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
