The Heiress In His Bed. Tamara Lejeune

at her in amazement. “When you meet her, my lady?”

      “Of course,” said Viola. “I have been thinking of going to London myself, but, for reasons of my own, I would prefer to travel incognito. Your dilemma comes at a perfect time for me. I shall go to London on the Night Mail in your place. I will meet your aunt. She will think that I am you, and I will allow her to think so. In that way, I will be able to determine whether or not she is a fit guardian for you pretty quickly. If she is, I will send for you. In the meantime, you will go home with Dobbins, where you will be safe.”

      “I have no home, my lady,” Mary said pathetically.

      “I meant my home,” said Viola. “Fanshawe. Dobbins will dress you in my clothes for the journey, and no one in York will ever suspect that Lady Viola is on her way to London. They will assume I’m in my carriage with Dobbins.”

      “What am I to do at Fanshawe, madam?” cried Mary, quivering with fresh panic.

      “You’ll be my guest, dear,” Viola explained. “You needn’t do a thing. Dobbins will look after you. It will give her something to do while I’m away.”

      Three days and four nights later, a little after three on a very foggy morning, the Night Mail from York rolled into the yard of the Bell Savage Inn, Ludgate Hill, London. “Within an inch of time,” the big, beefy landlord told the postmaster as the two met in the yard.

      “On the nose, Mr Jennings, on the nose,” the postmaster replied as the armed guards who had accompanied the Mail on its journey repaired to the inn for breakfast.

      Half-asleep and bone-weary, Viola stumbled down the steps, blinking in the sudden glare of torches. For the first time in her life, she was not pristine. The Night Mail’s grueling schedule scarcely allowed its passengers time to visit the convenience on its brief stops, let alone bathe or change clothes. Underneath her unwashed garments, Viola’s skin itched. Although she had kept her bonnet on at all times, she was desperately worried that she might have picked up lice or something worse from her fellow travelers. Her head ached.

      “Perfectly respectable,” the postmaster was saying. “Parson’s daughter…Poor as a church mouse…. ’Tis ashame….”

      The landlord’s eyes touched on her doubtfully, but she could not blame him for that. Respectable females did not travel on the Night Mail, after all.

      No one had come to meet Mary Andrews, not even a manservant, Viola realized with a shock. To be left standing in the yard of a busy London coaching house, two hundred miles from one’s home, in the darkest hours before dawn, was decidedly an unhappy experience. At least, on the Night Mail, Viola had been under the protection of the guards. Here she had no one to defend her. This was the reception that Mrs Dean had planned for her young niece?

      Fuming, Viola stood in the yard for what seemed like an age before the busy landlord made his way to her. He smelled strongly of onions. “Miss Andrews?” He greeted her uncertainly, as if not quite sure he had received good information from the postmaster.

      “Good morning, landlord,” Viola said crisply. “I would like a private chamber, if you please. A hot bath, and a hot breakfast, too, if that’s not too much to ask.”

      To Mr Jennings she was a puzzle. Her superior accent proclaimed her to be a gentlewoman accustomed to good service. Her clothing, however travel-stained, was of the best quality, too. Miss Mary Andrews didn’t look poor to him, but the postmaster had said she was. If she wasn’t poor, why had she come to London on the Night Mail? And if she was poor, how could she expect to afford the hospitality of the Bell Savage Inn? Something was not quite right here, he decided. Because she was young and fine-looking, he suspected that she was meeting a man, probably running away from home.

      Viola impatiently took her purse from her reticule and gave the man a shilling. “A room, landlord,” she repeated firmly.

      “I’ve a snug room for you with a lovely little sitting room, miss,” he said, instantly pocketing the silver coin, and with it his scruples.

      While Viola would never have described the tiny sitting room he led her to as “lovely,” it was adequate. “Which would you like first, miss?” he asked her as the porter brought up her trunk. “Bath or breakfast?”

      Viola’s stomach lurched. She had eaten nothing but hard cheese and even harder tack biscuits over the last three days, but she couldn’t even think about food until she was clean.

      “Bath, I think, and I shall need a maid, too, of course. Just a girl to help me,” she explained when the landlord hesitated. “Anyone will do.”

      When she was alone, Viola removed her bonnet. The mirror over the washstand presented a shocking sight. Her face was greasy and pale, her fine, dark eyes were puffy from exhaustion, and her curly black hair was flat and dull. She noticed an offensive odor, and had wondered what it was. With a start, she realized that it was herself. “I stink,” she confessed, red-faced, to the mirror. “I, Lady Viola Gambol, stink.”

      After her bath, Viola felt almost human again. Bundled in her quilted dressing gown of blue satin, she curled up in front of the fire in the sitting room to dry her hair while the maidservant emptied the tub. When instructed to get rid of the pile of clothing in the corner, the girl looked incredulous, but silently obeyed.

      Breakfast arrived, and Viola ate lustily, washing burnt sausages down with cool buttermilk. After eating, she felt sleepy, but a sudden, violent knocking on the door of the sitting room put an end to all thoughts of rest. She scarcely had time to open the door before the landlord came in, dragging the unfortunate maidservant by the ear. As Viola watched in shock, he threw the girl bodily across the room. She landed in a broken heap at Viola’s feet.

      “There’s your thief, miss,” he roared while the girl whimpered. “I caught her red-handed with your clothes!”

      Viola was an aristocrat, but she did not care to see servants mistreated. “I gave her those things, landlord,” she said angrily, helping the girl to her feet.

      The landlord stared at Viola, confused. “What do you mean?”

      Ignoring him, Viola examined the servant. “Your ear is very red, my dear,” she said gently, “but there does not appear to be any permanent damage. You’d better sit down,” she added, leading her to the fireside.

      The landlord scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with her, miss. Her ears are always red. Get back to work, you!” he added menacingly. “I’m not paying you to sit on your arse, crying.”

      “There’s no question of her returning to work, I’m afraid,” said Viola, taking another shilling from her purse. “This young woman is under my protection now.”

      “You’re mighty high-handed for a parson’s brat, I must say,” he said, pocketing her coin.

      Viola was tempted to tell the odious man that he was addressing Lady Viola Gambol. However, she decided that the damage to her reputation would not be worth the pleasure of watching him cower. Besides, she was perfectly capable of getting her way without using her rank to bully people. “Thank you,” she said simply. “You may go now.”

      “You’ll regret any kindness you show that worthless bone-tail,” he predicted. “I never had a decent day’s work out of her.”

      Viola opened the door for him. “What a relief to you to be rid of her,” she remarked pleasantly. Then, closing the door on him, she turned to look at the thin young woman. “You must allow me to apologize, my dear,” she said quietly. “I did not mean to cause you trouble.”

      The girl looked at her in amazement. No one, let alone a fine lady dressed in satin, had ever apologized to her before in her life.

      “I had meant to hire a lady’s maid when I got to London,” Viola told her. “You will do. My name is…” Here she paused. While she had no intention of taking the girl into her confidence, she did not like to tell a direct lie if it could be avoided. “You may call me ‘madam.’”