The Bride Hunt (6 page)

“There is no more of the Clicquot, your lordship,” Jenkins said placidly. “Harpers are unable to lay in any more supplies of that vintage.”

Lord Duncan harrumphed. “Seems they’re always running short of supplies these days. I shall complain to Harper himself.”

“Yes, sir.” Jenkins eased off the cork and poured the straw-colored liquid into five crystal glasses. He handed them around, and if he was aware of the tension that connected the sisters like a taut rope, he gave no sign. He bowed and left the drawing room.

The next half hour was for the sisters excruciating, for their father a pleasantry, and for Max Ensor a period of tightly reined annoyance. At last, after the minute details of the Nile river trip had been discussed with Lord Duncan, Max set down his glass.

“Constance, we should not neglect to visit my sister,” he said. “She would feel slighted if we failed her on our first day home.”

“Of course,” Constance said readily. “Father, I hope you’ll dine with us soon.”

He received her kiss with a smile. “Yes, delightful, my dear. I look forward to seeing you in your new home. Perhaps you could invite Barclay.”

Constance’s smile was as flat as the Dead Sea. “Yes, of course. And maybe some of your bridge cronies. We could arrange a rubber after dinner.”

“Lovely, my dear.” He patted her shoulder and turned to his son-in-law. “So good to have you back in town, Ensor. I look forward to discussing the new Parliament with you.”

“It will be my pleasure, Lord Duncan,” Max said smoothly, allowing himself to be swept on the tide of his wife and her sisters out into the hall.

Once there, he said with a peremptory nod at the stairs, “That parlor of yours, I believe.”

“Now is as good a time as any,” Constance agreed, moving ahead to the stairs. “We need some information, Max.”

“I doubt that’s all you need,” he muttered, standing aside to allow Prudence and Chastity to precede him.

Chapter 4

C
onstance felt her husband’s hand on the small of her back as she followed her sisters up the stairs. It could have been a gently proprietorial gesture, but she was not fool enough to misinterpret the pressure of the touch. Max was not best pleased.

Max closed the parlor door behind them. He glanced around and then strode to the secretaire, where lay a copy of the broadsheet. A tense silence hung over the room while he reread the article. “I had the idiotic hope that this was some deranged figment of my imagination,” he muttered when he’d finished reading.

He rolled the paper tightly and stood flicking it against his thigh as he looked at Constance. “Of course you wrote this.”

She nodded. “Weeks ago, before we were married.”

His exasperation got the better of his composure. “For God’s sake, woman, are you completely out of your mind?”

Constance lost her apologetic demeanor. “Don’t use that tone with me, Max. And I won’t be called
woman
in that patronizing manner.”

Prudence and Chastity exchanged a glance, then sat side by side on the sofa and regarded the bristling couple with unabashed interest.

“What do you expect me to say?” Max demanded. “Couldn’t you have warned me you were going after Barclay? This is the most vitriolic attack on a respected—”

“Wait a minute—” Constance interrupted even as both her sisters jumped to their feet.

“There’s nothing respected or respectable about Barclay,” Prudence stated, her usually pale complexion flushed, her light green eyes alive with conviction. “Constance interviewed all three women mentioned in the article—”

“
And
I saw their children and the miserable conditions in which they were living,” Constance declared. “They weren’t lying, Max.”

“Can you imagine what it would be like to be raped by your employer, then thrown into the street pregnant without a character reference . . . no money, no home?” Chastity weighed in with her twopence worth and Max almost physically backed away from the sisters, who were facing him like lion tamers.

“I’m not excusing him,” he said. “But this is too much.” He waved the rolled-up broadsheet again. “It’s such a personal attack. A complete character assassination.”

“It’s his character we were attacking,” Constance stated aridly. “The man’s a philanderer, a rapist, a cheat, an embezzler—”

“Where’s the evidence for that?” Max asked, a forefinger jabbing the air in front of him.

Prudence grimaced. “Rumor is all we have.”

Max spun around to stare at her. “That’s going to be your defense? Rumor? I’d credited
you
with more sense, Prudence.” Constance stared at the carpet, hearing the inference in the emphasis. It was true she was not always as circumspect as her younger sister.

Prudence, for her part, flushed, but said stolidly, “We agree we’ll have to do better than that. Once we’ve found a lawyer to defend
The Mayfair Lady
.”

“We think we’ve found one,” Chastity said.

“Yes, Sir Gideon Malvern,” Prudence put in. “He’s seeing us next Thursday. We were wondering if you knew him, Max.”

Instead of answering her, Max demanded, “How are you going to keep your identities secret in a court of law?”

“We don’t know yet,” Constance said. “We were rather hoping that this Sir Gideon might have some idea.”

“Yes.
Do
you know him, Max?” Prudence pressed. “He’s a member of the Middle Temple and—”

“Yes, I know that,” her brother-in-law snapped.

Prudence glanced at her elder sister, who shrugged with a gesture of resignation. They would get nowhere by resenting Max’s tone at this point. They needed what enlightenment he could offer them.

“Would you like a whisky, Max?” Chastity invited with a conciliatory smile.

He regarded her with narrowed eyes, then let his gaze drift to her sisters, who were clearly struggling with the need to placate him while surging with indignation at his high-handed approach to their problem. He grinned suddenly. It was a moment to be savored. One rarely got the better of the Duncan sisters.

“What’s funny?” Constance demanded, all suspicion. “You look like you did in the mews with Father’s Cadillac.”

“The only other occasion when I felt that I had the upper hand with the three of you,” he said, his grin broadening.

“All right,” Constance said. “You’ve had your fun at our expense. Now tell us what you know of this barrister.”

“Do you have any idea how much a barrister like Malvern is going to cost you?” he asked with mild curiosity.

“We’re not without resources,” Prudence said tightly, her myopic gaze fierce behind her spectacles. “We have emergency funds, Max. Not that it’s any business of yours,” she added, and immediately regretted the addition. “I’m sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t mean to be ungracious. I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“You’re not dealing with this alone, Prue,” Constance said swiftly. “I know you bear the lion’s share of the business management, but we’re all in this one together.”

Prudence managed a faint smile. “I
know
that. I just can’t imagine what will happen if we lose.”

“Well, Gideon Malvern can go a long way to ensuring that you don’t,” Max said, offering the brisk reassurance that he knew the sisters would appreciate more than sympathy. “He has the reputation of being the most innovative and able KC in the Inns of Court. He rarely loses a case.”

That was all very well, Prudence reflected. Exactly what they wanted. But how the hell were they going to pay for what they wanted? For all her bravado, she could see no possible way of managing a top barrister’s fee. The initial fifty guineas was going to be hard enough to find. If it weren’t for the indigent spinsters’ charity, she’d be wracking her brains for something to pawn.

Her sisters knew this intellectually, but sometimes she felt they didn’t grasp the realities as clearly as she did. The management of the family finances was her responsibility. Naturally enough, since she was the bookkeeper, the mathematician, the obviously practical one of the sisters. She didn’t resent the responsibility but sometimes she felt she carried it alone.

“He might suit you, because he likes challenges,” Max continued. “He picks and chooses his cases; he can afford to do so,” he added, watching them, not at all fooled by Prudence’s defensive statements about hidden resources. “He has been known to take a case pro bono if it really appeals to him.” He saw three pairs of green eyes sharpen with interest. “Or he’s been known to come to a contingency agreement whereby if he wins he takes a share of the damages awarded to his client.”

“Seems fair,” Prudence said, frowning. “He gets paid to win.”

“You’ll have to persuade him that there’s sufficient interest and challenge in the case to make it worth his while.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s going to be difficult,” Constance said with a short laugh. “There’s got to be a more than ordinary challenge in taking on as clients three subversive women who insist on remaining anonymous.”

“That problem I leave in your more than capable hands, ladies.” He gave them a small bow.

“Was Sir Gideon knighted for services to the bar, or did he inherit the title?” Prudence asked quickly as Max reached to open the door.

“He was knighted after he defended a particularly difficult case that involved one of the king’s rather more dubious friends,” Max said, turning the knob. “Are you coming, Constance? We really should visit Letitia.”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “I suppose we should. Let’s all meet at Fortnum’s for tea this afternoon, Prue. We can talk strategy then.”

Prudence nodded. “Max, does this Sir Gideon always defend? Or does he prosecute too?”

“He specializes in defense.”

“Well, that’s something,” Chastity declared. “We just have to convince him that it would be a travesty of justice to find
The Mayfair Lady
guilty of libel.”

“One of you,” Max said. “I would most earnestly suggest that only one of you keeps the appointment.”

“Why?” Constance had gathered up her gloves and now stood before the mirror above the mantel inserting pins in the mink pillow atop her russet head.

Max hesitated, searching for the most diplomatic answer. “He’s a formidable man but you wouldn’t want him to feel ambushed,” he said finally. “I don’t know how he views women in general, but I’d lay odds he’s never come across any quite like you three.”

“And we might put him off?” Constance asked with a sweet smile, turning from the mirror. “A trio of viragos, perhaps?”

“We are not going to have this conversation, Constance,” Max said firmly, opening the door for her. “I merely gave my opinion. You may take it or leave it as you wish.”

“We’ll probably take it,” Prudence said. “Oh, and be warned, Con. Letitia is firmly convinced that you’ve been camping in the desert and have a skin pitted with sand and hair matted with dust.”

“Well, I daresay I shall be able to put her right on both those scores,” Constance said.

“Oh, did you eat sheeps’ eyes?” Chastity said, accompanying them to the stairs. “We were wondering.”

“Good God! Whatever gave you that idea?” Max exclaimed, revolted.

“We thought that was a chief delicacy among the nomads of the Sahara,” Chastity informed him.

“I don’t think we ate any,” Constance said, appearing to consider the question with appropriate solemnity. “Max actually refused to eat anything he couldn’t identify.”

“How unadventurous of you, Max,” Prudence said reproachfully. “I would have thought when you go to somewhere as exciting as Egypt you would want to experience the culture at its richest. Mother would certainly have encouraged it.”

Max knew from experience that the only way to put a stop to what could turn into a very convoluted discussion at his expense was to abandon it. “Come, Constance.” He took her hand and hastened down the stairs, Constance blowing a farewell kiss to her sisters over her shoulder.

“Con, we’ll see you at Fortnum’s at four,” Chastity called after them, laughter alight in her voice. It died fairly rapidly, however, when she saw Prue’s expression. She put a hand on her arm. “We’ll get out of this, Prue. We have to.”

Prudence sighed. “I know. But if Max, who’s formidable enough in his own right, considers Malvern to be intimidating, how on earth are
we
going to deal with him?”

“We’re considered quite formidable ourselves,” Chastity said. “Even Max said as much. You’ll be a match for him.”

“Me?”
Prudence took off her glasses and peered at her sister. “Since when did I draw the short straw?”

“It just seems obvious to me,” Chastity said. “I didn’t give it a second thought.” She frowned, wondering why that was the case. “We’ll see what Con thinks this afternoon. Maybe she’s expecting to do it.”

“She did write the piece,” Prudence said, turning back to the parlor. But she knew from the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that the task of convincing Sir Gideon Malvern had her name on it. Once again she pictured him as she’d seen him in the dim light of the hall. She’d had the sense of a presence rather than any specific details about height or form or coloring. But his eyes had most definitely been gray. Gray with a certain piercing quality to them . . . a light that had fixed upon her like a torch beam. And his voice . . . now, she had liked his voice.

She was feeling in a rather more positive frame of mind that afternoon as she walked along Piccadilly to meet her sisters. Chastity had written her letter to the melodramatic miss from Wimbledon and had left early to stop at the post office to send it on its way, so Prudence was enjoying a solitary walk. It was a lovely crisp autumn afternoon, when London showed itself at its best. The trees were turning deep red and burnt orange and there was the faint scent of roasting chestnuts on the air. She passed a vendor at his brazier and hesitated, tempted by the aroma, but she was within a few yards of Fortnum’s and she couldn’t really walk into the tearoom with a newspaper cone of chestnuts.

How difficult could it be to persuade a barrister of the legitimacy of a case that shrieked legitimacy? So, maybe they didn’t have much . . . no, any . . . evidence for the fraud accusations, but maybe, just maybe there was an obvious place to start looking. The idea so startled her that she stopped dead on the pavement. A man behind her dodged sideways to prevent a collision and passed her with a quick sidestep, staring at her.

Prudence offered a smile of apology and began walking slowly again. Why had they not thought of it before? It seemed obvious now. But perhaps they’d been blinded by their father’s loyalty and dependence on his friend. She caught herself humming and relished a lighthearted feeling that had become a stranger just recently. She smiled at the doorman who held open the glass doors for her and entered the wide marble expanse of the tearoom. The usual string quartet was playing on the dais, and swallowtail-coated waiters, and waitresses in frilly white caps, moved between the crowded tables with trolleys laden with rich cakes and silver-domed serving platters.