by Jane Feather
Constance shook her head. “I’m happy with my toast. Although,” she added on impulse, “perhaps I’ll have a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam.”
“There’s Dottie Northrop,” Chastity said suddenly. “On the dance floor with old Sir Gerald.”
“That old roué. She won’t find a match there.” Constance turned in her chair to look at the dance floor. Dottie Northrop was a woman in her early forties, but dressed as if she were at least ten years younger in a tea gown of cream muslin liberally adorned with lacy frills. The neckline was daringly low for the afternoon and her face, beneath a pale pink straw hat, was a mask, thick with powder and rouge. “If she smiles, her face will crack open.” It was a statement of fact made quite without malice.
“If we’re going to find her a respectable husband we’re going to have to transform her,” Prudence said. “But how do we do that tactfully?”
“Tact is Chas’s speciality,” Constance said. “Together with giving advice to the lovelorn.”
“You know, the ideal man would be someone like Lord Alfred Roberts,” Prudence said thoughtfully. “I know he’s rather older, but he seems virile enough, and he looks so sad and lonely most of the time. Dottie might enliven his life nicely.”
“That’s a thought,” Constance agreed. “I wonder—”
“I thought you’d still be here.” Max’s smooth voice interrupted her from beyond the pillar and the three women looked up in some surprise.
“Max, what are you doing here?” Constance asked.
“I was hoping to have tea.” He nodded his thanks to the waiter who had discreetly provided another chair. “Is that anchovy toast you’re eating?” He gestured to his wife’s plate.
“Yes, it’s very good,” she responded, spooning clotted cream onto her scone.
“Then I’ll finish it for you since you seem to have abandoned it.” He smiled at the hovering waitress, who had set down a fresh pot of tea and another cup. He took a piece of toast from his wife’s plate while Prudence poured tea for him. “I was making some inquiries about Malvern at my club. What his courtroom style is like, that kind of thing.”
“And?” Prudence prompted warily.
“He’s known for his confrontational techniques,” Max said. “From what I could gather, he goes for the jugular.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Prudence said.
“I think you’re going to have to try to get him off guard,” Max said. “Surprise him somehow, so he doesn’t have time to react against you.”
“Ye gods!” Prudence muttered. “You really think he’s going to start off prejudiced against me?”
Max bit into his toast with evident enjoyment. “I think it’s possible,” he said when he’d finished his mouthful. “I certainly would be straight off the bat.” He glanced across at Prudence, who was looking far from reassured by this brutal candor. “You’re going in as the advance guard?”
“We thought she’d be the best one of us,” Chastity told him. “I don’t look serious enough.”
“And I’d rather not have to introduce myself as your wife,” Constance pointed out.
“I appreciate your concern,” Max said dryly. “But Malvern is going to know soon enough what my connection is.”
“It won’t hurt to delay that revelation,” Constance said. “Prue’s the natural choice because she manages the finances to a large extent. She’ll sound very knowledgeable and serious.”
“And I’ll wear my thickest glasses,” Prudence said, trying to sound lighthearted. “And my most earnest air.”
“Dear God, what an image. I could almost find it in my heart to feel sorry for Malvern,” Max declared.
“Oh, yes, Prue at her most grave and solemn is a force to be reckoned with,” Chastity said.
Prudence’s responding smile lacked conviction, but it went unnoticed amid her sisters’ amusement.
Chapter 5
Well, what do you think?” Prudence stood in front of her sisters on the appointed Thursday afternoon and awaited their judgment.
“You look like a cross between a nun and a schoolteacher,” Constance observed.
“No, more like a librarian than a nun,” Chastity said. “You have a very earnest and learned look about you.”
“That was the effect I was hoping to achieve,” Prudence said with her head on one side as she critically surveyed her appearance in the mirror. “I particularly like the felt hat.” She lifted the navy blue veil that fell discreetly to just below her nose. The hat itself was of dark gray felt with a demurely turned-up brim.
“It goes with the suit. Dark gray serge . . . you could almost be in mourning,” Constance said.
“Do you have the fifty guineas?” Chastity asked, brushing a piece of lint off Prudence’s shoulder.
“Surely he’ll send a bill,” Prudence said, looking at Constance for confirmation. “He’s not selling cabbages off a stall.”
“I’m sure he will. But I should take it anyway. If he’s horribly insulting and dismissive, at least you’ll have the satisfaction of giving him his pound of flesh as your own parting shot.”
Prudence grimaced. “I know Max meant well but I wish he hadn’t found out what he did about Malvern. Just imagining his confrontational manner makes me so nervous I’m sure I’ll be completely tongue-tied.”
“No, you won’t,” Chastity said firmly. “You wouldn’t let his clerk intimidate you the other day, and you won’t let the barrister.”
“I hope not. If he’s the best there is, I can’t afford to,” Prudence said with a rather brave smile. “We have to net him.”
Constance nodded. “By the way, you might want to pretend that we have no money worries. Once he’s caught, then we can negotiate.”
“It seems a bit underhanded, but I agree.” Prudence pulled on navy blue gloves and picked up a capacious handbag. “I have a complete set of copies of everything I left with his clerk the other day. Just in case they were misplaced in the clerk’s office,” she added with an ironical shrug. “I only wish I had something concrete to back up the accusations of embezzling and cheating.”
“But you can tell him we know how to go about getting such evidence,” Constance reminded her.
“We think we do,” Chastity emphasized.
“I don’t intend to allow a hint of doubt,” Prudence declared, and dropped the veil. “I’d better make tracks. It’s nearly three-thirty.”
Her sisters accompanied her in a hackney as far as the Temple Gardens. “We’ll wait for you here,” Constance said, kissing her.
“No, wait for me at Fortnum’s,” Prudence said, opening the carriage door. “It looks like rain and I don’t want to be worrying about you getting wet. I’ve no idea how long this is going to take.”
“The longer it takes, the more hopeful the outcome,” Chastity said. “We’ll go to Fortnum’s for tea, then, but I shan’t be able to eat a thing until you get there.”
Prudence laughed at that. “It would be a momentous event indeed that would keep you from your cake, Chas.” She climbed out of the hackney, waved once to her sisters, who were hanging out of the window, and then strode resolutely up Middle Temple Lane.
Outside the door to Sir Gideon Malvern’s chambers, she paused, preparing herself. Then resolutely she turned the knob and marched up the narrow staircase to the door at its head. She knocked once and entered without waiting for an invitation. The same clerk sat behind his desk. “I have an appointment with Sir Gideon,” she told him firmly, keeping her veil in place.
The clerk consulted his ledger as if to confirm this, then he looked up and peered at her. “The Mayfair Lady?” he asked.
“As you are aware,” Prudence said, wondering why he always had to play games. “I believe I am exactly on time.” She glanced pointedly at the clock.
“I will tell Sir Gideon that you are here.” The clerk sidled from behind his desk and opened the door in the far wall a veritable crack, through which he insinuated himself
with a rustle of his coattails.
Prudence waited. The door to the inner chamber opened fully and the man she had bumped into on her last visit stood in the doorway. “So, we meet again, Madam Mayfair Lady,” he said in the voice she remembered, and disconcertingly the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck prickled. “Won’t you come in?”
He held the door, and Prudence with a murmur of thanks entered the sanctum. The clerk gave her another appraising look, then removed himself with the slither that seemed his preferred motion.
Sir Gideon moved a chair forward for his visitor. “Pray sit down, Miss . . . Mrs. . . . ? Forgive me, I am at something of a loss.”
Prudence put up her veil. “I assume everything that is said in this room is confidential, Sir Gideon? Even if you decide not to take the case.”
“Whatever is said between a barrister and a client, prospective or not, is privileged communication, madam.”
Prudence nodded. She had known that, of course, but she had needed it stated. “I am the Honorable Prudence Duncan,” she said. “One of the editors of The Mayfair Lady.” She gestured to the copy that lay open on the massive oak table that appeared to serve as his desk.
He moved back behind the table as she sat down, and stood for a minute, his hand playing over the broadsheet as he regarded her with a close and unblinking scrutiny. “I seem to recall that there were two of you before.”
“In fact, there are three of us.”
Sir Gideon was rarely taken aback, a career in the law courts inured a man against surprise, but he was puzzled. The lady in his office bore little resemblance to the image he had taken away from their brief meeting in the hallway. Of course, it had been hard to see clearly in the gloom. The woman sitting in front of him struck him as a rather dull, plain-looking mouse of a creature. He couldn’t really see her eyes, hidden as they were behind a pair of hideous, thick tortoiseshell spectacles. Her clothes were uniformly gray, unenlivened by the touch of navy blue, and he thought she looked prim and uninteresting. Which didn’t sit quite right with the image of a woman who could write some of the racy and undeniably witty articles in the broadsheet.
Prudence returned the scrutiny with equal interest. She was pleased to recognize his initial surprise, but there was something in his eyes, a certain flicker, that caused her hackles to rise. He was weighing her, and unless she was mistaken, mentally dismissing her.
He was probably around Max’s age, as she had calculated. Forty or so. Unlike Max, he had no gray hairs. His hair was a thick, well-coiffed dark brown mane sweeping off a broad forehead. Deep frown lines creased between his rather sculpted eyebrows, but she couldn’t decide whether they were the result of a disagreeable nature or were merely indicative of hours of deep thought. He had a calm mouth beneath a long thin nose that dominated his countenance. His gray eyes were sharp and filled with intelligence, but they definitely held no friendliness in their depths. Was it her or her cause that he was dismissing? Or was that simply his habitual expression?
“And who are the other two editors?” he asked after the silence seemed to have elongated. He still did not sit down, which Prudence found even more disconcerting.
“My sisters,” she said.
“Ah.” He smoothed the broadsheet and she noticed that his hands were very long and white, the filbert nails well manicured. More like a pianist’s hands than a lawyer’s. He wore an emerald signet ring and the diamond studs in his shirt cuffs glittered, as did the pin in his lapel. Nothing ostentatious, simply an elegant, understated indication of wealth and position. Everything about his presence confirmed the impression. This was a man supremely confident in himself, and his position in the world. He was also intimidating. But Prudence had no intention of letting him know that.
She folded her gloved hands in her lap. “I left all the details relevant to the situation with your clerk, and I see that you have a copy of the article in question, so I assume you’re up-to-date with the facts, Sir Gideon.”
“Such as they are,” he said. “Am I correct in believing that the Honorable Constance Duncan recently married Mr. Ensor, the politician?”
“You are. But that is not germane, and should not influence you in any way.”
A sparkle of definitely derisive amusement showed for a second in his eyes. “I do assure you, my dear madam, that nothing influences me but my own assessment of a situation and my own inclination.”
Prudence controlled her rising anger at his condescending tone. She said neutrally, “I’m glad to hear it, Sir Gideon. One would not wish to be represented in court by a lawyer who could be swayed from the truth by some personal whim.”
His eyes were suddenly hooded, his countenance completely without expression, and she had no idea whether she had stung him or not. Was this his courtroom face? Giving nothing away? If so, it was a very effective weapon. She found herself resisting the urge to break the silence with some irrelevant babble.
She rose to her feet. “Forgive me, but if you choose not to sit down, Sir Gideon, I would prefer to stand too for the extent of this consultation.”
His expression remained the same, his eyes still hidden under half-lowered lids. However, he gestured to the chair again, said, “Please,” and sat down himself behind the table. He lightly tapped the article in the open broadsheet in front of him.
“Did you write this, Miss Duncan, or one of your sisters?”
“My elder sister, as it happens. But its authorship is not germane either. We’re all in this together.”
He smiled. “All for one and one for all. The three musketeers alive and well in the streets of London.”
Prudence curled her gloved fingers into her palms, glad that there was nothing conveniently at hand to throw at him. She said nothing, keeping her face expressionless, aware that thanks to her convenient glasses he couldn’t see the anger and chagrin she knew her eyes would reveal.
“What is it you and your sisters want me to do for you, Miss Duncan?” His voice was still quiet, but it was crisp, and now there was no mistaking the acerbity in the well-modulated tones.
“We would like you to defend The Mayfair Lady against Lord Barclay’s libel suit.” Prudence, for all her annoyed discomfiture, was aware of relief that at last the ball was in play. Maybe he had a problem doing business with women, but when they got down to brass tacks and she could steer him towards the evidence, which he must have read, he would lose his prejudices.
He said nothing for a minute, looking down at the broadsheet in front of him. Then he looked up, clasping his hands on top of the paper. “You see, Miss Duncan, I would find that very hard to do. Reading this, I am in complete sympathy with the earl. It is an outrageous, malicious piece of scandalmongering, and its authors deserve the full penalty of the law. If I were prosecuting, I would demand the maximum in punitive damages, and I would not rest until this . . .” He swept a dismissive hand across the paper. “. . . this gossip-feeding rag was put out of business.”
He stood up again. “Forgive my bluntness, Miss Duncan, but there are realities that you and your sisters don’t seem to have grasped. Women are not equipped to enter these kinds of battles. This is an emotional, unthought-out attack on a peer of the realm, designed to cause him maximum embarrassment, which I can see it has. He is entitled to financial redress for pain and suffering caused by this piece of rumormongering. May I suggest that in future you and your sisters confine your gossip to your social circles and keep well away from pen and ink.”
He moved out from behind the desk as Prudence remained sitting, for the moment utterly stunned.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Duncan, I have briefs to prepare.” He went to the door, opening it. “Thadeus, escort the Honorable Miss Duncan to the street.”
Numb, Prudence rose and allowed herself to be swept from the inner chamber, her hand given a perfunctory shake, and within two minutes she was standing in the drizzling rain outside the closed door to Sir Gideon’s chambers.
She looked at her fob watch. It
was barely four-twenty. In less than thirty minutes she had been roundly scolded and dismissed like a rather dim schoolgirl. Max had warned her to seize the initiative and she had let it slip. She heard the barrister’s voice, that so quiet yet so clear voice, delivering the insulting, patronizing speech. No one had ever dared talk to her in that manner.
She spun on her heel to face the door again and threw it open. Not even Sir Gideon Malvern, KC, was going to get away with that.
In the gently humming tearoom at Fortnum’s, Chastity and Constance sipped tea, watching through the long windows as pedestrians dodged from doorway to doorway along Piccadilly while the steady drizzle intensified to a solid rain.
“I wonder how she’s getting on?” Chastity murmured for the sixth time. “I can’t even eat this macaroon, and I love macaroons.”
“Depriving yourself won’t help Prue or alter the outcome of the interview,” Constance pointed out, taking a cucumber sandwich from the plate on the table. “Let’s think about finding a husband for Dottie Northrop instead. Have you thought any more about how to advise her tactfully on her appearance?”
Chastity welcomed the diversion. She rummaged through her handbag and produced a sheet of paper. “I thought it best just to drop a few hints in the letter.” She handed the paper across the table. “I’ve suggested that she attend the At Home at Ten Manchester Square next Wednesday afternoon, when she should ask for an introduction to Lord Alfred Roberts, whom she might find an eligible party.”
“How are we going to get Lord Alfred there?” Constance inquired. “He’s a club man like Father. I can’t see him holding a teacup and conducting small talk with the likes of Lady Winthrop or Mary and Martha Bainbridge.”
“Father will bring him,” Chastity declared with satisfied finality. “I’ve already asked him. I said we needed some more interesting society on Wednesday afternoons and that since Lord Alfred was a particular friend of Mother’s and we think he’s rather lonely, we’d like to include him.”