The Bride Hunt (10 page)

“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 with 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 for 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 facade 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, and 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 accusation 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 deep 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.”

“Constance.”

“Constance,” he repeated. “And your younger sister is called . . . ?”

“Chastity.”

He sipped his wine and seemed to savor this information. There was a distinct gleam in his gray eyes. “Constance, Prudence, and Chastity. Someone had a sense of humor. I’m guessing it was your mother.”

Prudence managed not to laugh. She declared, “We are the perfect exemplifiers of our names, I should tell you, Sir Gideon.”

“Are you indeed?” He reached to refill her wineglass and once again shot her that quizzical look. “Prudence by name and prudent by nature?” He shook his head. “If they match their names as appropriately as I believe you match yours, Miss Prudence Duncan, I cannot wait to meet your sisters.”

Prudence ate her soup. She wasn’t going to step into that quicksand. If he was beginning to see through her pretense, she wasn’t going to help him out.

“This soup is certainly exquisite,” she said with one of her prim smiles.

He nodded. “It’s one of my favorite combinations.”

She looked at him, curiosity piqued once more despite her intentions to stick with business. “I get the impression you’re something of a gourmand, Sir Gideon.”

He put down his soup spoon. “We have to eat and drink. I see no reason to do either in a mediocre fashion.”

“No,” Prudence responded. “My father would agree with you.”

“And you too, I suspect.” He twirled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers. Her appreciation of the white burgundy in her glass had not gone unnoticed.

Prudence realized that her facade had slipped. She said with a careless shrug, “No, in general I’m indifferent to such things. We live very simply, my sisters and I.”

“Really,” he said, his voice flat as a river plain.

“Really,” she said firmly, starting to reach for her glass, then instead putting her hand back into her lap.

The waiters returned, removed soup plates, set down the fish course, and left.

“Plaice,” the barrister said, taking up his fish knife and fork. “A seriously underappreciated fish. Simply grilled with a touch of parsley butter, it’s more delicate than the freshest Dover sole.”

“In your opinion,” Prudence murmured, slicing into the slightly browned flesh. The addendum passed unnoticed by her companion, who was savoring his first mouthful. She took her own and was forced to admit that he had a point.

“There is no way to fight Barclay’s libel action without you and your sisters divulging your identities.”

It was such a stunning change of subject, Prudence was for a moment confused. It was an attack rather than a continuation of their conversation. She blinked, swiftly marshaled her thoughts, and entered the fray. “We can’t.”

“I cannot put a newspaper on the stand.” His voice had lost all trace of conversational intimacy. He pushed aside his plate. “I spent the better part of two hours reading back issues of your broadsheet, Miss Duncan, and I do not believe that you and your sisters lack the intelligence to imagine for one minute that you could escape the stand.”

Prudence wondered if this was an ambush. Part of the cat-and-mouse game. “We cannot take the witness stand, Sir Gideon. Our anonymity is essential to
The Mayfair Lady.
”

“Why?” He took up his wine goblet and regarded her over the lip.

“I do not believe
you
lack the intelligence to answer that question yourself, Sir Gideon. My sisters and I cannot divulge our identities, because we propound theories and opinions that because we’re women would be automatically discounted if our readership knew who was responsible for them. The success of the broadsheet depends upon the mystery of its authorship, and its inside knowledge.”

“Ah, yes, inside knowledge,” he said. “I can quite understand that no one would speak freely to you if they knew they could be opening themselves to the ironical, if not malicious, pen of
The Mayfair Lady.
”

“I would dispute
malicious,
” Prudence said, a slight flush warming her cheeks. “Ironical, yes, and we don’t suffer fools gladly, but I don’t consider we’re ever spiteful.”

“There’s a difference between malice and spite,” he said.

“It’s a little too subtle for me,” she responded frostily.

He shrugged, raised his eyebrows, but made no attempt to amend his statement.

Prudence took a minute to recover her composure. She knew that she and Constance had a tendency to indulge their own sharp and sardonic wit, but it was a private pleasure. Chastity was usually their only audience and even she, the gentler-natured sister, could be roused to blistering irony in the face of social pretension or arrant stupidity, particularly when someone was hurt by it. In the broadsheet they certainly made fun of such failings, but they never named names.

He spoke again while she was still collecting her thoughts. “Miss Duncan, if you cannot defeat this libel, your broadsheet will cease to exist. If, as I understand you to say, your identities are forced into the open, then your broadsheet will also cease to exist.” He set down his glass. “So, now, tell me what legal help I can offer you.”

So that was it. In his judgment they had no possibility of winning. Never had had. So it
was
cat and mouse. But why? Why this elaborate dinner just to watch her squirm like a butterfly on the end of a pin? Well, whatever the reasons, she was not about to accept his assessment meekly and go on her not-so-merry way.