Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

“No lady can cook,” she said tightly. “We’re not allowed near the kitchen. Among other things, the servants take great offense at such intrusions. We can, however, plan menus and direct the housekeeper and send notes to the cook and such.”

“Then who’ll make your ladyship’s delectable meals?” he said. “My father has a French cook, thanks to my mother, who’s civilized him over the years. But Westcott and I go to the nearest chop house or send there for meals, depending on how busy we are and our enthusiasm for venturing into the streets in foul weather.”

“It would make a vastly interesting change,” she said. “It sounds cozy and intimate, and I should enjoy not having servants constantly hovering and watching and listening. They’re not nearly as invisible as ­people like to believe.”

“You might have mentioned wishing to be cozy and intimate with Westcott,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“I know as well as you do that larger living quarters are available for married gentlemen,” she said.

“Even so, we might grow crowded, what with Westcott popping in when the whim takes him to plague me with desperate clients. And let’s not forget Davis and the groom Colson. They’ll need room. Even now, if he’s listening—­”

“Colson doesn’t possess your inhumanly sharp senses,” she said. “Firstly, the carriage hood is up, muffling conversation. Secondly, the horse, the carriage wheels, and the outside world are far from silent.”

“However he learns of it,” Radford said, “as soon as your groom catches wind of any plans to move to chambers in the Temple, he’ll look for another position. “You may be willing to come down a hundred steps in the world, but Colson, I promise you, will not like giving up his comfortable berth at Warford House.”

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “The point is moot, in any event. O sun on my horizon, you know as well as I that chambers won’t accommodate a spoiled child like your wife. Malvern House is beyond our means. Why do we even mention these absurd extremes?”

“I rather fancy you in Malvern House,” he said. “It would be like your marrying my cousin without marrying him. You’d have a proper scope for your mind, training, and talents.”

“Looking after you will offer more than enough scope,” she said. “I’m encouraged to know your breed is civilizable, though I suspect the process is a slow one, wanting cunning as well as patience.”

“It wants a woman of unusually strong will. I believe you’re qualified.”

“I know I am,” she said, “else I wouldn’t have married you. My dear learned friend, may we view the problem logically?”

“Sometimes, when you’re by, my logic runs amok,” he said. “Especially when thoughts cross my mind about what I’m going to do to you at a more opportune time.”

Like some exotic vine, tendrils of heat wrapped about her. To cool her senses, she looked about her at the wild splendor of the park, green even at this bleak time of year. Though so many trees had shed their leaves, the evergreens and hardier shrubs brightened the landscape.

“I know what this is,” she said. “It’s a ploy to make me witless.”

“Is it working?”

“To a point.”

“Then let’s make for that cluster of shrubbery and misbehave in a furtive manner,” he said. “Although . . . hmmm.”

“Although . . . ?” she said, more than a little disappointed.

“Feel free to gaze at me adoringly—­or at your gloves,” he said. “But don’t scrutinize your surroundings too closely. Somebody near the shrubbery is behaving furtively.”

She gazed up at him, focusing on the errant black curl emerging from under his hat. “Another ­couple?” she said.

“Only one person,” he said. “And one very much out of his element.”

Radford had sensed the movement and casually glanced that way. At first he’d thought he’d spotted a deer or dog or squirrel darting among the trees and shrubbery. Now he was sure the figure was human but small. A boy, most likely, given his agility.

As the carriage continued its leisurely pace, the boy dashed from his place to hide behind an immense tree trunk. He was fast. Had Radford not been as keenly noticing as he was, he would have missed their watcher.

“Out of his element?” His wife gazed up at him in an adoring manner so patently theatrical, he could hardly keep in countenance.

O light of my life. She truly was entertaining.

“He’s good at skulking and he’s fast,” he said. “He may merely be a boy amusing himself by spying on ­couples in the park or playing at some game, or he may be up to no good. But the glimpse I had . . .”

He reflected. He’d caught something familiar about the way their stalker moved. “I thought I’d seen him before, but one sees so many boys. The clothes, though. Those seemed wrong for a child from hereabouts. And he seems to be on his own. Children of the middling and upper classes are unlikely to wander this immense park or anywhere else unattended. At the very least, a boy would have a pack of friends with him. Not that I’m positive it was a boy. It might have been a small, nimble man.”

“We’re near a turning that will take us more deeply into the park,” she said. “If he follows us, that stretch of road will give you better opportunities to see him. There are a few large gaps between the trees and such. He’ll need to break cover, and you can watch him out of the corner of your eye.”

He was already watching out of the corner of his eye, although his beautiful wife offered strong competition for his attention.

The deep green cloak she wore was styled “merveilleux,” she had informed him. The capes, ubiquitous in women’s dress for both day and night, were in the exaggerated shape of a man’s coat collar, and trimmed in velvet. The gigantic sleeves of her dress were barely visible through openings in the cape’s sleeves. These were rather like tent openings through which she could extend her hands without disturbing the outer layer.

A relatively small rose acacia branch sprouted from the top of her pink hat. That, a ruffled collar atop the cloak collar, and a bow or two here and there, constituted the sole decoration. The look was altogether spare and severe compared to her normal level of party-­cake decoration, yet it seemed as frivolously feminine as everything else she wore.

He looked forward to the fun of taking it off, though he might have to knock Davis unconscious first.

But later.

At present another sort of clothes needed consideration.

Their watcher’s attire and movement had signaled London.

Why, Radford wasn’t yet certain. Sometimes he saw things before he truly saw them. This wasn’t easy to explain in rational terms. He didn’t attempt to account for the phenomenon to himself. He simply heeded it.

He followed her direction and turned into the road leading to the Old Lodge. “You know the park,” he said.

“Grandmama Warford drove her own carriage,” she said. “She used to take me on outings. Richmond Park and Hampton Court were two favorite destinations. She had friends in both places, and I loved them. They were so much bolder and . . .” She allowed one slender gloved hand to emerge through one of the tent openings and made the sort of vague gesture ­people made when words wouldn’t come to their rescue. “I’m not sure if there’s a simple way to describe them. They weren’t afraid to be clever. They could be sharp-­witted and sharp-­tongued, indeed. They spoke their minds more freely. It might have been one of the privileges of age. But I know, too, that her generation was not nearly so straitlaced as mine.”

“They were more plain-­spoken and not so tame, according to my father,” he said. “He’s of an earlier generation, but I think the description applies.”

“Yes, he reminds me a little of her,” she said. “Why don’t we live hereabouts, nearer to your parents? You could retain your chambers as a pied à terre when you need to be in court.”

Father liked her. Mother did, too, though she wasn’t at all easy about the marriage. All the same . . .

“I’ve been riding back and forth to Richmond this age,” he said.

“But why should you?” she said. “Why shouldn’t you be nearer? Your father isn’t well, and you may not have much time left with him.”

He looked at her. It was hard to believe sometimes that so much character and kindness and quickness of intellect lurked under the wildly frivolous dress. He looked away. He needed to keep one surreptitious eye on their follower, and he needed to keep his wits about him. “My father won’t appreciate my hovering about him,” he said. “It’ll offend not only his pride but his sense of logic and practicality.”

“Then let’s find a logical and practical middle ground,” she said. “Maybe something nearer to him without being quite out of London.”

“The slowest part of the journey is getting out of London,” he said. “After Hyde Park Corner, the congestion abates somewhat. As long as one is not traveling at the same time the mail coaches set out, the way tends to be clear, and one can move at a fair clip. I vow, sometimes the short stretch of Fleet Street is the longest part of the journey. All the damned lawyers cluttering up the place—­not to mention that medieval obstruction, Temple Bar.”

“Then let’s look at one of the villas near Marchmont House,” she said.

The Duke of Marchmont’s great old Jacobean mansion stood on the western edge of Kensington.

“If you’re sure you don’t want to play Duchess of Malvern,” he said, “and keep a ducal retinue at your beck and call . . . Ah, there he is. A boy, not a small man.” He was less certain about the clothes. He needed a closer look, but they seemed to be of good quality. Secondhand? “There’s something familiar about him, but I might have seen him anywhere.”

One of the scores of boys pouring out of Freame’s lair during the raid? Or, quite as likely, one of thousands of boys like them. Even with a closer look, Radford might not recognize him. New boys appeared all the time, while others disappeared. They ran away, joined different gangs in different neighborhoods, changed allegiances, died. Some even found honest work.