Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (good romance books to read TXT) 📗

She wondered what the devil she was going to do now. She shrugged her shoulders and tried to look bored. “Really, Harry, a brothel? I, myself, prefer to partake of goods that aren’t displayed to so many customers.”

“Mighty high in the instep you are, Lord Harry. I tell you, it’s a very select house, not at all in the common way. You’ll not catch the pox there.” Sir Harry turned eagerly to Mr. Scuddimore. “Come, Scuddy, you ain’t said a word about the matter. I know for a fact you haven’t had a girl since you tossed one of your father’s serving maids. You said she gave you the grandest lessons imaginable. Time to try out your new knowledge.”

Scuddy sputtered into his glass of port. “No need to shout it to the world, Harry. If you will know, I’m not too plump in the pocket, it being midway through the quarter. M’father wouldn’t take it too kindly if I showed up on his doorstep with my hand out. Again.”

“Damnation, Scuddy, this one visit ain’t going to send you up the River Tick. And as for you, Lord Harry, I begin to wonder if you’ve ever even been to a house of pleasure. Just what is it you chaps do in the North Country?”

“Chaps in the North Country do much the same as you do, I suspect.” How the devil was she going to get out of this? “Actually, we tend to marry before we become old men. Solves a lot of problems, you know.”

It was Scuddy who turned upon her, his eyes filled with disbelief. “Damned silly notion. M’father is forever telling me that marriage has nothing to do with pleasure. Don’t tell me you’re that old fashioned?”

“Scuddy’s quite right, Lord Harry. A man’s got to have his pleasure. It has nothing to do with marriage, either before or after. Well, what do you say, chaps? I’m off to Lady Buxtell’s. Do you have red blood in your veins or are you all talk and excuses?”

Scuddy painstakingly calculated the remainder of his allowance until the first of the next quarter, brightened and said, “I’m with you, Harry.” He downed the rest of his port and turned an owlish stare at Hetty.

In that moment, Hetty knew she couldn’t refuse, for to do so might plant suspicious seeds in her friends’ minds that Lord Harry Monteith really wasn’t the lusty young man they believed him to be. She had to be manly and that meant not complaining about her sore arm muscles and going to a brothel. She tossed down her wine as Scuddy had done, thumped her glass on the table and rose with a swagger. “Well, my lads, the night grows late. Lead on, Harry. I, for one, am ready to sample Lady Buxtell’s wares.” She turned and allowed a hovering footman to assist her into her cloak.

Sir Harry frowned. He should be the one leading Lord Harry, not the other way around. It had been his idea, after all. He clapped Scuddy on the shoulder, recovering his good humor at the thought of a lovely young woman pleasuring him and said to Lord Harry, “We’re right behind you.”

Hetty cudgeled her brain as street after street melted away beneath her boots, bringing her nearer and nearer to Millsom Street. Somewhere, she thought, there must be some humor in this ridiculous situation.

She was momentarily surprised at the somber picture Lady Buxtell’s establishment presented to the passerby. It was a huge, three-story brick structure that dominated a street corner, its façade of Georgian columns unpretentious to the point of austerity. No more than a modicum of candlelight shined through its front windows, and for an instant, Hetty thought that Harry had made a wonderfully welcome mistake. Perhaps it was closed for the night. Both wishes were soon dashed when Harry stepped smartly up the stone steps and loudly sounded the heavy brass knocker. Only deep silence followed the echoing knock, and again, Hetty allowed herself the hope that Lady Buxtell was not receiving gentlemen this evening.

She heard a slight grating sound and realized someone was looking at them. More minutes passed before the heavy oak door was eased smoothly open, and a tall, gaunt-looking man, all dressed in severe black, stood silently before them. As the man’s eyes rested briefly upon her, Hetty felt her heart thump madly. She had the uncanny sensation that somehow he knew her to be an imposter. But then the man stepped back, offered a negligent bow, and motioned for them to enter. How strange, she thought, that I am relieved to be allowed to enter a brothel. Another man, also clothed all in black, took their canes and cloaks. Hetty would have sworn that the rheumy old eyes leered as he silently pointed them down a long, narrow hall toward the back of the house.

“Very discreet,” Hetty said to Harry, trying to keep condemnation from her voice. She wondered if the Marquess of Oberlon would be in attendance tonight. Stupid thought, she realized but an instant later. His grace kept his mistresses privately. She doubted if the marquess had given up such pleasures even during his brief marriage to Elizabeth Springville.

She quickly forgot the marquess as Sir Harry confidently directed them into a spacious drawing room. He gave her a sly look. “Well, what do you think, Lord Harry? More elegant than you expected, eh?”

On first glance, Hetty was inclined to agree. The long, rectangular room was richly appointed with heavy crimson velvet hangings in marked contrast to delicately wrought clusters of chairs and sofas fashioned in the gold and white style of the late Louis. At least half a dozen black-clad footmen moved unobtrusively about the room, quantities of drink held on large silver trays. A closer look showed her that the occupants of the room were a far cry from the habitus of Almack’s. There were many more ladies than gentlemen