Читать книгу The Heiress In His Bed - Tamara Lejeune - Страница 8

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…?”

To Viola’s amusement, Dobbins hunted through the open boxes on the table until she found the toasting fork. “See how sharp it is?” she cried, extending the telescoping handle and testing the tines with a finger. “I’d stab anyone who got near your ladyship.”

“Give me that,” Viola said, disarming her maid. “You are incorrigible, Dobbins,” she went on, collapsing the silver handle. “No, I couldn’t go on the stagecoach. Ladies don’t travel by stagecoach, and besides, York would know I was on it. My people would feel abandoned.”

“They’d get over it,” grumbled Dobbins. “Everyone goes to London, my lady. It’s not a crime. We could take the Night Mail!” she said suddenly, lighting up. “It stops here in the dead of night, so no one would see us.”

“Ladies, Dobbins, do not avail themselves of such vulgar modes of travel,” Viola said severely. “We do not depart in the dead of night like criminals.”

“There’s a young lady in the taproom right now with a ticket on the Night Mail,” Dobbins argued. “I heard Mrs Reynolds talking about it.”

“Nonsense,” Viola said stoutly. “Gentlewomen do not sit in common taprooms, and they certainly don’t travel on the Night Mail. You are mistaken, Dobbins.”

Dobbins looked mulish.

Viola sighed impatiently. “I can see I shall have to get to the bottom of this,” she said crisply. “Let Mrs Reynolds come before me. I’m sure you must have misunderstood what you heard, Dobbins. As sometimes happens when one eavesdrops,” she added severely.

The landlady appeared in all haste, smelling of onions and trembling in fear. “My lady!” she cried, curtseying madly. “I trust that everything is to your ladyship’s satisfaction?”

“Ah, Mrs Reynolds. My maid tells me there is a lady in the taproom,” Viola said, chuckling at the absurdity, “but I am certain this cannot be so.”

Mrs Reynolds’s face turned as red as a beef heart.

Viola frowned. “Is there a lady in the taproom?” she demanded.

Mrs Reynolds began a fresh round of curtseying. “I beg your pardon, my lady! I had nowhere else to put Miss Andrews, your ladyship having taken both the private parlors.”

“You make it sound as if I burgled them,” Viola complained. “I would have given up the other parlor before I let you put a gentlewoman in a common taproom. In any case, no gentlewoman I know would allow herself to be put in a taproom.”

“It’s poor little Mary Andrews,” said Mrs Reynolds.

“I know Mary Andrews!” Viola exclaimed. “My brother gave her father the living at Gambolthwaite upon my advice.”

“The vicar’s been dead six months,” said Mrs Reynolds.

“Yes, I know,” Viola replied dryly. “I just found a replacement for him. I am not so out of touch with my people, Mrs Reynolds, that they can die without my knowing of it.”

“No, my lady,” said Mrs Reynolds, chastened.

“And so you put Miss Andrews in the taproom!” Viola shook her head. “That will not do, Mrs Reynolds. Desire her to come up to me at once, and bring us a fresh pot of tea—she will need it after her ordeal. And what’s all this nonsense about her traveling on the Night Mail?”

The last question was asked too late to receive any reply from Mrs Reynolds, who had bolted from the room almost in advance of her orders.

Presently, Miss Andrews appeared. She was a thin, little person with a scrubbed face that might have been pretty if its eyes and nose had not been so red from crying. Her bonnet looked like an upside-down coal scuttle, and her black bombazine dress was uncommonly ugly. Viola, who believed in being well-dressed, even in times of the greatest adversity, was offended by this poor showing, but, remembering the sylphlike young girl in sprigged muslin that Miss Andrews once had been, she said kindly, “Come in, child. Don’t be afraid. It is I, Lady Viola.”

“I’m sorry to be such a bother, my lady,” the girl whispered, choking back a sob.

“You couldn’t bother me if you tried, dear,” Viola said briskly. “I can’t believe you were in the taproom. Indeed, I am ashamed of Mrs Reynolds for putting you there.”

“But Mrs Reynolds has been so kind to me,” protested the girl, taking a few courageous steps into the room. “I’m sure I don’t deserve it. You see, I have no money.” As she spoke, she kept her enormous brown eyes fixed on her shoes. Viola found all this cringing highly insulting. Anyone would have thought the child expected Lady Viola to eat her!

“Do sit down,” said Viola with determined kindness. “Help her, Dobbins,” she added, as Miss Andrews showed no signs of knowing how to operate a chair. “Now, then,” Viola said brightly when the unhappy girl was seated. “It’s Mary, isn’t it? Mary Andrews?”

The brown eyes flew up in amazement, then crashed down again. “Indeed, your ladyship is very k-kind to remember me,” she stuttered, her eyes streaming. “I never dreamed you would.”

“A good memory is hardly an indicator of kindness,” Viola said dryly, drawing a look of sheer terror from the brown eyes. “However, I am not an ogre, I hope,” Viola added quickly. “Now, then, my dear, what’s all this about you going to London on the Night Mail?”

Miss Andrews’s story emerged in a veritable flood of tears. The gist was that she was being sent to London to live with an aunt whom she had never met. “To own the truth, there was a rift between my father and my aunt some years before I was born. Papa did not approve of the man she married, and even after he died—my Uncle Dean, I mean—Papa could not forgive her. I fear my aunt is not quite respectable, but I have nowhere else to go!”

“If she isn’t respectable, you cannot live with her, my dear,” Viola said instantly.

“No, my lady,” Mary agreed, her eyes and nose overflowing again. “But my mother—my stepmother, I mean—says that I am too stupid to be a governess, and what else can I do?”

“Are you too stupid to be a governess?” Viola asked politely.

“I don’t think I am, my lady,” Mary answered. “My father educated me himself in all the classical subjects. Perhaps,” she went on, plucking up her courage, “if your ladyship could recommend me to a good family…”

Viola spoke bluntly. “My dear girl, all the Latin in Sweden could not save you from the scorn of high-spirited English children if you cannot keep your waterworks under good regulation. You have no natural authority, and authority is a quality essential in a governess. I could not, in good conscience, recommend you to anyone as a governess.”

The courage Mary had just plucked up vanished as if it had never been plucked up at all, and a fresh waterfall of tears began to flow down her soggy, red face.

“Why can’t you remain with your stepmother?” Viola asked impatiently.

“She has a place to live with her cousin in Gloucester, but she cannot take me. Her cousin is not a wealthy man, and I am no relation to him.”

“I see. Well, perhaps your Aunt Dean is not so bad,” Viola suggested. “Your father did not like her, but clergymen always do seem to think the worst of people, I have noticed. Perhaps your aunt is no worse than the average sinner. I will know more when I meet her.”

Mary blinked at her in amazement. “When you meet her, my lady?”

“Of course,” said Viola. “I have been thinking of going to London myself, but, for reasons of my own, I would prefer to travel incognito. Your dilemma comes at a perfect time for me. I shall go to London on the Night Mail in your place. I will meet your aunt. She will think that I am you, and I will allow her to think so. In that way, I will be able to determine whether or not she is a fit guardian for you pretty quickly. If she is, I will send for you. In the meantime, you will go home with Dobbins, where you will be safe.”

“I have no home, my lady,” Mary said pathetically.

“I meant my home,” said Viola. “Fanshawe. Dobbins will dress you in my clothes for the journey, and no one in York will ever suspect that Lady Viola is on her way to London. They will assume I’m in my carriage with Dobbins.”

“What am I to do at Fanshawe, madam?” cried Mary, quivering with fresh panic.

“You’ll be my guest, dear,” Viola explained. “You needn’t do a thing. Dobbins will look after you. It will give her something to do while I’m away.”

Three days and four nights later, a little after three on a very foggy morning, the Night Mail from York rolled into the yard of the Bell Savage Inn, Ludgate Hill, London. “Within an inch of time,” the big, beefy landlord told the postmaster as the two met in the yard.

“On the nose, Mr Jennings, on the nose,” the postmaster replied as the armed guards who had accompanied the Mail on its journey repaired to the inn for breakfast.

Half-asleep and bone-weary, Viola stumbled down the steps, blinking in the sudden glare of torches. For the first time in her life, she was not pristine. The Night Mail’s grueling schedule scarcely allowed its passengers time to visit the convenience on its brief stops, let alone bathe or change clothes. Underneath her unwashed garments, Viola’s skin itched. Although she had kept her bonnet on at all times, she was desperately worried that she might have picked up lice or something worse from her fellow travelers. Her head ached.

“Perfectly respectable,” the postmaster was saying. “Parson’s daughter…Poor as a church mouse…. ’Tis ashame….”

The landlord’s eyes touched on her doubtfully, but she could not blame him for that. Respectable females did not travel on the Night Mail, after all.

No one had come to meet Mary Andrews, not even a manservant, Viola realized with a shock. To be left standing in the yard of a busy London coaching house, two hundred miles from one’s home, in the darkest hours before dawn, was decidedly an unhappy experience. At least, on the Night Mail, Viola had been under the protection of the guards. Here she had no one to defend her. This was the reception that Mrs Dean had planned for her young niece?

Fuming, Viola stood in the yard for what seemed like an age before the busy landlord made his way to her. He smelled strongly of onions. “Miss Andrews?” He greeted her uncertainly, as if not quite sure he had received good information from the postmaster.

“Good morning, landlord,” Viola said crisply. “I would like a private chamber, if you please. A hot bath, and a hot breakfast, too, if that’s not too much to ask.”

To Mr Jennings she was a puzzle. Her superior accent proclaimed her to be a gentlewoman accustomed to good service. Her clothing, however travel-stained, was of the best quality, too. Miss Mary Andrews didn’t look poor to him, but the postmaster had said she was. If she wasn’t poor, why had she come to London on the Night Mail? And if she was poor, how could she expect to afford the hospitality of the Bell Savage Inn? Something was not quite right here, he decided. Because she was young and fine-looking, he suspected that she was meeting a man, probably running away from home.

Viola impatiently took her purse from her reticule and gave the man a shilling. “A room, landlord,” she repeated firmly.

“I’ve a snug room for you with a lovely little sitting room, miss,” he said, instantly pocketing the silver coin, and with it his scruples.

While Viola would never have described the tiny sitting room he led her to as “lovely,” it was adequate. “Which would you like first, miss?” he asked her as the porter brought up her trunk. “Bath or breakfast?”

Viola’s stomach lurched. She had eaten nothing but hard cheese and even harder tack biscuits over the last three days, but she couldn’t even think about food until she was clean.

“Bath, I think, and I shall need a maid, too, of course. Just a girl to help me,” she explained when the landlord hesitated. “Anyone will do.”

When she was alone, Viola removed her bonnet. The mirror over the washstand presented a shocking sight. Her face was greasy and pale, her fine, dark eyes were puffy from exhaustion, and her curly black hair was flat and dull. She noticed an offensive odor, and had wondered what it was. With a start, she realized that it was herself. “I stink,” she confessed, red-faced, to the mirror. “I, Lady Viola Gambol, stink.”

After her bath, Viola felt almost human again. Bundled in her quilted dressing gown of blue satin, she curled up in front of the fire in the sitting room to dry her hair while the maidservant emptied the tub. When instructed to get rid of the pile of clothing in the corner, the girl looked incredulous, but silently obeyed.

Breakfast arrived, and Viola ate lustily, washing burnt sausages down with cool buttermilk. After eating, she felt sleepy, but a sudden, violent knocking on the door of the sitting room put an end to all thoughts of rest. She scarcely had time to open the door before the landlord came in, dragging the unfortunate maidservant by the ear. As Viola watched in shock, he threw the girl bodily across the room. She landed in a broken heap at Viola’s feet.

“There’s your thief, miss,” he roared while the girl whimpered. “I caught her red-handed with your clothes!”

Viola was an aristocrat, but she did not care to see servants mistreated. “I gave her those things, landlord,” she said angrily, helping the girl to her feet.

The landlord stared at Viola, confused. “What do you mean?”

Ignoring him, Viola examined the servant. “Your ear is very red, my dear,” she said gently, “but there does not appear to be any permanent damage. You’d better sit down,” she added, leading her to the fireside.

The landlord scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with her, miss. Her ears are always red. Get back to work, you!” he added menacingly. “I’m not paying you to sit on your arse, crying.”

“There’s no question of her returning to work, I’m afraid,” said Viola, taking another shilling from her purse. “This young woman is under my protection now.”

“You’re mighty high-handed for a parson’s brat, I must say,” he said, pocketing her coin.

Viola was tempted to tell the odious man that he was addressing Lady Viola Gambol. However, she decided that the damage to her reputation would not be worth the pleasure of watching him cower. Besides, she was perfectly capable of getting her way without using her rank to bully people. “Thank you,” she said simply. “You may go now.”

“You’ll regret any kindness you show that worthless bone-tail,” he predicted. “I never had a decent day’s work out of her.”

Viola opened the door for him. “What a relief to you to be rid of her,” she remarked pleasantly. Then, closing the door on him, she turned to look at the thin young woman. “You must allow me to apologize, my dear,” she said quietly. “I did not mean to cause you trouble.”

The girl looked at her in amazement. No one, let alone a fine lady dressed in satin, had ever apologized to her before in her life.

“I had meant to hire a lady’s maid when I got to London,” Viola told her. “You will do. My name is…” Here she paused. While she had no intention of taking the girl into her confidence, she did not like to tell a direct lie if it could be avoided. “You may call me ‘madam.’”

“Lady’s maid!” the girl exclaimed. “Me?”

“What is your name, dear?” Viola asked.

“Pansy Cork, miss—er, madam.”

“Very good, Cork. I expect you know nothing about the care of clothes?”

“I’ve only worked in the kitchen my whole life, madam,” Cork confessed.

“Perfect,” said Viola. “I like a blank slate. That way I needn’t waste any time purging you of bad habits. The only decent maids I’ve ever had are the ones I’ve trained myself.”

Without further ado, Viola brought the girl clean clothes. She had chosen her plainest dress, a walking dress of soft gray wool, but to Cork it looked like the raiment of a princess. There were also clean silk petticoats, drawers of soft white lawn, and a pair of silk stockings.

Cork stared, afraid to touch them. “Don’t ask me to iron them, madam,” she pleaded. “I’d be sure to ruin them.” She flew into a panic when Viola told her they were for her to wear.

“If you’re going to be a lady’s maid, you must look the part,” Viola said firmly. “Later, I will cut your hair and show you how to clean your teeth, but I’m far too tired at present. I’m going to bed.”

In fact, Viola fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

East London was heavily invested with bells, and Ludgate Hill, with its proximity to St Paul’s Cathedral, as well as dozens of other smaller churches, had more than its fair share of the daily bombardment. Promptly at six AM, they all began to ring at once, though not, of course, in unison. It was as if hell itself had broken loose and this cacophony was London’s way of beating it back, or else joining it.

At the first toll, Viola awoke with a violent start and sat up, her heart pounding, her hands clapped over her ears. The clanging was so loud she might as well have been inside a bell tower, with the peals breaking directly over her head. She jumped out of bed, and was astonished to find Pansy Cork peacefully asleep in a chair in the next room.

“Wake up,” she screamed, shaking the girl. “The inn is on fire!”

Cork jumped up. The dress Viola had given her was too long, and she stumbled over the skirts. “Six of the clock! I’m late! I’ll be skinned alive!”

All at once, Cork remembered that she was no longer employed in the kitchen. “It’s only the church bells, madam,” she assured Viola.

“Oh,” said Viola, feeling a little foolish. Gradually, her pulse returned to normal. “Well, we may as well have breakfast now we are awake,” she said, recovering. “Ring the bell, and let’s hope someone hears us over the din.”

Everyone in the inn seemed to have had the same idea at once, and breakfast was very long in arriving. In the meantime, Cork stood atop the table while Viola pinned up the hem of her dress. “These silk drawers is tickling me, madam,” Cork complained.

“These silk drawers are tickling me,” Viola corrected. “And they are not silk. They are made of lawn. Lawn is a very fine, sheer linen that is lighter than cambric. Originally, it came from a place called Laon, in France. For that reason, it is sometimes called French cambric.”

“Blimey!” Cork breathed, intimidated by the young lady’s expert knowledge.

When breakfast arrived, Cork sat down with her mistress at the table near the window.

“You will not be eating with me, of course, when we are at home,” Viola explained, looking out the window. “You will eat with the other servants. But when I’m traveling, I enjoy the company. What can you tell me about the shop across the street? Difficult to tell in this beastly fog, but I think I see hats. Hats are very important, Cork. I must teach you all about hats. I’m very particular—”

Viola’s dissertation on hats was interrupted by a sudden loud banging on the door.

“Mary Andrews! Mary Andrews, I know you’re in there! Open this door at once!”

The woman on the other side of the door was screaming furiously.

Cork jumped to her feet, but Viola motioned her to be seated. Going to the door herself, she flung it open, disclosing an ample woman with a red face. The woman wore a short pelisse of rabbit fur over a day dress of puce wool. Ostrich feathers curled over the high poke of her straw bonnet. Her small, wet mouth fell open as she stared in surprise at Viola. Arrayed in an impeccably tailored walking dress of coral pink cambric, with ribbons threaded through her now clean and glossy black ringlets, Viola obviously was not what she had expected.

“My good woman,” said Viola, with unfounded optimism, “what do you want?”

“I beg your p-pardon, ma’am,” she stammered, curtseying. “I was looking for my niece.”

“Oh? You are Mrs Dean, I collect? I have been here, madam, for nearly four hours!”

The woman gaped at her. “You mean that you are my niece?” she cried. “You naughty girl! You are not in mourning for your father, I see. And what do you mean by hiring a room—with a parlor, no less! Who do you think is going to pay for all this? You may think because I live in London that I am rich, but, I assure you, I am no such thing!”

Viola looked at her coldly. “I am quite able to pay for my room, madam.”

“Oh!” said Mrs Dean, pleased. “You have some money about you? Excellent. But you mustn’t waste it, Mary,” she cautioned. “There was no need to hire a room, not when I have gone to the trouble of coming all this way to fetch you.”

“Was I meant to stand in the yard for four hours? I didn’t realize,” Viola said tartly. “And what do you mean when you talk of coming all this way? Do you not reside in London?”

Mrs Dean chuckled at her ignorance. “London is a great big place, Mary. York is nothing compared to it.” She sailed into the room and went directly to the breakfast table. “And you are?” she inquired of Cork as she picked up the teapot.

“This is my maid, Cork,” Viola said coldly.

“A servant! Off you go, then,” cried Mrs Dean, taking Cork’s place at the table and helping herself to the remains of Cork’s breakfast. “I must say, my dear Mary,” she cried, almost choking on her bacon, “that you are far better looking than I had dared to hope. Having seen you in your infancy, I was expecting a rather common little miss, but you have grown into a beauty. You will do very well on the London market. Who knows? You might attract a rich gentleman, possibly even a handsome young lord.”

Viola was skeptical. A husband, of course, was just what little Mary Andrews needed, but what sort of husband could the teary-eyed niece of this vulgar, blowsy female expect to attract? That was the material question. “I am obliged to you, madam,” she said, looking away from the disgusting spectacle of Mrs Dean consuming her appropriated breakfast.

“What are you now—sixteen, seventeen?” Her greedy eyes went over Viola’s twenty-one-year-old figure, settling on the well-developed bosom. “You seem very poised and grown-up for such a young girl! But gentlemen like that.”

Viola’s eyebrows went up. “Do they?” she asked politely.

Mrs Dean smiled on, even as she picked her teeth. “Are you packed and ready to go, Mary? I have a hack waiting.”

Viola recoiled. “Don’t you keep a carriage?”

“My dear, it’s too expensive! None but the very rich can afford to keep a carriage in London. Owning a carriage…Why, that’s almost like owning one’s own town house!”

“You don’t own your home?” Viola exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, love,” said Mrs Dean with a sly wink. “I’ve a strong, steady lease as long as Mr Pettigrew has got a pulse.”

Viola made no attempt to determine the meaning of this cryptic remark.

By the time Mrs Dean and Viola emerged from the inn, followed by Cork carrying her own small bundle, and the porter carrying Viola’s luggage, the fog had dissipated, and the sun was shining. The big shop windows sparkled up and down the length of Ludgate Hill. Viola caught sight of a large domed edifice at the end of the street, and her opinion of London was elevated. While it was hardly as grand as her beloved Fanshawe, the structure was impressive in its own small way. “Who lives there?” she asked brightly, cheered by the sunshine.

Cork giggled. “God lives there, madam. ’Tis St Paul’s Cathedral.”

“Oh,” said Viola, disappointed. “I thought it would be bigger.”

As the hackney carriage rolled west, Viola pushed her head out of the window, staring in awe at the endless manmade scenery. She could scarcely believe she was still in England. London was surely the biggest, busiest place on earth. People were everywhere, loud and alive, both men and women, rich and poor. Horses, vehicles, dogs, even children, thronged the streets. And everyone, it seemed, was in a devil of a hurry.

Viola was terrified. “Do they mean to attack us?”

Mrs Dean looked at her in surprise. “Who, Mary?”

“That angry mob out there,” Viola cried. “It looks very ugly. Are there no soldiers to subdue them?”

Mrs Dean laughed heartily. “You call that a mob, Miss Mary?” she jeered.

“Is it always so busy?” Viola cried in amazement.

“I told you, York is nothing to London,” Mrs Dean said smugly. “And close your mouth, Miss Mary—you look like a bumpkin.”

Viola closed her mouth with a snap.

Ludgate Hill flowed into Fleet Street, which seemed to go on for miles and miles and miles, with no end in sight. Then, just past the Law Courts, Fleet Street became the Strand, and Viola instantly recognized Gambol House; she had seen dozens of artists’ views of the place, and was inclined to think it the finest house in all London. “Beautiful!” she exclaimed, grateful for any landmark in this strange, frightening city.

“That old heap!” scoffed Mrs Dean. “No one lives in the Strand these days,” she informed Viola. “It ain’t considered fashionable.”

“I shouldn’t call the Duke of Fanshawe ‘no one,’” Viola said coldly.

“Did you never meet the duke?” Mrs Dean asked her curiously. “His grace gave your father the living at Gambolthwaite, I think.”

“I know the duke,” Viola replied. “I know his grace very well.”

“Oh ho! Did he try anything?” Mrs Dean asked eagerly, jostling Viola with an elbow. “A beautiful young girl like you! I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He’d be used to getting what he wants, being a duke and all. If he’s been at you, girl, we’ll make him pay.”

Cork stared at the woman, goggle-eyed.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Viola said icily. “The Duke of Fanshawe enjoys a spotless reputation in Yorkshire. And no one has been ‘at me.’ Ever.”

“Pity,” said Mrs Dean. She then reverted to the previous topic. “Nowadays, all the fashionable set take houses in the West End. In Pall Mall, in Mayfair, in Green Park, in Grosvenor Square. Piccadilly. Park Lane.” She closed her eyes dreamily.

“And where do you live, Mrs Dean?” said Viola, unable to bring herself to call this indelicate stranger “aunt.” “In the West End, I suppose?”

“Almost!” Mrs Dean answered proudly. “Very nearly. I’m in Portland Place. It’s very new and coming. Just down from the Regent’s Park. It does pay to have influential friends,” she added smugly, preening and petting her rabbit pelisse.

As the hackney carriage turned north, the smell of coal dust and horse dung mingled in the air even more strongly, causing Viola’s eyes to water. “Is Portland Place much farther?” she asked, taking out her handkerchief and pressing it to her nostrils.

“We’re not even to Regent Street,” Mrs Dean replied.

Regent Street was so choked with vehicles and pedestrians that the hack could advance only inches at a time. Viola was so cross and so tired that not even the luxurious wares displayed in the many shop windows could divert her. “Is no one in London where they are supposed to be?” she said irritably. “Must everyone be in motion at once?”

“Regent Street is quite impossible this time of morning,” said Mrs Dean complacently.

At last, they turned into Portland Place. Mrs Dean’s house was at the bottom of the handsome street, farthest from Regent’s Park. The three females alighted from the vehicle. Mrs Dean, preoccupied with her pelisse, inadvertently left it to Viola to pay the driver.

The house, tall and slender and semidetached, with iron railings and a pretty green door, seemed respectable enough; at least it did until the door opened and a portly middle-aged man darted out, pulling on his coat as he barreled down the steps. His horsehair wig was askew, and his nose was so bulbous and red it seemed to be crying out for a physician. To Viola’s astonishment, Mrs Dean greeted the coarse-looking man with familiar jocularity.

“Not now, Dolly,” he answered, hopping down the steps on surprisingly dainty feet in buckled shoes. “I’m shockingly late for breakfast. Mrs Pettigrew don’t like it when I’m late.”

Late or not, the sight of Viola seemed to affect him strongly. He came to a sudden stop and stared at her, his rheumy eyes moving rapidly from this part to that, rather like a colony of ants. Never in Viola’s life had any man looked at her so lecherously. She was too surprised even to speak. Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the scoundrel had the temerity to speak to her. “Hello, pretty!” he said. “Present me, Dolly!”

“Mr Pettigrew, behave yourself,” Mrs Dean implored him giddily as Viola struggled to keep her breakfast from coming up. “This is my shy little niece from Yorkshire! The parson’s daughter, you know. She’s far too good for the likes of you. I’ve a gentleman in mind for her, if not a lord.”

Undeterred, the ocular rapist completed his violation of Viola’s personal dignity by winking at her. Viola felt around in her reticule, her fingers closing over her trusty toasting fork as he smacked his lips repulsively.

“You saucy little minx,” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past you!”

Then, grinning like an ape, he jumped into the hack the women had just quitted and departed.