She heard Scuddy’s voice. “Ho, Pottson. Is Lord Harry about?”
Hetty reached a quick decision and called out in Lord Harry’s deeper voice, “Hello, Scuddy. Do come in, old boy. I’m dressing and shall be with you shortly. Fetch Mr. Scuddimore a glass of sherry, Pottson.”
As she stood in front of her mirror arranging her cravat into The Pavilion, an elegant yet uncomplicated series of folds inspired by the Regent’s residence in Brighton, various schemes on how she would spend the evening with Scuddy flitted through her mind. Suddenly, an idea burgeoned in her head, an idea so daring and outrageous that she refused to examine its less desirable consequences. Was Lord Oberlon not otherwise occupied for the evening? Indeed he was, she thought, rubbing her hands together. She’d observed cynically over the past months that gentlemen were far more possessive toward their mistresses than toward their wives. What better way to push the marquess to fury than to poach upon his preserves? She glanced up at the clock above the mantelpiece. Only shortly after nine o’clock. Ample time, indeed more than enough time, she thought, knowing that Sir John and Lady Louisa loved to entertain. She resolutely banished a seed of guilt at using her brother to further her own ends. After all, wasn’t Lord Oberlon playing a far more perfidious game than was she, posing as the friend of a man whose brother he’d killed?
As she shrugged into her coat, she thought of Melissande. Indeed, an unforgettable name and an equally unforgettable woman. Hetty had seen Melissande only upon two brief occasions, neither of which had provided her with many clues as to the lady’s character. If Melissande happened to be faithful to her protector, then Hetty or rather Lord Harry would just suffer a wasted evening. But one never knew. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked at Lord Harry and she winked at him.
Although Mr. Scuddimore frowned at the mention of visiting someone in Pemberley Street, he could think of no reason not to accompany Lord Harry, and thus climbed into a hackney alongside his friend.
“I say, old boy, who the devil does live in Pemberley Street? If it’s your mistress, I really don’t think I should be tagging along. Why, whatever would I say to her?” His protest was a halfhearted one, for he realized that Sir Harry would willingly give a guinea to be in his place. Were they really going to visit Lord Harry’s mistress? Scuddy couldn’t wait. He mentally tried to make room in his brain to store up all the memories this night would bring.
“Don’t worry, Scuddy. It’s not my mistress we’re visiting. But she is a woman and she is lovely. I just want to better our acquaintance, that’s all. You’ll enjoy yourself, you’ll see.”
Well, that wasn’t too bad, Scuddy thought. What woman?
The hackney creaked and swayed upon turning into Pemberley Street. Hetty perused the small, elegant town houses that lined the brick pavement, and dug the head of her malacca cane into the roof of the hackney when she spotted the small Queen Anne residence. The jarvey obligingly drew to a halt and Hetty jumped to the pavement, smiling. “Come along, Scuddy,” she said over her shoulder, after tossing the cabby a goodly number of shillings. “I promise you an interesting evening.” Had Mr. Scuddimore realized that this charming house was owned and maintained by the Marquess of Oberlon, Hetty with all her persuasions, wouldn’t have been able to extricate him from the relative safety of the hackney.
Since Melissande wasn’t expecting Lord Oberlon this evening, particularly given his excesses in her bed the night before, she was attired in a negligee, a frothy confection of green silk and gauze that revealed more than covered her delicious self. A slender red vellum book lay in her lap, and as her eyes traveled down the page, she sighed in boredom. Really, she was thinking, the heroine is such a stupid, whimpering little miss. She hasn’t a gut in her limp body. Must she fall into a swoon at the end of every scene? Lord, what would the young maiden have done if Lord Oberlon visited her as he had Melissande the previous night? Melissande grunted. The stupid chit would have probably screamed her head off and removed herself to a convent. But still, she thought, torn somewhere between envy and cynicism, the dashing hero appeared to cherish the heroine all the more for her frailty and feminine weakness. He appeared to adore her lack of guts. In a moment of pique, she flicked her finger against the thin volume and sent it spinning to the carpet. She wasn’t at all certain that she had any desire to be so cherished, but still it might be nice to be offered the choice.