Dukes Prefer Blondes (30 page)

Now Clara had only to make sure Radford did the same.

That night

T
he talking continued through the afternoon, into evening, through dinner, and after it.

By the time they escaped to their apartments, Radford was done with
discussing
.

As soon as he'd closed the door he pulled Clara into his arms and fell back against it. He kissed her, and perhaps it was a desperate kiss. His trouble wasn't the dukedom and the avalanche of work to come with it. He could deal with that. It was losing time with her that made him wild.

When at length he broke the kiss, he said, “I am going to be masterful, after all. This will be our last night together for a time, and that is
not
what I had planned. I am greatly displeased with the disruption of my neatly laid plots and stratagems.” He treated her to a leer, and she giggled. “Therefore,” he went on, “I, the Marquess of Bredon, command you, my lady wife, to send your maid to bed and place your person entirely at my disposal and whim.”

“Only my person, you shallow man?” She spoke haughtily but couldn't conceal her blush, or the anticipatory shiver.

“
My lord
,” he corrected. “And you cannot be so henwitted as to think I married you for your mind.”

She stiffened. “That's exactly what I did think.”

“Your mind is a negligible commodity,” he said. “I married you for lust.”

“Where is that set of heavy silver pots and such that Bernard sent us?” she said. “I mean to throw every piece of it at you.”

“That sounds exciting,” he said as he started unfastening the back of her dress. “I also married you to save you from yourself. Otherwise who knows what self-­destructive course you'd set upon. Run away to live in a tent. Marry Bernard. ‘Someone has to save this girl,' I told myself, ‘and since she has fine breasts and other womanly parts—­and seems capable of learning a few simple skills—­the someone might as well be me.' ”

“The silver ser­vice
and
the Sèvres,” she said. “All five hundred pieces of it.”

The following afternoon

F
or their private farewell, Radford and Clara lingered in the sitting room that adjoined his study. In a short time, he'd take leave of his parents and Westcott.

“I'll be gone no longer than a fortnight,” he said. “I had everything in train before I left. Sanborne is more than competent. The agent Dursley has worked for the family this age, and he knows his business when let to do it without interference. It's only a matter of the funeral and laying down the law to the family. Everybody will be acting terribly bereaved in between demanding this, that, and the other to soothe their wounded feelings. But they'll have to address their sorrows and discontents to Westcott, who's more than capable of deciding what tone to take with whom. It's a pity you can't come with me, and treat the other Radfords to your terrifying duchess persona, but that will have to wait for another time.”

“I'm not in the least terrifying,” Clara said.

“Do you think not? When you come all over the duchess with me, I quake in my boots.”

“That is not where you quake,” she said. And blushed.

She knew he found her autocratic manner arousing.

Well, he found many other aspects of her arousing, too, so it was an easy guess.

He drew her into his arms for one last embrace before they joined the others downstairs. He held her for a long time, burying his face in her neck, and dislodging her silk scarf in the process.

When at length he pulled himself away, it was he, not she, who restored the scarf. While he did so he said, “I'm not such a dunderhead as to tell you what to do while I'm gone. Of all women, you know what needs to be done and how to do it. But I will tell you what not to do.”

She gave him a look of innocent perplexity that did not deceive him for a moment.

“You're not to pursue the Case of the Stuffed-­Cheeks Boy,” he said.

“How on earth would I do that?” she said. “When should I find time to do it? I have a house in London to fit out and staff from eight miles away. I must fight off the hordes who'll be trying to beat down the doors here. I must keep my mother as sane as possible. Or maybe it's better to keep her very busy. I must deal with Their Majesties—­”

“I can only hope this is enough to occupy you,” he said. “Leave it to the servants to look out for intruders. If you go out, be sure you have Davis and a manservant with you.”

“My dear, that is the way I normally travel,” she said, with audible patience. “A lady never goes out unattended. I only made an exception in your case because—­oh, I forget why. The wayward curl on your forehead distracted me, perhaps.”

A footman came to tell them the carriage was ready.

“You'd better make haste,” Clara said.

“You're in a shocking hurry to be rid of me,” he said.

“If I were you, I'd be gone before my parents get here,” she said.

He knew she'd written to her parents yesterday with the news and urged them to postpone visiting until his father's nerves had time to absorb the shock. She hadn't felt certain, however, that her mother's state of euphoria wouldn't overwhelm any good intentions of respecting the elderly gentleman's nerves.

“I doubt you'll enjoy Mama's smothering you with affection,” she said. “But more important—­the sooner you get there, the sooner you'll be back.”

“Yes.” He gave her one more kiss—­passionate, desperate, and frustrated—­which she returned in the same spirit.

Last night they'd made love, fiercely first, and gently and tenderly afterward. They'd talked and talked. It wasn't enough.

They'd had so little time together as man and wife, and a fortnight seemed a much longer time now, when it meant being away from her, than it used to do.

When they broke the kiss, he didn't let go. “Remember,” he said. “No playing sleuth.”

“Did I not promise to obey?” she said. “Before witnesses?”

“You had footnotes,” he said.

“And when you return, I'll tell you all about them.” She cupped his face and kissed him once more, so tenderly. This time he let her go, albeit slowly.

Once more he arranged the scarf whose perfection he'd disturbed.

How he wished . . . but wishes belonged to the realm of magic, a place with which he had no desire to become acquainted.

He stepped back.

“Am I all quite correct now, my lord?” Her blue eyes glinted with humor . . . and something else. Ah, yes, affection that made his heart squeeze tight.

“You'll do,” he said.

“Then come, take your leave of the Duke and Duchess of Malvern, Lord Bredon.”

T
wo hours later, Westcott was staring aghast at Clara.

“The Coppys?” he said. “Now?”

They'd adjourned to the sitting room, where she and Westcott had reviewed some general matters relating to Malvern House. Then she'd asked for news of Bridget and Toby Coppy.

“As soon as may be,” she said. “I hope you haven't lost them. Mr. Radford—­that is to say, Lord Bredon—­told me you'd find an apprenticeship for Toby and lodgings for them, well away from their mother.”

“I haven't lost them, my lady,” Westcott said. “The boy's working at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where he was cared for. But finding him an apprenticeship isn't easy. All anybody needs to hear is where he'd been before the hospital, and they become leery. The decent tradesmen do, at any rate. The more dubious sort will take anybody, but such positions would not be in his best interests.”

“Did you say he was working?”

Westcott explained. Once the boy recovered, he insisted on helping at the hospital. “He isn't the cleverest fellow, but he follows instructions well, and will do whatever is asked of him. He mops the floors or the patients' brows.”

“Not with the same implement, I hope,” Clara said.

“It's a hospital,” Westcott said. “I can promise nothing. I can only tell you what's reported to me: He works hard, is happy to be paid with food and a place to sleep. He's extremely reluctant to leave.”

“Who can blame him?” she said. “Anybody who escaped the police raid will know we came looking for him. They'll blame Toby for leading the police to them. One of the escapees, I understand, was Jacob Freame.”

“Yes, my lady, and I believe that's a subject Lord Bredon would wish left out of our conversation. In any event, Freame is dead. Fever, we're told.”

“Who told you?” she said.

“My esteemed colleague's habitual skepticism has infected your mind,” Westcott said.

She regarded him patiently.

“That's what's said on the streets, according to our informers,” Westcott said.

“I hope it's true,” she said, remembering Stuffed-­Cheeks Boy. “Whether it is or it isn't, you'll have to dislodge Toby from the hospital. I want him here with me. Bridget, too.”

“I wish you would wait until Lord Bredon returns ­before—­”

“He left me in charge of domestic matters,” she said. “I was not five paces away when he told you so. Did he not say to you, ‘Give my lady every assistance'?”

“Indeed, he did. However, as the family solicitor, I'm allowed to give advice. It's my duty, in fact. And I advise you to wait until his lordship returns.”

“You haven't found a place for the boy,” she said. “I can employ him here. But whether I can or cannot isn't the issue. If not for those two children, I should never have met my husband. I'm now in a position to do something for them, and I mean to do it.”

C
lara told Westcott she'd arrange for removing Bridget from the Milliners' Society. After all, Clara was one of the society's sponsors, and her sister-­in-­law, Sophy, was one of the founders. While Clara remembered Radford's warning about showing favoritism to Bridget, she knew this was altogether different. Bridget would simply be going on to do what all the girls there hoped to do: find respectable employment.

At present, Clara wasn't sure exactly how she'd employ her, but she knew the answer would come soon enough. She'd made up her mind to have the two siblings. She'd been trained to deal with every sort of domestic crisis. It followed that she'd know what to do when the time came.

Not long after Westcott left, she wrote to Sophy, asking her to help arrange for Bridget's departure from the Society.

Then Clara went down to inform her in-­laws.

S
entiment,” said her father-­in-­law, with a wave of his hand, after Clara had explained her reasons for sending for the Coppys. “You would never make a proper barrister, madam. One must look at the facts with a cool, considering eye. One must disengage one's emotions. The only emotions needing to be engaged are those of the judge and jury.”

“I don't see what sentiment has to do with this,” Clara said. He was, as one would expect, intimidating, and more so than her husband. As he ought to be, considering he'd had several more decades' practice in the theater that was the courtroom. But she could not let him cow her any more than she'd let his son do so. “We post rewards for information. The police and others reward informers. While neither child informed, precisely, they did lead me to my husband—­”

“Indirectly.”

“And indirectly, I've placed them in danger,” she said. “I realize the lives of pauper children are hard and hazardous, conditions no one person can cure. However, I embroiled myself in the Coppys' affairs, and they're likely to suffer as a result. You know what those gangs are like and how ruthless they can be. The boy is frightened, and I don't doubt Bridget is frightened for him—­though she would be right to be frightened for herself as well. I cannot in good conscience leave these two children as they are. I promise to make sure they do not disturb your household in any way. If that happens in spite of my efforts, they'll be placed elsewhere. But they must be placed, sir. They have—­indirectly or not—­changed my life, and I will not turn my back on them.”

“You would never sway a jury with that farrago,” said her father-­in-­law.

“She might very well do so, George,” said his wife.

“Ah, well, she's prettier than most barristers.” He gave a short laugh, so like his son's. “Very well, Clara. Do as you like. You've been charged with sparing us every possible disturbance. We may certainly indulge this little idiocy of yours.”

“George.”

“Well, it is idiocy, and you know it,
Duchess
,” he said.

But Clara knew he was only being irritating for the fun of it. And so she smiled and left them to debate the matter in the way they liked best.

London

Wednesday 25 November

J
acob Freame wasn't smiling. He was pulling at the new whiskers he'd been growing so his enemies wouldn't recognize him. They'd come in pretty thick, but to Squirrel he still looked like Jacob, only hairier.

Hairier and madder than Squirrel had ever seen him. Squirrel made sure to keep his distance from those big fists.

Husher didn't look worried. He never did. He only stood by the door, arms folded, listening.

“A lord!” Jacob said. “
Him?
”

“If it ain't all over London yet, it will be,” Squirrel said. “Not but I expect they was talking about it at Jack's already.”

Rumors always seemed to get to Jack's coffeehouse quickest. A lot of them started there.

“We should've gone all together,” Jacob said. “We could've watched for our chance and done for him quick.”

Maybe not
, Squirrel thought. In London you had Raven walking the streets day and night and crowds you could disappear into easy. You could lay for somebody in Fleet Street, say, near the Temple Gate, late at night.