Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

He had, as she knew, far more to tell her than did Debrett’s Complete Peerage of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, or any other official listing of the upper orders. These tomes came out only once a year, while her butler faithfully studied the “Births, Marriages, and Deaths” sections of the periodicals.

When he’d finished, she said, “My grandniece Clara is coming to stay. I want all made ready for her. And let the household know they’re to keep quiet about her comings and goings if they want to keep their places.”

“Yes, my lady.” Nodes bowed and departed.

Radford spent the rest of the day and early evening talking to informers, who talked to others.

At three o’clock in the morning, three young men were caught breaking into a house in St. Clement Danes.

They fought the police fiercely. After breaking one constable’s nose, they ran away. But the youngest and smallest tripped over a strategically planted walking stick and fell. The police arrested the boy, Daniel Prior, age thirteen. When they’d taken their prisoner away, Radford retrieved his walking stick and went home.

As previously agreed, Radford received the brief to prosecute.

Woodley Building

Afternoon of 11 September

When Radford entered Westcott’s office, he found the solicitor gazing at a large, lumpy article wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“It’s for you,” Westcott said. “Came by ticket porter.”

Radford gazed at the parcel.

“I was about to open it,” Westcott said. “It weighs little and doesn’t smell, which tells me it isn’t a dead animal.”

Now and then Radford received messages from friends or foes of persons he was prosecuting or defending. Since these persons’ skills didn’t include reading and writing, their communications tended to be symbolic.

This time, though, the sender had written Radford’s name and direction neatly on the parcel.

“I know what it is,” he said.

He untied the string and pulled away the paper.

“Looks like a woman’s dress,” Westcott said.

“What a noticing fellow you are,” Radford said.

It was Lady Clara’s. The one she’d worn to the ragged school.

Westcott came around the desk. He studied it for a moment. Then he lifted it up and held it against Radford’s chest.

“This color has never become me,” Radford said. Her scent, faint but unmistakable, wafted up to his nose.

“Is this a message?” Westcott said, taking it—­and the scent—­away. He turned the dress this way and that. “Rather less threatening than the usual.”

“I’m to dispose of it,” Radford said.

“Not evidence?”

Radford looked at him.

“No, of course not,” Westcott said. “You’d never destroy evidence. I must have been in the grip of a momentary dispersion of wits.”

“So it would seem.”

“Shock, undoubtedly. It’s not every day you receive a woman’s dress instead of a death threat.”

“Lady Clara’s maid has joined the list of those wishing to kill me,” Radford said.

“How odd,” Westcott said. “This news surprises me not at all. What have you done this time?”

“I took Lady Clara into a ragged school, where a prostitute’s dress had the temerity to touch hers,” Radford said.

“Lady Clara.” A pause. “Fairfax.” Another pause. “The Marquess of Warford’s eldest daughter.”

Radford nodded.

Westcott put the dress down on his desk. “You took her to a ragged school.”

“In Saffron Hill.”

“Oh, even better,” Westcott said.

Radford explained. Then he explained where he’d been for most of the night and morning. Westcott stared at the dress and listened without comment.

“The maid couldn’t burn it herself without starting gossip in the servants’ hall,” Radford concluded.

“A trifle extreme,” Westcott said. “True, prostitutes loiter in insalubrious areas. But it can be cleaned, and I’m sure someone can make use of it. Our charwoman, perhaps.”

“Yes. Yes, she well might.” Radford took up the dress and went out of the office and into his and Westcott’s private living quarters across the corridor.

He took the dress into the sitting room and threw it down on a chair. Then he took it up again and looked at it.

Then he brought the bodice to his face and breathed in deeply the too-­faint scent of the woman he must never see again.

Five minutes later, he walked out again into the

outer office. He thrust the dress into Tilsley’s hands and said, “Give it to the charwoman.”

The Old Bailey

Monday 14 September

Guilty.

Trials in the New Court having proceeded speedily that day, Daniel Prior had a short wait for his sentence: transportation for life.

He promptly commenced screaming and wailing. He hadn’t done it! It wasn’t his fault! It was someone else, like he said. He was nowhere near there, but they was all against him!

He pointed at Radford. “I ain’t done, Raven!” he shouted as the jailer laid hands on him. “But you’re for it now!” He went on shrieking threats while he was dragged away. They could still hear his muffled screams after the heavy door leading to Newgate Prison swung shut behind him.

It was all a show. Or at least partly a show.

Since he’d appeared in court many times, had assaulted a police officer, and was known to associate with bad characters, Prior stood an excellent chance of dangling at the end of a rope. He’d informed on Jacob Freame in exchange for the prosecution’s recommending leniency: a sentence of transportation instead of death.

Radford glanced up at the visitors’ gallery.

She wasn’t there.

And why should she be?

He’d made it clear he had no use for her, and he’d behaved so very badly in taking leave of her, she’d never again have any use for him.

He left the courtroom and went to the robing room, where he exchanged his wig, linen bands, and robe for street attire.

He found Westcott waiting for him in the corridor outside.

“Well done,” Westcott said. “The boy put on a fine performance.”

“It was only partly performance,” Radford said. “While a long, hellish life in a penal colony is preferable to hanging, it’s hardly worth celebrating.” All the same, the sentence in this case wasn’t grotesquely harsh. Daniel Prior had been a hardened criminal practically since the day he was born.

“Given the magic trick you’ve performed—­one of your better ones, by the way—­I expected to find you in better humor,” Westcott said.