Lady Buxtell’s thin face grew alarmingly red and Hetty knew a moment of fear. To her surprise, Lady Buxtell’s wrath fell instantly upon Mavreen’s head. “That damned ungrateful little tart. And here I picked her out of the gutter, I did. Gave her the best of everything, held nothing back, I did. I should have known when Sir William did not approve of her that the little wretch would cause me nothing but trouble. I’ll kick her arse back in the streets, where she and that skinny arse of hers belong.”
“It’s what she deserves,” Hetty said. “I’m glad that you agree with me.”
Lady Buxtell realized with some irritation that she had allowed her carefully polished speech to slip. She turned her eyes to Lord Monteith, and said in a tone that licked his lordship’s boots, “Dear Lord Monteith, of course, there is no charge at all for the evening, let me assure you. Perhaps you have a fondness for redheads? I shall install another such a one for your pleasure, but this time, I shall find a girl who knows her place. I would hope, my lord, that with my assurances to make amends, you won’t feel it necessary to inform your friends of this incident.”
“Another redhead for my pleasure, you say?”
“Oh yes, my lord.”
Hetty flipped an indifferent hand. “Very well, ma’am. I shall say nothing if you promise that this one blighted specimen is out of your house this very day. I want none of my friends to make love to a sniveling, limp excuse for a female. I require more creativity in my pleasures, just as, I understand, does Sir William.” Hetty realized instantly that she had scored a master stroke with this added glaring lie. Lady Buxtell’s eyes gleamed and she smiled slyly. “Ah, so, my lord, now I quite understand you. It will be just as you say, my lord.”
Hetty bowed slightly and made as if to take her leave, then stopped and said sharply, “Well? Do you plan to wait until noon? Perhaps you won’t toss out the little slut until three o’clock? I want to see the wench thrown out now, madam. Not of course that I disbelieve that you will do what you agreed to, but”
“This very instant, my lord.” Lady Buxtell walked briskly from the room, gritting her teeth at the officious young man.
Moments later, a well-coached, sobbing Mavreen was roughly dragged down the stairs, her arm painfully held in Lady Buxtell’s very strong grip. “Here’s the little trollop, my lord. As for you, you ungrateful little wretch” She viciously boxed Mavreen’s ear. “Now, you little fool, get out of my house. The street is too good for the likes of you. And don’t you try to come sniveling back, my girl!”
Hetty watched with her jaw clamped tightly closed for fear that she would tear into the old termagant, as Mavreen was roughly hurled through the front door into the cold night.
Hetty said evenly as Lady Buxtell turned triumphantly back to her, “You have done just as I wished, ma’am. I shall bear you no grudge. I bid you good night.”
Hetty pushed back the bedcovers with a sudden spurt of energy. She felt at once elated and quite pleased with herself. She padded over to her writing desk, lit a branch of candles, and sat down to quill and paper. She might as well inform John and Louisa of their good fortune in obtaining the services of a young person perfectly suited to Little John’s temperament.
Words flowed from her quill and before she had done with her letter, she had covered two pages of flowing, heart-touching prose about Mavreen. Of course, she made no mention of Mavreen’s brief professional stay at Lady Buxtell’s.
Hetty rose and stretched. Both Mavreen and her letter of introduction would be dispatched from London on the morrow by dear Pottson. She only hoped that he wouldn’t let anything slip; Mavreen must always believe that her rescuer was Lord Harry Monteith. Miss Henrietta Rolland was only a dear friend who was sending Mavreen on her way to a different life.
Pottson, in the meanwhile, had finally settled the excited Mavreen into Lord Harry’s bed, and bid her a more friendly good night than he would have considered possible only that morning. When he had first laid eyes on her, Mavreen had looked her profession a painted little harlot. But after their shopping this afternoon, when she had shyly but proudly paraded before him dressed in a modest dove gray muslin gown, her fiery red hair smoothed down into a bun at the nape of her neck, all the paint wiped clean from her young face, he was of the firm conviction that Miss Hetty had behaved just as she ought. Poor little mite, he thought, Mavreen deserved much better from life than being a gentleman’s whore. Before he had tucked her in a fatherly manner into bed, she asked wistfully, “Mr. Pottson, will I see Lord Monteith again?”