The Heiress In His Bed

by Tamara Lejeune

  “Damn,” Julian said savagely. “I need to discuss an urgent matter with the duke. When do you expect him back?”

  “Monday, perhaps.”

  “Monday!”

  “Or Tuesday,” Lover said serenely. “It is possible that his grace may not come back at all this Season. Would you care to leave your card?”

  “Of all the damned, bloody, inconvenient…!” Julian bit his lip in frustration. “No card. Just tell the duke I need to see him the moment he gets back.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Lord Cheviot received quite a different reception when he called less than an hour later.

  Lover was all smiles. “Welcome to Gambol House, my lord. His grace is away from home at the moment, but we do expect him to return within the hour, if your lordship would care to wait.”

  The duke did indeed return within the hour. With him was a tiny duchess not his own, a tall, broad-shouldered Horse Guard, and a demure young lady with big, brown eyes. As always, the duke was glad to see Lord Cheviot. “Tony and I were at school together,” he explained, introducing the viscount to his companions. “I’ve known him a hundred years, and not once has he touched me for money. Now that is what I call a true friend.”

  The Duchess of Berkshire looked at Tony through her eyeglass. “Lord Snowden’s son, of course,” she said in her deep, gravelly voice. “I know your father. This is my son, Simon.”

  “Simon is engaged to Viola,” Dickon said enthusiastically as Simon and Tony exchanged their formal bows. “Is he not a handsome fellow? Do you think Viola will be pleased with him? She is in the country visiting a sick friend, or else she would be here.”

  “I had the pleasure of seeing her ladyship in Hampshire,” said Tony.

  The duchess smiled. “Then we may expect her back very soon. No one would willingly stay in Hampshire for more than a week, I am sure.”

  “I believe, ma’am,” Tony replied, “it is a great deal like Berkshire.”

  “And this young lady,” said Dickon, his homely face wreathed in smiles as he brought the brown-eyed girl forward, “is Miss Mary Andrews.”

  “How do you do, Miss Andrews?” Tony said without batting an eye. “Dickon, may I speak to you?”

  “Of course,” said the duke, settling down on the sofa with Mary beside him. “You can tell me anything.”

  “In private, I mean. I beg your pardon, ma’am. Miss Andrews. My lord.”

  The duke followed him out, dragging his feet. “What’s the matter, Tony?” he anxiously inquired. “Have I been naughty? Are you angry with me?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Tony assured him. “Let’s go out to the garden. I don’t even want the servants to overhear what I must tell you.”

  Thanks to the Thames, the garden smelled strongly of onions, but Tony scarcely seemed to notice as he sat down on a stone bench. “The thing is, Dickon, I’m having a spot of bother with my governess.”

  Dickon joined him on the bench. “Aren’t you a little old for a governess?”

  “My children’s governess,” Tony clarified. “She’s having a baby.”

  “Don’t you like babies?”

  “She says it’s mine,” Tony explained.

  The duke’s eyes widened. “Don’t you like your own babies?”

  “It’s not mine!” cried Tony, punching in the crown of his hat. “I never touched the bloody cow!”

  “What cow?” Dickon asked, a little startled.

  “Miss Shipley!”

  “Funny name for a cow,” said Dickon.

  “Miss Shipley is the governess,” Tony said patiently. “She’s having a baby. She says it’s mine, but it isn’t. It can’t be. I never touched her.”

  “It could have been immaculate conception,” Dickon said helpfully.

  “Immaculate conception? No. The thing is, she’s convinced my wife that her beastly baby is mine. Perdita is threatening to divorce me.”

  “You’re going too fast,” Dickon complained. “Who is Perdita?”

  “Perdita is my wife, of course!”

  Dickon was now quite puzzled. “As such, wouldn’t she be the mother of your children?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Well, there you are, then,” Dickon said happily. “Glad I could help.”

  “But you haven’t helped,” Tony pointed out. “Perdita is beside herself. The ungodly woman is taking a house in London, if you please!”

  “So your wife is taking a house in London. What’s wrong with that? Lots of people take houses in London,” the duke pointed out.

  “No, Shipley is taking a house in London!” Tony said impatiently. “I gave her too much money, you see.”

  “They say that money is the root of all evil.”

  “When it all happened, Perdita dismissed Shipley, and I…Well, I felt sorry for the old girl. She’s so deucedly unattractive, you see. I’m afraid I gave her fifty pounds. Now, of course, she wants more, and she has my letter,” he added in a frantic whisper.

  “You said you gave her too much money. You could ask for some back.”

  “Did you hear what I said? She has my letter! If I don’t find a way to provide Miss Shipley with fifty pounds per annum, she will show it to Perdita. If Perdita sees that letter, I’m finished. Can you help me, Dickon? Could you lend me, say, a thousand pounds?”

  Dickon was taken aback. “Sorry, old man. Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Dev is very firm with me on that, and I don’t like to cross him.”

  “Dev?”

  “Devize, you know. My stockjobber. You must talk to him about it, I’m afraid.”

  “I can’t talk to him!” Tony said savagely. “He’s my brother-in-law. He’d tell his sister.”

  Dickon sighed. “Well, I’m sorry, Tony. I’d like to help, but it simply can’t be done. Dev would have my guts for garters.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” said Tony.

  Dickon started in surprise as his friend turned on his heel. “You’re not leaving?”

  “Yes, I must. It’s getting late, and I must find a room for the night.”

  “I’ve got plenty of rooms,” Dickon said quickly. “Just pick one. I can’t lend you any money, old man, but I can offer you a bed for the night. It’s the least I can do for an old friend.”

  “Well, that’s very civil of you, Dickon. I’m sorry I asked you for money,” Tony said, hanging his head in shame. “It won’t happen again. You dropped this, I think,” he added, picking up something from the ground.

  Dickon looked at the emerald ring curiously. “I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

  “It looks like a lady’s ring,” Tony observed. “It probably belongs to your sister.”

  “No, indeed,” said Dickon. “Viola hates emeralds, always has. Even as a baby she shied away from them. You’d better keep it.”

  “I couldn’t,” Tony protested. “It looks expensive. It must belong to someone.”

  “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” said Dickon. “Take it,” he urged his friend. “Give it to your wife.”

  “Yes, that might work,” Tony murmured bleakly, slipping the ring in his pocket.

  Gambol House was boiling over with activity when the duke went down for his breakfast the following morning. The carpets were being dragged out to be beaten in the plaza. The chandeliers had all been lowered and were being vigorously polished. Flowers were pouring into the great reception rooms. Huge arrangements of fruit were being carried through the halls. Musicians were tuning up in the gallery. The dogs were nowhere in evidence.

  More hungry than curious, Dickon proceeded to the breakfast room.

  Viola was at the sideboard helping herself to eggs and bacon. “Close the door!” she shouted. “Don’t let the dogs out.”

  “Viola!” he cried as the dogs overwhelmed him. “At last! You’re home.”

  “I am home,” Viola agreed warmly, tossing bacon to the clamoring dogs. Seating herself at the table, she drew Bijou onto her lap. “You remember Miss Rampling, of cour
se,” she added, drawing her brother’s attention to a thin little person seated at her elbow. “I stayed with Miss Rampling when I was lately in Hampshire.”

  “How-de-do, Miss Rampling,” Dickon said civilly before returning to his sister. “Is that a bichon?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Her name is Bijou. Would you like to hold her?”

  “Would I?” he said eagerly, snatching the puppy from his sister’s lap. “I haven’t had a bichon in decades! Where did you find her?”

  “Gently!” Viola admonished him.

  With the puppy snugged under one arm, Dickon skipped over to the sideboard. “When did you get back?” he asked his sister. “No one told me.”

  At Viola’s elbow was a silk-covered notebook and a silver pencil. Setting down her fork, she picked up the pencil and wrote something down. “It was very late. You’d already gone to bed,” she explained. “How was your trip to Yorkshire?” she asked, setting down her pencil. “Did you enjoy the Bamphs?”

  Dickon’s face fell. “No, I did not,” he said as he piled steak and kippers onto his plate. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Viola. You can’t marry Lord Bamph, after all.”

  He stole a look at his sister’s face and was relieved to see her quite unexcited.

  “What is the bad news?” she asked calmly.

  “You don’t mind about Bamph, then?”

  “Why should I mind? I never wanted to marry him at all.” Picking up her pencil, Viola made another hasty note.

  “In that case, I have even more good news,” Dickon said, joining them at table. “I’ve found the most wonderful young man to take his place!”

  “Yes, I know,” said Viola, laughing. “He told me all about it.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “Yes. He said you’d get the special license for us?”

  “Oh, you’re pleased, then?” Dickon cried, relieved.

  “Ecstatic,” said Viola. “No. No, it wouldn’t be proper to experience ecstasy before marriage, would it, Lucy? At present, I am merely delighted.”

  “Then it’s all settled,” said her brother. “We can leave for York at any time you like.”

  “York! Heavens, no,” said Viola. “York is much too far away. We shall be married here, tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Good heavens! I’ve so much to do!”

  “But you said you wanted to be married at York Minster,” the duke reminded his sister.

  “I did,” Viola conceded. “However, York Minster is not in London, and I am not in York. We shall have to have a special license.”

  “Oh, I see,” Dickon murmured.

  The door opened, and Mary Andrews came into the breakfast parlor.

  “Don’t let the dogs out!” cried Viola, and the footman jumped to close the door.

  “My lady!” Mary cried in astonishment.

  “My dear Miss Andrews,” said Viola, giving the girl her hand. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. This my friend, Miss Rampling.”

  Lucy greeted the young lady cordially.

  “You’re looking very well,” Viola complimented Miss Andrews.

  Miss Andrews was indeed in very good looks. Her hair was simply but elegantly dressed, and her dove gray gown was fashionable while still appropriate for a young lady in half-mourning. “Thank you, my lady,” she breathed. “I believe Miss Dobbins has smartened me up.”

  “Dobbins is with you? Excellent,” said Viola, crossing something off her list. “She’s really the only one who understands my hair. And now, Miss Andrews, we must decide what is to become of you,” she went on presently. “Living with your aunt is completely out of the question, I’m afraid. I have met her, and she will not do, to put it mildly. Have you given the matter any thought?”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Mary, looking hopefully at the duke.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, Viola,” said Dickon. “I’ve decided to adopt Miss Andrews. Only if you approve, of course,” he added quickly.

  Viola considered the matter. “That’s not a bad idea,” she decided. “Once I am married, my duty to my husband will take me away from you a great deal of the time. I would not want you to be lonely.”

  “I would not be lonely if I had a daughter,” said Dickon.

  “No, indeed. I think you should adopt Miss Andrews.”

  Mary burst into tears of relief. Viola was so moved that she embraced Mary. Then she ran down the room to her brother and kissed the top of his bald head. “You’ve managed everything so well, Dickon. I’m quite proud of you. Do you know, I think that some of Dev’s cleverness may have rubbed off on you.”

  Dickon blushed at the compliment.

  Viola picked up her list. “Come, Lucy,” she commanded from the doorway. “You’re getting married tomorrow, and you have nothing to wear!”

  “Is Miss Rampling getting married, too?” cried Dickon.

  “Yes, a double wedding,” Viola called over her shoulder.

  When they had gone, the duke reached for Mary’s hand. “I am glad you are here, my dear,” he said. “I should be very lonely without you. Very lonely indeed.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Mary said, drying her eyes.

  “Please, call me Papa.”

  “Yes, Papa,” said Mary.

  At half past eight, Perdita stepped into the breakfast room, then immediately stepped back out, her heart pounding. “This is ridiculous,” she told herself. “Tony isn’t here. Why would Tony be here? I am imagining things, horrible things.”

  Taking a deep breath, she reentered the room. Contrary to all common sense, she saw her husband again. He was still holding silver tongs and scavenging amongst the chafing dishes.

  “Perdita!” Tony cried, dropping the tongs.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Are you following me?”

  “I was here first,” he pointed out. “You know the duke and I were at school together.”

  Perdita scowled. “You’re not staying here!”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he said belligerently.

  “Because I am staying here—with Lady Viola.”

  “Well, I am staying here—with Dickon.”

  Perdita debated sweeping from the room, but she was too hungry to stand on principles. “Are there any muffins left?” she asked coldly.

  “No.”

  “I suppose you ate them all,” she accused him.

  “No!” he protested. “There’s plenty of toast and marmalade.”

  Somewhat mollified, Perdita sat down and began slathering her toast with butter.

  “Where are the children?” he asked her.

  “George and William are at Eton. Philip and Arthur are at Harrow,” replied his wife. “I’m surprised you’ve forgotten where you send the cheques.”

  “I meant the younger children, of course,” he snapped. “Henry, Elizabeth, and Hannah.”

  “You remember their names! How nice. They’re upstairs in the nursery, quite content.”

  “I suppose,” he said presently, “you have come to London to sue me for divorce?”

  “I have not yet spoken to my father about the matter,” she replied primly. “My brothers are to be married tomorrow. I did not want to spoil their day. But rest assured, Tony Cheviot, I will divorce you.”

  “How?” he said, sticking out his chin. “You can’t prove anything.”

  Perdita laughed at him. “She’s pregnant, you fool!”

  “It’s not mine,” Tony said angrily. “Perdita, I am prepared to admit that you were right about Miss Shipley’s character, but you are not right about mine. I am innocent.”

  “I have a witness!” she said fiercely.

  “You have a witness,” he repeated blankly. “A witness to what? I did not have relations with that woman!”

  “No? Lady Viola saw you with that woman in the wilderness!”

  “Yes. And?”

  “You were engaged in criminal conversation. And you were embracing her!”

  Tony stared at her. His fa
ce slowly turned red. “That’s a damned lie!”

  Flinging down her napkin, she ran from the room before he could see that her eyes were filled with tears.

  Dressed to go out, Viola and Lucy were just coming down the stairs. Viola was drawing on her gloves. “There you are, Perdita. Would you mind going over the music with the maestro? I want everything—” She broke off abruptly as she caught sight of Lady Cheviot’s face. “Why, Perdita!” she cried in concern. “What on earth is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” said Perdita. “Of course I will go over the music with the maestro.”

  “I’d do it myself, but I’ve so much to do before the wedding,” Viola said. “And, of course, I have a tin ear, which don’t help matters.”

  “I’m very happy to do it,” Perdita said. “You girls run along and do your shopping.”

  “What a pity Cheviot isn’t here,” Viola sighed. “He’s very musical, and I trust his taste.”

  “You!” said Tony Cheviot, coming out of the breakfast parlor.

  Perdita turned to stare at him. She had never seen Tony so angry. He was positively livid, almost blue in the face.

  “Ah, Cheviot!” said Viola, her face lighting up. “There you are. You’ll speak to the musicians for me, won’t you?”

  “How dare you show your face here?” he snarled at her.

  Viola looked around in startled confusion. “Who is he talking to?” she wondered. “Cheviot?” she called to him. “To whom are you speaking?”

  “You may well ask,” Tony growled, striding over to her.

  “Me?” cried Viola, truly astonished.

  “You!” he retorted, sticking out his jaw. “What do you mean by telling my wife you saw me in the wilderness with Miss Shipley?”

  Viola looked blank. “I did see you in the wilderness with Miss Shipley,” she pointed out. “You introduced her to me. Was it a secret?”

  “Well, of course you saw me in the wilderness with Miss Shipley,” Tony said angrily. “That’s because I was in the wilderness with Miss Shipley! But I was not embracing her!”

  “I never said you were,” Viola said indignantly.

  Perdita’s eyes widened. “You did!” she cried.

  “I’m sure I didn’t,” said Viola. “Miss Shipley was crying, or pretending to, at any rate. She threw herself at Cheviot and wept all over him. It was repulsive. If I hadn’t come along when I did, there’s no telling how much money he would have given the conniving woman.”