Читать книгу The Heiress In His Bed - Tamara Lejeune - Страница 7

Situated on the highest ground in Green Park, Lord Bamph’s London mansion seemed more like a gentleman’s country estate than a town house. The drive from the gate to the gleaming white facade of the house was long, giving Lady Belinda Belphrey ample time to observe that the Duke of Fanshawe’s carriage was not very clever.

“Oh, Mama! It looks like a fat, brown goose waddling up a country lane.”

Swathed in black lace, the dowager Marchioness of Bamph was seated at the escritoire in her boudoir, her handsome face completely innocent of rouge. Lady Bamph loathed black almost as much as she had loathed her dead husband, but she had made herself as plain as possible for the occasion, not wanting to spoil her daughter’s chance to become a duchess by accidentally attracting the duke herself.

“When I am Duchess of Fanshawe, I shall put all my footmen in pink,” sighed Belinda, smoothing down her pink skirts and patting the pink silk roses woven into her red-gold curls.

“Yes, my love,” Lady Bamph murmured absently.

The duke’s carriage, meanwhile, had arrived at the house. “Mama, he’s getting out,” Belinda reported, pressing her pert nose against the window. “Mama! He’s wearing trousers!”

The dowager’s hand jerked, causing an ink blot on the page. “Trousers!” she exclaimed. “You must be mistaken, child. Only shopkeepers and bank clerks wear trousers.”

“Hurry, Mama!” cried Belinda, jumping up. “He’s coming inside!”

Lady Bamph signed her letter with a flourish, and mother and daughter went down to the drawing room to greet their visitor.

They discovered the duke consulting his pocket watch. Upon seeing the ladies, however, he instantly pocketed his watch. Unlike the many dukes of Belinda’s acquaintance, this one was a very good-looking man, with patrician features, a strong, square chin, and the most breathtaking blue eyes she had ever seen. According to Belinda’s information, the duke was hideously old—six and forty!—but, in the flesh, he did not look a day over twenty-five. Incredibly, he was not fat. Even more incredibly, he was tall, the perfect height and build for a dance partner, she decided. His spiky chestnut hair had been cut too short, and he was much too plainly dressed for Belinda’s taste, but these were minor defects, easily corrected, and quite overruled by his beautiful eyes. Overall, Belinda was delighted with her prize.

“Oh, you’re handsome!” she cried, almost before the requisite bows and curtseys had been exchanged. “I’m so relieved! That is to say, so glad!”

Although not immune to the young man’s eyes, Lady Bamph had a cooler head. “I must apologize for my daughter’s exuberance,” she said, smiling. “She is young and impetuous. What a pity we cannot follow her example and say exactly what pops into our heads at any given moment,” she boldly added, fingering the pearls at her throat and staring directly into his eyes.

Unaware that he had been mistaken for his employer, Julian Devize smiled faintly at Lady Belinda’s exuberance, but her mother’s subtlety seemed to leave him cold. “Is Lord Bamph not at home?” he asked, addressing the mother with an air of courtesy rather than preference. “As your ladyship may know, I have come on behalf of Lady Viola Gambol to negotiate her marriage settlement.”

Lady Bamph felt the sting of rejection, but Julian was so handsome, she could not resist trying again. “Perhaps, when you have concluded your business with my son, you will allow me to show you the grounds,” she suggested archly. “There are many beauty spots in my garden.”

Julian smiled thinly. “When I am done, I don’t doubt you will all wish me in Hades.”

“No, indeed!” said Belinda, taking him quite seriously.

Lady Bamph laughed lightly. “A man like you must be welcome wherever he goes,” she said, looking at him hungrily. “Now do stop teasing me and sit down.”

Her fingers released the pearls at her neck and trailed down to rearrange the black lace draped across her bosom. How vexing that her maternal instincts had led her, on today of all days, to disguise herself as a grieving old widow!

“Your ladyship is very kind,” Julian said firmly. “But I am come to deal with Lord Bamph. If his lordship is not here, it would be better if I went away again.”

“Oh, no!” cried Belinda, seizing him by the arm. “Please don’t go. We have so much to talk about before the wedding.”

“Her brother’s wedding, she means,” Lady Bamph said quickly. “Please stay, Your Grace. My son has been a little delayed,” she went on quickly, as his eyes flickered, “but he will join us presently. I apologize for the inconvenience. Won’t you join us in a cup of tea?”

“Your ladyship has made a mistake,” Julian said gravely.

The dowager blinked at him. “Mistake, Your Grace?”

“I’m not his grace,” Julian said bluntly. “My name is Mr Devize. I’m the duke’s…er, financial advisor.”

Lady Bamph’s voice was shrill. “You are not the Duke of Fanshawe?”

“No, indeed, my lady.”

All the joy went out of Belinda’s pretty face, and she sank down onto the sofa. “You look like a duke,” she accused him petulantly. “That is to say, you look like they ought to look, but somehow never do,” she corrected herself. “How vexing!”

“I’m very sorry to disappoint you, Lady Belinda,” Julian said gently.

“I was prepared for disappointment,” she said glumly, “but you got my hopes up.”

“Indeed, it was very wrong of you to deceive us, sir,” said Lady Bamph, embarrassed that she had fingered her pearls at a good-looking nobody. “You should have exposed yourself the instant you came into the house!”

“I apologize for my reticence,” Julian said dryly.

“Where is his grace?” she demanded.

“His grace stepped out into the garden to attend a call of nature,” he replied. With the barest movement of his head, he indicated the French windows.

The dowager recoiled. “What do you mean? Do you mean he’s…? On my terrace?”

“In your shrubbery, I think,” Julian answered calmly.

“My rhododendrons!” she gasped, darting toward the French windows as a rotund silhouette appeared at one of them.

“Oh no,” Lady Belinda said sadly as the real duke came in through the French windows rubbing his hands together. “He’s fat and bald, as usual. Is that blood on his stock?”

“Gravy, I should think,” Julian said reassuringly.

Belinda’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh fie! Nothing ever works out the way it should!”

“That is the tragedy of life,” Julian agreed, offering her a clean handkerchief. “It always leaves us wanting more.”

Lady Bamph, meanwhile, had gone forth to meet the duke with plenty of daggers concealed in her dazzling smile. “My lord duke! How did you find my rhododendrons?”

“It wasn’t easy, but I managed,” he answered, averting his gaze from her voluptuous black-clad form. “You should speak to the gardener about those bushes, madam. At Fanshawe, we always remove the thorns.”

“My roses!” she gasped, turning gray. “How could you? You vile little gargoyle!”

“Ah, Dev,” the duke said, hurtling quickly past this overwrought, emotionally incontinent female. “Where’s Bamph, then? I haven’t got all day.”

“Lord Bamph is not yet arrived, Duke,” said Julian.

“You’re so ugly,” Belinda whined, briefly claiming his grace’s attention.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

She blinked in surprise. “I’m Belinda, of course.”

“I’m not ugly, young Belinda,” he corrected her sternly. “I have a unique manly beauty that few can appreciate.”

“Oh,” said Belinda. “I thought you were just ugly. What a pity I’m not one of the few who can appreciate your unique manly beauty,” she added glumly.

Tired of conversing with young Belinda, the duke turned to Julian. “What do you mean he’s not yet arrived, Dev? It’s nearly ten o’clock. I’m bloody hungry!”

By this time, Lady Bamph had decided to wrest back control of her drawing room, and it was she who answered. “My son has been delayed, Your Grace. He will be with us very soon.”

“Oh, he’s your son, is he?” Dickon snorted. “Why are you dressed like that? I thought you was the housekeeper.”

Her ladyship’s smile stretched taut but did not break. “While we wait for Rupert, shall we have tea, Your Grace? Belinda, touch the bell.”

“And cake?” the duke said eagerly. “I like cake.”

Almost before Belinda had touched the bell, two footmen entered the room, one to carry the heavy silver service and one to set up the collapsible tiger maple tea table in front of the dowager’s chair. “Do take your place with Belinda on the sofa, Your Grace,” Lady Bamph implored, choosing a delicate French chair for herself.

While the duke gorged himself on cake, Julian conversed easily with Belinda. Very properly, he remarked on the beauties of the house and grounds, the felicity of losing one’s self in the wilderness of Green Park while remaining within a stone’s throw of Piccadilly, and so forth, but Lady Bamph was not deceived. It was obvious to her that Mr Devize was a devious fortune hunter intent on seducing her child, his object being, of course, Belinda’s well-publicized dowry of fifty thousand pounds.

“I hate Green Park,” Belinda pouted. “One feels so cut off from everything. I want a proper town house. I want to be in the middle of everything, not hidden away in Green Park. Mama, can we not break our lease?”

“Lease? His lordship does not own the house, then?” Julian murmured. “Interesting.” Taking a pencil and a small writing tablet from his pocket, he made a quick note. His memory required no such aid; he did it merely to annoy Lady Bamph.

And annoy her it did. “My son is looking for a suitable purchase,” she snapped. “Where do you live, Mr Devize?” she asked him waspishly.

“In Lombard Street, ma’am,” he replied, strangely unashamed of his humble address.

“I’ve never heard of it,” she sniffed. “In which part of London is Lombard Street?”

“The City, ma’am.”

“The City! How quaint. I thought only Jews and shopkeepers lived in that part of town.”

“It’s nothing like the West End,” Julian answered with annoying complacency.

“Do all City men wear trousers, Mr Devize?” Lady Belinda asked eagerly.

“Yes, all, my lady,” came the shocking reply. “However gentlemanlike, white silk stockings are not practical for a man who must earn his living in the dirt and coal dust of the City. And, for myself, I dislike the affectation of wearing riding boots in the metropolis. I’ve not been near a horse since I sold out of the army.”

Belinda sighed happily. “Oh! Were you in the army, Mr Devize? You must have so many wonderful stories to tell.”

“No, not one.”

Belinda was taken aback, until she noticed that his blue eyes were twinkling again. “Oh, you are teasing me! But how splendid you must have looked in your regimentals! Was yours a cavalry regiment?” she asked hopefully.

“No, but I did ride a horse.”

This riddle flummoxed Lady Belinda, but her mother understood. “An officer?” she sneered. “In my day, only gentlemen could be officers.”

The duke handed Belinda his empty plate and licked his fingers. “Madam, I’ll have you know that Dev is a gentleman,” he said angrily. “His father’s a baron.”

Lady Bamph’s eyes widened. “You are that Mr Devize?” she gasped. “The son of Lord Devize?”

Julian smiled faintly. “I have that honor, yes.”

“You are the odious wretch who broke Child’s Bank!” she accused him, rising to her feet majestically. “Infamous cur! How dare you show your face among civilized people? You, sir, have been the means of ruining some of my dearest friends! I know your mother,” she went on, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Odious, grasping female! She must be so proud of you.”

“Of course she’s proud of him,” said the duke. “Aren’t you proud of your son? Speaking of which, where is he? The sooner he marries my sister, the sooner I get my nephew.”

Forcing a smile, Lady Bamph sat down again. “I’m sure Rupert is on his way, Your Grace,” she said pleasantly. “He is most eager to meet you…and Lady Viola, too, of course. What a pity her ladyship could not come to London.”

“No, Dev,” the duke said firmly as Julian opened his mouth to speak. “I’ll handle this. My sister is not a traveling exhibit,” he announced as he sponged cake crumbs from his waistcoat with his fingers. “She flatly refuses to come to London. If your son wants her, he must go to Yorkshire and do the pretty. Now, don’t ask me why a man should go all the way to Yorkshire to make love to a girl he’s already engaged to. I couldn’t tell you if you did ask. But Viola is not a man, and we can’t expect her to behave like a rational human being.”

Concluding his speech, he licked his fingers.

“It was I who suggested Rupert invite Lady Viola to London,” Lady Bamph answered. “I thought her ladyship might enjoy the delights of the Season with us. I see now my interference has led to infelicity all around. I see no reason why Rupert, Belinda, and I could not go to Yorkshire with you for an extended visit, if that is Lady Viola’s preference.”

“But Mama!” Belinda protested. “Rupert said if Lady Viola didn’t obey him, he’d make her very sorry indeed when they married. Rupert has a very bad temper when he is crossed,” she confided to Julian, who was taking notes again. “And besides, Mama, it is the height of the Season! We shall miss some very important plays and assemblies. I do not suppose there are plays and assemblies in Yorkshire. Rupert says that Yorkshire is the back end of beyond.”

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 lunch.”

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.