Lord Harry's Folly, Catherine Coulter [paper ebook reader .TXT] 📗

country a vendetta can carry from father to son for many generations. Many times the cause for revenge is lost over the years. Yet the desire for revenge upon one’s enemies remains, as if it were born into the soul itself.”

“I like your word vendetta. Yes, it is perfect.”

“If you carry such an idea for revenge, my lord, I would suggest the pistol. You have a keen eye, and to kill a man with the little ball requires no more strength than your cows or girls have.”

“You must know, Signore, that in England, in a duel of honor, the one who wishes the revenge cannot select the weapon. I am an excellent shot, Signore, but it is not enough. You must teach me so that my vendetta isn’t simply an empty wish.”

Signore Bertioli gazed down into the young set face. But a boy the lord was, a mere boy, with smooth cheeks and many years of life before him. He felt sudden fear for Lord Monteith. If he was truly in earnest about a duel of honor, Signore Bertioli seriously doubted his ability to endure in the face of a more powerfully built and skilled opponent. He said quietly, “Yes, I will teach you. We will contrive. If you are rested, my lord, there is much more for you to learn today.”

“Thank you, Signore,” Hetty said simply, and rose with new energy to her feet. “Yes, I am rested.”

“En garde, then, young sir.” Signore Bertioli slashed his foil through the silent air, its gleaming steel soon connecting with Lord Harry’s blade.

At each clash, the impact sent quivers of pain up Hetty’s arm. She gritted her teeth, silently repeating her catechism of hate against the Marquess of Oberlon, to keep her mind from the pain. I shall send you to hell, your grace, just as you sent Damien to his death. As your blood flows from your body, I shall tell you who I am and why you are dying. I’ll stand over you and laugh when you draw your last breath.

Chapter Five

“I say, Lord Harry, you’re not looking at all the thing tonight. Some bleater insult the cut of your trousers?” Scuddy leaned his yellow and green striped elbows on the card table to look more closely into his friend’s exhausted face.

Hetty’s arm was so sore that Pottson had had to take great care when assisting her into her coat. “No, it was Signore Bertioli. He’s a stern taskmaster, Scuddy, as I’ve often told you. He very nearly unmanned me today with the pace he set. I’ve taken lessons with him for nearly as long a time as I’ve known the both of you, yet I still stagger out of his apartment like a drunken loon.”

“Any hope for you, Lord Harry?” Sir Harry asked with a wide grin. “Surely there’s hope. You’re endowed with superior physical stamina, just look at the size of your muscles, pathetic little mounds of nothing, but hey, you’re a smart fellow, for what that’s worth.”

“You mean,” Hetty said, “that God couldn’t make me both strong and smart so he gave me the smart only?”

“That’s it, only I said it in a more clever way. Now, as I was saying, I’m just really guessing about your muscles since you insist on wearing your bloody clothes so damned loose. Tell us, are your muscles superior? Or just your brain?”

“In my case, it’s both. Why, superior is just the word Signore Bertioli used for me. He said I could have butchered you months ago.”

“Well, in all fairness,” Sir Harry said on a sigh, “my own sister did nail me when we fenced. Of course that was before I bought a commission and went to Spain. Now I’m up to snuff, my boy, so don’t try to insult me. I just hope you aren’t too tired for what I have planned for tonight. Time to test your northern mettle.”

“What northern mettle? You want me to trounce you in piquet again, Harry? I’ve already fleeced you of five guineas. You’re an abominable player.”

“Lord Harry’s got you there, Harry,” Scuddy said. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve always told me what an accomplished player you were. Lord Harry’s beaten you regularly. Now what is this about northern mettle?”

“Much you would know about any sort of mettle,” Sir Harry said. You’re naught but a lazy hedonist. Just look at that belly of yours, oozing from beneath your waistcoat. It turns my stomach, and at your age, too, Scuddy.”

Scuddy said after he’d poured another long drink of wine down his gullet, “Where did you learn that word hedonist? Ha, you must have got it from your sister or her husband. Lord knows you aren’t all that much into words longer than a grunt.”

Hetty sat back in her chair, amused by their squabbling. She twirled a delicate crystal goblet of wine between her fingers, only halfheartedly listening to their bickering. The four months she had been Lord Harry Monteith seemed an eternity to her, the demands of being a young gentleman exhausting, sometimes dangerous, but always exhilarating. How very lucky she had been that Sir Harry Brandon and Mr. Scuddimore had so quickly and unreservedly taken her under their collective wings. Her thoughts went back to that first evening, four months ago, when she had emerged from Thompson Street as Lord Harry Monteith. Her deep fear had been that the first gentleman she would meet would look at her, stare in the direction of her womanly parts, then look horrified. She had pomaded down her normally fluffy blond curls and tied the queue securely with a black ribbon. Her cravat had caused her to gulp with fresh anxiety, for to any experienced masculine eye, it was indeed an abomination. She’d forced herself to leave the apartment, all her thoughts firmly focused on swaggering like a young gentleman, her hips resisting every urge to sway. She had tried to nonchalantly swing her black malacca cane in her hand, as if she hadn’t a care