Читать книгу The Heiress In His Bed - Tamara Lejeune - Страница 10

To Julian’s disappointment, the black-haired girl did not return. Instead, it was the big, ugly manservant who led him upstairs 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.”

The revelation caught Julian by surprise, and made him feel excessively awkward, as if he had accidentally overheard something intensely private. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“She married someone else,” Alex went on, to his brother’s acute dismay. “She died in childbirth. If she were not dead, I think I would hate her. She was such a plain little thing, too,” Alex said, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. “I still remember how she felt in my arms when we danced together.”

“All the same,” said Julian. “Life goes on.”

Alex glared at him. “How can you be so callous? Life goes on? No, it doesn’t.”

“Obviously, it does,” Julian said dryly. “Would you be here if it didn’t?”

“You think I come here to feel alive?” Alex demanded indignantly. “Do you think I enjoy passing out every night in the arms of a strange woman who doesn’t give a tinker’s damn for me?”

“You could do that with Molly Peacock,” Julian said. “At considerably less expense.”

“That’s right,” Alex said grimly. “Make your jokes. You’ve never been in love.”

“No,” Julian agreed cheerfully, “but I can’t wait. You make it sound so pleasant.”

Alex went into the closet to wash, leaving the door ajar.

Julian was looking out of the window, watching as a man exited the house. With his collar turned up and his hat low over his eyes, he scurried into Oxford Street to be swallowed up by the traffic.

“Sorry about all that,” Alex said presently. “I didn’t mean to be so maudlin. I hope I didn’t embarrass you?”

“It’s quite all right,” Julian assured him. “I wasn’t listening anyway.”

“Good.” Alex sounded relieved. Half-dressed now, he began to shave.

“Alex,” Julian said thoughtfully, still observing the street, “this is a brothel, isn’t it?”

Alex laughed shortly. “If it isn’t, I want my money back,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“I met a girl downstairs who seems to think this is some sort of boarding house,” Julian replied. “A very pretty, genteel sort of girl, nothing like what you’d expect to find in a place like this. She seemed like a carefully brought up young lady,” he added. “She refused to talk to me because we hadn’t been introduced. Just like the girls back home.”

“Ah, yes,” Alex said, yawning. “The tragic little niece from Yorkshire. I’ve heard all about her. Supposedly, her father was a vicar. He left his daughter on the aunt’s hands, penniless. To recoup her losses, Mrs Dean is auctioning her off on Friday. She tried to sell me a ticket, but I’m afraid primitive country virgins are not at all to my taste. I hear she’s pretty, though. She should fetch a pretty price.”

“I don’t think I understand you,” Julian said indignantly. “What do you mean Mrs Dean is auctioning her off?”

Alex looked at him in surprise. “You’re shocked,” he said. “I do believe you’re blushing. My dear boy, the girl has no money, no connections. Her aunt’s in debt. What else are they to do with her? This is a brothel, after all.”

“It’s barbaric,” said Julian. “Not to mention immoral and illegal.”

Alex shrugged. “That’s London for you.”

“Alex, this girl thinks she’s in a boarding house.”

“Then she’s either a fool or a liar,” Alex said heartlessly. “Chances are, your genteel, pretty girl knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s just reeling you in with her innocent eyes.”

“Then she should be treading the boards,” said Julian. “She’s a remarkable actress.”

“I wouldn’t worry about her too much,” Alex said dryly. “If she plays her cards right, she’ll be the mistress of a very rich man who will dote on her and buy her anything she wants.”

“But for God’s sake,” said Julian. “She’s a clergyman’s daughter.”

Alex snorted. “That’s the story, anyway. Who knows if it’s true? I don’t want to disillusion you, Julian, but, occasionally one finds that lies are told in brothels. Your genteel, pretty girl mightn’t even be a virgin.”

“And what if she is innocent?” Julian demanded. “We have to help her.”

Alex wiped his now clean-shaven face with a towel. “We?”

“This girl you were in love with,” Julian said impatiently. “What if she were in trouble? Wouldn’t you want someone to help her?”

Alex’s face darkened with anger. “Obviously, a lady would never be in such a situation,” he snapped. “Never think with your privates, brother, or didn’t they teach you that in the army?”

“I’m concerned about her welfare,” Julian said stiffly. “It has nothing to do with my privates.”

“You’re too poor to be concerned about her welfare,” Alex retorted, “and it has everything to do with your privates. Would you be quite so concerned about her welfare if she weren’t quite so pretty?”

“You’re a cynic,” Julian accused him.

Alex laughed grimly. “So will you be in ten years.”

“Perhaps,” said Julian, “but I hope the idea of young women being bought and sold like chattel will always be disgusting to me. I’m going to help her, even if you won’t.”

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” said Alex, but he was talking to himself; Julian had already left the room.

“I wish to speak to Mrs Dean at once,” Julian told the manservant downstairs.

Alex joined him in the hall a few minutes later. Never as handsome as his brother, and pockmarked from a childhood illness, he at least looked respectable now: clean-shaven and wearing a tailored coat of blue superfine. “Would you call me a hack?” he asked Julian.

“You are a hack,” Julian said obligingly.

“Ha, ha. My legs are still a bit wobbly, and my purse seems to be empty,” Alex said. “It has been suggested to me that I drink too much. Please summon a hack for me.”

“The hack is waiting outside,” Julian said. “It’s only half a mile to our mother’s house, but I didn’t think you’d care to walk in your condition.”

“Thank you,” Alex said ruefully.

Glancing up, Julian saw a middle-aged woman coming down the stairs, presumably Mrs Dean herself. Alex saw Mrs Dean at about the same time. “Look here, Julian,” he said quietly. “Don’t get yourself mixed up in this dirty business. Even if the girl is innocent—which I rather doubt—you have no money. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Mrs Dean reached them, and Alex was obliged to hold his tongue. “Do come again, Mr Pope,” she said warmly to Alex. “The girls are so fond of you.”

Julian shook his brother’s hand. “Will you keep me informed? I am still in Lombard Street. If my father wants me, of course I’ll come,” he offered.

Alex promised to send word. Giving his brother one last warning look, he then departed, leaving Julian alone with the mistress of the house.

Mrs Dean bore no resemblance to her lovely niece; indeed, Julian could scarcely credit the notion that the two were related. Her yellow satin gown fitted her too tightly in the bosom, so that unsightly mounds of freckled flesh spilled over the lace edge of the bodice. Kohl lined the lids of her small, greedy eyes. While not quite realistic, her ivory teeth were well-carved.

“Mr Pope!” she purred. “How may I please you?”

“I’m interested in your niece,” he said bluntly. “I want an introduction.”

Mrs Dean looked amused. “I’m afraid, Mr Pope, that my niece is quite beyond your touch. She is—”

“What do you know of my touch?” he interrupted sharply.

Mrs Dean blinked at him. The handsome young man had a commanding air, quite at odds with his youth and his unfashionably plain clothes. Perhaps he was a man of greater wealth and importance than his elder brother; in her lifetime, Mrs Dean had seen stranger things.

“I meant no offense,” she said quickly. “I should warn you, Mr Pope, that Miss Andrews has generated a great deal of interest already. It will not be easy to obtain her favors.”

“Is that her name? Andrews?”

“Mary Andrews,” Mrs Dean affirmed. “Why, only yesterday, Lord Barrowbridge offered me five thousand pounds for her.” Her flesh quivered as she recalled the lucrative offer. “He was very disappointed when I sent him away.”

Julian was disgusted. “Lord Barrowbridge is ninety if he’s a day!”

“And he couldn’t pop a cherry if his life depended on it, poor man,” Mrs Dean agreed. “But what do I care? It’s his lordship’s money. He can spend it as he likes.”

“This is your niece we’re talking about,” Julian reminded her severely.

“And who should profit from Mary’s beauty but her own aunt?” she returned harshly. “God knows my brother, the saintly vicar, never lifted a finger to help me when he was alive! It is only right that Mary help me now. Sooner or later, she will be bedded, Mr Pope. You know it, and I know it. She’ll be better off with a rich man than a poor man, and you know that, too.”

“But the girl is very pretty,” Julian argued. “She speaks well—almost like a lady. Surely you could find her a husband.”

Mrs Dean laughed. “A husband? With Dolly Dean for an aunt? I’m afraid she’d be tainted by association. And, of course, she has no dowry, poor thing. Who will marry her? Some middling tradesman? Some adventurous rogue? I made that mistake in my youth, Mr Pope. Mary will benefit from my experience. As the mistress of a rich gentleman, she will want for nothing. It’s no use looking at me like that, Mr Pope! You know I’m right. No gentleman is going to marry her, and she likes her fine clothes and pretty things, does Mary.”

Julian saw that it was pointless to argue with the old witch. “I’ll attend the auction.”

“Will you, now?” Mrs Dean said craftily. “You must first buy a ticket, and I’m afraid they’re quite expensive. I mean to keep out the riffraff, you understand.”

“How much?”

“Fifty pounds, sir, and not a penny less,” she said defiantly.

Julian did not flinch. “Will you accept my I.O.U.?”

She smiled. “I’m afraid I can only accept hard currency. You do understand, Mr Pope.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Julian curtly.

Mrs Dean licked her lips. “The cost of the ticket is nonrefundable,” she said quickly, “and, of course, it only entitles you to participate in the auction tomorrow evening. I expect to open the bidding at five thousand pounds.”

“Then I shall return this afternoon for my ticket,” Julian said, starting for the door. “Naturally, I expect an interview with the young lady at that time. Perhaps I might walk with her in Regent’s Park early this evening?”

“I’m afraid my niece is engaged to go driving in the park this evening,” Mrs Dean replied, “but you might come to tea, Mr Pope. I shall be here to chaperone, of course. I could not risk putting damaged goods on the block, you understand. The man who gets her might feel cheated.”

Julian favored her with a pained smile.

“However, you must not speak to Mary of the auction. She’s quite shy about it.”

Julian looked at her sharply. “You mean she doesn’t know she’s being auctioned off,” he said contemptuously.

Mrs Dean blinked rapidly. “Of course she knows,” she cried, just a little too late to be credible. “Mary is a practical young lady, sir, and nothing better guards a girl’s virginity than self-interest, don’t you agree?” She laughed. “After all, virtue can be penetrated by seduction. Self-interest cannot. Do you doubt, sir, that she is a virgin?”

Julian glared at her. “No.”

“Of course, if you won’t buy Mary, someone else will,” Mrs Dean went on pleasantly. “I only hope he is kind to her. My first time was very painful, and Mr Dean would do it again and again, no matter how I begged him to spare me. I was only sixteen, Mr Pope, but he was my husband, and I had no hope in law. My brother the vicar wouldn’t help me, either. What God hath joined, and all that rot. He said it was my Christian duty to submit. Mary, at least, will be free to find another protector, if she wishes. I was not free until Mr Dean died, and then I was left penniless. Poverty, I soon discovered, is a worse prison than marriage.”

“How much would it take to stop the auction?” Julian demanded.

Mrs Dean shook her head sadly. “It is beyond my power, Mr Pope. I couldn’t cancel now, even if you should offer me the moon and the stars. I have sold nearly twenty tickets.”

“Then I had better go and see my banker,” Julian said grimly.

Mrs Dean was all politeness when he returned that afternoon. The young man parted with his money so easily that Mrs Dean never suspected that he had pawned everything of value he owned in order to raise the sum. Inclining her head graciously, she brought her guest into the sitting room, where she locked his money in her desk and brought him a large card in return.

“Your ticket, Mr Pope.”

Julian looked at it in surprise. Handsomely printed in gold letters on a card about the size of a playbill, it announced the auction of one Bijou, a superior purebred bitch donated by Her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte. All proceeds were to go to an unspecified charity.

“There must be some mistake,” Julian said irritably. “I don’t want a dog.”

“A little subterfuge, Mr Pope…for the law’s sake,” Mrs Dean explained. “They can be so inquisitive about things that do not concern them. If anyone asks, the auction is for that stupid little dog someone left here as a present for one of my girls.”

Julian affected surprise. “Then she is not one of Princess Charlotte’s prize pups?”

“Don’t be silly, Mr Pope,” Mrs Dean laughed. “Everyone knows Her Royal Highness keeps Pomeranians.” Still laughing, she took the chair next to the fire. The tea table was already set up between the chair and the sofa, and a pot of tea was steeping under a quilted cozy.

Having pawned his watch, among other things, Julian checked the little French clock on the mantel. “Will Miss Andrews be joining us soon?” he asked.

“You must be patient, Mr Pope. Mary will join us presently.”

While they waited, Mrs Dean beguiled the time by counting her chickens before they were hatched. “With that face and that figure, there’s no telling how much she’ll go for in the end,” she sighed happily. “I shall be able to pay off all my creditors, I shouldn’t wonder. Ah, Mary! There you are!” she said as the girl came into the room. “Come and meet Mr Pope.”

Julian stood up, pleased and relieved to see that Miss Andrews appeared undamaged. Not a hair on her head was out of place. Her purple and white striped dress looked freshly ironed, and she was holding the white puppy in her arms. Bijou wagged her tail at the sight of Julian.

Viola had not expected to see the impudent young man again. “You!” she exclaimed.

“You know this young man?” Mrs Dean asked sharply.

Julian smiled at Viola, but his words were intended for Mrs Dean. “I have met your niece already. But she would not speak to me because we had not been introduced.”

“Mary!” Mrs Dean scolded. “How could you be so rude to Mr Pope?”

“Indeed, Miss Andrews was the soul of propriety,” Julian said quickly. “I was rude. But do not judge me too harshly, Miss Andrews. I have come to make amends, as you see.”

Viola found she could not hold a grudge against him. He had a certain audacious charm, and, of course, he was young and good-looking, a rarity amongst Mrs Dean’s acquaintances. She certainly preferred his company to that of Mrs Dean, and she was in no hurry to be rid of him. “By London standards, I think you were only a little presumptuous,” she said primly. “Of course, you were anxious to see your brother.”

“I was, but that is no excuse for bad manners. Shall we begin again? How do you do, Miss Andrews?” he said, presenting her with a formal bow.

“Very well, Mr Pope,” Viola answered, curtseying. “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance at last.”

“Indeed the pleasure is all mine, Miss Andrews.”

“Oh, don’t let’s argue, Mr Pope,” she said, taking her seat on the sofa and arranging the bichon in her lap. “Shall we say half the pleasure is mine, and the other half yours?”

“That certainly seems fair,” he agreed, a little taken aback by her confidence. Apparently now that they had been introduced, flirting was in order. Just like the girls back home, he thought, hiding a nostalgic smile.

Viola was already pouring the tea. “How do you like it, Mr Pope? Sugar? Milk? Lemon?” Without seeming in any way coy or vulgar, she managed to make the simple offer of tea sound seductive. And Julian didn’t even like tea.

“Black, thank you,” he said, accepting his cup.

“Macaroon?” she inquired, holding out a plate of unassuming biscuits.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Of course, if you were chivalrous, Mr Pope,” Viola said, returning to their “argument” as she poured out Mrs Dean’s cup, “you would give me all the pleasure, and keep none for yourself. But, I daresay, there’s no chivalry in London. You London men are too modern for all that.”

Julian was provoked to defend himself.

“Actually, I’m from Sussex,” he said, tasting his macaroon. “But I believe it was you ladies who put an end to chivalry. You simply don’t want to be rescued nowadays. You seem to prefer the company of rogues and scoundrels, and, as ever, we men must conform to your taste or die of loneliness.”

“What do you mean?” she protested, laughing. “Rogues and scoundrels have no appeal for me, I assure you.”

“But you will allow, Miss Andrews, that a Knight of the Round Table would be accounted a pernicious bore in today’s society.”

“And so very hard on the furniture, too,” Viola solemnly agreed. “But, in all seriousness, Mr Pope, you know perfectly well that it is women who rescue men. Indeed, without the civilizing influence of my sex, you men would be no better than wild beasts. Do you not agree?”

“I certainly do not,” he protested, laughing in spite of himself at her preposterous assertion. “If men were barbarous by nature, Miss Andrews, you ladies would have a very bad time of it, and never mind your civilizing influence!”

“This from the man who said to me not five hours ago, ‘Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you, girl!’ If that is not proof of a barbarous nature, Mr Pope, then I don’t know what is. Your behavior was infamous. Admit it.”

“That was very wrong of me, to be sure,” he promptly admitted.

“Oh! But look at you now,” she teased him. “Here you sit beside me on the sofa, perfectly tame, with your cup in one hand and your macaroon in the other. And all this I accomplished in just two minutes! Imagine what I might make of you in five. Now be a good gentleman and drink your tea.”

Julian discovered, to his chagrin, that he could think of no clever reply. Miss Andrews was too fast for him, which only proved her inexperience. A more accomplished flirt would stoop to conquer, and allow her prey the illusion that he was wittier than she.

Unable to comprehend that the young people were merely talking in jest, Mrs Dean had become alarmed by Viola’s banter. “My dear Mary,” she said breathlessly. “Mind how you talk to Mr Pope! He is a rich man. You must not go on so wildly! Mr Pope, I do apologize! My niece has a lively sense of humor, but she means no disrespect, I’m sure.”

“My aunt seems to think you need rescuing, sir,” Viola laughed. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Terrified,” he replied, chuckling. “See? I’m drinking my tea for fear of you.”

“Yes, all men hate tea,” she said, growing more pleased with him by the moment.

“Here I thought it was just me.”

“No. All,” she insisted. “Only think…if men did not despise tea so much, there would be no glory in forcing them to drink it every afternoon! Would you like another cup, Mr Pope?”

“Have I not been punished enough?” he wanted to know.

“I’m not punishing you, Mr Pope. I’m making you better,” she explained, filling his cup.

“I see. And tea will perfect me?”

“Oh, I hope not,” she said softly. “Perfection in a man is an unforgivable fault! It leaves a woman with nothing to do. On the other hand, you are terrible—with so much to do, a girl doesn’t know where to begin. What a dilemma! I almost wish Mrs Dean had not introduced us. Then you would be some other girl’s problem.”

“But I particularly wish to be your problem, Miss Andrews.”

“And something must be done about you—you’re practically feral. Perhaps I’d better take you on, after all. You might be too much of a trial for the next girl.”

“But will I be too much for you, Miss Andrews?”

“It is possible,” Viola admitted. “You are the worst case I have ever seen. But someone must take charge of you, Mr Pope. You’re an absolute menace.”

Julian did not want to talk anymore. It was only the presence of her aunt that prevented him from acting on the desire to take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both exhausted.

For her part, she seemed pleased to have rendered him speechless yet again. It was short-lived, however, and, when he recovered, they spoke at length on a variety of subjects. Julian found her to be wholly ignorant of economics, which was his chief interest in life, and surprisingly well-informed about politics, which he despised with all his heart.

“And so you have bought your ticket to the auction,” Viola remarked presently, sensing that he did not care a straw about the latest shakeup in the Cabinet. “To own the truth, Mr Pope, I have entered into a dark conspiracy with the other bidders,” she confessed. “They have all promised to give her to me, should they win the auction. Will you promise the same?”

“I will make you no promise of the kind, young woman,” Julian said sternly. “That sort of chicanery may be all well and good in Yorkshire, but where I come from, we frown upon all trickery and deceit.”

Her smile threatened to take his breath away. “And where are you from, sir?” she asked playfully. “Suffolk, did you say?”

“Sussex.”

“Sussex. How strange that we should meet in London.”

“Not very strange. My business is in London, and so is your aunt.”

“Even so, it is a very big place, is it not? Two people could live here a hundred years and never meet.”

“My dear Mary,” interrupted Mrs Dean. “The time!”

Viola looked at the clock. Leaving the dog on the sofa, she extended her hand to Julian. “I’m so glad you came to tea, Mr Pope. It has definitely made you a better man.”

Julian looked at the clock, too. “Has it been twenty minutes?” he asked in surprise. Twenty minutes, as all the world knew, was the proscribed length of a social visit. Even in London, to go beyond that was considered bad form.

“I’m afraid it has, Mr Pope. But we will meet again tomorrow at the auction,” Viola added as the front doorbell rang. Julian got to his feet.

“That will be Lord Simon,” Mrs Dean trilled excitedly, jumping up. “Hurry, child! You mustn’t keep his lordship waiting. Go upstairs and put on your bonnet, there’s a good girl. Lord Simon Ascot,” Mrs Dean clarified for Julian’s benefit. “The younger son of the Duke of Berkshire. He’s taking Mary for a drive in his high-perch phaeton. Of all your admirers, Mary, I believe I like his lordship the best.” She flung open the doors and ran out.

“Shall I envy him for being Auntie’s favorite?” Julian murmured.

“By all means,” Viola answered, laughing. Then, almost before she knew what was happening, he had slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. His voice was deep in her ear, saying urgently, “You’re in grave danger, Yorkshire. Meet me tonight at nine o’clock at the lamppost across the street. I’ll explain everything then. Yes?”

Viola drew back, scoffing. “Danger! What on earth can you mean?”

“Please, you must trust me,” he urged. “I am concerned for your welfare.”

“I was born in Yorkshire, Mr Pope,” she said coldly, “but it was not a recent event. You must think me a fool! Will I meet you? I’ll meet you in China in twenty years, if you like.”

She flung his arm from her, saying, “Good day to you, sir!”

“But I just got here,” said Lord Simon Ascot, striding into the room. Attired in the full dress uniform of a Horse Guard, he looked like some strange cross between a medieval knight and a special messenger. Being wholly preoccupied with Viola, he took no notice of the other man. “As you can see, I come to you straight from the parade ground, Mary. Am I not a fine fellow, and a credit to the Blues?”

Viola had to concede that he was indeed a fine fellow. His face was, perhaps, a little too harshly featured to be handsome, but it was a strong, attractive face nonetheless. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform with distinction. His steel cuirass gleamed like a mirror. His white leather riding breeches clung to him like a second skin. His thigh-high black boots, complete with jingling spurs, had been polished to such a high sheen that when Viola drew near him, they reflected her striped dress as truly as a mirror. His sword was buckled at his side, and he carried his tall silver and brass helmet under one arm. The helmet’s crest, composed of a horse’s long tail which had been dyed blood red, trailed almost to the floor.

Viola cleared her throat. “Lord Simon, may I present Mr Pope?”

The big Guardsman whirled around to see Julian for the first time. “I beg your pardon, sir!” he said angrily. “I did not see you there.”

“It’s this cursed invisibility,” Julian kindly explained. “It comes and goes.”

“Mr Pope!” Viola rebuked him. “Have some respect for your betters. This gentleman is Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Simon Ascot of the Royal Horse Guards Blue.”

Lord Simon smiled at her warmly. “That’s very good, Miss Andrews,” he congratulated her. “Most females get my ranks and titles hopelessly muddled. Just the other day, a viscountess introduced me as ‘My Lord-Lieutenant Ascot.’”

When he looked at Julian, Lord Simon’s smile grew colder and did not extend to his eyes, which were pale green, in contrast with his bronzed skin and dark hair. “You should have made your presence known, sir,” he said crisply.

“Mr Pope was just leaving,” Viola said firmly. “Weren’t you, Mr Pope?”

“On the contrary,” said Julian. Parting the tails of his plain black coat, he sat down again on the purple sofa. “You were just about to ring for more tea, weren’t you, Miss Andrews?” Viola glared at the smiling young man. Audacity, she was discovering, was a quality best admired in theory. In real life, it was vastly annoying when men did not do as they were told. “You are confused, Mr Pope,” she said angrily. “I was not about to ring for more tea. I was about to go for a drive in the park with Lord Simon, and you were on your way to–to China, was it not? I understand there’s plenty of tea there!”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t leave England just yet,” Julian replied smoothly. “Not until I know the Mall is quite secure,” he added, turning to Lord Simon with mocking concern. “No fatalities in today’s exercises, I trust, my lord? No one injured on parade?”

“Injured? Don’t be ridiculous,” Lord Simon sniffed. “Go and put on your bonnet, my dear,” he told Viola. “Wait until you see the cunning little ponies I have just bought.”

With infinite care, Julian selected a macaroon from the plate. “I’m glad no one was hurt,” he said. “It’s almost impossible to replace a Guardsman, you know. Real soldiers just aren’t pretty enough to put on parade.”

Viola gasped at the brazen insult, and Lord Simon saw at once that could no longer ignore the other man if he meant to keep the young woman’s esteem. Anger flashed in his green eyes. “And what was your regiment, sir?” he sneered.

Julian told him.

“Ah, yes. Infantry,” Lord Simon sniffed. “Out of Sussex, I believe.”

“That’s right. Nothing succeeds like Sussex.”

Viola could not help but smile at such an arrogant motto.

Lord Simon’s eyes narrowed as he studied his opponent. His lips curved in a thin smile. “I know you, don’t I?” he said suddenly.

“No,” said Julian, frowning.

“Yes, I do,” said Lord Simon, still smiling his thin smile. “Someone pointed you out to me in White’s Club. You were dining with the Duke of Fanshawe. You’re the blackguard who broke Lady Jersey’s bank. Can you deny it?”

For the first time, the young man seemed discomfited. Lord Simon smiled triumphantly. “You are no better than a thief, sir. If there were any justice, Miss Andrews, this upstart would be in prison, but there is a loophole in the law, or so I understand.”

Viola had larger concerns than justice. “Are you acquainted with the Duke of Fanshawe, Mr Pope?” she demanded.

“His name is not Pope,” said Lord Simon. “It’s something like ‘Devilish’ or ‘Devious.’”

“Devize!” Viola exclaimed in dismay. Her legs felt unsteady, and she was forced to sit down. “You are Mr Devize? You told me your name was Pope!” she accused him angrily.

“No, I didn’t,” said Julian. “I told you my brother’s name was Pope.”

Her dark eyes blazed. “And from that I should have inferred that your name was, in fact, Devize?” she cried, outraged. “Oh! How stupid of me!”

Julian had the grace to look ashamed. “Miss Andrews, I can explain,” he began.

“No, don’t, please,” she said quickly. “Don’t explain.”

Viola did not believe in coincidence, or even in fate. There could only be one reason for Mr Devize’s presence here: Dickon must have sent him to find her.

Viola blushed hotly as she recalled Mr Devize’s voice in her ear, urging her to meet him later that night. She had thought he was attempting to seduce her, when, of course, all he had in mind was restoring her to her brother’s custody. She had protested just like the heroine of a melodrama. What a conceited little fool he must think her!

“I understand perfectly, Mr Devize,” she said as calmly as she could. “There’s no need to explain. Please don’t say anything more.”

To her grateful relief, Mr Devize did not expose her true identity.

“All the world knows of your crimes, sir,” said Lord Simon, his lip curled in scorn. “Even Miss Andrews, who has not been in London a week, has heard of your infamy. Indeed, Miss Andrews, this cad has imposed on you most grievously. Mr Devize is not a gentleman. You’ve got a bloody cheek, man, imposing on this young lady.”

Julian frowned. “Miss Andrews will not be accustomed to such language as this.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Andrews,” Lord Simon muttered. “I did not mean to swear. I was provoked.”

“Mary!” cried Mrs Dean, bustling into the room. “Don’t just stand there gawping! Go and put on your bonnet! All the fashionable people are about, taking their exercise in the park. Hurry, child! You are in excellent looks, is she not, gentlemen?” She beamed at the two men happily. In her view, having two or more interested parties locking horns was good for business.

“I was not gawping,” Viola said, scowling. “I wouldn’t know how.”

“Madam,” said Lord Simon. “I must inform you that this man is an impostor. He is not Mr Pope. He is, in fact, the infamous Mr Devize. He’s not even a gentleman. He’s nothing more than the Duke of Fanshawe’s stockjobber. He should be ejected from this house at once.”

The effect on Mrs Dean of Lord Simon’s revelation was not what he had hoped. Mary’s aunt seemed strangely pleased. “Oh?” she said, wriggling with pleasure. “The Duke of Fanshawe! Why, Mary, you sly thing! You said you only knew his grace a little! It would seem you have made a conquest of him, after all.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say such foolish things, Mrs Dean,” Viola murmured, not daring to look at Mr Devize.

“I beg your pardon!” Lord Simon said sharply. “How, exactly, is Miss Andrews acquainted with the Duke of Fanshawe?”

“’Twas the duke who gave Mary’s father the living at Gambolthwaite,” Mrs Dean explained proudly. “His grace was her father’s patron.”

“I see,” Lord Simon said, glowering at Mr Devize. “Then you will be attending the auction on his grace’s behalf, and bidding, too, on his behalf?”

“How else could I afford to do so?” said Julian.

“But why lie about your identity?” Lord Simon pressed him.

“I daresay, the duke values his privacy, milord,” Mrs Dean answered. “Rest assured, Mr Devize, not a word about the duke’s interest will cross my lips.”

“But how did the duke know that I was here, Mr Devize?” Viola asked. “That part I can’t understand. I certainly did not inform him of my plans.”

Julian smiled at her. “It is my duty to keep the duke informed, Miss Andrews.”

Her dark eyes widened. “But how did you know I was here? I told no one in London. How did you even know I’d left Yorkshire?”

“I keep myself informed,” he arrogantly explained. “As your father’s patron, the duke is, of course, most concerned about your welfare, Miss Andrews. As am I.”

“That is very good of his grace,” said Mrs Dean dreamily. “But now, Mr Pope—or Devize or whatever your name is—it is Lord Simon’s turn to enjoy Mary’s company. You are most welcome to attend the auction on the duke’s behalf, of course, but now you must go.” She held out her hand, and Julian had no choice but to take his leave. Before going, he strolled over to the sofa and ruffled the bichon’s ear.

Viola extended her hand to him. “Good afternoon, Mr Devize. Indeed, the duke is very fortunate to have such a capable young man working for him. You may be certain that I—”

“Nine o’clock, Mary,” he murmured for her ears alone as he kissed her hand.

“Impossible,” she breathed.

Viola was not in the habit of blushing, but a blush crept into her cheeks as he lifted his impossibly blue eyes to hers. The shock of attraction startled and embarrassed her, and, as he left the room, she felt a sense of loss quite out of proportion to the relationship. What a pity he is not Lord Bamph, she thought as he went out.

As if pulled by a string, she moved to the window, hoping for another glimpse of him. Oblivious to everything else, she heard the front door close, and Mr Devize came into view as he stepped into the street. He had no walking stick or gloves, and he had not yet put on his hat. The wind ruffled his short hair into spikes, then smoothed it down again like an invisible hand.

As he turned into Oxford Street, Viola had the most ridiculous impulse to leave the house and run after him. And then he was gone.

Lord Simon was beside her, glowering. “Come away from the window, my dear,” he urged, taking her arm. “Are we to have our drive or not?”

Viola went to the sofa to collect the puppy. “You must forgive me, Lord Simon,” she said absently. “I have the headache. I’m going upstairs to lie down. I look forward to seeing your lordship tomorrow at the auction,” she added, extending her hand to him.

Anger flashed in his green eyes, but he bent over her hand like a gentleman. “Good afternoon, then, Miss Andrews.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Simon,” she replied with well-bred politeness, but it was clear to him that her thoughts were elsewhere.