“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 in the world, and had made her way to Drury Lane, whistling and humming even as her heart pounded against her ribs.
She would never forget her first evening at the theater, the title of the melodramatic play, The Milkmaid’s Dilemma, and the freak accident that had brought her together with Harry and Scuddy. A very rowdy play it was, following the adventures of a seductive milkmaid who, in the most maddening manner, refused to be bedded by her ardent young man. The hero had finally been about to succeed in his amorous endeavors when the milkmaid’s cow a very real bovine specimen became suddenly irked with the proceedings, mooed loudly, kicked over the milk can, and after gazing balefully at the uproarious audience, took violent exception. But a moment later, the cow lumbered off the stage, down into the pit, with frantic stagehands, a harried director, and the tousled heroine chasing behind her. The laughter suddenly turned to panic and Hetty found herself being pommeled and pushed roughly this way and that by the now stampeding audience.
“Out of me way, m’lad,” a very fat man yelled behind her, buffeting her on the shoulder. She would have gone sprawling to the ground had not a strong hand grabbed her arm and pulled her upright and back from the aisle.
“I say, old fellow,” a laughing voice said. “You really must keep out of the way of the rabble, you know. Hope that damned cow kicks in a few of their heads.”
Hetty looked up into twinkling blue eyes, set in a quite handsome young face. “Thank you, sir. It’s my first visit to the theater. Does this sort of thing happen very often?” Oh God, had she squeaked? Or had her voice been low enough?