Dukes Prefer Blondes

by Loretta Chase

  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

  For 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.”

  Two 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, m
y 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.”

  Clara 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.

  Sentiment,” 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

  Jacob 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.

  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 a
ll 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

  Westcott 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.