said dryly. “Apart from the Royal Family, hardly anyone is allowed inside the Mall these days for security reasons.”
“That can’t be too convenient,” observed the duke as they came up to the gates topped with gilded spikes. The duke got his pass from underneath the seat cushion and showed it to the Coldstream Guard on duty. “See how easy it is when one has an ivory pass?” he remarked smugly as the brown carriage passed on into the broad avenue of the Mall.
Julian easily agreed that it was very pleasant as they drove past the royal residences set like jewels in St James’s Park. “I must warn you, Duke,” he said presently. “You should be on your guard at all times during this journey to Yorkshire.”
Dickon gave a start. “Good God, why?”
“I’d be very much surprised if Lady Bamph didn’t try to make a match between you and her daughter,” Julian replied. “You must take great care never to be alone with Lady Belinda.”
The duke paled. “You mean marriage? Not me, Dev! They may have caught young Viola like a rat in a trap, but they won’t catch me. Alone with young Belinda? I’d rather go hungry. If that’s what they want, we’d better cancel this trip to Yorkshire.”
“No, Duke. You must take the Bamphs to Yorkshire, as planned,” Julian said calmly. “I don’t want them breathing down my neck while I’m busy shuffling things around on this end.”
“This is no time for card games, Dev!” the duke scolded. “They are trying to force me into a marriage with a complete stranger! I won’t stand for it!”
“Remember what I told you about marriage, Duke, and you’ll be quite safe.”
Dickon took deep, fortifying breaths. “Hasty pudding good, hasty marriage bad.”
“You’ve managed to stay a bachelor all this time, haven’t you?” Julian reminded him. “This is no different.”
Gradually, the duke calmed down. “What I can’t understand,” he confessed, “is why I must get them out of London so that you can shuffle cards.”
“I won’t be shuffling cards,” Mr Devize patiently explained. “I shall be reorganizing Lady Viola’s finances so that her assets can never be traced by her future husband. But I needn’t explain all that to you, Duke.”
Dickon lived in fear that someone would discover that he was not quite as intelligent as he made himself out to be. “It’s all pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it?” he hastily agreed. “I suppose you need me to sign some papers?”
“No, Duke. I’ve had power of attorney for quite some time, so you needn’t worry about anything at all. Of course, I’ll keep meticulous records of all my transactions.”
Dickon was appalled. “Dear boy! There’s no need of that. I trust you completely.”
“Thank you, Duke. I take that trust very seriously, you know.”
Dickon blushed, and quickly changed the subject. “But Dev! What if Viola really likes this ghastly Rupert person? What if she wants to give him everything?”
“Some women do like their husbands at first,” Julian admitted. “But what about two years from now, when the novelty wears thin? Your sister’s affections may change in time, and, if her husband has all her money, that doesn’t leave her with many options, now does it?”
“I forgot about the novelty wearing thin,” cried Dickon.
The duke’s carriage rolled on, traveling east into the Strand. There Gambol House, the palatial London mansion of the Duke of Fanshawe, had stood for nearly two centuries. On the night of a ball, its vast cobbled plaza would be filled to capacity with jostling carriages, merrymaking servants, and barking dogs, but in the cold light of day it was something of a wasteland. In architecture, in size, and, above all, in inconvenience, the house rivaled the royal palaces of Buckingham and St James, but its location was now far less fashionable than it had been in the early seventeenth century, when the 1st Duke of Fanshawe had begun to build his London residence. Its overgrown south gardens bordered on the Thames, which had been silvery and teeming with salmon in the previous century; now the river was brown and redolent with waste and rubbish. The northern facade, which faced the Strand, had been remodeled in gothic splendor by Christopher Wren, but the original baroque southern facade, by Inigo Jones, remained untouched, although these days it could only be seen by bargemen plying their crafts up and down the river.
“You can set me down here, Duke,” said Julian, knocking on the hatch. “I’ll walk back to the City.”
“You’re staying to lunch, surely,” Dickon exclaimed in surprise as the carriage stopped. “You must eat, Dev. You’re wasting away before my eyes! I insist that you stay to lunch.”
Julian only smiled. “There’s a perfectly good tavern just around the corner from the Exchange. They make excellent sandwiches, and the ale’s not bad, either.”
The duke’s belly rumbled ominously. He was too hungry to press the young man.
“Suit yourself,” he said gruffly.
Julian put on his hat and walked east toward Fleet Street and the City.
Chapter Three
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.”
