She felt a surge of hatred so strong that she shook with it. A footman passed by, bearing a tray of glasses filled with chilled champagne. She grasped the slender stem of a glass and held it in front of her, as if readying for a toast. She heard her own voice spilling out words with surprising calmness.
“That I have afforded you such entertainment, your grace, leaves me most gratified. You find my insults nonsensical. Perhaps it’s true, for I haven’t your years of studied brutality. Where my words have failed, perhaps this will not.” She dashed the champagne into Lord Oberlon’s face.
She heard a moan from Sir Harry. She heard the whispers from shocked gentlemen who were even now drawing closer. But her attention didn’t waver from the marquess.
She watched him pull a white pocket handkerchief with a deft, graceful movement, and slowly mop the champagne from his face. In a voice so quiet that she had to lean forward to hear, Lord Oberlon said, “You give me now no choice, Monteith. Do you wish to fight in the middle of White’s, or can your mad rush to dispatch yourself to hell wait until the morrow?”
“A night to anticipate your demise will give me great pleasure.”
“Very well,” he said, his voice flat. “Julien, will you act for me?”
“Yes, if it must be, Jason.”
Sir Harry felt his brother-in-law’s gray eyes. Even as Lord Harry turned, he knew that he had no choice but to second his friend. His yes was a croak.
The earl of March stepped forward and laid his hand on his brother-in-law’s sleeve. He said formally, “It is my duty as a second to seek reconciliation.”
At the silent set faces of Lord Monteith and Lord Oberlon, he continued slowly, “As you will. Tomorrow morning at seven o’clock at the north end of Hounslow Heath. Harry, come with me now, we must make arrangements.”
“Such a fool you are, Monteith,” Lord Oberlon said in a pensive, almost sad voice. “Will you tell me anything before you die?” He turned finally and strode from the gaming salon.
Hetty was left standing alone, the empty champagne glass still held tightly in her hand. Whispering gentlemen began to disperse back to the gaming tables. She thought she saw a footman speaking behind a white-gloved hand to one of his peers. Slowly and with great deliberation, she strode to the footman and placed the champagne glass down upon his tray. She wondered fleetingly if her own face was as pale as the footman’s. She drew a deep breath and walked from the gaming salon, not looking back.
Chapter Twenty-three
Strangely, Pottson said not a word when Hetty, an hour later, tried with as much calm as she could muster to relate to him what had happened.
“We both knew this night had to come, Pottson, for there was, after all, no other reason for Lord Harry’s existence. On the morrow, Damien will be avenged.”
Pottson raised weary troubled eyes to Miss Hetty’s young, innocent face. “Aye,” he said quietly, “Master Damien will be avenged, or you, Miss Hetty, will follow him to the grave and it will all have been for naught.”
She felt a sudden chill touch her heart and shivered despite the warmth of the small parlor. “Pray don’t seal my fate so quickly. A man’s chest is a much larger target than the wafers at Manton’s.” She paused a moment and looked about her. Odd how this small apartment seemed more her home than Sir Archibald’s town house.
“When we return tomorrow morning, Pottson, we must decide what is to be done with Lord Harry Monteith. And, more importantly, my friend, we must discuss your future. If you have a liking for Herefordshire, my brother, Sir John, would, I am certain, be most willing to engage Damien’s batman.”
Pottson merely grunted an unintelligible reply, and Hetty, mindful of being refreshed on the morrow, rose and walked slowly into Lord Harry’s bedchamber to change into a gown.
As was his habit, Pottson accompanied Miss Hetty back to her father’s town house. As they drew up to the servants’ entrance, where Millie stood waiting, Hetty said, “I’ll see you at six o’clock, Pottson. When it is over, we shall enjoy a hearty breakfast and bid Lord Harry a fond adieu.”