The Bride Hunt (19 page)

“Not really.”

“But you’ll have to attack Father.”

“I will attempt to shake his faith in his friend’s probity, certainly.”

“But you won’t be unpleasant to Father?”

“Not unless he makes it necessary.”

Prudence absorbed this. He sounded so matter-of-fact and unperturbed by what for her was a hideous prospect. “I’m afraid he might recognize me . . . or my voice, rather,” she said after a minute. “I don’t know if I can disguise my voice well enough to fool him.”

“What did you have in mind?” he asked curiously.

Prudence chuckled. They had decided she should adopt the accent Chastity had used when meeting their first paying client, Anonymous, at the very beginning of the Go-Between venture.

“Oh, but I am from Paris,
moi. En France
we do not ask ze ladies such questions.
Non, non, c’est pas comme il faut
, you comprend? Ze Mayfair Lady, she is most
respectable. Vraiment respectable.
Respectable, that is what you say over ’ere,
n’est ce pas?
”

“Can you keep it up?” Gideon demanded through his laughter.

“I don’t see why not,” Prudence said airily. “My French is good enough to combine the language enough to add a little confusion to the mix, while still not making myself completely incomprehensible. I thought that would be a good idea.”

“A mysterious, veiled French lady,” Gideon mused. “It’ll certainly be intriguing. It might also make you seem more sympathetic. Your regular Englishman is fascinated by the somewhat—how shall I put it?—somewhat
uninhibited
reputation of the French female. They might be rather less hostile to the views expressed in
The Mayfair Lady
if they believe they’re perpetrated by a woman not of their own kind. A woman who might be expected to be a little outrageous.”

“So, it’s a good strategy all around,” Prudence declared.

“It’ll serve if you can hold it together in the face of some fairly relentless interrogation.”

“I’ll practice with my sisters,” she promised.

“It will also depend upon your identity remaining hidden at the time of the trial,” he reminded her. “As I said before, I can promise you that the prosecution will do everything they can to discover your identity. They’re probably setting a search in motion already.”

“We’re going to discover next week if there have been any strange inquiries at the various places that distribute
The Mayfair Lady.
”

“Sensible,” he said. “So, what’s the second thing?”

Prudence reached into her muff for the earl of Barclay’s note, and read it to him. “It’s not dated, but it’s certainly not recent.”

“It’s not good enough,” he stated. “Find this schedule of payments, find me dates, find out what your father was buying. I’m not opening this can of worms without unshakable evidence.”

“You could surely question the earl about it,” she said, bristling at his brusque dismissal despite their earlier compact. “Maybe rattle him a little.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not sufficient even to bring the subject up. You’ll have to dig deeper.”

“Well, as it happens, I have authorization to examine his bank records. I’ll go to Hoare’s tomorrow.”

“How did you get that?” His surprise was evident.

Prudence huddled deeper into the coat, turning the collar up. “It was a trick. Not one I’m proud of, so can we leave it at that?”

“Of course,” he said instantly. “Are you cold?” His quiet voice was now concerned and sympathetic.

“A little,” she admitted, although it was not really a bodily cold, more an internal chill.

“We’ll be there in less than half an hour. See the spires?” He gestured with one hand towards a faint outline on the horizon. Oxford’s gleaming spires in the valley below them.

“It’s strange, but I’ve never been to Oxford,” Prudence said, resolutely putting aside her depressing thoughts. “Cambridge, yes. But never Oxford.”

“I prefer Oxford, but then I’m prejudiced.”

“You were at New College?”

He nodded, then placed a hand on her knee. It was a fleeting touch but it felt oddly significant to Prudence. In fact, she realized this whole journey had taken on a significance that she couldn’t identify. But it was more than the sum of its parts. A lot more.

They drove up in front of the Randolph Hotel on Beaumont Street just as the city’s clocks chimed noon. Prudence stepped down and stretched her shoulders again. The sun was very warm, more like early summer than autumn, and once again she discarded her furs.

Gideon scooped them off the seat. “We’ll take them inside. They’ll be safer than lying on the seat in the open.”

A doorman hurried to escort them into the lofty hall of the hotel. An elegant sweep of staircase led to the upper floors. “The ladies’ lounge is upstairs,” Gideon said. “I’ll wait for you at the table.” He strode off to the restaurant.

When Prudence joined him, he was perusing the wine list. A glass of champagne sat by her place.

“I took the liberty of ordering you an aperitif,” he said. “If you’d rather have something else . . .”

“No,” she said, “this is lovely.” She sat down and took a sip from the glass. “It does seem to cheer one up.”

“And I get the impression you need cheering up,” he said. “Let me try for the rest of the day to do just that.” He leaned over and placed a hand over hers on the tablecloth. “Will you?”

Oh, yes, Prudence thought, this day was very much more than the sum of its parts. She slid her hand out from under his quite gently and opened her menu. “What do you recommend? I assume you know the dining room.”

“I know it well,” he said, accepting her change of subject. If she wouldn’t give him a spontaneous answer, then he wasn’t going to press for one. He had his pride, and he was not accustomed to rejection, but he allowed none of his pique to show, saying coolly, “The kitchen is very good. How hungry are you?”

“Starving.”

He examined his own menu. “Saddle of lamb,” he suggested. “Unless you’d prefer the Dover sole.”

“Lamb sounds good,” she said. “I’m not feeling fishy. What should I have to start?”

“The smoked mackerel pâte is delicious, but if you’re not in a fishy mood . . .” He frowned at the menu. “Vichyssoise, perhaps?”

“Yes, perfect.” Prudence closed her menu, took off her glasses to rub them on her napkin, and gave him a smile. Gideon was not prepared for the effect of a smile that he had seen all too rarely. When combined with the luster it gave to her lively green eyes, it was quite stunning. It was something of a consolation prize, he decided, but it was not one to be sneezed at.

“Burgundy or claret?” he asked, picking up the wine list again.

“I’m more in a claret mood.”

“Then, a
bon Bordeaux
it shall be.”

Prudence sipped her champagne and leaned back in her chair, looking out of the long windows at the Martyrs’ Memorial in the little square opposite, and the bicycling undergraduates, their black gowns flapping as they pedaled vigorously along St. Giles. Her mood had changed. She was feeling suddenly relaxed, contented, looking forward to her luncheon. Her companion’s attention was entirely on the wine list and she had the opportunity for a leisurely if covert examination of his features.

The thick hair was swept back off a broad, rather knobby forehead, and she thought his hairline was probably receding slightly. In another five years that broad forehead would be even broader. Her gaze tracked down over the aquiline and very dominating nose, the mouth that she found disturbingly attractive, and the deep cleft in his chin that she found even more so. His hands with their filbert nails were delicate for a man—long-fingered, like a pianist’s. She remembered that had been one of her first observations.

It had been a long time since she had consciously found a man attractive, even longer since she had found one sexually inviting. She had lost her virginity the year after her mother had died. She and her sisters had made a pact that while none of them were set on marriage, they
were
determined not to die wondering about sex. So they’d given themselves a year. At the end of that year they were none of them virgins.

Prudence’s experience had been, she supposed, pleasant enough. Or at least, not unpleasant. But she had certainly felt that something had been missing. Some transport of delight or similar sensation that their reading of Victorian pornography had given the sisters cause to expect. Perhaps
The Pearl
and other books of its ilk had magnified the transcendent delights of orgasmic
spending
. But Prudence had definitely been left wondering.

Now, however, she caught herself imagining those hands on her body. Her mouth already knew about Gideon’s kisses. But the deep-seated thrill of excitement in her belly was not a familiar sensation. It was a shock to admit it, but it seemed that she was attracted to Gideon Malvern.

How was it possible to be attracted to a man one disliked? Well, at least there would be no temptation to do anything about it. She needed the man’s mind, not his body, and had no intention of confusing the two.

“Penny for them?” he said, looking up from the wine list.

Prudence blushed. And the more she blushed, the more embarrassed she felt, and the more she blushed. He was looking at her, his gray eyes searching as if he would read her mind. Her face was as hot as hell’s fire, and, she was sure, as red as a beetroot.

Then he turned his gaze away to address the sommelier, who had appeared opportunely. Prudence breathed slowly and felt the heat in her face subside. She took up her water glass and surreptitiously pressed it to the pulse below her ear. It had an immediate cooling effect, and by the time Gideon had finished his consultation with the sommelier, she was her usual self, cool and composed, her complexion its customary pale cream.

“A St. Estèphe,” he said. “I hope you’ll approve.”

“I’m sure I shall. I never presume to question the choice of an expert,” she said lightly, breaking a bread roll and spearing an artful coil of butter from the glass dish.

“That’s a sage and intelligent attitude,” he observed. “You’d be surprised how many people lack the sense or are too inflicted with vanity to bow to the voice of experience.”

Prudence shook her head at him. “Gideon, you may be right, but your manner of being so is sometimes insufferable.”

“What did I say?” He looked genuinely surprised.

She shook her head again. “If you don’t know, there’s no virtue in my pointing it out.”

The waiter appeared and Gideon gave their order before saying, “Point it out, Prudence. How will I ever learn otherwise?”

And that made her laugh. “You missed the irony in my statement, and you missed it because it didn’t occur to you that I might be something of an expert with a wine list myself.”

“Are you?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said, thinking of how much she had learned about the wine trade while manipulating the contents of her father’s cellars with Jenkins.

Gideon considered her with a half smile as he sipped his champagne. “You know, I don’t think there’s much about you that would surprise me, Prudence. Tell me how you became an expert.”

Prudence frowned. She and her sisters were intensely private about their household matters and the shifts they were obliged to make to keep their heads above water. No one in their society must know that the Duncan family for close to three years had dodged bankruptcy on a near daily basis. The Go-Between and
The Mayfair Lady
were beginning to bring in an income, but they were still far from out of the woods. But then, she reflected, they had no secrets from the barrister, they couldn’t have. He already knew they were in financial difficulties, and why. He just didn’t know that Lord Duncan was kept blissfully unaware of the true situation.

She waited until they had been served their first course, then as she slowly stirred her soup she explained the situation in all its detail. Gideon, spreading mackerel pâte onto toast, listened without comment until she had fallen silent and had turned her attention to her soup.

“Are you really doing your father any favors by keeping him in ignorance?” he asked then.

Prudence felt a familiar prickle of annoyance. There was an unmistakable note of criticism in his tone. “We believe so,” she responded tautly.

“Oh, it’s none of my business, I realize that,” he said. “But sometimes an outside perspective is helpful. You and your sisters are so close to the situation, maybe you’re missing something.”

“We don’t think so,” she said in the same tone, aware that she was sounding defensive, which somehow gave credence to his criticism, and yet unable to help herself. “We happen to know our father very well. And we also know what our mother would have wanted.”

Gideon said calmly, “How’s the soup?”

“Very good.”

“And the wine. I trust it meets with your expert approval.”

She looked at him sharply and saw that he was smiling in an appeasing fashion. She let her annoyance fade and said, “It’s a fine claret.”

After luncheon they strolled through the city and down to Folly Bridge, where Gideon rented a punt.

Prudence surveyed the long flat boat and the unwieldy length of the pole with some trepidation. “Are you sure you know how to do this?”

“Well, I used to. I assume it’s like riding a bicycle,” he said, stepping onto the flat stern and holding out a hand. “Step in the middle so it doesn’t rock.”

She took the proffered hand and stepped gingerly into the punt, which, despite her caution, rocked alarmingly under her unbalanced weight.

“Sit down,” he instructed swiftly, and she dropped immediately onto a pile of cushions in the prow. They were surprisingly soft.

“I feel like a concubine in a seraglio,” she said, stretching out in leisurely fashion.

“I’m not sure the clothes are quite right,” Gideon observed, taking the monstrously long pole from the boathouse attendant.

A punt with a trio of laughing undergraduates was approaching as Gideon pushed off from the bank. The punter dug his pole energetically into the mud, failed to pull it up in time, and the punt slid gracefully out from under him, leaving him hanging on to the pole in the middle of the river. There was riotous applause from the spectators on the bank, and Prudence watched with some sympathy as the luckless punter did the only thing he could—dropped into the water while his punt came to a stranded stop a few yards distant.