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
