unusual event. “Stop prosing about the distant past else it will be close to dawn before I can tell you what I’ve got planned for the evening.”

Hetty recognized the rakish gleam in Harry’s sweet blue eyes, that, were it any other gentleman’s eye, would have been decidedly lecherous. Her palms were beginning to sweat as she forced herself to ask, “Tell us, Harry, what is this plan of yours?”

“A visit to Lady Buxtell’s house on Millsom Street. It’s been a damned long time since I’ve been there. About time to make another call.”

Palms sweatier still, Hetty knew she had to ask. “Lady Buxtell? A friend of yours, Harry?”

Scuddy gave a chuckle and tapped Hetty on her very sore arm. She managed to keep the gasp behind her teeth, knowing such a display wouldn’t be manly. “Good grief no, Lord Harry. She ain’t his friend much less a lady it’s her girls Harry’s interested in, not that bloody old besom.”

It had been with something of a shock to her when she discovered gentlemen’s conversations frequently settled in a most direct way upon the assets or lack thereof of various young ladies of their acquaintance. It was to their credit, Hetty supposed, that young ladies of quality were excluded from such frank and detailed comparisons, at least most of the time. But the bodily charms of females of a different class were bandied about in quite another manner. Up until now, Hetty believed that she had performed well, aping their rakish remarks and behaving in as lusty a way as her friends.

She wondered what the devil she was going to do now. She shrugged her shoulders and tried to look bored. “Really, Harry, a brothel? I, myself, prefer to partake of goods that aren’t displayed to so many customers.”

“Mighty high in the instep you are, Lord Harry. I tell you, it’s a very select house, not at all in the common way. You’ll not catch the pox there.” Sir Harry turned eagerly to Mr. Scuddimore. “Come, Scuddy, you ain’t said a word about the matter. I know for a fact you haven’t had a girl since you tossed one of your father’s serving maids. You said she gave you the grandest lessons imaginable. Time to try out your new knowledge.”

Scuddy sputtered into his glass of port. “No need to shout it to the world, Harry. If you will know, I’m not too plump in the pocket, it being midway through the quarter. M’father wouldn’t take it too kindly if I showed up on his doorstep with my hand out. Again.”

“Damnation, Scuddy, this one visit ain’t going to send you up the River Tick. And as for you, Lord Harry, I begin to wonder if you’ve ever even been to a house of pleasure. Just what is it you chaps do in the North Country?”

“Chaps in the North Country do much the same as you do, I suspect.” How the devil was she going to get out of this? “Actually, we tend to marry before we become old men. Solves a lot of problems, you know.”

It was Scuddy who turned upon her, his eyes filled with disbelief. “Damned silly notion. M’father is forever telling me that marriage has nothing to do with pleasure. Don’t tell me you’re that old fashioned?”

“Scuddy’s quite right, Lord Harry. A man’s got to have his pleasure. It has nothing to do with marriage, either before or after. Well, what do you say, chaps? I’m off to Lady Buxtell’s. Do you have red blood in your veins or are you all talk and excuses?”

Scuddy painstakingly calculated the remainder of his allowance until the first of the next quarter, brightened and said, “I’m with you, Harry.” He downed the rest of his port and turned an owlish stare at Hetty.

In that moment, Hetty knew she couldn’t refuse, for to do so might plant suspicious seeds in her friends’ minds that Lord Harry Monteith really wasn’t the lusty young man they believed him to be. She had to be manly and that meant not complaining about her sore arm muscles and going to a brothel. She tossed down her wine as Scuddy had done, thumped her glass on the table and rose with a swagger. “Well, my lads, the night grows late. Lead on, Harry. I, for one, am ready to sample Lady Buxtell’s wares.” She turned and allowed a hovering footman to assist her into her cloak.