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

tightly into a line of suspicion as the old man looked him up and down. As if I were some sort of peddler, the marquess thought, not realizing that in his dusty, travel-stained clothes, he could hardly fit anyone’s idea of a peer of the realm.

“I’ve come to see your mistress,” he said without preamble. “Tell Miss Henrietta that the Marquess of Oberlon requests her presence immediately.”

Even though Dawley had rusticated for over twenty years, he still knew well the voice of Quality, and the line of suspicion became one of perturbation. Miss Henrietta? He didn’t believe that he could have overlooked her presence in the manor. But he doubted an instant, for his grace sounded so very positive.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, your grace, but Miss Hetty hasn’t been in residence for close to seven months now. I believe she’s in London, your grace, with Sir Archibald.”

The marquess frowned. The butler was telling the truth, he didn’t doubt that, but it simply didn’t seem possible that he could have arrived here before Hetty. He grew suddenly cold. He, himself, had suffered several mishaps. “It’s likely she will arrive shortly from London. I trust it will not disaccommodate you if I remain for the night, for it’s urgent that I see her.”

Dawley thought that the marquess’s presence would very much set Mrs. Dawley on her ear, but of course he didn’t offer this observation to his grace. He bowed low, silently praying that Mrs. Dawley had something beside the pig’s cheek to serve the marquess for dinner.

The pig’s cheek didn’t end up on the marquess’s table, but rather several slices of overly salted ham, unearthed from the larder by a frantic Mrs. Dawley. At least the port was passable, he thought idly, as he stretched his feet toward the warm fire set in the parlor. He drummed his fingers together with rhythmic precision, trying to trace what would logically have been Hetty’s movements from the moment she fled from London, but found himself almost immediately stymied, for he couldn’t really be certain if she’d traveled by horse, on a coach, as a female or as Lord Harry. He felt extraordinarily helpless, a circumstance he truly detested. His life had been too much out of control of late.

He rose and absently kicked a crackling log with the toe of one dusty, mud-caked boot. Where the hell was she anyway? He had even delayed his journey until the morning, thus giving her many hours to reach her destination before him. At the moment, he seemed to have very little choice but to remain at Belshire Manor until noon on the morrow. If Hetty hadn’t arrived by then, well, either she had been delayed, or had never intended to come here in the first place. He thought of Jack and Louisa and their home in Herefordshire. Perhaps the very fact that they were in Paris would induce Hetty there, for she could be alone.

He didn’t find Hetty at Sir John’s home in Herefordshire, and it was an extraordinarily weary and worried man who reined in yet another hired hack at the front steps of Thurston Hall, six days after his frenetic and fruitless search had begun. There had been no main road or village that he had passed without inquiry, and, now, he admitted, he simply had no more ideas. He hadn’t the energy to continue back to his town house in London. Deep within him, he knew in any case that there would be no news of Hetty awaiting him were he to return.

He mounted the steps, and without bothering to sound the knocker, pushed open the great front doors. As the afternoon was gray and overcast, the entrance hall seemed chill and dim, both the weather and his home reflecting, he thought, his own depression.

It was with sudden tight-lipped anger that he greeted the obviously tipsy Croft, who was weaving his way toward him, consternation paling his flushed face at the unexpected sight of his master.

“Oh dear. Oh my goodness. Oh Lordie, it is your grace, is it not?”

“You miserable sot! Damn you, Croft, get belowstairs immediately. I don’t want to see that bulbous nose of yours again until you’ve sobered up from drinking my port.”

“Er, it was the sherry, your grace. We’re low on the port. Your late father was never very fond of port.”

“Damn you, I should sack you right now, it’s no more than you deserve.”

“But your grace” Croft tried to lower his voice to a more dignified pitch, but the marquess interrupted him brusquely.

“Out of my bloody sight, Croft. I’ve no patience left for you. God, you reek.” He turned on his heel and headed for the quiet of the library. “Send a footman with brandy and don’t you taste it.”

He didn’t see Croft wave his hand frantically at his back. He flung open the library door, kicked it closed with the heel of his boot and strode directly to the fireplace. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why such a brightly blazing fire was burning in the grate, and he splayed his hands toward the warmth.

“It’s about time you have returned home, Jason. After five days, I must tell you that the servants had seriously begun to doubt my word. Croft even started tippling again, so that proves that he believed me an imposter.”

He spun about so quickly that he had to grab the edge of the mantelpiece to retain his balance. For a long moment, he stared at Hetty, not one word taking form in his mind.

She stood quietly, her hands resting on the back of a chair. She was dressed in a modish yellow jonquil gown, her blond curls tied with a yellow velvet ribbon. She looked very beautiful and very serious and very pale.

“You, Hetty, you’re here? I don’t believe this. You’ve been here at Thurston Hall all this time?”

“Yes,” she said, walking slowly toward him. “I’ve put you to a good deal of trouble. If you wish to yell