Lord Harry's Folly Catherine Coulter (13 inch ebook reader TXT) 📖

to a halt in a darkened corner of the vast reading room.

“You’ve no quarrel with me. I can’t help it if Brandon forces a fight.”

The marquess said, “My quarrel with you is of long standing, Filey.”

“I had nothing to do with Elizabeth and you can’t prove otherwise, damn you.”

“No, as you say, I can’t prove otherwise. Yet when I see you playing the same game once again, I cannot help but grow perturbed. With Elizabeth though, you enjoyed much more sport. After all, both I and Damien Rolland were involved. And that, Filey, has led me to wonder exactly how you managed to have Rolland removed from England with such exquisite timing.”

“Rolland? Your grace pulls the girth in the wrong direction. How could I have known what Rolland was about?”

“You must admit it was a curious coincidence. Elizabeth veered away from both of us, toward Damien. Then suddenly he is gone and the field is once again yours.”

“And yours as well, your grace.”

“Yes, but you see I had nothing to do with Damien’s leaving England. Whereas you, Filey, are really quite a bastard and would stop at nothing to gain what you wanted. Now I ask you again, what do you know of Damien Rolland?”

Sir William was uncertain. He would have liked very much to tell the marquess to go to the devil, but he knew that such a gesture would very probably cost him his life. He tried for an indifferent shrug. “Maybe Rolland realized that Elizabeth would make a very poor wife for an aspiring politician. Damn, I tell you, I know nothing about it. It’s the truth. I wondered when Damien left England, but I had nothing to do with it.”

He saw that the marquess was staring at him, an arrested expression in his eyes. Filey couldn’t figure out for the life of him just why the marquess should be so interested in Damien Rolland. Ancient history, he was, and Rolland, by all accounts, was killed last June at Waterloo. Who cared?

“Did you say Damien was an aspiring politician?”

Sir William was held a moment by surprise, before he said impatiently, “Something like that. Mentioned it when he was deep in his cups one evening. I gathered he didn’t want it bruited about. Yes, he was going to be a politician. I remember I laughed.”

The marquess looked decidedly thoughtful for several moments. “Very well, Filey, I will believe you but only in that matter. Now you will listen to me carefully. As I said, I grow perturbed that you play a new game with Isabella Bentworth and Harry Brandon.”

“It’s not a game, damn you. I intend to marry the chit. She pleases me. Yes, I’m going to marry her.”

“So she carries a more appetizing dowry than did poor Elizabeth, does she? Her innocence draws you more than Elizabeth’s? No, don’t bother to deny it, Filey. I grow quite bored with you. I will tell you this only once. You will never again speak to Isabella and you will apologize to Harry Brandon before the day is over. If you fail to comply with either of my requests, I’ll make you this promise: your dissolute son, whom I understand is following quite closely in your footsteps, will find himself the head of the family before the end of the week. Do I make myself clear?”

Hatred and fear blended into an indistinct blur in Sir William’s mind. He seemed suddenly not to have enough breath to fill his throat. There was a curious knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

“Do I make myself clear, Filey?”

He raised his eyes. His long-nurtured sense of self-preservation rose to the fore. He nodded slowly, hating himself for nodding, hating the marquess for making him feel such bone-deep fear.

“Excellent. I fancied that we could arrive at an amicable solution.” The marquess turned, then said over his shoulder, “Incidentally, I’m quite certain the earl of March will be at White’s this evening. He will, of course, be very interested in your behavior.” Without waiting for Sir William to reply, he strode away, leaving his defeated adversary to roundly curse a hapless footman.

The marquess arrived at Sir Archibald’s town house within the hour, his mind greatly relieved on one score and utterly scrambled on the other. He didn’t disbelieve Sir William in his recounting of Damien’s political ambitions. Sir William had, he was certain, thought it most unimportant, and thus blurted it out without a moment’s hesitation. Indeed, the marquess wondered, as he pounded the knocker, was it important? Surely Sir Archibald must have known if Damien had wished to follow in his footsteps. He had to have known. God, Sir Archibald breathed politics. It was his bread and his wine. It was everything to him. As painful as the subject must be to Sir Archibald, he had to ask.

“Your grace.”

“Good afternoon, Grimpston. I trust our Miss Henrietta is home?”

“I shall ascertain, your grace,” Grimpston said, giving him a fat smile.

“Oh my God, Jason, thank goodness you’re here.”

The marquess looked up to see a distraught Hetty speeding down the staircase toward him. “Quickly, oh my goodness, we must do something now. I’ve just gotten a message from Harry. The silly nodcock, he means to take matters into his own hands. The bloody fool, he promised he’d let me see to things. Oh, I’ll kill him for this.”

The marquess clasped her hands. “Why don’t we discuss this in the drawing room, Hetty? Grimpston, some brandy, if you please. Your mistress’s nerves seem to be teetering on the edge. The first time I’ve seen her in such a state. It’s disconcerting. It’s very female. I will tolerate it, but I don’t like it.”

“Yes, your grace. Certainly, your grace.”

She managed to get ahold on herself. “I’m sorry for sounding like a ninny. I’ll thank you not to mock me. This is important. Please come to the drawing room and I’ll tell you everything.”

No sooner had Hetty snapped the drawing-room door closed, than she whirled about. “Jason, you’ll not