The Heiress In His Bed

by Tamara Lejeune

  The revelation caught Julian by surprise, and made him feel excessively awkward, as if he had accidentally overheard something intensely private. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “She married someone else,” Alex went on, to his brother’s acute dismay. “She died in childbirth. If she were not dead, I think I would hate her. She was such a plain little thing, too,” Alex said, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. “I still remember how she felt in my arms when we danced together.”

  “All the same,” said Julian. “Life goes on.”

  Alex glared at him. “How can you be so callous? Life goes on? No, it doesn’t.”

  “Obviously, it does,” Julian said dryly. “Would you be here if it didn’t?”

  “You think I come here to feel alive?” Alex demanded indignantly. “Do you think I enjoy passing out every night in the arms of a strange woman who doesn’t give a tinker’s damn for me?”

  “You could do that with Molly Peacock,” Julian said. “At considerably less expense.”

  “That’s right,” Alex said grimly. “Make your jokes. You’ve never been in love.”

  “No,” Julian agreed cheerfully, “but I can’t wait. You make it sound so pleasant.”

  Alex went into the closet to wash, leaving the door ajar.

  Julian was looking out of the window, watching as a man exited the house. With his collar turned up and his hat low over his eyes, he scurried into Oxford Street to be swallowed up by the traffic.

  “Sorry about all that,” Alex said presently. “I didn’t mean to be so maudlin. I hope I didn’t embarrass you?”

  “It’s quite all right,” Julian assured him. “I wasn’t listening anyway.”

  “Good.” Alex sounded relieved. Half-dressed now, he began to shave.

  “Alex,” Julian said thoughtfully, still observing the street, “this is a brothel, isn’t it?”

  Alex laughed shortly. “If it isn’t, I want my money back,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I met a girl downstairs who seems to think this is some sort of boarding house,” Julian replied. “A very pretty, genteel sort of girl, nothing like what you’d expect to find in a place like this. She seemed like a carefully brought up young lady,” he added. “She refused to talk to me because we hadn’t been introduced. Just like the girls back home.”

  “Ah, yes,” Alex said, yawning. “The tragic little niece from Yorkshire. I’ve heard all about her. Supposedly, her father was a vicar. He left his daughter on the aunt’s hands, penniless. To recoup her losses, Mrs Dean is auctioning her off on Friday. She tried to sell me a ticket, but I’m afraid primitive country virgins are not at all to my taste. I hear she’s pretty, though. She should fetch a pretty price.”

  “I don’t think I understand you,” Julian said indignantly. “What do you mean Mrs Dean is auctioning her off?”

  Alex looked at him in surprise. “You’re shocked,” he said. “I do believe you’re blushing. My dear boy, the girl has no money, no connections. Her aunt’s in debt. What else are they to do with her? This is a brothel, after all.”

  “It’s barbaric,” said Julian. “Not to mention immoral and illegal.”

  Alex shrugged. “That’s London for you.”

  “Alex, this girl thinks she’s in a boarding house.”

  “Then she’s either a fool or a liar,” Alex said heartlessly. “Chances are, your genteel, pretty girl knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s just reeling you in with her innocent eyes.”

  “Then she should be treading the boards,” said Julian. “She’s a remarkable actress.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about her too much,” Alex said dryly. “If she plays her cards right, she’ll be the mistress of a very rich man who will dote on her and buy her anything she wants.”

  “But for God’s sake,” said Julian. “She’s a clergyman’s daughter.”

  Alex snorted. “That’s the story, anyway. Who knows if it’s true? I don’t want to disillusion you, Julian, but, occasionally one finds that lies are told in brothels. Your genteel, pretty girl mightn’t even be a virgin.”

  “And what if she is innocent?” Julian demanded. “We have to help her.”

  Alex wiped his now clean-shaven face with a towel. “We?”

  “This girl you were in love with,” Julian said impatiently. “What if she were in trouble? Wouldn’t you want someone to help her?”

  Alex’s face darkened with anger. “Obviously, a lady would never be in such a situation,” he snapped. “Never think with your privates, brother, or didn’t they teach you that in the army?”

  “I’m concerned about her welfare,” Julian said stiffly. “It has nothing to do with my privates.”

  “You’re too poor to be concerned about her welfare,” Alex retorted, “and it has everything to do with your privates. Would you be quite so concerned about her welfare if she weren’t quite so pretty?”

  “You’re a cynic,” Julian accused him.

  Alex laughed grimly. “So will you be in ten years.”

  “Perhaps,” said Julian, “but I hope the idea of young women being bought and sold like chattel will always be disgusting to me. I’m going to help her, even if you won’t.”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool,” said Alex, but he was talking to himself; Julian had already left the room.

  “I wish to speak to Mrs Dean at once,” Julian told the manservant downstairs.

  Alex joined him in the hall a few minutes later. Never as handsome as his brother, and pockmarked from a childhood illness, he at least looked respectable now: clean-shaven and wearing a tailored coat of blue superfine. “Would you call me a hack?” he asked Julian.

  “You are a hack,” Julian said obligingly.

  “Ha, ha. My legs are still a bit wobbly, and my purse seems to be empty,” Alex said. “It has been suggested to me that I drink too much. Please summon a hack for me.”

  “The hack is waiting outside,” Julian said. “It’s only half a mile to our mother’s house, but I didn’t think you’d care to walk in your condition.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said ruefully.

  Glancing up, Julian saw a middle-aged woman coming down the stairs, presumably Mrs Dean herself. Alex saw Mrs Dean at about the same time. “Look here, Julian,” he said quietly. “Don’t get yourself mixed up in this dirty business. Even if the girl is innocent—which I rather doubt—you have no money. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Mrs Dean reached them, and Alex was obliged to hold his tongue. “Do come again, Mr Pope,” she said warmly to Alex. “The girls are so fond of you.”

  Julian shook his brother’s hand. “Will you keep me informed? I am still in Lombard Street. If my father wants me, of course I’ll come,” he offered.

  Alex promised to send word. Giving his brother one last warning look, he then departed, leaving Julian alone with the mistress of the house.

  Mrs Dean bore no resemblance to her lovely niece; indeed, Julian could scarcely credit the notion that the two were related. Her yellow satin gown fitted her too tightly in the bosom, so that unsightly mounds of freckled flesh spilled over the lace edge of the bodice. Kohl lined the lids of her small, greedy eyes. While not quite realistic, her ivory teeth were well-carved.

  “Mr Pope!” she purred. “How may I please you?”

  “I’m interested in your niece,” he said bluntly. “I want an introduction.”

  Mrs Dean looked amused. “I’m afraid, Mr Pope, that my niece is quite beyond your touch. She is—”

  “What do you know of my touch?” he interrupted sharply.

  Mrs Dean blinked at him. The handsome young man had a commanding air, quite at odds with his youth and his unfashionably plain clothes. Perhaps he was a man of greater wealth and importance than his elder brother; in her lifetime, Mrs Dean had seen stranger things.

  “I meant no offense,” she said quickly. “I should warn you, Mr Pope, that Miss Andrews has generated a great deal of interest already. It will not be easy to obta
in her favors.”

  “Is that her name? Andrews?”

  “Mary Andrews,” Mrs Dean affirmed. “Why, only yesterday, Lord Barrowbridge offered me five thousand pounds for her.” Her flesh quivered as she recalled the lucrative offer. “He was very disappointed when I sent him away.”

  Julian was disgusted. “Lord Barrowbridge is ninety if he’s a day!”

  “And he couldn’t pop a cherry if his life depended on it, poor man,” Mrs Dean agreed. “But what do I care? It’s his lordship’s money. He can spend it as he likes.”

  “This is your niece we’re talking about,” Julian reminded her severely.

  “And who should profit from Mary’s beauty but her own aunt?” she returned harshly. “God knows my brother, the saintly vicar, never lifted a finger to help me when he was alive! It is only right that Mary help me now. Sooner or later, she will be bedded, Mr Pope. You know it, and I know it. She’ll be better off with a rich man than a poor man, and you know that, too.”

  “But the girl is very pretty,” Julian argued. “She speaks well—almost like a lady. Surely you could find her a husband.”

  Mrs Dean laughed. “A husband? With Dolly Dean for an aunt? I’m afraid she’d be tainted by association. And, of course, she has no dowry, poor thing. Who will marry her? Some middling tradesman? Some adventurous rogue? I made that mistake in my youth, Mr Pope. Mary will benefit from my experience. As the mistress of a rich gentleman, she will want for nothing. It’s no use looking at me like that, Mr Pope! You know I’m right. No gentleman is going to marry her, and she likes her fine clothes and pretty things, does Mary.”

  Julian saw that it was pointless to argue with the old witch. “I’ll attend the auction.”

  “Will you, now?” Mrs Dean said craftily. “You must first buy a ticket, and I’m afraid they’re quite expensive. I mean to keep out the riffraff, you understand.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty pounds, sir, and not a penny less,” she said defiantly.

  Julian did not flinch. “Will you accept my I.O.U.?”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid I can only accept hard currency. You do understand, Mr Pope.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Julian curtly.

  Mrs Dean licked her lips. “The cost of the ticket is nonrefundable,” she said quickly, “and, of course, it only entitles you to participate in the auction tomorrow evening. I expect to open the bidding at five thousand pounds.”

  “Then I shall return this afternoon for my ticket,” Julian said, starting for the door. “Naturally, I expect an interview with the young lady at that time. Perhaps I might walk with her in Regent’s Park early this evening?”

  “I’m afraid my niece is engaged to go driving in the park this evening,” Mrs Dean replied, “but you might come to tea, Mr Pope. I shall be here to chaperone, of course. I could not risk putting damaged goods on the block, you understand. The man who gets her might feel cheated.”

  Julian favored her with a pained smile.

  “However, you must not speak to Mary of the auction. She’s quite shy about it.”

  Julian looked at her sharply. “You mean she doesn’t know she’s being auctioned off,” he said contemptuously.

  Mrs Dean blinked rapidly. “Of course she knows,” she cried, just a little too late to be credible. “Mary is a practical young lady, sir, and nothing better guards a girl’s virginity than self-interest, don’t you agree?” She laughed. “After all, virtue can be penetrated by seduction. Self-interest cannot. Do you doubt, sir, that she is a virgin?”

  Julian glared at her. “No.”

  “Of course, if you won’t buy Mary, someone else will,” Mrs Dean went on pleasantly. “I only hope he is kind to her. My first time was very painful, and Mr Dean would do it again and again, no matter how I begged him to spare me. I was only sixteen, Mr Pope, but he was my husband, and I had no hope in law. My brother the vicar wouldn’t help me, either. What God hath joined, and all that rot. He said it was my Christian duty to submit. Mary, at least, will be free to find another protector, if she wishes. I was not free until Mr Dean died, and then I was left penniless. Poverty, I soon discovered, is a worse prison than marriage.”

  “How much would it take to stop the auction?” Julian demanded.

  Mrs Dean shook her head sadly. “It is beyond my power, Mr Pope. I couldn’t cancel now, even if you should offer me the moon and the stars. I have sold nearly twenty tickets.”

  “Then I had better go and see my banker,” Julian said grimly.

  Mrs Dean was all politeness when he returned that afternoon. The young man parted with his money so easily that Mrs Dean never suspected that he had pawned everything of value he owned in order to raise the sum. Inclining her head graciously, she brought her guest into the sitting room, where she locked his money in her desk and brought him a large card in return.

  “Your ticket, Mr Pope.”

  Julian looked at it in surprise. Handsomely printed in gold letters on a card about the size of a playbill, it announced the auction of one Bijou, a superior purebred bitch donated by Her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte. All proceeds were to go to an unspecified charity.

  “There must be some mistake,” Julian said irritably. “I don’t want a dog.”

  “A little subterfuge, Mr Pope…for the law’s sake,” Mrs Dean explained. “They can be so inquisitive about things that do not concern them. If anyone asks, the auction is for that stupid little dog someone left here as a present for one of my girls.”

  Julian affected surprise. “Then she is not one of Princess Charlotte’s prize pups?”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr Pope,” Mrs Dean laughed. “Everyone knows Her Royal Highness keeps Pomeranians.” Still laughing, she took the chair next to the fire. The tea table was already set up between the chair and the sofa, and a pot of tea was steeping under a quilted cozy.

  Having pawned his watch, among other things, Julian checked the little French clock on the mantel. “Will Miss Andrews be joining us soon?” he asked.

  “You must be patient, Mr Pope. Mary will join us presently.”

  While they waited, Mrs Dean beguiled the time by counting her chickens before they were hatched. “With that face and that figure, there’s no telling how much she’ll go for in the end,” she sighed happily. “I shall be able to pay off all my creditors, I shouldn’t wonder. Ah, Mary! There you are!” she said as the girl came into the room. “Come and meet Mr Pope.”

  Julian stood up, pleased and relieved to see that Miss Andrews appeared undamaged. Not a hair on her head was out of place. Her purple and white striped dress looked freshly ironed, and she was holding the white puppy in her arms. Bijou wagged her tail at the sight of Julian.

  Viola had not expected to see the impudent young man again. “You!” she exclaimed.

  “You know this young man?” Mrs Dean asked sharply.

  Julian smiled at Viola, but his words were intended for Mrs Dean. “I have met your niece already. But she would not speak to me because we had not been introduced.”

  “Mary!” Mrs Dean scolded. “How could you be so rude to Mr Pope?”

  “Indeed, Miss Andrews was the soul of propriety,” Julian said quickly. “I was rude. But do not judge me too harshly, Miss Andrews. I have come to make amends, as you see.”

  Viola found she could not hold a grudge against him. He had a certain audacious charm, and, of course, he was young and good-looking, a rarity amongst Mrs Dean’s acquaintances. She certainly preferred his company to that of Mrs Dean, and she was in no hurry to be rid of him. “By London standards, I think you were only a little presumptuous,” she said primly. “Of course, you were anxious to see your brother.”

  “I was, but that is no excuse for bad manners. Shall we begin again? How do you do, Miss Andrews?” he said, presenting her with a formal bow.

  “Very well, Mr Pope,” Viola answered, curtseying. “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance at last.”

  “Indeed the
pleasure is all mine, Miss Andrews.”

  “Oh, don’t let’s argue, Mr Pope,” she said, taking her seat on the sofa and arranging the bichon in her lap. “Shall we say half the pleasure is mine, and the other half yours?”

  “That certainly seems fair,” he agreed, a little taken aback by her confidence. Apparently now that they had been introduced, flirting was in order. Just like the girls back home, he thought, hiding a nostalgic smile.

  Viola was already pouring the tea. “How do you like it, Mr Pope? Sugar? Milk? Lemon?” Without seeming in any way coy or vulgar, she managed to make the simple offer of tea sound seductive. And Julian didn’t even like tea.

  “Black, thank you,” he said, accepting his cup.

  “Macaroon?” she inquired, holding out a plate of unassuming biscuits.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Of course, if you were chivalrous, Mr Pope,” Viola said, returning to their “argument” as she poured out Mrs Dean’s cup, “you would give me all the pleasure, and keep none for yourself. But, I daresay, there’s no chivalry in London. You London men are too modern for all that.”

  Julian was provoked to defend himself.

  “Actually, I’m from Sussex,” he said, tasting his macaroon. “But I believe it was you ladies who put an end to chivalry. You simply don’t want to be rescued nowadays. You seem to prefer the company of rogues and scoundrels, and, as ever, we men must conform to your taste or die of loneliness.”

  “What do you mean?” she protested, laughing. “Rogues and scoundrels have no appeal for me, I assure you.”

  “But you will allow, Miss Andrews, that a Knight of the Round Table would be accounted a pernicious bore in today’s society.”

  “And so very hard on the furniture, too,” Viola solemnly agreed. “But, in all seriousness, Mr Pope, you know perfectly well that it is women who rescue men. Indeed, without the civilizing influence of my sex, you men would be no better than wild beasts. Do you not agree?”

  “I certainly do not,” he protested, laughing in spite of himself at her preposterous assertion. “If men were barbarous by nature, Miss Andrews, you ladies would have a very bad time of it, and never mind your civilizing influence!”