A masked ball. She could act herself, without fear of discovery. “A masked ball, as in really masked?”
“Yes, you can cover yourself from toe to ear, if you like.”
“Ah, I should love that. I do wonder what Louisa’s going to wear.”
He watched her skip from the breakfast room, an eighteen-year-old girl. It had frightened him, that controlled anger, that too-old look on her face when she’d spoken of Jason Cavander. He remembered he’d also asked Jason the previous evening if he planned to attend. His grace’s reply had been quick, a wicked smile on his face. “I had planned to, Jack. Melissande would much enjoy herself. I don’t suppose your sister will be there? The one who dislikes me? The one I’ve never met?” Sir John had nodded, hopeful that Hetty would agree.
And now she had. Hopefully, he would discover this evening just why his little sister held one of his best friends in such dislike. He thought if Jason were to come close to Hetty, she might discover he wasn’t a bad sort after all. Since it was a masked ball, she could easily escape him if she really disliked him. As he strolled to Sir Archibald’s library to bid his sire a good morning, he grinned, wondering just how the devil his very experienced friend was going to react coming face to face with his sister.
While Sir John and Lady Louisa explored the maze at Richmond, Lord Harry trained his eyes on the circular targets set at twenty paces from the marking line at Manton’s and stroked the trigger. A shout went up from Sir Harry.
“Bravo, Lord Harry, yet another bull’s-eye. At twenty paces, too.”
Mr. Franks, the gruff, excellent attendant at Manton’s, added his praise. “An excellent marksman, ye be, my lord. Now, Sir Harry, ye see the way his lordship caresses the trigger, his eyes never leaving the target? Ye mustn’t be in a hurry, Sir Harry, no sir, never be in a hurry. Not with a lady, nor with a gun.”
Sir Harry grunted. “Well, I for one have had enough practice for one day. What say you, Lord Harry, I am off to Gentleman Jackson’s. You’ve never joined me, you know. Let us see if you’re as fine in the ring with your fists as you are at caressing triggers.”
Hetty handed the pistol to Mr. Franks before replying, “Harry, I’ve told you countless times that you could dash me down in but a moment in the ring. No, I thank you, but I’ve no taste or ability to embroil myself with fists. Besides, I have my fencing lesson in but an hour with Signore Bertioli.”
Appeased by Lord Harry’s frank admission of his superior skill at boxing, Sir Harry said, “Does the Italian think you’ve improved?”
“I think he’s from Sardinia, not Italy. Yes, he’s forever giving me encouragement, but I confess I believe his sense of diplomacy is stronger than his honesty.” Hetty didn’t add that Signore Bertioli had ceased several weeks ago to concern himself about her lack of endurance. All their time together was spent in practicing his master’s techniques delicate feints, subtle flicks of the wrist that could catch an opponent off guard.
“It isn’t a matter of life or death,” Sir Harry said. A queer gleam shone an instant in Lord Harry’s blue eyes, then disappeared.
Sir Harry said, eyeing his friend with suspicion, “Look here, now, Lord Harry, you aren’t thinking of a duel, are you? It isn’t done. It isn’t smart. My brother-in-law would have my innards for breakfast if I got involved in a duel.” Then he thought of the Marquess of Oberlon and the outlandish story he had heard just this morning from Mr. Scuddimore of their visit to Melissande’s house the previous evening. He blanched.
“Of course not, Harry.” She turned quickly from his inquiring gaze and allowed an assistant to help her into her greatcoat. With the knowledge that Jack and Louisa were leaving on the morrow, she said over her shoulder, “Why do you and Scuddy not come to my lodgings tomorrow evening? I promise you a substantial dinner, an excellent claret, and a sound thrashing at cards.”