Lord Harry's Folly Read online

  He had to see to himself, a small mirror in the adjoining dressing room his only assurance that his appearance wouldn’t shame the exquisite rubies around his mistress’s white neck.

  Ginny was carefully tugging a long curl of rich auburn gently into place on Melissande’s shoulder when Lord Oberlon returned to the bedroom. Melissande rose and smiled at him with the confidence of a lady who knows herself to be the elixir of pleasure and beauty. She touched her fingers to the ruby necklace that lay nestled in the hollow of her throat. “You approve, your grace?”

  She had pleased him. The darkness deep within him was at bay. She did look as succulent as a prime partridge. “You’ll make all the other ladies present want to go hide themselves in the shrubbery.”

  Ginny paused a moment from straightening her mistress’s brushes when she heard Melissande say with great relish to her lover as they left the room, “How I hope that Lady Planchey will be in attendance this evening. Why the effrontery of her ladyship to believe that you could be interested in her spotty-faced daughter.” Although Melissande was very much aware that wives and mistresses were poles apart in a gentleman’s mind, she knew that even the loveliest of young misses would receive no more than a disinterested glance from Lord Oberlon while she was leaning gracefully on his arm.

  He smiled down at her, knowing exactly what she was thinking. He appreciated her predictability, was amused by her fascination with herself. She soothed the bleakness, made him forget how bloody serious life could be.

  Miss Henrietta Rolland nearly cracked her jaw on a prodigious yawn the next morning. She only opened her eyes when Millie made a loud snorting noise for the third time, this third time, not more than three inches from her ear.

  “That’s it, Miss Hetty. Open your eyes. Your father will no doubt miss you if you don’t join him for luncheon.”

  “Yes, you’re right about that, Millie.” She stretched and groaned. “Goodness, but I’m tired.”

  “You can’t expect much else if you stay out until the chimney sweeps begin their work.”

  While Hetty bathed from the porcelain basin atop the marble commode, Millie, with practiced efficiency, told her mistress of the previous evening’s events. “You should know that your father was engaged with Sir Richard Latham, Mr. Alwyn Settlemore, and Sir Lucius Bentham. These gentlemen arrived at about eight o’clock. They drank sherry in the drawing room until half-past eight, discussing politics all the while, then left for Sir Mortimer Melberry’s house. Of course, your father didn’t think to say good night to you, so we had no worry there. Grimpston informed me that Sir Archibald returned just after midnight with two of the gentlemen, drank more sherry, and held more political discussions until just after two in the morning. Sir Archibald rose at his usual time of nine o’clock and repaired to the study after breakfast. And,” Millie finished, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, “If you don’t soon finish pulling up your stockings, miss, you’ll ruin his blessed schedule and then we just might be in a rare mess.”

  “A rare mess that could prove fatal. We must never interfere with his schedule. Indeed, I imagine he’s already planning how he will talk God around to his way of thinking once he arrives at the Pearly Gates. It boggles the mind, Millie, it truly does.”

  Millie quickly brushed out her mistress’s short blond curls, threaded a white ribbon through the hollows and fastened it at the nape of her neck. “There,” she said, stepping back to survey her handiwork. “No one could accuse you of not looking the perfect young lady of fashion except that your gown is two inches too short, but Sir Archibald wouldn’t notice such a thing, thank the lord. Now, go, Miss Hetty, I just heard the clock chime twelve.”

  Hetty ran down the carpeted stairs into the small entrance hall. “Good morning, Grimpston,” she said to the Rolland butler, who’d dandled her on his thin knee and burped her as well.

  “Good morning, Miss Hetty. Off with you now, Sir Archibald is already at the table.”

  Hetty sped past him down a small corridor that led to the dining room. She turned and waved a friendly hand before disappearing through the open door. She stopped short, took a deep breath, and smiled. Her father, Sir Archibald Rolland, esteemed member of the House of Lords, Tory by birth, economic persuasion, and passionate conviction, sat at the head of the long table, his head buried behind the Gazette.

  Mrs. Miller, the Rolland housekeeper, stood at his elbow, a look of patient resignation on her face, waiting to discover his preference of soups. It was a sacred rule among the servants that Sir Archibald was never to be interrupted in his ritual reading of the newspaper. She looked heavenward and Hetty could almost hear her silent sighs.

  “Good day, Father,” she sang out, carefree as any nightingale, and walked to her father’s side.

  “Father,” she repeated, as his silver head didn’t emerge from his newspaper.

  “Damned idiots,” he said to himself. “I ask you, why can’t they understand the simplest economics? Their constant, radical inveigling against the Corn Laws makes me wonder if they share an entire brain amongst the lot of them.” He jerked his head up. “Eh? Oh, Hetty? My dearest child, I trust you slept well?”

  “Excellently, Father,” she said fondly and dropped a kiss on his smooth forehead. “And you, my dear?”

  “Like a top, my dear, like a top. I wonder where that odd saying came from? Why a top, I ask you? Well, I suppose it’s far less important than the Corn Laws. If it were not for these infernal, cursed Whigs, I’d sleep even better than a top. How I’d like to send the lot of them to perdition.” He chuckled at the thought and Hetty smiled, somewhat surprised that her father could joke about the Whigs, the bane of his political existence.

  “Sir Archibald, may I now serve the soup? Would you prefer the turtle or the potato?” Mrs. Miller’s very matronly face was nicely matched to her patient voice.

  “I say, Mrs. Miller,” Sir Archibald said, giving a start. “You really ought not creep up on one like that. Ah, turtle soup, did you say? Yes, the turtle soup will be fine, Mrs. Miller. Cook has a fine hand with the turtle. Not at all the thing with the potato soup, though, thick fleshy things, potatoes are. Come, dish it up. We mustn’t dawdle all afternoon. Man wasn’t meant to live by bread alone. Ah, my dearest Hetty, you do look lovely, my child, but your gown is rather short, isn’t it? Is that a new fashion? Or have you grown again? Aren’t you rather old to be still growing?”

  She just smiled at him, biting her tongue so she wouldn’t blurt out that she was thirteen years old and still growing. She wondered if he had any notion as to how old she was. But he had noticed her gown was too short. That was something she didn’t like. That was scary. She would have to be very careful around him.

  She shook her head and thought her father’s condemnation of the potato soup had naught to do with Cook’s inability, but rather with the circumstance that potatoes had the disadvantage of being a vegetable. And that, she decided, grinning to herself, reminded him of the Corn Laws. Not wishing to sound like a reprehensible Whig, no matter how farfetched her vegetable comparison, Hetty hastily concurred with the turtle soup.

  As Mrs. Miller suffered from arthritis in her knee joints, Hetty, as was her habit, dismissed the housekeeper. After standing ten minutes by Sir Archibald’s chair, unnoticed, Mrs. Miller wanted nothing more than to take the weight off her aching legs. She dipped a stiff curtsy and left father and daughter to their luncheon.

  As Hetty spooned a mouthful of turtle soup to her lips, she thought about her activities for the afternoon. Sir Harry Brandon had insisted that they ride to Cowslip Hollow to see a local mill. She had no particular liking for prizefights. Yet, not to show a tad of enthusiasm for one of the most popular of the gentleman’s sports would surely not hold her in good stead with her companions. At least, later, they would ride in Hyde Park. In all likelihood, Lord Oberlon would be among the glittering ton that made their daily appearance during those fashionable hours of four to six in the afternoon. She smiled, her turtle so
up for the moment forgotten. How very grateful she was that Mr. Scuddimore did not possess the most awesome of intellects. He’d offered her the use of a hack without the slightest hesitation, and more importantly, without questioning her feeble story that her father needed her own bay mare for stud purposes.

  “Studding, eh? Laudable solution. England has need of more bay horses. Mares love it, my papa told me.”

  Hetty looked up to see her father smiling at her in that vague way of his. He surprised her by saying, “I trust poor Drusilla’s sick sister hasn’t hampered your activities, my dear child. Your first trip to London and all that I would not wish you to be bored.”

  She could but stare at him. He’d noticed her gown was too short yet he’d not realized that poor Drusilla Worthington had left London a good four months ago? She reached out and clasped her father’s hand. “Dear sir, I assure you that I am never bored. I have made many friends and am never at a loss for something interesting to do. In fact, after luncheon, I am promised to meet friends and go to, ah, Richmond Park to walk through the maze. Have you ever been there, Father? Do you know the secret of the maze?”

  He looked at her as if she’d asked him for a key to Bedlam. She wondered if he even knew what Richmond Park was. “Never mind, sir. I shall find my own way.” She saw Sir Archibald couldn’t manage to hide his relief. She knew he was delighted that she’d settled so quickly into London life. He wanted her to attend all the routs, balls, but the thought of chaperoning his daughter to such affairs would never even occur to him.

  Looking at her father now, she realized he loved her, that he knew she was a good daughter, not at all bothersome, never demanding this or that from him. She never overspent the generous allowance he made available for her and ran his house with silent, uncomplaining efficiency. He made Hetty blink in an effort to understand his mood when he said sadly, “How very much like your lovely mother you are, my dear child. Never importuned me for a thing, did that wonderful woman.” He heaved a heavy sigh and turned his attention back to a wafer-thin slice of ham.

  “Why thank you, Father.” Goodness, where had that come from? She was about as much like her deceased mother as Mr. Scuddimore was like her father. Poor Mother. Even as a small child, Hetty could remember Lady Beatrice complaining bitterly of her husband’s neglect, of his blind preoccupation with all that political rubbish. When she contracted a 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 of the large ton parties, it concerns
me that she’s not attended by anyone. It simply isn’t done.”

  Finally, his wife got all his attention. Sir John put his rifle down for a moment and looked at her. “I don’t frown upon it. Do you mean that poor Hetty might have to forego the pleasure of having some elegant, worthless idiot asking for her hand in marriage? Really now, Lou, Hetty’s got a sound head on her shoulders. And I’ll wager she hasn’t even stirred much from the house these last four months, much less offended any of your great ladies.” He added on a sigh as he hefted his rifle over his left shoulder, “Maybe it would be better for her to kick up her heels and offend one of those stiff-butted old gossips. At least we’d know that she’s not still prostrated by Damien’s death.”

  “My point exactly. The poor child should have someone with her. You know that Sir Archibald might as well be on the moon, for all the attention and comfort he offers her.”

  “You said yourself, Lou, that Hetty hasn’t mentioned a word about the Worthington woman leaving. Shows you, doesn’t it, that Hetty is perfectly content not to have anyone with her.” He grinned and put down the now sparkling clean rifle again. “Got you there, old girl,” he said, grinned at her like a sinner and pulled her to her feet. “No need to worry about Hetty. We’ll be going to London next month anyway, you know. You can content yourself that your sister-in-law is feeling just the thing, before we continue on to” Sir John’s voice trailed mysteriously off.

  “Oh, Jack, do you really mean it? You have arranged it? We’re really going to Paris? You’re not trying to get away with something, are you?”

  “Give me a kiss and I’ll tell you the truth.”

  Louisa gave him more than a kiss, she bit his earlobe, then hugged him until he groaned. He dropped a kiss on the chestnut curl that lay provocatively over her left ear, a delicious little ear that he loved to kiss. “Of course I mean it. Will you be satisfied to spend a few days with Hetty then?”