“Blimey!” Cork breathed, intimidated by the young lady’s expert knowledge.
When breakfast arrived, Cork sat down with her mistress at the table near the window.
“You will not be eating with me, of course, when we are at home,” Viola explained, looking out the window. “You will eat with the other servants. But when I’m traveling, I enjoy the company. What can you tell me about the shop across the street? Difficult to tell in this beastly fog, but I think I see hats. Hats are very important, Cork. I must teach you all about hats. I’m very particular—”
Viola’s dissertation on hats was interrupted by a sudden loud banging on the door.
“Mary Andrews! Mary Andrews, I know you’re in there! Open this door at once!”
The woman on the other side of the door was screaming furiously.
Cork jumped to her feet, but Viola motioned her to be seated. Going to the door herself, she flung it open, disclosing an ample woman with a red face. The woman wore a short pelisse of rabbit fur over a day dress of puce wool. Ostrich feathers curled over the high poke of her straw bonnet. Her small, wet mouth fell open as she stared in surprise at Viola. Arrayed in an impeccably tailored walking dress of coral pink cambric, with ribbons threaded through her now clean and glossy black ringlets, Viola obviously was not what she had expected.
“My good woman,” said Viola, with unfounded optimism, “what do you want?”
“I beg your p-pardon, ma’am,” she stammered, curtseying. “I was looking for my niece.”
“Oh? You are Mrs Dean, I collect? I have been here, madam, for nearly four hours!”
The woman gaped at her. “You mean that you are my niece?” she cried. “You naughty girl! You are not in mourning for your father, I see. And what do you mean by hiring a room—with a parlor, no less! Who do you think is going to pay for all this? You may think because I live in London that I am rich, but, I assure you, I am no such thing!”
Viola looked at her coldly. “I am quite able to pay for my room, madam.”
“Oh!” said Mrs Dean, pleased. “You have some money about you? Excellent. But you mustn’t waste it, Mary,” she cautioned. “There was no need to hire a room, not when I have gone to the trouble of coming all this way to fetch you.”
“Was I meant to stand in the yard for four hours? I didn’t realize,” Viola said tartly. “And what do you mean when you talk of coming all this way? Do you not reside in London?”
Mrs Dean chuckled at her ignorance. “London is a great big place, Mary. York is nothing compared to it.” She sailed into the room and went directly to the breakfast table. “And you are?” she inquired of Cork as she picked up the teapot.
“This is my maid, Cork,” Viola said coldly.
“A servant! Off you go, then,” cried Mrs Dean, taking Cork’s place at the table and helping herself to the remains of Cork’s breakfast. “I must say, my dear Mary,” she cried, almost choking on her bacon, “that you are far better looking than I had dared to hope. Having seen you in your infancy, I was expecting a rather common little miss, but you have grown into a beauty. You will do very well on the London market. Who knows? You might attract a rich gentleman, possibly even a handsome young lord.”
Viola was skeptical. A husband, of course, was just what little Mary Andrews needed, but what sort of husband could the teary-eyed niece of this vulgar, blowsy female expect to attract? That was the material question. “I am obliged to you, madam,” she said, looking away from the disgusting spectacle of Mrs Dean consuming her appropriated breakfast.
“What are you now—sixteen, seventeen?” Her greedy eyes went over Viola’s twenty-one-year-old figure, settling on the well-developed bosom. “You seem very poised and grown-up for such a young girl! But gentlemen like that.”
Viola’s eyebrows went up. “Do they?” she asked politely.
Mrs Dean smiled on, even as she picked her teeth. “Are you packed and ready to go, Mary? I have a hack waiting.”
Viola recoiled. “Don’t you keep a carriage?”
“My dear, it’s too expensive! None but the very rich can afford to keep a carriage in London. Owning a carriage…Why, that’s almost like owning one’s own town house!”
“You don’t own your home?” Viola exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, love,” said Mrs Dean with a sly wink. “I’ve a strong, steady lease as long as Mr Pettigrew has got a pulse.”
Viola made no attempt to determine the meaning of this cryptic remark.
By the time Mrs Dean and Viola emerged from the inn, followed by Cork carrying her own small bundle, and the porter carrying Viola’s luggage, the fog had dissipated, and the sun was shining. The big shop windows sparkled up and down the length of Ludgate Hill. Viola caught sight of a large domed edifice at the end of the street, and her opinion of London was elevated. While it was hardly as grand as her beloved Fanshawe, the structure was impressive in its own small way. “Who lives there?” she asked brightly, cheered by the sunshine.
Cork giggled. “God lives there, madam. ’Tis St Paul’s Cathedral.”
“Oh,” said Viola, disappointed. “I thought it would be bigger.”
As the hackney carriage rolled west, Viola pushed her head out of the window, staring in awe at the endless manmade scenery. She could scarcely believe she was still in England. London was surely the biggest, busiest place on earth. People were everywhere, loud and alive, both men and women, rich and poor. Horses, vehicles, dogs, even children, thronged the streets. And everyone, it seemed, was in a devil of a hurry.
Viola was terrified. “Do they mean to attack us?”
Mrs Dean looked at her in surprise. “Who, Mary?”
“That angry mob out there,” Viola cried. “It looks very ugly. Are there no soldiers to subdue them?”
Mrs Dean laughed heartily. “You call that a mob, Miss Mary?” she jeered.
“Is it always so busy?” Viola cried in amazement.
“I told you, York is nothing to London,” Mrs Dean said smugly. “And close your mouth, Miss Mary—you look like a bumpkin.”
Viola closed her mouth with a snap.
Ludgate Hill flowed into Fleet Street, which seemed to go on for miles and miles and miles, with no end in sight. Then, just past the Law Courts, Fleet Street became the Strand, and Viola instantly recognized Gambol House; she had seen dozens of artists’ views of the place, and was inclined to think it the finest house in all London. “Beautiful!” she exclaimed, grateful for any landmark in this strange, frightening city.
“That old heap!” scoffed Mrs Dean. “No one lives in the Strand these days,” she informed Viola. “It ain’t considered fashionable.”
“I shouldn’t call the Duke of Fanshawe ‘no one,’” Viola said coldly.
“Did you never meet the duke?” Mrs Dean asked her curiously. “His grace gave your father the living at Gambolthwaite, I think.”
“I know the duke,” Viola replied. “I know his grace very well.”
“Oh ho! Did he try anything?” Mrs Dean asked eagerly, jostling Viola with an elbow. “A beautiful young girl like you! I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He’d be used to getting what he wants, being a duke and all. If he’s been at you, girl, we’ll make him pay.”
Cork stared at the woman, goggle-eyed.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Viola said icily. “The Duke of Fanshawe enjoys a spotless reputation in Yorkshire. And no one has been ‘at me.’ Ever.”
“Pity,” said Mrs Dean. She then reverted to the previous topic. “Nowadays, all the fashionable set take houses in the West End. In Pall Mall, in Mayfair, in Green Park, in Grosvenor Square. Piccadilly. Park Lane.” She closed her eyes dreamily.
“And where do you live, Mrs Dean?” said Viola, unable to bring herself to call this indelicate stranger “aunt.” “In the West End, I suppose?”
“Almost!” Mrs Dean answered proudly. “Very nearly. I’m in Portland Place. It’s very new and coming. Just down from the Regent’s Park. It does
pay to have influential friends,” she added smugly, preening and petting her rabbit pelisse.
As the hackney carriage turned north, the smell of coal dust and horse dung mingled in the air even more strongly, causing Viola’s eyes to water. “Is Portland Place much farther?” she asked, taking out her handkerchief and pressing it to her nostrils.
“We’re not even to Regent Street,” Mrs Dean replied.
Regent Street was so choked with vehicles and pedestrians that the hack could advance only inches at a time. Viola was so cross and so tired that not even the luxurious wares displayed in the many shop windows could divert her. “Is no one in London where they are supposed to be?” she said irritably. “Must everyone be in motion at once?”
“Regent Street is quite impossible this time of morning,” said Mrs Dean complacently.
At last, they turned into Portland Place. Mrs Dean’s house was at the bottom of the handsome street, farthest from Regent’s Park. The three females alighted from the vehicle. Mrs Dean, preoccupied with her pelisse, inadvertently left it to Viola to pay the driver.
The house, tall and slender and semidetached, with iron railings and a pretty green door, seemed respectable enough; at least it did until the door opened and a portly middle-aged man darted out, pulling on his coat as he barreled down the steps. His horsehair wig was askew, and his nose was so bulbous and red it seemed to be crying out for a physician. To Viola’s astonishment, Mrs Dean greeted the coarse-looking man with familiar jocularity.
“Not now, Dolly,” he answered, hopping down the steps on surprisingly dainty feet in buckled shoes. “I’m shockingly late for breakfast. Mrs Pettigrew don’t like it when I’m late.”
Late or not, the sight of Viola seemed to affect him strongly. He came to a sudden stop and stared at her, his rheumy eyes moving rapidly from this part to that, rather like a colony of ants. Never in Viola’s life had any man looked at her so lecherously. She was too surprised even to speak. Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the scoundrel had the temerity to speak to her. “Hello, pretty!” he said. “Present me, Dolly!”
“Mr Pettigrew, behave yourself,” Mrs Dean implored him giddily as Viola struggled to keep her breakfast from coming up. “This is my shy little niece from Yorkshire! The parson’s daughter, you know. She’s far too good for the likes of you. I’ve a gentleman in mind for her, if not a lord.”
Undeterred, the ocular rapist completed his violation of Viola’s personal dignity by winking at her. Viola felt around in her reticule, her fingers closing over her trusty toasting fork as he smacked his lips repulsively.
“You saucy little minx,” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past you!”
Then, grinning like an ape, he jumped into the hack the women had just quitted and departed.
Chapter Four
With one gloved finger, Baroness Devize held the dimity curtains of her carriage window slightly apart, just enough to observe her youngest offspring as he sauntered down Lombard Street. Born and bred a gentleman, Julian, the handsomest of her three children, was dressed like a common clerk, in black trousers, black coat, and a truly unforgivable hat. Naturally, he wore no gloves. As he sauntered, he alternately ate of the hot cross bun he held in one hand and drank from the small amber-colored bottle he held with the other.
Unaware that his primitive habits were being remarked, Julian ran briskly up the steps of No. 32, a ramshackle, semidetached house immediately next to a storefront window emblazoned with the pawnbroker’s device of three golden balls. The young man licked his fingers, knocked on the door, and was admitted, bottle in hand.
Paralyzed by strong disgust, his mother could only stare.
“Hurry, Mama!” said the other lady seated in the closed carriage. “He’s getting away!”
“Really, Perdita,” Lady Devize murmured repressively, removing her index finger from the divide in the curtains. “Was that remark intended to be humorous?”
She spoke to her only daughter as if the latter were still a girl of sixteen fresh from the schoolroom. In fact, Perdita, Lady Cheviot, was thirty-six years of age, married, with seven children. Unlike her mother, Perdita had allowed herself to grow a trifle plump over the years, but she was still a handsome woman, with the rich, chestnut hair and brilliant blue eyes she had inherited from her rail-thin mother. “What if he won’t come out, Mama?” she suggested mischievously. “Will you go in and get him, or shall I?”
Life had dealt Lady Devize too many cruel blows for her to see anything humorous in life, her youngest son being the cruelest blow of all. With his good looks and razor-sharp intellect (both inherited from the baroness, of course), Julian might have made a brilliant marriage, but, instead, at twenty-five, he was content to turn his back on Society and eke out an existence among the middle classes. The baroness rounded on her daughter with a vengeance.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Perdita,” she snapped. “His man will give him my note, and your brother will join us presently.”
The baroness proved correct. In just a few moments, the young man who had gone into No. 32 came out again. He had lost his amber bottle, but he was still wearing the unforgivable hat. Perdita recklessly threw open the window. “Julian! Over here!”
“For heaven’s sake, Perdita!” the baroness hissed. “Someone might see you!”
“No one knows us in this part of London, Mama,” Perdita answered. “No one we know would be caught dead in the City. Apart from Julian, of course.”
“Quite,” said the baroness coldly as a knock sounded on the door. “Enter!”
Julian opened the door, climbed inside the carriage, and sat next to Perdita. His hat—and Lady Devize had an excellent view of it as he leaned forward to close the door—was even worse than she had thought. In fact, it was execrable.
“Where on earth did you get that hat?” Perdita exclaimed.
“I bought it,” Julian replied. His brilliant blue eyes, rendered breathtaking by the sunlight, were fixed on his mother, and her brilliant blue eyes were fixed on him. Although there was no love lost between them, the family resemblance could not be denied. “If it offends you, I will remove it.” So saying, he took off his hat and balanced it on his knee.
The baroness closed her eyes in shame. Her son had one of those horrible close-cropped haircuts that men who do not keep creditable valets are forced to get from barbers.
“It doesn’t look like you bought it,” Perdita said frankly. “It rather looks like you stole it from the family of mice that were nesting in it. What did you do with the poor mice?”
“It’s not as bad as that,” said Julian, smiling faintly.
“I was trying to be kind,” said Perdita.
“Aren’t you going to greet your mother?” Lady Devize demanded, exasperated.
“My lady,” he said politely. “What brings you to the City?”
The baroness did not reply. “Portland Place,” she called sharply to the driver, and the closed carriage began to move, traveling northwest along Lombard Street.
Julian frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to go for a drive with you just now, madam. I work for a living, as you know.”
“My son, the stockjobber,” said the baroness, drenching those four simple words in oceans of icy contempt.
“At your ladyship’s service,” Julian replied. “Are you buying or selling?”
As the baroness choked on her own fury, Perdita caught Julian’s arm. “It’s Papa,” she said quietly. “He’s very ill, Julian. They don’t seem to expect him to live much longer.”
All traces of mockery disappeared from the young man’s face.
“I see,” he said quietly. “Of course I’ll come.”
His mother sniffed. “By all means! Visit your father on his deathbed—if you wish to hasten his demise, that is. The sight of you would surely kill him on the spot.”
“Mama! No!” Perdita cried, horrified.
“Naturally, I have no wish to commit patricide,” Julian said stif
fly. “I will, of course, absent myself from the touching family scene. But why take me to Portland Place?”
“Your father wants to see your brother, his heir, before he dies,” Lady Devize explained.
Perdita said quickly, “Alex is in a—a house, Julian, and we need you to get him out.”
“Have you tried knocking on the door?” Julian inquired politely.
“Your brother is in a bawdyhouse,” said the baroness impatiently. “We couldn’t possibly knock on that door.”
“And we can’t send a servant, either,” said Perdita, anticipating Julian’s next suggestion. “What if he’s drunk? What if he won’t come out? What if he creates a disturbance? There would be a dreadful scandal! And how would it look if Papa actually died while his heir was creating a disturbance in a brothel?”
Julian sighed. “Where is the house?”
“Portland Place!” the baroness said indignantly.
“Portland Place?” Julian repeated, chuckling. “Isn’t that where you live, madam?”
Lady Devize drew herself up. “I am at the top of Portland Place,” she informed him icily. “Mrs Dean’s…establishment…is at the bottom of Portland Place. Thus far, she has managed to elude detection. To coin a phrase: The law is an ass.”
“So you left your house at the top of Portland Place. You drove all the way out to Lombard Street to fetch me. And now we are on our way to the bottom of Portland Place?”
Julian was almost smiling; it was so ridiculous.
“I’m sorry to have taken you away from your labors on the Exchange,” Lady Devize said nastily, “but the matter could not be delayed if we are to reach Sussex by nightfall.”
Julian frowned. “Sussex? Is my father not in London?”
“I was forced to come to London without him this Season,” said his mother. “After what you did to Child’s Bank, sir, your father could not face his friends in the House of Lords. Some people of very high rank were affected by your underhanded dealings.”
The Heiress In His Bed Page 5