Miss Shrimpton blinked rapidly. “Lady Devize? But, Your Grace, you despise the baroness! You said she was worse than cold soup in winter.”
The duchess snapped her fingers for her footman. “Go at once and tell Lady Devize that one desires her to join one in Gunter’s,” she commanded.
The footman could not quite believe his ears. In all his years of service, the duchess had never left her carriage to enter Gunter’s establishment. “Inside Gunter’s, Your Grace?”
“Quicker!” said the duchess impatiently, flinging open the door of her barouche with her own hands. Kicking down the steps before her footman knew what was happening, she jumped lightly to the ground. “Wait in the barouche,” she instructed the bewildered Shrimpton.
As though afraid her quarry might escape, the duchess took up a position outside the window while she waited for the baroness. To the duchess’s surprise and irritation, the young woman’s face did not suffer from a closer inspection. She was a true beauty, not one of those everyday pretty girls that England produces every year like a crop of identical roses. Her face had character: flashing dark eyes, an arrogant little nose, and plump red lips. There was something familiar about that striking face, but the duchess still could not place her.
Viola glanced up from her menu and discovered a tiny, middle-aged woman with hawklike features, hungry green eyes, and iron gray hair staring back at her. The stranger’s bonnet was lined in the same pale green satin of her afternoon dress and decorated with a stunning arrangement of feathers. Her gown was directly from the pages of La Belle Assemblee, Viola noted with amusement. “Do you know that woman?” she asked Julian.
Julian glanced at the Duchess of Berkshire. She looked like a scrap of a female in a weird hat to him. Immediately, he covered Viola’s hand protectively with his own. “Inbred lunatic,” he pronounced. “Sadly, the West End is full of them. Shall we change our table?”
“Oh, no,” said Viola, giving the lunatic a polite nod. “That’s the best hat I’ve seen in London, apart from my own. I would prefer it, however,” she went on thoughtfully, “if the lining did not match her gown quite so perfectly.”
“That troubles me as well,” he said gravely, but she knew he was really laughing.
“Oh, you,” she said fondly.
“No, you,” he replied in kind.
They had both removed their gloves, and the simple act of holding hands thrilled them both, while shocking the other patrons. Alarmed by such risqué behavior, the waiter hurried over. “I’m afraid we’re going to need a little more time,” Julian told him apologetically.
“Would you mind awfully taking my bichon for a tiny, little walk?” Viola asked the waiter sweetly. Judging that her smile might not be enough to convince the young man, she slipped him a guinea along with the leash. That, certainly, did the trick.
Outside, the duchess barked at the baroness. “Hurry up, woman! I haven’t got all day.”
“You wished to see me, Your Grace?” Baroness Devize gasped in her eagerness. As always, she was astonished by the other woman’s diminutive stature. The Duchess of Berkshire seemed so much bigger in one’s thoughts, somehow.
The tiny duchess tapped on the window with her walking stick. “Well? Who are they?” she demanded in her deep, gravelly voice. “The girl in the spotted coat, and that rather good-looking young man? I want names, and I want them now.”
“I have no idea, Your Grace,” the baroness protested.
“Nonsense!” rasped the duchess. “You would not have given the Cut Direct to strangers. So who are they? Out with it, woman. I shall find out anyway, you know.”
The baroness sighed. “That young man, I’m ashamed to say, is my younger son, the wretch who broke Lady Jersey’s bank. His father and I have disowned him, of course,” she added quickly. “I cannot think what possessed him to try to scrape an acquaintance with me.”
The duchess snorted. She had a low opinion of people who disowned their children, especially for such a ridiculous reason. “Who is the girl?” she demanded.
“He had the temerity to introduce her to me,” the baroness complained. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying close attention. I could tell at once she was a grasping hussy.”
“Good! You can present her to me!” barked the duchess, barreling into Gunter’s with one startled baroness in tow.
“Don’t look now,” said Viola. “But here comes your mama. And the well-hatted lunatic is with her,” she added with a chuckle.
“Bloody hell,” Julian muttered. “What do they want?”
“Be nice,” Viola advised him, studying her menu. “What looks good to you, darling?” she asked as the two grandams drew up to their table, clearing their throats for immediate attention.
“Pineapple, I think,” Julian replied, drawing Viola’s free hand to his lips and nibbling at her fingertips. “What looks good to you, my sweet?”
“It all looks good to me. Now, where has that waiter got to?” Viola wondered, looking around the duchess and baroness without seeing either of them. “I do hope our little mop hasn’t gotten away from him.”
“Julian!” Baroness Devize shrilled, taking the young couple completely by surprise.
Julian leaped to his feet. “Mama!” he warmly exclaimed, giving his mother a smacking kiss. “What a pleasant surprise! What brings you to Gunter’s?”
“The duchess and I have been standing here this age, Julian,” the baroness admonished him. “Where are your manners?”
“I’m afraid I mistook you for someone else,” Julian apologized. “Someone to whom I have never been introduced. Madam, you remember Miss Andrews, of course. Won’t you join us? We were just about to have ice.”
“More ice, you should say,” Viola drawled. “We had some lovely ice standing alongside your barouche, Baroness. I shall never forget its unique flavor.”
Julian’s mother glared at them, helpless with rage. “Your Grace!” she said quickly, as the duchess cleared her throat. “Pray, allow me to present my younger son, Julian.”
Julian obligingly bowed over the duchess’s scrawny hand. “I confess I thought you were a lunatic, ma’am, but my beloved assures me that your hat is the best she’s seen in London.”
The baroness’s face turned pink with indignation, but the duchess took it all in stride. She liked impudent young men, provided they were good-looking, as this one certainly was. “Yes, your beloved, Mr Devize,” she said eagerly, her eyes darting all over Viola as if looking for a way into an impregnable fortress. “I know you, don’t I?” she asked, addressing Viola directly. “You seem familiar to me, child.”
“Not overly familiar, I trust,” Viola replied coolly, proving that she was at least as impudent as Julian. “One hates to be overly familiar, particularly before one has been introduced.”
The duchess bristled at the implied criticsim of her own behavior. However, the girl’s coat and hat were far too important to let anything divert her from her purpose. “Be good enough to introduce your fiancée to me,” she commanded Julian.
“With pleasure,” said Julian. “This angelic creature is Miss Andrews. Mary, you have just been accosted by the Duchess of Berkshire.”
“My attackers are not usually so charmingly attired,” Viola remarked, eyeing the duchess’s pale green ensemble with an experienced eye. “Plate Number thirty-six of the January edition of La Belle Assemblee, if I am not mistaken?”
Scowling, the duchess plunked her skinny bottom into the chair recently vacated by Julian. “I changed the fabric and tucked a lace,” she said testily.
“I am glad to hear it,” Viola said warmly. “It’s so important to dress appropriately for one’s time of life, don’t you think, Duchess?”
The duchess’s face was rigid. “What time of life are you dressing for, my dear?”
“Three o’clock,” Viola replied, smiling. “It’s the most difficult time of life, is it not? Too late for luncheon, yet too early for tea. My mother always said if one can dress for three
o’clock, one can dress for anything, and I have found it to be perfectly true.”
“Hmmph!” said the duchess. Angrily, she drew off her gloves and picked up her menu.
Julian, meanwhile, had brought two more chairs. His mother sat down next to the duchess, and he sat down next to Viola.
“You speak English rather well, Miss Andrews,” she said, smiling nastily at Viola.
“I owe it all to my governess,” Viola explained. “It took her nearly two years to teach me the language, but, then, mine was a difficult birth. I didn’t walk for almost a year.”
The duchess scowled at her menu as Julian tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile.
“But I understand you are foreign, Miss Andrews,” the baroness accused. “Lady Arbogast was certain you are foreign, and your attire would seem to confirm it.”
“Not at all, I assure you, Baroness.”
The baroness’s lip curled. “I see. It is an affectation, to draw more attention to yourself.”
“There is some Italian on my mother’s side,” Viola volunteered. “My great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a musician in the court of Mary, Queen of Scots. He was murdered, of course.”
“Naturally,” said the duchess, glancing up from the menu.
The baroness closed her eyes in mortification. “Italian,” she murmured in a stifled voice. “Musicians. Murder. Julian, are you quite mad?”
Following the Duchess of Berkshire’s lead, others of the fashionable set had elected to descend from their carriages and enter Gunter’s as well. There was a veritable stampede for the best tables. The best tables, of course, were those located within earshot of the duchess’s table. Preeminent amongst the new arrivals was Lady Jersey. “Olivia,” she greeted the duchess coldly. “All alone, I see,” she added in a cutting tone just as Lady Devize opened her mouth to speak.
Julian, who had gotten to his feet at the lady’s approach, now decided not to bother and sat down again. Viola regarded the famous Countess of Jersey with interest.
“Is this the lady whose bank you broke?” she asked Julian.
Even though she could not hear or see Viola, Lady Jersey stiffened. “Would you not care to join my party, Olivia? I do hate to see you sitting at an empty table like this.”
“Go away, Sally,” the duchess said impatiently. “I’m forming a new acquaintance.”
With her head high, Lady Jersey retired to the next table. Dressed in one of the more daring, low-cut, high-waisted gowns of the Season, the countess steadfastly refused to see anything beyond her own little fiefdom, while the more curious members of her entourage stared at the enemy through their quizzing glasses and filed regular reports.
Mindful of her audience, the baroness bared her teeth at Julian.
“You will be glad to know that your father has made a miraculous recovery while you have been romping in London with your…friend.” Her blue eyes touched Viola coldly.
“Recovery from what?” Julian replied, placing a protective hand on Viola’s shoulder. The velvety fur of her coat seemed to caress him back. “According to Perdita, he was never sick. It was just some ridiculous test.”
“When did you see your sister?” demanded the baroness. “I might have known you’d follow us to Sussex! You have no regard for your father or me or anyone else.”
“I didn’t see my sister. She wrote to me. Perhaps she did not realize you meant to tell me the good news yourself when you returned to London,” he added sarcastically.
The baroness sniffed. “Don’t worry, Julian. I explained to your father that you were too busy at present to answer a deathbed summons. Indeed, I had no idea how busy you were,” she added with another scathing glance at Viola.
“Julian works too hard,” said Viola. “If he didn’t have to eat, I’d never see him.”
Julian kissed her hand. “That is not true, Mary. If I did not have to work, I would spend every waking moment with you. And, when we are married…” He leaned and murmured something in her ear, causing his mother to clear her throat frantically. Viola giggled.
“Julian has never mentioned you before, Miss Anderson,” she said piercingly. “How long have you been engaged to my son?”
“Oh, I don’t believe in long engagements,” Viola replied.
“Why not?” the baroness demanded. “Do you feel some special need for haste, Miss Anderson? And your parents approve, do they? Most curious.”
Viola eyed her frostily.
“Miss Andrews,” Julian corrected his mother sternly. “Her name is Andrews, not Anderson, Mother. But, then, you know that already, don’t you? Mary’s parents are both dead,” he went on quietly. “Naturally, I wish to provide her with a home as soon as possible. Is that not an excuse for haste?”
“You must have a guardian, Miss Andrews,” the duchess remarked shrewdly.
“Not at all, Duchess,” Viola replied. “I am twenty-one.”
The duchess’s eyes narrowed. “But you cannot live alone, girl,” she snapped. “Especially not in London. Where are you in London? Who is your chaperone? What is your direction?”
“Let me think,” said Viola.
“Yes, let me think, too,” Julian muttered.
“You don’t know your direction?” cried the baroness.
“I’m afraid London is a bit of a mare’s nest to me,” Viola apologized. “It’s my first time here, you see. When I first saw—what was it—Fleet Street, I think, I thought the people were rioting! I quite expected the soldiers to come out to suppress them.”
“You must know where you live, gel,” the baroness insisted.
“Let me help you,” the duchess offered. “Now, which is your park, Miss Andrews? Hyde Park? Green Park? St James’s Park? Regent’s Park?”
“I don’t think there is a park,” said Viola. “Is there, Dev?”
“No park!” the two older ladies squawked in unison.
“That cannot be,” said the baroness. “Not unless you are in the City, or Cheapside, or…or I know not what!”
“I wish I knew London better,” said Viola with a pretty little shrug.
“If you cannot remember where, then you must recall with whom,” said the duchess. “Come now, Miss Andrews. You must live with someone. Who is it?”
“Well recently I have been visiting Lady Viola Gambol,” said Viola, seeking refuge in some version of the truth. “Her brother, the Duke of Fanshawe, has a small house here in London. It’s nothing to Fanshawe, of course.”
“Lady Viola is in London, is she?” the duchess said thoughtfully. “There was not a drop about it in the newspapers. Has she been presented at Court? No, of course she hasn’t—I would have heard,” she muttered irritably. “And what is your connection to the Gambol family, Miss Andrews?”
“My connection?” Viola echoed blankly. “Well…I’m from Yorkshire. So are they.”
“Yes. And?” said the duchess.
“Mary’s father was the Vicar of Gambolthwaite,” Julian intervened. “The Duke of Fanshawe gave him the living. Lady Viola has always been very kind to Mary.”
“We were inseparable as children, and we are still very good friends,” said Viola.
“I see,” said the baroness. “And did Lady Viola give you that coat? I must say, I’m surprised. Personally, I hate to see persons of low rank giving themselves an air of fashion.”
“Well, she didn’t get it in London,” the duchess grumbled. “It would have been offered to me first. I never saw it in any of the shops.”
“But I did get it in London,” said Viola, her eyes twinkling. “I found it in a pawnshop.”
The baroness looked nauseous. “A what?”
“Pawnshop. It once belonged to a Russian prince who committed suicide. The coat, not the shop, of course,” she added.
If the duchess was repulsed, she made no sign of it. “And the hat?”
“From Lady Viola. I believe it was her mother’s.”
“The duchess died ten years ago,” the baroness
protested. “Really, Miss Andrews, a ten-year-old hat?” She tittered derisively. “No one wears a hat like that any more.”
“A good hat never goes out of fashion,” Viola said firmly. “Did you know the late Duchess of Fanshawe?” she asked curiously.
The baroness snorted. “Fortunately, no. I was attending the Queen at Frogmore during Miss Lyon’s season. Miss Lyon was never invited to Frogmore.”
“I was at the wedding,” said the duchess, looking at Viola with hooded eyes. “Fanshawe and Berkshire were old friends. She was a vision in white satin and French lace. She had the most alluring walk, I remember. Everyone was in love with her, including your George, Baroness,” she added dryly.
“Really?” Viola said faintly.
“May I see your ring?” the duchess asked her.
“My ring?” Viola repeated blankly.
“Your engagement ring, Miss Andrews. May I see it?”
“I’ve not yet bought it, Duchess,” Julian said defensively. “I’ve been busy.”
“You’re not busy now,” the duchess told him. “Why don’t you run along and buy it for the girl now? She seems to be worthy of such a token.”
“Yes, why not, Dev?” said Viola. “You’re so decisive, I know you won’t take long, and I shall be quite safe here with these two dear ladies.”
“I cannot leave you,” Julian objected, astonished that such a thing had even been suggested. “They may look harmless, but, believe me, they will rip you to shreds the moment I’m gone,” he murmured in her ear.
“Of course you can leave her,” said the duchess. “Your mother and I will look after Miss Andrews very well, young man. It’s only three o’clock. You’ve plenty of time to buy a ring. We will wait for you.”
“That’s very kind of you, Your Grace,” said Julian. “But Mary and I can choose her ring after we have enjoyed our ices. We’ll go together. And here is the waiter,” he added enthusiastically as the young man returned with Viola’s bichon.
“Look how tired she is!” Viola exclaimed in dismay, cuddling the contented puppy. “Oh, Dev! We couldn’t ask her to walk another step. Indeed, to confess the truth, I’m rather tired myself. Couldn’t I sit here and rest while you get my ring?”
The Heiress In His Bed Page 21