Cork giggled. “God lives there, madam. ’Tis St Paul’s Cathedral.”
“Oh,” said Viola, disappointed. “I thought it would be bigger.”
As the hackney carriage rolled west, Viola pushed her head out of the window, staring in awe at the endless manmade scenery. She could scarcely believe she was still in England. London was surely the biggest, busiest place on earth. People were everywhere, loud and alive, both men and women, rich and poor. Horses, vehicles, dogs, even children, thronged the streets. And everyone, it seemed, was in a devil of a hurry.
Viola was terrified. “Do they mean to attack us?”
Mrs Dean looked at her in surprise. “Who, Mary?”
“That angry mob out there,” Viola cried. “It looks very ugly. Are there no soldiers to subdue them?”
Mrs Dean laughed heartily. “You call that a mob, Miss Mary?” she jeered.
“Is it always so busy?” Viola cried in amazement.
“I told you, York is nothing to London,” Mrs Dean said smugly. “And close your mouth, Miss Mary—you look like a bumpkin.”
Viola closed her mouth with a snap.
Ludgate Hill flowed into Fleet Street, which seemed to go on for miles and miles and miles, with no end in sight. Then, just past the Law Courts, Fleet Street became the Strand, and Viola instantly recognized Gambol House; she had seen dozens of artists’ views of the place, and was inclined to think it the finest house in all London. “Beautiful!” she exclaimed, grateful for any landmark in this strange, frightening city.
“That old heap!” scoffed Mrs Dean. “No one lives in the Strand these days,” she informed Viola. “It ain’t considered fashionable.”
“I shouldn’t call the Duke of Fanshawe ‘no one,’” Viola said coldly.
“Did you never meet the duke?” Mrs Dean asked her curiously. “His grace gave your father the living at Gambolthwaite, I think.”
“I know the duke,” Viola replied. “I know his grace very well.”
“Oh ho! Did he try anything?” Mrs Dean asked eagerly, jostling Viola with an elbow. “A beautiful young girl like you! I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He’d be used to getting what he wants, being a duke and all. If he’s been at you, girl, we’ll make him pay.”
Cork stared at the woman, goggle-eyed.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Viola said icily. “The Duke of Fanshawe enjoys a spotless reputation in Yorkshire. And no one has been ‘at me.’ Ever.”
“Pity,” said Mrs Dean. She then reverted to the previous topic. “Nowadays, all the fashionable set take houses in the West End. In Pall Mall, in Mayfair, in Green Park, in Grosvenor Square. Piccadilly. Park Lane.” She closed her eyes dreamily.
“And where do you live, Mrs Dean?” said Viola, unable to bring herself to call this indelicate stranger “aunt.” “In the West End, I suppose?”
“Almost!” Mrs Dean answered proudly. “Very nearly. I’m in Portland Place. It’s very new and coming. Just down from the Regent’s Park. It does pay to have influential friends,” she added smugly, preening and petting her rabbit pelisse.
As the hackney carriage turned north, the smell of coal dust and horse dung mingled in the air even more strongly, causing Viola’s eyes to water. “Is Portland Place much farther?” she asked, taking out her handkerchief and pressing it to her nostrils.
“We’re not even to Regent Street,” Mrs Dean replied.
Regent Street was so choked with vehicles and pedestrians that the hack could advance only inches at a time. Viola was so cross and so tired that not even the luxurious wares displayed in the many shop windows could divert her. “Is no one in London where they are supposed to be?” she said irritably. “Must everyone be in motion at once?”
“Regent Street is quite impossible this time of morning,” said Mrs Dean complacently.
At last, they turned into Portland Place. Mrs Dean’s house was at the bottom of the handsome street, farthest from Regent’s Park. The three females alighted from the vehicle. Mrs Dean, preoccupied with her pelisse, inadvertently left it to Viola to pay the driver.
The house, tall and slender and semidetached, with iron railings and a pretty green door, seemed respectable enough; at least it did until the door opened and a portly middle-aged man darted out, pulling on his coat as he barreled down the steps. His horsehair wig was askew, and his nose was so bulbous and red it seemed to be crying out for a physician. To Viola’s astonishment, Mrs Dean greeted the coarse-looking man with familiar jocularity.
“Not now, Dolly,” he answered, hopping down the steps on surprisingly dainty feet in buckled shoes. “I’m shockingly late for breakfast. Mrs Pettigrew don’t like it when I’m late.”
Late or not, the sight of Viola seemed to affect him strongly. He came to a sudden stop and stared at her, his rheumy eyes moving rapidly from this part to that, rather like a colony of ants. Never in Viola’s life had any man looked at her so lecherously. She was too surprised even to speak. Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the scoundrel had the temerity to speak to her. “Hello, pretty!” he said. “Present me, Dolly!”
“Mr Pettigrew, behave yourself,” Mrs Dean implored him giddily as Viola struggled to keep her breakfast from coming up. “This is my shy little niece from Yorkshire! The parson’s daughter, you know. She’s far too good for the likes of you. I’ve a gentleman in mind for her, if not a lord.”
Undeterred, the ocular rapist completed his violation of Viola’s personal dignity by winking at her. Viola felt around in her reticule, her fingers closing over her trusty toasting fork as he smacked his lips repulsively.
“You saucy little minx,” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past you!”
Then, grinning like an ape, he jumped into the hack the women had just quitted and departed.
Chapter Four
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