Dukes Prefer Blondes (37 page)

It took him agonizing weeks more to die, on the fourth of April.

Westcott brought the news to the Marquess and Marchioness of Bredon, now residing at Malvern House.

Though still undergoing refurbishment, the house was livable, and they'd recently moved in with a modest retinue of servants.

Most of the main floor was completed by this time. Clara and Bredon met with Westcott in the library.

Though the news wasn't unexpected, it took Clara a moment to digest it. She hadn't realized how much the villains had troubled her until now, when she wanted to weep with relief. Then came her husband's sharp, logical voice, like a brisk breeze breaking through a sultry fog.

“What an idiot,” he said. “If only he'd consented to the amputation at the start, he might have got off with a few months in prison. Still, it does save the police the trouble of building additional cases against him.”

“He's gone,” Clara said, her voice perfectly steady now. “That's what matters. He can't harm you or anybody else again. And it seems a satisfactory justice, his having brought it on himself.”

“That's one more would-­be assassin out of the way,” Westcott said. “Only a few score more to go.”

“You underestimate his lordship,” said Clara. “In the years to come, I confidently expect great numbers of highly placed persons to nourish murderous fantasies.”

“I'm not worried,” said his lordship. “I have Clara to protect me.”

“And as her ladyship pointed out some time ago,” said his friend, “if worse comes to worse, you can always talk them to death.”

“You might as well know I was thinking of doing that, regardless,” said Lord Bredon. “Clara has dropped unsubtle hints about my standing for Parliament. I think it'll be fun.”

“All you have to do is win over the constituency,” Westcott said.

“All I have to do is have my wife stand beside me on the hustings and bat her blue eyes,” said his lordship. “The voters are men, after all.”

“That's your election strategy?” Westcott said.

“It's probably better if he doesn't speak,” Clara said.

“You have a point,” Westcott said.

“In any event, I'll have plenty of time to speak once I'm in the House of Commons. You may be sure I'll make use of the time.”

“In that case, I should move assassination from the ‘possible' to the ‘probable' column,” said Westcott.

“By no means,” Clara said. “There's a small difference between Society and the London underworld. Gentlemen may cultivate elaborate fantasies or even challenge my husband outright. They may
wish
to kill him, but they won't be sneaking and plotting about it. Too, if all goes as I intend, their ladies won't let them kill him.”

Westcott smiled. “Lady Bredon, I admire and appreciate your affection for your husband. However, speaking from experience, I ought to point out that he can stir the gentler sex to violence without even trying.”

She smiled back. “Not when I'm done with them.”

“You're in over your head, Westcott,” said her husband. “Clara has a plan. A mad, beautiful plan. She's going to bring me into fashion.”

“You're roasting me,” Westcott said.

“Not at all,” said Bredon, his face sober but for the infinitesimal twitch at the corner of this mouth. “She's throwing a ball for me. I'm to be a debutante, you see.”

“I certainly shall have to see it, with my own eyes,” said Westcott.

“Of course,” said Clara. “You're at the top of the invitation list.”

“Just before the King,” said her husband. And laughed.

 

Chapter Twenty-one

At length, with conjugal endearment both

Satiate, Ulysses tasted and his spouse

The sweets of mutual converse.

—­
The Odyssey of Homer
, translated by William Cowper, 1791

T
he King's levee commenced promptly at two o'clock on Wednesday the fifth of May. Fairly early in the proceedings the Duke of Clevedon presented the Marquess of Bredon to His Majesty.

“About time,” the King said. “You must stop loitering about the Old Bailey, you know. Make yourself useful elsewhere.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Lord Bredon. “My wife has some ideas about that.”

His monarch smiled. “I look forward to seeing Lady Bredon tomorrow.”

Their Majesties were coming to look at Malvern House, which they, like nearly everybody else, had never entered.

The King went on to ask after the Duke of Malvern's health, and promised to visit him as well, before next he returned to Windsor.

Then it was on to the next presentation.

Those near enough to hear the conversation repeated it, and word soon traveled through the vast company of men, who went on to repeat it later to their wives, mistresses, mothers, and sisters. The gentlemen offered as well detailed reports on what Lord Bredon wore to the levee: as much black as Court rules could accommodate, naturally.

At Almack's that night, as a result, heads turned to the entrance time and again, only to be disappointed.

As Lady Warford explained to her friends, “Oh, no, it was out of the question. Clara gives her supper ball tomorrow night, you know, and she must try to get as much rest as possible beforehand. The King and Queen visit Malvern House in the afternoon, to view the improvements. They've always been fond of Clara, and His Majesty has a regard for the Duke of Malvern.” Though the King and Queen would not attend the supper ball, she explained, other royals would.

If Lady Bartham was gnashing her teeth, she did this invisibly, in the most ladylike way, and even she couldn't invent a suitably poisonous retort—­not that she could have got a word in edgeways, with the other ladies so busy currying favor with Lady Warford.

Not everybody had received an invitation to the ball, but those who hadn't could hope to be invited to another event before long. The Marchioness of Bredon was expected to carry on in her mother's style of superior entertainment.

As the King had noted, Lord Bredon's presentation had come rather late after his rise in rank. He'd spent most of the time since he'd acquired his courtesy title overseeing work on the neglected house, building a case for a villain who took forever to come to trial—­and then didn't live long enough, after all—­putting the Malvern estate affairs in order, and completing his legal responsibilities. He hadn't had time for Society.

Though the lengthy delay was rather irritating, it did mean that all those privileged to receive an invitation to Clara's supper ball accepted promptly. All the beau monde was curious about the new marquess. They'd read about him, yes, from time to time, if they read criminal proceedings. Those connected with the courts had encountered him now and again. But except to those who'd attended the wedding, he was a mystery, all the more so because Lady Clara Fairfax had chosen him in favor of so many amiable, fashionable young men.

Too, everybody wanted to see the house, into which hardly anybody had set foot in a century.

Malvern House

Thursday 6 May

T
he two drawing rooms were beautifully fitted up for dancing—­and indeed, Lady Bredon's exquisite taste was evident everywhere, and the refurbishment of the house greatly admired. Three hundred guests attended. Weippert's band waited to play. The supper would be magnificent.

But all Lord Bredon saw or cared about was his wife.

She'd dressed in the sumptuously simple style that was one of Maison Noirot's specialties. Made of ivory organdy, her dress was very closely fitted in the bodice, displaying her splendid endowments. The plaited tulle fell over the neckline in a single sweet curve, showing off her perfect skin and smoothly arching neck. A pink sash was fixed to the front of her waist, rather than circling it, the ends hanging to the flounce at the hem. A few pink roses dotted the neckline, the ruffled inner elbows of the snug-­fitting sleeves (narrow sleeves—­at last!), sash, and hem, but the overall simplicity made her stand out in a sea of busier gowns and blinding jewels. In any event, she might have dressed in a nun's habit and still rivaled Aphrodite.

Bredon, to nobody's surprise, wore black—­but rather more expensive black than usual.

“The women are swooning,” she murmured, when they'd finished receiving their guests.

“That's because I said very little,” he said.

She looked up at him. “You're not to stifle yourself. You know I only tease about your talking.”

“I know an element of truth when I see one,” he said. “Besides, I'm a debutante, supposed to behave modestly. Not to mention, it hardly mattered what I said. Everybody was preoccupied with staring from me to you—­and wondering what you saw in me.”

“That isn't what the ladies were wondering,” she said. “But you go on thinking that.” She glanced about her. “It's time,” she said.

“It's about time,” he said. “You look like a party cake. I can't wait to get my hands on you.” He lowered his voice. “And later, my mouth.”

She flushed a little as she signaled to the orchestra.

The first notes of a waltz wafted across the room.

He looked at her. “Ready to make a spectacle of yourself?”

“Always,” she said, and smiled.

His heart soared, but he gave only one very quick smile, before leading her out to their first dance in public.

T
he fête, which had commenced at eleven o'clock, ended at four. Their guests had obviously enjoyed the supper and nearly had to be dragged bodily from the dance floor.

That, Clara told her husband as they prepared for bed, was because she and he had started off the dancing so beautifully.

“You were beautiful,” he said. “I was content to form the backdrop.”

“You must have been a graceful backdrop,” she said. “I noticed you never lacked for a partner after that.”

“Nor did you. Do your lovers mean to continue following you about?”

“I think they wanted to show there were no hard feelings,” she said.

“In the event you came to your senses and ran away from me, they wanted you to know they'd be available,” he said.

“I came to my senses when I met you,” she said.

He looked at her, his grey eyes serious now, and searching.

“I thought it was my life that stifled me,” she said. “But I see it makes no difference what world I live in. The difference is the man at my side.”

He cleared his throat. “It seems you needed a particularly difficult one,” he said.

“Much more entertaining,” she said.

She untied the ribbons of her dressing gown.

He slid it from her shoulders. He kissed her shoulder then, and draped the dressing gown over a chair.

Then the serious look returned, more intent now. He turned her toward him again, and studied her for a long moment.

“Lady Bredon,” he said at last, “have you something to tell me?”

She'd examined herself carefully in the mirror. Only Davis was aware, but a lady's maid had to keep track of such things. Clara had felt reasonably sure it didn't show—­that is, it didn't show to a normal person.

“About what?” she said.

“Your breasts,” he said. “And your belly. And your face. And the way your eyes shimmer. I thought you looked more beautiful tonight, but logic told me that was impossible.”

“I was waiting to be absolutely sure,” she said.

“How much surer do you need to be?” he said. “Am I or am I not to be a father?”

Her eyes filled. She didn't know why. “I believe you will be,” she said.

His mouth twitched. “A father. Me.” He gave a short laugh. “Who'd believe it?”

“Well, then,” she said shakily. “Not injured, my lord? No swooning? No tears? Excellent.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Excellent, indeed. Oh, what a laugh. Me, a father! I do love you, you amazing girl.”

“Well, it is not so amazing, given certain basic facts of biology,” she said.

“This is no time to be logical,” he said.

He closed his mouth over hers. The kiss was long and deep and joyful and filled with promise of future joy.

But before it was quite over, she made herself draw her head back. “I do love you, my Raven,” she said. “I never said so, but—­”

“My lady, I deduced as much,” he said.

He pulled her close once more, and they returned to finish what they'd started.

 

Postscript

When I have closed or sent off my daily register of events, I always recollect a number of things which I ought to have mentioned. Then it is too late,—­what I have omitted finds no appropriate place.

—­Friedrich von Raumer,
England in 1835

N
ews of Jacob Freame's death soon reached Jack's coffeehouse, and by degrees made its way to a wretched hut by the river. Here Squirrel bided his time while getting to know the members of the river's underworld. Not long after Freame's demise, Squirrel began to work for a dredgerman, one of the scavengers who plied the river between Putney and Gravesend. Eventually, having established himself as reliable, he worked his way out of the river and into one of the riverside taverns. Some years later he married the tavern owner's daughter and lived, if not as luxuriously as Jacob Freame had done, then certainly more securely. Now known as John Stiles, Squirrel grew a little fat, from not having to run so much or so fast, and in time he stopped looking over his shoulder.

T
he elderly seventh Duke of Malvern did die, but not as soon as he and everybody else might have expected. His son always said it was Clara's doing: The old man's spirits had improved from the time Raven first mentioned her, and continued cheerful as he got to know her better. Good spirits, as everybody knows, make good medicine. This proved to be his case, certainly, for his pain diminished noticeably from the time of his son's marriage.

He lived long enough to delight in a grandson, named George after both grandfathers, as well as a granddaughter, named Frances Anne after her grandmothers. Then one night, some hours after a most enjoyable dispute with his wife about the merits of the Prisoners' Counsel Act of 1836, His Grace died peacefully in his sleep.

Raven Radford, to the amusement or dismay of many, became the eighth Duke of Malvern. He proved to be as great an irritant in the House of Lords as he'd been in the House of Commons and the criminal courts, and continued—­aided and abetted by his wife—­to acquire friends in low places.

Among their many philanthropic activities, before as well as after he inherited the dukedom, he and his wife took a special interest in the ragged schools. Their first fund-­raising fête was held at Vauxhall, and the money raised was used to provide desperately needed bathing facilities for the school in Saffron Hill.

Yes, Lady Clara Fairfax did become a duchess, after all, and her mother—­perhaps on account of this or perhaps on account of her increasing brood of
perfect
grandchildren (vastly superior to any of Lady Bartham's whiny lot)—­became a truly happy woman.

At least for a time.