The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry, and she couldn’t bring herself to agree, couldn’t even speak. It was all too soon, too sudden. Too impossible. Too ghastly.

  There was a long silence. Then Bamber pursed his lips. “Perhaps you need time to think it over.” He indicated Thaddeus’s letter, still crumpled in her fist. “Read that again, Lady Charlton, and consider the consequences of refusing me. I’ll call again tomorrow at ten. Be prepared for a christening.” Without waiting for her response, he left.

  As soon as she heard the front door close, Alice dropped weakly back onto her chair.

  “Is everything all right, m’lady?” Tweed asked from the doorway. He looked worried. His glance fell to the letter she was still clutching. Repressing the impulse to throw it in the fire, she folded the letter and tucked it away.

  “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,” she managed.

  Tweed hesitated. “Did I do right by admitting him, m’lady?”

  Lord, if he hadn’t, who knew what Bamber might have done? What if he’d gone straight to a publisher . . . Let society drool and snigger over your husband’s letters.

  She repressed a shudder. “Yes, Tweed, your instincts were not at fault. You did the right thing.”

  A troubled furrow appeared between his brows. “Will we be seeing more of him, m’lady?”

  “I’m afraid so. He will be calling again tomorrow morning.” She hoped that would be all. With any luck, Octavius Bamber would fall into the Thames overnight and drown, taking the letters with him. But fate would not be so kind.

  * * *

  * * *

  That night, Alice climbed into bed, took out Thaddeus’s letter and read it for the dozenth time. The scorn, the mockery implicit in his words, in his description of the intimate act of her wedding night—her wedding night!—brought it all back to her. That night . . .

  She’d been so young, so very nervous. She hardly knew him, after all—their entire courtship had lasted only a few weeks, and they’d never been alone together—but she’d thought she could fall in love with him, her new husband, so tall, not exactly handsome but very impressive. So worldly and knowledgeable compared with her country-girl naïveté.

  She’d been just eighteen. Innocent, ignorant, hesitant, shy.

  He’d been drunk. Rough. Crude. Hasty.

  He’d ripped open her nightgown, the one she’d so carefully embroidered, anticipating the night she would finally become a woman, a wife. He’d stared down at her nakedness and made some disparaging comment about the size of her breasts, and then he’d shoved her legs apart and thrust roughly into her.

  She’d had no idea of what to expect. She wasn’t prepared for the pain, the rough squeezing of her breasts, the shock of his brutal invasion of her unprepared body.

  She endured it as best she could, and he finally rolled off her and staggered out of the room—he hadn’t even undressed, just unfastened his breeches. She lay for a long time, unmoving—in shock, she thought now, looking back—until finally the cold air chilled her bare skin enough to make her curl up and haul the bedcovers around her.

  And then, finally, the tears came, slowly at first, then in great choking sobs.

  Before the wedding, Mama had told her that it wouldn’t be pleasant the first time, but she’d added vaguely that it would probably get better with time.

  It never had.

  Her wedding night became the pattern for the rest of Alice’s married life. She never knew when Thaddeus would take it in his head to plant an heir in her—that’s what he called it. She was grateful not to have to think of it as “making love.”

  He’d enter her bedchamber with no warning—sometimes in the middle of the night, often in the wee small hours, usually drunk—undo his breeches and pound into her. And leave as soon as he’d finished.

  It got so that she would be wakeful half the night, waiting for him to come and get the business over with so that she could sleep. She’d doze off, but the slightest noise would startle her out of a sound sleep. It was exhausting.

  The circles under her eyes were visible, but the few who ventured to comment on them did so as a sly joke, implying that her eager husband was keeping his pretty new bride awake far into the night. Alice never denied it. It was true after all. In a way.

  One time, utterly exhausted and weary of waking through the night in imagined fear, she’d locked her door to ensure she’d get some sleep. Enraged, he’d kicked the door down, and when he left, she was badly bruised and aching for days afterward.

  But no matter how often—or how hard—he did it, he never managed to get her with child. “Useless, barren, cold fish,” he’d called her.

  She’d had nobody to confide in, to talk about how difficult—unbearable, actually—she’d found it. Just days after her wedding, her parents had departed for the Far East—her father’s dream, to bring “enlightenment to the heathens.” Then, not a month after their arrival, Mama became poorly and in a short time had sickened and died. Papa passed shortly afterward.

  Grandmama, with her painful arthritis, had become a virtual recluse, and Alice hadn’t wanted to distress her with things she could do nothing about. What was the point anyway? Marriage was “ ’til death us do part.”

  Besides, though she knew it wasn’t logical, she’d felt too ashamed. She was a failure as a wife: she couldn’t please her husband, and she couldn’t conceive a child.

  So having no other choice, she endured it. And having no desire to feature in society as a victim, she worked hard to give the impression that she was content in her marriage—not that anyone would believe her if she told them the truth: in public, Thaddeus could turn on the charm.

  Eighteen years. Half her life trying to please a man who wouldn’t be pleased.

  Now Thaddeus was dead—and if the manner of his passing was another source of shame to be endured, at least her marriage was finally at an end. He’d left her nothing but debts—the entailed property went to his brother, and he’d made no provision for his widow, only his mistress and his illegitimate son. His heir, but for Alice.

  And then Grandmama—God bless her—had died and left Alice this house. A home of her own. Security.

  Alice glanced at the letter in her hand. The last shameful legacy from her loving husband.

  She put the letter aside, blew out her candle and lay in the dark, thinking. She wasn’t feeling sick and frightened now; she was feeling angry.

  She hadn’t endured eighteen years of marriage, hadn’t maintained a public air of serenity—and Lord knew, there were times she almost couldn’t manage it—for the truth about her marriage to come out now.

  Bamber’s demand was ludicrous, but that wasn’t Alice’s concern. At all costs she had to prevent the publication of those letters.

  If only she’d had the presence of mind to snatch them from him and hurl them into the fire when he’d first brought them out. But she’d been in shock and hadn’t thought quickly enough. There was nothing to do now but carry out his wishes, introduce his dreadful daughter to society and try to find her a lord to marry.

  And then she would be free and her life could begin.

  Chapter Two

  Alice, having spent most of the night sleepless and trying in vain to think of a way out of the mess, had no appetite for breakfast.

  “Oh, and Tweed,” she said as the butler turned to leave, taking her cold, untouched breakfast with him. “The young lady who visited us yesterday will be coming to stay for an indefinite period. Please have a bedchamber prepared. The blue room, I think.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Tweed bowed, his expression conveying the kind of blank imperturbability that told her—skilled as she was in the many nuanced Shades of Tweed—that he was dying to know but would rather burst than ask her why on earth she would consider bringing the daughter of such a man into her household. Let alone installing her in
the blue bedchamber!

  Bamber called promptly at ten. In a tight voice, Alice agreed to sponsor Lucy Bamber into society.

  To her surprise, Bamber had booked a church that very morning for his daughter’s baptism. He’d obviously had no doubt that Alice would agree to his terms, because barely were the words out of her mouth than he was calling for his carriage and telling her to put on her coat and hat, that he’d booked a church for his daughter’s baptism and that the vicar would be waiting.

  At the last minute she remembered that as a godmother—even a spurious one—she ought to give Lucy something to commemorate the event, and casting around for something suitable, she thought of the Bible Thaddeus had given her when they’d first become betrothed.

  It was a beautiful thing, bound in white kidskin with a mother-of-pearl cover and virtually untouched. At the time she’d been entranced, but of course, once she was married, the associations with Thaddeus had soured her on it. Now it seemed a perfect gift, releasing her from the unhappy memories it evoked and entering a new beginning with a new owner.

  She wrapped it in a pretty shawl and gave it to Lucy in the carriage on the way to the church. The girl muttered a grudging thank-you—prompted by her father—and stuffed it unexamined in her reticule. And for the rest of the journey, which took almost an hour, she had ignored Alice and said not another word. Sulking.

  Alice was quietly simmering. Miss Lucy Bamber needed a lesson in manners.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was strange being part of the baptism of an adult. Of course Alice knew adults were baptized—her father had been a vicar, after all—but it was usually only when someone converted from another religion. She was more used to babies being baptized.

  Now, standing at the font of the small village church, listening to the minister’s words, she felt a little uncomfortable, but she could see no way around it. If she were to introduce the girl as her goddaughter, she had no option but to go through with the ceremony.

  She’d been a godmother twice before, when holding the tiny warm bundle in her arms had made her ache with longing for a babe of her own. But it wasn’t to be.

  She stood by while the minister went through the ceremony in a brisk, almost businesslike manner. Miss Bamber bent awkwardly to allow the holy water to be poured over her head, and the minister and Alice each said their part. It was all over in minutes.

  As they emerged from the dim hush of the church into the bright daylight, another carriage pulled up behind the one they’d come in. It was empty except for the coachman. “That’s for me,” Octavius Bamber said. “I have business elsewhere. You don’t need my escort back to London.” He handed his daughter into the carriage, saying, “Be good for her ladyship now, puss.”

  His daughter just looked at him. She hadn’t said a word to him during the entire journey out from London and had simply stared out of the window. Now she gave him a flat look and turned away, no farewell or anything.

  As a beginning, it was more than unpromising.

  Bamber turned to Alice to help her up the steps, but she glanced at the girl in the carriage and stepped away out of earshot.

  “There are things we need to discuss,” she said.

  “Nonsense, you know what you have to do and what will happen if you don’t. Best you get on with it.” He handed her a bundle of banknotes. “This will keep you going for the first little while. I’ll make arrangements to send the rest later.”

  “But—”

  “Off you go now. I’m a busy man.” He started toward the second carriage.

  “Mr. Bamber!” She had to make one thing clear to him.

  He turned back. “What?”

  “Do you intend to call on your daughter and me in London? Because if so, I have to say—”

  “Call on you? Good God, no. Why on earth would I come calling on you? We’ve made our agreement, and that’s the end of it. It’s all up to you now.”

  It was exactly what she’d planned to tell him—that if he wanted his daughter to be accepted by the ton, it would be best if he stayed away—but all the same it shocked her that he could so easily hand his only daughter over to a complete stranger.

  “But your daughter . . .”

  He shrugged. “She’s eighteen, a grown woman. I’ll keep an eye on you, naturally, to make sure you’re holding up your end of the bargain, but I’ll do it from a distance. I’ll attend the wedding, of course, give the bride away, but that’s the extent of it. I want her off my hands and settled. Oh, and Lady Charlton, you have until the end of the season. If she’s not married, or at least betrothed by then, I will have those letters published.”

  “The end of the season? But that’s—”

  “Plenty of time. Now, good day to you, your ladyship.” He climbed into his carriage, rapped on the roof and drove off, leaving Alice staring after him with her mouth open.

  He’d left Lucy without a backward glance, without even a proper farewell. Leaving his daughter in the care of a woman who had every reason to despise her.

  What sort of a man did that? Foolish question. Bamber was a blackmailer. A scoundrel with delusions of grandeur. And apparently a heartless parent as well.

  She stuffed the banknotes into her reticule and climbed into the carriage, feeling the first glimmer of sympathy for Lucy. But the girl scowled and turned her face away, hunching herself into the corner of the carriage and staring out the window. Dumb insolence or nerves? It was hard to tell.

  They set off back to London. The miles passed in silence.

  Alice considered her options. If she ever wanted peace again, she had to get this girl married off as quickly as possible, to a lord and by the end of the season, no less. But who would want her?

  She had no desirable family connections. Her father was unspeakable, but he seemed to have plenty of money. Lucy wasn’t bad-looking: if she could be brought to behave in a more amenable manner—and to dress better—there might be a chance.

  But who? She sat staring blankly out the window, making a mental list of unmarried lords. No point pursuing those gentlemen who currently graced the ton’s unwritten list of the catches of the season. That left the less desirable ones, the fortune hunters, the sworn bachelors, the widowers . . .

  Alice knew plenty of widowers. Her sister-in-law, Almeria, was forever pushing them at her. She was determined to get Alice off the family’s hands and ignored Alice’s repeatedly expressed intention never to marry again.

  But Lucy was very young. Alice was reluctant to match a young girl with a much older man. She might not like the girl, but she didn’t want her to be miserable in her marriage.

  Oh, why did it have to be a lord? There were plenty of perfectly nice, perfectly eligible gentlemen looking for a bride.

  Her eyes ran over the frilled and flounced orange dress the girl was wearing. The first thing would be to get her some elegant new clothes. Alice would have to approach that tactfully. Taste was such a personal thing.

  Several times on the trip back to London, Alice tried to make conversation, but the girl answered with either a shrug or a flat, insolent glance or with nothing at all.

  Alice’s mood went from seething with anger to despair and back again. How on earth was she going to get this overdressed, mannerless creature accepted into society? For two pins she’d send her back to her father. But the consequences of that would be appalling.

  She was well and truly stuck with her.

  Eventually the carriage pulled up in front of Alice’s house. The coachman put the steps down and began to dump Lucy’s luggage on the front steps. For a girl about to make her come-out, there wasn’t much. Lucy picked up a battered old carpetbag and a bandbox. Tweed appeared at the door, and after ushering Alice and Lucy inside, he began collecting bags.

  Mrs. Tweed, the cook-housekeeper, waited in the hallway. Alice greeted her with relief. �
�Mrs. Tweed, this is Miss Bamber, who is going to be staying with us for some time. Would you show her to her bedchamber, please?”

  “Pleased to, m’lady. Welcome to Bellaire Gardens, miss. Tweed and me hope you’ll be happy here.” Mrs. Tweed gave the girl a motherly smile and took the bandbox from her. She would have taken the carpetbag, too, but Lucy clung to it.

  Alice said briskly, “Yes, welcome, Lucy. Now off you go upstairs. Mrs. Tweed will answer any questions you have about the house. Freshen up and we’ll take a spot of luncheon in half an hour. After that, my maid, Mary, will help you unpack. We’ll have to share her, I’m afraid. My staff is rather . . . sparse at the moment.”

  Lucy frowned. “I’ll unpack for myself.”

  “As you wish,” Alice said indifferently. Less work for Mary. She’d inherited her grandmother’s staff along with the house. None of them was particularly young, and Alice had known them all her life. Grandmama had also left her an allowance that covered the servants’ wages and the household expenses. If she were frugal.

  She just hoped that Octavius Bamber hadn’t underestimated the cost of launching a young lady in her first season.

  “Tweed generally sounds a gong ten minutes before mealtimes to let you know when to come downstairs. Mrs. Tweed will show you where we will eat.”

  Lucy went upstairs with the Tweeds, and Alice fought the urge to collapse into the nearest chair and pour herself a glass of something strong.

  She regretted now that she’d had the blue room prepared for Lucy. She’d given the instructions in a foolish moment of sympathy, a reaction to her own dislike of the father and his impossible ambition for his daughter. But now, having spent several hours in a carriage with her, exposed to her sullen, barely cooperative conversation—like drawing teeth, and she was not shy, whatever her father claimed!—Alice had decided any sympathy was wasted.

  Lucy Bamber was reserved, difficult and prickly. And her dress sense was dreadful. It was not a promising start.