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Radford walked faster, and broke into a run as he turned into Inner Temple Lane. He burst into the Woodley Building and took the steps two at a time to his chambers.
A short time thereafter, Westcott was staring at him, wearing his You Have Lost Your Mind expression.
“Do it,” Radford said.
Wednesday 21 October
Mr. Westcott’s office
Have you taken leave of your senses?” Lord Warford said, waving the document. “You mean to bring a breach of promise suit against my daughter?”
His lordship had received Westcott’s letter on Thursday. The marquess’s solicitor, Mr. Alcox, had responded on Friday. Westcott had answered on the same day, explaining that Mr. Radford was unable to make appointments at present, being engaged in a brief for libel whose duration one could not predict. Mr. Westcott would not dream of asking Lord Warford to wait on his client’s convenience.
Lord Warford did not wait on anybody’s convenience. Why should he, when he had scores of people to do the waiting for him?
Westcott had recognized Alcox’s clerk—one of many—in the courtroom. He was there throughout the proceedings. And so nobody was surprised to receive Mr. Alcox’s message, within minutes of the trial’s ending: Lord Warford would appear in Mr. Westcott’s office within the hour.
This left more than enough time to change, but Radford chose not to do so.
He still wore his wig, bands, and robe.
He was a lawyer, well aware of the effect one’s appearance and manner could have on juries and judges. He knew his courtroom attire would, firstly, remind Lord Warford of the gravity of his profession and the might of the Law, and secondly, create the impression of Radford’s having raced here from court, not wanting to keep the marquess waiting.
“Mr. Westcott, you know as well as I that this is nonsense,” Mr. Alcox said. “Breach of promise of marriage brought against women is rare, and for very good reason. Even if it comes to trial, you cannot expect more than token compensation.”
“I don’t want compensation, token or otherwise,” Radford said. “I want to marry Lady Clara, as she promised to do.”
“The court cannot and will not enforce this alleged contract,” Alcox said, still speaking to Westcott. “Her ladyship had no power to make a contract. You have nothing to make a case with. If your client—or associate—or whatever he is—insists on pursuing this ridiculous suit, he’ll make a laughingstock of himself.”
“Let us not waste time with pointless legal wrangling,” Lord Warford said. “We know Mr. Radford is far too intelligent to wish for a trial that can only damage his professional reputation. Furthermore, if he truly cares for my daughter, as he claims, he will not wish to drag her name through the mud. He will not wish to see her and her family featured in the scandal sheets and print shop window caricatures. The question is, What does he wish? What, in short, is Mr. Radford’s price?”
Westcott walked round to the back of his desk and shuffled some papers. He picked up one.
“My client’s price,” he said. “Let me see.” He read the document, then put it down and picked up another. “Ah, here it is. Mr. Radford requests a fair trial.”
Lord Warford waved his hand. “Pray don’t insult my intelligence. We all know there’s no question of going to court.”
“The trial to take place in this office, my lord,” Westcott said. “The jury to comprise her ladyship’s parents, Lord and Lady Warford. Mr. Radford will act as his own advocate. As such he seeks the following: to know the crimes of which he is accused, to summon witnesses, to answer questions or challenges put to him by the other party, and to make a summary speech in his defense.”
Lord Warford regarded Radford for a time. Then, “That’s your price?” he said.
“A fair trial,” Radford said. “I ask no more than what we grant to murderers and traitors and even counterfeiters. I place my future in your and your lady’s hands.”
“And if the verdict goes against you?” Lord Warford said. “Will you leave it alone?”
“My client pledges to abide by the outcome,” Westcott said.
“No appeals,” Radford said. “No pleading my case in the court of public opinion. Not a word to anybody. In short, no whining.” If he couldn’t win over Clara’s parents, he most certainly couldn’t meet the many challenges wedlock would present. If he couldn’t bring Lord and Lady Warford over to his side, he wasn’t worthy of her.
Lord Warford walked to the window and looked down into the Temple churchyard. After an eternity of a moment, he said, “I’ve used due diligence, Mr. Radford, in looking into your affairs and character. You seem to be an unusually clever gentleman. Your courtroom work is spoken of in laudatory terms. Your personality . . . would appear to be of a different order. Clara says . . . But we shall disregard her opinions. Woman think with their feelings, not their intellects.” He turned away from the window. “Mr. Westcott, I agree to the trial. I have always prided myself on keeping an open mind—though I shall not speak for any other parties who will be present.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Westcott said.
“In any event, I don’t doubt it will be interesting.” The marquess looked at Radford. “Be sure to wear that, sir. It makes precisely the impression you wish.”
Leaving Alcox to work out the details with his counterpart, his lordship departed.
Chapter Twelve
He num’rous woes on Ocean toss’d, endured.
—The Odyssey of Homer, translated by William Cowper, 1791
Small Drawing Room of Warford House
Later that day
How dare he?” Mama burst out. “Warford, how could you?”
“It must have been the wig,” Papa said. Then, as usually happened when he saw omens of a wifely eruption, he claimed to have another appointment and left.
Fortunately, he’d brought the news about the Trial of Raven Radford while Great-Aunt Dora was visiting. Even Mama couldn’t enact a tragedy while the older lady was laughing so hard.
“There, you see, Clara,” Mama said, while Lady Exton wiped her eyes. “We’ll be laughingstocks. The satirists will have a field day.”
“Quite possibly, if you go through with this trial,” Great-Aunt Dora said. “I shouldn’t, if I were you. What I should do is snap him up. You shan’t find another such son-in-law in your lifetime.”
“I should hope not,” Mama said. “A barrister! And his father! An eccentric, married to a divorcée. No wonder he was never knighted. Clara could not have chosen worse had she started planning from the day she was born.”
“You fret about a title, when the young man saved Clara’s life?” Great-Aunt Dora asked. “What more proof do you want of his character?”
“It isn’t a matter of character,” Clara said. “It’s a matter of What People Will Say.”
Mama gave her the Serpent’s Tooth–Thankless Child look.
Clara winced inwardly. Mama wasn’t completely irrational. Being the mother of London’s most beautiful and most proposed-to girl made Lady Warford an object of envy, jealousy, resentment, and many other unamiable emotions. The beau monde would revel in seeing her humbled. It wouldn’t last forever but it wouldn’t be over quickly, either, and it would be extremely painful while it lasted.
Lady Exton saw things differently. “You’re not fretting over what Lady Bartham will say, I hope? Kindly remember you’re the Marchioness of Warford. It ought to be nothing to you what anybody says, especially women of inferior mental faculties who spend their time gossiping because they’re incapable of doing anything else.”
And there, in a nutshell, was one suffocating force in Clara’s life: the endless petty gossip that passed for conversation.
“I’m glad you enjoy the luxury of disregarding Society, Aunt,” Mama said. “The rest of us, however, must live in it. And some of us do not wis
h to be subjected to pity or thinly veiled mockery.”
Great-Aunt Dora stood up. “Frances, I’m disappointed in you. Here’s a strong, healthy, intelligent, and ambitious young man, ready to mortify himself for your daughter’s sake—and you fret about what your friends will say! I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Clara, you may see me out.”
“You’re not to take her away again, Aunt,” Mama said. “To speak plainly, you’ve done quite enough damage.”
“I! Hmph!” Great-Aunt Dora swept out, Clara in her wake.
“For your sake I pray Mr. Radford will carry off his trial successfully,” Lady Exton said as she and her grandniece continued down the corridor. “I might have gone on arguing, but when I saw it was all about What Society Will Say, I knew I might as well save my breath. There’s no terror so immense and so immune to reason as the terror of becoming an object of ridicule disguised as pity. Your mother would rather drink poison.”
This was only a slight exaggeration.
“You did your best,” Clara said. “We must leave it to Mr. Radford. He’s tackled harder cases, I’m sure.”
He didn’t always win.
She mustn’t have hidden her doubts as well as she thought because her great-aunt said, “Don’t fret, my dear. If he could keep you from dying, he can win over your parents.”
“This might be harder,” Clara said. “And if he doesn’t succeed?”
