“I did that for the dukedom and the ­people he was responsible for. Not for him.”

“Yet you were pleased when you learned he was courting a lady.”

“I’d be an idiot not to be pleased. I didn’t want my father to inherit. I didn’t want to inherit. I liked my life.”

“But it’s happened,” she said.

“Yes.”

And the reality had turned out more complicated and demanding than he’d anticipated. So much to do and think about, even he hardly knew where to begin.

“I’d hoped he’d do better,” she said. “I didn’t know him, yet I was so disappointed. And angry at him, too, for mucking up his chance.”

The feelings about Bernard, like so many, huddled in the farthest reaches of Radford’s brain, being brooded over by his other self. They were so deeply packed in that mental lumber room, he wasn’t sure what he felt. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“I missed him,” he said. “It’s completely irrational.”

She brought her hand up to his cheek and simply laid it there. He turned his face into her palm and kissed it.

“Feelings,” she said. “Not your strong suit.”

“I loathe them. More your department.”

“I see little value in your cluttering up your great brain with feelings,” she said. “I recommend you leave the feelings to me, along with domestic matters. Then you can give your attention to—­to—­” She waved a hand, and the ruffles at her wrist fluttered. “To what you’re good at. Logic and business and such. Henceforth consider the big, nasty feelings my responsibility.”

He had to laugh. How could he help it? He caught her wrist. “Come here,” he said.

“I am here,” she said.

“Closer,” he said.

“I do not see how I could be any closer.”

“Think harder,” he said.

Wednesday 9 December

Marchioness of Bredon’s sitting room

Dash it, Clara, you promised!”

“I did not, technically, promise,” she said.

“Do not split hairs with me! I told you specifically to leave it alone—­and you ought to have the intelligence to understand why.”

She bristled at this, but Radford went on heedlessly, “Yet you go out, exposing yourself to known villains—­”

“That’s nonsense, and you of all men ought to recognize it,” she said. “Villains are everywhere. We’re all of us exposed to them every day. And what should anybody think, if they did see me? ‘Ah, there goes the brand-­new Marchioness of Bredon—­with her groom and lady’s maid.’ ”

He held on to his temper with a thread, and that in itself was infuriating. He never gave way to temper, except by design, in the courtroom.

But his heart was pounding with fear—­for her—­and a thousand thoughts beat in his brain, making chaos there. He moved away, to the window, and stared out.

In the garden, Toby pushed his father’s invalid chair along one of the footpaths. The day was mild, for December. Father was well wrapped in a shawl, a rug over his legs. Mother walked alongside, talking.

They’d taken to the fool boy, amazingly enough.

Clara’s idea. She’d been busy, indeed, while he was away.

But this . . .

“Why should they suspect me of anything?” she said. “I’m only a woman. Helpless and incompetent and lacking in intelligence. Even lowborn persons, even criminals, think that. Women don’t count.”

He closed his eyes and fought for detachment. The other man, in the shadowy corner of his brain, was in a frenzy of rage and fear and memories of last night and this morning . . . their lovemaking and—­oh, who knew what else and who cared? Feelings.

Her department.

This is a criminal matter, he told himself. You’re in a courtroom of sorts. Consider the facts and the facts alone.

And my marriage? he wanted to argue. Does your lordship expect me to ignore my wife and the duty of a husband?

Of course he remembered every word.

. . . the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. . .

Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.

Mutual . . . help . . . comfort.

He waited until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.

He turned back to his wife. She stood by the mantelpiece, where any number of missiles stood conveniently at hand. At the moment, she did not look as though she contemplated throwing any of them. But her blue eyes flashed and he noticed the tension in the hands folded at her waist.

“Clara, it was Freame with that boy,” he said.

“So I concluded,” she said. “That is why—­”

“Do you think a London banker or speculator or whatever he’s pretending to be would collect someone like Squirrel on charity? The boy’s hard as nails. While at Glynnor Castle, I wrote to Inspector Stokes about Stuffed-­Cheeks Boy. I had a full report. Though new to Freame’s gang, Squirrel had already made a name for himself as a cracksman.”

His wife looked blank.

“Housebreaker,” he said. “And Chiver’s prize protégé.”

“Then it’s as well Toby spotted him,” she said. “Only imagine if Bridget had gone out.”

“She would have had the good sense to run in the opposite direction. Unlike you, driving straight for trouble.”

“I did not go near that curst boy! None of us did. You are being exceedingly irrational.”

“I!”

“Let me tell you again because I know you were not listening properly before.”

“I heard every—­”

“Colson went to the stable yard and gossiped,” she said. “As grooms do. He didn’t have to ask questions. The stable men were only too happy to tell him everything about everybody, including the so-­called Mr. Joseph Green, in Richmond for a rest and to take the healthful waters. He’s come with his son, Humphrey, and a young servant, Samuel. I was safe with Davis, streets away, in a shop. There’s no reason to throw yourself into a pet.”

“A pet!” A son named Humphrey, and a servant. Who was Humphrey? Half a dozen gang members remained unaccounted for, according to Stokes . . . including Husher.

Radford’s gut knotted.

“You remind me exceedingly of Mama,” Clara said.

For a moment he thought his hearing had failed him. His ears seemed to be ringing.

She gave him no time to respond but went on: “Such histrionics are all very well in the courtroom, but it won’t do in a marital situation. Unless you are angling for a divorce.”

Had he suddenly taken a delirious fever? He could not have heard the words he thought he’d heard. It took him a moment to speak. “Are you quite mad? A divorce?”

“You’re right,” she said. “It’s early days yet. An annulment.”

“Stop talking rot.”

“You started it,” she said. “You flew into a rage because I sent a spy to obtain information necessary to the family’s safety.”

He had not flown into a rage. He never did. He was the calmest and most rational of men. He said very calmly, “The family is not your responsibility.”

“It most assuredly is,” she said. “Especially when you’re not here. As to spies, you didn’t hesitate to use Millie, I recollect. But I couldn’t approach her without causing talk, which of course would go round the town. Everybody knows everything about everybody, sometimes before one knows it oneself. Really, my lord, you are behaving quite irrationally. I realize this is a difficult time for you but—­”

“It isn’t difficult. I’m perfectly capable of managing a dukedom, thank you—­and of doing so more competently than my father’s predecessors.”

“You’re making a sad job

of managing me, in the present instance,” she said. “But I suspect you’re excessively troubled by feelings. Unfortunately, I’m too much out of humor with you to attempt to intervene or translate. I recommend you find something productive to do. Or somebody else to rage at. I have letters to write and one hundred fabric swatches to look at, and both want a tranquil mind.”

He opened his mouth to retort, then changed his mind.

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

He heard something shatter against the door.

Chapter Nineteen

The mildness and inviting appearance of the weather has induced her Majesty to walk out several mornings this week. Her Majesty has also ­taken carriage airings with the King and her ­Royal relatives.

—­The Court Journal, Saturday 5 December 1835

Heart pounding, Clara dropped into the chair at her writing desk.

She would not make herself wretched thinking about it.

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