Dukes Prefer Blondes (9 page)

He took the dress into the sitting room and threw it down on a chair. Then he took it up again and looked at it.

Then he brought the bodice to his face and breathed in deeply the too-­faint scent of the woman he must never see again.

Five minutes later, he walked out again into the outer office. He thrust the dress into Tilsley's hands and said, “Give it to the charwoman.”

The Old Bailey

Monday 14 September

G
uilty.

Trials in the New Court having proceeded speedily that day, Daniel Prior had a short wait for his sentence: transportation for life.

He promptly commenced screaming and wailing. He hadn't done it! It wasn't his fault! It was someone else, like he said. He was nowhere near there, but they was all against him!

He pointed at Radford. “I ain't done, Raven!” he shouted as the jailer laid hands on him. “But you're for it now!” He went on shrieking threats while he was dragged away. They could still hear his muffled screams after the heavy door leading to Newgate Prison swung shut behind him.

It was all a show. Or at least partly a show.

Since he'd appeared in court many times, had assaulted a police officer, and was known to associate with bad characters, Prior stood an excellent chance of dangling at the end of a rope. He'd informed on Jacob Freame in exchange for the prosecution's recommending leniency: a sentence of transportation instead of death.

Radford glanced up at the visitors' gallery.

She wasn't there.

And why should she be?

He'd made it clear he had no use for her, and he'd behaved so very badly in taking leave of her, she'd never again have any use for him.

He left the courtroom and went to the robing room, where he exchanged his wig, linen bands, and robe for street attire.

He found Westcott waiting for him in the corridor outside.

“Well done,” Westcott said. “The boy put on a fine performance.”

“It was only partly performance,” Radford said. “While a long, hellish life in a penal colony is preferable to hanging, it's hardly worth celebrating.” All the same, the sentence in this case wasn't grotesquely harsh. Daniel Prior had been a hardened criminal practically since the day he was born.

“Given the magic trick you've performed—­one of your better ones, by the way—­I expected to find you in better humor,” Westcott said.

“We don't have Freame yet.”

“You'll get him.”

“
If
the wretched boy gave us correct information. And
if
Freame doesn't get wind of it before the police get there.”

They stepped out of the building and into a driving rain. Old Bailey shivered in a grey blur, and now and again the wind gusted, turning the rain to whip strokes.

“We'd better get a hackney,” Westcott said.

“For a half-­mile walk?”

“I don't fancy a drenching,” Westcott said.

“One can never get a coach when it rains, as you well know.”

A boy holding a large umbrella ran up to them.

“Please, Raven, and you're to come straightaway,” he said. “She's over there.” He pointed to the curb where stood a hackney cabriolet. These vehicles were commonly known as coffin cabs, and not only on account of the funereal shape.

Curtains drawn and apron in place, it concealed as well as protected its passenger from the rain.

“
Who
is over there?” Radford said, while his other self came to sharp attention.

“Her,” the boy said.

The other being's heart gave a leap and the wild, dark day brightened several degrees as he strode across the pavement to the cab.

“Get in.” A haughty voice, feminine.

“Oh, good,” he said. “Drama.”

“Get in, Raven,” she said.

He turned to the boy, who'd followed him, holding the umbrella over his own head. “Tell my friend I'll meet up with him later.”

The urchin only stood there, looking up at him while rain cascaded from the umbrella onto Radford's shoes.

He reached into his pocket. “Pirates, the lot of you. I'll give you a bob, but you'd better give my friend the umbrella.”

The boy snatched the coin and grinned. “Fanks, Raven!” he called, and raced back to Westcott. Or in the direction where Radford had last seen his friend. He didn't look that way to find out whether Westcott waited or not.

Radford climbed, dripping, into the cab. The scent of an expensive woman instantly enveloped him.

T
his is cozy,” Radford said.

Four stupid things
, he thought.

“I heard you won the case,” Lady Clara said.

Though the closed curtain turned the cab's interior into a tomb, it wasn't completely dark. The curtains flapped, and light entered through the narrow opening, especially when the wind gusted. He couldn't make out the details of her dress. He smelled damp wool. Mingled with it was a light herbal fragrance he couldn't quite pinpoint, and the scent of her skin, which he could.

“You might have read the result in the court proceedings instead of coming out in this deluge,” he said. “But you seem to have a self-­destructive streak. It isn't enough to invite a lung fever, but you must hire a cab, from which you're likely to be expelled suddenly, with fatal results.”

Hackney cabriolets were notorious. The drivers felt honor-­bound to show how fast they could go. This led to crashing into street posts and other vehicles, and hurling their passengers into the road.

“Better yet, no maid in sight,” he went on. “Have you taken leave of what few wits you possess?” He paused and thought. “Parliament rose last week. Why are you still here?”

“Firstly, my maid is to meet me at your chambers. We could not all fit in one cab.”

“Then why not—­”

“I am trying to answer counsel's questions in order,” she said. “Secondly, I am in possession of all my wits, thank you. Thirdly, I am staying with my great-­aunt Dora, who knows all about the Case of the Disappearing Toby.”

Radford was aware of his other self's ricocheting between elation and alarm. Freame. Chiver. Husher. Still on the streets.

“Was you wantin' to go anywheres, sir?” the driver shouted above the beating rain. “On account this ain't a stand and I'm not to be loit'ring and blocking the traffic and the constable'll stop by to tell me to move along.”

“The Temple,” her ladyship called back.

“Sir?”

She released a small sigh. “Why is it, when a man comes on the scene, the woman becomes invisible?”

“Fleet Street, as the lady says,” Radford said. “Inner Temple Lane.” To her he said, “I only wish you were invisible.”

The cab jerked into motion.

She said something under her breath.

He didn't ask her to repeat it.

He was trying to get away from himself, with limited success.

It wasn't true he wished she were invisible. He didn't wish, either, that he hadn't entered the cab. No man in his right mind would wish to escape sharing a seat in a narrow vehicle with Lady Clara Fairfax, with the curtains drawn. Any man in his right mind would wish for a smaller vehicle, heavier curtains, and a longer journey.

Radford would have preferred, however, to be
more
in his right mind at present.

He was deeply conscious of every place his body touched hers—­a great many places, varying from time to time as the infernal cab jolted along Ludgate Hill. They had a short distance to cover, but the ferocious rain made even a hackney cab driver cautious—­relatively speaking, that is, since a hackney cab driver's idea of caution matched the average person's idea of homicidal negligence.

He wrenched his mind to the last relevant matter. “Who is Great-­Aunt Dora?”

“Lady Exton, once Lady Dora Fairfax,” she said. “Your father prosecuted a theft for her in a difficult case, the thieves being cleverer than average. She said he was brilliant but extremely irritating.”

He felt a stab of grief, yet he almost laughed, too. In response to his letter, Mother had written:

You know I can't keep your letters from your father. But he says you are not to make yourself anxious on his account. Whatever it is Malvern wants, he'll have to learn patience. Your sire may be loitering at death's door, he says, but no man, no matter how young and healthy, is any match for a wily old lawyer.

“I'll mention it to him when next I visit,” he said. As soon as this wretched Toby business was out of the way, he'd make for Richmond. He hadn't seen his father since consulting with him shortly before the Grumley trial started. What would he do without him? Who would he talk to?

He said, “You haven't told me why you're still here.”

“Let me think.” She put her index finger to her chin. “Because you're irresistible? Probably not. Because Toby Coppy hasn't returned yet? Most certainly so. It's clear you're in desperate need of my help.”

This was so patently delusory that for a moment—­possibly the first time in his life—­he was speechless.

That didn't last long.

He said, “I realize your ladyship is very bored, being loved to death, but you ought not to let ennui dull your reason. My world is not like the fantasy one you live in. Mine demands I work within the bounds of the law, with the cooperation of the police. We didn't learn Toby's whereabouts until the small hours of morning. I've suggested a plan, and the police are prepared to carry it out. Nobody needs you.”

Radford's other self raised an objection. Radford overruled him.

The air in the carriage seemed to throb.

But she said mildly enough, “And you know what Toby looks like, do you?”

“I have a detailed description,” he said.

“I've seen him,” she said. “And spoken to him, more than once. I've given him money. Which of us do you think he's more likely to trust?”

“Trust doesn't come into it. We—­”

“Yes, sir, and it was Inner Temple Lane you wanted?” the driver shouted. “Which this is the gate, sir, and missus.”

H
is hand on the back of her waist, Radford hurried Lady Clara through the gate, along Inner Temple Lane, where the walls of the looming buildings shielded them from the worst of the rain and wind, and into the Woodley Building. Even so, she was wet through. He hurried her up the stairs into the outer office, where they found the clerk Tilsley trying to balance a ruler on the tip of his snub nose.

Tilsley dropped the ruler and gaped. This did not make the green and yellow bruises on his face any prettier.

“Bring coals,” Radford said. “We need a fire, before pneumonia sets in. Look sharp, man! You know dead ladies attract unwanted attention.”

The boy slid down from his stool. “Yes, sir, Mr. Radford, which I noticed the wet, sir, and took the liberty. Accordingly making a fire in Mr. Westcott's office, expecting you and him back soon enough.”

Lady Clara approached Tilsley and studied his face. “Oh, dear, did Fenwick do that?”

“Thanking you for your kind concern, madam, and assuring you I got my own back, and the other party got in extra only due to cheating.”

“Mrs. Faxon, may I present our clerk, Tilsley,” Radford said. “He was otherwise engaged when last you called on us. He's far more efficient than appearances would indicate.”

Tilsley went red at the unexpected compliment, making a rainbow of his bruised face. Radford virtually never remembered to bestow praise.

“Since you've made a fire, you may now make tea,” Radford said.

“Yes, sir.”

Radford opened the door to Westcott's office and pushed her in.

T
he day was stormy and the room, with its dark wainscoting and heavy furniture, was gloomy at the best of times.

She was the only bright thing in it, he thought.

Candlelight and firelight glinted on the moisture sliding from her bonnet to her cheek. And down her neck.

Wet!

He pushed her toward the fire.

“Yes, Mr. Radford, I can find the fire for myself,” she said. She started pulling at the ribbons of her hat.

“Not like that!” he said. He went to her and pushed her hands away. “You'll tighten the knot. Does this surprise me? No. Naturally you have no idea how to untie your own hat ribbons.”

“You're wrong,” she said. “But they're not so manageable when wet and I can't see what I'm doing.”

“Put up your chin so that I can see what I'm doing. This brim is monstrous. It looks like a giant duckbill and does nothing to shield the sides of your face.”

She tipped her head back and looked up at him.

Her eyes were the clear light blue of aquamarines. The damp on her perfect skin was like dew on rose petals.

The hat was hideous. She was unreasonably beautiful.

A less disciplined man might have found it painful to look at her.

He concentrated on unknotting the ribbons. His hands were perfectly steady. His heartbeats were erratic.

He drew the soggy ribbon out from under her chin. “There. It's done. I should advise you to throw it on the fire, but at present I have no ladies' hats to replace it.” He snatched the sodden hat from her head and dropped it on the nearest table. “However, I recommend . . .” He trailed off as he turned back to her.

The room's light flickered over hair the color of champagne.

He'd never seen her bareheaded before.

He tried to detach himself, but his other self clung, and for a moment he felt he'd been launched into the world of the
Odyssey
. She was too cruelly beautiful to be a mere human. She was Calypso or Circe or Aphrodite herself. The mythical bewitchers of men.

But this wasn't a myth and he was a reasoning human being. He could not be bewitched because there was no such thing.