Dukes Prefer Blondes Page 8

  “We don’t have Freame yet.”

  “You’ll get him.”

  “If the wretched boy gave us correct information. And if Freame doesn’t get wind of it before the police get there.”

  They stepped out of the building and into a driving rain. Old Bailey shivered in a grey blur, and now and again the wind gusted, turning the rain to whip strokes.

  “We’d better get a hackney,” Westcott said.

  “For a half-­mile walk?”

  “I don’t fancy a drenching,” Westcott said.

  “One can never get a coach when it rains, as you well know.”

  A boy holding a large umbrella ran up to them.

  “Please, Raven, and you’re to come straightaway,” he said. “She’s over there.” He pointed to the curb where stood a hackney cabriolet. These vehicles were commonly known as coffin cabs, and not only on account of the funereal shape.

  Curtains drawn and apron in place, it concealed as well as protected its passenger from the rain.

  “Who is over there?” Radford said, while his other self came to sharp attention.

  “Her,” the boy said.

  The other being’s heart gave a leap and the wild, dark day brightened several degrees as he strode across the pavement to the cab.

  “Get in.” A haughty voice, feminine.

  “Oh, good,” he said. “Drama.”

  “Get in, Raven,” she said.

  He turned to the boy, who’d followed him, holding the umbrella over his own head. “Tell my friend I’ll meet up with him later.”

  The urchin only stood there, looking up at him while rain cascaded from the umbrella onto Radford’s shoes.

  He reached into his pocket. “Pirates, the lot of you. I’ll give you a bob, but you’d better give my friend the umbrella.”

  The boy snatched the coin and grinned. “Fanks, Raven!” he called, and raced back to Westcott. Or in the direction where Radford had last seen his friend. He didn’t look that way to find out whether Westcott waited or not.

  Radford climbed, dripping, into the cab. The scent of an expensive woman instantly enveloped him.

  This is cozy,” Radford said.

  Four stupid things, he thought.

  “I heard you won the case,” Lady Clara said.

  Though the closed curtain turned the cab’s interior into a tomb, it wasn’t completely dark. The curtains flapped, and light entered through the narrow opening, especially when the wind gusted. He couldn’t make out the details of her dress. He smelled damp wool. Mingled with it was a light herbal fragrance he couldn’t quite pinpoint, and the scent of her skin, which he could.

  “You might have read the result in the court proceedings instead of coming out in this deluge,” he said. “But you seem to have a self-­destructive streak. It isn’t enough to invite a lung fever, but you must hire a cab, from which you’re likely to be expelled suddenly, with fatal results.”

  Hackney cabriolets were notorious. The drivers felt honor-­bound to show how fast they could go. This led to crashing into street posts and other vehicles, and hurling their passengers into the road.

  “Better yet, no maid in sight,” he went on. “Have you taken leave of what few wits you possess?” He paused and thought. “Parliament rose last week. Why are you still here?”

  “Firstly, my maid is to meet me at your chambers. We could not all fit in one cab.”

  “Then why not—­”

  “I am trying to answer counsel’s questions in order,” she said. “Secondly, I am in possession of all my wits, thank you. Thirdly, I am staying with my great-­aunt Dora, who knows all about the Case of the Disappearing Toby.”

  Radford was aware of his other self’s ricocheting between elation and alarm. Freame. Chiver. Husher. Still on the streets.

  “Was you wantin’ to go anywheres, sir?” the driver shouted above the beating rain. “On account this ain’t a stand and I’m not to be loit’ring and blocking the traffic and the constable’ll stop by to tell me to move along.”

  “The Temple,” her ladyship called back.

  “Sir?”

  She released a small sigh. “Why is it, when a man comes on the scene, the woman becomes invisible?”

  “Fleet Street, as the lady says,” Radford said. “Inner Temple Lane.” To her he said, “I only wish you were invisible.”

  The cab jerked into motion.

  She said something under her breath.

  He didn’t ask her to repeat it.

  He was trying to get away from himself, with limited success.

  It wasn’t true he wished she were invisible. He didn’t wish, either, that he hadn’t entered the cab. No man in his right mind would wish to escape sharing a seat in a narrow vehicle with Lady Clara Fairfax, with the curtains drawn. Any man in his right mind would wish for a smaller vehicle, heavier curtains, and a longer journey.

  Radford would have preferred, however, to be more in his right mind at present.

  He was deeply conscious of every place his body touched hers—­a great many places, varying from time to time as the infernal cab jolted along Ludgate Hill. They had a short distance to cover, but the ferocious rain made even a hackney cab driver cautious—­relatively speaking, that is, since a hackney cab driver’s idea of caution matched the average person’s idea of homicidal negligence.

  He wrenched his mind to the last relevant matter. “Who is Great-­Aunt Dora?”

  “Lady Exton, once Lady Dora Fairfax,” she said. “Your father prosecuted a theft for her in a difficult case, the thieves being cleverer than average. She said he was brilliant but extremely irritating.”

  He felt a stab of grief, yet he almost laughed, too. In response to his letter, Mother had written:

  You know I can’t keep your letters from your father. But he says you are not to make yourself anxious on his account. Whatever it is Malvern wants, he’ll have to learn patience. Your sire may be loitering at death’s door, he says, but no man, no matter how young and healthy, is any match for a wily old lawyer.

  “I’ll mention it to him when next I visit,” he said. As soon as this wretched Toby business was out of the way, he’d make for Richmond. He hadn’t seen his father since consulting with him shortly before the Grumley trial started. What would he do without him? Who would he talk to?

  He said, “You haven’t told me why you’re still here.”

  “Let me think.” She put her index finger to her chin. “Because you’re irresistible? Probably not. Because Toby Coppy hasn’t returned yet? Most certainly so. It’s clear you’re in desperate need of my help.”

  This was so patently delusory that for a moment—­possibly the first time in his life—­he was speechless.

  That didn’t last long.

  He said, “I realize your ladyship is very bored, being loved to death, but you ought not to let ennui dull your reason. My world is not like the fantasy one you live in. Mine demands I work within the bounds of the law, with the cooperation of the police. We didn’t learn Toby’s whereabouts until the small hours of morning. I’ve suggested a plan, and the police are prepared to carry it out. Nobody needs you.”

  Radford’s other self raised an objection. Radford overruled him.

  The air in the carriage seemed to throb.

  But she said mildly enough, “And you know what Toby looks like, do you?”

  “I have a detailed description,” he said.

  “I’ve seen him,” she said. “And spoken to him, more than once. I’ve given him money. Which of us do you think he’s more likely to trust?”

  “Trust doesn’t come into it. We—­”

  “Yes, sir, and it was Inner Temple Lane you wanted?” the driver shouted. “Which this is the gate, sir, and missus.”

  His hand on the back of her waist, Radford hurried Lady Clara t
hrough the gate, along Inner Temple Lane, where the walls of the looming buildings shielded them from the worst of the rain and wind, and into the Woodley Building. Even so, she was wet through. He hurried her up the stairs into the outer office, where they found the clerk Tilsley trying to balance a ruler on the tip of his snub nose.

  Tilsley dropped the ruler and gaped. This did not make the green and yellow bruises on his face any prettier.

  “Bring coals,” Radford said. “We need a fire, before pneumonia sets in. Look sharp, man! You know dead ladies attract unwanted attention.”

  The boy slid down from his stool. “Yes, sir, Mr. Radford, which I noticed the wet, sir, and took the liberty. Accordingly making a fire in Mr. Westcott’s office, expecting you and him back soon enough.”

  Lady Clara approached Tilsley and studied his face. “Oh, dear, did Fenwick do that?”

  “Thanking you for your kind concern, madam, and assuring you I got my own back, and the other party got in extra only due to cheating.”

  “Mrs. Faxon, may I present our clerk, Tilsley,” Radford said. “He was otherwise engaged when last you called on us. He’s far more efficient than appearances would indicate.”

  Tilsley went red at the unexpected compliment, making a rainbow of his bruised face. Radford virtually never remembered to bestow praise.

  “Since you’ve made a fire, you may now make tea,” Radford said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Radford opened the door to Westcott’s office and pushed her in.

  The day was stormy and the room, with its dark wainscoting and heavy furniture, was gloomy at the best of times.

  She was the only bright thing in it, he thought.

  Candlelight and firelight glinted on the moisture sliding from her bonnet to her cheek. And down her neck.

  Wet!

  He pushed her toward the fire.

  “Yes, Mr. Radford, I can find the fire for myself,” she said. She started pulling at the ribbons of her hat.

  “Not like that!” he said. He went to her and pushed her hands away. “You’ll tighten the knot. Does this surprise me? No. Naturally you have no idea how to untie your own hat ribbons.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “But they’re not so manageable when wet and I can’t see what I’m doing.”

  “Put up your chin so that I can see what I’m doing. This brim is monstrous. It looks like a giant duckbill and does nothing to shield the sides of your face.”

  She tipped her head back and looked up at him.

  Her eyes were the clear light blue of aquamarines. The damp on her perfect skin was like dew on rose petals.

  The hat was hideous. She was unreasonably beautiful.

  A less disciplined man might have found it painful to look at her.

  He concentrated on unknotting the ribbons. His hands were perfectly steady. His heartbeats were erratic.

  He drew the soggy ribbon out from under her chin. “There. It’s done. I should advise you to throw it on the fire, but at present I have no ladies’ hats to replace it.” He snatched the sodden hat from her head and dropped it on the nearest table. “However, I recommend . . .” He trailed off as he turned back to her.

  The room’s light flickered over hair the color of champagne.

  He’d never seen her bareheaded before.

  He tried to detach himself, but his other self clung, and for a moment he felt he’d been launched into the world of the Odyssey. She was too cruelly beautiful to be a mere human. She was Calypso or Circe or Aphrodite herself. The mythical bewitchers of men.

  But this wasn’t a myth and he was a reasoning human being. He could not be bewitched because there was no such thing.

  She was fumbling with the cloak’s fastenings.

  He went to help. “I know it’s true, but one must see it to believe it,” he said. “You cannot manage even the simplest act of self-­sufficiency.” He reached for the fastenings.

  She pushed his hands away. “I’m perfectly capable—­”

  “You obviously are not.” He tried again.

  She jerked away. “Leave me alone.”

  “You can’t—­”

  “You don’t know what I can and can’t do. Stop treating me like an idiot.”

  “I did not say you were an idiot.”

  “You say it constantly,” she said tightly. “In a hundred different ways.”

  “I merely point out simple facts, which you seem unable to accept.”

  “I’d like to see you accept them,” she said. “I’d like to see you try to live my life. You wouldn’t last twenty minutes.”

  “Oh, no, such a trial it is to live in the lap of luxury, where one is endlessly petted and adored.”

  “You haven’t the stamina to endure it,” she said. “You’d die of boredom in an hour.”

  He stepped back, aware of a fraught note in her voice and a flash of something—­pain?—­in her eyes. “Very possibly,” he began. “But—­”

  “You’ve no notion how I live in the world you call a fantasy,” she went on in the same taut tone. “You’ve no idea what it’s like to spend your life wrapped in cotton wool, with all about you protecting you, mainly from yourself, because you don’t behave as they think a girl ought to do, and they believe something’s wrong with you. You don’t know what it’s like to watch your brothers go away to school and make new friends and have adventures you’ll never have, even vicariously, in books. You don’t know what it’s like to be scolded for reading too much and knowing too much—­to be taught to hide your intelligence, because otherwise you’ll frighten the gentlemen away—­to stifle your opinions, because ladies aren’t to have any opinions of their own, but must always defer to men.” She stamped her foot. “You know nothing about me. Nothing! Nothing!”

  She burst into tears—­and not mere weeping, but great, racking sobs, as of a long pent-­up grief.

  He started to reach for her and caught himself in time. “Stop it,” he said, clenching his hands. “Stop it.”

  “No! You’re such an idiot!”

  “You’re hysterical,” he said calmly, while his heart pounded. “Don’t make me pour a bucket of water on your head.”

  She stamped her foot again. “I’m already w-­wet, you m-­moron!”

  “Oh, good. What I always wanted. An irrational female bawling and stamping her foot, because she can’t have her own way.”

  “Yes, I’m irrational, you supercilious, conceited, ill-­mannered—­”

  “Better and better,” he said, aware of heat—­inappropriate heat—­surging within. “A temper fit over nothing.”

  “Nothing!”

  She whirled away and grabbed her ugly hat from the table.

  “Going so soon?” he said. “And we—­”

  “You condescending thickhead!” She hit his arm with the hat. “You obnoxious—­” She hit his chest.

  “You’d better stop,” he said. “I’m trying to be the sane one in the room, but you’re making that exceedingly difficult.”

  She made it impossible. She was a goddess in a passion. The blaze of her blue eyes and the pale fire of her hair and the crimson glow of her cheeks.

  She flung down the hat and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “I wish I were a man,” she said. “I would knock you down. I would plant you a facer. I’d break your nose. I—­”

  “No, really, I mean it,” he said. “You’re murdering my brain.” And he took hold of her shoulders and bent his head and kissed her.

  Chapter Five

  THE BARRISTER . . . 1. In considering his duty to his client, he reflects upon the propriety of his acting; upon the person for whom he should act; and his mode of acting.

  —­The Jurist, Vol. 3, 1832

  Clara knew what a lady was supposed to do when a gentleman attempted to take liberties. She was supposed
to fight him off and defend her honor with all her might.

  Whoever made that rule had never been kissed by Raven Radford.

  His mouth pressed to hers and things happened in her head and spread over her body, alien feelings in a great, overwhelming rush, like a windstorm, and all the rules of ladyship, written in a massive tome in her brain, flew off the pages and vanished.

  She did not push him away. She held on for dear life, and gave back the best she could, given limited experience.

  Given no experience.

  What had previously passed for kisses before compared to this in the way playing with tin soldiers compared to Waterloo.

  She let go of his coat to reach upward and wrap her arms about his neck, and her body lifted to fit against his.

  He made a sound deep in his throat and moved his hands downward from her shoulders past the barrier of her sleeve puffs, to grasp her upper arms. He started to draw away but she wasn’t ready. She held on, and after a heartbeat he slid his hands to her waist and pulled her closer. His kiss grew more fiercely determined, as though he would wipe every recollection of anything remotely resembling kisses from her mind and imprint his, permanently, upon it. And upon her body, where the alien feelings simmered into excitement and happiness and a yearning for more.

  Strange feelings, and most likely wrong, as so much was for young ladies.

  She let herself swim in them the way she’d swum, in childhood, in forbidden waters. She floated on the rise and fall of his breathing, fast, like hers. She swam in the heat radiating from his big frame and the warmth and strength of his hands, in a sea safe and not at all safe. Beyond it, on some far horizon, lay another realm toward which she was moving on a strong current.

  Not safe, not safe.

  She didn’t want to be safe. She’d been too safe all her life.

  She wanted to be in danger like this, caught in his arms and crushed to his powerful body. She wanted not to think at all, simply to be aware of him and everything about him and about this moment. The feel of wool and linen and the faint rustle of her cloak against his coat and the scents of coal fire smoke and damp wool and linen mingling with the smell of male, this male. She wanted to burrow into him. She wanted the heat and the deepening kiss and the feelings pulsing along her skin and through her veins that made her restless, wanting some vague more and more still.