Dukes Prefer Blondes (31 page)

In Richmond, Raven was harder to get at. Now he'd set himself up so high, getting at him meant much bigger trouble than before.

“Don't look like no chance now,” Squirrel said. “He's off to some castle a hundred miles away. Maybe two hundred. Not but what you always say leave the nobs alone.”

“Never mind that. Tell me what the yokels say.”

The yokels had a lot to say about everything. Squirrel knew to keep it short. “Everybody knew the minute he hired a post chaise. They was talking about it everywhere, him leaving his bride so sudden. Then word come down about what happened, how he was only going for a funeral and coming back, and how there was more servants coming to work at the house.”

More servants meant more eyes on gates and doors and windows and more ears listening for trouble, but Jacob didn't look worried. He was walking from one end of the room to the other, fooling with his whiskers. Thinking.

“If he didn't take the Long Meg with him, he'll be back soon enough,” he said. He looked at Husher. “You've seen her. Would you leave her a minute longer than you could help it?”

Husher grinned, showing crooked brown teeth, and not a full set, neither.

“I dunno when he'll be back,” Squirrel said. “That's why I come here. You said to watch him, is all, and I can't, can I, him in a post chaise, and me—­what?—­runnin' after?”

“Don't be a halfwit,” Jacob said. “What good is it to me what he does a hundred miles away?”

Not much good in London, or anywheres else
, Squirrel thought. It didn't look like the best idea, finishing off a brand-­new nob everybody was watching and talking about. Even with Husher helping, it could go wrong. Then the hawks would hunt them down and put ropes round their necks and leave them to dangle slow on purpose while everybody watched. After that, the hangman'd sell off their clothes and the doctors would get the corpses and cut 'em up.

Jacob stopped walking. “We're going back,” he said.

Husher grinned and nodded.

Squirrel told himself they owed it to Chiver to finish Raven off. But his voice sounded squeaky when he said, “Now? He won't be back—­”

“Not now. Use your head. We're going to get ready first.” Jacob smiled. “We're going to make sure nothing goes wrong. Except for him and his fine lady, ha ha.”

Husher laughed, too.

 

Chapter Eighteen

THE BARRISTER . . . 2. Who can tell all the windings and turnings, all the hollownesses and dark corners of the mind? It is a wilderness in which a man may wander more than forty years, and through which few have passed to the promised land.

—­
The Jurist
, Vol. 3, 1832

Friday 27 November

W
estcott delivered the two Coppys in the early ­afternoon.

He must have devoted the trip to Richmond to terrifying them. This would explain why, when presented to the duke and duchess, the siblings stood stiff, white-­faced, and tongue-­tied.

After surviving this ordeal, they went with a footman belowstairs, to meet the rest of the staff—­and make a good impression, Clara hoped. If they didn't, the servants would make their lives difficult.

At present, however, she had to pass her own test.

The duke was regarding her with one dark eyebrow upraised. It was the same way his son would look at her from time to time, as though debating whether she owned anything resembling intellect. It produced the same irritation. But these Radford men couldn't help themselves, and one couldn't expect His Grace, at eighty, to change his personality.

She'd written to Radford about the Coppys. She was sure his reply would question her intelligence and accuse her of sentimentality. But she knew she was right in this, and if she didn't begin her marriage by standing up for what she believed in, his powerful personality would crush her. Besides, had not Grandmama Warford told her husbands could be educated?

Too, Clara watched the way the duchess interacted with her husband. She'd had decades to learn how to manage a too-­intelligent Radford male.

“The boy,” the duke said. “Not much in the brain box, has he? Another reformed juvenile delinquent like the one the French dressmakers adopted?”

His son must have told him about Fenwick.

“I believe Toby's brief experience in Jacob Freame's gang chastened him,” Clara said. She'd been amazed at the transformation. The brashness and insolence had vanished.

“That rarely happens,” he said. “Associating with criminals usually makes boys worse. Whippings and stints in prison only harden them.”

“He didn't have much time to learn criminal ways before he fell ill,” she said. “Then, when he was sick, I suppose what he learned was what it was like not to have Bridget looking after him, only a lot of rough, mean boys who didn't care what became of him. He thought he was going to die. He might very well have done so. He learned a lesson, I expect.”

“Perhaps,” the duke said. “It's mere speculation—­and sentimental speculation at that.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps looking respectable has changed his attitude. Westcott took him to the baths and got him clean clothes. That seems to have given Toby something to think about. I shall put him into livery, and we'll see if he lives up to his finery.”

“Was that the treatment your dressmaker friends applied to the boy they took up?”

“It's amazing what a cocked hat, gold-­trimmed coat, and shiny buttons will do for a boy's
amour propre
,” she said.

That won her a crack of laughter from the duke.

The duchess smiled.

Clara told them about Toby's hospital experience. “He learned how to look after patients by watching what the staff did. He'll never be one for book learning, but he seems not incapable of learning in some form. I'm not sure how useful that is to you, sir. However, the duchess does need a page or footboy to attend her.”

“I certainly do not,” said Her Grace. “The idea!”

“I promise you do,” Clara said. “The rest of the staff will be extremely busy in the coming weeks and months. I mean to augment them, but I know you won't want hordes of servants underfoot.”

The duchess's eyes widened. She hadn't realized. How could she?

No matter how much Clara took on, she couldn't return her in-­laws' life to what it had been. While Ithaca House was large, it was a fraction of the size of a great town house—­Warford House, for instance. A small staff had always sufficed here. But now the household's work would increase. The new duke and duchess could expect more visitors, more correspondence, more of everything, even though they wouldn't be entertaining.

First and foremost was their relationship with the royal family. Their Majesties were in Brighton at present, but they'd soon send emissaries, as they'd done for Clara's wedding. One couldn't deny these ­people admission. Eventually, the King and Queen would call here, the duke being too frail to call on them. Certain other formal visits would have to be endured. The Duchess of Kent was sure to turn up with the Princess Victoria.

Clara couldn't keep out everyone, and ought not to, for her husband's sake as much as for his parents'. He couldn't continue as a barrister while managing his father's estates and other business affairs. But he could use his legal abilities in Parliament, among other possibilities. The trouble was, despite reform, even the House of Commons remained a private club. To fully belong to this world, the Dukes of Malvern must recover their proper position in Society, and become functioning members of the nobility.

Meanwhile, Clara had to fit out Malvern House from a distance. She'd minimize the disruption but she couldn't stop it altogether.

“I thought you might use Toby to carry messages and run errands, and do other sorts of fetching and carrying,” she went on. “He's a strong boy. Otherwise his illness could have killed him. He could help you when the duke's pillows need adjusting, or when he wishes to move from the sofa to his chair.”

She knew the duchess found it increasingly difficult to tend to some of her husband's needs. To his frustration, he grew less able to do for himself, and while not quite as large as his son, he was not a small man. There was a great deal else a boy who'd worked in a hospital could do, but Clara had to exercise caution about venturing into the duchess's territory. When Her Grace grew used to having Toby about, she'd find more ways to employ him.

“You suggest I employ the boy instead of one of the maids or footmen,” the duchess said, looking dubious, indeed.

“That would free the other servants for tasks wanting more physical strength or intelligence or both,” Clara said. “This would reduce the number of new servants needed.”

The duchess considered for a moment, clearly torn. The duke said nothing, only watched her.

Clara waited.

Finally Her Grace said, “If it's a choice between an army of new servants and one boy, I'd better take the boy.”

The duke's grey eyes twinkled. “Well done, Clara. Well managed, indeed.”

“I merely point out facts,” she said.

“So you do, so you do. And that excessively pretty girl? What do you mean to do with her? You know she'll turn the footmen's heads.”

Exactly what Davis had said.

“Davis and I shall make sure Bridget has no time to seduce the footmen,” Clara said. “I've scores of tasks for a skilled needlewoman. For the present, she can help with the household mending. However, I imagine, Malvern House will need extensive refurbishing.”

“You'll find it in a shocking state, I don't doubt,” said Her Grace. “The furniture heaviest to shift is likely to be there still, under wrappers. But a great deal will have mysteriously disappeared. Meanwhile the family linens will be stored away and falling to pieces—­unless, as I suspect, they were stolen and sold ages ago. None of the family have lived at Malvern House in a century or more, and the late duke's father preferred to put his money into Glynnor Castle.”

“I've asked Mama to make an inspection of the house,” Clara said. “She'll enjoy that exceedingly.”

It would give her mother something to do, to forestall lengthy visits to Richmond. She would brag to her dear friend and foe Lady Bartham about working her fingers to the bone for her daughter, the
Marchioness of Bredon
. Clara could hear her:

But what can a mother do? Poor Clara has so very much on her shoulders at present, assisting the Duke and Duchess of Malvern, among so many other responsibilities. And of course she trusts my judgment implicitly.

“I expect new linens will be in order,” Clara said. “That will give Bridget more than enough to do, and a chance to use her embroidery talent on monograms and such. I quite look forward to bringing the house back to life.”

The duchess laughed. “Better you than me, my dear. I can think of few more tedious tasks than choosing wall coverings and curtains and all the rest of the fittings. I'd much rather spend my time disputing my spouse's absurd opinions about coroners' verdicts or judges' instructions to the jury or various fine points of law.”

“You know nothing of fine points of law,” said the husband.

“You see, Clara?” the duchess said. “Dealing with this deluded gentleman demands all my energies.” She waved a hand. “Do as you like, dear. Send the boy to us once you've made him gorgeous, and we'll see what use we can make of him.”

Richmond

Friday 4 December

S
quirrel was still amazed at what whiskers and different clothes could do. Two days ago Jacob Freame, along with Husher and Squirrel, had left London in broad day in a curricle, and nobody took any notice. Squirrel knew nobody followed them, because he'd kept a lookout.

Like Jacob said, once they moved into their rooms at the Blue Goose Inn, it didn't take much. Change carriages, change clothes. Dress like somebody else and ­people think you're somebody else.

Until Chiver brought him into Jacob's gang, Squirrel had only dressed one way, in whatever rags he could get hold of. Jacob could be a right bastard, but so could hundreds of men. This right bastard fed his boys, though, and kept them in decent clothes, with a roof over their heads.

Today Squirrel wore a suit of almost-­new clothes. No missing buttons. No holes or frayed edges. No patched elbows or other parts. He had a proper hat and a neckcloth and even a stickpin with a make-­believe gem in it. He knew Husher must've robbed and beaten—­maybe to death—­somebody to get the money for all the things they needed here.

Maybe this bothered Squirrel some. But he always tried not to think too much about things like that, and just do what they told him to do.

He was the servant, Samuel. Husher had finer clothes, on account of being Jacob's make-­believe son, Humphrey. Jacob had even made him clean his teeth.

Jacob was the grandest, the way you'd expect. He was Mr. Joseph Green, a swell from the City, here on doctor's orders. He acted like a swell, too, not hard for him. He talked and lived better than most of their kind. He'd been to school, though what school and where he never said and nobody asked.

While Husher lounged around the town, Jacob drove round the big park, getting the lay of the land, he said. Sometimes he sat in a tavern or a coffeehouse and gossiped. It was easy enough to find out all about Raven and the house the family lived in, by the river.

Richmond was used to strangers, but mainly in the summer. Now, though, they came again. They stood on the towing path and gawked up at the house behind its fence. They came down the road from the village green and tried to see if anybody was in the garden. Jacob, Husher, and Squirrel could stop and look, too, like anybody else. Mainly Squirrel looked at the fence, and hoped Jacob didn't tell him to climb over it and let him and Husher into the place.

Not but what it was an easy fence to climb. What worried Squirrel was the servants. They popped up everywhere—­in the garden and coming and going from the stable yard and hothouse.

The town worried Squirrel, too. So small, everybody knew everything about everybody. He was sure he'd seen hawks, though Jacob said the London police didn't come this far—­another good reason for him and Husher to do for Raven here, where there was only a bumpkin constable and some watchmen.

Today, Husher was watching the house and listening for news. Jacob and Squirrel were driving in the park, Squirrel on the seat with him for once, and watching for trouble, like usual.

Jacob cuffed him. “Here, you stop that!” He didn't shout. He said it soft enough, but his hand wasn't soft. “Stop looking everywhere like that.”

“I was only watching out, like you tole—­”

“Not like that,” Jacob said. “It looks like you're up to no good. You want the clodhoppers to see nothing but pigeons to pluck. That's us, out taking the air, hoping to get a look at the brand-­new nobs. Nobody else's servant does it by squinting over his shoulder every two minutes.”

Not wanting another knock in the head, Squirrel stopped watching every shadow and sudden movement and kept his eyes looking straight ahead, mostly. He tried to pretend he was only enjoying the air, which he hated the smell of. Too much of it. Too many trees.

That was why, sometime later when they left the park and started back up the hill toward the village, he didn't notice Toby Coppy coming out of a shop. He didn't see Toby stop dead, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, and his face turning as white as his neckcloth.

Toby stood there for a good while, conspicuous in his new livery, but Squirrel saw nothing more than somebody's fancy servant idling on the pavement. He didn't know Toby was watching the gig as it moved up the street, and he missed Toby's facial contortions as he thought as hard as he could until he finally reached a conclusion.

Later

B
ridget and Toby Coppy stood before Clara in her study.

“Squirrel,” she said.

“That's what they called him in the gang,” Bridget said. She did most of the talking for Toby because he was far from articulate. He'd come back from an errand, all in a quake, according to her, and she'd dragged him to report to Clara.