Dukes Prefer Blondes

by Loretta Chase

  “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

  Squirrel 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 p
arts. 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

  Bridget 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.

  “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

  Radford 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 laughe
d 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.