Читать книгу The Heiress In His Bed - Tamara Lejeune - Страница 9

With one gloved finger, Baroness Devize held the dimity curtains of her carriage window slightly apart, just enough to observe her youngest offspring as he sauntered down Lombard Street. Born and bred a gentleman, Julian, the handsomest of her three children, was dressed like a common clerk, in black trousers, black coat, and a truly unforgivable hat. Naturally, he wore no gloves. As he sauntered, he alternately ate of the hot cross bun he held in one hand and drank from the small amber-colored bottle he held with the other.

Unaware that his primitive habits were being remarked, Julian ran briskly up the steps of No. 32, a ramshackle, semidetached house immediately next to a storefront window emblazoned with the pawnbroker’s device of three golden balls. The young man licked his fingers, knocked on the door, and was admitted, bottle in hand.

Paralyzed by strong disgust, his mother could only stare.

“Hurry, Mama!” said the other lady seated in the closed carriage. “He’s getting away!”

“Really, Perdita,” Lady Devize murmured repressively, removing her index finger from the divide in the curtains. “Was that remark intended to be humorous?”

She spoke to her only daughter as if the latter were still a girl of sixteen fresh from the schoolroom. In fact, Perdita, Lady Cheviot, was thirty-six years of age, married, with seven children. Unlike her mother, Perdita had allowed herself to grow a trifle plump over the years, but she was still a handsome woman, with the rich, chestnut hair and brilliant blue eyes she had inherited from her rail-thin mother. “What if he won’t come out, Mama?” she suggested mischievously. “Will you go in and get him, or shall I?”

Life had dealt Lady Devize too many cruel blows for her to see anything humorous in life, her youngest son being the cruelest blow of all. With his good looks and razor-sharp intellect (both inherited from the baroness, of course), Julian might have made a brilliant marriage, but, instead, at twenty-five, he was content to turn his back on Society and eke out an existence among the middle classes. The baroness rounded on her daughter with a vengeance.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Perdita,” she snapped. “His man will give him my note, and your brother will join us presently.”

The baroness proved correct. In just a few moments, the young man who had gone into No. 32 came out again. He had lost his amber bottle, but he was still wearing the unforgivable hat. Perdita recklessly threw open the window. “Julian! Over here!”

“For heaven’s sake, Perdita!” the baroness hissed. “Someone might see you!”

“No one knows us in this part of London, Mama,” Perdita answered. “No one we know would be caught dead in the City. Apart from Julian, of course.”

“Quite,” said the baroness coldly as a knock sounded on the door. “Enter!”

Julian opened the door, climbed inside the carriage, and sat next to Perdita. His hat—and Lady Devize had an excellent view of it as he leaned forward to close the door—was even worse than she had thought. In fact, it was execrable.

“Where on earth did you get that hat?” Perdita exclaimed.

“I bought it,” Julian replied. His brilliant blue eyes, rendered breathtaking by the sunlight, were fixed on his mother, and her brilliant blue eyes were fixed on him. Although there was no love lost between them, the family resemblance could not be denied. “If it offends you, I will remove it.” So saying, he took off his hat and balanced it on his knee.

The baroness closed her eyes in shame. Her son had one of those horrible close-cropped haircuts that men who do not keep creditable valets are forced to get from barbers.

“It doesn’t look like you bought it,” Perdita said frankly. “It rather looks like you stole it from the family of mice that were nesting in it. What did you do with the poor mice?”

“It’s not as bad as that,” said Julian, smiling faintly.

“I was trying to be kind,” said Perdita.

“Aren’t you going to greet your mother?” Lady Devize demanded, exasperated.

“My lady,” he said politely. “What brings you to the City?”

The baroness did not reply. “Portland Place,” she called sharply to the driver, and the closed carriage began to move, traveling northwest along Lombard Street.

Julian frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to go for a drive with you just now, madam. I work for a living, as you know.”

“My son, the stockjobber,” said the baroness, drenching those four simple words in oceans of icy contempt.

“At your ladyship’s service,” Julian replied. “Are you buying or selling?”

As the baroness choked on her own fury, Perdita caught Julian’s arm. “It’s Papa,” she said quietly. “He’s very ill, Julian. They don’t seem to expect him to live much longer.”

All traces of mockery disappeared from the young man’s face.

“I see,” he said quietly. “Of course I’ll come.”

His mother sniffed. “By all means! Visit your father on his deathbed—if you wish to hasten his demise, that is. The sight of you would surely kill him on the spot.”

“Mama! No!” Perdita cried, horrified.

“Naturally, I have no wish to commit patricide,” Julian said stiffly. “I will, of course, absent myself from the touching family scene. But why take me to Portland Place?”

“Your father wants to see your brother, his heir, before he dies,” Lady Devize explained.

Perdita said quickly, “Alex is in a—a house, Julian, and we need you to get him out.”

“Have you tried knocking on the door?” Julian inquired politely.

“Your brother is in a bawdyhouse,” said the baroness impatiently. “We couldn’t possibly knock on that door.”

“And we can’t send a servant, either,” said Perdita, anticipating Julian’s next suggestion. “What if he’s drunk? What if he won’t come out? What if he creates a disturbance? There would be a dreadful scandal! And how would it look if Papa actually died while his heir was creating a disturbance in a brothel?”

Julian sighed. “Where is the house?”

“Portland Place!” the baroness said indignantly.

“Portland Place?” Julian repeated, chuckling. “Isn’t that where you live, madam?”

Lady Devize drew herself up. “I am at the top of Portland Place,” she informed him icily. “Mrs Dean’s…establishment…is at the bottom of Portland Place. Thus far, she has managed to elude detection. To coin a phrase: The law is an ass.”

“So you left your house at the top of Portland Place. You drove all the way out to Lombard Street to fetch me. And now we are on our way to the bottom of Portland Place?”

Julian was almost smiling; it was so ridiculous.

“I’m sorry to have taken you away from your labors on the Exchange,” Lady Devize said nastily, “but the matter could not be delayed if we are to reach Sussex by nightfall.”

Julian frowned. “Sussex? Is my father not in London?”

“I was forced to come to London without him this Season,” said his mother. “After what you did to Child’s Bank, sir, your father could not face his friends in the House of Lords. Some people of very high rank were affected by your underhanded dealings.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Birds or billiards?” Julian asked her.

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

“Of course,” said Julian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a bunch of arse,” Julian scoffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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