Dukes Prefer Blondes (22 page)

“Are we to marry, then?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Unless you want to persist in your stupid fantasy of marrying stupid Bernard.”

She came up onto her elbows. “I think you'll be more entertaining. But you're not the one who's the duke. It's going to be a bit tricky, isn't it?”

Damned well impossible
.
Radford, meet Mistake Number Eleven
.

“A bit,” he said.

The big house was so quiet, away from the hubbub of London, that the noise from below, distant as it was, sounded like a rioting mob.

Cursing himself for carelessness, Radford slid from the bed, taking Clara with him.

“What?” she said.

“Someone's coming,” he said. He grabbed her cap and shoved it back onto her head. “Devil curse me, I should have thought.”

From the stairs came footsteps, voices. Two voices, female. No, three.

Davis. Lady Exton.

Another, unfamiliar, rose above the others. “Calm? Who can be calm at such at time? Would you be calm, were she your daughter, and you wondering what was being kept from you? I have not slept a wink since I had your last letter. Where is she, Aunt Dora? Where is my poor child?”

He looked at Clara. She looked at him, blue eyes wide.

“Blast,” she said, and hastily arranged her cap, shoving in pins.

L
ady Warford was not the stealthy type.

She entered the room in full sail, and full speech, the other women trailing after her.

“Measles, indeed! What do you hide from me, Aunt? My Clara had measles when she was nine years old. I remember distinctly, because it was not long after she chipped her—­”

She came to an abrupt stop when she saw Radford. Up came her eye glass, up went her chin, and she proceeded to demonstrate the fine art of looking down on a fellow more than a head taller than she.

After surveying him from head to toe, she turned her gaze to Clara.

“And this is the physician, I presume?” her ladyship said. “I can think of no other reason for a man to be in your bedroom.”

“No, Mama, this is not the physician,” Clara said. “This is Mr. Radford.”

“Radford,” Lady Warford repeated.

“Yes, my dear,” said Lady Exton. “The Duke of Malvern's cousin.”

He saw Lady Warford's gaze turn inward while she flipped through the pages of her mental Book of Great Families, trying to determine where he fit in.

He saw no reason to raise her hopes. “The legal branch of the Radfords,” he said. “The barristers, my lady.”

She sent him one glacial glance before turning to her daughter. “And you have a lawsuit in progress, Clara?” she said coldly.

“No, Mama,” Clara said. “Mr. Radford is the normal sort of suitor. That is to say, he has asked me to marry him, and I've decided to put him out of his misery.”

The glacial expression warmed exactly one degree. “Certainly you would, Clara. You would not wish to toy with a gentleman's affections.”

“In his case, yes, I would, Mama. But I've said yes and meant it.”

“You haven't the least idea what you mean,” said her mother. “You have been ill. Obviously you are not fully recovered, else you'd remember you may not say yes to any gentleman without your father's consent.” She turned to Radford. “Lord Warford has accompanied me to London. You may wish to apply to him in the usual way.”

Well, that's going to be a great waste of time.

He thanked her and promised to do so, and took his leave so very politely that anybody who knew him would wonder if he was feeling quite well.

R
adford followed the usual forms. He wrote to the Marquess of Warford, requesting an appointment. This his lordship promptly granted—­because of course Clara's parents wanted to wash their hands of the Barbarous Barrister without loss of time. Radford appeared punctually at the given time, was punctually admitted to his lordship's study, and was punctually rejected. Exactly as he'd expected.

The day was cold, windy, and wet, suiting his mood perfectly.

He walked back from St. James's, along Pall Mall and through Charing Cross . . . where he'd met her on the day that seemed a lifetime ago. He didn't linger but strode on into the Strand as he'd done that day. On he walked, past St. Clement's, heading to his world, the Temple and the lawyers' hive.

As he passed through Temple Bar, he saw a boy hawking newspapers.

Two thoughts rose in his mind and connected.

Radford walked faster, and broke into a run as he turned into Inner Temple Lane. He burst into the Woodley Building and took the steps two at a time to his chambers.

A short time thereafter, Westcott was staring at him, wearing his You Have Lost Your Mind expression.

“Do it,” Radford said.

Wednesday 21 October

Mr. Westcott's office

H
ave you taken leave of your senses?” Lord Warford said, waving the document. “You mean to bring a breach of promise suit against
my
daughter
?”

His lordship had received Westcott's letter on Thursday. The marquess's solicitor, Mr. Alcox, had responded on Friday. Westcott had answered on the same day, explaining that Mr. Radford was unable to make appointments at present, being engaged in a brief for libel whose duration one could not predict. Mr. Westcott would not dream of asking Lord Warford to wait on his client's convenience.

Lord Warford did not wait on anybody's convenience. Why should he, when he had scores of ­people to do the waiting for him?

Westcott had recognized Alcox's clerk—­one of many—­in the courtroom. He was there throughout the proceedings. And so nobody was surprised to receive Mr. Alcox's message, within minutes of the trial's ending: Lord Warford would appear in Mr. Westcott's office within the hour.

This left more than enough time to change, but Radford chose not to do so.

He still wore his wig, bands, and robe.

He was a lawyer, well aware of the effect one's appearance and manner could have on juries and judges. He knew his courtroom attire would, firstly, remind Lord Warford of the gravity of his profession and the might of the Law, and secondly, create the impression of Radford's having raced here from court, not wanting to keep the marquess waiting.

“Mr. Westcott, you know as well as I that this is nonsense,” Mr. Alcox said. “Breach of promise of marriage brought against women is rare, and for very good reason. Even if it comes to trial, you cannot expect more than token compensation.”

“I don't want compensation, token or otherwise,” Radford said. “I want to marry Lady Clara, as she promised to do.”

“The court cannot and will not enforce this alleged contract,” Alcox said, still speaking to Westcott. “Her ladyship had no power to make a contract. You have nothing to make a case with. If your client—­or associate—­or whatever he is—­insists on pursuing this ridiculous suit, he'll make a laughingstock of himself.”

“Let us not waste time with pointless legal wrangling,” Lord Warford said. “We know Mr. Radford is far too intelligent to wish for a trial that can only damage his professional reputation. Furthermore, if he truly cares for my daughter, as he claims, he will not wish to drag her name through the mud. He will not wish to see her and her family featured in the scandal sheets and print shop window caricatures. The question is, What does he wish? What, in short, is Mr. Radford's price?”

Westcott walked round to the back of his desk and shuffled some papers. He picked up one.

“My client's price,” he said. “Let me see.” He read the document, then put it down and picked up another. “Ah, here it is. Mr. Radford requests a fair trial.”

Lord Warford waved his hand. “Pray don't insult my intelligence. We all know there's no question of going to court.”

“The trial to take place in this office, my lord,” Westcott said. “The jury to comprise her ladyship's parents, Lord and Lady Warford. Mr. Radford will act as his own advocate. As such he seeks the following: to know the crimes of which he is accused, to summon witnesses, to answer questions or challenges put to him by the other party, and to make a summary speech in his defense.”

Lord Warford regarded Radford for a time. Then, “That's your price?” he said.

“A fair trial,” Radford said. “I ask no more than what we grant to murderers and traitors and even counterfeiters. I place my future in your and your lady's hands.”

“And if the verdict goes against you?” Lord Warford said. “Will you leave it alone?”

“My client pledges to abide by the outcome,” Westcott said.

“No appeals,” Radford said. “No pleading my case in the court of public opinion. Not a word to anybody. In short, no whining.” If he couldn't win over Clara's parents, he most certainly couldn't meet the many challenges wedlock would present. If he couldn't bring Lord and Lady Warford over to his side, he wasn't worthy of her.

Lord Warford walked to the window and looked down into the Temple churchyard. After an eternity of a moment, he said, “I've used due diligence, Mr. Radford, in looking into your affairs and character. You seem to be an unusually clever gentleman. Your courtroom work is spoken of in laudatory terms. Your personality . . . would appear to be of a different order. Clara says . . . But we shall disregard her opinions. Woman think with their feelings, not their intellects.” He turned away from the window. “Mr. Westcott, I agree to the trial. I have always prided myself on keeping an open mind—­though I shall not speak for any other parties who will be present.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Westcott said.

“In any event, I don't doubt it will be interesting.” The marquess looked at Radford. “Be sure to wear that, sir. It makes precisely the impression you wish.”

Leaving Alcox to work out the details with his counterpart, his lordship departed.

 

Chapter Twelve

He num'rous woes on Ocean toss'd, endured.

—­
The Odyssey of Homer
, translated by William Cowper, 1791

Small Drawing Room of Warford House

Later that day

H
ow dare he?” Mama burst out. “Warford, how
could
you?”

“It must have been the wig,” Papa said. Then, as usually happened when he saw omens of a wifely eruption, he claimed to have another appointment and left.

Fortunately, he'd brought the news about the Trial of Raven Radford while Great-­Aunt Dora was visiting. Even Mama couldn't enact a tragedy while the older lady was laughing so hard.

“There, you see, Clara,” Mama said, while Lady Exton wiped her eyes. “We'll be laughingstocks. The satirists will have a field day.”

“Quite possibly, if you go through with this trial,” Great-­Aunt Dora said. “I shouldn't, if I were you. What I should do is snap him up. You shan't find another such son-­in-­law in your lifetime.”

“I should hope not,” Mama said. “A barrister! And his father! An eccentric, married to a divorcée. No wonder he was never knighted. Clara could not have chosen worse had she started planning from the day she was born.”

“You fret about a title, when the young man saved Clara's life?” Great-­Aunt Dora asked. “What more proof do you want of his character?”

“It isn't a matter of character,” Clara said. “It's a matter of What ­People Will Say.”

Mama gave her the Serpent's Tooth–Thankless Child look.

Clara winced inwardly. Mama wasn't completely irrational. Being the mother of London's most beautiful and most proposed-­to girl made Lady Warford an object of envy, jealousy, resentment, and many other unamiable emotions. The beau monde would revel in seeing her humbled. It wouldn't last forever but it wouldn't be over quickly, either, and it would be extremely painful while it lasted.

Lady Exton saw things differently. “You're not fretting over what Lady Bartham will say, I hope? Kindly remember you're the Marchioness of Warford. It ought to be
nothing
to you what anybody says, especially women of inferior mental faculties who spend their time gossiping because they're incapable of doing anything else.”

And there, in a nutshell, was one suffocating force in Clara's life: the endless petty gossip that passed for conversation.

“I'm glad you enjoy the luxury of disregarding Society, Aunt,” Mama said. “The rest of us, however, must live in it. And some of us do not wish to be subjected to pity or thinly veiled mockery.”

Great-­Aunt Dora stood up. “Frances, I'm disappointed in you. Here's a strong, healthy, intelligent, and ambitious young man, ready to mortify himself for your daughter's sake—­and you fret about what your friends will say! I can't decide whether to laugh or cry. Clara, you may see me out.”

“You're not to take her away again, Aunt,” Mama said. “To speak plainly, you've done quite enough damage.”

“I! Hmph!” Great-­Aunt Dora swept out, Clara in her wake.

“For your sake I pray Mr. Radford will carry off his trial successfully,” Lady Exton said as she and her grandniece continued down the corridor. “I might have gone on arguing, but when I saw it was all about What Society Will Say, I knew I might as well save my breath. There's no terror so immense and so immune to reason as the terror of becoming an object of ridicule disguised as pity. Your mother would rather drink poison.”

This was only a slight exaggeration.

“You did your best,” Clara said. “We must leave it to Mr. Radford. He's tackled harder cases, I'm sure.”

He didn't always win.

She mustn't have hidden her doubts as well as she thought because her great-­aunt said, “Don't fret, my dear. If he could keep you from dying, he can win over your parents.”

“This might be harder,” Clara said. “And if he doesn't succeed?”

“Then you can do something excitingly desperate, of course.”

Friday 23 October

Westcott's office

M
r. Radford wore his wig, along with the rest of his courtroom attire. Although he was the one on trial, he was his own barrister as well.

Yes, Clara had seen him in court garb before, but she hadn't yet become accustomed to the effect. He was elegant. And intimidating. And somehow the robe and wig and lace made him even more potently
male
.

As she took him in, a little light broke through the black cloud threatening to swallow her.

But only for a moment. The courtroom garb wouldn't win any admiration from Mama. It shouted
Barrister!
A felony, because he was murdering her social prestige and therefore her life.

Papa would be the real problem, though. Unlike Mama, he didn't scold or storm about the house. He only grew quieter and more thoughtful. Not a promising sign.

Since Clara's parents hadn't wanted to bring any more ­people than absolutely necessary into this “farce,” as Mama called it, Mr. Alcox read out the charges. These were more numerous than what Papa had first compiled. He'd merely charged Mr. Radford with being unsuitable in rank and fortune.

This, in Mama's view, was grossly inadequate. The list she'd compiled was twice as long as and three times more incomprehensible than what Mr. Alcox eventually made of it.

As condensed and translated by Mr. Alcox, Mr. Radford's crimes were:

1. Soliciting the hand of a young lady he was unable to provide for in a style in any way approaching that to which she was accustomed since birth.

2. Lack of social standing, which would lead to the lady's becoming an outcast from the society to which she properly belonged.

3. Belonging to a family stained by the scandal of divorce, thereby causing her ladyship to be besmirched by association.

4. Having no social connections he could rely upon to aid him in advancing either in professional or social rank to one more appropriate to her ladyship.

5. Being unlikely to obtain the necessary social connections, due to his consorting with, representing, and/or prosecuting persons of the lowest order, including known criminals.

6. Making deadly enemies among the aforementioned low persons, which circumstance would place Lady Clara in physical danger.

7. Number six increasing the likelihood of Mr. Radford's untimely demise, he would soon leave her ladyship alone and without the protection of friends—­he having none to speak of—­thanks to items number two and three.

8. While his diligent care was alleged to have saved her ladyship's life, it must be pointed out that she would not have required saving, had Mr. Radford not placed her ladyship in a situation leading directly to her becoming severely ill.

9. In relation to number eight: exploiting a position of trust to gain the affections of an innocent girl.

10. Failure to restrain her ladyship from engaging in unsuitable behavior. It was unavailing to claim, as Lady Clara had done, that she insisted on putting herself in jeopardy. Any gentleman who cannot control a headstrong young woman is unfit to carry out the responsibilities of a husband.

Though more than half the list struck Clara as pure nonsense, and made her want to shake her mother, Mr. Radford listened to it all gravely, quite as though he had been charged with heinous crimes.

In lieu of a judge, Mr. Alcox asked, “How do you plead, Mr. Radford?”

He threw Clara one quick glance she couldn't read.

“Not guilty,” he said.

“This is absurd,” Mama said, turning to Papa. “How can you—­”

“Quite right, my dear,” Papa said. “Since this is an informal court, let's waive the formalities. Mr. Radford, you may proceed.”

R
adford set his hand on Westcott's desk, tidied for the occasion, and bowed his head as he always did when preparing to speak.

He hadn't heard the full list of charges until this moment. Apparently, Lady Warford had been adding and changing items to the very last minute.

Not that it mattered. He'd known what to expect. He'd understood he was taking a great gamble. He'd seen no alternative.

He raised his head and briefly met Clara's blue gaze before turning to the parental jury.

He couldn't look at her for very long and keep a straight face, and today of all days he needed to keep his wits about him.

She'd donned a yellow walking dress for the occasion. The high neckline was the only sober thing about it. It was a redingote, closed along the front by large silk buttons, and at the top by a braided rope from which a pair of little silk pinecones dangled. Embroidered scallops ran down the two sides of the front as well as around the short cape that flowed over gigantic sleeves. Her hat was relatively subdued, boasting no more than half a dozen bows and only a few sprigs sprouting from the top, not much higher than the brim. Inside the brim, ruffles and little flowers framed her face.

Keeping her in the style to which she was accustomed would be a challenge—­but then, the result would be so entertaining.

If her stony-­faced parents would allow him to keep her.

He said, “Ten charges is a heavy count, indeed. We've sent men, women, and children to eternity on a single charge. However, let us remember that marriage, especially among the higher orders, is a far more serious matter than a mere murder among the lowest ranks.”

“I object,” Lord Warford said. “We did not come here for satire and a lecture on social inequalities.”

“Yet social and financial inequality is what your lordship charges me with,” Radford said. “But let us begin at the beginning. Item one: my lack of income. I urge the jury to dismiss this charge. By my own count, at least three of the applicants for Lady Clara's hand—­including a gentleman to whom she was briefly engaged—­were less able to provide for her than I am. The latter gentleman, for instance, was deeply in debt.”

“It's hardly the same thing,” said Lady Warford.

“It is certainly a question worth weighing,” he said. “It seems the gentleman in question was accepted under duress, because he'd compromised Lady Clara in very public circumstances. A scandal, in short. In that case, may we also strike number three? The scandal of my mother's divorce is quite elderly, having occurred nearly thirty years ago. Lady Clara's occurred only a few months ago. I believe that makes us even, at the very least.”

“Warford, I protest,” Lady Warford said. “Will you not put this fellow in his place? The idea—­to equate a fortune hunter leading Clara astray—­”

“He has a point,” Lord Warford said. “More than one. We may not like what he has to say, but we've promised to give the gentleman a fair hearing. In fairness, we must consider dismissing items one and three. Several of Clara's suitors were on short allowance or in debt.”

“She refused them!”

“It makes no matter. We charged Mr. Radford only with
soliciting her hand
. The law turns on fine and precise points, my dear.”

“Then as to that, the so-­called scandal with that unpleasant man lasted not a day, thanks to his offering for her,” said his lady.

“And the divorce which so troubles you was old news when King George III was still alive,” his lordship said.

“Warford, you cannot take this man's arguments seriously.”

“I do, indeed,” said he. “And it wanted no great leap of intellect to anticipate Mr. Radford's response to the scandal item. I recommend you allow the gentleman to continue. For one thing, matters will proceed more swiftly. For another, I do not wish to find myself obliged to strike item number ten as well.”

This sounded promising, but Radford knew Lord Warford was a canny politician. He'd agreed to a fair hearing to accommodate his daughter. On the other hand, he had to live with his wife. But most important, he had rational fears for his daughter's future, which Radford would have uphill work overcoming.

Meanwhile, he'd disposed only of the easiest issues. The other charges were sticky, indeed, and his emotional self was squirming.

He took a moment to make certain he was completely detached and able to look on from a proper distance at the proceedings.

“Item two,” he said.

C
lara needed all her ladyship training to keep her hands loosely folded in her lap and her mouth shut.

She could feel her parents turning against Mr. Radford more and more with every exchange. Mama resented being contradicted by anybody, let alone a Nobody. Clara could feel her seething, though she was doing her best glacier impression. One couldn't trust Papa's humor. He was good at using it to get the better of the opposition.

“Let me take numbers two, four, and five in order,” Radford said. “These pertain to rank and social standing. Firstly, as to rank: I am the great-­grandson of the third Duke of Malvern. My father is heir presumptive to the present duke. Men of less lofty antecedents than mine travel in the first circles of Society and are admitted to Court.”

Only Clara knew what it cost him to use his beastly cousin's rank, and her heart squeezed.

“The only court you're admitted to is criminal court,” Mama said. “His Majesty doesn't know you exist.”

“As it happens, my lady, my name is known to His Majesty,” Radford said. “I have prosecuted for the Crown more than once, as well as seeking royal mercy in the form of conditional pardons. I have represented or advised six members of the upper ranks of society, all of whom have offered to exert their influence on my behalf. In short, I do have useful connections. I simply haven't used them, out of a possibly misguided desire to make my way on my own merits. However, in the event I marry Lady Clara, I won't hesitate to use all possible means to ensure her continued—­”

“You may not make such appalling sacrifices on my account,” Clara burst out. “You of all ­people ought to see how silly it is to claim Society will ostracize me. Really, Mama, I wonder at your proposing it. No hostess will exclude me simply because I was so intrepid as to marry Mr. Radford. On the contrary, the world will flood us with invitations.”