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

me down in but a moment in the ring. No, I thank you, but I’ve no taste or ability to embroil myself with fists. Besides, I have my fencing lesson in but an hour with Signore Bertioli.”

Appeased by Lord Harry’s frank admission of his superior skill at boxing, Sir Harry said, “Does the Italian think you’ve improved?”

“I think he’s from Sardinia, not Italy. Yes, he’s forever giving me encouragement, but I confess I believe his sense of diplomacy is stronger than his honesty.” Hetty didn’t add that Signore Bertioli had ceased several weeks ago to concern himself about her lack of endurance. All their time together was spent in practicing his master’s techniques delicate feints, subtle flicks of the wrist that could catch an opponent off guard.

“It isn’t a matter of life or death,” Sir Harry said. A queer gleam shone an instant in Lord Harry’s blue eyes, then disappeared.

Sir Harry said, eyeing his friend with suspicion, “Look here, now, Lord Harry, you aren’t thinking of a duel, are you? It isn’t done. It isn’t smart. My brother-in-law would have my innards for breakfast if I got involved in a duel.” Then he thought of the Marquess of Oberlon and the outlandish story he had heard just this morning from Mr. Scuddimore of their visit to Melissande’s house the previous evening. He blanched.

“Of course not, Harry.” She turned quickly from his inquiring gaze and allowed an assistant to help her into her greatcoat. With the knowledge that Jack and Louisa were leaving on the morrow, she said over her shoulder, “Why do you and Scuddy not come to my lodgings tomorrow evening? I promise you a substantial dinner, an excellent claret, and a sound thrashing at cards.”

“Sorry, but I’ve other plans for tomorrow night.”

“Does the fair Isabella Bentworth play a part in them?”

“No, she doesn’t, but it’s none of your business anyway. I almost forgot. My sister, Kate St. Clair, wants both of us to come to dinner tonight.”

“I’d like to, Harry, but I can’t. I promised I’d go to the masked ball at Ranleagh House.”

“Which one of you charming ladies is my Louisa?”

“My dear John, it’s obvious,” Sir Archibald said seriously, “Little Hetty is half a head taller than Louisa.”

“Right you are, Father. The short, plump one it is.”

“Louisa, hit him, he’s abominable.” Hetty was laughing, her eyes twinkling from behind the slits in her red mask.

“He’ll be sorry, Hetty. I intend to dance him into the ground this evening. You know these oversized men, no endurance. He’ll be begging for mercy. I think I just might try dancing on his big feet.”

“And I’ll be there to see it,” Hetty said. Then she thought: Endurance. Louisa knows nothing at all about endurance. Her arm still aching from the hour she had spent with Signore Bertioli.

“Father, we’re off. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Grimpston told me he’s off to Lord Melberry’s house,” Hetty said to her brother as she seated herself in their coach.

“Those damned and dratted Whigs again, no doubt,” Jack said. “Move over, Hetty, I’ve got long legs. Lou, you’re grinning and I don’t trust it. What are you thinking about? No, don’t answer. You’re going to tell Hetty how I found our way out of the maze.”

“Actually, I was thinking about your begging me to let you rest after your sixth dance.”

Hetty sat back, thinking of the evening ahead of her. Although Jack, in that big brother way of his, had demanded that Hetty stay close to him, parroting nonsense about there being too much license granted at a masked ball, she had no intention of doing so. The red mask gave her anonymity. Staying by Sir John, whose size and deep voice would be recognizable to even a slight acquaintance, she would be instantly known. She had every intention of thoroughly enjoying herself, and that meant keeping the dowdy Miss Henrietta Rolland as well as Lord Harry well in the shadows.

Her excitement mounted as the carriage pulled off the main road onto a long, circular graveled drive in front of Ranleagh House. It was a mammoth three-story building that sprawled atop a slight hill. Scores of lighted candles sparkled from every window, making it appear more a huge diamond, aglow against the backdrop of the black night. A seemingly endless line of carriages lined the drive, and it was with some difficulty that John coachman maneuvered around them to deposit Sir John, Louisa, and Hetty at the front stone steps.

They were met inside the front doors by a deeply bowing butler and three footmen, who deftly removed their cloaks. The laughter coming from the great ballroom down the corridor mixed with the strains of a fast German waltz made Hetty laugh aloud with anticipation. “Come, Jack, Louisa, don’t wait all night,” she said over her shoulder as she picked up her skirts and moved swiftly after the butler.

She paused for a moment at the entrance of the grand ballroom, taking in the imaginative decorations. Yards upon yards of red and white satin had been gathered at the ceiling and dipped down like countless sultan’s tents over the heads of the guests. Huge urns filled with every imaginable flower graced each corner, their sweet scent filling the room. There must not be a bloom left in the Ranleagh greenhouse, she thought, turning her attention to the magnificently arrayed guests. She laughed aloud her excitement as a gallant Robin Hood clad in forest green bowed low in front of her and offered his arm. Without a moment’s hesitation, she turned from Sir John and Lady Louisa, smiling at her brother over her shoulder, and whirled away with her partner into the throng of guests.

Sir John raised his hand to stop her. “Don’t you dare, Jack,” his wife said. “Let her enjoy herself. No harm can come to her here, and, you must admit, it has been too long a time since Hetty has showed such pleasure.” She clasped her husband’s hand. “As for you, my lord, it’s time to