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

chill and died swiftly of an inflammation of the lung, it required a stirring eulogy by the curate to make Sir Archibald aware that an important member of his family had passed to the hereafter. He grieved for her perfunctorily, focusing his beautiful, vague eyes on Hetty and patting her on the head in recognition of their mutual sorrow for the better part of two weeks. But then, suddenly, there was an election. Perceval became Prime Minister, and as a result, the Whigs began to wield such political power that Sir Archibald sought to throw himself immediately into the fray. He patted Hetty on the head for a final time and set off to London to launch a counteroffensive. Hetty went back to her prim governess with the natural dread of a lively child condemned to sewing samplers in a cheerless schoolroom. And then Damien had arrived to rescue her. Wounded in a skirmish on the Peninsula, he was packed to the country to recuperate. How quickly he had realized that the country offered very little in the way of amusement. He had turned to her, recognized her deep loneliness, and instantly taken her under his wing. Miss Mills, Hetty’s governess, was charmed to her very soul by Damien’s brotherly treatment of her, and so raised no great fuss. Thus it was that Hetty had found herself riding to the hunt, shooting at bottles with Damien’s dueling pistol, and quickly becoming the most skilled ten-year-old piquet player in England.

Hetty felt a lump rise in her throat. Although she did not in the least resent her father’s vague dismissal of her mother’s demise, she couldn’t help but think Sir Archibald oddly selfish when he had shown no more emotion at his son’s death. She wondered with a tinge of bitterness if her father would even remember Damien if it were not for the large portrait of him that hung in the drawing room over the mantelpiece. Lady Beatrice, unfortunately, had never achieved a like immortality through the artist’s brush.

Hetty was brought up short by her father’s impassioned voice. “Of course, as true Englishmen, we would never consider the application of such vile methods as those employed by those more radical members of parliament. Yes, gentlemen, I speak of the incitement to riot, the unconscionable exploitation of the workers by the more irresponsible members of our company. Nay, I would not wish to indict the whole of the opposition”

“Bravo, Father,” Hetty said when he reached a long pause. “A speech for the House of Lords? You speak this afternoon?”

“Eh?” Sir Archibald jumped at his daughter’s interruption, the words of his next sentence waiting impatiently on his tongue. “Oh, excuse me, my dear, I did not realize that you were still about. You haven’t yet finished your soup? Didn’t we also have some ham? Oh dear, I dislike potato soup, and that’s what she brought, isn’t it? Do you think perhaps Mrs. Miller could bring us something else?”

“Certainly, Father. Is there anything else I may do for you, sir?”

“Do for me? Other than have Mrs. Miller fetch me some ham soup? No, my dear. Such a good, considerate girl you are, Henrietta. Now, my dear, I’m off to make a speech this afternoon. If you are dining in, my child, don’t have Cook hold dinner. Sir Mortimer and I will be discussing whether or not we should journey to Manchester, to determine if large scale insurrection is in any way a possibility. I will, of course, inform you if I am to leave London.”

“I would expect nothing less from you, Father.” Hetty rose and kissed her father’s brow. As she closed the dining room door behind her, she heard her father’s beautiful resonant voice rise to an impassioned crescendo.

Chapter Three

Later that same day at Rose Briar Manor in Herefordshire, Lady Louisa Rolland pursed her lips and steepled her fingertips, tapping them lightly. “Jack, do listen. This is all very odd. I’ve a letter from Drusilla Worthington, that mousy little dab of a woman who is supposed to be chaperoning Hetty in London. She is full of apologies that she had to leave the dear child suddenly to attend to her sick sister in Kent.”

“Sounds proper for her to inform you.” Sir John didn’t look up from cleaning his favorite hunting rifle.

“What is odd, Jack,” Lady Louisa said, frowning at his bent head, “is that she left nearly four months ago. In fact, but four weeks after Hetty arrived in London. Neither Hetty nor Sir Archibald have mentioned it in their letters.”

Sir John looked up, a look of patent disbelief on his square, handsome face. “Surely you’re mistaken, old girl. Quite impossible, in fact.”

“I assure you it’s what she writes,” Lady Louisa said.

“But I’ve never known my father to write a letter to anyone. Something strange there, Lou.”

Fighting back an urge to cosh her husband, which seemed quite the natural thing to do, Lady Louisa managed to control herself. “Attend me, Jack, and cease your jesting. You know I didn’t mean that. I merely used Sir Archibald’s name in a manner of speaking. You know very well that Hetty is the only one who ever writes. And she,” Louisa continued, “hasn’t mentioned it at all.”

“Now, Lou, you’re not thinking about playing a dragon mother-in-law, are you? Lord knows if you want to, don’t. Send your own mother instead, she’d scare the sin out of the prince himself. She could give a dragon lessons. As for Hetty, I can’t say I blame her for not telling us. The Worthington woman was probably a damned nuisance, probably drove poor Hetty quite mad. Good thing she’s gone to that sick sister.” He paused a moment, looking worriedly at his rifle. “I hope the sister doesn’t die. That would mean the Worthington woman would be back in poor Hetty’s hair again.”

“Damned nuisance or not, my love, Hetty is but eighteen years of age. Even though she’s in mourning for Damien and won’t be attending Almack’s or any