The Bride Hunt

by Jane Feather

  Then they were once more in the motor, driving through the quiet early morning streets of Henley. A few shopkeepers were opening up, but there were few customers as yet. Prudence had again donned her furs and tucked her hands into her muff. Conversationally, she opened a subject that had aroused her curiosity. “Gideon, this morning we didn’t use a condom, but you withdrew at the last minute. Is that uncomfortable for you?”

  He shrugged. “Neither method is ideal from a man’s point of view, but the possible consequences of ignoring precautions don’t bear thinking of.”

  “Ah.” Prudence absorbed this. Her fingers closed over her little notebook. He’d given her entrée into another issue. “Would you want more children . . . in the right circumstances, I mean?”

  “Do you want children, Prudence?” he asked, casting her a quick glance, but she couldn’t really see his expression behind the visor and goggles.

  “I asked you. If you were going to get married again, I mean.”

  He gave her a look of pure disbelief. “You’ve put your hands on that notebook again, haven’t you?”

  She felt herself flush slightly. “I just thought I’d ask since the subject had come up.”

  “We have just spent a night of fairly ecstatic lovemaking and you’ve now turned your attention to finding me a bride?” he demanded. “I don’t believe this, Prudence. It’s so utterly inappropriate.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said firmly. “You said last night that there would be no confusion. We are each other’s client. I expect you to do your best for me, and I will do my best for you. We agreed you would like a bride young enough to give you another child, but we didn’t actually talk about whether you would want one. Obviously, if you don’t I can’t introduce you to a woman who’s desperate to have children.” She turned to look at him. “Be reasonable, Gideon, you can see that.”

  He stared straight ahead at the winding road and declared through thinned lips, “I don’t want to have this conversation.”

  “You have your head in the sand,” she said, throwing up her hands. “How can I do my job when you won’t respond?”

  Gideon only shook his head.

  “All right,” Prudence said, “we’ll stop talking about possible brides for the moment. But surely you don’t mind thinking about some factors. Would Sarah like a ready-made sibling, do you think?”

  “I thought we’d put Agnes Hargate to rest.”

  Prudence ignored the acid tone. “I’m not talking specifics here. I’m trying to establish some parameters. You must have an opinion, surely.”

  Gideon, against his will, found himself considering the question. He realized he had no idea what Sarah would think about a stepmother, let alone a half sibling. Let alone a stepsibling. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’d have to ask her.”

  With what she recognized was now personal curiosity, Prudence asked, “How would you feel if a potential bride had, say, an illegitimate child?”

  That piqued his interest. “Do you know anyone in that situation?”

  She didn’t, of course. Women in the circles they would be considering did not have, or at least own to having, illegitimate children. “None that would acknowledge it.”

  “Then why ask?”

  She’d asked because she wanted to know which was the real Gideon Malvern. He cultivated the appearance of conventionality, lack of flexibility, lack of sympathy for those who didn’t quite meet his standards, and yet she had seen beneath that surface, seen that he could be quite the opposite, embracing the unorthodox, open to change. But was that the right way round? Maybe the open, unorthodox side of him was an appearance to create a certain response, and the real Gideon was the rigid and aggressive barrister, with no time or sympathy for anyone who didn’t play by his rules. Her own peace of mind seemed to rest on the answer to the conundrum.

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully, resorting once more to the lighthearted tenor of their earlier conversations, “we do know that you would like to meet a future partner who’s willing to explore the delights of the Kama Sutra.”

  “I’m certainly willing to give some of the less extreme positions a try,” he said, turning to look at her fully. And now he was smiling. “What’s the point of all this, Prudence?”

  “I am trying to find you a suitable wife.”

  “Maybe that’s something I would prefer to do for myself.”

  “You agreed to the terms.”

  “I agreed to let you try.”

  “And I am trying. By the way, you’re about to run over a farm cart,” she observed. “I’m sure you’re supposed to keep your eyes on the road when driving.”

  Gideon swore as he wrenched the wheel to the side just in time to avoid a stolid horse pulling a cart piled with manure, driven by an old man smoking a pungent pipe that was nevertheless insufficient to combat the powerful odor from the cart.

  “That would have been a messy experience,” Prudence said when they were clear.

  “Why don’t you just enjoy the scenery and let me concentrate?” He sounded as annoyed as he looked. Prudence thought of his wet socks and bit back a smile. Gideon was not a man who liked to make mistakes.

  “Very well,” she agreed amiably. “I’m a little short of sleep, as it happens.” She huddled into her coat, drawing up the collar, and closed her eyes behind the goggles.

  She had not expected to sleep but she came to with a groggy start when the engine stopped, and saw that they were outside the house on Manchester Square. “I slept all that way.”

  “You did,” he agreed, coming around to open the door for her. “Snoring peacefully.”

  “I do not snore.” She stepped onto the curb.

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ll tell you something, Gideon, this habit you have of conversing in combative questions grows irksome,” she declared. “It might serve you well in a courtroom, but it’s annoying and uncomfortable in a social conversation.” She removed her goggles and tossed them onto the seat she had vacated.

  He pushed his goggles up over his visor. “Does it occur to you that I might find your way of conversing in distinctly personal questions just a little irksome?”

  “I was only doing my job,” Prudence declared. Then she shook her head in a little gesture of resignation. “I think we’re disliking each other again.”

  “So it would seem,” he agreed. “I imagine it will go in cycles.” He put a finger on the tip of her nose, raising his eyebrows.

  “Maybe so,” she said, aware of a softness in her voice that she hadn’t intended, but he was disarming her now, showing her the other side of Gideon Malvern. “Maybe so,” she said again, “but you provoke those reactions, Gideon. I’m generally a peaceable, easygoing person. Ask my sisters.”

  “I don’t think I’ll bother. I’m sure they’ll back you to the hilt. Instead, I’ll concentrate on the memory of the wildly passionate lover whenever you become quarrelsome, and then I won’t be tempted to respond in like fashion.” He bent and kissed the tip of her nose and then the corner of her mouth. “Find me some accurate records of Lord Duncan’s dealings with Barclay, Prudence. I can’t do anything without them. And come to my chambers tomorrow afternoon, after five. We’ll talk about how to present you in court and what impressions you have to avoid giving.” He gave her a wave before she could respond, and turned back to the motor.

  Prudence hesitated, words tumbling in her head, but none of them seemed adequate. One minute he was kissing her and calling her sweetheart, the next issuing brusque instructions. She waited until he had disappeared around the corner of the square and then went up the stairs to the front door.

  Jenkins opened the door as she inserted her key in the lock. “Miss Prue, what happened?” He couldn’t hide his concern.

  “Prue, is that you?” Chastity appeared at the head of the stairs. “Did you have an accident. Are you all right?”

  “No, no accident, and yes, I’m all right, love.” Prudence swiftly climbed the
stairs. “Motors have a habit of breaking down. We spent the night at an inn in Henley.” She gave her sister a quick kiss as she hurried past her. “I have to change my clothes, Chas. They’re the same ones I wore all day yesterday.”

  “Yes,” Chastity agreed. “Did you sleep in them?”

  There was something in the question that caused Prudence to stop on her way to her room. She turned slowly. Chastity was regarding her with her head tilted to the side, a slight smile on her lips.

  “No,” Prudence said. “I didn’t.”

  “So, what did you sleep in?”

  “If I told you the inn had spare nightgowns for benighted guests, would you believe me?” Prudence was aware now that her own lips were curving.

  “Not a bit of it,” Chastity said. “Are you going to spill the beans?”

  “Of course.” Prudence laughed. “Come and help me wash my hair. It’s a mess.”

  She had told Chastity the whole and was sitting by the parlor fire drying her hair in a towel when Constance came in. “You’re back. Thank goodness. I was quite worried when I got Chas’s message last night. What happened?”

  “Oh, Prue had an impulse to which she yielded, and it seems to have led to a night of unbridled passion in Henley-on-Thames,” Chastity said with an airy wave.

  Prudence emerged from the tent of the towel. “In a nutshell.”

  “That’s quite a nutshell.” Constance perched on the arm of the sofa. “Is he a good lover?”

  Prudence felt herself blush. “I didn’t have much to compare him with,” she said. “But I can’t imagine how the night could have been better.”

  Constance grinned. “That sounds fairly definitive,” she said. “The question, though, is how does this—”

  “Affect our business dealings with the barrister?” Prudence interrupted. “I know, Con. And don’t think I haven’t considered it. But I really don’t believe it will make one iota of difference. Sir Gideon Malvern, KC, is not the same person I spent such a wonderfully crazy night with. He reverts with surprising ease.” She picked up her hairbrush and began to brush her still-damp hair with vigorous strokes.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Chastity asked doubtfully.

  “Of course it is,” Prudence declared, smothering her own doubts. “And on the subject of business, he’s adamant that that note from Barclay isn’t sufficient for him to base a case on.” She sighed a little. “So, it seems there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to go to Hoare’s first thing tomorrow morning. It’s too late today.”

  “I thought we’d already agreed on that plan,” Chastity said, throwing another shovel of coal on the fire.

  “I know, but I had a smidgeon of hope that we could avoid it.”

  Constance shook her head. “We’re in too deep for regrets now, Prue. Did Chas tell you what I’ve been doing this morning?”

  “No, I haven’t had a chance,” Chastity said. “I had to stay here for you, Prue, so Con went out alone to see if she could discover whether anyone had been snooping around.” She looked worriedly at her eldest sister. “Was there anything, Con?”

  The sisters’ lightheartedness of a moment earlier was now quite dissipated. “Tell us,” Prudence said. She knew instinctively that they were going to hear nothing good.

  Constance paced to the window and back again. “As we agreed, I went to some of the main outlets we use, Helene’s Milliners, Robert’s of Piccadilly, a few others. I tried to make it seem we were doing the usual rounds to see how many copies they had sold of last week’s issue.”

  She paused, and her sisters waited. “Every one of them said other people had been asking questions about how the broadsheet was delivered to them, who checked on supplies, took orders, collected the money.”

  “Detectives,” Prudence said flatly. “Employed by Barclay’s solicitors. Gideon was right.”

  Constance nodded. “Of course, no one knows who we are, we’re simply representatives of The Mayfair Lady. We’re always veiled, and nothing can be traced to this address. But I’m thinking we should hold next week’s issue.”

  “Not publish?” It was a concept so foreign to the sisters that Chastity’s exclamation came as no surprise to the other two.

  “Maybe we should cease to publish until after the court case,” Constance said reluctantly.

  “But that’s giving in to them,” Chastity said, her mouth set with unusual firmness. “I think it should be a last resort.”

  “What about Mrs. Beedle? They’re bound to have followed up on the poste restante address,” Prudence said with a worried frown. “She wouldn’t betray us, but we can’t have her harried.”

  “One of us should go there tomorrow and talk to her,” Constance said.

  “I can’t.” Prudence stood up, shaking out her hair. “I have to go to the bank. One of you will have to go.”

  “I will,” Chastity volunteered.

  “I don’t suppose during your night of unbridled passion you had a chance to advance our search for a bride for the barrister?” Constance regarded her middle sister with the hint of a raised eyebrow.

  “I did try,” Prudence said. “He won’t have anything to do with Agnes or Lavender. Quite adamant he was on that score.”

  “But he hasn’t even met them,” Chastity protested.

  “I don’t think that matters a whit to him. To be brutally frank, I don’t think his heart is in this bargain.”

  “Then why did he agree to it?” Constance demanded.

  Prudence shrugged. “I think he thought it was a joke, something he didn’t have to take seriously.”

  Her sisters looked at her thoughtfully. “Of course, matters might be a little more complicated now,” Constance observed. “One lover finding the ideal bride for the other. A situation almost perverse, one might say.”

  “One might,” Prudence said aridly.

  “In fact,” her elder sister continued with a speculative air, “one might wonder if your heart is still in the search.”

  “I assure you that my heart is as much in it as it ever was,” Prudence declared with asperity. “A brief fling with a client does not have to affect one’s objectivity.”

  “No,” Constance agreed. “Of course it doesn’t. A brief fling, that is.”

  Chapter 15

  Prudence stood outside the narrow entrance to Hoare’s Bank in a steady drizzle. She was nerving herself to go in when the glass door opened and the liveried doorman emerged, holding up a big umbrella. He bowed and came towards her. “Are you coming into the bank, madam?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’d like a word with Mr. Fitchley if he’s in today.”

  “He certainly is, madam.” The doorman held the umbrella high as she took down her own, shaking the drops off. He escorted her into the hushed interior of the bank, where everyone for some reason that Prudence had never been able to fathom spoke in undertones.

  “The lady is for Mr. Fitchley,” the doorman said almost behind his hand to an elderly, hovering clerk.

  The clerk recognized the visitor without difficulty. It was sufficiently unusual for women to transact financial business for themselves to make Miss Duncan a distinctive client. “Good morning, Miss Duncan. I’ll tell Mr. Fitchley you’re here.” Prudence smiled her thanks. She sat down on a straight-backed velvet-cushioned chair, holding her handbag in her lap, and hoped she didn’t look too self-conscious. The silently busy clerks and cashiers in their cubbyholes cast her barely a glance, but she could feel her guilt radiating from every pore.

  Mr. Fitchley himself came out of his office to greet her. “Miss Duncan, good morning. This is a pleasure. Do come in, come in.” He waved expansively towards his office.

  “Good morning, Mr. Fitchley. A rather wet one, I’m afraid.” She offered another smile as she went past him into the sanctum. It was a small, dark room with a smoldering coal fire in the grate.

  “Pray have a seat.” The bank manager gestured to a chair in front of the desk, where not a scrap of paper was to be seen. He
folded his hands on the immaculate surface and said with a smile, “What can we do for you this morning, Miss Duncan?”

  Prudence opened her handbag and took out the envelope containing the letter of authorization. Her fingers were not quite steady as she turned it over so that the earl’s official seal was immediately visible. “I need to examine Lord Duncan’s bank records, Mr. Fitchley. I realize it’s unusual, but my father has some concerns about some past transactions. He would like me to look into them.” She leaned forward and laid the envelope in front of the banker.

  Mr. Fitchley put on a pince-nez and lifted the envelope. He turned it over in his hands several times. “I trust Lord Duncan’s concerns have nothing to do with the service Hoare’s Bank has provided. The earl’s family has banked with us for four generations.”

  Prudence made haste to reassure him. “No, of course not. It’s just that he wants to refresh his memory on some transactions that took place about four or five years ago.” She offered a self-deprecating smile. “As you know, Mr. Fitchley, I tend to manage the financial affairs of the household. My father has little time to spare for such chores.”

  The bank manager nodded. “Yes, your late mother, dear Lady Duncan, used to tell me the same thing.” He took up a paper knife and slit the envelope, unfolding the crisp, headed vellum. He read it very carefully—almost, Prudence thought, as if he would memorize every duplicitous word. Then he laid it down on the desk, smoothing it with the palm of one soft, white hand.

  “Well, that seems to be in order, Miss Duncan. If you’d like to follow me . . . we have a private office where clients may examine their effects without disturbance.” He rose from his desk and led the way into the main room. Prudence followed him across the marble-tiled expanse, past the cubbyholes where diligent workers kept their eyes on their desks as the manager walked by. He opened a door and stood aside for Prudence to enter a rather cell-like room, furnished with a table and chair. Gray light came from a small window.