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
