The Heiress In His Bed

by Tamara Lejeune

  Julian chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said merrily.

  “Of course I’m right.”

  “I’ll just go and put your theory to the test, shall I? Ruin a few people, and see if they like it better today than they did yesterday?”

  Viola smiled. “Will you be home for luncheon?”

  “I’ll bring sandwiches,” he promised, kissing her good-bye.

  Viola spent the rest of her morning at Gambol House making her wedding plans. Lover, who simply assumed that the groom would be Lord Bamph, was only too happy to assist.

  Returning to Lombard Street at noon, Viola was just in time to intercept the postman.

  The London postal service was one of the marvels of the modern world. Mail was delivered six times a day with remarkable efficiency and economy. The letter Viola had sent out from Gambol House but two hours before had already made its way to Lombard Street.

  “I’ll take Mr Devize’s mail,” she said quickly, taking the letters from the postman.

  As Hudson let her in, Julian appeared at the top of the stairs. “Mary! I told you to take your maid with you if you go out,” he said angrily.

  “It’s broad daylight, Dev,” she protested, taking off her gloves. “I only went out to post some letters. Didn’t Hudson tell you?”

  “You were gone quite some time,” Julian complained.

  “I couldn’t resist looking in the shop windows,” Viola said, walking up the stairs. “Is anything the matter?”

  “Yes,” he said. “My study. It’s pink!”

  “It’s not pink,” she said. “It’s cerise.”

  “Cerise!” he said, dragging her to his study. “Madam, it is pink!” he snarled, his voice breaking from strong emotion.

  The walls were undisputably, violently pink. “It will darken with age,” she assured him. “Now, this is pink,” she went on, holding up one of his letters. “The postman just delivered it.”

  Julian sat down at the table and began unwrapping the sandwiches he had bought. “Two letters,” he remarked. “My cup runneth over.”

  “And one of them so positively pink!” Viola said coolly.

  Julian chuckled. “Jealous?” He picked up his pink letter and studied it with great interest.

  “Not at all,” Viola replied. “I stopped using pink paper when I was ten.”

  Julian chuckled. “It’s from my sister. I know her handwriting.”

  “You have a sister, do you?” she sniffed. “I don’t recall reading anything about a sister.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Reading?”

  Viola frowned slightly. She had been referring to Mr Harman’s file on the young man, but, of course, it would never do for Julian to learn about that. “Hearing, I meant to say,” she said quickly. “You never mentioned her. Only your brother, whose name I don’t even know.”

  “My brother is Alexander. At one point, he tried to persuade us to call him Zander—didn’t take, of course.”

  “I should think not,” said Viola, joining him at the makeshift table.

  “We call him Alex. As for my sister, her Christian name is Perdita, but other than that, she’s perfectly charming. Upon her marriage, she became Lady Cheviot, and, if her father-in-law ever dies, she will become Countess of Snowden.”

  “I know Cheviot!” Viola exclaimed.

  “Do you, by God?” he said.

  “A little,” Viola said, becoming more circumspect. “He visited the duke in Yorkshire once or twice. I saw him in church. What does your sister write?”

  “Perdita writes to tell me that my father is alive and well in Sussex. She has gone home to her husband, with my brother. She warns me, however, that my mother has returned to London.”

  “Was it necessary to write all this on pink paper?” Viola asked.

  Julian laughed. “If you do not believe this is a letter from my sister, you may read it.”

  Viola sniffed. “Naturally, I take your word for it. And the other letter?”

  Julian took up the heavy, cream-colored envelope. “I don’t know the handwriting,” he said curiously, breaking the seal. “Indeed, I can scarcely read the handwriting. I stand in awe of the postman who deciphered my direction.”

  “It is a very elegant, ladylike hand!” Viola objected.

  “Indeed,” he responded. “If by elegant you mean illegible. It appears to be from Lady Viola Gambol, but what her ladyship wishes to communicate to me remains shrouded in mystery.”

  “Give me that,” Viola snapped, snatching it from him.

  “Don’t tell me you can read that chicken scratch.”

  Viola glared at him. “Dear Mr Devize,” she said, reading her own words quite easily, “this is to advise you that I have decided not to marry Lord Bamph after all. It has come to my attention, through an unimpeachable source, that the man is an ass. Therefore, there will be no further need for your services in regard to my marriage settlement. However, I am most appreciative of your efforts and have enclosed a cheque for one hundred pounds to compensate you for your time. And, if you have an ounce of decency, you will take your betrothed to Gunter’s for a well-deserved treat.”

  “She does not say that,” Julian said, snatching it from her.

  “No,” Viola admitted. “But she should have.”

  “I see no banknote,” Julian pointed out. “But I daresay her ladyship forgot to put it in. You’d be amazed at how often these aristocrats forget such details.”

  Viola frowned. “Lady Viola forgets nothing. Look in the envelope.”

  Julian drew out the banknote and gave a low whistle. “You did not see many of these in your father’s almsbox, I’ll warrant.”

  Viola duly admired the banknote. “Not one!” she said, smiling. “Well, Dev? Does this mean we can be married sooner?”

  Julian chuckled. “Yes, Mary.”

  “Dear Lady Viola!” Viola purred. “Is she not the soul of generosity and kindness?”

  Julian snorted. “When it suits her, perhaps. The very rich are not like us, Mary,” he added, touching her on the tip of her nose. “They feel no real connection to ordinary people. They have no responsibilities. They are like butterflies, flitting from one pleasure to the next.”

  “Lady Viola has been very kind to me over the years.”

  “By that you mean she has given her old clothes for many years,” Julian scoffed. “She’s made a charity case and a pet of you. Where was Lady Viola when you were in the clutches of Aunt Dean? At the very least, she ought to have made sure your guardian was a respectable woman. A simple inquiry would have revealed your aunt’s character, which, I’m sorry to say, is well-known in London. Indeed, if her ladyship knew you had ever set foot in Mrs Dean’s establishment, you would be dead to her.”

  “She’s not like that,” Viola insisted. “I know her. You don’t.”

  “I know her kind, Mary,” he replied. “These Society she-wolves are all alike.”

  Viola smiled faintly. “I should have thought that you were a great favorite of Society she-wolves,” she said playfully. “I’ll bet you got lots of pink letters—and not from your sister.”

  Julian snorted. “I was invited into my share of beds.”

  “And?” she said, scowling.

  “I don’t care to be a rich lady’s toy,” he replied. “I could have had my pick among the widows and the matrons, but, you see, I wasn’t good enough to marry their daughters.”

  “Did you want to marry someone’s daughter?” Viola asked seriously.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I was never allowed to find out. I’m a younger son, Mary. In Society, the younger son is commonly regarded as a highly useless article.”

  “If you take me to Gunter’s this afternoon,” she said seductively, “I shall not regard you as a highly useless article. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  Julian chuckled. “Very well.”

  “Yes?” she said, as though fearing he was only teasing her.

  “Yes,” he said firmly. �
��Go and get your coat and bonnet. I’ll get us a hack.”

  Twenty minutes later, Viola met him in the hall carrying Bijou. “What in God’s name are you wearing?” Julian asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  “My coat and hat,” she said, pleased by his violent reaction. “The hat’s an old one, but I got the coat from Mr Mordecai. It belonged to a Russian prince who committed suicide. Isn’t it absolutely fabulous?” she added, preening in her leopard-skin coat.

  “It’s certainly eye-catching,” he said grimly. “Shall we?”

  The morning was sunny, but the wind was shockingly cold, and Viola was glad to have her fur coat as they ventured out. “I wonder what Lady Viola will say to that coat,” he mused.

  “Lady Viola will adore it,” Viola laughed, before the import of his words fully registered with her. “What do you mean? Lady Viola is not likely to see my coat, is she?”

  “Well, it’s on our way,” he replied, looking out of the window.

  “What’s on our way?” she asked sharply.

  “Gambol House,” he answered. “Naturally, I must pay my respects. I doubt her ladyship will condescend to see me, but I must pay my respects all the same. How would it look if I simply drove past her house, knowing she’s in London?”

  “What makes you think she’s in London?” Viola scoffed. “Surely she is in Yorkshire.”

  “Her letter arrived in the twopenny post,” he explained. “Ergo, she must be in London.”

  “How very clever of you,” Viola murmured, a little sourly.

  “You’re not afraid of Lady Viola, are you?” he teased her. “You were so vigorous in your defense of her.”

  “Of course I am not afraid of her,” Viola said, her mind racing. It was the servants’ reactions that she feared. She did not trust the footmen in particular to keep their mouths shut. Any one of them might bawl out her name at her first appearance.

  The doors of Gambol House opened as the hack came to a halt. To her relief, Lover himself walked out. “Don’t mind that fellow,” Julian said, patting her hand. “He looks like a duke, but I assure you he’s only the butler.”

  Julian left the hack first, turning back to offer Viola his assistance.

  “Good morning, Mr Devize,” Lover said pleasantly. “We did not expect to see you this morning. His grace is still out of town.”

  Julian was a little surprised that the duke’s butler remembered him by name. “My fiancée and I have come to pay my respects to Lady Viola,” he said. “I understand she is in London,” he added.

  “Your fiancée?” Lover said politely.

  “No, Lady Viola. This is my betrothed. May I present Miss Andrews?”

  As Viola stepped out of the hackney carriage, she was able to warn the butler with a slight shake of her head. At the sight of Lover, the bichon in her arms began to squirm and wag her tail.

  Lover’s countenance betrayed not the slightest surprise. He favored her with an old-fashioned bow, sticking one leg out before him as he bent low from the waist. “Miss Andrews.”

  “Perhaps her ladyship is indisposed,” Viola suggested.

  “Her ladyship is indeed indisposed,” Lover agreed.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” said Viola. “What a pity. I did so wish to see her ladyship. But if she is indisposed, we’ll have to leave cards.”

  Lover accepted their visiting cards with great solemnity. “I will see that her ladyship gets them,” he promised.

  “Perhaps I’ll call again tomorrow,” said Viola. “You never know.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Olivia, Duchess of Berkshire, was snoozing in her barouche in Berkeley Square when her paid companion, Miss Shrimpton, suddenly exclaimed, “Oh dear! Lord Edgerton just walked into a lamppost!”

  Eager for any relief to boredom, the duchess fumbled for the lorgnette hung about her neck and opened her sharp green eyes. A tall girl in a leopard-skin coat was walking up the street toward Gunter’s. She wore the exotic fur with perfect ease, and her hat was a fearsome affair: black, yet somehow sheer, with a sweeping brim and six peacock sword feathers arranged across the narrow brim like a cat’s whiskers. The duchess knew hats, and this was one that made her tingle.

  The duchess’s eyes narrowed as she studied the newcomer. There was an alluring sway to her walk that was almost predatory. She made an unforgettable impression; it was as if a hungry leopard had suddenly appeared in Berkeley Square.

  At the girl’s side was a young man wearing an excellent beaver hat, a good coat, and trousers. Other than the trousers, there seemed to be nothing extraordinary about this young man. The duchess might not have noticed him at all had it not been for the fact that from time to time the girl tickled the side of his face with the sword feathers on her hat. Apart from the young man, the young woman’s only other accessory was a fluffy little white dog with a diamond collar.

  The duchess was perplexed; she was quite sure she knew everyone worth knowing. The girl in the leopard-skin coat obviously fell into that category, and, yet, the duchess did not know her. And that walk! “I know I’ve seen that walk before,” she muttered angrily.

  “Good heavens!” Miss Shrimpton shrieked. “Now Lord Bromleigh has walked into a lamppost! I’ve always said the lampposts in Berkeley Square are peculiarly placed. Now, perhaps, something will be done about it!”

  The duchess couldn’t be bothered to laugh at Lords Edgerton and Bromleigh. “Who is she?” she muttered in frustration. “Where did she get that ridiculous coat? No one offered it to me,” she pouted. “And who the devil makes her hats? I pay a great deal of money to have the best hats in London, but it appears my money has been wasted! Who can she be? I must know!”

  “Who, Your Grace?” Miss Shrimpton twittered.

  The duchess spared her a withering look. Miss Shrimpton was slow-witted, respectable, and deadly dull. The duchess would have preferred a livelier, saucier companion, but she had never been able to find one; everyone was afraid of her. “Guess,” she drawled.

  Miss Shrimpton stared into every corner of Berkeley Square until she came across something unfamiliar. “The girl in the spotted coat?” she ventured timidly. “She must be foreign. Mercy me! Lord Bromleigh has walked into the lamppost again—the same lamppost!”

  The duchess clucked her tongue unfeelingly. “That’s going to leave a mark. Be a dear, Shrimpy—run and ask Princess Esterhazy who that girl is.”

  The wife of the Hungarian ambassador was parked in her own barouche a little farther down the green. Miss Shrimpton obediently scampered off.

  At about the same time the duchess was noticing her, Viola was noticing another lady.

  “Who,” she said, elbowing her companion in the ribs, “is that horrid old dame in the barouche?”

  Julian snorted. “You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

  Viola laughed. The green in the middle of Berkeley Square did indeed seem to be brimming with matronly grandams in barouches. “The one in the horrid purple bonnet. Everyone else has the good sense to stare at us. She is trying desperately to pretend we don’t exist.”

  “Good Lord! It’s my mother,” said Julian, turning abruptly. “Come, Mary! I’ll take you to Gunter’s another day, I promise.”

  “Nonsense,” said Viola, digging in her heels. “I want to meet my future mother-in-law.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said curtly.

  “Dev!”

  “I don’t wish to overstate the matter,” Julian said, “but my mother is a gorgon.”

  “Julian!”

  “I’m quite serious. My mother will not scruple to treat you with the utmost discourtesy. Let us take the hint, pretend not to see her, and slip quietly away. We’ll do this another time.”

  Viola laughed. “Introduce me to your mother at once, sir, or I shall accidentally drop Bijou’s leash!” she threatened. “You will look awfully silly trying to catch her on the green.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Darling, you know I will,”
she replied. “I’m quite ruthless, you know. Your mother may be as rude as she likes. I shall be delightful. Then we will have our tea at Gunter’s as planned.”

  Julian succumbed to her charm, if not to her threat to loose the dog, and reluctantly brought her over to his mother’s barouche. The baroness turned a gimlet eye upon her son as he drew close to her vehicle. Julian tipped his hat to her and said quietly, “Good afternoon, my lady. May I present Miss Andrews to you? Miss Andrews and I are engaged to be married.”

  Viola sank into a graceful curtsey. The baroness did not look at Viola. Instead, she turned away deliberately and called out a greeting to Lady Arbogast, who was seated in the next vehicle with her charming daughter.

  Julian was furious.

  Viola’s cheeks reddened. “Well!” she gasped.

  “Do you still want to go to Gunter’s?” Julian asked her quietly.

  “Of course, my darling,” she said brightly. “I’m dying to try one of their famous ices. Perhaps we will find your mama on the menu!” she laughed, leading him away.

  Unless accompanied by a gentleman, the fashionable ladies of London preferred to remain in their carriages outside of Gunter’s and have their treats brought out to them by a waiter. Consequently, the confectionary was more crowded outside than within. Viola was easily able to secure the table in the big window. From this vantage, she could see and be seen by the baroness, and the two ladies could ignore one another to their heart’s content.

  Impudent strumpet, thought the baroness.

  Insolent old hag, thought Viola.

  The Duchess of Berkshire, and, indeed, everyone in Berkeley Square, had witnessed the snub. “She must know them,” cried the duchess as Miss Shrimpton returned from Princess Esterhazy. “She would not bother to give them the Cut Direct if she did not know them.”

  Plump Miss Shrimpton was quite out of breath. “But her highness does not know them!” she cried. “However, Lady Arbogast saw her yesterday in the Parade Grounds, and she is most definitely foreign! She was wearing a black silk picture hat with ostrich plumes!”

  “The devil take the Arbogast!” snapped the duchess. “I am talking of the Baroness Devize. Go at once and give her my compliments, Shrimpy, and tell her I would be delighted if she would join me in Gunter’s.”