Dukes Prefer Blondes (32 page)

“On account his teeth and his cheeks, like he had 'em filled with nuts,” the sister explained. “And on account he fidgets like a squirrel and on account he's fast, not only running but getting up into windows and out again. For, you know, housebreaking.”

“He must have been one of the boys who got out of the building so quickly on the day the police came,” Clara said to Toby.

He nodded.

Bridget elbowed her brother.

“Yes, your ladyship,” Toby mumbled.

That must have been where Radford had spotted him—­running away down that narrow street. He'd seen the boy's back and the way he ran. One boy among many fleeing the house. Yet Radford had remembered, enough for the boy to seem familiar. What was it like to own such a mind?

“He was in a curricle with a man,” Bridget said.

This roused Toby to eloquence. “I fought he were Jacob,” he said. “Cos why? Cos there weren't none of 'em never drove in no carriage but him. But this one weren't him. He had whiskers and clothes like the flash coves. And it weren't no gig but a curricle 'n two horses. And Jacob's dead, everybody says. But he made me fink of Jacob. T'other one were Squirrel. He were dressed proper fine, too, but I knowed him.” He puffed out his cheeks.

“What's he here for, then?” Bridget said. “That's what Toby asked himself. He was scared and wanted to run away, on account they hate him. But they hate Raven—­I mean his lordship—­worse than anybody, and Toby thought he oughter know.”

“Followed 'em,” Toby said. “But not close.”

“He followed them all the way to the Blue Goose Inn, where the carriage went into the yard,” his sister said. “He didn't go into the yard, though. I told him he did right, because what if they saw him?”

Some might wonder how anybody could miss Toby. While his livery was not as fantastically glorious as Fenwick's, it was splendid, green and gold with epaulettes and gleaming brass buttons.

But if the pair had spotted Toby, would they know him in his finery? Probably not. Had Squirrel possessed a less memorable face, Toby might not have recognized him in his new clothes. While he had something of his sister's good looks, Toby's face wasn't nearly as attention-­getting as his attire.

As to the man with him . . .

Clara had her suspicions.

She thanked them both. She told the boy he'd done very well, and she was proud of him.

All things considered, Toby had been brave, indeed.

He'd lived up to his livery.

After they left, Clara debated what to do. She had a long list of items needing her attention. Moreover, Radford would be back soon, and he'd take a fit if she pursued the question of Squirrel and his whiskered friend on her own.

You're not to pursue the Case of the Stuffed-­Cheeks Boy
.

This was not unreasonable.

She had no experience dealing with cutthroats. She did not know how to organize a police raid, even if she had legal grounds to do so, which she did not. The odds of her getting into difficulties were high.

Her husband had his Radford relatives to contend with. He did not need his wife causing him worry and adding to his trials.

Very well, then. She wouldn't pursue it . . . exactly.

The following day, she drove into the heart of Richmond with Davis and Colson.

Tuesday 8 December

R
adford arrived at Ithaca House very late, with a barely functioning brain.

He had just about enough sense remaining to let his father know that, according to all physical evidence, Bernard had died when he cracked his skull on a rock.

Having settled his father's mind with the postmortem, Radford adjourned with Clara to their apartments. He found a bath awaiting him. Of course she'd thought ahead and arranged for it. She'd been trained to be the perfect hostess.

Though a long soak would have done him good, he made quick work of it. He wanted to go to bed. With her. He'd missed her to an uncomfortable extent. Had she been with him at Glynnor Castle, they could have argued and laughed about his relatives. He would have had somebody to talk to who owned a brain. Who cared for him. He'd written to her and she to him but it wasn't the same as talking to her and watching her face and the way she moved. A letter didn't offer the small clues her ladylike exterior concealed so well from most ­people. One couldn't have marital relations—­as she called them—­via letter.

When he returned to the bedroom, he found her sitting in bed, reading . . . Wade's
Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis
?

She was studying in order to out-­argue him, beyond a doubt.

He climbed into bed beside her.

She set aside the book. “Was it very bad?” she said.

“Which part?” he said.

“All and any of it,” she said. “But what am I saying? In your last letter you promised to be home by today. You kept your promise, though you had to have sacrificed meals and sleep to do it. You're tired. You can tell me tomorrow.”

He was deeply weary, to the bone and to the soul. He sank back onto the pillows. She put out the candle and slid down, too, and snuggled against him. He drew her into his arms and touched his lips to her nightcap. That wasn't satisfactory. He pulled off the nightcap and pressed his mouth to her hair. It felt like silk and it smelled like flowery soap and like her.

“It wasn't nearly as much fun as being with you,” he said. “You're vastly more entertaining. And prettier.”

“Entertaining?” she said. “Like a court jester?”

“No, like a tricky murder trial.”

She laughed softly. “High praise, indeed, my learned friend.”

“It's true,” he said. “Dullards are everywhere. I always know what most ­people are going to say and do. The other Radfords, for instance, were exactly as demanding and quarrelsome as I expected them to be. The only surprise was the dead man.”

He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. Reason was so much easier than emotion. “I found the funeral rather more distressing than I would have supposed.”

“You must have had some hopes for him or you wouldn't have tried to help him or pestered him about changing his ways,” she said.

“I did that for the dukedom and the ­people he was responsible for. Not for him.”

“Yet you were pleased when you learned he was courting a lady.”

“I'd be an idiot not to be pleased. I didn't want my father to inherit. I didn't want to inherit. I
liked
my life.”

“But it's happened,” she said.

“Yes.”

And the reality had turned out more complicated and demanding than he'd anticipated. So much to do and think about, even he hardly knew where to begin.

“I'd hoped he'd do better,” she said. “I didn't know him, yet I was so disappointed. And angry at him, too, for mucking up his chance.”

The feelings about Bernard, like so many, huddled in the farthest reaches of Radford's brain, being brooded over by his other self. They were so deeply packed in that mental lumber room, he wasn't sure what he felt. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

“I missed him,” he said. “It's completely irrational.”

She brought her hand up to his cheek and simply laid it there. He turned his face into her palm and kissed it.

“Feelings,” she said. “Not your strong suit.”

“I loathe them. More your department.”

“I see little value in your cluttering up your great brain with feelings,” she said. “I recommend you leave the feelings to me, along with domestic matters. Then you can give your attention to—­to—­” She waved a hand, and the ruffles at her wrist fluttered. “To what you're good at. Logic and business and such. Henceforth consider the big, nasty feelings my responsibility.”

He had to laugh. How could he help it? He caught her wrist. “Come here,” he said.

“I am here,” she said.

“Closer,” he said.

“I do not see how I could be any closer.”

“Think harder,” he said.

Wednesday 9 December

Marchioness of Bredon's sitting room

D
ash it, Clara, you promised!”

“I did not, technically, promise,” she said.

“Do not split hairs with me! I told you specifically to leave it alone—­and you ought to have the intelligence to understand why.”

She bristled at this, but Radford went on heedlessly, “Yet you go out, exposing yourself to known villains—­”

“That's nonsense, and you of all men ought to recognize it,” she said. “Villains are everywhere. We're all of us exposed to them every day. And what should anybody think, if they did see me? ‘Ah, there goes the brand-­new Marchioness of Bredon—­
with her
groom and lady's maid
.' ”

He held on to his temper with a thread, and that in itself was infuriating. He never gave way to temper, except by design, in the courtroom.

But his heart was pounding with fear—­for her—­and a thousand thoughts beat in his brain, making chaos there. He moved away, to the window, and stared out.

In the garden, Toby pushed his father's invalid chair along one of the footpaths. The day was mild, for December. Father was well wrapped in a shawl, a rug over his legs. Mother walked alongside, talking.

They'd taken to the fool boy, amazingly enough.

Clara's idea. She'd been busy, indeed, while he was away.

But this . . .

“Why should they suspect me of anything?” she said. “I'm only a woman. Helpless and incompetent and lacking in intelligence. Even lowborn persons, even criminals, think that. Women don't count.”

He closed his eyes and fought for detachment. The other man, in the shadowy corner of his brain, was in a frenzy of rage and fear and memories of last night and this morning . . . their lovemaking and—­oh, who knew what else and who cared?
Feelings
.

Her department.

This is a criminal matter
, he told himself.
You're in a courtroom of sorts. Consider the facts and the facts alone.

And my marriage?
he wanted to argue.
Does your lordship expect me to ignore my wife and the duty of a husband?

Of course he remembered every word.

. . .
the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. . .

Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.

Mutual . . . help . . . comfort.

He waited until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.

He turned back to his wife. She stood by the mantelpiece, where any number of missiles stood conveniently at hand. At the moment, she did not look as though she contemplated throwing any of them. But her blue eyes flashed and he noticed the tension in the hands folded at her waist.

“Clara, it was Freame with that boy,” he said.

“So I concluded,” she said. “That is why—­”

“Do you think a London banker or speculator or whatever he's pretending to be would collect someone like Squirrel on charity? The boy's hard as nails. While at Glynnor Castle, I wrote to Inspector Stokes about Stuffed-­Cheeks Boy. I had a full report. Though new to Freame's gang, Squirrel had already made a name for himself as a cracksman.”

His wife looked blank.

“Housebreaker,” he said. “And Chiver's prize protégé.”

“Then it's as well Toby spotted him,” she said. “Only imagine if Bridget had gone out.”

“She would have had the good sense to run in the opposite direction. Unlike you, driving straight for trouble.”

“I did not go near that curst boy! None of us did. You are being exceedingly irrational.”

“I!”

“Let me tell you again because I know you were not listening properly before.”

“I heard every—­”

“Colson went to the stable yard and gossiped,” she said. “As grooms do. He didn't have to ask questions. The stable men were only too happy to tell him everything about everybody, including the so-­called Mr. Joseph Green, in Richmond for a rest and to take the healthful waters. He's come with his son, Humphrey, and a young servant, Samuel. I was safe with Davis, streets away, in a shop. There's no reason to throw yourself into a pet.”

“A pet!” A son named Humphrey, and a servant. Who was Humphrey? Half a dozen gang members remained unaccounted for, according to Stokes . . . including Husher.

Radford's gut knotted.

“You remind me exceedingly of Mama,” Clara said.

For a moment he thought his hearing had failed him. His ears seemed to be ringing.

She gave him no time to respond but went on: “Such histrionics are all very well in the courtroom, but it won't do in a marital situation. Unless you are angling for a divorce.”

Had he suddenly taken a delirious fever? He could not have heard the words he thought he'd heard. It took him a moment to speak. “Are you quite mad? A divorce?”

“You're right,” she said. “It's early days yet. An annulment.”

“Stop talking rot.”

“You started it,” she said. “You flew into a rage because I sent a spy to obtain information necessary to the family's safety.”

He had not flown into a rage. He never did. He was the calmest and most rational of men. He said very calmly, “The family is not your responsibility.”

“It most assuredly is,” she said. “Especially when you're not here. As to spies, you didn't hesitate to use Millie, I recollect. But I couldn't approach her without causing talk, which of course would go round the town. Everybody knows everything about everybody, sometimes before one knows it oneself. Really, my lord, you are behaving quite irrationally. I realize this is a difficult time for you but—­”