The Heiress In His Bed Page 3

  Lady Bamph watched anxiously as Julian scribbled in his notebook. “Nonsense!” she snapped. “Rupert would never dream of saying anything so offensive. For myself, I long to see my future daughter. We will gladly go to Yorkshire as soon as it can be arranged.”

  Resigned to exile, Belinda asked hopefully if Mr Devize would be accompanying them.

  “I’m afraid my work keeps me in London, Lady Belinda,” Julian replied gently.

  Belinda pouted. “Work! Haven’t you made your fortune already?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, putting his notebook away.

  “But you broke that silly old bank!” she protested.

  “I make fortunes for other people, not myself,” he explained. “It’s how I earn my living.”

  “Oh, how sad,” she sighed, full of pity. “I think you must be very brave, Mr Devize. Why, if I had to earn my living, I think I should die, or else starve.”

  “So that’s settled,” said Lady Bamph, smiling at the duke. “We shall pass the spring in Yorkshire, then travel back to London for the wedding.”

  The duke spoke up. “Viola wants to be married from York Minster. Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all,” said her ladyship agreeably. “I’m sure York Minster is very nice.”

  “And the first week in June is out of the question,” said the duke, rather surprised that he was having such an easy time of it. “That’s our holidays. Then there’s the shooting, of course.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the dowager. “There’s a hunting lodge in Scotland, isn’t there?”

  “No, there isn’t,” said the duke, growing red in the face.

  “I believe it’s called Lyons,” the dowager insisted. “Lady Viola inherited it from her mother, Louisa Lyon, the famous beauty.”

  “I tell you, you’re mad!” the duke barked at her. Abruptly, he got up and went over to the window, beckoning for Julian to join him. “Lyons, Dev!” he whispered urgently. “The she-Bamph has found out about it somehow.”

  “She’s just trying to rattle you,” his advisor explained. “Leave everything to me, Duke.”

  But the duke could not be calmed. Indeed, he was on the verge of leaving the house when the doors of the drawing room were flung open suddenly.

  “My son!” Lady Bamph announced proudly as Rupert Belphrey, the 3rd Marquis of Bamph, strode into the room tapping his thigh with a pair of yellow kid gloves. A proud, pretty fellow, he wore with distinction a garnet-colored coat and a pair of clinging buckskin breeches. His cravat was algebraic in its complexity, and his waistcoat was loudly figured in scarlet and gold. His sideburns were as carefully arranged as the red-gold curls on his brow, and he was as handsome as his mother, though a little less masculine. Gleaming black Hessian boots with long silver tassels and high heels completed the picture of a fashionable London dandy.

  The duke’s eyes were dazzled, and he dug his elbow into Julian’s ribs. “Not bad, eh?”

  “Isn’t it wonderful, Rupert?” said Lady Bamph. “His grace has invited us all to Yorkshire for a nice, long visit.”

  “By all means, take Belinda to Yorkshire,” the marquis said haughtily. Consulting the mirror hung beside the door, he painstakingly adjusted one of the red-gold crescents that made up his left sideburn. “If you think she has a chance of landing him. I shall stay in Town, of course. This Season is the best ever, and I am in great demand.”

  Lady Bamph fixed on her brightest smile. “But, Rupert, dearest, this trip will give you the opportunity to know Lady Viola better before the wedding takes place at York Minster in the fall. Surely that is more important than a few parties and balls.”

  “If my future wife wants to know me better,” he replied petulantly, “she must come to London as I command. I can’t be bothered to go to Yorkshire. Why, the society there must be primitive! And the wedding will take place at St George’s in June,” he added obstinately.

  The Duke of Fanshawe suddenly remembered that he had a part to play in the scene unfolding before him. “But Viola was baptized at York Minster,” he interjected. “And she ain’t a traveling exhibit, you know.”

  The marquis turned to stare at the duke. “Who the devil are you?” he asked coldly.

  “I’m the Duke of Fanshawe, but you can call me Dickon, if you like.”

  “No!” said Lord Bamph, now staring through his quizzing glass. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Bamph. “It’s quite true, Rupert.”

  “You really can call me Dickon,” the duke assured him.

  Lord Bamph stared at his prospective brother-in-law in dismay. There was nothing about the stout, bald duke to suggest that his sister was one of the loveliest young ladies in the kingdom, and everything to suggest that she was not. While perfectly willing to marry a female version of the duke in order to obtain her handsome fortune, the exquisite young marquis did not want his London friends to witness the happy event; they would be sure to mock him mercilessly, as only London friends can. “Perhaps it would be best if I did marry her at York Minster,” he conceded. “At such a distance, my friends could not be expected to attend the wedding.”

  “I like this negotiating, Dev,” cried the duke. “Everything seems to be coming our way.”

  The marquis caught sight of Julian, or more precisely, Julian’s black trousers. He applied his quizzing glass to them with an air of disbelief, but they really were trousers. “And who are you, sir?” he sneered.

  “This is Mr Devize,” Belinda eagerly explained. “He lives in the City, and he works for the duke—because he must earn his living even though he’s a baron’s son. And he dislikes the affectation of wearing riding boots in town.”

  The marquis bristled. “These are not ordinary riding boots. They are Hessians.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Mr Devize. “I should have said I dislike the affectation of Englishmen rigging themselves out like German mercenaries.”

  Lord Bamph turned beet red. “I should call you out for such impudence!” he spluttered.

  “That would do you no honor, my love,” his mother cried in alarm. “Mr Devize is merely the duke’s stockjobber. Pray, do not upset yourself over a trifle.”

  Lord Bamph’s lip curled with scorn. “I do not shoot stockjobbers,” he sniffed. “Nor am I in the habit of receiving them in the drawing room. Why is this man here?”

  “The duke has asked me to handle the negotiations for his sister,” Julian explained.

  “There will be no vulgar negotiating,” Lord Bamph declared. “The marriage contract is a simple, straightforward agreement between gentlemen. I will never consent to allow any part of my wife’s fortune to remain outside of my control. She will have an allowance, if she behaves.”

  Dickon’s pale gray eyes bulged. “You think women are chattel, then?” he asked.

  “You wrong me,” replied the marquis. “I don’t think women are chattel. I think they should be treated like chattel, that’s all. You see the difference.”

  “I do, of course,” said the duke, “but you may depend upon it—Viola won’t.”

  “Lady Viola will learn to submit to my will,” the marquis sniffed.

  “Of course Lady Viola will be guided by her husband,” his mother said quickly, “but first she must learn to love and trust you, Rupert. When she understands that you only have her best interest at heart, she will obey you without question and submit to your wishes joyfully.”

  The duke shook his head sadly. “I only wish it could be so, ma’am. But I’m afraid my headstrong sister has made up her mind to dislike your son.”

  “She will not dislike Rupert,” Lady Bamph laughed. “Women find him irresistible.”

  “It’s true,” Bamph said modestly. “I’m the most popular man in London.”

  “I’m not surprised!” the duke said with enthusiasm. “He’s a splendid-looking fellow, isn’t he, Dev? The hair! The clothes! He’s got it all. I daresay he’d give a peacock a run for his money, eh? But I feel I must warn
you, young Rupert,” he said, with more gravity. “Viola’s not a sophisticated man about town like you and I. She’s grown up in Yorkshire, completely innocent of the ways of the world. She knows nothing of men—all she knows are dogs and servants and horses. She won’t like being told what to do.”

  “She sounds like a wild animal!” the marquis complained.

  “True,” the duke admitted ruefully. “She’s had voice lessons, of course, but I fear she’s not much of a singer. I’d rather hear the dogs bark, to be honest.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if Lady Viola remains in Yorkshire, even after the wedding,” Lady Bamph suggested. “Your sister might feel woefully out of place in London.”

  “There’s no question of her coming here!” cried Bamph, now determined that his friends never see his bride. “I am for Yorkshire! We leave at once.”

  “But, my dear,” his mother protested, “you must give us poor females time to pack.”

  “Very well,” he sniffed. “We leave for Yorkshire at dawn.”

  “Dawn, my love?” said his mama. “So early? I have just one or two little things that I must do before I leave town, a number of engagements I must cancel. The Duchess of Berkshire would never forgive me if I left town without taking leave of her.”

  “Very well!” he snapped. “We leave tomorrow afternoon, if that suits you.”

  “Yes, my love,” the dowager said pleasantly. “Whatever you command.”

  The Duke of Fanshawe left Green Park in excellent spirits. Blinded by the marquis’ elegance, he seemed to have forgotten all about the threat to his beloved Lyons. “Dev,” he said, “I’ve got such a good feeling about that fine young man! I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I think Viola will like him.”

  Julian smiled faintly. “I daresay she might, Duke. Women are often taken in by brainless, mincing fops with brutish tendencies, I’ve noticed.”

  Dickon stared at him in amazement. “I’m talking about Lord Bamph, Dev. I would never describe his lordship as a brainless, mincing fop with brutish tendencies.”

  “No, Your Grace is too clever for that,” Julian conceded. “It was a stroke of genius, pretending to like him the way you did. The man’s vanity is unbelievable. What an ass!”

  “You mean I don’t really like him?” said Dickon, catching on.

  “No, Duke. You only pretended to. He’s your adversary. He’ll fleece you, if he can.”

  “I had no idea,” Dickon murmured in dismay. “I was completely taken in! I had no idea he was my adversary. I thought he was rather splendid. Now, his mother…!”

  “Yes, his mother,” Julian agreed. “How quickly she gave in about York Minster, and the first of June!”

  “Was that not nobly done?” cried the duke. “Now you mention it, she did seem a little too eager to go to Yorkshire. And she knew all about Lyons, too! Don’t forget that.”

  As the carriage ambled out of Green Park in the direction of the Mall, Julian felt obliged to remind the duke that the Mall was closed to traffic. “There are the gates now, with a guard posted. We’d better turn back.”

  “But it’s the quickest way to get to the Strand,” Dickon protested. “Can’t I just show them my ivory pass? They always let me through before.”

  Julian stared. “You have an ivory pass?”

  The duke looked innocent. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Actually, no,” Julian said dryly. “Apart from the Royal Family, hardly anyone is allowed inside the Mall these days for security reasons.”

  “That can’t be too convenient,” observed the duke as they came up to the gates topped with gilded spikes. The duke got his pass from underneath the seat cushion and showed it to the Coldstream Guard on duty. “See how easy it is when one has an ivory pass?” he remarked smugly as the brown carriage passed on into the broad avenue of the Mall.

  Julian easily agreed that it was very pleasant as they drove past the royal residences set like jewels in St James’s Park. “I must warn you, Duke,” he said presently. “You should be on your guard at all times during this journey to Yorkshire.”

  Dickon gave a start. “Good God, why?”

  “I’d be very much surprised if Lady Bamph didn’t try to make a match between you and her daughter,” Julian replied. “You must take great care never to be alone with Lady Belinda.”

  The duke paled. “You mean marriage? Not me, Dev! They may have caught young Viola like a rat in a trap, but they won’t catch me. Alone with young Belinda? I’d rather go hungry. If that’s what they want, we’d better cancel this trip to Yorkshire.”

  “No, Duke. You must take the Bamphs to Yorkshire, as planned,” Julian said calmly. “I don’t want them breathing down my neck while I’m busy shuffling things around on this end.”

  “This is no time for card games, Dev!” the duke scolded. “They are trying to force me into a marriage with a complete stranger! I won’t stand for it!”

  “Remember what I told you about marriage, Duke, and you’ll be quite safe.”

  Dickon took deep, fortifying breaths. “Hasty pudding good, hasty marriage bad.”

  “You’ve managed to stay a bachelor all this time, haven’t you?” Julian reminded him. “This is no different.”

  Gradually, the duke calmed down. “What I can’t understand,” he confessed, “is why I must get them out of London so that you can shuffle cards.”

  “I won’t be shuffling cards,” Mr Devize patiently explained. “I shall be reorganizing Lady Viola’s finances so that her assets can never be traced by her future husband. But I needn’t explain all that to you, Duke.”

  Dickon lived in fear that someone would discover that he was not quite as intelligent as he made himself out to be. “It’s all pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it?” he hastily agreed. “I suppose you need me to sign some papers?”

  “No, Duke. I’ve had power of attorney for quite some time, so you needn’t worry about anything at all. Of course, I’ll keep meticulous records of all my transactions.”

  Dickon was appalled. “Dear boy! There’s no need of that. I trust you completely.”

  “Thank you, Duke. I take that trust very seriously, you know.”

  Dickon blushed, and quickly changed the subject. “But Dev! What if Viola really likes this ghastly Rupert person? What if she wants to give him everything?”

  “Some women do like their husbands at first,” Julian admitted. “But what about two years from now, when the novelty wears thin? Your sister’s affections may change in time, and, if her husband has all her money, that doesn’t leave her with many options, now does it?”

  “I forgot about the novelty wearing thin,” cried Dickon.

  The duke’s carriage rolled on, traveling east into the Strand. There Gambol House, the palatial London mansion of the Duke of Fanshawe, had stood for nearly two centuries. On the night of a ball, its vast cobbled plaza would be filled to capacity with jostling carriages, merrymaking servants, and barking dogs, but in the cold light of day it was something of a wasteland. In architecture, in size, and, above all, in inconvenience, the house rivaled the royal palaces of Buckingham and St James, but its location was now far less fashionable than it had been in the early seventeenth century, when the 1st Duke of Fanshawe had begun to build his London residence. Its overgrown south gardens bordered on the Thames, which had been silvery and teeming with salmon in the previous century; now the river was brown and redolent with waste and rubbish. The northern facade, which faced the Strand, had been remodeled in gothic splendor by Christopher Wren, but the original baroque southern facade, by Inigo Jones, remained untouched, although these days it could only be seen by bargemen plying their crafts up and down the river.

  “You can set me down here, Duke,” said Julian, knocking on the hatch. “I’ll walk back to the City.”

  “You’re staying to lunch, surely,” Dickon exclaimed in surprise as the carriage stopped. “You must eat, Dev. You’re wasting away before my eyes! I insist that you stay to lunc
h.”

  Julian only smiled. “There’s a perfectly good tavern just around the corner from the Exchange. They make excellent sandwiches, and the ale’s not bad, either.”

  The duke’s belly rumbled ominously. He was too hungry to press the young man.

  “Suit yourself,” he said gruffly.

  Julian put on his hat and walked east toward Fleet Street and the City.

  Chapter Three

  Viola sat in the private parlor of the King’s Head Inn, York, surrounded by her most recent purchases as she fortified her tissues with afternoon tea. Never in her life had a shopping excursion failed to restore her to good spirits, but, without question, she was as unhappy after a week in York as she had been at the start.

  “Perhaps,” she said doubtfully, “I should have gone to London with my brother.”

  Viola’s maid was busily applying her ladyship’s labels to the parcels with a little pot of rabbit glue, but at the mention of London, she abandoned the task. London, the grandest city in all the world, packed to the rafters with beautifully dressed lords and ladies, both foreign and domestic, had filled Dobbins’s dreams for years. “I’ve always wanted to go to London, my lady!” she cried eagerly.

  “Yes, I know you have,” Viola said dryly. “And I promised your mother I would never take you. You’d only fall victim to some silver-tongued London man and never be seen or heard from again. I could go alone, and hire a new maid when I get there.”

  “My lady!” Dobbins protested. “You can’t go to London alone.”

  “I wouldn’t really be alone, Dobbins. I’d be in my carriage, with my driver, my footmen, and my postboys.” She grimaced suddenly in annoyance. “And I might as well hire a brass band, flambeaux, and jugglers! I can’t very well blazon the fact that I’m taking my business to London! York would be so hurt.”

  “We could go on the stagecoach,” Dobbins said eagerly. “You’d have to take me with you then, for there’s highwaymen and bold kidnapping rakes all along the Great North Road! Now, where’s that pretty little toasting fork your ladyship found at the silversmith’s…?”