Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

He tried to attend to Westcott’s signal.

He almost made it.

Chapter Thirte

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When a lady marries a gentleman of character and capacity, and who is in every respect suitable to her, except that his estate is not equal to what she might expect, I do not call it unequal.

—­John Witherspoon, Letters on Marriage, 1834

It wasn’t too late to back away and take another tack.

But Radford’s inner self dragged to the front of his mind the image of Clara at Vauxhall, leaping on Bernard. His inner self reenacted her raging speech in this very office, on that rainy September day.

The brave, clever girl was suffocating. Without obnoxious Raven Radford, she’d be stifled—­most expensively and luxuriously—­for the rest of her life.

“If Lady Clara cared about the matters the world wants her to care about, she wouldn’t have come to me,” he said. “If she wanted to be safe and coddled, she wouldn’t have come to me. If she believed pauper children were not her problem, she wouldn’t have come to me, and plagued me to help her help them. She came to me because she knew nobody else would let her help them. She wasn’t trying to save everybody. She wasn’t trying to rescue London’s wretched masses. She set her sights on one girl and her brother, that was all. But she couldn’t come to you, because you’d only tell her that her job was to organize and sponsor charities. It wasn’t her job to dirty her gloves rescuing a very sick boy from a nest of thieves.” He paused. “It certainly wasn’t her job to risk her life saving that boy. But she wanted to do it badly enough to take the risk.”

He met her father’s gaze. His lordship’s face darkened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. If Radford could be intimidated, this was the time to cower. But he’d faced intimidation from his youth, and he’d spent his life fighting against daunting odds.

“Pray, ask her, Lord Warford,” he said. “Will you be so good as to ask Lady Clara now if she regrets her actions.”

The marquess started to rise from his seat, and Radford thought, If he walks out now, we’re lost.

But the marquess glanced at Clara, whose face was white. He paused and sat down again. He drew in a long breath and let it out and said, “Have you regrets, Clara?”

Tears sparkled in her eyes but didn’t fall. Her mouth trembled a bit, but she shook her head and said, coolly enough, “If I had it to do over again, I would. It was the first truly satisfactory act I’ve performed in years—­though it was rather fun to help Cousin Gladys, too.” She wrinkled her brow. “And it did feel good to make a spectacle of myself when I rejected Clevedon.”

“Oh, Clara,” her mother said.

“Marry me, Clara,” Radford said, “and you may make as many spectacles of yourself as you like. I’m bound to encourage you, because making spectacles is what I do. Marry me, Clara, and it will be difficult. At present I can’t afford to keep you in the style you deserve—­”

“I can do without style,” she said. “I did without it for twenty-­one and three-­quarters years, until those dressmakers got hold of me.”

“Do without, indeed,” her mother said. “Oh, yes, I can see it now. You living in chambers, waited on by two ­servants—­if Mr. Radford’s income will stretch so far. You, living on an annual income less than what you can spend in an hour—­when you’re feeling frugal.”

“Money is not the point,” Lord Warford said. “We can prattle on about Clara’s freedom and her tendency to fall into her little scrapes, usually precipitated by good ­intentions—­”

“Little scrapes!” Clara cried. “As though I were a child. Really, Papa.”

“You’re my little girl, and always will be,” he said. “I beg you will not jump on me for every word, child. Let me ask Mr. Radford the essential question.”

He turned a steely blue gaze upon Radford. “What happens, sir, when this infatuation fades? And don’t tell me it isn’t infatuation, because nobody ever seems to diagnose the condition, except in hindsight. What becomes of my daughter, Mr. Radford, a year, two years from now—­when she’s a barrister’s wife, living apart from her friends, in a sphere she was never prepared for and knows nothing about. Whom will she talk to? What will she do with her days and nights? What sort of life do you mean to give her?”

Clara opened her mouth to respond, but her mother didn’t give her the chance.

“And tell me this, Mr. Radford,” the marchioness said. “What sort of regard can you have for a young woman when you invite her to join you in your world, where you have constant dealings with juvenile delinquents and blackguards of all kinds? A world where you are stalked by criminals?”

“What sort of regard,” Radford repeated softly. He took his inner self aside and discussed the question with him. Then he let himself smile. “It must be high regard, indeed, because I believe Lady Clara is more than capable of living her life in my sphere with courage and style.”

Clara’s face glowed, and her mouth turned up. The room brightened, as though the sun had contrived to force its way through both oppressive grey sky and sooty window.

There. That was it, in a nutshell. Infatuation or whatever it was, he knew he’d move heaven and earth to bring that light to her face, to awaken that smile and the glint of laughter in her blue eyes. He didn’t see how he could ever get used to it, let alone take it for granted.

Lord Warford looked at Clara, then at his wife. “I’ve heard quite enough. We shall not address numbers six through ten.”

“Papa!”

“Mr. Radford is unsuitable on a wide array of counts,” the marquess said.

“Papa!”

“Except the most important one,” Lord Warford went on. “He suits you, and you seem to suit him.”

“Warford!”

He turned back to his wife. “My dear, I’m far from ecstatic about Clara’s choice. In social terms, this gentleman is a nobody and seems content to remain so. But he seems to understand Clara, possibly a little better than we do.”

“Understanding won’t pay for servants,” said his lady tearfully. “Who’ll look after her? What’s to become of her, my beautiful child—­living in chambers!”

The marquess took her hand. “Let us allow Clara and Mr. Radford to work out that difficulty for themselves. Let us take comfort in recognizing how well matched they are as regards intellect and character. Their exchanges have offered, I believe, ample demonstration. One must be blind and deaf to fail to discern a strong attachment. While Mr. Radford is not the man I would have chosen, that does not constitute grounds to break my daughter’s heart.”

“As though I should consent to Clara’s breaking her heart!” her ladyship cried. “But she doesn’t know her own heart.”

“She’s two and twenty and—­what was it?—­one-­sixth years old,” Lord Warford said. “She’s an intelligent girl. We’d better make the best of it, my dear.” His attention returned to Radford. “I shall call on your father, and we’ll set our solicitors at each other’s throats and see what happens.”

Duchess of Clevedon’s boudoir

Saturday 24 October

The three Noirot sisters—­Marcelline, Duchess of Clevedon; Sophy, Countess of Longmore; and Leonie, Marchioness of Lisburne—­all regarded Clara with no expression whatsoever.

She’d told them, in slightly more detail than she’d told her parents, about the events leading to her becoming engaged to Raven Radford.

“I wanted you to know as soon as possible,” Clara said into the silence. “I haven’t told my own sisters yet. Mama will do that, in a state of tears and indignation, I don’t doubt.”

The sisters looked at one another, sphinxes all.

Clara knew they’d counted on her to make a splendid match, which would enhance their shop’s prestige as well as ensure her continuing to buy its costly creations.

After a long, taut moment, Marcelline said, “But it’s so romantic, my love.”

“You could never marry a man of ordinary intelligence,”

Sophy said. “You’d be bored to pieces. You’d go into a decline and expire of ennui.”

“He’s clever and ambitious and good at getting what he wants,” Leonie said. “He’ll make his way, of that I have no doubt.”

“But most important,” the duchess said, and looked at her sisters again, her dark eyes gleaming.

“The dress!” they chorused.

They went into rhapsodies, at first about their respective specialties—­Marcelline rapturous about the dress she’d design, Sophy euphoric about the headdress she’d create, and even practical Leonie was almost poetic about the bridal corset she envisioned.

Though they’d all begun to transfer their business activities to others since marrying into the upper ranks, they’d make an exception for Clara’s wedding. She was their protégée and prize client, and they’d waited months for this opportunity.

“Nothing too extravagant,” she said. “Remember, I’m marrying a barrister who’s only in the early phase of his career.” She wasn’t sure Radford could afford even one of their dresses, especially the evening dresses.

“All the more reason for a splendid bridal ensemble,” Sophy said. “The more expensive you look, the more you increase your husband’s status in the eyes of others. Most men recognize this, and like to see their wives well dressed.”

“In any event, Lord Warford will pay for it,” said Leonie. “You won’t want to make your dear papa seem miserly or anything less than pleased with his prospective son-­in-­law.”

“He isn’t pleased,” Clara said. “I told you.”

Sophy dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “The point isn’t what he truly feels. The point is what seems. No matter how your parents feel, they won’t want anybody to suspect they’re anything but thrilled with your betrothed. You may be sure I’ll write pieces for Foxe’s Morning Spectacle to make parents everywhere gnash their teeth in envy. Mothers will be shrieking at their daughters, ‘Why could you not win such a marital prize?’ ”

If anyone could turn an awkward situation to positive account, it was Sophy.