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As the King had noted, Lord Bredon’s presentation had come rather late after his rise in rank. He’d spent most of the time since he’d acquired his courtesy title overseeing work on the neglected house, building a case for a villain who took forever to come to trial—and then didn’t live long enough, after all—putting the Malvern estate affairs in order, and completing his legal responsibilities. He hadn’t had time for Society.
Though the lengthy delay was rather irritating, it did mean that all those privileged to receive an invitation to Clara’s supper ball accepted promptly. All the beau monde was curious about the new marquess. They’d read about him, yes, from time to time, if they read criminal proceedings. Those connected with the courts had encountered him now and again. But except to those who’d attended the wedding, he was a mystery, all the more so because Lady Clara Fairfax had chosen him in favor of so many amiable, fashionable young men.
Too, everybody wanted to see the house, into which hardly anybody had set foot in a century.
Malvern House
Thursday 6 May
The two drawing rooms were beautifully fitted up for dancing—and indeed, Lady Bredon’s exquisite taste was evident everywhere, and the refurbishment of the house greatly admired. Three hundred guests attended. Weippert’s band waited to play. The supper would be magnificent.
But all Lord Bredon saw or cared about was his wife.
She’d dressed in the sumptuously simple style that was one of Maison Noirot’s specialties. Made of ivory organdy, her dress was very closely fitted in the bodice, displaying her splendid endowments. The plaited tulle fell over the neckline in a single sweet curve, showing off her perfect skin and smoothly arching neck. A pink sash was fixed to the front of her waist, rather than circling it, the ends hanging to the flounce at the hem. A few pink roses dotted the neckline, the ruffled inner elbows of the snug-fitting sleeves (narrow sleeves—at last!), sash, and hem, but the overall simplicity made her stand out in a sea of busier gowns and blinding jewels. In any event, she might have dressed in a nun’s habit and still rivaled Aphrodite.
Bredon, to nobody’s surprise, wore black—but rather more expensive black than usual.
“The women are swooning,” she murmured, when they’d finished receiving their guests.
“That’s because I said very little,” he said.
She looked up at him. “You’re not to stifle yourself. You know I only tease about your talking.”
“I know an element of truth when I see one,” he said. “Besides, I’m a debutante, supposed to behave modestly. Not to mention, it hardly mattered what I said. Everybody was preoccupied with staring from me to you—and wondering what you saw in me.”
“That isn’t what the ladies were wondering,” she said. “But you go on thinking that.” She glanced about her. “It’s time,” she said.
“It’s about time,” he said. “You look like a party cake. I can’t wait to get my hands on you.” He lowered his voice. “And later, my mouth.”
She flushed a little as she signaled to the orchestra.
The first notes of a waltz wafted across the room.
He looked at her. “Ready to make a spectacle of yourself?”
“Always,” she said, and smiled.
His heart soared, but he gave only one very quick smile, before leading her out to their first dance in public.
The fête, which had commenced at eleven o’clock, ended at four. Their guests had obviously enjoyed the supper and nearly had to be dragged bodily from the dance floor.
That, Clara told her husband as they prepared for bed, was because she and he had started off the dancing so beautifully.
“You were beautiful,” he said. “I was content to form the backdrop.”
“You must have been a graceful backdrop,” she said. “I noticed you never lacked for a partner after that.”
“Nor did you. Do your lovers mean to continue following you about?”
“I think they wanted to show there were no hard feelings,” she said.
“In the event you came to your senses and ran away from me, they wanted you to know they’d be available,” he said.
“I came to my senses when I met you,” she said.
He looked at her, his grey eyes serious now, and searching.
“I thought it was my life that stifled me,” she said. “But I see it makes no difference what world I live in. The difference is the man at my side.”
He cleared his throat. “It seems you needed a particularly difficult one,” he said.
“Much more entertaining,” she said.
She untied the ribbons of her dressing gown.
He slid it from her shoulders. He kissed her shoulder then, and draped the dressing gown over a chair.
Then the serious look returned, more intent now. He turned her toward him again, and studied her for a long moment.
“Lady Bredon,” he said at last, “have you something to tell me?”
She’d examined herself carefully in the mirror. Only Davis was aware, but a lady’s maid had to keep track of such things. Clara had felt reasonably sure it didn’t show—that is, it didn’t show to a normal person.
“About what?” she said.
“Your breasts,” he said. “And your belly. And your face. And the way your eyes shimmer. I thought you looked more beautiful tonight, but logic told me that was impossible.”
“I was waiting to be absolutely sure,” she said.
“How much surer do you need to be?” he said. “Am I or am I not to be a father?”
Her eyes filled. She didn’t know why. “I believe you will be,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “A father. Me.” He gave a short laugh. “Who’d believe it?”
“Well, then,” she said shakily. “Not injured, my lord? No swooning? No tears? Excellent.”
He pulled her into his arms. “Excellent, indeed. Oh, what a laugh. Me, a father! I do love you, you amazing girl.”
“Well, it is not so amazing, given certain basic facts of biology,” she said.
“This is no time to be logical,” he said.
He closed his mouth over hers. The kiss was long and deep and joyful and filled with promise of future joy.
But before it was quite over, she made herself draw her head back. “I do love you, my Raven,” she said. “I never said so, but—”
“My lady, I deduced as much,” he said.
He pulled her close once more, and they returned to finish what they’d started.
Postscript
When I have closed or sent off my daily register of events, I always recollect a number of things which I ought to have mentioned. Then it is too late,—what I have omitted finds no appropriate place.
—Friedrich von Raumer, England in 1835
News of Jacob Freame’s death soon reached Jack’s coffeehouse, and by degrees made its way to a wretched hut by the river. Here Squirrel bided his time while getting to know the members of the river’s underworld. Not long after Freame’s demise, Squirrel began to work for a dredgerman, one of the scavengers who plied the river between Putney and Gravesend. Eventually, having established himself as reliable, he worked his way out of the river and into one of the riverside taverns. Some years later he married the tavern owner’s daughter and lived, if not as luxuriously as Jacob Freame had done, then certainly more securely. Now known as John Stiles, Squirrel grew a little fat, from not having to run so much or so fast, and in time he stopped looking over his shoulder.
The elderly seventh Duke of Malvern did die, but not as soon as he and everybody else might have expected. His son always said it was Clara’s doing: The old man’s spirits had improved from the time Raven first mentioned her, and continued cheerful as he got to know her better. Good spirits, as everybody knows, make good medicine. This proved to be his c
ase, certainly, for his pain diminished noticeably from the time of his son’s marriage.
He lived long enough to delight in a grandson, named George after both grandfathers, as well as a granddaughter, named Frances Anne after her grandmothers. Then one night, some hours after a most enjoyable dispute with his wife about the merits of the Prisoners’ Counsel Act of 1836, His Grace died peacefully in his sleep.
Raven Radford, to the amusement or dismay of many, became the eighth Duke of Malvern. He proved to be as great an irritant in the House of Lords as he’d been in the House of Commons and the criminal courts, and continued—aided and abetted by his wife—to acquire friends in low places.
Among their many philanthropic activities, before as well as after he inherited the dukedom, he and his wife took a special interest in the ragged schools. Their first fund-raising fête was held at Vauxhall, and the money raised was used to provide desperately needed bathing facilities for the school in Saffron Hill.
Yes, Lady Clara Fairfax did become a duchess, after all, and her mother—perhaps on account of this or perhaps on account of her increasing brood of perfect grandchildren (vastly superior to any of Lady Bartham’s whiny lot)—became a truly happy woman.
At least for a time.
Endnote
If our Stranger’s mind be of a lively inquisitive nature, his imagination thus fills up the chasm that wonderment has created with ill-assorted suggestions, or he seeks to obtain information from his fellow-travellers, some of whom know as little of the passing scene as himself.
—A Living Picture of London, for 1828, and Stranger’s Guide
Legal matters
For story purposes, I took some liberties with police and judicial proceedings, e.g., sending felons to trial when convenient to my plot, rather than waiting for the Sessions, during which their indictments would have been reviewed. For a readable survey of the history of the criminal justice system in London, I recommend the Old Bailey Proceedings Online. (http://www.oldbaileyonline.org/index.jsp)
My fictional Grumley pauper farm is a thinly disguised version of an actual case of 1849.
Ragged Schools
Though the Ragged Schools Union wasn’t established until 1844, ragged schooling was known before this, although not necessarily by that name. “It was with the establishment of the London City Mission in 1835 . . . that the ragged schooling got its name,” according to infed.org (http://www.infed.org/youthwork/ragged_schools.htm). I took some artistic license in modeling mine on a ragged school that did exist in Saffron Hill at a later date than that of my story.
Cameo appearances
Marcelline, Sophy, and Leonie’s stories are told in my Dressmakers trilogy: Silk Is for Seduction, Scandal Wears Satin, and Vixen in Velvet.
The Duke of Marchmont’s story is Don’t Tempt Me. His house in Kensington features in Lord Lovedon’s Duel, a novella in Royally Ever After.
The Broken Almost-Engagement and the Shocking Incident at the Countess of Igby’s Ball are episodes in Silk Is for Seduction and Scandal Wears Satin.
Yes, the clothes are for real
Fashions are based on images in early nineteenth-century ladies’ magazines available online. Among many other sartorial thefts, I stole most of the description of Clara’s wedding dress from the November 1835 Magazine of the Beau Monde. On my Pinterest page (https://www.pinterest.com/lorettachase/) you’ll see the fashions as well as other illustrations for my stories.
Pounds, shillings, pence, and other old money
Money equivalents: Once upon a time (until 1971) English money wasn’t based on a decimal system. It went like this:
Twelve pence in a shilling (bob, in slang).
Twenty shillings in a pound or sovereign.
