Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

“You went to all the trouble of summoning me here, in the most clandestine manner, only to satisfy your curiosity,” she said as calmly as she could.

“Did I not say so? Did it not occur to you that your appearing in the Central Criminal Court was in any way strange?”

“That’s why I was in disguise,” she said. “I never dreamed you’d notice.”

“That was unintelligent of you.”

“It was perfectly reasonable.” You great lout. “I assumed you’d be concentrating so intently upon your task, you’d never heed the crowd in the gallery except as a crowd. But you did glance up, I recollect, and must have recognized Davis.”

“I recognized you,” he said. “Davis only confirmed the discovery.”

She was aware of inner disturbances. She throttled them, wishing she could throttle him.

She kept her temper as best she could and looked up at him, into those keen grey eyes. Such an unusually pale grey, like a winter sky. “You are a prodigy, aren’t you? I shouldn’t have believed it possible to let one’s attention stray for even a moment, yet you penetrated my disguise.”

“Firstly, my attention did not stray,” he said. “It’s possible to glance in one direction and pay attention elsewhere at the same time. I took note of the proceedings, though I knew what would be said. Secondly, it wasn’t much of a disguise.”

“Secondly,” she said, “it was a very good one. Mr. Bates passed me in Ludgate Street without a second look.”

“Mr. Bates is unobservant,” he said. The penetrating grey gaze swept over her. “I should know you anywhere.”

She went hot all over. She ignored it. “And firstly—­”

“Firstly usually comes before secondly,” he said.

“Yes, but the secondly was so provoking,” she said. “And so, firstly—­”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Why not? You mock me.”

His mouth quirked, more discernibly this time.

She went on, “Firstly, it was a challenging exercise for me. With my tiny brain, you know, it wanted supreme concentration to find chinks in the defense’s arguments. Some of the legal hairs were split so very fine, I could hardly make them out. But that was the point, wasn’t it? There was no way to prove beyond doubt that Grumley’s methods rather than the fever killed those children.”

He folded his arms, and the grey gaze became almost painfully acute.

This was a test, she thought. And if she failed, she would have to go back to listening to marriage proposals and fantasize about becoming an eccentric and running away to live in a tent in Arabia.

She began to walk again, not because she needed to pace, but because she knew her clothes would distract him somewhat, and she would feel less like an insect under a magnifying glass. “Your witnesses made a poor show under the defense’s close questioning,” she said. “The judge’s badgering made them more uncertain and inarticulate. The jury had no choice. Naturally, my learned friend, you would have recognized this long before I did.”

He stood back and rested one big, gloved hand on the back of the bench where Bridget had sat. He said nothing.

Clara made herself look away from the gloved hand.

“And so I came back the next day, to see if I could discover your strategy,” she said.

He only watched her in a brooding sort of way. This was the tricky part, and he was not going to make it easy.

She plunged on, “You gave a fine performance of bumbling and desperation, while at the same time calling attention to each of the defendant’s acts that, taken together, ought to have led to his conviction. Day after day, that was what the newspapers reported, because that part wasn’t legal hair-­splitting, but something all readers could understand, and judge for themselves.”

Nearly all the newspapers had protested the verdict in the strongest terms. Grumley had gone free but he was an outcast, ruined.

She understood now, in her heart as well as her brain, how Radford had earned his reputation.

After a long moment, while she became aware of the dusty leaves’ rustling and the distant sounds of the London streets, he said, “You may come with me to the ragged school Toby Coppy attended.”

She very nearly staggered.

But ladies never staggered. They stood straight or swooned gracefully.

“The day after tomorrow,” he said, “at ten o’clock in the morning, when the more undesirable elements will be asleep or only half awake and less likely to pay close attention to you. But you’re not to wear that.” He waved his hand at her dress. “Nor yet the thing you wore in court. Go in and tell Matron to have the girls run up something for you in her style of dress. Say it’s for amateur theatricals. Send me a message via Fenwick, telling me where to collect you.”

He touched his hat brim and walked away through the courtyard. She watched him go. She kept on watching long after he’d moved out of view and his long strides would have taken him to the next street.

“I passed,” she murmured. “I passed the examination.”

Saffron Hill

Two days later

The house looked about to collapse on itself. The buildings in the Temple grounds had been modern, airy, pristine purity by comparison.

Inside was only marginally better, hinting of attempts, against great odds, to clean. To Clara the odds seemed insurmountable. Scores of very dirty, very ragged girls crammed the first room they entered. Some of the older ones loitered in corners much as they must have done on the streets, their garish finery proclaiming their trade. Others, of varying ages, sat bent over scraps of paper or asleep, their heads on their arms. Still others lay curled up asleep on the floor. Very possibly, this was the cleanest and safest place to sleep these girls knew.

Two teachers, one man and one woman, calmly—­and stoically, in Clara’s opinion—­tried to impart some rudimentary form of learning to this mélange. The woman was in charge of reading, and the man patiently led his charges through the simplest arithmetic.

“You’d better get used to this before we go on to the boys,” Radford said.

“Get used to it!” she repeated softly. “How is that done, I wonder?”

“You wanted to help,” he said.

“I think I can get used to the smell,” she said. She didn’t think a lifetime would be long enough to get used to the sight.

These girls, crammed into the low-­ceilinged room, made up only the smallest drop in London’s ocean of impoverished humanity.

“Try not to touch anybody or breathe too deeply,” he said. “If you catch a fatal fever, your brothers will take me apart limb from limb—­and that will be the most enjoyable part of my untimely demise.”

“My brothers will have to stand in line behind Davis,” she said.

The maid was muttering to herself, yet when Clara glanced at her, she thought she saw sorrow as well as disgust in the faithful bulldog countenance.

Davis had certainly taken every precaution, dousing Clara’s handkerchiefs with vinegar and making sure every inch of her was covered, except for her face. She’d tried to make Clara wear a vinegar-­soaked handkerchief over her nose and mouth, but Clara won that battle.

Two of the prostitute-­looking girls smiled at Mr. Radford. One started to sashay toward him but he gave a brisk wave, and she retreated with a smirk and whispered something to the other girl.

The male teacher approached them. Mr. Radford led him aside, and they muttered together for a moment. Then the teacher summoned one of the young prostitutes. Mr. Radford jerked his head toward a corner of the room where nobody was lounging at the moment, and the girl went with him. He hadn’t invited Clara, but after a moment’s hesitation, she went, too, and Davis trailed after her.

He didn’t scowl at Clara, as she expected. Instead he gave her the What a Good Puppy You Are look and said to h

er, “Ah, Mrs. Faxon. Here is Jane, who is acquainted with Toby Coppy.”

Jane eyed her suspiciously, top to bottom, then in reverse.

“Jane, Mrs. Faxon teaches at Bridget Coppy’s school. They’re looking for Toby.”

“What’s he done, then?” the girl said.

At least, that was what Clara guessed she said. Her Cockney speech was several degrees more impenetrable than Fenwick’s.

“You know perfectly well what he’s done,” Mr. Radford said. “He’s left school.”

The girl shrugged. “Who wouldn’t?”

“You don’t.”

“Well, no one tole me—­” She stopped abruptly, and looked hostile. “Here now, I know your tricks, Raven, like everybody does,” she said loudly. “Don’t be thinkin’ I’ll squeak on Toby or nobody else. I don’t nose on my friends.” Then more softly but with the same truculence she muttered, “Not and ask for a slicing, would I? And you tell Bridget she can thank herself for it.” She flounced away.

Mr. Radford shook his head. “Come along then, Mrs. Faxon. I knew we wasted our time with this lot. They stick together. This is what they call honor among thieves, in case you were wondering.”

Radford had to give her credit. Lady Clara passed through the first trial without being sick or even showing signs of swooning.

But then, she was Longmore’s sister, for all she looked so little like him.

They went on to the boys’ classroom, where anarchy seemed to prevail, although the teachers bravely did their business and a few brave boys worked at learning.

There he picked the likeliest lad in the bunch and took him aside in the same way they’d drawn Jane away from the others. Not outside the room, though. That would be the perfect way to learn absolutely nothing.