Lord Harry's Folly (6 page)

Sir Harry frowned. He should be the one leading Lord Harry, not the other way around. It had been his idea, after all. He clapped Scuddy on the shoulder, recovering his good humor at the thought of a lovely young woman pleasuring him and said to Lord Harry, “We’re right behind you.”

Hetty cudgeled her brain as street after street melted away beneath her boots, bringing her nearer and nearer to Millsom Street. Somewhere, she thought, there must be some humor in this ridiculous situation.

She was momentarily surprised at the somber picture Lady Buxtell’s establishment presented to the passerby. It was a huge, three-story brick structure that dominated a street corner, its façade of Georgian columns unpretentious to the point of austerity. No more than a modicum of candlelight shined through its front windows, and for an instant, Hetty thought that Harry had made a wonderfully welcome mistake. Perhaps it was closed for the night. Both wishes were soon dashed when Harry stepped smartly up the stone steps and loudly sounded the heavy brass knocker. Only deep silence followed the echoing knock, and again, Hetty allowed herself the hope that Lady Buxtell was not receiving gentlemen this evening.

She heard a slight grating sound and realized someone was looking at them. More minutes passed before the heavy oak door was eased smoothly open, and a tall, gaunt-looking man, all dressed in severe black, stood silently before them. As the man’s eyes rested briefly upon her, Hetty felt her heart thump madly. She had the uncanny sensation that somehow he knew her to be an imposter. But then the man stepped back, offered a negligent bow, and motioned for them to enter. How strange, she thought, that I am relieved to be allowed to enter a brothel. Another man, also clothed all in black, took their canes and cloaks. Hetty would have sworn that the rheumy old eyes leered as he silently pointed them down a long, narrow hall toward the back of the house.

“Very discreet,” Hetty said to Harry, trying to keep condemnation from her voice. She wondered if the Marquess of Oberlon would be in attendance tonight. Stupid thought, she realized but an instant later. His grace kept his mistresses privately. She doubted if the marquess had given up such pleasures even during his brief marriage to Elizabeth Springville.

She quickly forgot the marquess as Sir Harry confidently directed them into a spacious drawing room. He gave her a sly look. “Well, what do you think, Lord Harry? More elegant than you expected, eh?”

On first glance, Hetty was inclined to agree. The long, rectangular room was richly appointed with heavy crimson velvet hangings in marked contrast to delicately wrought clusters of chairs and sofas fashioned in the gold and white style of the late Louis. At least half a dozen black-clad footmen moved unobtrusively about the room, quantities of drink held on large silver trays. A closer look showed her that the occupants of the room were a far cry from the habitus of Almack’s. There were many more ladies than gentlemen present, and though they were garbed in keeping with the elegance of the room, there was more white bosom showing than Hetty ever considered possible without showing a navel as well. She noticed with growing dread that although conversation appeared lively and high giggling laughter was a commonplace amongst the ladies, the gentlemen still managed to caress and stroke any unclothed flesh that was near to them. She felt frightened and embarrassed to the tips of her toes at the spectacle before her. “What did you say, Harry? Oh, it’s elegant. You’re right. Why a more tasteful brothel I’ve never encountered.”

“Gawd, ain’t she ever a beauty,” Mr. Scuddimore whispered in awe, his widened eyes fastened upon an ethereal-looking girl whose shining hair lay long and thick and black as polished ebony down her slender back. Her brown eyes were curiously slanted at the corners, giving her an exotic appearance.

“Ah, I can see that you are taken with Lilly, young sir. She has come to us just recently from a faraway land called China. Most charming, is she not?”

Mr. Scuddimore jumped and reddened, unaware that his remark had been overheard. He turned, just as had Sir Harry and Lord Harry, to gaze into the light green eyes of a tall, willowy built woman, who, unlike the rest of the females in the vast room, was dressed in a blue velvet gown that revealed not one patch of bosom. The smile on her reddened lips was one of tolerant amusement. Hetty realized that she was the madam, the woman who procured and sold the bodies of these other women. Without thought to her precarious position, she looked the woman up and down, and said with all the haughty sang froid of a peer of the realm, “How interesting that you must needs search to the ends of the world to procure ladies for your establishment. Is procurement that difficult? Perhaps it is very costly?”

Sir Harry shot a look of confused surprise at Lord Harry and Hetty forced herself to swallow her anger. She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from Madam Buxtell to look about the room.

“I’m Sir Harry Brandon, Lady Buxtell. Perhaps you remember me. I was here not above a month ago.”

Lady Angelique Buxtell, Martine DuBois by birth, cloaked her anger and forced a polite mask of recognition and welcome to her painted face. Actually, she had no memory of him at all, but he appeared eager to please, and somewhat embarrassed by his friend’s churlishness. Thus, she nodded her dark brown curls, only slightly brightened by the dye jar, and stretched her hand to Sir Harry. “Of course, Sir Harry, I remember you well. I see that you have brought two friends. Perhaps some champagne, cards, or pleasant conversation with one of my lovely girls?”

Mr. Scuddimore, having gathered his scattered wits back together, replied with unabashed directness to Lady Buxtell’s suggestion. “Didn’t come here for cards, ma’am. Already lost too much blunt to Lord Harry here.”

Ah, so the rude young man is a lord, Lady Buxtell thought, instantly revising her opinion and forgiving the insolence. Lords were, after all, the making of her success. It wouldn’t do at all to offend one of them. “In that case, gentlemen,” she said, focusing a bright smile on Hetty, “champagne and conversation it shall be.”

“Didn’t really come for conversation either,” Scuddy said. “I ain’t much in the line of talking at the best of times.”

“I can see that.” Lady Buxtell ushered them to a generously laden sideboard at the far end of the room and poured each of them a glass of sparkling champagne. “To your evening’s pleasure, my lords,” she said with practiced gaiety, motioning toward the girl, Lilly, as she spoke.

Sir Harry leaned over to Hetty and whispered, “See, I told you Lady Buxtell’s was far above the common touch. There’s Lord Alvaney next to the fireplace and over there is Sir John Walterton.”

Hetty interrupted. “Yes, and the gentleman already far into his cups is Lord Darcy Pendleton. Bedamned. Sir William Filey. How I pity the poor girl who must see to his wants.”

Hetty despised Sir William Filey, for he was debauched, cunning, and ruthless. That a good part of her hatred of him was heavily mixed with fear, she freely admitted. At White’s, several months before, he had made a mocking remark about the inordinate smoothness of her cheeks. That very evening, she had made an obvious show of departing with Sir Harry and Scuddy, leaving no doubt that she was off to enjoy a man’s pleasures. She had contrived whenever possible to avoid Sir William’s company, fearful that he would see through her disguise. When Scuddy had told her and Harry about the wager, her condemnation of him had been complete.

“Lord Harry, for God’s sake, stop staring like an idiot at Sir William. The last thing you want to do is offend him. He’s dangerous.”

“You’re right, Harry. It’s just that he offends me.” Her thoughts returned to her own predicament. She realized that she wasn’t behaving as a normal gentleman would. After all, the only reason a man would come to Lady Buxtell’s establishment was to gratify his appetites and that meant, pure and simple, having sex with one of the girls present. She watched as the diminutive Lilly bore off a suddenly tongue-tied Scuddy. She found her eyes again wandering to where Sir William Filey sat, one of his hands resting possessively over the full breast of a raven-haired girl. In that instant, as if he was aware of being observed, Sir William swiveled about, his dark eyes meeting Hetty’s over the rim of his glass. He gazed at her in a way that made Hetty feel as though she were standing naked on display, and then, lazily, lifted his glass in her direction in a mock salute. Knowing that she’d paled, Hetty quickly nodded and turned back to Sir Harry. It was with a mixture of dismay and relief that she saw Sir Harry’s attention was no longer even partially on her. “I’ll leave you now, old boy,” he said over his shoulder as he took off in the direction of a long-legged blonde, whose features were remarkably like his own.

Hetty felt as if she were frozen in her boots. She knew that she had to do something, at least act interested in one of the girls. She watched as Sir John Walterton led a giggling, flushed girl from the room and toward a wide circling staircase that began its ascent just outside the door of the drawing room.

What the devil was she going to do?

She forced herself to attend to those females in the room who appeared as yet unattached by any of the gentlemen. It was only the second time her eyes swept over the occupants that she chanced to notice a slightly built redheaded girl who stood partially hidden by a red velvet hanging. Even across the room, Hetty sensed the fear in the girl. New, was she? Hetty made her way slowly toward the girl, halting only to procure two glasses of champagne from a footman’s tray. As she neared, she was aware that the girl had seen her approach, and had started guiltily. Dear God, Hetty thought angrily, she appeared to be younger than Hetty herself was. She looked to be no more than sixteen, if that.

She heard herself say calmly, “Hello, my name is Lord Harry Monteith. Would you care to join me for a glass of champagne?”

“Oh yes, certainly,” the girl said quickly, too quickly, Hetty thought as she handed her the glass. She watched the girl’s eyes dart past her. She turned her head slightly and saw that Lady Buxtell’s sharp eyes had narrowed to slits as they rested on the girl. Hetty took a step sideways, hopefully blocking Lady Buxtell’s view.

“What’s your name?”

“Mavreen, my lord.”

“You seem very young to be here, Mavreen.”

“Oh no, my lord, I’m not young at all, unless you want me to be. What do you want, my lord?”

For a moment, Hetty was so shocked she couldn’t think of a thing to say. She saw that Mavreen’s hand was trembling slightly, the champagne sloshing close to the rim of the glass.

Hetty suddenly felt a ray of hope as she gazed down upon the girl’s pale face. Mavreen was as yet quite inexperienced at her trade, of that Hetty was certain. At least, she prayed for this certainty, since it was quite likely that her future as a gentleman rested on her assumption.

Mavreen started nervously at the touch of his lordship’s hand on her bare arm. “Please forgive me, my lord, would you care to be seated?”

As Hetty seated herself beside Mavreen, she had the sudden fleeting picture of herself in the girl’s situation, her livelihood dependent upon pleasing gentlemen. As Hetty didn’t have the luxury to dwell upon this particular injustice, she turned abruptly to Mavreen and said in a no-nonsense voice, “You need not lie to me, Mavreen. You can’t be more than sixteen, I know. Come, tell me the truth.”

Mavreen jumped. Normally, gentlemen weren’t the least interested in her age, or, for that matter, any thought she might have in her head. She tried to assess his lordship’s intentions, but her lack of experience didn’t provide her any clues. She said hesitantly, “I am telling you the truth, my lord. But I am just turned sixteen but three months ago.” She saw the young lord’s jaw tighten and hastened to reassure him as best she was able. “Even though I’m young, my lord, you mustn’t believe that I am not adept at whatever you would wish of me.” Mavreen saw a look of sadness pass over the young gentleman’s face, and was at once alarmed and confused.

“How long have you been in this establishment, Mavreen?”

“Two weeks, my lord, but all you have to do is tell me what you wish. I’m very good, my lord, truly.”

She imagined it was so. She heard Sir Harry laughing and looked up. Like Scuddy, he was now headed toward the staircase. She couldn’t quite grasp it. Her friends were going to take off their clothes and be intimate with females they didn’t even know and then they were going to give them money. It was more than she could begin to understand, and here she was in the middle of it.

“Have I displeased you, my lord?” Hetty looked back at Mavreen, and saw that she was staring at Lady Buxtell who was speaking with a newly arrived gentleman.

“No, you don’t displease me, Mavreen.” She patted the girl’s hand. “Tell me how you came to be here.”

“My Uncle Bob was killed, fighting with Wellington at Waterloo,” Mavreen blurted out. “Oh goodness, forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. Oh dear, Lady Buxtell will surely be displeased with me.”

“Mavreen, I trust that Lord Monteith is receiving all that he wishes.” Hetty jerked about to see Lady Buxtell hovering at her side.

Hetty replied smoothly, a touch of arrogance in her voice, “I was just telling Mavreen that the room is close. I dislike all this noise. And the smell of cheap perfume. If you will excuse us, Mavreen is going to take me for a stroll.” She rose, her back turned insolently to Lady Buxtell, and assisted Mavreen to her feet.

Lady Buxtell would like to smack Lord Monteith, but she couldn’t afford to have it get around that she ever insulted a nobleman. She watched as the couple slowly made their way across the room and disappeared from her view up the staircase. She wasn’t at all a stupid woman and found herself wondering at the young lord’s ill-concealed distaste for her famous establishment. She glanced up at the clock and saw, with some irritation, that it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Many of the fancy gentlemen were still dawdling about, evidently content to fondle her girls and pour her expensive champagne down their gullets.