Heiress Gone Wild

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “How enormous?”

  “It’s hard to give an exact amount, for it’s all invested, but at current rates of exchange, it amounts to around twenty million dollars.”

  “Twenty million?”

  Her amazed voice must have carried to the couples across the room, for Irene gave a cough and bid, “Seven diamonds,” in an unnecessarily loud voice to keep the others’ attention on their game.

  “Good heavens,” Marjorie said, staring at him, clearly staggered by the amount. “I thought one or two, maybe. But twenty?” She sat back, considering. “You say it’s invested,” she said at last. “In what?”

  “Property, funds, stocks, bonds. American, mostly, and some British.”

  “And South African,” she reminded, looking down at the sheaf of papers, idly flipping one corner of the stack in her fingers. “Which is why you’re going there.”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s not the only reason you’re going, is it?” Her hands stilled, and she looked up. “You want to go.”

  “I do,” he admitted frankly. “Your father’s descriptions and stories fascinated me. He said Africa has some of the most beautiful country in the world. I’d like to see it.”

  She nodded, and her acceptance of his answer ought to have relieved his mind, but it didn’t. Quite the opposite, for he suddenly felt off-balance, uncertain, and he didn’t know why.

  What does matter to you? What do you want from life?

  Marjorie’s question was one he’d been asking himself ever since he’d left these shores, but he’d never been able to answer it with any degree of success. He thought he’d made peace with his own ambivalence, but as he looked at the woman across from him, he realized he’d made peace with nothing.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced himself back to the matter at hand. “I want you to read these,” he said, gesturing to the sheaf of documents. “Study them, learn all you can about your inheritance, Marjorie. You have the right to know, and besides, it’s crucial that you begin thinking like an heiress and learn to guard yourself, for there are many people who will try to take advantage of you.”

  She bit her lip, staring down at the documents between them. “People like Count de la Rosa, you mean,” she said after a moment.

  “Yes. I’ll help you avoid that as best I can, but Irene and Clara and their husbands will be of greater assistance to you than I, for they know far more about the people you’ll meet here than I do.”

  “Jonathan?” She looked up, her brown eyes wide and dark. “What would have happened, if the count had . . .” She paused as if finding it hard to ask the question. “What if he had taken advantage of me and I’d had to marry him?”

  Violence erupted inside Jonathan, sudden and hot, and he had to curl his hands into fists beneath the table. But when he spoke, his answer was one that did not involve ripping the count’s throat out. “Mr. Jessop and I would have done our best to restrict his income in a prenuptial agreement, but your reputation would have been in the balance—he’d have seen to that. That’s why it’s so important that you not only rely on your chaperones, but also exercise discernment yourself.”

  “Trust no one, in other words,” she said with a sigh, plunking an elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “I don’t really like that aspect of my new life.”

  “There are compensations. We’ll open a bank account for you, with an allowance. It’ll be a generous one, but don’t overspend and expect me to give you more. I won’t. Heiress or no, I expect you to be responsible with your money.”

  “No racehorses?” She grinned, the impudent minx. “No yachts? No motorcars?”

  “No.”

  “You’re such a tyrant.”

  “Am I?” He put his hand on the rosewood box on the table, and the temptation to tease her was suddenly irresistible. “Then I suppose I’ll just put your jewels in a bank vault until August.”

  She straightened in her chair, glancing at the box then back at him. “The necklace is in there?”

  “More than just that.”

  “I have other jewels? Can I see them?”

  “Hmm . . .” His fingers drummed on the box. “I’m not sure I should. I am a tyrant, after all.”

  “You’re impossible, that’s what you are,” she cried, jumping up to circle the table, heedless of the four people across the room who had now stopped their card game and were staring at her in surprise. “Oh, do let me see them, do.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. Relenting, he slid his hand away and let her open the box.

  “Why, they look like pebbles,” she said in surprise, peering at the stones nestled in the various velvet-lined partitions. “And bits of colored glass.”

  “These are uncut gems. Those,” he added, pointing to one pile of stones, “are diamonds.”

  “Diamonds,” cried Carlotta, setting down her cards and rising to her feet. “I have to see those.”

  Irene and her husband stood up as well. Ignoring David’s protest that they were in the middle of a bridge hand, the other three crossed the room to examine the gems.

  “An impressive collection,” the duke commented, leaning over his wife’s shoulder. “Amethysts, opals, star garnets—” He broke off and looked at Jonathan. “I can store them in the ducal vault downstairs, if you like. I keep Irene’s jewels there.”

  “That’s just what I was hoping. Thank you.”

  “We’ll put them there tonight, once the ladies have had a good look at them. But, really, what you ought to do is take them to a jeweler and have them cut. I recommend Fossin and Morel in New Bond Street.”

  “Jonathan?” Marjorie’s voice drew his attention. “Where’s the Rose of Shoshone?”

  He lifted the top tray of the box, revealing the Tiffany box nestled in the compartment beneath. Setting aside the tray, he pulled out the box, removed the lid, and held up the necklace for their inspection.

  Carlotta and Irene both gasped, but it was Marjorie who held his attention. Her pink lips were curved in that mysterious smile, and in her dark eyes was a hint of the sensual fire he’d awakened when he’d put this necklace around her throat, the fire that had scorched him yesterday afternoon and was still threatening to flare up again. He tamped it down, however, reminding himself that Marjorie was right.

  Being friends was the only choice he had, and yet, as he thought of that kiss and all the passion it had awakened, Jonathan feared being her friend was going to be like walking a tightrope over a thousand-foot drop. Very tricky, indeed.

  Chapter 15

  Marjorie’s first fortnight in England went by in a frenzy of activity. As planned, she was taken to the famous Jay’s, and despite the limited choice of colors and the necessity of trimming every garment in black, she was able to order a surprising number of day frocks, walking suits, and evening gowns she liked.

  Even Carlotta was sympathetic upon learning of the travesties Lady Stansbury’s maid had committed upon Marjorie’s underclothes, and a full day was spent with various corsetieres and other modistes of lingerie.

  She was also taken to a dizzying array of milliners, glovers, and cobblers. She bought fans, handkerchiefs, and handbags. She ordered calling cards and stationery. She visited Harrods, treating herself with the best French-milled soaps and lotions her money could buy. As Irene had promised, they hired her a true lady’s maid, and though Miss Gladys Semphill was surprisingly dour in her own appearance, she proved an excellent lady’s maid with such a talent for hair that she was able to transform Marjorie’s rebellious red mop into a mass of soft, perfect curls every time she dressed it.

  Irene and Carlotta took her to call upon the duke’s sisters, Angela and Sarah, as well as many other acquaintances. They also called upon Baroness Vasiliev, who expressed great delight at meeting the duchess again after so many years and endured Carlotta’s somewhat disapproving scrutiny with cheerful indifference, for which Marjorie was grateful.

  She wrote to her friends from schooldays, and found, much to h
er delight, that two of them were in London for the season. Dulci was now a peeress, having married Baron Outram in April, and Jenna had just become engaged to a certain Colonel Westcott, the second son of the Earl of Balvoir. Plans were made for tea at Claridge’s, so Marjorie could be told all the romantic details.

  She saw Jonathan at breakfast and dinner, but seldom in between, for all she’d done so far was shop and pay calls, and despite Clara’s teasing suggestion that he go along, he had emphatically negated the possibility.

  So, no one was more surprised than Marjorie when, on her fifteenth day in London, she and her shopping companions spied him in Bond Street.

  Clara, who had taken a day away from the paper to accompany them, was the first to see him. “Why, ladies, would you look at that!” she cried, stopping on the sidewalk and bringing her companions to a halt. “Irene, I do believe I saw our brother going into Fossin and Morel’s across the street. I think we all know what he’s doing there,” she went on, turning to give Marjorie a wink. “Shall we go and see?”

  This suggestion met with eager assent, and after several minutes of navigating their way across the crowded street, the four ladies entered the elegant premises of one of London’s finest jewelers.

  Jonathan was nowhere to be seen, but a dark, well-dressed gentleman hastened forward. “Your Grace,” he greeted Irene, hands spread in a gesture of welcome. “And Viscountess Galbraith and Lady David, too. How delightful.”

  “Good day, Mr. Prescott,” said Irene. “I believe my brother is here?”

  “Mr. Deverill? Yes, indeed. An affable gentleman, Your Grace, with a most remarkable collection of stones.” The urbane Mr. Prescott’s dark face lit up with the interest of his profession. “Diamonds, peridot . . . some exceptional star garnets and black opals. Yes, most remarkable.”

  “This is my brother’s ward, Miss Marjorie McGann. The stones belonged to her late father.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Prescott turned to her. “I do hope you will decide to have the stones set, Miss McGann. Some of them promise to be exquisite when cut.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she answered. “My father was a mining engineer, and gemstones were his passion.”

  Mr. Prescott blinked as if nonplussed, and beside her, she heard Carlotta’s sharp indrawn breath—two clues she’d committed some sort of faux pas, but she couldn’t imagine what.

  In the awkward pause, Mr. Prescott turned to Irene. “Mr. Deverill is with Mr. Fossin in his office, composing an inventory of the gems. Would you like me to inform them you are here?”

  “No, there’s no need. We can wait a few minutes.” She glanced past him to one of the glass display cases. “Have you any emeralds to show me?”

  “Of course.” He turned, stretching out his arm to allow her to precede him, and as they departed for the other side of the shop, Marjorie turned to Clara. “What did I say?” she whispered.

  Carlotta answered before Clara had the chance. “It’s hardly necessary to inform people of your late father’s profession, my dear. I should advise discretion on that score.”

  “But why?” she asked in surprise. “What’s it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” Clara put in. “Oh, look,” she added, hooking one arm through that of her sister-in-law and steering her toward a nearby case. “Pearls, Carlotta. Your favorite.”

  Marjorie followed, hoping to press Clara for further information, but she had no opportunity, for only a few minutes later Jonathan emerged from the back rooms, a sheet of paper in his hands. “Thank you, Mr. Fossin,” he was saying to a small man with an enormous mustache who walked beside him. “You will inform me when you’ve given the stones a full evaluation?”

  Assured on this point, he turned, immediately spying Marjorie standing with Carlotta and Clara. “What the devil?” he said, laughing in surprise.

  “We saw you from across the street,” Irene said as she joined them. “We couldn’t resist coming in.”

  “Naturally,” he agreed, folding the sheet in his hands and tucking it in a pocket of his morning coat. “Women around jewels are like moths around flame.”

  “We’re on our way to Claridge’s for tea with two of Marjorie’s friends from Forsyte Academy,” Clara put in. “Do join us. You won’t be the only man. Rex will be there, and Paul—one of Rex’s cousins.”

  “For a moment, I thought I’d have six ladies all to myself,” he said. Shaking his head in mock disappointment, he stepped around them and opened the door. “Ah, well.”

  They emerged onto the sidewalk, but as the other women began walking toward Claridge’s, Marjorie lingered, waiting for Jonathan. “May I walk with you?”

  “Certainly.” He pulled the door shut behind him and moved to stand between her and the street, then they fell in step to follow the others. “I presume you want to know what Mr. Fossin had to say about the stones?”

  “I’d love to hear, but that’s not it. I had a question to ask you.” She related the conversation inside the jeweler’s and the reactions of both Mr. Prescott and Carlotta. “What did I say?” she asked as he laughed.

  “I don’t know why you have to ask. After spending a fortnight in her company, you must know Carlotta’s a snob.”

  “I knew that after an hour. But Mr. Prescott’s hardly in a position to be snobbish.”

  “I’d wager Prescott wasn’t disapproving so much as taken aback. Fossin and Morel deal with a very exclusive clientele. He’s probably unaccustomed to young ladies who announce their fathers’ professions.”

  “No, but it’s not as if my father was a ditchdigger or a longshoreman. I could see how a snob might disapprove of that. But my father, for all his faults, was an educated man, and he had a worthy profession.”

  “That’s just it. In Britain, a profession for a gentleman is looked down upon. So is a useful education, if you want the truth. England—the upper crust, anyway—prefers to send its young men to university to study poetry and learn dead languages.”

  “But Clara has a profession,” Marjorie said, still bewildered.

  “Even worse, since Clara’s a woman. I daresay she doesn’t talk much about it outside the family.”

  “So, society knows about her involvement in Deverill Publishing, but as long as she doesn’t talk about it, people let it pass?”

  “More or less. If you want society’s good opinion, it might be best to avoid mentioning your father was a mining engineer.”

  “Carlotta said the same.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Sometimes, British life doesn’t make much sense to me.”

  “If it’s any consolation to you, it doesn’t make much sense to me either, and I was raised in it. Not the aristocracy, of course, but close enough. My mother was a viscount’s daughter, though she was disowned when she married my father. We Deverills do like turning the aristocracy on its ear.”

  “A fact you seem to take great delight in,” she commented, laughing as he grinned. “Lilies of the field, I think you said?”

  “And was I not right?”

  She sniffed. “Only about some of them. You couldn’t describe Galbraith or Torquil in such a way.”

  “I notice you don’t mention David. He’s a lily of the field if ever I saw one. Takes great pride in the fact, too, I daresay.”

  “Well, you’ve got me there,” she conceded. “But I don’t see why it’s anything to be proud of. In the States, gentlemen are encouraged, even expected, to take up a career.”

  “While gentlemen on this side of the pond are expected to work as little as possible. As an American, it’s a cultural difference you might find difficult to accept, especially if your goal is to marry a titled peer.”

  Somehow, marrying a duke or an earl didn’t seem quite so appealing now. The reason, of course, was the man walking beside her, a fact she found both frustrating and depressing. Still, there was no point in dwelling on it, so she looked away, hoping for a diversion, and found it almost immediately when they passed the next shop. “Would you look at that?” she crie
d, stopping in genuine relief and happy surprise. “It’s a Trotter!”

  “It doesn’t look like a horse,” he said doubtfully, making her laugh. “But I shall take your word for it.”

  “A Trotter is a camera, silly.” She leaned as close to the window as her hat brim would allow and immediately gave a cry of delight. “It has a Lancaster lens, too. Look!”

  “That, if the tone of your voice and the smile on your face are anything to go by, is a good thing.” He also leaned closer to the window. “It seems to have a carrying case as well.”

  “Well, of course it does. It is a field camera.” Laughing, she turned her head to look at him, and at the sight of his face so close to her own, the fabulous camera in the window was forgotten.

  He was smiling, watching her in a way that made her catch her breath, and suddenly, the memory of their kiss aboard the Neptune went through her mind, and she had to fight to remember what she’d been about to say. “That’s why it has a case,” she blurted out in a rush. “A field camera is designed to be portable, so one can . . . can . . . take pictures outdoors. Landscapes, you know. In . . . in . . .”

  “Fields?” he teased, his smiling widening. But then, his lashes lowered, he eased a fraction closer, and his smile vanished, causing her heart to give a lurch of excitement.

  Was he going to kiss her? she wondered wildly. Surely not, not right here on the street. And yet, even as she negated the possibility, she leaned closer, too, pulled toward him like a magnet, her heart hammering in her chest.

  But then, he looked up, his eyes grave as they met hers. “Perhaps I should get one,” he murmured.

  Dazed, she blinked, unable to remember what they’d been talking about. “One what?”

  “Field camera.” He nodded toward the window. “It might be a handy thing to have on my travels.”

  The reminder that he was leaving shifted everything back into place, and the spell was broken. Perhaps that had been his intent. “We should go on,” she said flatly and pulled back from the window. “If not, I’ll be late.”