by Jane Feather
Max Ensor doubted that his sister, Letitia, read anything other than the handwritten menu sheets presented to her each morning by her cook, but he kept the observation to himself and unfolded the papers.
The broadsheet was competently printed although he doubted it had been through a major press. The paper was cheap and flimsy and the layout without artistry. He glanced at the table of contents listed at the left-hand side of the top page. His eyebrows lifted. There were two political articles listed, one on the new public house licensing laws and the other on the new twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit for motorcars. Hardly topics to appeal to Mayfair ladies of the Elizabeth Armitage or Letitia Graham ilk, and yet judging by its bold title, the broadsheet was addressing just such a readership.
His eye was caught by a boxed headline in black type, bolder than any other on the front page. It was a headline in the form of a statement and a question and stood alone in its box, jumping out at the reader with an urgent immediacy. WOMEN TAXPAYERS DEMAND THE VOTE. WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE WOMEN TAXPAYERS THE VOTE?
“It seems this paper has more on its mind than gossip and fashion,” he observed, tapping a finger against the headline.
“Oh, that, yes. They're always writing about this suffrage business,” Elizabeth said. “So boring. But every edition has something just like that in a box on the front page. I don't take any notice. Most of us don't.”
Max frowned. Just who was responsible for this paper? Was it a forum for the women troublemakers who were growing daily more intransigent as they pestered the government with their demand for the vote? The rest of the topics in the paper were more to be expected: an article about the American illustrator Charles Dana Gibson and his idealized drawings of the perfect woman, the Gibson girl; a description of a Society wedding and who attended; a list of coming social events. He glanced idly at the Gibson article, blinked, and began to read. He had expected to see earnest advice to follow the prevailing fashion in order to achieve Gibson-girl perfection; instead he found himself reading an intelligent criticism of women's slavish following of fashions that were almost always dictated by men.
He looked up. “Who writes this?”
“Oh, no one knows,” Elizabeth said, reaching out eagerly to take back her prize. “That's what makes it so interesting, of course. It's been around for at least ten years, then there was a short period when it didn't appear, but now it's back and it has a lot more in it.”
She folded the sheets again. “Such a nuisance that one has to buy it now. Before, there were always copies just lying around in the cloakrooms and on hall tables. But it didn't have quite so many interesting things in it then. It was mostly just the boring political stuff. Women voting and that Property Act business. I don't understand any of it. Dear Ambrose takes care of such things.” She gave a little trill of laughter as she tucked the sheets back into her handbag. “Not a suitable subject for ladies.”
“No, indeed,” Max Ensor agreed with a firm nod. “There's trouble enough in the world without women involving themselves in issues that don't concern them.”
“Just what dear Ambrose says.” Elizabeth's smile was complacent as she put her hands to her head to check the set of her black taffeta hat from which descended a cascade of white plumes.
She glanced at the little enameled fob watch pinned to her lapel and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness me, is that the time? I really must be going. Such a charming tea. Thank you so much, Mr. Ensor.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Armitage. I trust I shall see you this evening at the Beekmans' soirée. Letitia has commandeered my escort.” He rose and bowed, handing her her gloves.
“It will be a charming evening, I'm sure,” Elizabeth declared, smoothing her gloves over her fingers. “Everything is so very charming in London at the moment. Don't you find it so?”
“Uh . . . charming,” he agreed. He remained on his feet until she had billowed away, then called for the bill, reflecting that charming had to be the most overworked adjective in a Mayfair lady's vocabulary. Letitia used it to describe everything from her young daughter's hair ribbons to the coals in the fireplace and he'd lost count of the number of times it had dropped from Elizabeth Armitage's lips in the last hour.
However, he would swear that not one of the Honorable Misses Duncan had used it.
Women taxpayers demand the vote.
It would be both interesting and enlightening to discover who was behind that newspaper, he reflected, collecting his hat. The government was doing everything in its power to minimize the influence of the fanatical group of headstrong women, and a few foolish men who were pressing for women's suffrage. But it was hard to control a movement when it went underground, and the true subversives were notoriously difficult to uncover. Unless he was much mistaken, this newspaper directed at the women of Mayfair was as subversive in its intended influence as any publication he'd seen. It would definitely be in the government's interest to draw its teeth. There were a variety of ways of doing that once its editors and writers were identified. And how difficult could it be to uncover them?
Max Ensor went out into the muggy afternoon, whistling thoughtfully between his teeth as he made his way to Westminster.
The Bride Hunt
On Sale Now
Prudence sat back. Covent Garden was a strange choice of venue under the circumstances, she thought a little uneasily. The restaurants around the Opera House and the theaters of Drury Lane would be very public, and there were bound to be people she knew. If she was seen with Sir Gideon, there would inevitably be talk, and maybe later, when the trial started, someone would remember seeing them together and start to wonder. It was a little too risky for comfort. It seemed stupid now that she hadn't asked where he was taking her, but at the time the question hadn't occurred to her. When a man asked you for dinner you either accepted or you didn't. You didn't base your response on the kind of entertainment he was offering.
The chauffeur drove slowly and considerately through the puddle-strewn streets. When they turned into the thronged narrow streets around Covent Garden, Prudence drew farther back into the vehicle's interior and wished she'd thought to bring a veil.
The car drew up outside a discreet-looking house with shuttered windows and a door that opened directly onto the street. The chauffeur helped Prudence out of the car and escorted her to the door. She glanced up at the house. It bore none of the telltale signs of a restaurant. In fact, she thought, it had the air of a private home.
The door opened a minute after the chauffeur had rung the bell. A gentleman in austere evening dress bowed a greeting. “Madam, Sir Gideon is awaiting you in the red room.”
Red room? Prudence glanced at the chauffeur as if for enlightenment, but he had already stepped back to the street. She found herself in an elegant hall with a black and white marble floor and elaborately molded ceilings. A flight of stairs with gilded banisters rose from the rear.
“This way, madam.” The man preceded her up the stairs and along a wide corridor. Voices, both male and female, came from behind closed doors, together with the chink of china and glass. Prudence was as intrigued as she was puzzled.
Her escort stopped outside a pair of double doors in the middle of the corridor, knocked once, then with an almost theatrical flourish opened both doors wide. “Your guest, Sir Gideon.”
Prudence stepped into a large, square room, furnished as a drawing room except for a candlelit dining table set for two in a deep bow window overlooking a garden. It was immediately obvious why it was known as the red room. The curtains were red velvet, the furniture upholstered in red damask.
Gideon Malvern was standing beside the fireplace, where a small fire burned. He set down the whisky glass he held and came across the room. “Good evening, Miss Duncan. Let me take your coat.”
His evening dress was impeccable, tiny diamond studs in his white waistcoat. As she removed her head scarf, Prudence had a flash of regret at her own carefully chosen costume. In the interests of ma
king absolutely certain the barrister understood that this meeting was not a social occasion, she had decided to preserve the image of the dowdy spinster she'd created in his chambers that afternoon. In fact, without exaggeration, she looked a fright in a hideous brown dress she'd unearthed from a cedar closet that hadn't been opened in ten years. She had no idea where the dress came from. It certainly wasn't something her mother would ever have worn. She unbuttoned her coat with some reluctance and allowed him to take it from her. He handed it to the man who had ushered her upstairs. The man bowed and withdrew, closing the doors gently behind him.
Gideon surveyed his guest, one eyebrow lifting a fraction. He was trying to imagine how any woman, let alone one as relatively young as this one, could deliberately choose to dress with such abominable lack of taste. One had to assume she had chosen the gown she was wearing, just as she had chosen her costume that afternoon. Perhaps, he thought, she was color-blind as well as shortsighted, or whatever problem she had with her eyesight that obliged her to wear those thick horn-rimmed spectacles. She was certainly fashion-blind. His nose twitched. Could that possibly be a whiff of mothballs emanating from the folds of her dreadful evening dress?
“Sherry,” he said. “May I offer you a glass before dinner?”
“Thank you,” Prudence responded, well aware of his reaction to her appearance. It was exactly what she had intended, but it still left her chagrined. She was far more used to admiring glances than the barrister's look of mingled pity and disdain.
“Please sit down.” He gestured to one of the sofas and went to the sideboard, where decanters of sherry and whisky stood. He poured sherry and brought the glass over to her.
“Thank you,” she said again, with a prim little smile that she thought would be appropriate to her appearance. “What is this house?”
“A private supper club,” he said, taking a seat on the sofa opposite her. “I thought a restaurant might be a little too public.” He sipped his whisky.
“It wouldn't do for us to be seen together,” she agreed, smoothing down her skirts with a fussy little pat of her hand.
Gideon could only agree wholeheartedly. He wasn't sure his social reputation would survive being seen in public with such a wretchedly drab companion. He watched her covertly for a moment. She wore her hair twisted tightly onto her nape in an old-fashioned bun stuck with wooden pins. But the stuffy style couldn't do much to disguise the lustrous richness of the color. Somewhere between cinnamon and russet, he thought. No, something wasn't quite right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something out of kilter about the Honorable Miss Prudence Duncan. He remembered that moment in his chambers when she'd taken off her glasses as she launched her attack. The image of that woman and the one in front of him somehow didn't gel. And after his late-afternoon's reading he was not about to jump to conclusions about any of the Duncan sisters.
“As I recall, Miss Duncan, you said you took care of the business side of the publication. I assume you're something of a mathematician.”
“I wouldn't say that precisely,” Prudence stated. “I would describe myself as a bookkeeper.”
At that he laughed. “Oh, no, Miss Duncan, I am convinced that you are no more a bookkeeper than your sister is the writer of penny dreadfuls.”
Prudence looked startled. “Have you been reading copies of The Mayfair Lady since this afternoon?”
“I discovered an unexpected source of back issues,” he said dryly. “Curiously enough, under my own roof. My daughter and her governess appear to be avid readers.”
“Ah,” she said. “Your daughter. Yes.”
“That appears to come as no particular surprise to you,” he observed.
“Who's Who,” she said. “We looked you up.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you know more about me than I do about you, Miss Duncan.”
Prudence felt herself flush as if he was accusing her of prying. “Who's Who is a matter of public record,” she stated. “Besides, if we hadn't looked you up we wouldn't have been able to find you.”
“Ah,” he said. “Sensible research, of course.”
“Does your daughter live with you?” She couldn't hide her surprise.
“As it happens,” he responded shortly. “She attends North London Collegiate for her formal schooling. Her governess takes care of the wider aspects of her education. It seems that women's suffrage is of particular interest to Miss Winston, hence her familiarity with your publication.” He rose to take his glass to the sideboard to refill it after casting a glance towards Prudence's barely touched sherry glass.
This was a man of surprises, Prudence reflected, unable to deny that her interest was piqued. North London Collegiate School for Ladies, founded in 1850 by the redoubtable Frances Buss, one of Prudence's mother's female icons, was the first day school to offer a rigorous education to young women. Miss Buss, like the late Lady Duncan, had been a fervent supporter of women's rights as well as education.
Prudence took a healthy sip of her sherry. “You believe in women's education, then?”
“Of course.” He sat down again, regarding her a little quizzically. “I imagine that surprises you.”
“After your diatribe this afternoon about how women are not equipped—I believe I have that right—not equipped to enter the battleground of lawsuits and suchlike, I find it incredible. I think you advised me and my sisters to confine ourselves to the gossip of our own social circles and keep away from pen and ink.” She smiled. “Do I have that right, Sir Gideon?” She leaned over to put her now empty glass on the sofa table.
“Yes, you do.” He seemed completely untroubled by the apparent contradiction. “The fact that I support the education of women does not deny my assertion that the majority of women are uneducated and ill equipped to deal in my world. More sherry?”
He reached for her glass when she nodded, and went back to the sideboard. “Were that not the case, there would be little need of my support for the cause.” He refilled her glass from the decanter and brought it back to her. He stood looking down at her with that same quizzical, appraising air. Prudence was distinctly uneasy. It felt as if he were looking right through her, through the façade she was presenting, to the real Prudence underneath.
“Your daughter . . .” she began, trying to divert his attention.
“My daughter is hardly relevant here,” he responded. “Suffice it to say that under the guidance of Miss Winston she's a passionate supporter of women's suffrage.”
“And are you?” The question was quick and sharp. Without thinking, she took off her glasses, as she often did in moments of intensity, rubbing them on her sleeve as she looked up at him.
Gideon took a slow breath. Wonderful eyes. They did not belong to this spinsterly dowd. So, just what game was Miss Duncan playing here? He had every intention of discovering before the evening was done.
“I haven't made up my mind on that issue,” he answered finally. “Perhaps you should try to convince me of its merits while you attempt to persuade me to take on your defense.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth and his gray eyes were suddenly luminous as they locked with hers.
Prudence hastily returned her glasses to her nose. That gaze was too hot to hold. And there was a note in his voice that made her scalp prickle. Every instinct shrieked a warning, but a warning about what? Rationally, he couldn't possibly be attracted to her, yet his eyes and voice and smile said he was. Was he playing some cat-and-mouse game? Trying to fool her into a false position? She forced herself to concentrate. She had a job to do. She had to persuade him that he would find their case interesting and—
Her mind froze. Was this part of what would make it interesting for him? An elaborate, cruel game of mock seduction? Was there some kind of quid pro quo here to which she was not as yet a party?
Prudence thought of The Mayfair Lady, she thought of the mountain of debt that they were only just beginning to topple. She thought of her father, who so far had been protected from the
truth, as their mother would have striven to protect him. With those stakes, she could play Gideon Malvern at his own game and enjoy the sport.
She gave her skirts another fussy pat and said with a schoolmistressy hint of severity, “On the subject of our defense: as we see it, Sir Gideon, our weakness lies in the fact that we do not as yet have concrete evidence of Lord Barclay's financial misdoing. However, we know how to find that. For the moment, we have ample evidence to bolster our accusations of his moral failures.”
“Let's sit down to dinner,” he said. “I'd rather not discuss this on an empty stomach.”
Prudence stood up. “I'm impressed by your diligence, Sir Gideon. I'm sure you had a full day in your chambers and in court, and now you're prepared to work over dinner.”
“No, Miss Duncan, you are going to be doing the work,” he observed, moving to the table. “I am going to enjoy my dinner while you try to convince me of the merits of your case.” He held out a chair for her.
Prudence closed her lips tightly. This was the man she had met that afternoon. Arrogant, self-possessed, completely in control. And much easier to deal with than the glimpses she'd had of the other side of his character. She sat down and shook out her napkin.
Her host rang a small bell beside his own place setting before sitting down. “The club has a considerable reputation for its kitchen,” he said. “I chose the menu carefully. I hope it will meet with your approval.”
“Since you've just told me I'm not going to have the opportunity to enjoy it, your solicitude seems somewhat hypocritical,” Prudence said. “I would have been content with a boiled egg.”
He ignored the comment and she was obliged to admit that he was entitled to do so. She took a roll from the basket he offered while two waiters moved discreetly around them, filling wineglasses and ladling delicate pale green soup into fine white bowls.
“Lettuce and lovage,” Gideon said when she inhaled the aroma. “Exquisite, I think you'll find.” He broke into a roll and spread butter lavishly. “Tell me something about your sisters. Let's start with Mrs. Ensor.”