Julian did not seem overly concerned. “I’m sorry, Tom, but I needed the money. I have a wife now. I daresay you’ve noticed that Mrs Devize is a gentlewoman? I can’t keep a gentlewoman in rooms over a shop in Lombard Street.”
“No, of course not,” Mr Parsley agreed. “But, dash it all, you swore to me it would go up! It’s the only reason I bought in. Australian wool, indeed!”
“It will go up,” Julian assured him. “You’ve just got to hang on. Be patient.”
“That’s it?” Viola said. “You ruin this poor man, condemn his entire family to penury, and all you can say is ‘Hang on’?”
Julian looked at her in surprise. “You seem to have acquired a champion, Tom,” he observed. “What do you propose I do, Mrs Devize?”
“You must think of something,” she replied airily. “There must be some way to undo all the damage you’ve caused.”
“Possibly.”
“There, Mr Parsley,” said Viola. “You see, my husband is not a complete scoundrel, after all. He got you into this trouble, and he will get you out of it.”
Julian’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “My dear wife, if I help Mr Parsley, it will mean that you and I won’t be able to afford the house in Gracechurch Street.”
“I could never be comfortable in Gracechurch Street knowing that you ruined Mr Parsley to get me there,” Viola declared. She looked around the small, dark room thoughtfully. “I could make this place nice for you.”
“I’m sure you could,” Julian agreed. “But we’d have to tighten our belts and pinch our pennies, I’m afraid. Do you think you can manage with a budget of, say, twenty pounds?”
“I don’t see why not,” she answered with a shrug.
Julian crumpled the brown paper in which the sandwiches had been wrapped and tossed it into the fire. “In that case, I’d better get down to ’Change and sort out this mess.”
Viola jumped up. “I’m going with you! What do ladies wear on the Exchange?”
Julian chuckled. “There are no ladies on the Exchange.”
Viola was disappointed. “How long will you be gone?” she demanded.
“I’m afraid I shall be there until the closing bell again,” he said apologetically. “You’ll have to have your tea without me.”
“Nine o’clock!” Viola objected. “So late!”
Sensing a marital dispute, Mr Parsley discreetly withdrew.
“The time goes by quickly enough,” Julian said cheerfully. “I like keeping busy.”
“I was thinking of myself, Mr Devize,” she informed him coldly.
“Of course you were,” said Julian.
Viola bristled. “Meaning that I am selfish, I suppose!”
“I didn’t say that. It’s perfectly natural that you should think of yourself.”
“Nine hours is a very long time. What am I supposed to do for nine hours?”
“Housekeeping,” he suggested. “A little cleaning, a little cooking. You could iron my spare shirts, all two of them.”
“Cleaning! Cooking! Ironing! Who do you think you’re talking to? Your man?”
“You did say you would make the place nice for me,” he reminded her. “And you did make a mess breaking into my desk.” Taking out his purse, he gave her a coin. “Here’s a shilling. I’m not at all particular. I’ll eat anything. A bit of boiled mutton will do me. Take Cork with you when you go to the market,” he advised her. “You’ll be safe enough. Just be home before dark,” he added ominously.
“Mr Parsley seems to be growing impatient, Captain,” said Hudson from the doorway.
“Hang Parsley,” Julian muttered. “Can’t a man kiss his wife good-bye in peace?”
Viola gasped in surprise as he caught her in his arms, lifting her inches off the floor.
“Good-bye, Wife,” he said, kissing her chastely on the mouth. “If you need anything, my love, just ask Hudson. He’ll be more than happy to help you.” Setting Viola down, he moved to the door.
Viola went out to the landing to watch him join Mr Parsley on the street outside. Hudson quietly closed the door. “I’d like to go out, Hudson,” Viola called down to him in her haughtiest voice. “Would you be good enough to summon me a hackney carriage?”
Hudson smiled coldly. “Of course, madam.”
Viola blinked in surprise. “You mean you’ll do it?”
“Nothing,” he said, “dear madam, could please me more.”
Chapter Ten
The first footman at Gambol House had nothing but contempt for hackney carriages and the people who rode in them. “Bloody tourists,” he muttered grumpily as he shoved his stockinged feet into his high-heeled shoes. “Always after a free peek at our treasures.”
Waving his arms to the driver of the hack, he trotted briskly down the steps. “Drive on!” he bellowed. “The family are all away, and the house ain’t open to the public!”
Viola let down the window and called out to him, “Jem! Jem, is that you?”
Jem gawped at her. “My lady!” he cried in astonishment. “Run and tell Mr Lover that her ladyship has come to London,” he growled over his shoulder to the second footman before sprinting down the steps to hold the carriage door and let down the steps.
Viola emerged from the hack carrying a fluffy little white puppy. Jem knew all the ducal dogs, but he didn’t recognize this one. “That’s a new one, ain’t it?” he said brightly.
“This is Bijou,” said Viola, handing the dog to him. “She needs a bath and a trim. And this is my new maid, Cork,” she added as her maid in training alighted from the vehicle.
Cork’s eyes were big and round as she stared up at the facade of Gambol House. The duke’s London residence was bigger than Mansion House, where the Mayor of London lived, and grander than St Paul’s Cathedral. The thought of going inside turned her knees to water.
“Jem is our footman, a lower servant,” Viola explained to Cork. “As my maid, you are an upper servant. You needn’t talk to him at all, if you don’t wish to. He’s a very bad, cheeky fellow, but the men in his family have worked for us for so many generations, I’m afraid we’re stuck with him. Is my brother at home?” she asked Jem as she started up the steps.
Jem trotted after her. “His grace left for Yorkshire last week. I daresay, milord duke is back at Fanshawe by now and wondering where the devil his sister’s got to!” he added, laughing.
Viola came to a stop. “My brother left last week? Jem, are you sure?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Why did you not go to Yorkshire with him?” she asked Jem.
“It was my brother’s turn,” Jem explained. “Whenever the duke comes to London, we trade off. That’s the only fair way to go about it. Besides, I can’t abide them snooty Bamphs.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” said Viola, starting up the stairs again.
“No reason you should, milady,” he replied cheerfully. “We’re twins, and we’re both called Jem. Easier that way.”
The front door opened, claiming Viola’s attention, and a tall, austere man, the picture of dignity, came out. “Welcome to Gambol House, my lady. I am Lover, the butler here.”
Lover tried to hide it, but the unexpected arrival of the duke’s sister had sent him almost into a panic. “Good afternoon, Lover,” said Viola. “I must apologize for not giving you proper notice of my intention to visit London. Indeed, it was very thoughtless of me.”
“My lady, this is your home,” Lover said fervently as he ushered her into the immense entrance hall. “We are all at your ladyship’s disposal. Would you care for some refreshment?”
Viola’s stomach fairly snarled. “Actually, I’m famished,” she confessed. “I’ve had nothing but a bit of sandwich all day. I’d love a proper luncheon, if you can manage it.”
“Of course.” Lover watched her ladyship nervously as her beautiful dark eyes scanned the room. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction, my lady?”
“Oh, yes,” Viola replied, her attentio
n coming to rest on a life-sized portrait of a dark-haired lady wearing a white dress and a black velvet picture hat. Apart from her clothes, which were in the style of perhaps twenty years before, the lady looked quite a bit like Viola herself. “I don’t recall posing for that,” she said, puzzled.
“That is a portrait of the late duchess, my lady,” Lover told her awkwardly. He didn’t want Lady Viola to think he was correcting her.
“Oh! I thought my father had destroyed all pictures of my mother,” Viola said, devouring the portrait with her eyes. “Beastly jealous old fool that he was.”
“I managed to save that one, my lady,” Lover answered, winning a smile from her. “It has graced the entrance hall since your father’s death. I would have known you anywhere.”
Viola frowned suddenly. “I daresay Mr Devize has seen that portrait many times!” she exclaimed, her temper flaring. “He must have recognized me instantly!”
“Mr Devize?” Lover repeated with some puzzlement. “Is your ladyship referring to the young stockjobber employed by his grace? To my certain knowledge, that young man has never set foot inside this house. The duke often invites him, of course, but he always declines. He seems to be a young man who knows his place, unlike so many these days.”
Viola was appeased. “It is very important to know one’s place,” she agreed.
Cork, in the meantime, had drawn Lover’s attention. She was dressed well enough to be an acquaintance of Lady Viola’s, but she was obviously dazzled almost to the point of terror by the opulence of her surroundings. With her head as far back on her neck as it would go, she was revolving in a circle as she gazed up at the painted ceiling of the dome, half-blinded by the glittering crystal drops of the chandelier that hung from the center. Lover was far too polite to inquire as to the young person’s identity, and it was left to Viola to explain.
“This is my maid, Cork. I would like to keep her in an adjoining room, if such an arrangement can be made. A room adjoining mine, I mean.”
“Of course, my lady,” Lover assured her, leading her up the grand staircase. “Your late mother’s room has been kept exactly as she left it. Her grace’s maid always slept in the dressing room, which adjoins her grace’s bedchamber.”
Viola’s eyes sparkled. “My mother’s room? Take me to it!”
The duchess’s apartment consisted of several well-appointed rooms, but the jewel in the crown was certainly the blue and gold bedchamber. The walls were paneled in pale gold brocade, and the bed was hung with curtains of pale blue velvet. A vast Aubusson carpet of cream, gold, and blue covered most of the floor. The furnishings were in the rococco style, which would have been old-fashioned even in Viola’s mother’s day, but were quite in keeping with the style of the house. The wainscoting was painted cream. A delicate bowfront desk had been placed before a wall of French windows overlooking the Thames. In another part of the room, on a round work table, were leather-bound copies of La Belle Assemblee and Le Journal des Dames. Going over to her mother’s desk, Viola discovered fresh ink in the standish.
Cork stood just within the door, not daring to touch anything, hardly daring to look around, terrified that her feet would leave a mark on the beautiful rug. Rather unwisely, Viola flung open the French doors to the terrace. Immediately, she recoiled. “What is that smell?” she asked, tears pricking her eyes.
Lover rushed forth to make sure the doors were securely closed. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I should have warned your ladyship. It’s the river, I’m afraid. The Thames is having a particularly trying week. It seems to be getting worse every year.”
Viola pressed her scented handkerchief to her nose. “Can’t you clean it?” she pleaded.
“I’m afraid not, my lady.” After closing the window, Lover burnt a pastille. Soon the agreeable scent of roses filled the air.
“Thank you, Lover,” said Viola as the smell of the river dissipated. “It really is a lovely room, and you’ve kept it beautifully. It really feels like Mama has just stepped out for a moment.” She sat down at her mother’s desk and began to write, talking at the same time. “I need to see the Governor of the Bank of England as soon as possible. I want you to send Jem for him with the carriage. I am writing a note for Mr Harman just now,” she added, scratching away on the page. “I hope it won’t take Jem away from his other duties?”
In the duke’s absence, Jem’s duties consisted mainly of lounging on the front steps when he wasn’t eating his head off in the kitchen. “No, indeed, my lady,” Lover assured her. “We are all at your ladyship’s disposal.”
Viola finished her note and gave it to him. “That will be all for now, Lover.”
“Very good, my lady.” Withdrawing, he closed the double doors firmly.
Viola turned to Cork. “Don’t look so frightened, my dear,” she said. “I won’t eat you.”
Cork giggled nervously. “No, madam.”
“Let us see what Mama has in her closet,” Viola suggested, jumping up from the desk.
The duchess’s dressing room featured a huge garden tub of rose-colored marble and two enormous closets stuffed with clothes. Viola could not resist indulging in a hot, scented bath. While she bathed, Cork brought out a number of dresses for her mistress to look at. The fashions of a quarter of a century ago were new and interesting to Viola. After some consideration, she chose a tailored gown of Nile green silk. The gown fitted her beautifully, the waist being cut just above the natural waist, rather than under the breasts, as current fashions dictated. The bodice was lightly boned, leaving nothing to chance. Viola recognized at once that the nipped-in waist suited her full figure better than the flowing gowns that left her curves unsupported. She vowed never to wear a short-waisted gown again.
After dressing, there was just enough time to show Cork how to do a creditable chignon, and then it was time for luncheon. An elegant meal, quite without sandwiches, was served to Lady Viola in a charming Oriental-style parlor guarded by four enormous Foo dogs of celadon green porcelain. The walls of the chamber were paneled in turquoise silk embroidered with scarlet orchids, and the doorways were trimmed in lacquered bamboo. The octagonal table was of black lacquer painted with gold chrysanthemums. For Gambol House, it was a small room. Bijou, fluffed and perfumed, joined her mistress at the table. Lover waited on Viola personally, and seemed gratified by her ladyship’s appetite.
After lunching, Viola passed the time writing letters at the big mahogany desk in the duke’s study. She wrote first to her brother to explain her sudden decision to go to London, and to consign Miss Andrews to his care forever, if need be. Under no circumstances was that young lady ever to be sent to her aunt, Mrs Dean. Viola could not underscore that point enough, and, in fact, tore the page as she repeatedly drew thick black lines under the words. On the subject of the Bamphs, she conveyed nothing. In her view, there was nothing to convey. She advised her brother that she meant to stay in London for quite some time and included a separate page of detailed instructions for her maid Dobbins.
Having sent this letter off to Yorkshire by special messenger, she then began penning the usual long letters of encouragement and instruction to her Parliamentarians. This task kept her peacefully occupied until Lover came in to announce that Mr Harman, the Governor of the Bank of England, had arrived.
Mr Harman was a stout man with a sensitive face and unappealing side whiskers. Like all City men, he was pale as library paste. He wore the Cit’s uniform of black coat, white stock, and black trousers. Viola received him impassively in her brother’s study. At her request, Lover remained in the room. “You seem nervous, Mr Harman,” she observed, setting down her pen.
In fact, Mr Harman was trembling. There were two perfectly comfortable oxblood leather chairs opposite the desk, but, as the lady had not asked him to be seated, he was obliged to remain standing. His discomfiture became more and more apparent as Viola waited expectantly.
“My lady,” he finally burst out. “I can explain everything!”
Viola lean
ed back comfortably in her chair. “What an extraordinary claim,” she said dryly. “I’m not sure I believe you can explain everything, Mr Harman, but I’m happy to see you try. Go on, then. Explain away.”
“He made me do it!” Mr Harman exclaimed, clutching his hat to his breast.
“Who made you do it?” she asked pleasantly.
“That scoundrel Devize! I was most unwilling, my lady, but he made me issue a blank cheque on your brother’s account. It’s completely against policy, of course, to issue a blank cheque, but, I swear to you, my lady, the blackguard gave me no choice.”
“Has the cheque been cashed?” Viola inquired.
Mr Harman looked gray. “Yes, my lady. The…er…party…was in the bank first thing this morning. I cashed it myself, though my heart was very troubled. Very troubled, indeed!”
“Surely there was enough in the account to cover the cheque,” said Viola.
“Yes, my lady,” he assured her. “But it was a very large payout.”
“Of course it was. You say Mr Devize forced you to issue the blank cheque? How?”
“With threats, my lady. With threats and intimidations! I was terrified.”
Viola was astonished. “He threatened you? With violence?”
“Oh, no, my lady. He’s too clever and insidious for that! He threatened to close all the duke’s accounts. If he were to do so, the Bank of England would be besieged by masses of people all wanting to close their accounts at once. Panic would set in. We should be obliged to close our doors to the public. It would take years, decades, to restore the public confidence.”
“Do sit down, Mr Harman,” she said impatiently. “You’re giving me a pain in the neck. Could he break the Bank of England as he did Child’s Bank? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Mr Harman sank gratefully into a chair. “I’m afraid he could do it, my lady. What’s more, when I looked into those cold, inhuman blue eyes of his, I knew he would do it. The man is a cold-hearted snake! I’m a patriot, my lady. I couldn’t let him bring the Bank of England to its knees.” He put his valise on his knee and opened it. “I have brought your ladyship his file, so that you can see for yourself what a dangerous man he is.”
The Heiress In His Bed Page 15