by Jane Feather
“We don’t know yet,” Constance said. “We were rather hoping that this Sir Gideon might have some idea.”
“Yes. Do you know him, Max?” Prudence pressed. “He’s a member of the Middle Temple and—”
“Yes, I know that,” her brother-in-law snapped.
Prudence glanced at her elder sister, who shrugged with a gesture of resignation. They would get nowhere by resenting Max’s tone at this point. They needed what enlightenment he could offer them.
“Would you like a whisky, Max?” Chastity invited with a conciliatory smile.
He regarded her with narrowed eyes, then let his gaze drift to her sisters, who were clearly struggling with the need to placate him while surging with indignation at his high-handed approach to their problem. He grinned suddenly. It was a moment to be savored. One rarely got the better of the Duncan sisters.
“What’s funny?” Constance demanded, all suspicion. “You look like you did in the mews with Father’s Cadillac.”
“The only other occasion when I felt that I had the upper hand with the three of you,” he said, his grin broadening.
“All right,” Constance said. “You’ve had your fun at our expense. Now tell us what you know of this barrister.”
“Do you have any idea how much a barrister like Malvern is going to cost you?” he asked with mild curiosity.
“We’re not without resources,” Prudence said tightly, her myopic gaze fierce behind her spectacles. “We have emergency funds, Max. Not that it’s any business of yours,” she added, and immediately regretted the addition. “I’m sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t mean to be ungracious. I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”
“You’re not dealing with this alone, Prue,” Constance said swiftly. “I know you bear the lion’s share of the business management, but we’re all in this one together.”
Prudence managed a faint smile. “I know that. I just can’t imagine what will happen if we lose.”
“Well, Gideon Malvern can go a long way to ensuring that you don’t,” Max said, offering the brisk reassurance that he knew the sisters would appreciate more than sympathy. “He has the reputation of being the most innovative and able KC in the Inns of Court. He rarely loses a case.”
That was all very well, Prudence reflected. Exactly what they wanted. But how the hell were they going to pay for what they wanted? For all her bravado, she could see no possible way of managing a top barrister’s fee. The initial fifty guineas was going to be hard enough to find. If it weren’t for the indigent spinsters’ charity, she’d be wracking her brains for something to pawn.
Her sisters knew this intellectually, but sometimes she felt they didn’t grasp the realities as clearly as she did. The management of the family finances was her responsibility. Naturally enough, since she was the bookkeeper, the mathematician, the obviously practical one of the sisters. She didn’t resent the responsibility but sometimes she felt she carried it alone.
“He might suit you, because he likes challenges,” Max continued. “He picks and chooses his cases; he can afford to do so,” he added, watching them, not at all fooled by Prudence’s defensive statements about hidden resources. “He has been known to take a case pro bono if it really appeals to him.” He saw three pairs of green eyes sharpen with interest. “Or he’s been known to come to a contingency agreement whereby if he wins he takes a share of the damages awarded to his client.”
“Seems fair,” Prudence said, frowning. “He gets paid to win.”
“You’ll have to persuade him that there’s sufficient interest and challenge in the case to make it worth his while.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s going to be difficult,” Constance said with a short laugh. “There’s got to be a more than ordinary challenge in taking on as clients three subversive women who insist on remaining anonymous.”
“That problem I leave in your more than capable hands, ladies.” He gave them a small bow.
“Was Sir Gideon knighted for services to the bar, or did he inherit the title?” Prudence asked quickly as Max reached to open the door.
“He was knighted after he defended a particularly difficult case that involved one of the king’s rather more dubious friends,” Max said, turning the knob. “Are you coming, Constance? We really should visit Letitia.”
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “I suppose we should. Let’s all meet at Fortnum’s for tea this afternoon, Prue. We can talk strategy then.”
Prudence nodded. “Max, does this Sir Gideon always defend? Or does he prosecute too?”
“He specializes in defense.”
“Well, that’s something,” Chastity declared. “We just have to convince him that it would be a travesty of justice to find The Mayfair Lady guilty of libel.”
“One of you,” Max said. “I would most earnestly suggest that only one of you keeps the appointment.”
“Why?” Constance had gathered up her gloves and now stood before the mirror above the mantel inserting pins in the mink pillow atop her russet head.
Max hesitated, searching for the most diplomatic answer. “He’s a formidable man but you wouldn’t want him to feel ambushed,” he said finally. “I don’t know how he views women in general, but I’d lay odds he’s never come across any quite like you three.”
“And we might put him off?” Constance asked with a sweet smile, turning from the mirror. “A trio of viragos, perhaps?”
“We are not going to have this conversation, Constance,” Max said firmly, opening the door for her. “I merely gave my opinion. You may take it or leave it as you wish.”
“We’ll probably take it,” Prudence said. “Oh, and be warned, Con. Letitia is firmly convinced that you’ve been camping in the desert and have a skin pitted with sand and hair matted with dust.”
“Well, I daresay I shall be able to put her right on both those scores,” Constance said.
“Oh, did you eat sheeps’ eyes?” Chastity said, accompanying them to the stairs. “We were wondering.”
“Good God! Whatever gave you that idea?” Max exclaimed, revolted.
“We thought that was a chief delicacy among the nomads of the Sahara,” Chastity informed him.
“I don’t think we ate any,” Constance said, appearing to consider the question with appropriate solemnity. “Max actually refused to eat anything he couldn’t identify.”
“How unadventurous of you, Max,” Prudence said reproachfully. “I would have thought when you go to somewhere as exciting as Egypt you would want to experience the culture at its richest. Mother would certainly have encouraged it.”
Max knew from experience that the only way to put a stop to what could turn into a very convoluted discussion at his expense was to abandon it. “Come, Constance.” He took her hand and hastened down the stairs, Constance blowing a farewell kiss to her sisters over her shoulder.
“Con, we’ll see you at Fortnum’s at four,” Chastity called after them, laughter alight in her voice. It died fairly rapidly, however, when she saw Prue’s expression. She put a hand on her arm. “We’ll get out of this, Prue. We have to.”
Prudence sighed. “I know. But if Max, who’s formidable enough in his own right, considers Malvern to be intimidating, how on earth are we going to deal with him?”
“We’re considered quite formidable ourselves,” Chastity said. “Even Max said as much. You’ll be a match for him.”
“Me?” Prudence took off her glasses and peered at her sister. “Since when did I draw the short straw?”
“It just seems obvious to me,” Chastity said. “I didn’t give it a second thought.” She frowned, wondering why that was the case. “We’ll see what Con thinks this afternoon. Maybe she’s expecting to do it.”
“She did write the piece,” Prudence said, turning back to the parlor. But she knew from the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that the task of convincing Sir Gideon Malvern had her name on it. Once again she pictured him as she’d seen
him in the dim light of the hall. She’d had the sense of a presence rather than any specific details about height or form or coloring. But his eyes had most definitely been gray. Gray with a certain piercing quality to them . . . a light that had fixed upon her like a torch beam. And his voice . . . now, she had liked his voice.
She was feeling in a rather more positive frame of mind that afternoon as she walked along Piccadilly to meet her sisters. Chastity had written her letter to the melodramatic miss from Wimbledon and had left early to stop at the post office to send it on its way, so Prudence was enjoying a solitary walk. It was a lovely crisp autumn afternoon, when London showed itself at its best. The trees were turning deep red and burnt orange and there was the faint scent of roasting chestnuts on the air. She passed a vendor at his brazier and hesitated, tempted by the aroma, but she was within a few yards of Fortnum’s and she couldn’t really walk into the tearoom with a newspaper cone of chestnuts.
How difficult could it be to persuade a barrister of the legitimacy of a case that shrieked legitimacy? So, maybe they didn’t have much . . . no, any . . . evidence for the fraud accusations, but maybe, just maybe there was an obvious place to start looking. The idea so startled her that she stopped dead on the pavement. A man behind her dodged sideways to prevent a collision and passed her with a quick sidestep, staring at her.
Prudence offered a smile of apology and began walking slowly again. Why had they not thought of it before? It seemed obvious now. But perhaps they’d been blinded by their father’s loyalty and dependence on his friend. She caught herself humming and relished a lighthearted feeling that had become a stranger just recently. She smiled at the doorman who held open the glass doors for her and entered the wide marble expanse of the tearoom. The usual string quartet was playing on the dais, and swallowtail-coated waiters, and waitresses in frilly white caps, moved between the crowded tables with trolleys laden with rich cakes and silver-domed serving platters.
“Mrs. Ensor and the Honorable Miss Prudence Duncan are seated in the far alcove, Miss Duncan.” The maître d’hôtel bowed. “If you’d like to follow me.”
“Thank you, Walter.” Prudence followed him, aware of the eyes on her. Every new arrival was scrutinized in this fashion, chattering tea drinkers hoping for some intimation of scandal. Constance would have been the object of every gossiping tongue in the room since it was her first public outing since her marriage. Her clothes and general appearance would have been taken apart to the last stitch. Prudence smiled and nodded at acquaintances but didn’t stop to greet anyone.
Her sisters were seated at a round table in a relatively secluded alcove behind a pillar. They waved as she came up. “There you are, Prue. We thought it better not to sit in plain sight today. To save Con some gawping and congratulating,” Chastity explained.
“Oh, I think I’m already the subject of conversation at most tables,” Constance said as Prudence took the chair Walter pulled out for her.
“Your dress must be,” Prudence declared with approval. “It’s gorgeous. I love those black and white stripes and those sleeves . . . the way they puff at the top and then are tight and buttoned to your wrists. Are those mother-of-pearl buttons?”
“Yes, aren’t they pretty? What do you think of the hat?” Constance lifted the black spotted veil that covered her eyes.
“Stunning,” Prudence said. “So different from that little mink thing you were wearing this morning. I love those orange plumes against the black velvet.”
“I must say, I’m enjoying my new wardrobe,” Constance confessed almost guiltily, drawing off her gloves. “Max is the driving force. He has the most avant-garde taste. Quite surprising, really, for someone who’s always seemed so conventional.”
“He married you, didn’t he?” Prudence remarked. “Not the mark of a conventional man.”
“Perhaps not.” Constance was as unaware of the little smile playing over her lips as she was of the glow on her cheeks, and the luminous sparkle in her eyes.
“Nice afternoon?” Chastity inquired blandly as she poured tea for her sister.
Constance gave her a sharp look and then laughed a little self-consciously. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s fairly obvious you didn’t spend the entire afternoon with Letitia.”
Constance changed the subject. She glanced up at the waitress who was hovering at the table. “Anchovy toast,” she said. “I would like two pieces, please. What?” She looked at her sisters, who were regarding her with amusement.
“You don’t usually eat tea,” Chastity observed.
“I seem to be hungry this afternoon,” Constance declared repressively. “And you’re a fine one to talk. Look at that decadent concoction on your plate.”
“Oh, it’s delicious, you should try one.” Chastity dipped her finger into the raspberry cream and licked it slowly. “Heavenly. Raspberry and chocolate. I can never decide whether chocolate and orange is a better combination. It all depends on which one I’m eating at the time.”
“I’d like a marron glacé,” Prudence said, looking the cake trolley over somewhat absently. “Thank you.” She smiled at the waitress who poured her tea.
“What’s the matter, Prue?” Constance inquired after a few seconds. “You’ve been looking at that marron glacé as if you’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“I had a revelation on the way here,” Prudence said.
“About the case?” Chastity leaned forward eagerly.
Prudence nodded. “Just a thought about this fraud business.”
“Go on,” Constance invited, sniffing hungrily at the fragrant plate of anchovy toast that had been placed in front of her.
“All right.” Prudence took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose with a finger. “When Father threw his fortune behind that lunatic scheme to run a railway across the Sahara—”
“And lost every penny he possessed,” Chastity stated.
“Precisely. Well, he didn’t consult us, did he? And if he’d consulted Mother she would have put a stop to it with one soft word, but, of course, she wasn’t there.”
“True,” Constance said, watching her sister closely.
“But who was there?” Prudence replaced her glasses. “The one person whose voice Father listened to, whose influence he bowed to.”
“Barclay,” her sisters said in unison.
“Yes, Barclay. The man who never left his side, who comforted him and stood his friend throughout his grief. But what if . . .” Prudence lowered her voice, leaning across the table, and her sisters automatically brought their heads closer to hers. “What if Barclay was preying on a man unbalanced by grief? What if he put Father up to that scheme for his own ends?”
“Father said only that it was some investment company that was behind the project,” Chastity said, frowning.
“Yes,” Prudence agreed. “And he said he expected the shares to quadruple in price in the first year.”
“But the company went bankrupt,” Constance said slowly.
“If there ever was a company.” Prudence sat back and surveyed her sisters. “It’s not difficult to counterfeit documents. Barclay could have invented the company out of whole cloth and convinced Father of its credentials. I’ll bet there’s some documentation somewhere among Father’s papers. If we can link Barclay to the scheme, then we’re home and dry. Not even the kindest interpretation could call selling shares in a trans-Sahara railway less than fraudulent.”
“Oh, clever, Prue,” Constance said quietly. “Not just a pretty face, are you?”
Prudence’s smile was smug. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.”
“We’ve been too busy trying to deal with the aftermath,” Constance pointed out. “The train wreck called family finances.”
“The only problem is that Father’s going to look an absolute fool,” Chastity said. “If we have to expose his—What would you call it? Arrant stupidity? Lunacy?—in court, he’ll be a laughingstock. We know
it was an aberration when he was out of his mind with grief, but who else is going to take that into account?”
“Maybe we can manage to leave him out of it,” Prudence suggested. “If we can marshal evidence to expose the scheme, we don’t have to say who fell victim to it.”
“Unless the barrister insists,” Chastity said.
“You’ll have to bring it up when you meet him,” Constance said. “Chas and I were saying before you arrived that it has to be you. You know more about the finances than we do. And there’s no way that this Sir Gideon will fail to take you seriously. People always take you seriously, even when you’re not being serious.”
“Yes,” agreed Chastity. “Everything about you exudes gravitas and rationality, Prue.”
“That sounds very boring,” Prudence grumbled. “Like some kind of Miss Prim. I’m sure it’s only because of the glasses.” She pushed the spectacles farther up her nose with a gesture of faint disgust.
“It’s not just that,” Constance said. “It’s your character. Mother always said you could grasp a situation instantly and see all its ramifications long before the rest of us. There’s no way this Sir Gideon is going to dismiss you as a Society fribble, an ignoramus with nothing in her head but fashion and gossip.”
“I doubt he’d dismiss you on such counts either,” Prudence stated.
“But he might dismiss me on those grounds,” Chastity observed without rancor. “He might well decide I’m some flighty flirt of very little brain.”
“Chas!” her sisters exclaimed. “Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s true,” Chastity said. “That’s often the first impression I make. Oh, I grant you, it doesn’t last. But first impressions in this instance are going to be all we’ve got. I agree with Con. It’s up to you, Prue.”
“So, I’m it,” Prudence said, and finally ate her marron glacé. A waitress appeared immediately with the trolley and Prudence examined the contents. “One of those, I believe.” She indicated a strawberry tart.
“I’ll have a piece of that chocolate sponge,” Chastity said. “What about you, Con?”
