An Unsuitable Match (11 page)

Lady Alice nodded her head as she listened, and then finally announced: ‘Excellent, Madame; we shall take a dozen day dresses, a dozen walking dresses and six new evening gowns. It is past the mid-point of the season, so we won't need a full complement of ball gowns. Oh, yes, and we shall need slippers and matching shawls.'

Millie, Clarice and Lucy stared at one another wide-eyed with delight, before turning back to the fabric samples with unbridled enthusiasm.

‘Oh, and ladies?' Lady Alice said.

‘Yes?'

‘No black, grey or lavender.'

Millie and Lucy replied in unison. ‘Yes, Lady Alice!'

‘We have missed you over the past few weeks, Mr Radley; it's good to have you back, sir.'

‘Thank you,' David replied.

Gentleman Jackson's saloon, situated in Bond Street, was almost a second home to him. Every Thursday afternoon for as long as he could remember, he had indulged in an hour of hard, muscle-building boxing. While others viewed the sport as an often painful test of their manliness, David found it the best way he knew to relax.

‘Are they tight enough, sir?' the room master Mr Smith asked.

David looked down at the mufflers, which all members of the
ton
were expected to wear on their hands when they boxed at the academy.

‘Thank you, yes', he replied.

In other parts of London, bare-knuckle boxing still had its place, but when a gentleman planned to dine in mixed company, he could ill afford to be sporting facial injuries. Black eyes and stitches did not make for polite dinner conversation.

Not that anyone had recently landed a punch within two feet of David's head. He was the master of the one-punch fight if the mood so took him. His record of six wins in one afternoon was the current house record.

‘Are there any other gentlemen here today who would be interested in a session of gentle sparring?' he asked, knowing few men would willingly take him on in a real bout.

‘I shall check for you, sir, but if no one is available, I am certain one of the saloon lads will agree.'

As the man closed the door behind him, David flexed his fingers within the soft wool padding. The wood chopping he'd undertaken at Sharnbrook Grange was reflected in his tender, blistered hands. He chuckled softly, recalling the look on the farmyard workers' faces when they saw their new master pick up an axe and wield it with an experienced hand.

Little did they know of the countless hours the Duke of Strathmore had made his sons chop wood at Strathmore Castle in the middle of the Scottish winter. Character-building, he called it. Hard work was the reality for all three of his sons. Even bookish young Lord Stephen had not been spared.

The man soon returned, wearing a pensive look on his face.

‘There is one gentleman who has offered to give you a three-round match, sir,' the man said.

‘But?' David replied.

The man shuffled uneasily on his feet. ‘The gentleman is a potential new member; he has some experience from boxing in the country, but does not yet know the rules of the club.'

David snorted. What the man really meant was for David to go easy on the poor chap; otherwise he might not pay his membership dues. He nodded.

‘Of course.'

He rose from the wooden bench and followed Mr Smith out into the main boxing room.

As soon as he saw his opponent, his blood turned to ice.

Shadow-boxing in the corner, fully kitted out in brand-new boxing gloves and boots, was Thaxter Fox.

David stood and sized up his opponent. Tall and well built across the shoulders, he likely possessed a decent punch. David's fists clenched as he recalled the ungentlemanly way Thaxter had manhandled Clarice at the ball earlier that week. The fear he had seen in her eyes still haunted him.

He made a silent promise to himself. He would not give Mr Fox any cause to call his own gentlemanly status into question. He would, however, draw the line at letting the blackguard lay a gloved hand on him.

Let's see how much of a real man you are. There are no women here, so you will have to contend with me.

Thaxter Fox strode confidently over to where David stood and stopped. Rolling his head from side to side and doing a small jig on the spot, he gave the air of one who had seen more than his share of fights.

Neither of them bothered with the social niceties of a formal greeting.

‘Damn nuisance, these muffler things; what happened to being able to fight a man with your bare fists? I didn't realise how many fops there were in London. I should not be surprised if they allowed girls to join this club,' Fox sneered.

‘House rules, Fox,' David replied, refusing to take the bait. A quick nod to his second and David was ready.

He punched his gloves together, mentally rehearsing the moment he intended to land a solid whack to Thaxter's head.

Lord knows you need a good thrashing.

‘Mr Smith, will you do us the honour of refereeing the bout?' David asked. He stepped back and assumed the standard opening stance for a bout.

Thaxter stood and looked him slowly up and down, contempt burning in his eyes.

David took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He was no wet-behind-the-ears pup; it would take more than that for Thaxter to get a rise from him. The playing fields of Eton had taught him how to control his temper in a fight. This newly arrived heir to a title would have to learn the ways a true gentleman conducted himself within the
ton
.

Mr Smith stepped between the two men and held out his hands. ‘Broughton rules apply, so I must remind you that there is to be no kicking, biting, eye-gouging or hitting below the waist. Any breaking of these rules will result in the immediate loss of the bout and possible expulsion from the club. Are we clear, sirs?'

David gave the requisite bow of his head.

‘Get on with it, man,' Thaxter snapped, clearly itching to get at his opponent.

They danced around one another for several minutes, each man sizing the other up. Thaxter made several feints, but David simply stepped out of the way. He was looking for the usual telltale signs of a poor boxing master.

Mr Smith rang a small bell signally the end of the first round. David casually walked over to a chair and allowed his second to serve him a warm cup of tea. He had an unbreakable rule never to imbibe when he was boxing, a clear head being of crucial importance. David smiled, hearing Thaxter's disgusted snort at his opponent's choice of drink.

Thaxter took an opened flask from his own second and, clenching it between his gloves, threw a long swig down his throat.

Round two was almost a repeat of round one. They danced around one another at the beginning, only finally managing to lock gloves toward the end.

By the sound of the second bell David could see Thaxter was getting more than a little frustrated. It took a great deal of fortitude not to smile at his opponent. David was toying with him and Thaxter knew it. While Thaxter had lines of perspiration pouring down his neck, soaking his shirt, David was yet to break a sweat.

He had just taken another sip of his tea when he felt a dull thump on his shoulder.

‘Next round I want a proper fight, Radley; no more of this namby-pamby prancing around the room. If you think you can hit me, then bloody well try.'

David turned to see his irate opponent storming back to his position, arms pumping out to the sides in a clear display of aggression.

He looked down at his gloves and calmly checked the laces before dismissing his second with a nod.

It was time to move in for the kill.

As soon as the bell rang for the start of the final round, Thaxter came at him in a mighty rush. He swung his arms wildly at David, brushing the outside of his shirt, but otherwise missing his intended target. He quickly retreated back to his mark.

David felt a twinge in his side and remembered the hours he had spent wielding an axe. He was obviously not in as good condition as he had thought.

He turned to the referee. ‘Mr Smith, are you satisfied that I have conducted myself in a proper manner?' he asked.

The boxing master nodded his head. ‘Yes you have, sir; you may finish the bout. Mr Fox, please resume the fight.'

Thaxter made a second wild attempt to land a punch on David. He opened his mouth and began to complain that the bout was becoming a farce when David landed a powerful blow to the side of his head.

It stopped Thaxter in his tracks.

For a moment he stood and stared at David, clearly unable to register the fact that his brains were rattling inside his head. He blinked hard several times before his legs crossed beneath him and he crashed to the floor.

Mr Smith and the other staff quickly came to his aid, and lifting him to his feet, helped him to a nearby chair.

‘Mr Radley has been awarded the bout, by means of a knockout. If you wish for a rematch, Mr Fox, you will need to pay your full membership,' Mr Smith said. He put a small bottle of smelling salts under Thaxter's nose.

Thaxter flinched and swore violently.

As soon as he was freed from his padded gloves, David came over to the chair where Thaxter was sitting awkwardly. He offered his hand, as was customary, but it was refused.

‘I might box with bastards, but I don't shake hands with them,' came the bitter reply. He waved his hands at the saloon staff and demanded they remove his gloves.

David shrugged his shoulders. ‘Please yourself, Fox. Oh, and Mr Smith, make sure you put a pint of good ale on my monthly chit for each of the lads who assisted with the bout today. They did a fine job.'

He turned on his heel and quickly headed back to the change rooms to grab his jacket and coat. He had just on an hour to change clothes and make it to Hyde Park. A promise to Alex and Millie that he would join them for a walk this afternoon was a commitment he intended to keep. Considering how little he had seen of them outside of parties and balls since their wedding, he found himself looking forward to joining the crush of London's elite for their daily promenade.

‘Next time I shall finish you off in the first round,' he muttered as he stepped out into Bond Street and saw Thaxter Fox being assisted into a nearby hack.

He flexed his fingers. ‘I didn't think I hit him that hard,' he muttered.

His own carriage arrived as arranged and he climbed inside.

Disappointed in himself for not having stayed the power of his punch, David threw himself back on to the leather padded seat. ‘Bloody hell!' he bellowed, and sat forward, holding his left side. Searing pain took his breath away as it speared through his body.

When finally he was able to calm his breathing and see straight, he pulled open the side of his jacket. There, he saw a slit about two inches long had been cut in the fabric of his shirt. Under the shirt was a small wound in the top of his hip.

He had been stabbed.

It took a moment for the reality to sink in. He dug his hand into the pocket of his coat and found his purse still intact. No street urchin had tried to knife him for his money as he left the saloon.

‘No, he couldn't have,' he whispered.

He looked down once more at the wound in his side. Whatever had stabbed him was short and thin. Just enough to have been kept hidden within a boxing glove. He had not felt the knife penetrate his skin and very little blood had seeped from the puncture wound. Thaxter Fox was a man who knew how to wield a sly blade.

Sitting forward on the bench seat as the carriage made its way the short distance to George Street, David pondered the reason for Thaxter Fox's vicious assault on him.

By the time he reached his rooms, he was on the verge of committing murder.

The way Thaxter Fox had spoken so freely toward Clarice, and the obvious attention he had lavished on Lady Alice, all pointed to his having designs on Lord Langham's daughter. And her dowry.

David swore for a second time. Much as he had tried to deny it, Mr Fox, as the future earl, presented a far more suitable candidate for Clarice's hand than he did. And by marrying his daughter off to his heir, Henry Langham ensured his own bloodline would be bound to the family title.

David's situation was worse than ever. Thaxter obviously viewed him as a threat. Someone who stood in the way of his plans to secure Clarice's hand. Someone who had to be eliminated.

Arriving back at George Street, David made the uncomfortable climb up the stairs to his suite. Once inside, he stripped off his jacket and shirt and examined the wound closely. Fortunately it had only cut through skin and muscle; the stroke had been superficial.

He slowly ground his teeth together as he pondered the growing fear that permeated his mind. If Thaxter Fox was prepared to draw a knife on a member of the Duke of Strathmore's family, what else was he capable of?

Clarice was a vulnerable young woman. In the hands of someone like Thaxter, she might not survive.

His valet Bailey, a man of many talents, was able to lightly stitch and then bind the wound. He offered to repair the shirt, but David refused. He hung it over a chair in his bedroom. It would be the first thing he saw when he woke in the morning and the last thing at night when he snuffed out the bedside candle.

After Bailey left the room, David stood with his eyes closed, slowly opening and then tightly clenching his fists. He was in no mood to be exchanging pleasantries with Millie and Alex in Hyde Park. When he opened his eyes once more and looked at the shirt, his mind was set.

War had been declared for the hand of Lady Clarice Langham, and there could only be one victor.

Clarice did as she had promised.

As soon as she and Lady Alice returned home from their visit to Madame de Feuillide's salon, she went upstairs to her bedroom and emptied the drawer of binding strips on to the floor.

She stood for a moment, staring at the tightly bundled rolls. It had taken a level of bravery she did not realise she possessed to agree to give up the bindings. As she uttered the word
yes
to Madame de Feuillide, the little voice inside her head had been screaming
no!

Taking a deep breath, she bent down and scooped up the muslin bindings, quickly stuffing them into a calico bag before going in search of a footman. After handing the bag over and giving him instructions for their delivery, she went back upstairs to her room.

She closed the door behind her and locked it.

‘I will remain forever in this half-life if I don't free myself from them,' she told herself.

Placing a hand to her chest, she could feel her heart beating. Under her gown she wore the very last piece of muslin binding she would ever own. Tonight she would burn it and tomorrow she would be stripped of her armour.

She clasped her hands together and, putting them to her lips, tried to stem the rising tide of panic that welled within.

‘I can do this, I can,' she promised herself.

A knock at the bedroom door distracted her from her anxiety. She unlocked the door and Lady Alice stepped inside. Immediately taking Clarice's hand, she gave her granddaughter a warm smile.

‘I cannot begin to tell you how proud I am that you have finally decided to put your grief aside and rejoin society,' Lady Alice said.

Clarice blushed.

‘Did you enjoy our outing with the duchess and the girls? They certainly seemed to have a wonderful time. I like them all immensely, especially Lady Brooke. I hope that there are no remaining difficulties between the two of you.'

‘Millie and I are friends,' Clarice reassured her.

The afternoon at the
modiste's
salon had been the most fun Clarice had had in a very long time. She certainly couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so much.

The truth was, she was more than happy that Alex had chosen the feisty, India-born Millie as his bride. While they had been lifelong friends, Clarice had never considered the Marquess of Brooke a serious prospect for marriage and was secretly relieved to have escaped marriage to him. Alex Radley was a bright and shining star; whomever he married was guaranteed to be the centre of attention, along with him. From the time she had spent with Millie, it was obvious to Clarice that Alex's new bride was gifted with enough backbone to keep her husband in line.

‘Oh, and I have a surprise,' Lady Alice said.

‘Yes?'

Her grandmother smiled. ‘Madame promised to have at least one of your new gowns ready and delivered in time for Lady Brearley's garden party. She had her seamstress cutting the fabric before we left. You will only have to wear your old gowns for a few days more; isn't that wonderful?'

Clarice nodded her agreement, because whether she wished it or not, once her new gowns arrived there would be no going back.

‘Oh, Lady Clarice, I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful you look in your new gown,' Bella exclaimed. She stood back and with hands clasped, stared lovingly at the dress.

The day gown had a simple rose-coloured bodice, edged with French lace at the top of the fitted bustline. While the cut of the bustline was modest by current standards, it still displayed a great deal more flesh than Clarice had ever shown before.

The striped skirt was a rose, white and green pattern finished off at the bottom with the same French lace as the bodice. The matching half boots were a deep rose with white laces, which Clarice took a moment to examine appreciatively before looking up to the mirror.

She stared hard at the young woman who was reflected back at her.

Who are you?

Gone were the dull grey and lilac mourning dresses; in their place was a joy in colour.

‘I'm so pleased you have put your greys away; not that you won't always miss Her Ladyship,' Bella said.

‘Thank you, Bella,' Clarice replied.

The cut of the gown would permit the lightest binding of her breasts. She toyed with the tempting proposition momentarily before remembering the promise she had made to the
modiste
. Madame de Feuillide had thrown all the efforts of her salon into completing Clarice's full order within a matter of days. Her side of the bargain had to be kept.

She swallowed deeply. No longer with the protection of the muslin bindings, the world would finally begin to see the real Clarice Langham.

At least it's only my outer shell; the rest is still safe.

She held a hand up to her décolletage and pressed her fingertips into the tops of her breasts. The only time she normally saw this much of her own flesh was in the bath.

‘You don't think it shows too much?'

Bella giggled. ‘I think it shows just enough, if you wish to be noticed.'

‘No!' she cried.

Bella stepped forward and took hold of Clarice's hand. ‘Yes,' she whispered.

The relationship between the earl's daughter and her maid was a close one. In the months following her mother's death, it had been Bella who held Clarice through the long nights of tears.

‘Rest assured, Lady Clarice, Madame de Feuillide has a reputation for the best-cut cloth in London. She always dresses her clients on the respectable side of propriety; she would never send you out in a day gown that would bring your honour into question.'

Clarice looked down. ‘It is only a garden party; perhaps I should save it for a more special occasion,' she replied.

A shiver of fear and excitement coursed down her spine. ‘What if he doesn't like my new clothes? What if . . . oh,' she muttered in frustration. She wriggled her fingers in an effort to calm herself down.

Millie and Lucy had been very persuasive in their efforts to help her choose her new wardrobe. A second glass of champagne had weakened her already-faltering resolve and before she knew what she had done, she'd placed an extra order for five new day gowns. Her eager request to Lady Alice was met with immediate acquiescence.

‘Everyone will love your new gown; don't worry,' Bella replied.

A knock at the door interrupted their discussion and Lady Alice entered.

‘Oh, my darling, that gown is perfect. You look so beautiful. So radiant,' Lady Alice said, as a huge smile spread across her face.

Bella raised her eyebrows and nodded at Clarice. Bella had spent the whole afternoon in a rapture of delight as she opened one after the other of the boxes of new gowns. As her maid had hung the last of the gowns in the wardrobe, Clarice caught Bella wiping away tears.

A pile of her drab old gowns sat neatly in the corner of her room.

‘Doesn't my granddaughter look divine?' the dowager announced to the world in general. With a nod, she dismissed the maid, who made a discreet exit from the room, her arms full of the old gowns.

Lady Alice walked across to where Clarice stood and kissed her cheek. ‘I am so happy you have given up your widow's weeds, my dear. I was beginning to think you had resigned yourself to a life of drabness. The madame does wonders, does she not? Come, show me how you twirl; I want to see how well the skirt is cut.'

Clarice twirled and found herself laughing. Joy filled her heart. The day was full of possibilities.

‘I cannot wait to see the look on a certain young man's face when he sets eyes upon you today,' Lady Alice said.

Clarice looked pensively at the closed bedroom door. ‘You mean David?' she whispered.

Lady Alice continued to smile. ‘Of course. Though you may need to be discreet at the garden party; your father has suddenly decided to accompany us. Why is beyond me, as it's not exactly the sort of function he normally attends. But since he is actually speaking to me once more I am hardly in a position to argue the point.'

The warmth in Clarice's heart rapidly cooled.

With her father in attendance, she would have to stay near her grandmother and be on her best behaviour. It was at times like this she wished she had not been raised to be quite such a lady. That perhaps a small rude word of disappointment could find its way to her lips.

‘Bother,' she replied.

Lady Alice patted her gently on the arm. ‘Not to worry, my dear; I shall do my best to distract your father so you can spend time with your friends. Though you may wish to consider this as the perfect opportunity to get back into your father's good books. Word has reached his ears that you have been spending time with the Radley girls in preference to your other friends. If he adds that piece of news to the fact that you danced with David, then you can see how things might look to him.'

Clarice sighed.

She had managed to avoid Susan Kirk and the Winchester sisters for the better part of a week, the pressing need to attend to her feeble grandmother being the best excuse she had had at her disposal for a long time. At some point she would have to resume her afternoon walks with them.

‘I shall be the perfect daughter this afternoon; Papa will have no reason to be displeased with me.'

Lady Alice hugged her. ‘Just be very careful when it comes to your heart, Clarice. You have suffered enough pain for one so young, and believe me, a broken heart never fully mends.'

For the first time in years Clarice was going out in public not dressed in mourning garb. With her breasts no longer bound, she felt naked and vulnerable. Before leaving she spent several minutes in the front entrance of Langham House fussing with the skirts of her new dress. Then her bonnet became unpinned from her hair and Bella had to find more pins.

She was about to give up and go back to her room when her father appeared.

‘Clarice?' the earl said.

She spun and faced him as he reached the bottom of the grand staircase.

‘Yes?' she replied.

He stood for a moment, silently staring at her, entranced. Then he pulled a small cream object from his pocket and held it up to her gaze. It was her mother's favourite cameo brooch. As he pinned it to her gown, she heard the tremor in his breath.

‘You look so much like her,' he said.

She searched his gaze. Gone was the hard countenance, the mask he always wore. In its place, she saw the lines of pain and grief etched into his skin. Her father aged before her eyes.

Her eyes quickly moistened as she whispered, ‘Papa.'

He reached into his jacket and, pulling out a white handkerchief, proceeded to wipe away her tears. He kissed her tenderly on the forehead.

‘I am so pleased you have taken Lady Alice's advice and come fully out of mourning. Just remember to proceed slowly; you are still delicate.'

She nodded. She was not going to argue with her father's judgement. Today she would do exactly what her grandmother had said; she would be a perfect, dutiful daughter.

With luck he would still feel the same happiness for her when he received the enormous bill from Madame de Feuillide.

She handed the handkerchief back to her father.

‘Oh, and did I tell you Mr Fox will also be in attendance this afternoon? I managed to secure him a late invitation,' her father said.

‘I see,' she replied. The fact that her father had even bothered to mention Thaxter Fox did not bode well, but she was loath to spoil this special moment.

‘I was hoping you would spend some time with him this afternoon. Perhaps share a spot of luncheon with him. He is new to society and knows few people. As he is the future of the Langham title, I am counting on you to assist him in gaining a foothold.'

Keeping to the promise she had made, Clarice respectfully replied, ‘Yes, Papa.'

A short time later, with her bonnet and hair arranged, Clarice took her father's arm and walked out into the warmth of a summer's afternoon.

The earl made his excuses not long after they arrived at Lady Brearley's party. A select group of older gentlemen was slowly making its way upstairs to the private rooms of the host. Clarice waved her father farewell.

‘Cigars, whisky and billiards,' Lady Alice remarked as they both watched the earl ascend the stairs. ‘Your luck must have changed; I expect we won't see him again until shortly before the party ends.'

Clarice smiled. With her father otherwise occupied, her hopes of spending time with Lucy and perhaps one or two other members of the Radley family rose.

‘Clarice?' said a voice to her right.

She turned and was met with the sight of Lady Susan Kirk and her cousins. While Susan had at times a modicum of decorum, her two cousins were as socially inept as could be. Daisy and Heather, true to form, were giggling and whispering behind their hands.

Do those two ever stop?

‘So you have finally stopped dressing like something out of a graveyard,' Susan sniffed, as she looked Clarice up and down.

Clarice's heart sank. She had not been in Susan's company for a number of days, and it was clear her absence had been taken as a personal slight. A twinge of guilt reminded her that she had abandoned Susan to days alone with the giggling misses. She looked from her friends to her grandmother and back again.

‘Susan, I am so pleased to see you. I told Papa how eager I was to show you my new clothes; he said he knew you would approve. With any luck you will be able to say hello to him before we leave. He headed upstairs with your father not long ago.'

She dared not look at Lady Alice, fervently hoping that her grandmother would say nothing untoward.

‘That he did,' Lady Alice added.

The other girls dipped into a curtsy to the dowager countess, who acknowledged them with a small nod.

‘So when did you grow some apples?' Heather asked, staring at Clarice's bustline. Susan rolled her eyes.