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

white hand to her lips and kissed the soft skin. It tasted of jasmine. Very nice. “It is, of course, my good fortune to find you unoccupied. What a shame though to find you so much alone. And on such an excellent day. Not a single rain cloud in the sky. Ah, did I say something that upsets you, Melissande?”

Hetty wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. She’d just scored a major point. If nothing else, Melissande would be in a god-awful snit the next time she saw Lord Oberlon. Come to think of it, Melissande did deserve a bit more attention, didn’t she? Surely she was expensive. She realized then that a mistress was dependent upon her protector for all her needs. That of course wouldn’t advance Lord Harry’s goal. She wouldn’t dare ever mention another gentleman’s name in her master’s presence. Ah, Hetty thought, there were many others who would relish filling Lord Oberlon’s ears with tales of his mistress and another gentleman.

Melissande said, “Yes, it’s just as you say, my lord. But now that you are here, I won’t think of the marquess. Perhaps he isn’t even in London, for I’ve not heard from him.”

Hetty suddenly gulped down a sinking thought. Had Lord Oberlon perhaps dismissed the beautiful Melissande? Lord, if that were so, Lord Harry’s antics were not only needlessly expensive but also pointless. But as Hetty had no evidence that such a break had occurred between the marquess and his mistress, she was careful to maintain the depressingly romantic chatter that Melissande appeared so much to admire. She pressed Melissande to ride two turns about the park, ensuring again that the usual habitués had an excellent view of Lord Monteith in the company of Lord Oberlon’s mistress.

When Hetty returned to Lord Harry’s lodgings to change for dinner and the inevitable cockfight, she wanted nothing more than to sink chin deep in a hot bath. She could still sniff faint whiffs of Melissande’s heavy perfume.

Shortly after eight o’clock she took a hackney to Mr. Scuddimore’s lodgings on Queen Street, hopeful that the wretched cockfight wouldn’t last very long. There were several aspects about being a gentleman that made her stomach turn over.

A closed carriage, the eagle and raven crest barely visible on its paneled doors, drew to a jolting halt on Thompson Street. A cloaked gentleman flung open the doors and alighted before the driver scarce had time to quiet the steaming horses.

“Walk the horses about, Silken. I shan’t be above thirty minutes within,” the gentleman said over his shoulder.

“Aye, your grace.”

The Marquess of Oberlon took the front steps two at a time. He felt such fury that he wanted to choke on it. He pounded his fist upon the closed oak door.

Pottson, who was enjoying a warm mug of ale, contemplating a quiet, uneventful evening by himself, jumped in his chair at the sudden loud knocking, spilling some of the lovely ale to the carpet. His eyes flew to the clock over the mantelpiece. It was scarcely after nine o’clock. It couldn’t be Miss Hetty, that was for certain. He set down his ale and hurried to the door.

“Who is there?” He pressed his ear to the door.

“Open the door, damn you. Be quick about it man, else I shall kick it in.”

Pottson fumbled with the latch, suddenly sweating with premonition. He pulled vigorously on the knob. He could practically hear another curse forming on the visitor’s tongue. No sooner had he unfastened the latch than the door burst open and a large, black-cloaked man strode past him into the room.

Lord Oberlon took in every empty corner of the small, cozy drawing room in an instant. He whirled about to the small, plump man who stood, mouth agape, in the open doorway.

“I presume you are Monteith’s man. Fetch the wretched young puppy this instant. I would have speech with him.”

Pottson knew without being told that he was face to face with the Marquess of Oberlon. Miss Hetty had succeeded.

He licked his tongue over his suddenly dry mouth and stammered, “I I am sorry, your grace, but Lord Harry isn’t here.”

“Your grace, huh? So, my good man, you know who I am. I should have expected as much.”

“Yes, your grace. You must believe me, Lord Harry won’t be back for hours. I don’t know where he is, but he’s with his friends so it will be very late before he returns.”

“Somehow I disbelieve you.” Lord Oberlon turned abruptly from the trembling Pottson down the small corridor to Lord Harry’s bedchamber.

It struck Pottson forcibly in the few moments he stood alone in the drawing room that making all sorts of plans and plots in no way came close to the dreadful reality he now faced. Obviously, his grace had discovered that his mistress had flaunted herself with Lord Harry and was now in the blackest of rages. Gawd, Pottson thought, his legs beginning to tremble beneath him, the marquess was fit to kill.

He searched about frantically in his mind for some way of protecting Miss Hetty. Of all evenings when she might return early, it was this evening. “That disgusting cockfight,” she’d said grimly. “I pray only that I won’t heave all over those pitiful birds.”

Pottson looked up helplessly as the marquess strode back into the room. “What in God’s name is this?” he shouted. He waved Miss Hetty’s gown in front of Pottson’s horrified eyes.

It’s all over now, Pottson thought, not without a feeling of relief. How stupid of him not to have hung up her gown. What an ironic way for all of Miss Hetty’s plans to come to an end. She would skin him alive. “It’s a dress, your grace,” he said, and waited. There was nothing else he could do. Just wait.

“Do you think me blind as well as stupid? Of course it’s a dress. It’s a lady’s gown. It’s obvious that your master is a dissolute young rakehell. Damn, his gall knows no bounds. Because I’m a gentleman, I didn’t search through