The Heiress In His Bed Page 6

  “There is nothing underhanded about my dealings,” Julian said hotly. “Believe me, the matter has been very thoroughly investigated. If I had done wrong, I would be in prison.”

  “You should be in prison,” the baroness said flatly. “It is not enough that you disgrace your family by going into Trade. No, indeed! You must break Child’s Bank, and make Lady Jersey look a perfect fool! Her ladyship won’t even speak to me now. I am having to fight my way back into Society tooth and claw because of your conduct. A gentleman does not break a lady’s bank, Julian!”

  “Lady Jersey has no business running her grandfather’s bank or any other bank,” Julian replied harshly. “You’d be better off keeping your money in a china pig than in Child’s Bank.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” Perdita interrupted in an attempt to make peace. “Parliament has voted to bail out Child’s Bank, so it’s all right, Mama. The on dit is that Lady Jersey called in favors from all her former lovers—a majority in the House of Lords, from what I hear,” she added, laughing. “Lady Bamph said that Lady Jersey must have a stomach lined with copper to have abased herself with so many Members, to which the Duchess of Berkshire replied, ‘My dear, I think you mean quite another part of her ladyship’s anatomy!’”

  The baroness’s blue eyes gleamed. “Fortunately, there are some who take pleasure in poor Sally’s troubles. Now, if I could just find a way to cultivate the Duchess of Berkshire, I might regain my position in Society.”

  “Ah, the cultivation of duchesses,” Julian murmured. “I understand they require inordinate amounts of strong fertilizer if they are to bloom by season’s end. And should your duchess chance to have aphids—”

  “I understand Doctor Weston’s Elixir is very good for that!” Perdita finished gaily.

  The baroness glared at them, her eldest and youngest in league against her.

  “I’m sure you will find a way back into Society, Mama,” Perdita said contritely.

  “It certainly doesn’t help matters that my son has insinuated himself into the marriage settlement of Lord Bamph and Lady Viola Gambol,” said the baroness. “His mother is seriously displeased. Are there no depths to which you will not sink, Julian? No—don’t answer that!” she pleaded angrily. “Having seen you consume your breakfast in Lombard Street, in full view of the public, I fear I know the answer already.”

  “Are you cultivating Lady Bamph, too?” Julian asked coolly.

  “The marchioness condescended to visit me before she left Town,” Lady Devize said proudly. “She begged me to put an end to your shocking interference, Julian. She also gave me to understand that you had been making love to her daughter!”

  “Shame on you, Julian!” cried Perdita. “You randy little stockjobber, you.”

  “Belinda Belphrey is a mere child,” Julian said repressively.

  “Lady Bamph has threatened to give me the Cut Direct if your interference continues,” the baroness complained. “With the Jerseyites against me, I would never recover. The doors of Society would be closed to me forever. Julian, you must make sure that Lord Bamph gets every penny of Lady Viola’s fortune when he marries her, or else I am ruined. Do you understand?”

  “Madam, I am employed by the Duke of Fanshawe. I am bound to serve his interests.”

  “You are my son,” snapped Lady Devize. “You ought to serve my interests. What do you care about Lady Viola? Lord Cheviot has met her on several occasions. Apparently, she is something of a grotesque.”

  “Now, Mama,” Perdita chided her. “We don’t know that she is precisely ugly. My husband is far too chivalrous to call a lady ugly.”

  “Of course she’s hideously ugly,” the baroness insisted. “Why else has she never been presented at Court? Depend upon it—she has a hunchback, a squint, a clubfoot, a harelip, leprosy! I don’t know what exactly, but there’s definitely something wrong with her.”

  “She cannot be physically deformed,” Perdita protested. “She couldn’t shoot with a squint, and she couldn’t ride with a clubfoot or a hump. And Tony has told me she does both very well. He’s been to several shooting parties at their place in Scotland, and she always goes out with the gentlemen. She plays billiards, too. She’s just like one of the men, he says.”

  “I don’t approve of women who shoot,” sniffed the baroness.

  “Birds or billiards?” Julian asked her.

  “Neither, sir!” flashed the baroness. “It is unwomanly. However, she is very rich,” she went on in a more complacent tone, “and we must make allowances for the very rich.”

  “Of course,” said Julian.

  “Just how rich is she, Julian?” Perdita asked. “Strictly entre nous, of course.”

  “I am not at liberty to divulge any information about my clients.”

  “Please, Julian! We won’t tell a soul, will we, Mama?” said Perdita.

  “No, indeed,” promised the baroness. “We will be silent as the grave.”

  “You’ll have to be,” Julian said dryly, “because I’m not telling you anything.”

  “I hear she has millions,” Perdita said provocatively.

  “What a bunch of arse,” Julian scoffed.

  “A gentleman does not use such language in front of ladies,” the baroness said coldly.

  “You ladies say whatever you please, I’ve noticed,” he retorted.

  The carriage jogged on, its occupants falling silent as Lombard Street became Newgate Street, and Newgate Street became Oxford Street. Finally, the carriage turned north into Portland Place. They had arrived in good time, having missed the early morning tradesmen’s traffic on Oxford Street. It was just nine o’clock, and the gentry were not yet stirring. Portland Place looked deserted.

  “You must knock three times on the door and give the password.” The baroness took her writing tablet from her reticule to check her information. “Today’s password is ‘Whistle-jacket.’ The woman who runs the place is called Dean. She is a poor widow, very deeply in debt, of course, but that is no excuse. Ask for Alexander Pope. That is your brother’s alias.”

  “My compliments to your spies, madam,” said Julian, half-impressed, half-dismayed.

  “Make your brother presentable, then send him to me at the top of Portland Place. And don’t dawdle,” she added as Julian opened the carriage door. “It’s a long way to Sussex. Drive on,” she commanded her coachman almost before Julian’s feet had touched the ground.

  As instructed, Julian gave the password to the manservant who answered the door. He was admitted into a hall dominated by a round divan upholstered in crimson velvet. The walls were bright pink. The carpet had been worn thin by constant traffic. On the walls were lurid pictures. Julian recognized the usual subject matter. Leda and the Swan. Danae and the shower of gold. A truly bad copy of Rubens’s Rape of the Sabine Women. The cumulative effect of all this naked female flesh was about as erotic to him as a pile of old doorknobs.

  “I’m looking for Mr Alexander Pope,” he politely explained to the manservant, who looked like a former prizefighter, complete with crooked nose and cauliflower ear.

  “Wait ’ere,” the man mumbled, indicating the round divan.

  “I’d rather not,” Julian said quickly, eyeing the divan with suspicion. “Wait here, that is. Is there a room—an empty room, I mean—where I might wait?”

  The servant opened the door beside the staircase then trudged up the stairs. The room revealed was as garishly furnished as the hall, albeit in shades of purple rather than pink and scarlet. A cloying perfume hung in the air, mixed noxiously with smoke and stale tobacco. Painted satyrs leered from the walls while nymphs writhed in what appeared to be pain but was probably meant to be ecstasy.

  On the positive side, the curtains were open, admitting bright, cleansing sunshine through reasonably clean windows. As Julian entered the room, he noticed a well-fed fluffy white puppy stretched out on the rug. She lifted her head briefly and silently, looking at him with curious, almond-shaped black eyes before retur
ning to the glove upon which she was cutting her teeth.

  Completely disarmed, Julian dropped his hat on a table and knelt down beside her on the rug. He had grown up with mastiffs, but he was not disdainful of lapdogs. She looked well cared for, he was pleased to see, and there was a big bow around her neck. One side of the ribbon was deep purple, while the other side was striped lavender and white.

  “What’s that you have there, miss?” he scolded her gently. A minor struggle ensued, but, in the end, Julian came away with a woman’s kid glove, dyed lavender. The puppy had chewed off all the buttons, and she was not at all apologetic.

  “There you are, you naughty thing!” a girl’s voice scolded from the doorway.

  Jumping to his feet, Julian turned to feast his eyes on at a tall, dark-eyed young beauty. Her skin had almost an olive cast to it, which gave her an exotic look, but her English was perfectly refined. She wore her jet-black hair in a braided crown that allowed not even the tiniest ringlet to escape, but the severity of the style suited her. He liked her arrogant little nose and her stubborn little chin. Her red lips also interested him. While knowing nothing of ladies’ fashions, he very much approved of the way her purple and white striped gown fitted her full breasts and slender waist before flaring over what promised to be slim, athletic haunches. Everything about her tempted him, and yet she did not look at all like a prostitute. Quite the opposite, in fact. She looked as if she had been kept all her life in a locked glass case, clearly marked: FOR DISPLAY ONLY. She was quite as unexpected as the puppy, and, again, Julian was completely disarmed.

  “I protest,” he said, smiling at her. “I am not a naughty thing. Well, not very naughty.”

  “Come, Bijou!” she said to the puppy; she couldn’t even be bothered to frown at Julian.

  In response, the little dog wagged her tail politely and tilted her head to one side.

  “I don’t think she knows how to come yet,” Julian said cheekily. “I don’t think she knows her name, either.”

  Still ignoring him, the beauty went to the dog and picked her up. With her arrogant little nose in the air, she headed for the door, her skirts hissing at Julian as she went by.

  Julian was irritated. A very superior girl she might be, but she was still a girl in a brothel, and, even if he was not rich enough to afford her favors, he was not dirt under her feet. “Don’t you walk away from me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’m talking to you.”

  She turned to look at him incredulously, and he got between her and the door.

  “That’s better,” he said, pleased to have her attention. For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to strike him, but then she decided to proceed as if he wasn’t there. She walked straight at him, expecting him to stand aside. When he did not, she was obliged to stop inches from him. In her high-heeled slippers, she was tall enough to look him in the eye as they stood nose to nose. At this proximity, he could tell that, incredible as it seemed, neither her soft, olive skin nor her red lips bore any trace of cosmetic enhancement. Her eyes, which looked black from a distance, were actually a very dark blue. Every instinct he possessed told him that she was much too good for her surroundings, and his curiosity and desire were aroused equally.

  “Now, then,” he said softly as she glared at him. “Let us begin again.”

  “Sir!” she said, frowning severely. “I took you for a gentleman. Was I mistaken?”

  “I apologize,” Julian said instantly, standing aside to allow her to pass. “I did not realize you had mistaken me for a gentleman,” he went on as she opened the door to walk out. “You seemed to have mistaken me for a speck of dirt, unworthy of even the most commonplace civility!”

  It was her turn to flinch. “I do not mean to be uncivil,” she said, her color rising. “I daresay, you must think me very rude—”

  “I do, miss! I only wanted to return this to you,” he said, producing the lavender glove he had rescued from the puppy. “It is yours, I believe?”

  The trap was sprung. She could not avoid conversing with him now.

  “Yes,” she admitted, reaching for the glove. “It is mine.”

  He would not let her have it. “You must kiss me first,” he said huskily.

  She frowned, not exactly the response he was hoping for. “You must excuse me, sir,” she said haughtily.

  Julian stopped smiling. “Why must I excuse you?”

  “Because, sir, I am new to London. I am not accustomed to London manners!”

  He smiled slowly. “Are manners so different in your own part of the country?”

  “Indeed they are, sir,” she answered. “In Yorkshire, people do not go on in this ramshackle way. I would never be prevailed upon to speak to a young man without a formal introduction. And, in Yorkshire, a gentleman does not prevent a lady from leaving a room. Nor does he demand kisses. Such behavior is inexcusable.”

  Julian stared at her, astonished. Lady? Either she was in the wrong place, or he was. “I must be in the wrong house,” he said, mortified. “I beg your pardon, Miss…er…Miss…?”

  “I certainly have no intention of introducing myself!” she informed him.

  “Of course not,” he murmured. “I’m very sorry to have offended you. Is this Mrs Dean’s…er…establishment?”

  “It is, sir,” she admitted, petting the dog in her arms to cover her embarrassment. “But I have nothing to do with the running of this house, and I have less than nothing to say to the lodgers! Am I obliged, in London, to talk to a man just because he happens to be standing in a room when I walk in?” she demanded, her color rising. “To kiss him, just because he has taken my glove?”

  “Certainly not,” he answered. “I have apologized. What more can I do?”

  “Well, at least you do not wink at me,” she said, somewhat mollified. “That insolence I cannot bear. I have begun to call it the London squint! The lodgers all have it.”

  Julian was more at a loss than ever. “May I ask you a question?”

  Her eyes flashed. “No, I will not sit on your knee,” she said. “No, you may not see my ankles. And no, I most certainly do not want to know what you have in your pocket.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” he hastened to assure her. “It’s just…Did you say…lodgers?”

  “Yes.” She paused, taken aback. “Are you…? Aren’t one of the lodgers?”

  “No. I’ve never been here before in my life. I’m just looking for my brother.”

  “I should not be talking to you at all,” she murmured in dismay. “This is most irregular. Mrs Dean should show more care for her niece. I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I,” he said stoutly. “However, it’s very important that I speak to my brother at once. The name is Alexander Pope. My mother told me I could find him here.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mr Pope,” she said, shaking her head. “I cannot help you. You will have to wait for Mrs Dean, the proprietress.”

  Momentarily startled to be called by a name other than his own, Julian was tempted to correct her. But how could he explain to her that “Pope” was his brother’s alias? She already thought him rude; he did not want her to think him sinister.

  “But I must see him now,” he said, letting the assumption stand. “The matter is urgent. Will you help me, please? If you were looking for your brother, I would certainly help you.”

  “I suppose I could ask which is his room,” she said reluctantly. “I will have to wake Mrs Dean. She keeps London hours, I’m afraid. Will you please wait here, Mr Pope?” she requested, stopping him in the hall. “In Yorkshire, a gentleman does not follow a lady up the stairs unless she asks him to. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Thank you,” he said, but she was already running lightly up the steps, the little white dog tucked under one arm. He tried not to look at her slim ankles, but he could not help himself.

  Chapter Five

  To Julian’s disappointment, the black-haired girl did not return. Instead, it was the big, ugly manservant who led him u
pstairs to his brother’s room. Although exceedingly untidy, the room was comfortable, with plenty of coals glowing in the fireplace and a window that overlooked the street. Unconscious and unshaven, the Honorable Mr Alexander Devize lay supine on the bed, naked but for a bunched-up sheet. One arm hung over the side of the bed.

  Going over to the bed, Julian struck the sleeper with his hat none too gently. When there was no response, he picked up the pitcher of water next to the bed and poured its contents onto his brother’s face.

  Alexander Devize sputtered to life. “Bloody hell!” he roared, sitting up and blinking as water ran into his bloodshot brown eyes. His thick, dark hair was standing on end in pomaded clumps, surely not what his valet had intended. He reeked of brandy. Stubble rasped against his palm as he wiped the water from his face. He looked around him blearily. He was only thirty-four, but, at the moment, he looked almost fifty.

  “Julian,” he croaked. “What the devil?”

  Julian was brief. “Get dressed. It’s the governor. He wants to see you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see him,” Alex said sullenly. “He keeps trying to arrange marriages for me. He threatens to cut off my allowance.”

  “He’s very seriously ill, Alex,” Julian said quietly.

  “No, he isn’t,” Alex said bitterly. “He’s never ill. It’s only a ploy to get me to marry Miss Molly Peacock.”

  “You could be right, of course,” said Julian. “I hope you are. But our mother is waiting for you at the top of Portland Place. Perdita’s with her. Now, where are your clothes?”

  Groaning, Alex swung his legs out of the bed and began fumbling for his shirt.

  Julian walked over to the window and looked out on the street as his brother dressed.

  Alex spoke to Julian’s back. “Are you going to Sussex?”

  “No,” Julian replied. “I’m still disowned.”

  “Lucky devil!” Alex grumbled. “Of course, if he were really ill, he’d want you at his side, Julian. You were always his favorite. How I hate living under his thumb. He holds the purse strings like an old maid guards her virginity! I’ll go to Sussex, but I’ll be damned if I let him choose me a wife. There’s only one girl I ever wanted to marry, and she’s dead now.”