Dukes Prefer Blondes Read Online Free PDF

selling play-­bills, picking pockets, and pilfering from shops and stalls.
    â€”­John Wade, A Treatise on the Police and Crimes of the Metropolis , 1829
    F ollowing a long climb up dark, narrow stairs, Clara and Davis had found, along a passage lined with black doors, the one bearing the name they wanted.
    Davis had knocked thrice before the men inside took any notice. They seemed to be arguing, but Clara couldn’t be sure.
    One of the voices—­the deeper one—­sounded familiar.
    But Clara hadn’t placed it by the time she walked in. When the pale grey gaze fixed on her, she started in surprise. Heat sprang from several inner places at once and raced up to her neck and face as well as to areas ladies did not acknowledge to anybody, including themselves.
    This was a disturbing development, but a lady always appeared to be in control, even when she felt as though she’d walked into a lamppost.
    â€œLady Clara,” he said. His keen grey gaze traveled over her, swiftly assessing. “Is that supposed to be a cunning disguise?”
    The other gentleman said, “Radford, what the—­”
    Clara held up her hand, silencing him. If she didn’t immediately seize control, they would. They’d treat her like a child, the way men usually treated women, especially young women. They’d murmur soothing things and send her on her way. They might even tattle to Papa’s solicitor. She doubted any lawyerly rules of confidentiality applied to women.
    Do not show uncertainty or anxiety , she commanded herself . For once in your life you can do something more productive than decline marriage offers .
    She adopted her paternal grandmother’s autocratic manner.
    â€œThanks to you, I now know who he is,” she said to the other man, who was a degree shorter and fairer, and not dressed entirely in black. “It is immaterial to me how he knows who I am. You must be the eminent solicitor Mr. Thomas Westcott. I haven’t much time, and I should prefer not to waste it on formalities. As your colleague has so cleverly ascertained, I am Lady Clara Fairfax. This is my maid, Davis. The boy Fenwick, who is trying to kill your clerk, advised me to consult you.”
    As she let her glance rest briefly on the tall, dark man, the sense of familiarity she’d experienced at Charing Cross returned. “He seems to believe Mr. Radford is peculiarly equipped to assist us with a problem.”
    â€œHe’s peculiar, I’ll give you that,” said Mr. Westcott.
    â€œThis isn’t about the mangy dog, is it?” Mr. Radford said. “Because the police have more important matters—­”
    â€œIt’s about a pauper boy,” Clara said.
    Mr. Radford stalked to the window and looked down. “And you wanted us? Can’t mean the fellow down there. He’s holding his own. No, wait. Better. He’s giving Tilsley a Chancery suit on the nob. That boy of yours looks familiar.”
    Having spent a part of her childhood with three older brothers, she knew what he was looking at. A Chancery suit on the nob involved getting one’s opponent’s head under one’s arm and punching said head with the free hand.
    â€œYou’re familiar to him, which is why we’re here,” Clara said.
    â€œWhat’s the brat calling himself now?” Mr. Radford said.
    â€œHe doesn’t call himself anything,” Clara said. “He could teach clams a thing or two. His employers call him Fenwick. And he seemed to think you could help us find a boy named Toby Coppy.”
    Mr. Radford turned away from the window. “Friend of—­er—­Fenwick?”
    She’d spent the last two days studying the notorious Raven Radford, no easy task, even had she not had to keep her mission secret from her family.
    His name didn’t feature in the usual accounts of parliamentary or social doings. Mainly his name appeared in reports of