The Bride Hunt

by Jane Feather

  “It is, and certainly, Father.” She poured and brought him the glass. “Is Lord Barclay very upset?”

  “Upset?” his lordship boomed. “He’s beside himself.” He drained his small glass in one sip, and glared at it. “Not enough to slake the thirst of a butterfly.”

  “Would you like Jenkins to bring you whisky?” Chastity asked with customary solicitude.

  “No . . . no need to bother him.” He wiped his moustache with his handkerchief. “Just fill it again for me.” He gave her the glass.

  “What is Lord Barclay going to do about it?” inquired Prudence, leaning over to stir the coals with the poker. “He must have some redress, surely.”

  “Well, he’s suing that Mayfair Lady disgrace, for a start. That’ll fold once Barclay and his lawyers have finished with it. Won’t have a penny to its name and its editors will be lucky to escape gaol.”

  “I imagine he must be using the best lawyers in the business,” Chastity said, bringing a recharged glass over to the earl.

  “Oh, yes, you mark my words . . . best money can buy.”

  “Are there many good libel lawyers in London?” Prudence asked. “We never meet any.”

  “Hardly surprising, m’dear.” He regarded his middle daughter with a benign smile. “Not saying that you and your sisters couldn’t compete with the brightest brain, but these men don’t frequent the kind of circles you girls like. You’ll find ’em in clubs, not drawing rooms.”

  Prudence looked askance. “I wonder if that’s true. Give us some names of the really good barristers and Chas and I will see if they ring any kind of a bell.”

  “Party games,” he scoffed, but he seemed to have calmed down somewhat in the soothing companionship of his daughters and under the equally soothing influence of the sherry. His cheeks had taken on a less rubicund hue.

  “Well, now, let me see. Barclay’s solicitors, Falstaff, Harley, and Greenwold, have briefed Samuel Richardson, KC. Any name there ring a bell?” He gave his daughters a smug smile. “I’ll wager not.”

  “We don’t expect to know the solicitors,” Prudence told him. “But Samuel Richardson . . .” She shook her head. “No, you win that one. Give us another.”

  Lord Duncan frowned, thinking. “Malvern,” he said finally. “Sir Gideon Malvern, KC. Youngest KC in a decade, knighted for his services to the bar.” He chuckled suddenly. “I believe it was for services to the king . . . one of His Majesty’s friends found himself in a spot of bother, you know the kind.” He tapped the side of his nose significantly.

  “Malvern defended him . . . man came out smelling like a rose garden. But I’ll wager you haven’t heard of him either, for all the royal connections. They say he’s the brightest candle in the Inns of Court sconce these days. Man’s far too busy to mingle.”

  He set down his glass and rose rather heavily to his feet. “Well, I have to dress, I’m dining with Barclay in Rules. Must show solidarity, you know. Can’t let this kind of . . .” He waved a disdainful hand at the Gazette. “Spiteful rubbish . . . that’s all it is. Can’t let that rubbish win the day over honest men.” He dropped a paternal kiss on each forehead and left them.

  “Honest men,” Prudence said with heavy scorn, taking her glass to the decanter for a refill. “It’s not as if Father’s either blind or stupid. What is it about Barclay that so captivates him?”

  “Oh, I think it has something to do with the fact that the earl was there when Mother died,” Chastity said quietly, gazing into the fire. “Father was distraught, and so were we. Distraught and exhausted after nursing her those last few months.”

  Prudence nodded, crossing her arms over her chest in an involuntary hug. Their mother’s final days had been excruciatingly painful, and all the laudanum available to them hadn’t been sufficient to ease her suffering. Lord Duncan hadn’t been able to bear his wife’s pain and had retreated to his library, where Lord Barclay had kept him company while Lord Duncan’s daughters had shared vigils at their mother’s bedside. They had had no energy to spare for their father’s grief—not until many months later, by which time Lord Barclay had become Lord Duncan’s most intimate confidant.

  Prudence let her arms drop and raised her head. “Well, there’s nothing we can do to change that now. Let’s see what we can discover about this Sir Gideon Malvern.”

  “If he’s made King’s Council, he has to be at the top of the tree,” Chastity said. “I wonder what it means to be the youngest KC in a decade.”

  “We need a recent copy of Who’s Who,” Prudence said. “At least that’ll tell us which of the Inns of Court he’s affiliated with. The volume in our library is decades old; it probably predates his law degree. We’ll go to Hatchards in the morning and take a quick look under the M’s.”

  “Who’s Who won’t give us an address, though.”

  “No, but once we know which of the Inns he belongs to, we can go there and find his chambers. I’m sure if he’s that important and well-known he’ll have chambers somewhere around the Temple.”

  “But we can’t just beard him in his chambers,” Chastity pointed out. “I thought we had to go through the proper channels, get solicitors to brief him.”

  Prudence shook her head. “I think if we have any chance at all of getting his help we’re going to have to jump him . . . surprise him. If we give him time to think for one instant, he’ll laugh us into the street.”

  “‘Be bloody, bold, and resolute,’ ” Chastity quoted with an upraised fist.

  “‘Laugh to scorn the power of man,’ ” her sister continued.

  “If only,” Chastity said, getting to her feet. “We’ll go to Hatchards first thing in the morning.” She stretched tiredly. “I’m hungry and it’s nearly eight. Shall we go and eat shepherd’s pie?”

  “I wonder what Con’s eating for dinner,” Prudence mused as she accompanied her sister downstairs.

  “Goats’ eyeballs,” Chastity said promptly. “I read that’s what the Bedouin nomads eat in the Sahara.”

  “Oh, I can imagine Max’s reaction faced with a goat’s eyeball. Can’t you, Jenkins?” Prudence took her seat in the small dining parlor they used when they were alone.

  “As I understand it, Miss Prue, the eyeballs of sheep are a delicacy. I believe that the goats are roasted whole and the meat is considered most succulent.” Jenkins held the steaming dish of shepherd’s pie at her elbow.

  “I’m not sure goat or sheep make much difference to the concept,” Prudence said, helping herself. “This smells delicious . . . thank you, Jenkins.”

  He moved around the table to Chastity. “Mrs. Hudson used grated cheese on the potato. I think you’ll find it nice and crispy.”

  Chastity cut through the crisp crust, and the butler presented a dish of buttered cabbage before filling their wineglasses and quietly removing himself.

  “It is actually very good,” Prudence said after a forkful.

  “Mrs. Hudson does remarkably well with what little she has to work with much of the time,” Chastity said. “Did we manage to pay her this month?”

  “Oh, yes. I had to pawn those little pearl earrings of Mother’s, but we’ll redeem them as soon as we get the charitable donations from Lady Lucan and Lady Winthrop.”

  “That’s such an outrageous idea of Con’s,” Chastity said. “To ask them to donate to a charity for indigent spinsters as a means of collecting our Go-Between fee.”

  “Well, they have no idea that they—or rather, their progeny—received the services of the Go-Between,” Prudence reminded her, helping herself to more cabbage. “It’s going to be a most useful way of collecting payment . . . should we find ourselves setting up other couples for their own good.”

  Chastity couldn’t help a grin. “For their own good. How altruistic that sounds, when all we want is their money.” She took a sip of wine and pulled a face. “This is a thin and ungrateful beverage.”

  “I know,” Prudence agreed with a rueful headshake. “Jenkins found some bottles of a bu
rgundy at the back of the cellar that are clearly over the hill. We thought we ought to drink them up, those that Mrs. Hudson isn’t using for cooking.”

  “Don’t let Father get a sniff of them.”

  Prudence shook her head again and took a sip from her own glass. “It’s not too bad with food, but you couldn’t possibly drink it alone.”

  “So, when are we going to receive these charitable donations from La Lucan and La Winthrop?”

  “They promised to bring checks to the next At Home. I suggested around fifty guineas apiece would be suitable,” Prudence told her blithely.

  Chastity choked on a forkful of potato. “Fifty guineas apiece! That’s outrageous, Prue.”

  “Con thought it was a little much too, but I thought it was worth a try. It isn’t as if they can’t afford it,” her sister declared. “The wedding is to take place in December, and it’ll be the biggest, most lavish Society affair of the year. Hester and David are so absorbed in each other it’s nauseating. And their mothers are pleased as punch. We did them all a great service. Not to mention you,” she added with a grin. “Anything to give David an alternative love interest.”

  “The adoration was getting a little tedious,” Chastity admitted. “By the way, were there any other letters for The Mayfair Lady? Besides the legal one.”

  “Several. They’re still in my bag. We’ll look at them after dinner.”

  “I wonder what’s for pudding?” Chastity mused.

  “Apple crumble and custard, Miss Chas.” Jenkins answered the question as he reentered the parlor on cue. “Mrs. Hudson was wondering if you’d like her to make some scones for the At Home?” He gathered up their plates.

  “Oh, yes, please,” Prudence said. “We’re collecting money at the next one, so the sweeter the tea, the better.”

  “Yes, Miss Prue. I’ll explain to Mrs. Hudson. I imagine she’ll make another chocolate sponge.” Jenkins was quite matter-of-fact as he bore away their discarded plates. The dubious moneymaking activities of Lord Duncan’s daughters met only with his approval.

  Chapter 2

  The sisters entered the bow-windowed bookshop on Piccadilly within minutes of its opening. They headed straight for the reference section at the rear of the shop and found what they were looking for. “We probably ought to use the lending library for research,” Chastity said in an undertone. “It seems like cheating to use a bookstore. I’m sure they’d rather we bought the up-to-date Who’s Who.”

  “I’m sure they would,” Prudence agreed. “But it’s five guineas that we don’t have, and we only need one entry.” She leafed carefully through the pages. “Ah, here we are, the M’s.” Her finger ran down the entries. “Maburn . . . Maddingly . . . Malvern. This is it. ‘Sir Gideon Malvern, KC; Member of the Inns of Court, Middle Temple; Appointed to the bar, 1894; Appointed King’s Council, 1902; Education: Winchester, New College, Oxford . . .’ Predictable enough.” She raised her head. “Well, that gives us what we need.”

  “Isn’t there anything else, anything personal?” Chastity inquired, peering over her sister’s shoulder. “Oh, look at this. It says he’s divorced. ‘Married Harriet Greenwood, daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Greenwood, 1896; Divorced, 1900. One daughter, Sarah, born 1897.’ ”

  She looked up with a frown. “Divorced . . . that’s unusual.”

  “Very,” Prudence agreed. “But it’s not going to affect us. We know where to find him, or at least his chambers. Let’s go to Middle Temple Lane and look at some nameplates.” She closed the tome gently and replaced it on the shelf. Outside, they jostled with the shoppers crowding Piccadilly until they found an empty hackney cab.

  “Victoria Embankment, please,” Prudence called as she climbed in, Chastity on her heels. “The issue now,” Prudence said, her brow furrowed, “is how to approach this famous man. D’you have any ideas, Chas?”

  “Nothing specific,” her sister said, adjusting the brim of her straw hat. “We need to make an appointment first. Isn’t he likely to be in court . . . the Old Bailey or somewhere? The Bailey is open for business now, isn’t it?”

  “Early this year, I believe,” Prudence said vaguely. “Even if he’s not practicing there, he’s most likely to be in some criminal court this morning. We probably won’t get further than his law clerk today, always assuming, of course, that we don’t get thrown out onto the street before we can open our mouths.”

  “Well, we look respectable enough,” Chastity said.

  That was certainly true, Prudence reflected. Her own neutral tweed jacket and skirt with a plain black straw hat was understated, unfrivolous, respectable, and unremarkable. Chastity’s day dress of dark brown silk was a little more adorned, but still could not be called frivolous. She had debated their both dressing to the nines in an attempt to overwhelm the barrister with their elegance and femininity but had decided in favor of a more moderate approach. Once she had some idea of the kind of man they were dealing with, they could adapt accordingly.

  Divorced was interesting, though. It was very unusual in their circles, and carried considerable stigma. But, of course, more for the woman than the man, she thought acidly, hearing in her head Constance, the suffragist, railing against the injustice of society’s laws when it came to women, both openly in the courts and in covert daily convention. Who had been the guilty party in this case? Sir Gideon, or his wife? If they could discover that, it might give them some clues as to how to deal with the barrister.

  The hackney stopped on Victoria Embankment and they got out, pausing for a moment to look across the gray sweep of the Thames to the South Bank. The sun was struggling to emerge through an overcast sky and a few faint rays lit the dull, rolling surface of the water. A brisk gust of wind sent colored leaves tumbling from the oak trees in the Temple Gardens behind them.

  “It’s too cold to stand around,” Prudence said. “Let’s walk up Middle Temple Lane. You take one side and I’ll take the other.”

  Every door on either side of the lane bore copper nameplates listing the occupants of each tall, narrow building. Each name was followed by the insignia Barrister At Law. Sir Gideon Malvern’s name was found midway up the lane.

  Prudence waved at Chastity, who crossed over towards her. “This one.” Prudence indicated the nameplate.

  Chastity tried the shiny brass doorknob and the door swung open into a gloomy interior that could barely qualify as a foyer. A set of wooden stairs rose directly in front of them. The sun had gone in again and there was little enough natural light at the best of times from the narrow window at the corner of the stairs, but someone had thoughtfully lit the gas lamp at the top, so a little illumination showed the way up the ancient, rickety staircase.

  The sisters exchanged a glance. The shiny nameplate and doorknob facing the street belied the shabby interior, but Prudence knew enough about the practice of law to realize that she should not judge the barrister by the air of dilapidation in his chambers. Rooms in the ancient Inns of Court were highly prized and available only to the select few. It was a matter of pride and tradition that no modern conveniences should invade the hallowed chambers.

  “I’m surprised there’s a gas lamp,” she murmured. “I thought they hadn’t progressed beyond oil lanterns and candles.”

  “Shall we go up?” Chastity asked in a similar undertone.

  “That’s what we came for.” Prudence sounded more confident than she felt. She set foot on the stair, Chastity behind her. It was too narrow for two to climb abreast.

  The door at the head of the stairs stood slightly ajar. Prudence knocked, thought it had been too timid a knock, and rapped rather more smartly. A creaky voice bade her enter. Presumably it did not belong to Sir Gideon Malvern, KC, she reflected. Her father had described him as the youngest barrister to achieve that accolade in a decade and she remembered from the entry in Who’s Who that he’d been appointed to the bar twelve years ago. He couldn’t be more than forty, she calculated. She went in, leaving the door ajar, and failed to notice
that Chastity didn’t follow her.

  “Madam?” An elderly man in a threadbare frock coat and frayed collar looked at her in surprise from behind an overloaded desk. He glanced up at the clock, which chimed eleven o’clock as he did so. “Can I help you, madam?” He rose from a tall stool and peered at her in the gaslight.

  “I would like to see Sir Gideon Malvern,” Prudence stated, glancing around her with interest. The walls were invisible behind bookshelves groaning beneath the weight of thick leather-bound volumes. A telephone hung on the wall behind the clerk’s desk, an expensive piece of modernity that surprised her even more than the gaslight. It stood out like a sore thumb. On a coat rack beside the door hung the barrister’s working garb, a black gown and an elaborate white curled wig.

  The clerk opened a ledger on his desk, slowly turned the pages, and then peered through pince-nez at the entries. He looked up after what seemed an interminable length of time. “Sir Gideon has no appointment for this time, madam.”

  “That’s because I haven’t made one,” Prudence said, an impatient edge to her voice now. She took off her gloves, aware that the gesture felt almost symbolic. The man was playing games with her. “As I’m sure you are well aware. I would, however, like to make one.”

  “You are a solicitor, madam?” He stared at her, and she saw that his eyes were a great deal sharper than his rather bumbling manner might indicate.

  “Hardly,” she said. “But, nevertheless, I wish to brief Sir Gideon on a libel case. One I think he will find both interesting and profitable.” The last lie slid off her tongue as smoothly as water off oiled leather.

  The clerk pinched his chin, regarding her in silence for again an unnerving length of time. “This is most unorthodox, but if you have the documents pertaining to the case, I will look them over and consider whether Sir Gideon might be interested,” he said finally, holding out his hand.

  “Do you make up Sir Gideon’s mind for him?” Prudence inquired, the same acerbic edge to her voice. “I would have thought such a distinguished barrister would be capable of making up his own mind.”