Duncan Sisters Trilogy - The Bride Hunt Part 8

Lord Duncan frowned. He was thinking of his late wife. "Unlikely," he agreed. "But not impossible."

"Oh, your brain's addled, my friend," the earl declared. "No respectable woman would have anything to do with it."

"Respectable women seem to read it, though," Prudence pointed out. "My own mother, as I recall, used to find the broadsheet's articles stimulating."

This comment effectively silenced Lord Barclay, since he could hardly pour scorn on his friend's dead wife.

Prudence gave him a minute to find a suitable response, and when it seemed he would be grasping for words for rather a long time said, "Are you dining in, Father?"

Lord Duncan was visibly relieved at the change of subject. "Yes, I thought we would. Jenkins and Mrs. Hudson could rustle something up for us."

Prudence reflected that the butler and housekeeper would have appreciated some notice, particularly since the household income didn't allow for a pantry stocked with delicacies just on the off chance that their employer would decide to dine in and invite a few friends. But she and her sisters had long given up expecting their father to acknowledge the household's straitened finances.

She glanced at the grandfather clock. It was nearly eight. Chast.i.ty was dining with Constance and Max this evening, so there was no one but herself to steer Mrs. Hudson through her initial dismay when it was made clear to her she would have to produce a pa.s.sable dinner in the next hour.

"I'll go and talk to Mrs. Hudson," she said. "There's a fire in the library. I'll send Jenkins with whisky." She draped her coat over the newel post and hurried into the kitchen, the skirts of her gown rustling stiffly around her.

"Is that his lords.h.i.+p, Miss Prue?" Mrs. Hudson had been sitting in her rocking chair beside the range in antic.i.p.ation of a quiet evening with no dinner to prepare, but she got to her feet as Prudence entered the kitchen.

"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. His lords.h.i.+p and Lord Barclay would like dinner. Do we have anything in the pantry?" Prudence opened the pantry door even as she asked the question.

"Oh, dearie me!" the cook muttered. "And I gave young Ellen the evenin' off. Mr. Jenkins will have to help me."

"I'd help you myself, but a motor is coming for me at eight." The chime of the front door rang from the row of bells above the kitchen door. "Oh, that must be it now. There are some venison chops in here, could you roast them?"

"I was a bit doubtful about those," Mrs. Hudson said, pus.h.i.+ng past Prudence into the pantry. "I had my doubts about whether the venison had hung long enough." She picked up the chops and sniffed them critically. "Have to do, I suppose. With a few potatoes, and I've some brussels sprouts here somewhere . . ." Her voice faded as she moved farther into the pantry, poking along the shelves. "A drop o' red currant jelly and a gla.s.s ofMadeirain the gravy, maybe . . ."

"And a Queen of Puddings for after," Prudence suggested.

"Oh, aye, that I can do. And there's some of that Stilton left that his lords.h.i.+p's so fond of." Mrs. Hudson backed out, dangling two thick venison chops from her fingers. "I'll just throw these in the roasting pan. Don't know what to do for a first course, though."

"The motor is here for you, Miss Prue," Jenkins announced from the door. "I understand his lords.h.i.+p and Lord Barclay will be dining in tonight."

"Yes, and Mrs. Hudson has come up trumps as usual," Prudence said. "And Father would like you to take whisky to the library. I'm sorry I can't stay to help but-"

"Just you run along and enjoy yourself, Miss Prue," Mrs. Hudson said. "Mr. Jenkins and me, we'll manage. They can have sardines on toast to start. A few springs of parsley and a little chopped egg'll dress it up nicely."

Prudence smiled. "You're a wonder. Don't wait up for me, Jenkins. I have my key."

"The chauffeur said he'd been sent by a Sir Gideon Malvern," Jenkins mentioned casually as he preceded her into the hall. He took her coat from the newel post and held it out for her. "An elderly gentleman, is he, Miss Prue?" The puzzled glance he cast over her dowdy dress was covert and yet its meaning was quite clear to Prudence. Jenkins was not accustomed to seeing any of the ladies of the house venturing outside in anything but the most stylish and elegant of dress. And Miss Prue was exceptionally meticulous in all matters sartorial.

"I wouldn't have said so," she replied, b.u.t.toning her coat.

"I heard there was a barrister of that name, Miss Prue. Quite a famous one."

"Yes, Jenkins," she agreed as he opened the door for her. "And we need him rather desperately, so wish me luck. I need to be especially persuasive tonight. I'm hoping I look very serious and businesslike, ready for an evening of grave discussion, not idle pleasure." She raised an eyebrow, inviting his opinion.

"That's certainly the impression I have, Miss Prue," he said tactfully, escorting her down the steps to where a liveried chauffeur stood beside the open door of a black Rover. "I'm sure your business will prosper."

"You have more faith in my powers than I do, Jenkins." Prudence stepped into the back seat of the car with a smile at the chauffeur and a wave for Jenkins. The chauffeur began to close the door. "Where are we going?" she inquired.

"LongAcre, madam." He closed the door and went around to the driver's side.

Prudence sat back. The car had a top but the sides were open and she was glad the rain had stopped and it was a mild and windless evening. Nevertheless, she tied the scarf she wore to protect her hair more tightly beneath her chin and turned up the collar of her coat.Covent Gardenwas a strange choice of venue in the circ.u.mstances, she thought a little uneasily. The restaurants around the Opera House and the theaters ofDrury Lanewould be very public, and there were bound to be people she knew. If she was seen with Sir Gideon, there would inevitably be talk, and maybe later, when the trial started, someone would remember seeing them together and start to wonder. It was a little too risky for comfort. It seemed stupid now that she hadn't asked where he was taking her, and yet at the time the question hadn't occurred to her. When a man asked you for dinner you either accepted or didn't. You didn't base your response on the kind of entertainment he was offering.

The chauffeur drove slowly and considerately through the puddle-strewn streets. The ripe stench of horse manure was thick in the air, stirred up by the afternoon's rain, but the rain had also settled the dust. When they turned into the thronged narrow streets aroundCovent Garden, Prudence drew farther back into the vehicle's interior and wished she'd thought to bring a veil.

The car drew up outside a discreet-looking house with shuttered windows and a door that opened directly onto the street. The chauffeur helped Prudence to the street and escorted her to the door. She glanced up at the house. It bore none of the telltale signs of a restaurant. In fact, she thought, it had the air of a private home.

The door opened a minute after the chauffeur had rung the bell. A gentleman in austere evening dress bowed a greeting. "Madam, Sir Gideon is awaiting you in the red room."

Red room? Prudence glanced at the chauffeur as if for enlightenment but he had already stepped back to the street. She found herself in an elegant hall with a black and white marble floor and elaborately molded ceilings. A flight of stairs with gilded banisters rose from the rear.

"This way, madam." The man preceded her up the stairs and along a wide corridor. Voices, both male and female, came from behind closed doors, together with the c.h.i.n.k of china and gla.s.s. Prudence was as intrigued as she was puzzled.

Her escort stopped outside a pair of double doors in the middle of the corridor, knocked once, then with an almost theatrical flourish opened both doors wide. "Your guest, Sir Gideon."

Prudence stepped into a large, square room, furnished as a drawing room except for a candlelit dining table set for two in a deep bow window overlooking a garden. It was immediately obvious why it was known as the red room. The curtains were red velvet, the furniture upholstered in red damask.

Gideon Malvern was standing beside the fireplace, where a small fire burned. He set down the whisky gla.s.s he held and came across the room. "Good evening, Miss Duncan. Let me take your coat."

His evening dress was impeccable, tiny diamond studs in his white waistcoat. Prudence, as she removed her head scarf, had a flash of regret at her own carefully chosen costume. In the interests of making absolutely certain the barrister understood this meeting was not a social occasion, she had decided to preserve the image of the dowdy spinster that she'd created in his chambers that afternoon. In fact, without exaggeration, she looked a fright in a hideous brown dress she'd unearthed from a cedar closet that hadn't been opened in ten years. She had no idea where the dress came from. It certainly wasn't something her mother would ever have worn. She unb.u.t.toned her coat with some reluctance and allowed him to take it from her. He handed it to the man who had ushered her upstairs. The man bowed and withdrew, closing the doors gently behind him.

Gideon surveyed his guest, one eyebrow lifting a fraction. He was trying to imagine how any woman, let alone one as relatively young as this one, could deliberately choose to dress with such abominable lack of taste. One had to a.s.sume she had chosen the gown she was wearing, just as she had chosen her costume that afternoon. Perhaps, he thought, she was color-blind as well as shortsighted, or whatever problem she had with her eyesight that obliged her to wear those thick horn-rimmed spectacles. She was certainly fas.h.i.+on-blind. His nose twitched. Could that possibly be a whiff of mothb.a.l.l.s emanating from the folds of that dreadful evening dress?

"Sherry," he said. "May I offer you a gla.s.s before dinner?"

"Thank you," Prudence responded, well aware of his reaction to her appearance. It was exactly what she had intended, but it still left her chagrined. She was far more used to admiring glances than the barrister's mingled pity and disdain.

"Please sit down." He gestured to one of the sofas and went to the sideboard, where decanters of sherry and whisky stood. He poured sherry and brought the gla.s.s over to her.

"Thank you," she said again, with a prim little smile that she thought would be appropriate to her appearance. "What is this house?"

"A private supper club," he said, taking a seat on the sofa opposite her. "I thought a restaurant might be a little too public." He sipped his whisky.

"It wouldn't do for us to be seen together," she agreed, smoothing down her skirts with a fussy little pat of her hand.

Gideon could only agree wholeheartedly. He wasn't sure his social reputation would survive being seen in public with such a wretchedly drab companion. He watched her covertly for a moment. She wore her hair twisted tightly onto her nape in an old-fas.h.i.+oned bun stuck with wooden pins. But the stuffy style couldn't do much to disguise the l.u.s.trous richness of the color. Somewhere between cinnamon and russet, he thought. No, something wasn't quite right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something out of kilter about the Honorable Miss Prudence Duncan. He remembered that moment in his chambers when she'd taken off her gla.s.ses as she launched her attack. The image of that woman with the one in front of him somehow didn't gel. And after his late afternoon's reading he was not about to jump to conclusions about any of the Duncan sisters.

"As I recall, Miss Duncan, you said you took care of the business side of the publication. I a.s.sume you're something of a mathematician."

"I wouldn't say that precisely," Prudence stated. "I would describe myself as a bookkeeper."

At that he laughed. "Oh, no, Miss Duncan, I am convinced that you are no more a bookkeeper than your sister is the writer of Penny Dreadfuls."

Prudence looked startled. "Have you been reading copies of The Mayfair Lady since this afternoon?"

"I discovered an unexpected source of back issues," he said dryly. "Curiously enough, under my own roof. My daughter and her governess appear to be avid readers."

"Ah," she said. "Your daughter. Yes."

"That appears to come as no particular surprise to you," he observed.

"Who's Who," she said. "We looked you up."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you know more about me than I do about you, Miss Duncan."

Prudence felt herself flush as if he was accusing her of prying. "Who's Who is a matter of public record," she stated. "Besides, if we hadn't looked you up we wouldn't have been able to find you."

"Ah," he said. "Sensible research, of course."

"Does your daughter live with you?" She couldn't hide her surprise.

"As it happens," he responded shortly. "She attends North London Collegiate for her formal schooling. Her governess takes care of the wider aspects of her education. It seems that women's suffrage is of particular interest to Miss Winston, hence her familiarity with your publication." He rose to take his gla.s.s to the sideboard to refill it, after casting a glance towards Prudence's barely touched sherry gla.s.s.

This was a man of surprises, Prudence reflected, unable to deny that her interest was piqued.North LondonCollegiateSchoolfor Ladies, founded in 1850 by the redoubtable Frances Buss, one of Prudence's mother's female icons, was the first day school to offer a rigorous education to young women. Miss Buss, like the late Lady Duncan, had been a fervent supporter of women's rights as well as education.

Prudence took a healthy sip of her sherry. "You believe in women's education, then?"

"Of course." He sat down again, regarding her a little quizzically. "I imagine that surprises you."

"After your diatribe this afternoon about how women are not equipped...I believe I have that right...not equipped to enter the battleground of lawsuits and suchlike, I find it incredible. I think you advised me and my sisters to confine ourselves to the gossip of our own social circles and keep away from pen and ink." She smiled. "Do I have that right, Sir Gideon?" She leaned over to put her now empty gla.s.s on the sofa table.

"Yes, you do." He seemed completely untroubled by the apparent contradiction. "The fact that I support the education of women does not deny my a.s.sertion that the majority of women are uneducated and ill equipped to deal in my world. More sherry?"

He reached for her gla.s.s when she nodded and went back to the sideboard. "Were that not the case, there would be little need for my support for the cause." He refilled her gla.s.s from the decanter and brought it back to her. He stood looking down at her with that same quizzical, appraising air. Prudence was distinctly uneasy. It felt as if he were looking right through her, through the facade she was presenting, to the real Prudence underneath.

"Your daughter . . ." she began, trying to divert his attention.

"My daughter is hardly relevant here," he responded. "Suffice it to say that under the guidance of Miss Winston she's a pa.s.sionate supporter of women's suffrage."

"And are you?" The question was quick and sharp. Without thinking, she took off her gla.s.ses as she often did in moments of intensity, rubbing them on her sleeve as she looked up at him.

Gideon took a slow breath. Wonderful eyes. They did not belong to this spinsterly dowd. So, just what game was Miss Duncan playing here? He had every intention of discovering before the evening was done.

"I haven't made up my mind on that issue," he answered finally. "Perhaps you should try to convince me of its merits while you attempt to persuade me to take on your defense." A smile touched the corners of his mouth and his gray eyes were suddenly luminous as they locked with hers.

Prudence hastily returned her gla.s.ses to her nose. That gaze was too hot to hold. And there was a note in his voice that made her scalp p.r.i.c.kle. Every instinct shrieked a warning; but a warning about what? Rationally, he couldn't possibly be attracted to her, and yet his eyes and voice and smile said he was. Was he playing some cat-and-mouse game? Trying to fool her into a false position? She forced herself to concentrate. She had a job to do. She had to persuade him that he would find their case interesting and . . .

Her mind froze. Was this part of what would make it interesting for him? An elaborate, cruel game of mock seduction? Was there some kind of quid pro quo here to which she was not as yet a party?

Prudence thought of The Mayfair Lady, she thought of the mountain of debt that they were only just beginning to topple. She thought of her father, who so far had been protected from the truth, as their mother would have striven to protect him. With those stakes, she could play Gideon Malvern at his own game, and enjoy the sport.

She gave her skirts another fussy pat and said with a school-mistressy hint of severity, "On the subject of our defense: As we see it, Sir Gideon, our weakness lies in the fact that we do not as yet have concrete evidence of Lord Barclay's financial misdoing. However, we know how to find that. For the moment, we have ample evidence to bolster our accusation of his moral failures."

"Let's sit down to dinner," he said. "I'd rather not discuss this on an empty stomach."

Prudence stood up. "I'm impressed by your diligence, Sir Gideon. I'm sure you had a full day in your chambers and in court, and now you're prepared to work over dinner."

"No, Miss Duncan, you are going to be doing the work," he observed, moving to the table. "I am going to enjoy my dinner while you try to convince me of the merits of your case." He held out a chair for her.

Prudence closed her lips tightly. This was the man she had met that afternoon. Arrogant, self-possessed, completely in control. And much easier to deal with than the glimpses she'd had of the other side of his character. She sat down and shook out her napkin.

Her host rang a small bell beside his own place setting before sitting down. "The club has a considerable reputation for its kitchen," he said. "I chose the menu carefully. I hope it will meet with your approval."

"Since you've just told me I'm not going to have the opportunity to enjoy it, your solicitude seems somewhat hypocritical," Prudence said. "I would have been content with a boiled egg."

He ignored the comment and she was obliged to admit that he was ent.i.tled to do so. She took a roll from the basket he offered while two waiters moved discreetly around them, filling winegla.s.ses and ladling delicate pale green soup into deep white bowls.

"Lettuce and lovage," Gideon said when she inhaled the aroma. "Exquisite, I think you'll find." He broke into a roll and spread b.u.t.ter lavishly. "Tell me something about your sisters. Let's start with Mrs. Ensor."

"Constance." "Constance," he repeated. "And your younger sister is called...?" "Chast.i.ty." He sipped his wine and seemed to savor this information. There was a distinct gleam in his gray eyes. "

Constance, Prudence, and Chast.i.ty. Someone had a sense of humor. I'm guessing it was your mother."

Prudence managed not to laugh. She declared, "We are the perfect exemplifiers of our names, I should tell you, Sir Gideon." "Are you indeed?" He reached to refill her winegla.s.s and once again shot her that quizzical look.

"Prudence by name and prudent by nature?" He shook his head. "If they match their names as appropriately as I believe you match yours, Miss Prudence Duncan, I cannot wait to meet your sisters." Prudence ate her soup. She wasn't going to step into that quicksand. If he was beginning to see through her pretense, she wasn't going to help him out.

"This soup is certainly exquisite," she said with one of her prim smiles.

He nodded. "It's one of my favorite combinations."

She looked at him, curiosity piqued once more despite her intentions to stick with business. "I get the

impression you're something of a gourmand, Sir Gideon."

He put down his soup spoon. "We have to eat and drink. I see no reason to do either in a mediocre

fas.h.i.+on."

"No," Prudence responded. "My father would agree with you."

"And you too, I suspect." He twirled the stem of his winegla.s.s between his fingers. Her appreciation of

the white burgundy in her gla.s.s had not gone unnoticed.

Prudence realized that her facade had slipped. She said with a careless shrug, "No, in general I'm indifferent to such things. We live very simply, my sisters and I." "Really," he said, his voice flat as a river plain. "Really," she said firmly, starting to reach for her gla.s.s, then instead putting her hand back into her lap. The waiters returned, removed soup plates, set down the fish course, and left. "Plaice," the barrister said, taking up his fish knife and fork. "A seriously underappreciated fish. Simply grilled with a touch of parsley b.u.t.ter, it's more delicate than the freshest Dover sole." "In your opinion," Prudence murmured, slicing into the slightly browned flesh. The addendum pa.s.sed unnoticed by her companion, who was savoring his first mouthful. She took her own and was forced to admit that he had a point.