“Didn’t really come for conversation either,” Scuddy said. “I ain’t much in the line of talking at the best of times.”
“I can see that.” Lady Buxtell ushered them to a generously laden sideboard at the far end of the room and poured each of them a glass of sparkling champagne. “To your evening’s pleasure, my lords,” she said with practiced gaiety, motioning toward the girl, Lilly, as she spoke.
Sir Harry leaned over to Hetty and whispered, “See, I told you Lady Buxtell’s was far above the common touch. There’s Lord Alvaney next to the fireplace and over there is Sir John Walterton.”
Hetty interrupted. “Yes, and the gentleman already far into his cups is Lord Darcy Pendleton. Bedamned. Sir William Filey. How I pity the poor girl who must see to his wants.”
Hetty despised Sir William Filey, for he was debauched, cunning, and ruthless. That a good part of her hatred of him was heavily mixed with fear, she freely admitted. At White’s, several months before, he had made a mocking remark about the inordinate smoothness of her cheeks. That very evening, she had made an obvious show of departing with Sir Harry and Scuddy, leaving no doubt that she was off to enjoy a man’s pleasures. She had contrived whenever possible to avoid Sir William’s company, fearful that he would see through her disguise. When Scuddy had told her and Harry about the wager, her condemnation of him had been complete.
“Lord Harry, for God’s sake, stop staring like an idiot at Sir William. The last thing you want to do is offend him. He’s dangerous.”
“You’re right, Harry. It’s just that he offends me.” Her thoughts returned to her own predicament. She realized that she wasn’t behaving as a normal gentleman would. After all, the only reason a man would come to Lady Buxtell’s establishment was to gratify his appetites and that meant, pure and simple, having sex with one of the girls present. She watched as the diminutive Lilly bore off a suddenly tongue-tied Scuddy. She found her eyes again wandering to where Sir William Filey sat, one of his hands resting possessively over the full breast of a raven-haired girl. In that instant, as if he was aware of being observed, Sir William swiveled about, his dark eyes meeting Hetty’s over the rim of his glass. He gazed at her in a way that made Hetty feel as though she were standing naked on display, and then, lazily, lifted his glass in her direction in a mock salute. Knowing that she’d paled, Hetty quickly nodded and turned back to Sir Harry. It was with a mixture of dismay and relief that she saw Sir Harry’s attention was no longer even partially on her. “I’ll leave you now, old boy,” he said over his shoulder as he took off in the direction of a long-legged blonde, whose features were remarkably like his own.
Hetty felt as if she were frozen in her boots. She knew that she had to do something, at least act interested in one of the girls. She watched as Sir John Walterton led a giggling, flushed girl from the room and toward a wide circling staircase that began its ascent just outside the door of the drawing room.
What the devil was she going to do?
She forced herself to attend to those females in the room who appeared as yet unattached by any of the gentlemen. It was only the second time her eyes swept over the occupants that she chanced to notice a slightly built redheaded girl who stood partially hidden by a red velvet hanging. Even across the room, Hetty sensed the fear in the girl. New, was she? Hetty made her way slowly toward the girl, halting only to procure two glasses of champagne from a footman’s tray. As she neared, she was aware that the girl had seen her approach, and had started guiltily. Dear God, Hetty thought angrily, she appeared to be younger than Hetty herself was. She looked to be no more than sixteen, if that.
She heard herself say calmly, “Hello, my name is Lord Harry Monteith. Would you care to join me for a glass of champagne?”