Sir Robert noted the intense concentration on Lord Monteith’s young face. After some five more minutes of play, he decided to offer a rather unusual wager, to test the young man’s mettle. He rather liked the thought of having a son-in-law who wasn’t a complete wastrel. “Twenty guineas, my lord, if you can call aright the last three cards in the box.”
The king lost his heart when the eight of spades clubbed the trey. Hetty looked up, eyes sparkling. “Yes, indeed, Sir Robert, I accept your wager. I declare the seven of hearts, the ace of spades, and the four of clubs, but I cannot guess at the order.”
The ace of spades slipped from the faro box. Next came the seven of hearts and finally, to Hetty’s incalculable delight, emerged the four of clubs.
Sir Robert, for the first time, was pleased that he’d lost. “Well done, my lad, well done,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You have your wits about you. Remarkable, I think, for one so young.”
“Monteith shows his prowess in other areas, I see,” came a drawling, mocking voice from behind Hetty’s shoulder. She turned quickly in her chair and looked up at Sir William Filey.
“Ah, what’s this, Sir William? In what other areas does young Monteith show prowess?” Sir Robert didn’t particularly care for Sir William Filey. He was vulgar, ruthless, and not at all likable. However, Sir Robert’s strict code of civility forbade him to ignore the gentleman.
Sir William’s eyes were narrowed on Lord Harry’s face. His hands fisted and opened at his sides, but when he spoke, it was with that same mocking drawl that made her skin crawl. “Quite a reputation Monteith is acquiring with the ladies. I, of course, use the term loosely, as the harlots in Lady Buxtell’s house can scarce lay claim to it.”
Hetty wanted to hit him, but she forced herself to perfect stillness. She saw Sir Robert’s dark eyes widen in surprise. Then she saw the disappointment. Damn Sir William.
Hetty said quietly, her eyes hard, “Perhaps, Sir William, the pot shouldn’t be calling the kettle black, particularly when the pot is renowned for boiling over on so many stoves.”
Sir William bared his teeth in a snarl, and she knew she’d gone too far. Not Sir William, dammit. But then she heard a laugh behind her and turned quickly. She swiveled in her chair to see Lord Oberlon standing negligently beside Sir Robert, an elegant Sevres snuffbox in his hand.
Oh, my God. She froze, not believing that he was here, that he’d overheard Sir William, that he was actually not three feet away from her. But not like this, she thought. She didn’t want to meet him like this.
Sir William ignored the marquess. He leaned down over Hetty’s chair. His voice was a soft hiss. “You’ve a careless tongue in your head, Monteith. I suggest you keep it behind your teeth, else you may find yourself quite mute one of these days.”
Hetty felt Lord Oberlon’s dark eyes upon her. I’m baiting the wrong man, she thought, but couldn’t help herself. Sir William was loathsome. Above all things, she would never let the marquess believe that she was a coward. She relaxed into her chair and lifted a booted leg over the brocade arm. “I fear you mistake my harmless metaphor, Sir William. When I spoke of the pot and the kettle, I was in error. Rather, sir, I should have said pot de chambre. It is much more fitting for you at least, don’t you agree?”
“You damned arrogant puppy.” Sir William’s large hand lifted to strike. “By God, I’ll make you pay for your ill manners.”
Lord Oberlon’s seeming indolence disappeared in that instant. Hetty sensed, actually sensed that his powerful body was tensing for action. “Hold, Filey. You provoked the lad, as I think Sir Robert will agree. I suggest you respond with wit rather than with threats or fists.”
Sir William turned angrily. “Your grace interferes with no invitation. Monteith needs to be taught manners.”
Sir Robert rose suddenly, his gaunt frame a looming shadow commanding attention. “I must concur with his grace, Sir William. Monteith is new to London ways, just today made a member here.”