Lord Harry's Folly, page 3
part #4 of Historical Regency Romances Series
“Certainly. Hetty’s a lovely girl. I just hope she’s adjusting. I just want her to be happy.”
Sir John said quietly, his dark eyes hooded, “I doubt she’ll be happy for a very long time. Damien is dead now. When we saw Hetty at the funeral, the poor girl was so grief stricken that she barely spoke a word. Even without a chaperone. I don’t think you have to worry that she’ll get herself talked about. Lord, I just wish she would. I wish she’d go out and kick up her heels and make everyone stare at her. But she won’t. Damnation, I miss Damien, too. What a loss, what a damnable waste.”
“He died a hero for England, Jack. We must remember that. We must believe that he made a difference, that his death meant something.”
“To hell with England. Oh damn, now I’ve pulled us both down. Tell you what, Lou, let’s go see if Little John has driven Nurse to distraction.”
Less than a week before Miss Drusilla Worthington left Sir Archibald’s town house on Grosvenor Square to attend her sick sister, she had sat quietly in the drawing room across from her charge, Miss Henrietta Rolland.
She gazed up several minutes later to see that the young lady’s eyes were focused upon the brightly dancing flames in the fireplace. Yet, Hetty didn’t seem aware of the fire, much less the rest of her surroundings. Lady Louisa had told her that Henrietta was much affected by her brother Damien’s death at Waterloo. Miss Worthington had been with Henrietta for three weeks, but all her efforts to suggest appropriate amusements didn’t penetrate the shell of grief that enveloped her young charge.
Miss Worthington’s eyes clouded as she gazed at Hetty. All that unremitting black the girl persisted in wearing. What a pretty picture she would be if she but attended to Miss Worthington’s repeated, gentle suggestions. True, perhaps she was a trifle tall for society’s current whims, but regal in that straight, proud way she carried herself. Miss Worthington thought of Sir Archibald, a decided glint in her normally unassuming gray eyes. Probably off at some political gathering, all his mental energies focused upon his one passion. It seemed that there was scarcely a moment in the day when he was aware of the presence of his daughter, much less of Miss Worthington’s tireless efforts to provide a normal atmosphere in his home.
If the truth were told, Miss Worthington felt like a floundering fish in a fisherman’s net. It wasn’t that Henrietta was unkind to her or made her feel unwelcome in any way. But the only visitors to be seen were Sir Archibald’s political cronies, severely dressed gentlemen whose curt nods made Miss Worthington feel woefully inadequate and twittery as a caged chicken. To make matters worse, if Henrietta wasn’t sitting quietly in front of the fireplace, simply staring off at nothing in particular as she was now, she would take long walks by herself, an activity of which Miss Worthington disapproved. When she had very tactfully pointed out that a young lady walking about by herself was not at all the thing, Henrietta had merely cocked her head to one side and appeared to look straight through Miss Worthington. “You needn’t worry that I’m ogled by all the young gentlemen, Miss Worthington,” she’d said. “All these heavy black veils keep them at their distance.”
She saw that Henrietta’s hands were knotting and unknotting a handkerchief in her lap. She sighed and put down her needle. “Hetty, dear child, do look outside. The fog is lifting and I believe that the sun will be out soon. Would you like to accompany me to the Pantheon Bazaar? You haven’t visited there, you know.”
Hetty raised dark blue eyes, which looked suspiciously red about the rims, and slowly shook her head. “No, thank you, Miss Worthington. If you would like to go, I shall be happy to ring for John the coachman.”
Miss Worthington felt the familiar naggings of defeat. “No, Hetty, I am quite content to finish my mending.” They sat in silence until the afternoon sun began its descent into the distance. As Miss Worthington rose to light a branch of candles, a knock sounded on the drawing-room door.
Grimpston, the Rolland butler, and in Miss Worthington’s opinion, a man of great efficiency and tact, appeared in the doorway. “Miss Henrietta,” he said and waited. As his mistress did not turn, he cleared his throat to gain her attention.
Finally she looked up. “Yes, Grimpston?”
“There is a person here asking to see Sir Archibald, Miss Hetty.”
“Sir Archibald isn’t here at the moment, as you very well know, Grimpston.”
“I know, Miss, but there’s a man here, a Mr. Pottson. He tells me that he was Master Damien’s batman.”
“His batman?”
Miss Worthington watched her in surprise as Hetty nearly leapt from her chair. “Oh, do have this Mr. Pottson attend me in the back parlor. I shall be there directly.”
He returned to the entrance hall and said to the diminutive gray-haired man who stood still clutching a crumpled wool hat between his hands, “Miss Henrietta Rolland will see you. If you will follow me.”
Pottson was certain that he’d made a mistake in coming when he was ushered into the presence of a tall young lady who stood watching him come toward her, an unreadable expression in her eyes. Drat the butler anyway, he thought. What he had to say was for Master Damien’s father’s ears not for a gentle young lady all draped in black. He found himself gazing at her curiously, for unlike his late master, Miss Henrietta was very fair, with short curling blond hair framing her face. Yet, the eyes were the same a deep blue and wide, set beneath distinctively arched brows. There was a dreaming quality about such eyes, Pottson thought.
“Miss Rolland,” he said, stepping forward, his wool hat still between his hands.
“Yes, I am Henrietta Rolland. Grimpston said you were Damien’s batman.” She moved gracefully forward and clasped the startled Pottson’s hands in hers. The hat fell unnoticed to the floor.
“Yes, ma’am. I had intended to see Sir Archibald, but the butler insisted that I was to see you instead.”
How very like dear Grimpston, Hetty thought, and how very perceptive of him. She drew a deep breath and smiled warmly. “Yes, I’m the one for you to see. Do sit down, Pottson, I believe we have much to discuss.” Hetty didn’t spare a moment’s thought about the pain the batman’s words must inevitably bring her, laying raw her grief. She knew only that she had to know what had happened to Damien during those long months after he’d suddenly left London.
Pottson eased his small person to the edge of a chair. Saying what he had come to say would have been bad enough with Sir Archibald. But Master Damien’s younger sister. Damnation, scratching old wounds, that was all he was doing. It was that thought that had kept him away these summer months since Master Damien’s death.
“I only came because of the letter!”
“What is this about a letter? What letter are you talking about, Pottson?”
“You see, ma’am, me and Master Damien were together for nine months, traveling from Spain to Italy, carrying dispatches to and from the generals and such as that. Master Damien was always a right proper gentleman, ma’am, yet never too starchy in the collar, if you know what I mean. I quite liked him. He was greatly respected by the men, made them laugh, he did, and he was trusted by the generals. General Brooks always asked for Master Damien, always.”
Hetty swallowed the lump in her throat. Now wasn’t the time. What letter was he talking about? She was content to wait.
“Always ready for a good joke was Master Damien, never seeming to worry much about what the next day would bring. Several of those dispatches he carried, well, I can tell you, ma’am, they weren’t about the weather. I thought a lot of him, I did.”
“Yes, Pottson?”
“Well, ma’am, sometimes it seemed to me that all wasn’t right with Master Damien. Just when I’d expect him to be charting the route for some important document he had to deliver, I’d find him instead sitting alone in his room, not even a candle lit, brooding-like, you know. I didn’t mean to be forward or anything, ma’am, but I’d ask him if there was anything bothering him. He’d just smile at me, a kind of sad smile. And he’d say it wasn’t anything to bother me with, naught of anything really, he’d say, and I knew it was just to protect me, to make me go away and leave him to his thoughts.
“Just before Waterloo, back in the early days of June, he got his orders to attend the Prince of Orange in Brussels, a safe spot, I told him, seeing as how we all knew it was coming to a bloody battle and all. Next thing I knew, he was assigned under a General Drakeson, a very different kettle of fish, I remember him telling me, a man on the prince’s staff, a gentleman with spiky side whiskers and a back so stiff he couldn’t bend, I was sure of it. I was with Master Damien when he got orders to lead a frontal cavalry charge, right in the thick of the fighting. He wouldn’t let me come with him, ma’am, just patted me on the shoulder, that sad smile on his face. I’ll never forget what he said. ‘Well, Pottson, I must believe that my charmed existence is about to come to an end. It looks, old fellow, as if I’m to be the sacrificial goat.’ That’s all he said, ma’am. I never saw him again, ma’am.”
Pottson saw that the young lady’s face was as white as her gown was black. Her hands were trembling in her lap, but she didn’t cry, didn’t sob, didn’t do anything. She just said calmly, “What about the letter?”
“Well, I got to wondering about what Master Damien said before he left, ma’am. When I was preparing his personal things to be sent back to your family, I found a letter folded up and tucked inside the lining of his valise. I read it, ma’am. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help myself.”
“Let me see the letter, Pottson.” Hetty unfolded the single sheet of paper and slowly began to read. She looked up, past Pottson’s right shoulder, then lowered her head and read the letter yet another time.
Dearest Love:
I cannot believe that you have been torn from my arms. Oh, Damien, if only we’d had time to be together, if only I had some hope that you could return to me. You must see now that I have no choice. I do not know what Lord Oberlon will do now, but you must understand that my own fate is no longer in my hands.
May God damn him to hell for what he has done. I will love you forever, my darling. Adieu
Your Dearest Elizabeth
Hetty straightened and carefully folded the letter. She looked up, directly into Pottson’s face. “You did quite right to bring the letter to me. Yes, you’ve done excellently.”
Even though Miss Worthington considered it a trifle odd for her charge to spend nearly an hour in the company of a servant, she gave it only cursory thought, for not twelve hours later she found herself in a sudden whirl of activity. The quiet young lady who had sat so very many long hours staring into the fireplace, who had taken long walks, had disappeared as if she’d never drawn breath. It was Henrietta who suggested over breakfast that they visit the Pantheon Bazaar. At last, Miss Worthington thought, her patient efforts had reaped their rewards. She had succeeded in redirecting Henrietta’s thoughts. Being a Christian woman, she also admitted to herself that the timely visit by the late Captain Damien Rolland’s batman must have, in some small way, assisted Henrietta to recover her spirits. She most willingly assisted her charge to exchange some of the black gowns for soft gray ones and pack them, black veils and all, in an old attic trunk that had belonged to Hetty’s grandmother.
When she received her sister’s plea a few days later to attend her in Kent, she gazed up at an innocently smiling Henrietta. Miss Worthington was torn, not knowing precisely where her duty lay. Although Henrietta very prettily begged her to remain, she did hasten to say that she, of all people, well understood one’s feelings toward one’s own dear family.
Miss Drusilla Worthington departed London two days later with the happy conviction that she had performed her duty by Henrietta. She never realized that Henrietta was fairly itching for her to be gone.
Three days after Miss Worthington’s departure, Lord Harry Monteith made his first appearance in London.
Chapter Four
“Thompson Street will suit us just fine, Pottson. It’s just a short distance from St. James, so we needn’t worry about the expense of hackneys. How much did you say the furnished rooms would cost by the quarter?”
Pottson grunted a price that he secretly hoped would put an end once and for all to Miss Hetty’s mad scheme. He was doomed to disappointment, for Miss Hetty beamed at him. He supposed that he really shouldn’t be surprised at anything Miss Hetty proposed now, though he had thought himself entered into bedlam, when, but three days before, she had summoned him back to Grosvenor Square and poured her idea into his ear.
She said now, clapping him on his thin shoulders, “Of course, we must now see to my clothes, and, to be sure, set aside enough money to secure my debut into the fashionable world. Thank heavens that Damien saw to my education in piquet and faro. I vow that with any luck at all at the gaming tables, we will live in a most sumptuous manner.”
“Ah, Miss, it’s a crazy scheme. You just ain’t a man and no soul in his right or left mind would ever believe you to be one.” He tried to add punch to his words by critically eyeing her from breasts to hips.
She merely laughed. “Stop worrying. I have ideas on that score. I have made out a list of my measurements and colors of breeches, waistcoats, and coats that I would like. The gentlemen’s current whim toward those tight-knitted pantaloons are, unfortunately, out of the question. I have no desire to tempt fate.”
“Say we can dish you up to play the young gentleman. You still must approach the Marquess of Oberlon. From what I hear, he’s a powerful gentleman and an acclaimed sportsman. You tell me that you will have your revenge on him for your brother but how, Miss Hetty? How?”
Hetty’s eyes clouded. “Didn’t I tell you, Pottson? Besides teaching me gaming, Damien also saw to it that I was a crack shot. As to fencing, I admit to needing lessons. I have been making discreet inquiries myself, you know, and will begin fencing lessons with a Signore Bertioli very shortly. However, it is my plan to face down the marquess with pistols.”
Pottson felt his grizzled hair grizzle even more. He tugged on it. He wanted to curse, but he couldn’t, not in front of a lady who would soon be a man. But he couldn’t keep quiet, he had to make one last try. “Oh gawd, this is pure nonsense, Miss Hetty. You can’t go aping gentlemen’s ways. It’s against God and Nature. It’s against everything I can even contrive to think of. It’s probably even against the law.”
“Come on, Pottson, it’s far too late for you to be carrying on with these nonsensical arguments. My mind is quite made up. Either you help me, or I shall simply find someone else.” She spoke with more confidence than she felt. When Pottson nodded finally, she wanted to shout with relief.
“I’d like you to tell me one thing, Miss Hetty. Master Damien, like I told you, was always a proper gentleman, treating ladies just as he ought. Why would he teach his own sister such unladylike activities?”
She laughed. “He was bored, Pottson. Perhaps, too, he felt a trifle sorry for me, for Mother had just died and Sir Archibald had returned to London to carry on his never-ending battle against the Whigs. He was recovering from a wound, as I recall. He said I was an apt pupil.”
“Now there’s another thing, Miss Hetty. I can’t be dressing you. And more than that, you can’t be sneaking back here to Sir Archibald’s house looking like a gentleman.”
“Already you lack confidence in me. When next you come to visit me, I will introduce you to my maid, Millie. You can both preach doom to me, if you like. But I warn you, I have quite secured her cooperation, so it will do you no good to plot against me.”
“All right, all right. I’ll bite my nails and keep my mouth shut. Ah, yes, I’ll need some guineas for the rooms, Miss Hetty, not to mention a credit for the tailor.”
“Thank you for reminding me, Pottson. I shall see to it now. It’s fortunate that my mother left me my own money. We shall use my quarterly allowance until circumstances or my ill-luck at the gaming tables force me to dip into the principal. One other thing, Pottson, don’t forget that my new name is Harry Monteith.”
“Where’d you get such a name, Miss Hetty?”
“From an old atlas of world explorers. I really don’t remember what the man discovered,” she added, the lie clean. She knew very well that hundreds of years ago, a Baron Monteith had set himself against the de Medicis, vowing revenge for the poisoning death of his sire. It had seemed like the biblical David and Goliath struggle, and Hetty’s casting herself in the role of the avenging Monteith had quite stirred her imagination. The only note that jarred her fantasy was the fact that she could not discover whatever became of the baron.
Someday she’d tell Pottson the truth.
“Come, my lord, your wrist is flaccid. An iron wrist, my lord, you must have an iron wrist.” Signore Bertioli stepped back from Lord Monteith and leaned lightly on the handle of his foil. Not one bead of perspiration was evident on his forehead, and his bushy black brows drew closely together at the heaving, sweating young gentleman. How very intense and eager the young lord was, so unlike the vast majority of his other pupils young dandies who sought to exhibit good form and style, the practice required to become truly proficient in the art an abhorrent thought to most of them. He softened his tone, but it had to be said. “It is strength you lack, my lord.”
Hetty wondered if she would survive her first lesson, for her heart was pounding so wildly that she feared it must burst. She managed to gasp out between heaving breaths, “Yes, Signore, I fear what you say is true. But there must be something I can do.” At least, her main fear that Signore Bertioli would realize that he was instructing a female had not come to pass.
Signore Bertioli drew back, surprised at the seriousness in the lad’s voice. “Actually,” he said, “strength need not be everything. You have the grace and agility. Perhaps with much work, my lord, I can teach you some of the more, er, unusual techniques. It would hold you in good stead, if,” he paused pointedly, “you are willing to apply yourself.”
