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

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.

Chapter Twenty-two

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.