Dukes Prefer Blondes

by Loretta Chase

  Davis smoothed her gloves. “Well, if nobody kills him soon, he stands a chance to be a judge or Lord Chancellor, or even a duke, and I daresay you can make something of him.”

  “As though I’d want to.” Clara looked out of the window. Not that one could see anything through the scarred glass.

  “Certainly not, my lady, of course. Not wise at all. Better to put the likes of him out of your ladyship’s life. And easily done. Parliament’s up today, and you’ll be leaving for Cheshire the day after tomorrow.”

  “Davis.”

  “Tonight will be the parties, and nearly everything is packed, everyone expecting it. Day after tomorrow we leave, and no danger of seeing him again.”

  Clara turned away from the window to scowl at her maid. Not that it made an impression. Usually, Davis kept strictly to her place and held her tongue, not wanting to set bad examples for lesser servants. But she’d been with Clara through any number of crises over the years. In private, or if under undue emotional strain, she allowed herself certain liberties associated with longevity, seniority, and the many confidences reposing in her bosom.

  “I’m not going to Cheshire,” Clara said.

  “I didn’t think so,” Davis said.

  “Stop acting like him—­all-­wise and all-­knowing. It’s tiresome.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I will see this thing through.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Tell the driver to take us to Kensington. I need to talk to Great-­Aunt Dora.”

  “Not in that dress,” Davis said. “My lady.”

  Chapter Four

  On Thursday, the King went in state to the House of Peers to prorogue the Parliament. His Majesty entered his carriage shortly before two o’clock, attended by the Earl of Albemarle and the Marquess of Queensberry.

  —­Court Journal, 12 September 1835

  Radford had done, by his count, three very stupid things: firstly, enlisting Fenwick to contact Lady Clara; secondly, meeting her at the Milliners’ Society and letting her talk; and thirdly, taking her to a ragged school where she might have easily contracted one of the various ailments floating in the miasma. Unlike the students, she hadn’t been toughened by poverty, filth, and disease. She could die of something that wouldn’t even give someone like Jane hiccups.

  At this rate, Cousin Bernard would win the intelligence competition.

  Radford could only hope that kissing her hand acted as a countermeasure. He’d behaved shockingly—­more shockingly than usual, that is. She’d have the good sense to avoid him in future. And if his other self objected, well, his other self was irrational or Radford would have remained closer to him.

  These logical and sensible thoughts ought to have restored his equilibrium.

  He’d made a decision and acted on it. He’d taken control of the situation.

  Yet he couldn’t detach himself from the feeling.

  It was like a ghost clinging to him, the feel of her hand clasping his arm. He felt its weight as he made his way along Drury Lane and into Long Acre. He felt it still, after he entered the Bow Street Police Office and asked to meet privately with the superintendent.

  The New Metropolitan Police had come into existence only six years ago. Initially, practically everybody had hated them. When one was killed in the line of duty, the coroner’s verdict was justifiable homicide. But the public was beginning to take a more neutral if not positive view.

  For their part, the police had mixed feelings about Radford. Like so many others, they found him difficult and at times might have wished murder were less illegal. On the other hand, his network of informers made him useful, and he was an excellent prosecutor.

  Not wishing to waste anybody’s time, Radford reduced the plot to its essentials. “Bridget Coppy’s taken Chiver’s fancy,” he said. He didn’t have to explain who Chiver was. “She, trying hard to be respectable, most sensibly rejected him. To soothe his wounded pride or extort a change of mind, he’s lured her brother from the straight and narrow. Ordinarily, this would be business as usual in the rookeries, and I shouldn’t waste your time with it. But Bridget shelters at present with the Milliners’ Society for the Education of Indigent Women.”

  “The girls’ school over in Hart Street, you mean?”

  Radford nodded.

  The superintendent pursed his lips. No one had to paint a picture for him.

  The Society’s school fell within Bow Street’s police district as well as Jacob Freame’s territory. The Society’s three founding sisters had married into the upper reaches of the aristocracy. If Freame’s gang made trouble at the Milliners’ Society, these powerful personages would come down severely on the police. Heads would roll, starting with the superintendent’s. On the other hand, ridding the area of its most troublesome gang would win the police friends in high places, which they still needed.

  What Radford did say was, “I know you’ve been trying to get Freame for ages.”

  “Let me call in Sam Stokes,” the superintendent said. “Freame’s on his special list. Been at the top of it since Stokes was a Runner.”

  Once upon a time, Bow Street had been headquarters for the Bow Street Runners, London’s thief takers. They’d had their corruption scandals, and this had contributed to the Runners being disbanded with the creation of the Metropolitan Police. But Sam Stokes was honest, patient, persistent, and a great deal sharper and more dangerous than he appeared. Now an inspector, he was the best detective in the division—­perhaps in all of London—­though police were no longer supposed to be detecting, but preventing crime.

  He arrived within minutes of the summons, a nondescript fellow who could have disappeared in any crowd, and whom one might overlook even if nobody else was about. He was of average height and build with a forgettable face.

  “Freame again,” he said when Raven explained the situation. “I’ve run up against some slippery ones, but he beats them all. Always seems to know when we’re coming for him. We get to his latest den, and he’s gone, found another one. We can’t even lay hands on his henchmen.”

  Chiver and Husher. The more feared of Freame’s lieutenants, Husher was a man of few words, unlike the swaggering Chiver. The nickname, though, didn’t refer to his taciturnity but to his favorite work: hushing ­people permanently.

  “If you’re willing to try again,” Radford said, “I have some ideas.”

  For a respectable, unmarried young lady, getting into and out of disguise wasn’t easy. In disguise Clara didn’t attract much attention. As herself she was as unnoticeable as a fireworks display.

  At present she had no choice but to change her attire at home, at Warford House. Fortunately, to screen the property from the Green Park, which it adjoined, the trees and shrubbery about the property grew tall and abundant. With care, she could slip into one of the outbuildings and with Davis’s assistance, become herself again.

  This was easier today, because Parliament was rising at last. This threw the household into in an uproar of packing for the country, and the women into a frenzy of preparing for the evening’s parties. In all the chaos, especially her mother’s and younger sisters’ temper fits, Clara attracted little attention.

  She had the cabriolet sent round, and set out for Ken­sington and the home of her Great-­Aunt Dora, Lady Exton.

  Once upon a time, Clara would have confided in her beloved paternal grandmother, who understood her so well. Grandmama Warford had died three years ago and Clara still missed her, especially her no-­nonsense advice. She’d warned Clara not to wait for the Duke of Clevedon, and she’d been right.

  It was not quite the same with Great-­Aunt Dora, but she, too, had grown up in what she called a “less missish” generation. At present, since one could not bring Sophy and her sisters into it, this relative was Clara’s only hope.

  Fortunately she’d timed her visit well
. She found her ladyship in the throes of boredom and unable to decide how or where to alleviate it. She found Clara’s tale the opposite of boring.

  “Radford, you say,” she said. “George Radford prosecuted a theft for me. Brilliant fellow. But so irritating. The only other man I wanted to throttle quite so much was my husband. The barrister at least made himself useful. But no, it can’t be the same man. He retired, I believe, about the time your grandmother died.”

  “I refer to his son,” Clara said. “Oliver. But everybody calls him Raven.”

  “Do they, indeed?” Great-­Aunt Dora’s blue eyes gleamed. “How interesting. But of course you must stay with me. Young blood in the house—­what could be better? That is to say, young blood not belonging to my children or grandchildren. So prim. They get it from their father’s side, I assure you.”

  “I promise not to be prim,” Clara said. “But I’m afraid Mama will want persuading.”

  Lady Exton dismissed this with a wave. “I’ll call on her this day. She’ll be frantic, as usual, though I can think of few less tumultuous ventures than rusticating in Cheshire. But since she’ll have worked herself into a pet, she’ll agree to anything to be rid of me. Better yet, they’ll have packed your things already. Yes, this will do very well, indeed.”

  Clara kissed her and thanked her.

  “Never mind, child, never mind,” her great-­aunt said. “You ought to be allowed to do one disreputable thing before you settle down.”

  “I’ve already done two,” Clara said. She reminded Great-­Aunt Dora of the Broken Almost-­Engagement and the Shocking Incident at the Countess of Igby’s Ball.

  Great-­Aunt Dora dismissed these with a wave. “Social mishaps. This is altogether different. Certainly I know you’re too intelligent to take foolish risks, and if Mr. Radford is anything like this father, he will have a head on his shoulders with rather more in it than the usual.”

  A fine head, set off by thick black hair and a rakish curl at the temple . . . eyes like a winter sky . . . a fine, imperial nose . . . and a shockingly adept mouth.

  But looks weren’t everything, and neither was the ability to stir a woman’s senses. He was what he was, and would probably become only more so as the years passed. No good would come of trying to make something of a man with a brain like machinery.

  All Clara wanted was to return Toby Coppy to his sister, as she’d promised to do. Maybe Toby was a lost cause. But he had a sister who loved him and wanted a better life for them both, and Clara could at least help give him another chance.

  Then, when it was done, Clara would go back to her world, and her normal life would close about her again . . . like a boa constrictor. And then?

  She’d suffocate in the most discreet and ladylike way.

  After a little more conversation, Clara left, and her great-­aunt sent for the butler who’d served her for many decades. Like any other self-­respecting head of staff, Nodes maintained an updated mental compendium of the British upper ranks.

  “Radford,” her ladyship said. “There’s a duke in there, I know, but I can’t bring the name to mind.”

  “Malvern, my lady.”

  “Details, if you please,” she said.

  He had, as she knew, far more to tell her than did Debrett’s Complete Peerage of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, or any other official listing of the upper orders. These tomes came out only once a year, while her butler faithfully studied the “Births, Marriages, and Deaths” sections of the periodicals.

  When he’d finished, she said, “My grandniece Clara is coming to stay. I want all made ready for her. And let the household know they’re to keep quiet about her comings and goings if they want to keep their places.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Nodes bowed and departed.

  Radford spent the rest of the day and early evening talking to informers, who talked to others.

  At three o’clock in the morning, three young men were caught breaking into a house in St. Clement Danes.

  They fought the police fiercely. After breaking one constable’s nose, they ran away. But the youngest and smallest tripped over a strategically planted walking stick and fell. The police arrested the boy, Daniel Prior, age thirteen. When they’d taken their prisoner away, Radford retrieved his walking stick and went home.

  As previously agreed, Radford received the brief to prosecute.

  Woodley Building

  Afternoon of 11 September

  When Radford entered Westcott’s office, he found the solicitor gazing at a large, lumpy article wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  “It’s for you,” Westcott said. “Came by ticket porter.”

  Radford gazed at the parcel.

  “I was about to open it,” Westcott said. “It weighs little and doesn’t smell, which tells me it isn’t a dead animal.”

  Now and then Radford received messages from friends or foes of persons he was prosecuting or defending. Since these persons’ skills didn’t include reading and writing, their communications tended to be symbolic.

  This time, though, the sender had written Radford’s name and direction neatly on the parcel.

  “I know what it is,” he said.

  He untied the string and pulled away the paper.

  “Looks like a woman’s dress,” Westcott said.

  “What a noticing fellow you are,” Radford said.

  It was Lady Clara’s. The one she’d worn to the ragged school.

  Westcott came around the desk. He studied it for a moment. Then he lifted it up and held it against Radford’s chest.

  “This color has never become me,” Radford said. Her scent, faint but unmistakable, wafted up to his nose.

  “Is this a message?” Westcott said, taking it—­and the scent—­away. He turned the dress this way and that. “Rather less threatening than the usual.”

  “I’m to dispose of it,” Radford said.

  “Not evidence?”

  Radford looked at him.

  “No, of course not,” Westcott said. “You’d never destroy evidence. I must have been in the grip of a momentary dispersion of wits.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Shock, undoubtedly. It’s not every day you receive a woman’s dress instead of a death threat.”

  “Lady Clara’s maid has joined the list of those wishing to kill me,” Radford said.

  “How odd,” Westcott said. “This news surprises me not at all. What have you done this time?”

  “I took Lady Clara into a ragged school, where a prostitute’s dress had the temerity to touch hers,” Radford said.

  “Lady Clara.” A pause. “Fairfax.” Another pause. “The Marquess of Warford’s eldest daughter.”

  Radford nodded.

  Westcott put the dress down on his desk. “You took her to a ragged school.”

  “In Saffron Hill.”

  “Oh, even better,” Westcott said.

  Radford explained. Then he explained where he’d been for most of the night and morning. Westcott stared at the dress and listened without comment.

  “The maid couldn’t burn it herself without starting gossip in the servants’ hall,” Radford concluded.

  “A trifle extreme,” Westcott said. “True, prostitutes loiter in insalubrious areas. But it can be cleaned, and I’m sure someone can make use of it. Our charwoman, perhaps.”

  “Yes. Yes, she well might.” Radford took up the dress and went out of the office and into his and Westcott’s private living quarters across the corridor.

  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

  Guilty.

  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.