Lord Cheviot found his wife in the banquet hall directing the servants as they decorated the room. Feeling lighthearted and carefree, he came up behind her and covered her eyes with his hands. “Guess who?”
Perdita shrieked. The notebook she was writing in flew up in the air, scattering pages. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded savagely. “It’s bad enough I’m stuck here managing this whole wedding by myself without you sneaking up on me and frightening me to death!”
“I’m sorry,” said Tony, getting on his knees to retrieve her papers.
“I’m demented,” she said irritably, snatching her checklist from him. “And all you can think to do is come up behind people and say guess who!”
“What can I do to help?”
“I don’t know,” she said grumpily. “Papa’s handling all the legal mishmash. Viola’s dressing Lucy—and herself, obviously. The servants are managing the food. The flowers are here, thank God.”
“I thought you were doing it all by yourself,” he teased her.
She glared at him. “Have you selected the music?”
“Piece of cake,” he assured her.
“The cake!” cried Perdita.
“Let the servants manage all that,” he said firmly. “Come and have your tea.”
Perdita was astonished to learn that it was almost five o’clock. “I’d love a cup of tea,” she confessed.
“There you are, Tony!”
The duke’s voice boomed from across the room.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” “I’ve got her!”
“Got who?” Tony asked, not unreasonably.
“You said you were having a spot of bother with the governess,” Dickon reminded him. “I’ve got her. She’s in my study.”
“Miss Shipley!” cried Perdita. “Here?”
The duke glanced at her. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m his wife,” she told him.
“Whose wife?”
“Tony’s wife,” she snapped. “For heaven’s sake, you were at our wedding!”
“You were slimmer then,” he said defensively. “How did you like my wedding present?”
“The elephant? It died, I’m very sorry to say,” she replied stiffly.
Dickon guffawed. “Of course it died! But how did it taste?”
Perdita rounded on her husband furiously. “Tony! What is Miss Shipley doing here?”
“I didn’t invite her,” he protested.
“She has your letter, Tony,” Dickon said helpfully.
Perdita’s eyes were like shards of blue glass. “What letter?” she snarled. “Take me to her,” she demanded.
Miss Shipley was quite surprised to see her former mistress. “My lady!”
“What are you doing there, Shipley?” Perdita demanded.
“I only want justice for my unborn child,” Miss Shipley whined.
“No, I meant what are you doing there, on the duke’s desk?”
Miss Shipley eyed Samson warily. “That dog was growling at me.”
“Good dog,” Perdita observed, patting the Great Dane on the head. “You can come down now, Miss Shipley. All I want is the letter.”
“Lord Cheviot!” she cried, catching sight of her protector. “Call off the dog! Your wife has gone mad!”
Tony sank into a chair, his head in his hands. “Just give her the letter, Miss Shipley,” he said miserably. “The jig is up.”
“Give me the letter,” Perdita said more persuasively, “or I’ll give this dog the command to rip you apart.”
There was no such command, of course, but Miss Shipley did not know that. With trembling hands, she drew his lordship’s letter from her bosom.
Perdita took it and read it. It was not, as she had feared, a love letter. “Well, Tony?” she said coldly. “Would you care to explain this?”
“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “I felt sorry for her, so I wrote her a letter of reference. I thought,” he added darkly, “she might need it to find another job.”
“Ha!” said Miss Shipley. “I’ll never work again! May I remind your lordship whose baby I’m carrying? You had your fun, my lord, and now you must pay!”
“It’s not true, Perdita!” cried Tony. “You must believe me. I wrote that cursed letter—I admit it! But I never had any fun. Never!”
“If it’s not yours, then whose is it?” Perdita demanded.
“Well, don’t look at me,” said the duke, taking control of his dog. “I’ve never really been interested in that sort of thing. You said she was deucedly unattractive, Tony, but you never said she was a man,” he added. “You could have knocked me over with a feather.”
“What are you talking about, Dickon?” Tony groaned in disgust. “She’s not a man. She’s just not very pretty.”
“She is so a man,” Dickon insisted. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. There are some very important anatomical differences between men and women, you know. What’s the one thing a man has that woman don’t? Hmmm? Three guesses.”
Tony’s face was red. “My wife is in the room,” he pointed out indignantly.
“Pshaw! If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. She’s got, what, four sons?”
“Five,” Perdita corrected him. “But what makes you think…? How do you know,” she began more carefully, “that Miss Shipley has that thing that men have and women don’t?”
Dickon goggled in amazement. “Look at her,” he urged. “It’s quite a large one—plain as the nose on her face, in fact.”
“You’ve seen it?” cried Perdita.
“It’s right under her chin,” said Dickon. “Her Adam’s apple! Lord, woman, it’s the size of my fist. Look!”
“So it is,” said Perdita, after a moment.
“Women don’t have Adam’s apples,” Dickon told them loftily. “If they did, it would be called Eve’s apple.”
“Miss Shipley, are you a man?” Perdita demanded.
Miss Shipley glared at them.
“Miss Shipley?” Perdita repeated. “Answer the question—and don’t lie! There are ways,” she added threateningly, “of finding out.”
“All right,” said Miss Shipley, her pointed chin lifted in defiance. “My name isn’t Charlotte. It’s Charles.”
“But you can’t be a man,” said Tony. “You cried! Men don’t cry.”
“Try being a governess,” Miss Shipley snarled. “You’d cry, too. I thought it would be an easy job—after all, women do it. That was before I met your Henry.”
“I told you she was a man,” Dickon said triumphantly. “Now, about the baby…”
Miss Shipley’s lip curled. “What about it?”
“It’s not really Tony’s, is it?” he said. “And don’t lie! There are ways of finding out.”
“It’s a pillow,” said Miss Shipley.
“Now do you believe me?” Tony demanded of his wife.
“Yes,” she answered. “But I’m still quite annoyed with you for writing that letter.”
“Give her the ring,” Dickon suggested.
Perdita was intrigued. “What ring?”
Tony took it out of his pocket and presented it to her. “It’s nothing much,” he mumbled.
“An emerald, Tony?” Perdita said, looking at the ring with scorn. “Green is the color of jealousy. Are you trying to say that I’m jealous?”
Tony was taken aback.
“Because I’m not jealous,” Perdita said, sweeping to the door. “I never have been.”
“There’s no pleasing some people,” Dickon observed sadly. “Come, Samson.”
When the dog had gone, Miss Shipley climbed down from the desk.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Tony demanded.
She sniffed. “Am I under arrest?”
“Well, no,” he admitted.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Certainly not,” said Tony, and Miss Shipley walked out of Gambol House a free man.
Armed with
her invitation to breakfast, the baroness arrived at Gambol House the following morning. She was nearly twenty minutes late, a condition she blamed alternately on the horrendous traffic and the stupidity of her servants.
In spite of her tardiness, Gambol House opened its doors to her readily. The air inside was cool and sweet, quite different from ordinary air. It smelled of some exquisitely subtle mixture of flowers and precious wood. The ceilings were high, the furnishings opulent. Strains of sublime music floated in the air, almost like another layer of fragrance. To the baroness’s finely tuned ear, it sounded quite outrageously expensive.
Her attempts to hurry the footman met with no success, and she had ample time to visit her reflection in each of the beautifully framed mirrors she passed. Her gown was the very latest in color, a manganese blue, worn with a cunningly cut redingote of saffron superfine. Her hat was in the same two colors, double-brimmed and bristling with sprays of tulle. She had been perfectly satisfied of her own magnificence when she had left Portland Place, but, somehow, in the mirrors of Gambol House, she looked a paler, thinner version of herself.
She stopped the footman at the doors and steadied herself with a deep breath.
“I am ready,” she told him presently. “You may announce me.”
It was too late, however, for any such announcement; the ceremony was well underway.
“Ceremony?” she said, startled. “I was invited to breakfast.”
The baroness was obliged to slip into a chair at the very back of the room. The gentleman next to her looked startled, and stood up to bow. He looked familiar to the baroness, but she could not place him. The company, she was pleased to see, was a small and exclusive set. They looked quite delightful from the back. The military gentlemen wore their regimentals with distinction, and the lords wore their sashes and swords ditto. The ladies were universally well-hatted. At the very front of the room was a mitered bishop.
Immediately before the bishop stood two couples. The ladies were similarly dressed in white satin, with lace veils obscuring their hair. The trains of their gowns were heavily embroidered in silver and gold. The gentlemen were more varied. One was simply attired in a pearl gray coat and pantaloons. The other was a military gentleman in a scarlet coat with braid upon the shoulders. The baroness recognized at once, even without attending the bishop’s language, that she was at a wedding.
She glanced at the gentleman on her right. She still did not recognize him, but he seemed so in awe of her that she did not scruple to speak. “A double wedding!” she whispered. “What a clever surprise.”
“It was immensely sudden,” Hudson agreed, rather startled that Lady Devize had deigned to speak to him.
“So good of Lady Viola to invite me,” she murmured. “Who is getting married?”
Hudson flashed her a look of surprise. “Your son, my lady.”
“What?” she snarled, on her feet. “Julian is marrying that hussy? Over my dead body! I object!” she added, in a voice that carried.
The expensive sounds of the string quartet ceased.
The baron turned and scowled at his wife. “Sit down, woman!”
The baroness stared at him. “What are you doing here, George?” she demanded. “You should be at Alexander’s wedding!”
“I am at Alex’s wedding,” the baron said indignantly. “I’m certainly not at Julian’s wedding! I don’t even have a son by that name. I’m certainly not here to wish him well, the disobedient wretch.”
“No one thinks you are, Baron,” Viola assured him.
The bishop held up a hand for silence. “To which union do you object, madam?” he asked the baroness.
The baroness looked at Lucy’s frightened face with scorn. “I object to both,” she replied stoutly. “That woman has no dowry—and that woman has no shame.”
“Sit down at once,” the baron commanded her. “You’re making a damn fool of yourself.”
“You old fool,” she snarled at him. “If you had any sense, you would have put a stop to this yourself!”
“Madam,” the bishop interrupted, “if you know of some impediment—”
“She doesn’t,” said Viola. “Just ignore her.”
“Yes, I do,” said the baroness.
“A lack of dowry is no impediment in the eyes of God,” the bishop said sternly.
“It should be!” she told him angrily.
“As for your complaint against Lady Viola,” the bishop began.
The baroness looked blank. “L-Lady V-Viola?” she stammered. “I have no complaint against Lady Viola!”
Perdita hurried over to her mother. There was a quick exchange of ideas. The baroness’s face turned red. “I withdraw my objection,” she said, hurrying back to her seat.
The Duke of Fanshawe raised his hand tentatively. “This strange female has given me courage,” he said. “I, too, have an objection.”
“No, you don’t,” Viola informed him coldly.
Cowed by her frowning eyes, Dickon slumped in defeat. “I withdraw my objection.”
“In that case,” the bishop said irritably, “those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Upon these magic words, the doors were thrown open, and in the next room, where the wedding breakfast had been laid, the string quartet began to play the quiet, stately chords of Pachelbel’s Canon.
Epilogue
His sister’s marriage was scarcely a day old when the duke began to fear the union might not bear fruit. At breakfast, the bride blushed not at all, and the bichon curled up in her lap seemed to interest her more than the handsome new husband at her elbow. Even more worrying was the behavior of the groom; Julian consumed only the briefest, most perfunctory, unbuttered muffin before pushing back his chair.
“Well, I’m off,” he announced calmly, apparently intending to get away.
“Off you go, then,” said his lady, apparently content to let him escape.
Dickon was not so complacent. If his sister could not be bothered to cling to her husband, he certainly could. “Off?” he repeated, aghast. “Off where?”
Julian barely raised a brow. “To the Exchange, of course,” he answered.
“He missed yesterday because of the wedding,” Viola added, blowing gently on her tea to cool it. “It’s no telling what the rascals got up to. They’re like children.”
Dickon gaped at them in disbelief. In his view, they were the most unnatural newlyweds in the historical record. Where was the passion? The billing and cooing? Indeed, these things were markedly absent. “The Exchange!” he spluttered. “At a time like this?”
“Of course,” Julian said easily, pausing to wind his watch. “I hope you don’t think I’m the sort of man who’d be content to sit in his wife’s lap all day.”
Viola sniffed. “For one thing, Bijou would never permit it.”
“That’s a very undutiful attitude, I must say,” Dickon angrily complained to his brother-in-law. “My sister may accuse you of neglect! I for one would not blame her if she did.”
“He can’t neglect me if I’m not here,” Viola pointed out with decidedly unbridal indifference. “I myself shall be out all day, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Out? Out where?” Dickon demanded.
“I have a hundred things to do,” Viola said vaguely.
“You should be in, young Viola, not out,” he told her sternly. “And he should be on, not off. What’s the matter with you people? This ought to be the happiest day of my life, and you’re spoiling it altogether.”
“If I don’t object to his going out, I don’t see how it matters to you,” Viola returned. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean we have to spend every waking moment together.”
“That’s exactly what it means, young Viola,” Dickon argued. “At least until you give me a nephew, it does. After that, you may do what you like. And you, too, Dev,” he added generously.
Julian put his hands on the back of his chair and leaned toward his wife. “What’s he tal
king about? Why should we give him a nephew?”
Viola came very near to rolling her eyes.
“It’s to do with the succession,” Dickon explained. “Didn’t my sister tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Julian demanded.
Viola frowned at his tone. “You might have noticed already, Mr Devize, that my brother has no children. Obviously, this means that my eldest son will inherit. Ergo, his nephew.”
“Precisely,” said Dickon. “Though I’d rethink the name if I were you. I was thinking Richard, perhaps, after his dear old uncle.”
“I’ve decided to call him Lyon, after my mother,” Viola announced.
“Don’t I have a say?” Julian objected.
“Of course,” said Viola. “I thought you might like to contribute the surname. Lyon Devize. Mr Lyon Devize.”
“How about Richard Lyon Devize?” Dickon suggested.
“It’s a little early to be christening the lad,” Viola said hastily.
“Indeed!” said Dickon, returning to his main theme. “Before he can be christened he’s got to be born. And before he can be born, he’s got to be conceived.
“Really,” said. Viola. “Who told you that?”
“Tony,” Dickon told her proudly. “And he’d know, wouldn’t he?”
Julian frowned. “If you’re in such a bloody hurry, Duke, why don’t you just get married and do it yourself?”
“Because I can’t, that’s why!” Dickon roared, his ears reddening. “Just you finish your breakfast, young Viola, and get back to bed where you belong—and take this—this shirker with you! My nephew ain’t going to conceive himself, you know!”
Viola sighed impatiently. “Dickon, we cannot stay in bed all day. That would be…”
“Exhausting?” Julian suggested as she paused.
“I was going to say delightful,” Viola said dryly. “Unfortunately, it simply isn’t possible. Even otters must leave time for other things. Dam-building or whatever. Dev and I have a great deal to do if we are to be presented at Court next week.”
These last words seemed to annoy her husband. “We discussed this, madam,” he said grimly. “I don’t want to be presented at Court, not next week, nor ever.”
“It is a damned, tedious waste of an evening,” Viola conceded. “But if you want to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, we must begin nursing the ground now, before we go away on our honeymoon. We cannot begin by insulting the Queen.”
The Heiress In His Bed Page 40