Dukes Prefer Blondes (15 page)

“You could have hit me with the umbrella,” he said.

“Maybe next time,” she said. “Oh, I forgot. There's not to be a next time. Just as well. Here's where we part ways.”

The hackney came to a stop.

Radford was still trying to digest
hysterical
. He looked out. They were in the Kensington High Street. Already.

“Thank you for a most educational experience,” she said. “I think you ought to write to me, but I suppose you won't.”

“That would be . . .” Unwise. So unwise. The sooner he separated from her—­completely—­the sooner he'd recover.

The coachman opened the door.

She alit and started walking away before Radford could pull himself together.

He rose, about to follow her, then regained his reason. He couldn't follow her. He couldn't escort her to her great-­aunt's house. The morning was advancing, and the chances of her being recognized had increased radically.

The coach door closed.

He sat down again, and watched from the window until she turned the corner and vanished from view.

He signaled the coachman to drive on, though Radford was no longer sure where he was going. He looked down at his hands and wondered at them and at himself. His gaze fell to the coach floor, and he saw her gloves, which she must have dropped when she reached out to take hold of him.

He picked them up, pressed them to his cheek, then stuffed them into his breast pocket.

 

Chapter Eight

THE BARRISTER . . . So our advocate has always the honesty and courage to despise all personal considerations, and not to think of any consequence but what may result to the public from the faithful discharge of his sacred trust.

—­
The Jurist
, Vol. 3, 1832

Exton House, Kensington

Tuesday 22 September

A
lady was supposed to know how to do these things.

Everybody knew gentlemen could be obtuse, especially when it came to matters of the heart. Everybody knew, as well, that gentlemen needed to believe they were in charge. Therefore, ladies had to learn ways of communicating the obvious without being obvious about it.

Clara did not see how one could be more obvious than grabbing a man practically by the throat and kissing him. She'd even suggested Mr. Radford write to her. But she'd offered a way out, and he was an expert in loopholes and technicalities.

Perhaps the customary subtleties of ladyship were wasted on men like Raven Radford. But what was she thinking? No man existed who was
like
Raven Radford.

She sat at her writing desk, pen in hand, a blank sheet of paper in front of her.

Unmarried ladies did not write letters to gentlemen who weren't family members or intimates of the family at the very least. And the gentlemen weren't supposed to write to these ladies.

Though he'd known enough to send his brief messages via Fenwick, “Be at such and such a place at such and such a time” did not qualify as correspondence, even if it was clandestine. But she'd invited him to correspond, hadn't she? And now a week had passed without a word from him. He couldn't still be traveling. He'd have reached the Duke of Malvern's place in a day, two days if he dawdled, something she couldn't imagine Mr. Radford doing.

She knew where in Herefordshire he'd gone: Glynnor Castle. According to Great-­Aunt Dora's butler, the previous, fifth duke of Malvern had started building it at the turn of the century. Clara had found a picture of it in the second volume of
Jones' Views
, which illustrated the homes of Britain's upper ranks.

Great-­Aunt Dora said nobody she knew had ever visited. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen the previous duke in London. “I believe the only time any of the Radfords came to Town was to look for wives, though more often than not they found them elsewhere,” she'd said. “His Grace liked to keep the family at his beck and call and he couldn't abide London. I can't remember the last time any of them stopped at the town house, let alone lived in it. They usually let it to foreigners.”

Clara found it hard to imagine a Londoner like Mr. Radford happily rusticating in a faux medieval castle. He must be tearing out his hair. She could imagine him doing that—­losing his detachment and falling into a passion . . . because that was the way he'd kissed her . . . and she wished . . .

But she wasn't sure what she wished anymore. She hadn't slept well these last few nights, and her head was a jumble, thick as pudding. It hurt to think. She put down her pen and closed the inkwell. She pushed the paper away from her.

When Davis came in a little while later, Clara said, “I don't believe I can join my aunt for dinner this evening. I don't feel well at all.”

Then she slumped, and would have fallen from the chair if Davis hadn't caught her.

“I don't feel well,” Clara said. Her voice sounded odd and slurred. “My head . . .”

“Yes, my lady. You don't look well, either. You're going to bed.”

Glynnor Castle, Herefordshire

Thursday 24 September

B
ernard was drunk, still.

His Grace the Duke of Malvern had been drunk when Radford arrived, the day before the duchess's funeral. Radford had managed to sober him up for the funeral. That was a mistake. Sobriety only made Bernard belligerent.

His brothers-­in-­law took the brunt of it, but the clergymen and even the sexton got their share. Bernard muttered during the reading of the Psalms and fell asleep during the lesson from the Corinthians. When they brought his wife's body to the mausoleum, he sobbed loudly, until the rector came to “for they rest from their labors.” Then Bernard burst out laughing.

The other family members did not linger. They were at war with one another, as always, and even a castle quickly became too small for them.

The Duke of Malvern owned half a dozen houses, including what ought to be the ducal home, Radford Hall in Worcestershire. But Bernard's father had wanted a medieval castle. With turrets. He'd spent thirty years building and furnishing it. This enterprise, combined with the ongoing project of fomenting trouble among his relatives, left no time for other business. All the estate and other legal matters had, over the last five years especially, subsided into a state of chaos guaranteed to send the average solicitor to the nearest lunatic asylum. But Radford, firstly, wasn't a solicitor, and secondly, liked solving riddles, the knottier the better.

The castle, on the other hand, was splendid. Handsome and built with every modern comfort, it overlooked fine views in every direction. Radford had caught himself more than once imagining Lady Clara's reaction. He thought she'd be amused, but would probably like it. Yet he felt sure she'd like the ancient pile in Worcestershire better, for its character.

He was making a miserable job of not thinking about her, even though he had more than enough to occupy even his overlarge brain.

With the other relatives out of the way, he tackled Bernard.

He found His Grace in the library—­by no means reading a book—­but sprawled on a sofa near the fire. A glass and a decanter stood close at hand. A wine-­stained sporting magazine lay at his feet.

There being more of Bernard than there used to be, he needed most of the sofa for sprawling space. When Radford joined him, he looked up blearily.

“Do you
want
me to inherit?” Radford said.

Even if preambles had been in his style, he'd waste them on Bernard.

The duke blinked. “That's little Raven, isn't it? Dear, dear little cuz. If I wasn't overcome with grief I'd throw you off the premises. Whyn't they do it, then? Or did I forget to tell 'em?”

“You sent for me, you idiot,” Radford said. “You dismissed your agent and your land steward.”

“They bothered me.”

With estate business: his responsibilities, in other words.

Bernard was a brainless bully. Radford did not love him. But he detached himself from his dislike because the dukedom was more than the one man. It comprised great estates in divers parts of Great Britain and all the ­people whose livelihoods depended on those properties. The vast majority of these ­people were far from wealthy and worked hard for the little they had.

To His Grace of Malvern they did not exist. On the other hand, his own comfort concerned him very much. When Radford got him to understand that failing to manage the ducal responsibilities would result in every sort of botheration, including reduced income, Bernard told him, “Then you'd better take care of it.”

Radford decided he might as well do so. The libel suit was unlikely to reach a courtroom for another month at least, if it ever did. Working for his cousin would keep his mind engaged in the meantime. Radford would have less time and mental space for wandering into unproductive musings and what-­ifs and debates about whether to write to Lady Clara.

“I realize you're a pleasanter person—­relatively speaking—­when you drink,” he told his cousin. “Ergo, for the sake of those who must live with you, I will not tell you to stop altogether. But unless you're eager for me to inherit, I recommend you reduce the quantity of intoxicants by at least one half.”

He stepped closer and studied the duke's eyes. They weren't grey, like Radford's, but hazel. The whites were not white, either. It was hard to be certain, even in daylight, because his eyes were always bloodshot, but Radford detected a yellow tinge.

“Your physician believes an excess of yellow bile presents an immediate danger to your health,” he went on. “I must, on the evidence, agree with him, although, on the whole, I find medical persons to be backward, superstitious, and given to worship at the altar of antiquated theory, even in clear and unmistakable contradiction to clinical experience.”

“Want to say it again in English?” Bernard said. “You always was so talkative. Big words, too. And Latin and Greek. How I stay awake when you talk is a mystery to me. And sit down, curse you. You're giving me a neck ache.”

Radford drew up a chair and sat where he could face his cousin straight on. “If you don't become more temperate in your habits you'll die young. Before that, though, you'll become impotent. Meaning—­”

“I know what that means.” Bernard laughed. “Sad, soggy cock. That your trouble, little Raven? That what makes you such a pain in the arse?”

“It's
your
cock we're talking about, you numskull,” Radford said. “Now here's the thing. You want to remarry, right? Want to try again for little boys?”

“Live ones,” Bernard growled. He blinked hard, and his face crumpled into quivering folds. “She . . . Two girls only, and they didn't last long. She lost the others before she could birth 'em. Then she was sick. Well, how was I to know? Silly cow. Don't know why I miss her.”

“Because she was better than you deserved, which I am sure will always be the case. Listen to me, Cousin. We both know that many parents would sell their nubile daughters to a duke wanting an heir, no matter if he was covered with warts and boils and succumbing to syphilitic dementia.”

Bernard heaved himself forward. But since his great belly wouldn't let him go far, he failed to appear threatening. Comical was more like it. “I ain't poxed, you beaky little turd!”

“For your future bride's sake, I'm glad to hear it,” Radford said. “I'm glad as well to know your education wasn't entirely wasted, for you seem to understand some big words.”

“If I wasn't sick with grief, I'd land you a facer.” The duke sank back onto the sofa.

“I only wish to point out that, no matter what ailments you do or do not suffer from, no matter how young and nubile your next bride is, you will not get another child of any kind if you don't stop guzzling drink and laudanum at your present rate.”

“Didn't you notice it was a funeral you were at the other day?”

“Don't insult my intelligence by blaming grief,” Radford said. “You've been intemperate since boyhood. Until Her Grace's funeral, nobody had seen you sober for the last six years.”

Bernard refilled his glass. For a time he regarded Radford over the rim. Then he tipped his head back and emptied it down his throat.

“Ah, witty repartee,” Radford said. He rose. “Well, I've said my piece.”

“You ain't going!”

“No such luck,” Radford said. “For either of us. I've an appointment with your new land steward.”

Finding a replacement hadn't been easy. The last one had left matters in a disarray not wholly his fault, and not all qualified men were like Radford, enchanted at the prospect of untangling a Gordian knot.

“Oh, I've got one, have I? As stupid as the last?”

“Yes, but you're paying him more to compensate,” Radford said. “As well, I've rehired your agent, Dursley, because he's the most competent fellow within fifty miles.”

Bernard blinked at him. He probably didn't remember who Dursley was.

“Pray don't trouble your delicate little brain about a thing,” Radford said. “We'll endeavor to muddle along without you.” He started out of the room, then paused a pace from the threshold. “By the way, as long as I'm doing everything else, does Your Majesty wish me to find a bride for you? Given your present state of health, I recommend you make haste.”

“Ha ha. You wit, you. Why, yes, find me a bride, there's a good little Raven.”

Radford went out. Someone of strong will and strong stomach, he thought, might whip his fool cousin into shape. He could write to Lady Clara for suggestions . . .

I think you ought to write to me, but I suppose you won't.

No, he supposed he'd better not. He was sure that would be Mistake Number Eleven.

T
he message arrived a short time later, while Radford was closeted with Sanborne, the new land steward, in the muniments room.

Although it bore Westcott's handwriting, Radford would have tossed it aside had it not arrived express. He knew Westcott wouldn't send a letter express merely to bother him with legal business. Heart racing, he tore it open.

Westcott had folded a second document inside. He'd simply written, “Enclosed letter received today from her ladyship's maid. Kindly read immediately.” Both messages were dated yesterday.

Davis had written:

Dear Mr. Westcott,

My lady went to bed unwell and woke early this morning complaining of a dreadful headache. Since then she's grown feverish and suffers pain in her joints and muscles. Lady Exton's physician says this is a febrile attack, and he promises to bleed my lady the next time he comes, if she isn't better. I am sure this is unwise, but Dr. Marler doesn't know
where my lady has been
, and he would never listen to the likes of me, even if I could bring myself to tell him. He doctors the nobility, and most of them only imagine they're sick. He won't know anything of jail fever, or believe it if I was so bold to say what I think. He's like most every other doctor, not listening to anybody else. Even if he did believe me, I worry he'll make it worse. Lady Exton is clever, but she believes the doctor knows everything. And so my poor lady grows more ill by the hour, with no one by who knows how to help her. You may tell Mr. Radford for me that I thank him for the fix we're in. He promised no harm would come to my dear lady, but here she is, so very ill. If she dies, I promise to make him pay, and I will go cheerfully to the gallows after.