Dukes Prefer Blondes Read Online Free PDF Page A

were at least capable of breeding,” he said. “Blind sheep can do it.”
    â€œThe royal family has a similar problem,” Westcott said. “King George III sired nine sons. And our present heir presumptive? An adolescent girl.”
    â€œA pity the dukedom can’t go to a girl,” Radford said. “Those they’ve got a surfeit of. But the girls can’t inherit, and it isn’t my problem.” He tossed the letter onto Westcott’s desk.
    â€œRadford, if the present duke dies—­”
    â€œBernard is not thirty years old. His wife is five and twenty. He’ll keep trying for sons.”
    Bernard had better not die for at least fifty years. Radford didn’t need the letter to remind him his father had become next in line to inherit. George Radford was eighty years old, and in poor health.
    A fever last winter had permanently undermined his health. His chances of surviving the coming winter were not good. He was going to die, sooner rather than later. He ought to be allowed to die in peace, with his wife at his side, at Ithaca House, the peaceful villa in Richmond he’d named after the mythical Ulysses’s longed-­for home. The last thing Father needed was the annoyance of taking over vast estates whose affairs had been mismanaged for years.
    â€œHer Grace’s health, according to the letter, is precarious,” Westcott said.
    â€œI’m not surprised,” Radford said. “The odds of her dying in childbed are very high, as are those of any woman who endures numerous pregnancies. You may be sure that, as soon as she’s dead, he’ll wed again, no matter how old he is. His father started a second family in his fifties.”
    Radford’s own father had married for the first time at fifty because he couldn’t afford to marry earlier. This was why Radford and Bernard had been schoolmates.
    Westcott took up the letter and read it through again. “Something isn’t right,” he said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m sure there’s a meaning here we’ve overlooked. I can’t seem to read between the lines, and you refuse to.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what isn’t right,” Radford said. “It only purports to be a legal document. Amid the lawyerly convolutions do you distinguish anything more pressing than a summons from Bernard? Can you ascertain anything to be gained by my heeding it?”
    â€œYou might at least take the trouble to find out what he wants.”
    â€œNow? Have you forgotten the Grumley case?”
    â€œI could go in your place,” Westcott said. “As your solicitor.”
    â€œNeither you nor anybody else will represent me in this. You don’t know Bernard.”
    Father could deal with the lack-­brained bully if he had to, but there was no reason he ought to. The last thing he needed now was strain and aggravation. Radford had better write to his mother straightaway, warning her.
    â€œHe’ll only waste your time for the fun of it,” Radford said. “You and I have more useful things to do. For the present, I aim to send that villain Grumley to—­” He glared at the door. “Who’s there? Where the devil is Tilsley?”
    â€œIf you refer to your clerk, he’s punching a boy in the churchyard.”
    The voice, though muffled by the closed door, was clearly feminine. And aristocratic.
    Westcott, while not as observant as his friend—­who was?—­had no trouble recognizing the diction of the upper reaches of the upper classes. Some of his clients lived in these exalted realms. He hurried to the door and opened it.
    The tall blonde walked in.

 
    Chapter Two
    Juvenile delinquents . . . are found in every part of the metropolis . . . Many of them . . . are in the regular employ and training of older thieves; others obtain a precarious subsistence by begging, running errands,