Dukes Prefer Blondes (23 page)

“Clara, you live in a fantasy world,” said her mother.

“I live in
our
world, Mama,” Clara said. “I understand as well as you do how our friends think. Yes, everybody will talk. But they'll be wondering what's so special about Mr. Radford. They'll want to know why, of all the fine gentlemen who courted me, I wanted the one who didn't. Certainly the ladies will want to know what I did to bring the elusive Raven Radford to heel.”

Only she caught the infinitesimal twitch of Radford's mouth.

“
Raven
Radford!” Mama said. “The criminals are bad enough, but this vulgar nickname—­”

“Enough,” Papa said. “I call the court to order. Clara, you interrupt the proceedings.”

“I! What of Mama?”

“She must be let to express herself from time to time, to prevent the physical injury she would do herself if stifled.”

“Warford!”

“Yet after a time, I did call you to order, my dear, did I not? Can't let anybody think I can't control my wife.”

“You are on
his
side, Warford!”

“I'm on Clara's side,” he said. “Her happiness is what concerns me.”

“Then call me as a witness, Mr. Radford,” Clara said. “Why should you answer all these ridiculous charges yourself, when it's my happiness everybody claims to be in agonies about?”

“I'm perfectly capable of answering the charges unaided,” Radford said.

“Why should you? I got you into this.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“I plagued you endlessly.”

“I'm a lawyer,” he said. ­“People plague us constantly with their problems, and we're glad to have the work.”

“But I was always underfoot.”

“Not always,” he said. “You proved useful now and again. Or, at the very least, entertaining. Enough to lead me to seek you out, when I ought to have let you go your way. On that point, in fact, I was about to call a witness.” He turned to Westcott. “Kindly summon the first witness.”

Westcott went to the door and murmured something—­to the clerk, evidently. A moment later, Tilsley dragged Fenwick, in all his gold and lilac glory, into the office, not without some scuffling and hostile use of elbows.

R
adford should have realized matters wouldn't proceed precisely as he'd planned.

Fenwick did take the “stand”—­the rug in front of Westcott's desk. He did testify regarding the shockingly large bribe—­two shillings!—­Radford had paid the little pirate to get a clandestine message to Lady Clara.

But then Lady Clara rose to cross-­examine, and asked if it were not true that she had initially employed the boy—­for two shillings!—­to take her to Mr. Radford, he being, on the boy's avowal, “the only feller which'd find a cove which'd gone 'n done a bolt if anybody could.”

Then the boy went out again—­and, by the sounds of it, scuffled with Tilsley.

But then her father asked, too quietly, what, precisely, his daughter was talking about.

Ignoring Radford's signals to be silent, Lady Clara took the stand to confess to a hundred crimes and misdemeanors, i.e., the full and true story leading up to her illness (but with the naughty bits left out).

By the time she was done turning her parents' hair grey, Radford's emotional self was banging his head against a wall.

He said, “Did nobody ever tell you never to say a word above what is asked of you when you are under examination?”

She said, “Can't you see it's bad strategy for you to take all the blame?”

“Bad strategy!”

“Yes. It makes you seem a wicked seducer, which won't help your case. You know I started this, Mr. Radford, and you know I used all my womanly wiles on you—­”

“Such as they are,” he cut in before she made him smile—­or, more prejudicial, laugh—­and before she could make matters worse, though he wasn't sure that was possible. “And let me assure the jury that, as a barrister, I am of a necessity and by training and experience impervious to womanly wiles.”

“Yes, and it's very irritating of you,” she said. “But I'm obstinate—­”

“Let us say
persevering
.”

“Do not start being gentle with me at this late date,” she said.

“I'm trying to make a good impression on your parents,” he said.

“Which goes against your nature and makes you look a trifle green,” she said. “I recommend, for your health's sake, you cease and desist.”

And he had all he could do not to say,
I love you I love you I love you
.

“In any case, your gentleness is rather condescending, don't you think?” she said.

“Perhaps. A little. Thank you, my lady. You may step down.”

“I'm not done.”

“I believe your ladyship has done enough,” he said. “We shall move on to number . . . ?” She'd made him forget, more or less everything.

“Six,” said Lord Warford. “Deadly enemies. Low persons.” He glanced at the closed door. “The lad being an example, I take it?”

“A former juvenile delinquent now gainfully employed at Maison Noirot,” Radford said.

“That would explain the costume.”

“Warford, must we continue this charade?” the marchioness said.

“I promised a fair hearing,” said her spouse.

“Fair? You see as well as I do what goes on here,” Lady Warford said. “He views it as a great joke, and he encourages the worst in Clara.”

A joke. His future. His life.
Clara
's life. Encouraging the
worst
in her!

A red mist appeared before Radford's eyes. He tried to blink it away.

“He encourages something,” Lord Warford said.

“Her independence,” Radford said sharply, unthinkingly. “Her mind. Her courage. She's twenty-­two and one-­sixth years old.
Someone
ought to encourage her. To be herself.”

He heard a collective intake of breath—­including his own—­and he was aware of the parents' stiffening and Westcott making the throat-­cutting gesture:
Don't
.

Radford saw the precipice at his feet.

Annoy the judge, provoke your colleagues, but never, ever, attack the jury.

He tried to retreat.

He tried to attend to Westcott's signal.

He almost made it.

 

Chapter Thirteen

When a lady marries a gentleman of character and capacity, and who is in every respect suitable to her, except that his estate is not equal to what she might expect, I do not call it unequal.

—­John Witherspoon,
Letters on Marriage
, 1834

I
t wasn't too late to back away and take another tack.

But Radford's inner self dragged to the front of his mind the image of Clara at Vauxhall, leaping on Bernard. His inner self reenacted her raging speech in this very office, on that rainy September day.

The brave, clever girl was suffocating. Without obnoxious Raven Radford, she'd be stifled—­most expensively and luxuriously—­for the rest of her life.

“If Lady Clara cared about the matters the world wants her to care about, she wouldn't have come to me,” he said. “If she wanted to be safe and coddled, she wouldn't have come to me. If she believed pauper children were not her problem, she wouldn't have come to me, and plagued me to help her help them. She came to me because she knew nobody else would
let
her help them. She wasn't trying to save everybody. She wasn't trying to rescue London's wretched masses. She set her sights on one girl and her brother, that was all. But she couldn't come to you, because you'd only tell her that her job was to organize and sponsor charities. It wasn't her job to dirty her gloves rescuing a very sick boy from a nest of thieves.” He paused. “It certainly wasn't her job to risk her life saving that boy. But she wanted to do it badly enough to take the risk.”

He met her father's gaze. His lordship's face darkened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. If Radford could be intimidated, this was the time to cower. But he'd faced intimidation from his youth, and he'd spent his life fighting against daunting odds.

“Pray, ask her, Lord Warford,” he said. “Will you be so good as to ask Lady Clara now if she regrets her actions.”

The marquess started to rise from his seat, and Radford thought,
If he walks out now, we're lost
.

But the marquess glanced at Clara, whose face was white. He paused and sat down again. He drew in a long breath and let it out and said, “Have you regrets, Clara?”

Tears sparkled in her eyes but didn't fall. Her mouth trembled a bit, but she shook her head and said, coolly enough, “If I had it to do over again, I would. It was the first truly satisfactory act I've performed in years—­though it was rather fun to help Cousin Gladys, too.” She wrinkled her brow. “And it did feel good to make a spectacle of myself when I rejected Clevedon.”

“Oh, Clara,” her mother said.

“Marry me, Clara,” Radford said, “and you may make as many spectacles of yourself as you like. I'm bound to encourage you, because making spectacles is what I do. Marry me, Clara, and it will be difficult. At present I can't afford to keep you in the style you deserve—­”

“I can do without style,” she said. “I did without it for twenty-­one and three-­quarters years, until those dressmakers got hold of me.”

“Do without, indeed,” her mother said. “Oh, yes, I can see it now. You living in chambers, waited on by two ­servants—­if Mr. Radford's income will stretch so far. You, living on an annual income less than what you can spend in an hour—­when you're feeling frugal.”

“Money is not the point,” Lord Warford said. “We can prattle on about Clara's freedom and her tendency to fall into her little scrapes, usually precipitated by good ­intentions—­”

“
Little
scrapes!” Clara cried. “As though I were a child. Really, Papa.”

“You're my little girl, and always will be,” he said. “I beg you will not jump on me for every word, child. Let me ask Mr. Radford the essential question.”

He turned a steely blue gaze upon Radford. “What happens, sir, when this infatuation fades? And don't tell me it isn't infatuation, because nobody ever seems to diagnose the condition, except in hindsight. What becomes of my daughter, Mr. Radford, a year, two years from now—­when she's a barrister's wife, living apart from her friends, in a sphere she was never prepared for and knows nothing about. Whom will she talk to? What will she do with her days and nights? What sort of life do you mean to give her?”

Clara opened her mouth to respond, but her mother didn't give her the chance.

“And tell me this, Mr. Radford,” the marchioness said. “What sort of regard can you have for a young woman when you invite her to join you in your world, where you have constant dealings with juvenile delinquents and blackguards of all kinds? A world where you are stalked by criminals?”

“What sort of regard,” Radford repeated softly. He took his inner self aside and discussed the question with him. Then he let himself smile. “It must be high regard, indeed, because I believe Lady Clara is more than capable of living her life in my sphere with courage and style.”

Clara's face glowed, and her mouth turned up. The room brightened, as though the sun had contrived to force its way through both oppressive grey sky and sooty window.

There. That was it, in a nutshell. Infatuation or whatever it was, he knew he'd move heaven and earth to bring that light to her face, to awaken that smile and the glint of laughter in her blue eyes. He didn't see how he could ever get used to it, let alone take it for granted.

Lord Warford looked at Clara, then at his wife. “I've heard quite enough. We shall not address numbers six through ten.”

“Papa!”

“Mr. Radford is unsuitable on a wide array of counts,” the marquess said.

“
Papa!
”

“Except the most important one,” Lord Warford went on. “He suits you, and you seem to suit him.”

“Warford!”

He turned back to his wife. “My dear, I'm far from ecstatic about Clara's choice. In social terms, this gentleman is a nobody and seems content to remain so. But he seems to understand Clara, possibly a little better than we do.”

“Understanding won't pay for servants,” said his lady tearfully. “Who'll look after her? What's to become of her, my beautiful child—­living in chambers!”

The marquess took her hand. “Let us allow Clara and Mr. Radford to work out that difficulty for themselves. Let us take comfort in recognizing how well matched they are as regards intellect and character. Their exchanges have offered, I believe, ample demonstration. One must be blind and deaf to fail to discern a strong attachment. While Mr. Radford is not the man I would have chosen, that does not constitute grounds to break my daughter's heart.”

“As though I should consent to Clara's breaking her heart!” her ladyship cried. “But she doesn't know her own heart.”

“She's two and twenty and—­what was it?—­one-­sixth years old,” Lord Warford said. “She's an intelligent girl. We'd better make the best of it, my dear.” His attention returned to Radford. “I shall call on your father, and we'll set our solicitors at each other's throats and see what happens.”

Duchess of Clevedon's boudoir

Saturday 24 October

T
he three Noirot sisters—­Marcelline, Duchess of Clevedon; Sophy, Countess of Longmore; and Leonie, Marchioness of Lisburne—­all regarded Clara with no expression whatsoever.

She'd told them, in slightly more detail than she'd told her parents, about the events leading to her becoming engaged to Raven Radford.

“I wanted you to know as soon as possible,” Clara said into the silence. “I haven't told my own sisters yet. Mama will do that, in a state of tears and indignation, I don't doubt.”

The sisters looked at one another, sphinxes all.

Clara knew they'd counted on her to make a splendid match, which would enhance their shop's prestige as well as ensure her continuing to buy its costly creations.

After a long, taut moment, Marcelline said, “But it's so
romantic
, my love.”

“You could never marry a man of ordinary intelligence,” Sophy said. “You'd be bored to pieces. You'd go into a decline and expire of ennui.”

“He's clever
and
ambitious and good at getting what he wants,” Leonie said. “He'll make his way, of that I have no doubt.”

“But most important,” the duchess said, and looked at her sisters again, her dark eyes gleaming.

“The dress!” they chorused.

They went into rhapsodies, at first about their respective specialties—­Marcelline rapturous about the dress she'd design, Sophy euphoric about the headdress she'd create, and even practical Leonie was almost poetic about the bridal corset she envisioned.

Though they'd all begun to transfer their business activities to others since marrying into the upper ranks, they'd make an exception for Clara's wedding. She was their protégée and prize client, and they'd waited months for this opportunity.

“Nothing too extravagant,” she said. “Remember, I'm marrying a barrister who's only in the early phase of his career.” She wasn't sure Radford could afford even one of their dresses, especially the evening dresses.

“All the more reason for a splendid bridal ensemble,” Sophy said. “The more expensive you look, the more you increase your husband's status in the eyes of others. Most men recognize this, and like to see their wives well dressed.”

“In any event, Lord Warford will pay for it,” said Leonie. “You won't want to make your dear papa seem miserly or anything less than pleased with his prospective son-­in-­law.”

“He isn't pleased,” Clara said. “I told you.”

Sophy dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “The point isn't what he truly feels. The point is what
seems
. No matter how your parents feel, they won't want anybody to suspect they're anything but thrilled with your betrothed. You may be sure I'll write pieces for
Foxe's Morning Spectacle
to make parents everywhere gnash their teeth in envy. Mothers will be shrieking at their daughters, ‘Why could
you
not win such a marital prize?' ”

If anyone could turn an awkward situation to positive account, it was Sophy.

They went on to fantasize about a newly married lady's walking dresses and morning dresses, dinner dresses and opera dresses, and everything that went on over and under them. Clara tried to rein them in, but soon gave up, because she knew they were right. As usual.

They'd achieved their success because they understood the haut ton perfectly. Yes, it would cost Papa, but he never fussed about dressmakers' bills and such. More important, as they said, an elegant set of clothes would bolster Radford's status and quiet malicious tongues.

The rest of the marriage was up to her and Radford.

Woodley Building

Monday 26 October

I
trust you've thought about where you'll live,” Westcott said.

Radford hadn't had time to think about anything practical. He'd barely been able to carry on his lawyerly duties. His fight for Lady Clara was all he'd thought about.

Immediately after the Trial of Raven Radford, he'd ridden out to Richmond, to report to his parents. He hadn't told his father about the trial previously, concerned it would infuriate him: his son having to defend himself to a pair of spoiled aristocrats! Now, though, he took the entire tale in high good humor. His mother said she was pleased, but she'd looked a little troubled.

Buoyed by triumph, he'd told himself the two sets of parents would meet soon, and the odds were in favor of personal acquaintance overcoming many of the social barriers. His father was a gentleman, his mother a wellborn lady. No stickler could possibly find fault with their manners. Well . . . Father could be brusque and rude, but so could any number of noblemen, especially those of advanced age.

And considering his father's advanced age and infirmity, Radford didn't think anybody would be so unreasonable as to object to the marriage taking place in Richmond. And the honeymoon, too, for that matter. A bridal trip at this time of year wasn't wise. Given his current legal responsibilities, it was out of the question.

For the time being, he and Clara would reside in the first floor wing of Ithaca House. His parents had essentially abandoned this part of the house as Father grew too frail to stir much beyond the library and the occasional, very slow, walk in the garden.

Everything had looked so rosy then.

Now, not seventy-­two hours after he'd obtained Lord Warford's consent, reality crept in, like the chill fog slinking over London and seeping through every available crack and crevice. It slithered into Westcott's office and mingled with the smoke from the fire to make a sickly yellow indoor haze.

Westcott sat near the fire. Yet another letter from Bernard in his hand, Radford had taken up his post at the window to gaze down at the churchyard. Fog swirled round the gravestones.

“I know Clara's parents will want her to live in a suitably fashionable, and therefore extortionate, neighborhood,” he said. He thought this an idiotic use of her dowry, immense as it was.

“Nobody's using the ducal town house at present,” Westcott said. “Or for the foreseeable future.”

Malvern House had been let until a year ago, but the lessees hadn't renewed. Typically, Bernard hadn't charged anybody with finding new tenants.

“Bernard's next wife might have something to say in that regard.” The letter Radford held contained, along with the usual trials and tribulations, three pages describing a young lady Bernard had met recently at a dinner party in nearby Ashperton. Apparently, she hadn't run away or gagged at Bernard's clumsy advances, because Bernard intended to court her. “She has good hips for breeding,” he wrote, “and she's the only girl in a family of males. I'll get half a dozen sons on her, and you are out of a dukedom, little Raven. Ha ha.”