Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (read this if .txt) 📕

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.”

Hetty struggled to find words to push him to anger. She didn’t understand him. Why didn’t he take her by the throat and shake her? She managed more coldness, more disdain. “Nay, your grace,” she said, chin as high as it would go, “in your case, I don’t insult a gentleman, but rather a nobleman. Even with my few years, I know there is a difference, is there not?”

It was beyond what he would take. Jason grasped the boy’s wrist hard, twisting the bones, realizing as he did so that the bones were delicate, that he could break the wrist with just a twist of his hand. But he didn’t twist the boy’s wrist. He saw pain in the boy’s eyes, but he made no sound, merely looked down at Lord Oberlon’s hand, his look cold and dispassionate. Jason didn’t want to be impressed, but again, he was.

It was all Hetty could do to keep herself from crying out. His fingers were long and squared at the tips, overlapping about her wrist. I’ve succeeded, she thought, her elation overcoming the pain in her wrist. He jerked suddenly on her wrist, pulling her within inches of his face. He said softly, “I deplore bad manners and scenes, Monteith. You push me. On purpose. I ask myself why. Why, lad, do you do this?”

Damien’s name formed on her lips, but she bit it back. He deserved no explanation, not until she’d put a bullet through his black heart. As his lifeblood flowed from his body, then and only then would he know the reason for his death.

“Hey ho, Lord Harry, what are you about? Are you brewing some mischief with his grace? Don’t tell me, Lord Oberlon, that Monteith has false-carded you at faro? It’s impossible, he’s far too good a gamester. He never loses.”

Hetty bit her lower lip in frustration. Lord Oberlon dropped her wrist. He didn’t even bother looking at her again. She wasn’t important enough for more of his precious time. God, she wanted to curse at him, tell him he was a murderer, without honor, responsible for her brother’s death, and how she would kill him. There would be another time, she promised him silently, watching him turn into a bored gentleman as smoothly as a chameleon.

“No, Brandon, Monteith does not, to the best of my limited knowledge, resort to such subtle tactics as cheating at faro. However, what he is I have yet to determine.”

Jason turned to look at the newcomer, Mr. Scuddimore. “I trust, Scuddimore, that your parents are well? Your father has recovered from his hunting accident? They survive without your presence?”

Scuddy bowed deeply, cognizant of his grace’s signal honor of speaking to him. “So kind of your grace to inquire. No problem there, your grace, my father goes along quite well now. They haven’t said that they miss me overly.”

The marquess merely nodded, saying now to Harry, “Brandon, give my regards to your charming sister and Julien. I shall call upon them presently. As for you, Lord Harry, doubtless we will chat again. Mind what I’ve told you, lad. Think before your mouth leads to your demise.” He flipped his hand in an indifferent salute and strolled away.

“What was that all about?” Sir Harry asked, looking after the marquess.

“Nothing at all. Now, tell me how much more champagne have you consumed for my celebration? I won only twenty guineas at faro. Ah, but let’s drink it down. Lead on, MacDuff.”

“MacDuff?” Scuddy said. “Don’t know him. Does the fellow like champagne? It wouldn’t do to bring him along if he don’t.”

Chapter Twelve

Jason Cavander stirred a cube of sugar into his rich Spanish coffee and savored the pungent dark aroma before swallowing. Although it was after nine o’clock in the morning, it promised to be another dreary winter day, and the marquess wished he could have stayed abed. A howling wind was battering noisily against the long French windows in the small breakfast room, and heavy pellets of rain blurred the triangular park just opposite his town house in Berkeley Square.

A damned depressing day it would be, he thought, pouring himself a second cup of coffee. Poor Spiverson. He could picture his stooped gaunt man of business, walking hunched forward against the rain and wind, presenting himself to Lord Oberlon in a dripping shiny black suit, his sparse gray hair plastered about his small square face. He paid an extraordinarily generous fee to his man of business, yet Spiverson would sooner risk an inflammation of the lung than part with a few shillings to take a hackney.

The marquess cupped his hands about the coffee cup, rose from the table and strolled to the fireplace. He controlled the urge to inform his butler to send Spiverson away when he arrived. Although such caprice from a wealthy master wouldn’t be blinked at, the marquess had no desire to emulate his late father, who, with a snap of his fingers, blithely canceled appointments, leaving his house in chaos whilst he went off to drink with one of his cronies or inspect a new hunter. The marquess had returned order to the house, and he had no intention of allowing himself to slip into indolence at the sacrifice of his responsibilities. This once, though, he was sorely tempted, for his head ached from too much revelry the previous evening. The rest of his body was none too pleased either, for following a not-altogether-steady walk from White’s to Melissande’s apartment on Pemberley