The Bride Hunt

by Jane Feather

  “But you can’t change your mind now,” she said swiftly. “You said yes. You can’t renege.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I can.” He returned to his cheese and grapes with a little shrug of resignation. He was not an impulsive man. Lawyers, by definition, were never swayed by such an unreliable force. So, if his agreement was not impulsive, what was it? An interesting question to be explored at leisure.

  Prudence drank the last of her claret. He didn’t sound exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of the case. Did that mean he wouldn’t take too much trouble over it? Would the fact that they couldn’t pay him limit the amount of time he would spend?

  She took a deep breath. “If you don’t think you can give the case all your attention, I think it would be best if you did decline after all.”

  He looked at her, his eyes suddenly sharp, his mouth hard. “What are you implying?”

  Prudence began to regret she’d brought up the subject. But since she had, she could see little choice but to continue. “You seem ambivalent,” she said. “And since we can’t pay you, I thought—”

  He interrupted her, one hand raised in emphasis. “You thought that I would take on a case and fail to give it my full professional attention. Is that what you thought, Miss Duncan?” His tone was harsh, his voice, while still soft and well modulated, was incredulous. “What kind of barrister do you think I am?”

  “An expensive one,” she said, refusing to be cowed. “I wondered if you had a sliding scale of fees appropriate to the amount of effort you expended. I wouldn’t call that unethical. In most circumstances one pays for the service one gets.”

  “I have never, ever taken on a case to which I did not devote every ounce of my legal knowledge, intellect, and energy,” he declared, quietly enunciating every single word. “I give you fair warning, Miss Duncan. Do not ever impugn my professional integrity again.” He flung down his table napkin and rang the little bell with considerable vigor.

  Prudence could think of nothing to say. She was taken aback by the force of his reaction but supposed she had unwittingly trampled on his pride. Something to be careful of in the future. She made a mental note.

  “Let’s move back to the fire for coffee,” he suggested as the waiters reappeared with a tray of coffee. His voice was once again pleasantly neutral. He rose from the table and drew back her chair for her.

  Prudence stood up and picked up her handbag. “Would you excuse me for a minute?” She looked expectantly towards the door.

  “This way, madam.” One of the waiters moved to the door instantly and she followed him. He showed her to a small water closet just down the corridor, well equipped with basin and mirror, soap and towels. Again more suited to a private residence than a restaurant. She took a few minutes to compose herself, dabbing cool water on her wrists. She ought to feel jubilant at her victory. But instead she felt uneasy, even slightly deflated. This partnership was not going to be easy to manage. Gideon Malvern was not going to be easy to manage. And somehow they had to find a way to pay him for his services. The Duncan pride was a pretty fierce variety too. An idea nibbled at the corners of her mind. She found herself smiling. It was such a perfect solution. But would the barrister find it so?

  She went back to the drawing room and took her seat on the sofa once more, accepting a cup of coffee from her host. She cleared her throat. “I would like to discuss the question of your fee, Sir Gideon.”

  “Certainly,” he said promptly. “If Barclay fails to prove his case, he’ll be required to pay all the legal costs, yours as well as his own. And in addition I’ll be asking the court to award damages to The Mayfair Lady, whose reputation was damaged by his frivolous suit. If, therefore, Miss Duncan, we should win—and mind you, it’s a big if—then my share over and above my fee, which will be paid by the other side, will be eighty percent of the damages awarded.”

  Prudence absorbed this, keeping her expression neutral. Then she said coolly, “I understand you’re divorced, Sir Gideon.”

  He drew his head back like a startled cat. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “It must be difficult to bring up a child, particularly a daughter, without a wife.” She stirred her coffee.

  “I don’t find it so,” he said, watching her with a frown in his eyes. “And I fail to see what this has to do with my terms. You accept them or you don’t.”

  She took a sip of her coffee and set the tiny cup back into the saucer. “Well, you see, I have a rather more equitable suggestion.”

  “Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. Against his will he was intrigued. He had expected some shock, if not downright outrage at his proposed split. Certainly not this cool, considered reaction. “How so?”

  “An old-fashioned barter, Sir Gideon. An exchange of services.” She leaned forward to put her cup and saucer on the table. “In exchange for your legal services the Go-Between will undertake to find you a wife and a stepmother for your daughter.”

  “What?” He stared at her, incapable of coherent thought for a minute.

  “It’s simple enough, surely. Of course, if we fail to find you the right partner, then the eighty-twenty split will stand.” She smiled placidly. “And even if we lose our case, we will still hold true to our side of the bargain. We will find you a wife.” She opened her hands again. “How can you lose?”

  “How, indeed?” he murmured with a soundless whistle at this mixture of effrontery and ingenuity. “But as it happens, Miss Duncan, I am not in the market for a wife.”

  “You may not be looking actively, but if the right prospect dropped into your lap, surely you would not be averse. A life’s companion, a mother for your daughter. It’s very hard for a daughter to grow up without a mother’s influence.”

  “Believe it or not, one divorce is plenty,” he said, his lips suddenly thinned. He moved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Plenty for me, and I’m sure more than enough for any child. But you wouldn’t know, would you, Miss Duncan? Husbands have not come your way.”

  Prudence was unperturbed by this cutting statement. Gideon Malvern was not to know that her unmarried status was a matter of sublime indifference to her. She ignored the snub, and considered. She wanted to ask him who had been responsible for the divorce, but couldn’t get her tongue around the words. It seemed far too intrusive a question under the circumstances.

  “Yes,” she said. “I can see that. Once bitten, twice shy. But a second failed marriage doesn’t necessarily follow from a first.” She steepled her hands, touching them to her mouth. “You don’t have to agree to anything except to let us suggest some possibilities. As we work together and get to know you better, we’ll have a much clearer idea of the kind of woman who might suit you.”

  Gideon was not accustomed to delivering a coup de grâce and having it ignored. He looked at her with renewed interest as he said brusquely, “It’s a ridiculous idea. I have no time for romantic fantasies.”

  “Ah, but what I’m suggesting is the antithesis of romantic fantasy,” Prudence pressed. “I’m merely suggesting that we come up with some possible candidates, you look them over. If there are any that interest you, we’ll arrange a meeting. No strings. As I said before, how can you lose?”

  He had a sense that Miss Duncan wasn’t going to give up easily. His interest grew, although it had nothing to do with her proposition. More to do with the set of her head and that aura of firmly competent determination, he decided. So ludicrously at odds with her prim and dowdy exterior.

  He supposed it could do no harm to agree to this absurd bargain. It might be amusing to play along for a while—and even useful to discover how the Duncan sisters worked. He shrugged and said, “I won’t stop you trying, but I should warn you, I’m a very hard man to please. I think I’ll rely on the eighty-twenty split.”

  “Assuming we win.”

  “I don’t often lose,” he said.

  “And we don’t often fail,” she returned in much the same calmly superior tone. “So, we have a bargain?
” She held out her hand.

  “If you insist.” He took the hand.

  “Oh, you may think you’re humoring me, Sir Gideon, but you’ll be surprised,” Prudence said with rather more confidence than she felt.

  He inclined his head in half-laughing acknowledgment. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m skeptical. But as you say, I can’t lose.”

  “Then I think we have brought this evening to a satisfactory conclusion,” Prudence stated.

  “Must we conclude?” he asked. “I hate to close a social evening on a business note.” His gray eyes had gone dark as coal and Prudence found her own eyes focused on his mouth. A very sensual mouth, she realized, with a long upper lip and a deep cleft in his chin.

  “It was a business evening, Sir Gideon,” she declared, rising to her feet.

  “Do you wear your glasses all the time?”

  “If I want to see,” she said with asperity. “And as it happens, I’m more interested in good eyesight than my appearance.”

  “That I doubt,” he said. “I hope to see you in your true colors next time we meet.”

  “The appearance I choose to present depends upon the impression I choose to make,” she responded stiffly. “Could you ring for my coat, please?”

  He stepped over to the table and rang the handbell, then turned back to her, a slightly quizzical smile touching his mouth. “Is there a man in your life, Prudence?”

  The direct question astounded her, and to her annoyance she found herself answering it as directly. “No, not at present.”

  His smile deepened. “Has there ever been?”

  Her eyes flashed. “I fail to see what business that is of yours, Sir Gideon. I am your client, my personal life does not enter into our business relationship.”

  “I was merely interested in discovering whether you used your own services,” he said. “It would be something of a recommendation, don’t you think?”

  There was no possible answer to that. Fortunately, the reappearance of the waiter in response to the summons made her silence unremarkable. Gideon asked for their coats and gave orders for his motor to be brought round from the mews. Then he turned back to Prudence. The smile had gone.

  “So,” he said, “to avoid any further misconceptions, let me make one thing clear: your personal business is about to become mine. Yours and your sisters’. No area of your lives will be immune from my questions.”

  Prudence stared at him. It was the most inflammatory statement, made all the more so by his manner, so relaxed, so cool, and so infuriatingly confident. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s quite simple. I am now your barrister. And in that capacity I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you and your sisters some very personal questions. I have to know everything about you. I can’t risk any surprises in court.”

  “How could there be surprises in court when no one will know who we are?”

  “I win cases by leaving nothing to chance,” he responded. “And if you and your sisters can’t guarantee me your complete cooperation, then I’m afraid our bargain is null and void.”

  Prudence frowned. She could see his point, but deeply resented his tone. “You may find it a case of the biter bit, Sir Gideon,” she said. “In order to find a suitable match for you, we too will have to ask some very personal questions.”

  “There is one difference. I may choose not to answer yours since I’m less interested in finding a suitable mate than you’re interested in preserving your livelihood. Your stakes are much greater than mine, Prudence, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Prudence recognized that that was game, set, and match. “I think we have nothing further to discuss this evening.”

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed amiably. He took her coat from the waiter, who had returned, and helped her into it. He put on his own heavy overcoat and driving gloves as she tied her scarf around her head.

  “The night’s quite chilly,” he commented as pleasantly as if that acerbic exchange had not taken place. “There’s a lap rug in the motor.” He escorted her down the stairs to the hall, one guiding hand lightly clasping her elbow.

  The vehicle stood, engine already running, at the curb. He tucked the rug over her knees when she was seated and took his own place behind the wheel.

  “I’ll see you and your sisters in my chambers at eight-thirty tomorrow morning,” he stated, guiding the motor expertly through the crowded streets. The Opera House was disgorging its clientele and hackney cabs jostled for space with private vehicles awaiting their owners.

  “Eight-thirty!” Prudence exclaimed. “That’s the crack of dawn.”

  “I have to be in court at ten,” he said. He glanced across at her. “Believe it or not, Prudence, I do have other clients, all of whom at present are neither pro bono nor contingency cases . . . not to mention barter arrangements,” he added with a touch of acid.

  He was such an arrogant bastard! He was treating her offer as if it was no more than a joke . . . and a feeble one, at that. Prudence stared rigidly ahead, wishing she could tell him to jump in the Thames and take his conceited smugness with him. But then he’d have to take his legal expertise as well, so of course she couldn’t.

  “When you come tomorrow, I’ll need you to explain to me how you’re going to back up your accusations of Barclay’s financial improprieties. I can’t prepare a case until I have that evidence in my hands.”

  “I won’t have the evidence tomorrow,” Prudence said. “But we have a lead. I can explain that tomorrow.”

  “Then I suppose I must be thankful for small mercies,” he said, drawing the car to a smooth stop at the curb outside 10 Manchester Square. He turned sideways on the seat, and before she could respond he had taken her face between his hands and brought his mouth to hers. Prudence tried to pull back but he was holding her too firmly and he was kissing her with far too much authority for resistance.

  He moved one hand behind her head, displacing the scarf as he held her head in his palm, his fingers working through the tight bun at her nape. She tried to put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but he was holding her too closely to give her the freedom of movement. She pushed her head back against his palm, trying to turn her mouth aside, but his lips merely moved to the corner of her mouth, his tongue lightly stroking her lips. She was breathless when finally he raised his head and smiled down at her. Her face was hot, flushed with anger, and for a moment she was speechless. Not so Gideon. “Well, that satisfies my curiosity,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you stormed back into my chambers this afternoon.”

  “How dare you?” she demanded, outrage throbbing in her voice as she tried to tidy her disordered hair, pushing loosened pins back into the russet bun. “Without even asking? What gave you the right to assume that I wanted it?” She glared at him, and even through the thick lenses he could almost feel the sparks of rage in her eyes. He could certainly imagine them.

  “What did you think you were doing?” she continued with the same fury. “Taking payment for your services?”

  “Oh, you are so sharp, you could cut,” he said with a soft laugh, pulling her back into his embrace. He kissed her again, his closed mouth hard against her lips, then released her as abruptly. She caught her breath on a gasp and was momentarily silenced.

  “Actually,” he said gravely, although his dancing eyes belied his tone, “I thought it might help you to know what kind of woman just might suit me when you commence your search. And it might be helpful for any prospective candidates to have some idea of the kind of lover I might make. You could probably make a more informed assessment of both issues now.” He got out of the motor and came around to open her door, offering his hand to help her out.

  She remained seated and said with icy deliberation, “You are a cad, Sir Gideon. We do not accept as clients men who ride roughshod over women. Men who assume that they can sweep a woman off her feet with some absurd attempt at mastery are of no interest to me . . . I mean us,” she am
ended hastily. Ignoring the hand, she stepped down to the curb.

  “There’s a time and a place for every approach,” he said without the blink of an eye. “And sometimes surprise is the essence of a successful campaign. Good night, Prudence.” He raised her hand to his lips in a courtly gesture that shocked her almost as much as the kiss. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow at eight-thirty sharp in my chambers.”

  She took back her hand with a jerk and without a word of farewell turned to the steps, infuriatingly aware of his soft laugh at her back.

  He stood on the bottom step until she had let herself into the house, then returned to the motor. As he drove home, he began to wonder just what in hell he thought he was doing. He was not a man of impulse. Never had been. He’d agreed against every judicial instinct to work with the woman. Then on a pure impulse he found himself kissing her. What in hell’s teeth did he think he was doing? He was beginning to have the unnerving sensation of loosing his moorings, casting himself adrift on a sea of blind compulsion.

  Prudence had barely closed the door behind her when her sisters came running down the stairs to greet her.

  “Con, what are you doing here?” she asked in surprise.

  “Oh, Max had a division bell just as we were finishing dinner and had to go to the House of Commons for a vote. He might be there most of the night, so I decided to come back with Chas and hear what happened.” Constance regarded her sister closely. “You look a little disheveled, love.”

  “In the circumstance, that’s not surprising,” Prudence answered somewhat sharply as she took off her coat. “Let’s go up to the parlor and I’ll tell you all about it.” She became aware of her sisters’ incredulous stares. “Why . . . What’s the matter?”

  “That dress is frightful,” Constance said. “Where did it come from?”

  “The old cedar chest. It was supposed to keep the barrister’s mind on business,” she added somewhat bitterly.

  “And it didn’t?” Chastity asked. “This is very intriguing, Prue.” She followed her sister to the stairs. “But can you at least put us out of our misery and tell us if he agreed to take the case?”