Dukes Prefer Blondes

by Loretta Chase

  She thought of the gloves.

  She remembered last night and this morning, in bed, their bodies twined. How she’d missed sleeping with him! Though they’d had so little time to be intimate, she’d grown accustomed to the warmth and strength of his body alongside hers, and the sense of having found at last a place where she truly belonged.

  She did belong with him. She’d wanted him and nobody else, and while she wanted a partnership, it ought to be a fair one on her side as well. She needed to take into account the strain he was under, far worse than what she felt.

  This wasn’t the life he’d trained himself for.

  It wasn’t the life he’d wanted.

  I liked my life, he’d said.

  “It’s possible I’m not behaving in the most reasonable manner myself,” she said.

  “True enough,” he said. “Given the circumstances, it would be more reasonable for you to be in fits, weeping and tearing your hair out. My parents are content to let you do everything, our future home wants an army to put it to rights, and your husband is completely blind to everything but his masculine pride and medieval notions of protecting his property. This, in his primitive view, includes his wife.”

  He turned back to meet her wondering gaze. “You see what happens when my emotions take charge,” he said. “I can’t see straight, let alone think straight. I react irrationally. What I should have done was congratulate you on your clever form of investigation. Had I known of the situation and you asked for instructions—­and supposing myself in a sane state of mind, which it appears I cannot take for granted lately—­I should have instructed you to do what you did.”

  The ache inside eased. “Well said, my learned friend.”

  “Does that mean you’ll set aside the divorce proceedings, at least for the time being?”

  “I’d better,” she said. “Divorce is time-­consuming, and I have so much to do.” Divorce, in fact, was impossible, unless the husband initiated it. All the more reason to sort out sticky marital matters at the beginning.

  “Kindly set the blasted house aside, too,” he said. “We need to deal with these villains first, and quickly.”

  “We,” she said, and her heart grew light enough to fly.

  “Freame’s the sort who’ll sacrifice even his lieutenants to save his own skin,” Radford said. “No honor among thieves there. I can’t say why Squirrel has stuck with him instead of finding another berth, as the other escapees did, but his reasons will not be saintly. As to the third party, I have a likely candidate, and he’s not the vicar, I promise you. They sent Squirrel ahead for surveillance. Now all three are here. I don’t like the odds. However, it seems it would be grossly unfair and unkind of me to exclude you.”

  “Oh, Raven,” she said. She rose from her chair, ready to launch herself at him.

  “But first, Lady Bredon, you will be so good as to tell me what else you’ve done.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, displaying the chipped tooth: the permanent reminder of her courage and willingness to defend him, no matter what the odds.

  She was willing to fight him, too, and that in itself was heroic.

  Obnoxious was the merest understatement.

  His cold logic had at times reduced battle-­scarred colleagues to tears. Never mind the witnesses.

  If he reduced her to tears, those would be tears of rage, and a missile would swiftly collide with his skull.

  But she collected her composure in the blink of an eye, and gave him a cool stare.

  “I haven’t had the chance to tell you,” she said. “My first course of action required so much defending and argument. In fact, I suggest we walk in the garden. The day is mild, and the fresh air will clear our heads.”

  “My head is perfectly clear.”

  “You may think so,” she said. “I shall send for our hats and coats.”

  By the time the outer garments arrived and were satisfactorily arranged—­hers, not his—­he was nearly dancing with impatience.

  Then they stepped out of the house into the handsome garden his mother had created, which pleased the eye even in winter. He felt Clara’s hand tuck into the crook of his elbow, and his impatience dissolved.

  He wore his customary black and she wore mourning for stupid Bernard.

  “Today we look exactly like Mr. and Mrs. Raven,” he said.

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “You always look well in black. Dashing and dangerous.”

  “You look better than well,” he said. “Dramatic. I can picture your dressmakers swooning when they learned you’d need mourning clothes—­and not the usual run of weeds, but the violently expensive kind, befitting a marchioness.”

  “They know I don’t look well in black,” she said. “They had to make an extra effort.”

  He did not think any special efforts were required to make the Marchioness of Bredon breathtaking.

  “It was inexcusably inconsiderate of my cousin to die on us,” he said. “On the other hand, this gave him no time to decimate his inheritance. When the bills arrive, elegantly engraved ‘Maison Noirot,’ I shall flick my gaze over them without feeling the smallest desire to cut my throat.”

  “Had your father not inherited, I should have economized,” she said. “But now I’m obliged to do credit to your rank.”

  “My lady, you do me very great credit. And I’m quite, quite sure that what you’re about to tell me will do you credit, too. Undoubtedly I shall suffer a heart seizure or collapse, foaming at the mouth, but it seems we’ll simply have to learn to live with that sort of thing.”

  She pressed nearer. He was aware of the movement’s placing her breast against his arm, but he knew this only because he knew exactly where her breasts were, relative to the rest of her as well as to him. She wore far too many garments for truly satisfying sensory experience.

  “Look about you,” she said.

  He took in their surroundings. They walked along one of the winding footpaths. In warmer weather these would be bounded by flowerbeds whose color changed according to the varieties they held and the time of the season. The property was small, a sliver of land compared to those southeastward, belonging to the Earl of Cadogan, the Marquess of Lansdowne, the Duchess of Devonshire, the Duchess of Buccleuch, and other notables. However, Richmond held numerous other modest villas, and Ithaca House was entirely suitable for a successful barrister.

  At this time of year all but the evergreens were bare, and more of the neighboring properties was visible than in other seasons.

  Which meant that passersby, in the road leading to Richmond Green or the lane bordering the property to the east, had a better view than at other times of his father’s house and garden.

  “We’re rather exposed,” he said.

  Nothing unusual for the countryside. Quite a bustling countryside in the summer, when scores of boats plied the river, including steamboats dropping off hordes of visitors from London. Until now, he hadn’t needed to consider the implications. Until now, he hadn’t had time—­or the reasoning powers—­to think of them.

  “Nearly everybody is exposed,” she said. “Especially along the riverside, where all that stands between us and trespassers is a not very tall fence. When Bridget told me about Squirrel, I longed for a high wall. But one can’t build that in a day, even if it weren’t impractical as well as ugly.”

  Tall walls would make a small property like this feel like a prison, as well as spoil the view.

  “Instead, I hired additional outdoor servants,” she said. “I’ve given orders for frequent and unpredictable patrols of the grounds. So as not to arouse our criminals’ suspicions, I expressed a concern about London journalists entering the grounds and spying on us for their scandal sheets.”

  Surprised, he looked at her. Her cheeks were rosy with pride, he supposed. She ought to be proud and he ought not to be
surprised.

  “That was clever,” he said. “Because it’s true. We may be sure they’re skulking about Richmond and probably getting in our would-­be assassins’ way.”

  “Clever,” she said. “I feel a swoon coming on.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “You’ve more to tell me, judging by your self-­satisfied expression.”

  She threw him an amused glance, and went on, “As you’d expect, word went round Richmond in no time. The parish constable called and promised to have an eye kept on the property. In passing, he let me know that the Metropolitan Police Act did not extend to this part of Surrey.”

  “It’s rather a patchwork in the counties neighboring London,” he said. “Some parishes are included and some are not.”

  “In any case, it made no sense to fuss with the local authorities about juvenile delinquents from London lurking in the area, in company of a whiskered man.”

  He’d underestimated her, which was inexcusably stupid. She was beautiful yes, but he hadn’t married her solely for her beauty—­though nobody on earth would blame him if he had. Among the more obvious attractions was her complexity. She was interesting and she surprised him and that, he ought to have remembered, was because she could think.

  “Do you know, Lady Bredon, I do believe in time, with the proper guidance, you might become almost . . . intelligent,” he said.

  She put a hand to her head. “Where are my smelling salts?”

  “No time for fainting,” he said. “Now I’m back, Freame will strike at the first opportunity. We need a plan, and we need it soon.”

  Friday 11 December

  Breakfast time in the Blue Goose Inn’s public dining room was Squirrel’s favorite time. It was more like London then: busy, crowded, and loud. Better yet, in all the to-­do of ­people coming and going in the coaches and such, nobody paid attention to Jacob and Husher. They sat at their usual table by a window, where they could watch the village green and the busier roads thereabouts. Squirrel stood by them, like a servant would do, waiting to fetch this or that from their room or run an errand.

  And all three of them listened to what was going on around them. Raven was back, like Jacob said he’d be. The trouble was, newspaper coves swarmed like flies, and because of them, you could hardly get near the place without some watchman or constable telling you to move along.

  Like Jacob said, they didn’t have the hawks here, like in London. But they had private watchmen on account of all the grand palaces. Lords and ladies had their houses all over—­down by the green and along the river and up on the hill and in the park.

  Jacob was boiling to get to Raven, but not enough to make Squirrel go over the fence to break into the house and let them in. Too easy to get caught, Jacob said.

  If any of them got caught, the others would bolt. Had to. Everybody hereabouts knew they’d come here together.

  The watchmen and the newspaper culls put Jacob in bad skin. He was hacking at his beefsteak like it was Raven’s innards. And thinking so hard you could practically hear it.

  “Naturally we hope for a full commission.” Somebody at the big table close by was talking over the others. “Malvern House is one of London’s finest palaces—­in an unfortunate state at present, else we should not have been consulted. But Lady Bredon means to make all as it should be. Down to the stables, you know, though that isn’t my province.”

  The talker was an old cove, some kind of tradesman. The expensive kind, going by the cut of his old-­fashioned clothes and the big ring on his right hand. He wore spectacles and a wig, like old coves did.

  Jacob stopped hacking so hard. You could practically see his ears aiming at the talker.

  Somebody else at the table said something, but Squirrel couldn’t hear over the other talk.

  “Not at present,” the first man said. “However, his lordship told me they’ve brought the present duke’s mail phaeton out of retirement.”

  “More suitable for a family man,” somebody said. “And more convenient for traveling to and from Town with her ladyship.”

  Not convenient for us, Squirrel thought. Mail phaetons had a box behind the hood, where you could store parcels and luggage—­but more important, there’d be a seat on the back of the box, big enough for two servants.

  Before, Raven always traveled on his own, whether he rode or drove.

  We lost our chance, Squirrel thought.

  “His lordship was so gracious as to inform me the carriage had been well maintained these last few years,” the first man said. “It needed little work to bring it up to snuff.”

  He’d been in the house yesterday and talked to Raven and the Long Meg. About curtains or furniture or some such. So ­people asked him questions, and even the serving maids made excuses to come by and jaw.

  Jacob sneaked himself into the general jabber, like he knew how to do. He wanted to know about the shined-­up mail phaeton, and the old man was happy to show off all he knew about the brand-­new nobs up the river.

  Then he was making a bustle—­had to meet with her ladyship, and it wouldn’t do to be late.

  But as he was leaving the dining room, Jacob caught up with him and got him talking in the passage.

  And the end of that was, the fellow’s name was John Cotton, and Jacob was having supper with him tonight, and Husher and Squirrel could look after themselves.

  Richmond Park

  Tuesday 15 December

  It was going to be here, like it or not, and Squirrel didn’t like this park.

  Too much of it—­ponds and fields and woods and hills. Only good news was, the weather was turning colder, so Raven didn’t drive his lady all over for miles and miles, like the first time. They went round like the swells did in Hyde Park, taking the same route from the house every day. No servants with their arses parked on the seat behind the box, neither. Just them two.

  Every day they came down Richmond Hill into the park and took a turn there, then back again.

  Thanks to his friend Cotton, Jacob knew they’d be driving out every day. Thanks to Squirrel following them two days in a row, he knew their route.

  Had to be here, Jacob said. In Richmond, everybody watched everything and told everybody everything. Practically nobody came into the park this time of year, especially late in the afternoon.

  Jacob had his plan worked out, step by step. They came early, to the spot Jacob picked, and practiced. Then Jacob and Husher left Squirrel to mind the curricle. He hid with the carriage and horses a short ways down the road, round a turning at the bottom of a hilly stretch, behind a thick clump of tall bushes with shiny green leaves.

  Husher said it was going to be fun.

  Squirrel wished it was over.

  He waited and waited, and it felt like days.

  Finally, he heard the carriage—­two horses, four wheels—­coming.

  Radford caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, an instant before a familiar, wiry figure ran out from the bushes into the horses’ path, spreading out the front of his greatcoat and flapping it while shouting, “Help! Help!”

  Birds flew up from the trees, setting the leaves rustling while they squawked warnings to their friends. Spooked, the horses reared up, while Freame—­it was he, new whiskers and all—­went on shouting and flapping the coat, though keeping out of the way of the hooves.

  Come and get me, he seemed to say, and Radford longed to go after him and stop him, whatever he was up to—­Freame and the others Radford knew were there.

  But the horses would bolt. He had to get them under control first

  “Give me the reins!” Clara cried.

  Another, much bigger figure burst from the shrubbery. He lunged up at Radford, grabbed him, and pulled him off the carriage seat and into the road.

  Don’t panic, Clara told herself.

  She focused on grabbing the ribb
ons as Radford toppled from the carriage. She made herself concentrate on threading the reins through her fingers and getting the horses under control. She had no idea what was going on behind her or how many assailants had burst from the woodland, and she couldn’t take the time to look back. If she jumped or fell from the carriage and broke her neck, she’d be no good to Radford. They’d be no good to anybody if the horses trampled them. She had to keep her mind on what she was doing, focus on managing the panicked creatures with voice and reins. She could do it. She had to.

  Husher was young but large and strong as a blacksmith. He had solid ground under his feet, while Radford had nothing to stop his being launched into air and thrown onto his back, hard. His ears rang. Panic washed in. The world started to darken and in the shadows he saw Bernard’s face, taunting, mocking.

  Dead, dead, dead. The bastard.

  The world flashed with bright lights. Radford was going somewhere, quickly. Where? Away, far away. Forever? He was aware of the taste of blood and hard ground under his back. The blackness still swirled toward him, an irresistible tide.

  No. Something more.

  More to be done. Said.

  Clara. I love you.

  No time for that! Get up! Fight back! Do something!

  He scrambled to push himself up—­Bernard had knocked him down, time and again. He knew what to do. Or did he?

  His hand . . . on the ground, no, something there, solid. He closed his fist around it. He opened his eyes and saw a big hand upraised. Husher’s face, a wide, gap-­toothed grin.

  The lowering sun struck the knife’s blade. A blinding gold flash. Radford rolled away as the blade slashed downward. He heard a roar of rage, then Husher fell on him, hard and heavy, made of bricks. Radford gasped for breath but he held on to the solid thing in his hand—­the whip handle—­and as the knife came at him once again, he knocked it aside. Husher swore and grabbed Radford’s hand, the one holding the whip, squeezing painfully.