Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

Firstly . . .

He said, “You may join us if you promise, solemnly promise, to do exactly as I say.”

And that was Mistake Number Seven.

Five: Taking her to the office instead of telling the hackney cab driver to take her back where she came from.

Six: Kissing her. What had happened? What had happened? He was still . . . unsettled. No, aroused was the brutal truth, and he was experiencing an unusual degree of difficulty in calming himself.

That must explain his making Mistake Number Seven.

The color washed out of her face, and Radford nearly sprang from his chair, thinking she’d faint.

But the color washed back in, a shade pinker than normal. She opened her mouth, briefly revealing the chipped tooth. Then she closed it.

Her beautiful, luscious, untutored-­in-­kissing mouth.

His other self was gnashing his teeth.

If Tilsley hadn’t banged on the door and shouted . . .

But what-­ifs were nonsensical.

Tilsley had interrupted in the nick of time, and that was that.

“When you say . . .” Her voice had climbed half an octave higher than usual. She paused, lifted her chin, and went on in her normal tone, “When you say I must promise to do exactly as you say—­”

“That is precisely what I mean,” he said. “If you can’t promise, on your sacred word of honor—­”

“Suppose somebody kills you,” she said. “Then how am I to do exactly what you say?”

“You’d better not try splitting hairs with me,” he said. “I do it for a living, and I’ve been doing it since before I earned a living. I’m requiring you to do what I require clients to do. If they will not be guided strictly by me, if they interfere or question or fail to cooperate, I can’t answer for the consequences.”

“Very well, I promise,” she said. “But—­”

“No buts,” he said. “I can’t believe I’ve offered to bring you along. I devoutly wish I hadn’t. But it’s too late. You murdered my brain, and I’ve said it, and if I go back on my word you’ll cry, and I’ve had enough of that for the present.”

That wasn’t altogether true.

He was used to women crying. Usually women needed him because they were in trouble. Women in trouble wept. Copiously.

What troubled him was far more upsetting than her tears.

What troubled him was her raging, despairing speech. He couldn’t detach himself from it or push it to the back of his mind. It stuck in the front of his consciousness like the sharp instrument she no doubt wished to plunge into him.

He remembered the little girl, intelligent and brave and full of life. And now he saw how the life of a lady had closed about her like a cage. He understood, because he was too intelligent not to, that she was suffocating.

That was why, he realized. That was why he’d made Mistake Number Seven.

“Please,” she said. “I promise to do what you say.”

Please. Oh, good. Stab to the heart follows stab to the head.

“Very well,” he said. “Firstly, you may not bring your maid. It’ll be bad enough, my bringing a female into it. Two females is not to be contemplated.”

She opened her mouth, and he knew she was going to argue. Then she took a deep breath, folded her hands, and nodded.

“Secondly—­”

He broke off because he heard voices in the outer office.

“What the devil do you mean?” Westcott was saying. “It’s my office.”

“Yes, sir, but—­”

“Get out of the way.”

Lady Clara kept her hands folded and merely looked toward the door, eyebrows very slightly upraised in the manner of one witnessing a gaffe.

The door opened and Westcott strode in, Davis close behind him. “I say, Radford, this is the outside of enough. The dratted boy stood in front of the door—­my door—­and said—­”

“Mrs. Faxon, you will remember Mr. Westcott, I believe,” Radford cut in.

Lady Clara gave a regal nod. Her hair was coming down and her dress was wrinkled but her damp clothing directed blame to the rainstorm rather than to Radford. Not by so much as a twitch or a blink did she betray the truth of what had happened recently, and not even Westcott would suspect that his friend and colleague had kissed her in a most ill-­considered manner, might easily have gone further than was remotely acceptable or safe, and had not yet recovered fully.

“I was beginning to grow alarmed, Davis,” Lady Clara said. “I expected to find you here waiting for me.”

Westcott did not give Davis a chance to respond. As though she were a client, he went into full attorney mode, and answered for her. “Miss Davis would have been here in a matter of minutes, but for the crowd in Old Bailey when the session ended,” he said. “As often happens, her hackney driver made a detour to avoid the crush. But there was an accident near the Fleet Prison. Somebody injured and a vehicle smashed.”

“I didn’t see it,” Davis said. “I couldn’t see anything, between the rain and the dirty window. My driver told me why he had to stop. A crowd had gathered. We were obliged to wait for some time.”

“Did you make the same detour?” Radford asked his friend. “I’d expected you long before now.”

“I decided to wait out the worst of the rain at the coffeehouse,” Westcott said. “When it had abated somewhat, I made use of the umbrella you so kindly sent to me, and walked. I met Miss Davis at the gate.”

“Then we’re all accounted for,” Lady Clara said.

“Yes, my lady, and time to be returning,” Davis said “Lady Exton will be expecting your ladyship.”

“The lady—­that is to say, Mrs. Faxon—­will not be returning quite yet,” Radford said. “We have business to transact. We’re going to retrieve Toby Coppy, and I require the lady’s assistance.”

The maid’s eyes widened and her mouth opened. Then it snapped shut and set in a tight line.

Westcott, not being a servan

t, didn’t feel any need to subdue himself. “Are you quite mad?” he said. “You cannot take La—­”

“Mrs. Faxon is vital to the mission,” Radford said, with a glance toward the door. Tilsley, to his knowledge, wasn’t a habitual eavesdropper. The door was thick, in any event. Yet he must have heard something, to make him decide to play sentry.

Radford moved to close the door. Then he said in a low voice, “Let’s keep our clerk out of this for the moment. The fewer who know, the better.” He looked at Davis. “I give you my word no harm will come to your lady. Neither she nor I will participate directly. This is a police matter, and they don’t want amateurs bollixing up their plans. But the enterprise will proceed more smoothly and rapidly if the lady is on hand to identify Toby. If he balks, she’ll persuade him to cooperate.”

“It’s all right, Davis,” Lady Clara said. “I’ll be surrounded by police. Armed with batons.”

“Yes, my lady. If you say so.”

“If I may say so, I must strongly advise her la—­the lady—­against it,” Westcott said. “If anything goes wrong—­”

“I realize there’s a possibility of unplanned-­for events,” she said. “Rest assured I’ll bring a weapon. And if that isn’t enough, Mr. Radford will be by to talk the villains to death.”

It was a good thing Radford had a dictatorial personality. A great deal of arguing ensued—­or tried to ensue—­before he quashed it.

The maid was furious about not being allowed to come, and he wasn’t happy to exclude her, but the last thing they needed was another woman, especially one who might easily make misguided attempts to protect her charge. He’d already complicated matters more than sufficiently.

A dozen times in the next hour he told himself to go back on his word. What was the worst Lady Clara could do? Hate him? Strike him?

He was a rational man. He prized logic. He knew his promise was irrational and he needed to take it back. He tried to do so once, twice, thrice—­and each time, her taut speech about her life echoed in his head, and the words, the sensible words he ought to say, stuck in his throat.