The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  “The comtesse? Just over a year.”

  “Comtesse?”

  Lucy nodded. “She escaped France during the Terror. Her husband was killed and her castle was burned to the ground, so she never went back. She had plenty of visitors, though.”

  “I see. Well, where did you live before you went to stay with the comtesse?”

  “With Frau Steiner.”

  “Let me guess—she was German.”

  “Austrian. And before you ask, I was with her almost a year.”

  Alice raised a brow. “And before that?”

  “School. Miss Fitcher’s Seminary.”

  “And before that?”

  “School. Miss Mitchell’s establishment.”

  “Before that then?” Alice was getting a little annoyed at the girl’s deliberate evasiveness.

  “School. And before that, another school. And before that, another,” Lucy finished, throwing Alice a faintly challenging look.

  The conversation paused while Tweed bought in stewed apples and a baked-rice custard.

  “Are you saying you were expelled from all those schools?” Alice said after Tweed had left. Good God, what had she got herself into?

  Lucy lifted an indifferent shoulder, as if she had no idea, and cared even less. Alice frowned. Lucy had been asked to leave at least five schools, and there must have been a good reason for that.

  But she could tell from Lucy’s mulish expression that she wasn’t going to explain, and Alice didn’t want to push the issue, not this early in their acquaintance.

  “Did you never go home in between these schools?”

  “No. I told you—nowhere to go to.”

  There was a certain bleakness to that. Alice hesitated, then said gently, “I was sorry to hear you lost your mother, Lucy. How old were you when she died?”

  Lucy helped herself to apples and rice custard. “Eleven, and before you ask, we moved around when Mama was alive, too. And the day after her funeral, Papa put me in school.”

  “I see.” Alice didn’t, not at all, but she was beginning to see a pattern. The way Bamber had dumped his daughter on Alice and left gave her an inkling of what kind of life the girl might have had.

  The details of Lucy’s history, scant as they were, gave her much to think on, although it was mostly speculation. She and Lucy needed to become friendly enough for an exchange of more personal information, rather than this cautious fencing. Then she would understand better. But clearly, it would take time.

  * * *

  * * *

  After luncheon, Alice headed out to make some morning calls, leaving Lucy to entertain herself and unpack. Once Lucy was properly dressed, she would accompany Alice on the calls, but not yet.

  If she had to bring this wretched girl out, she needed to reconnect with the social scene. She’d been out of circulation for the last eighteen months, first because of her year of mourning, and later because she didn’t really feel like facing all those curious looks. And ugly suggestions. The rumors about Thaddeus’s manner and place of death were still circulating.

  Now they served as a reminder of how much worse it would be if those letters ever got out. The knowledge stiffened her backbone.

  She called on her sister-in-law, Almeria, first. Almeria was far from her favorite person, but now that she’d become the Countess of Charlton, it was incumbent on Alice to pay her respects before she started making other calls. To do otherwise was to court insult, and Almeria was very prone to seeing insult where none was intended.

  It was strange, arriving at her former home as a guest. She’d never liked the house: the furnishings and decoration were heavy and too ornate for her taste, and she’d always found it cold. It had always felt like Thaddeus’s home, not hers, even though she’d lived there for eighteen years and spent much more time there than he did.

  Almeria, dressed in her signature puce, with silver piping, was receiving, and several other ladies were also making calls. The butler, Dawes, who had been Alice’s butler until eighteen months ago, announced her arrival. “The Dowager Countess of Charlton.”

  After the introductions—the other guests were two society matrons and their young daughters, just out this season—Almeria turned to Alice with an opening salvo. “You’re looking sadly pinched and drawn, Alice dear. Dying of boredom, I expect. You really should get out more. You widows mustn’t let yourselves get any drearier, you know.”

  Alice inclined her head politely and said nothing. The other guests exchanged glances.

  Almeria continued, “I, on the other hand, have been a positive whirlwind of activity, bringing this house up to scratch.” She laid a hand across her chest, indicating utter exhaustion. “How on earth did you bear it, my dear? Everything so outdated and shabby.” She smiled sweetly and turned to the other ladies. “Of course, coming from an obscure country vicarage, dear Alice would have no notion of how an earl’s town house ought to appear. But I have it in hand now.”

  Alice said nothing. Thaddeus had refused to let her change a thing, but she had no intention of justifying herself to Almeria. The house hadn’t been to her taste, but it had never been shabby or outdated.

  As a new bride, she’d been taken aback by Almeria’s constant saccharine-coated hostility, but eventually someone had informed her that Almeria had set her cap at Thaddeus and was thought to be first in the running to be his bride, but as the years had passed and no proposal was forthcoming, she’d given in and married Thaddeus’s younger brother instead.

  And then, ten years later, Thaddeus swept back from a rural visit, betrothed to a young lady nobody had ever heard of—neither a great beauty nor a great heiress, though her bloodline was distinguished. A simple vicar’s daughter.

  Almeria had never forgiven Alice for succeeding where she’d failed, and now that Almeria was the countess and Alice the dowager—and she’d produced a son, while Alice had proved to be barren—Almeria couldn’t pass up any opportunity to crow over their change in status.

  If only Almeria had married Thaddeus. What might Alice’s life have been then?

  “So what have you been doing with yourself, Alice dear?”

  It was said in such a world-weary, patronizing voice that Alice found herself saying, “I have a guest staying with me. A young lady.”

  “A guest? You mean a lodger, I suppose? Dear me, how the mighty have fallen,” Almeria said with a titter and a meaningful glance at her other guests.

  “No, not a lodger,” Alice said, with an edge to her voice. “I am preparing to sponsor the young lady’s come-out.”

  Almeria’s eyes narrowed. “Young lady? Which young lady?”

  Alice instantly regretted mentioning it. “My goddaughter, Miss Lucy Bamber.”

  “A goddaughter?” The finely plucked brows twitched. “I know both your goddaughters. Why have I never heard of this one before now?”

  “I have no idea who you might or might not have heard of, Almeria.” She was pleased to hear she sounded quite cool. “I have known Lucy Bamber since before she was baptized.” Which wasn’t a lie, not really.

  “Bamber?” Almeria pursed her lips. “I don’t know any Bambers. Who are her people? Where does she come from?”

  Alice went blank. Oh heavens. What to say? She should have thought this thing through before making her announcement. Her own fault for letting Almeria goad her into speaking unprepared.

  “Aunt Alice?” came a voice from the doorway. Almeria’s son, Gerald, Lord Thornton, entered the room.

  “Gerald, my dear boy, safe home at last!” Almeria turned to her guests and explained, “My son was in a curricle race, all the way to Brighton. So dashing! And so dangerous. Tell me, dearest boy, did you break the Prince Regent’s record?”

  “No, Mother, I did not.” He turned to Alice and bowed over her hand. “Aunt Alice, how lovely to see you. You’re looking ver
y well, I must say.”

  Alice greeted him, thankful for the distraction. Gerald had always been a favorite of hers. Almeria’s guests were sitting up, the older ladies beaming, and the two young ones blushing and smoothing their skirts. Alice suddenly realized why Almeria was entertaining two very young ladies and their mothers.

  “Your aunt claims she is sponsoring a young lady for the season,” Almeria said as Gerald sat down.

  “That sounds exciting, Aunt Alice.”

  “I hope so,” Alice agreed.

  “A young lady’s come-out is an expensive matter. How can you possibly afford it?” Almeria said.

  Alice ignored her. It was none of her business, and to ask such a question before guests was the height of rudeness.

  “Mother,” Gerald said in quiet reproof.

  His mother pouted. “Well, it is expensive.”

  Gerald turned to Alice with a warm smile. “I hope you’re coming to my party next week, Aunt Alice.”

  “Party?” Alice said blankly.

  “For my birthday.” Gerald turned to his mother. “You did invite Aunt Alice, didn’t you, Mother? I particularly asked you.”

  “Of course I invited her.” Almeria shrugged. “It must have gone missing in the post. In any case, it’s a small family party, a simple ‘at home’, hardly worth her attending.”

  Since all Almeria’s invitations were hand delivered, the excuse fooled no one.

  “In that case, I’ll invite Aunt Alice, and her guest, myself,” Gerald said.

  His mother’s thin lips thinned further.

  At that point the other guests reluctantly acknowledged their visit had, sadly, extended past the time generally accepted for morning calls. They rose and took their leave, pressing invitations on Lord Thornton to parties and visits to the theater and rides in the park—to all of which Gerald responded with charm while at the same time managing to avoid accepting any of them.

  Alice seized the opportunity to escape with them. Explaining that she had errands to run, she hurried away.

  * * *

  * * *

  As soon as the guests had left, Gerald turned to his mother. “That was not well done of you, Mother. You know Aunt Alice is not well off.”

  His mother pouted. “So you constantly claim, but sponsoring a young lady is an expensive enterprise, so you see, she must have money. Your father was right not to give her an allowance.”

  “Uncle Thaddeus didn’t leave her a penny. It’s a damned disgrace.”

  “Gerald! Such language.”

  “Well, it is.” Gerald was unrepentant. “Father inherited everything, so it’s his responsibility to make the provision for his brother’s widow that his wretched brother failed to.”

  “Nonsense! If Alice can waste money bringing out some girl nobody’s ever heard of, she clearly has money to spare. Unless the girl really is a lodger, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least, Alice having no sense of what is appropriate to her position.”

  Gerald blanched. “Lodger? What makes you think—”

  “And if she actually is short of money, she can do what everyone else does—find herself another husband and get out of our hair.”

  “Mother!”

  His mother lifted a hand. “That’s enough, Gerald! I’ve had quite enough of dreary Alice for today. I won’t hear another word about her.” She patted the seat beside her. “Now come over here and tell me how you found Lady Elizabeth. Or do you prefer her cousin, Miss Pumphrey?”

  “Neither,” he said absently. If his aunt really had taken in a lodger, she was in worse straits than he’d thought. He’d argued repeatedly with his father about the need to make her an allowance—Uncle Thaddeus had cheated Alice and her unworldly father in the matter of marriage settlements, and as far as Gerald was concerned, it was a stain on the family honor to have the dowager countess left in such dire straits. Besides, he was fond of her.

  But his father was a complete penny-pinch and even made Gerald—his heir and only son—a miserly allowance, hoping to make him dance to his tune. And his mother despised Alice and wouldn’t hear of giving her any support.

  “Both young ladies seemed very taken with you,” his mother continued.

  Gerald repressed a sigh. His mother was forever throwing eligible young ladies at his head, citing his need to beget an heir, but at twenty-seven, he was in no hurry to settle down. His early adulthood had been spent overseas, part of an army at war. Having sold out after Waterloo, and then finding himself raised to the peerage, courtesy of his uncle’s death, he was enjoying the diversions of peacetime London. And was in no mood to find a leg shackle just yet.

  He rose. “Thank you, Mother, I’m off.” He wanted to catch Alice for a private word.

  “Won’t you stay for dinner? We have guests and you’d be most welc—”

  “Sorry, Mother, I have other plans.” He didn’t, but he knew what kind of dinner his mother would arrange: one with a blushing young lady seated on either side of him. He’d taken lodgings in town for this very reason—he valued his independence. And it limited his mother’s opportunities to thrust potential brides at him.

  Gerald hurried out into the street, ran to the corner and looked both ways. Yes, there was Alice, crossing Berkeley Square, all on her own. She ought to have a footman or maid with her, but he doubted she could afford it. Her situation was a disgrace.

  He ran after her. “Alice, Aunt Alice!”

  She turned and watched his approach with a faint frown. “Is something the matter?” she said when he arrived.

  “I’m not sure—is there?”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Mother said—” He broke off as a sudden spatter of drops fell. “Look, it’s going to rain. Let us go into Gunter’s. We can talk while we wait out the rain.”

  She opened her mouth as if to argue, but the heavens opened, and they ran the short distance to Gunter’s and entered with rain pelting down behind them. They found a table, and Gerald ordered a pot of tea and some almond biscuits.

  When their tea arrived, Gerald said, “Mother said you’ve taken in a lodger. Is that true?”

  She made an annoyed sound. “Oh, what nonsense. Almeria was just making mischief. You know her way. I do have a young lady staying with me, and it pleased your mother to call her a lodger. But she is a guest.”

  He lowered his voice. “Are you sure, Aunt Alice? Because if you are in financial difficulties, I could speak to Father again and—”

  “I said I wasn’t, Gerald.” She laid a gloved hand on his arm. “It’s kind of you to trouble yourself, but really, my situation is not your responsibility.”

  “No, it’s my father’s,” he said bitterly. “But he will do nothing. But if she’s not a lodger, who is this girl? Mother said nobody has ever heard of her.”

  “Lucy Bamber is my goddaughter. I’m perfectly all right, and there’s no need for you to worry. Now please, let us drop the subject.” She fixed him with a bright, determined smile. “Tell me, how did your race go?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Lady Charlton had gone out, which meant Lucy was free to do what she liked. She finished unpacking her things—it didn’t take long: she didn’t have much. She prowled around the room, picked up a novel, put it down, picked up another one. Both were books she’d been planning to read, but that garden, so green and private, enticed her.

  Who did it belong to? It was spacious and beautiful, but each time she looked, it was empty. Typical of rich people: they had all these beautiful things just for show and didn’t use them.

  She crept down the stairs and slipped out into the back courtyard while Mrs. Tweed’s back was turned. There was a black wrought iron fence and gate at the end of the small courtyard. She tried it. Locked. Of course. People locked everything in London.

  She peered through the
railings. Nobody in the garden at all. What a waste. A big tree grew just inside the garden, with one large branch hanging over the fence. She eyed it thoughtfully.

  She never had been one for following the rules, and who cared anyway? If the owners of this gorgeous garden weren’t using it . . .

  A small, round wrought iron table stood in the corner of the courtyard. She dragged it to the fence, climbed onto it, tucked up the skirts of the horrid orange dress, and used the branch to swing herself over the fence. She dropped to the ground, grinning. She was in.

  She walked the paths carefully, keeping an eye out for an owner, or an angry gardener, but there was not a soul, only the birds and a red squirrel that eyed her cheekily before bounding up an oak.

  Time disappeared as she explored, lost in a new world, until a few heavy drops of rain startled her back to awareness. The clouds overhead loomed thick and slaty: this wasn’t a quick shower then. Bother.

  She ran to the pretty little glass building and tried the door, but it was locked. The rain grew heavier. Her wet skirts clung to her, cold and clammy against her legs.

  She tried to shelter under a big tree, but lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, and she recalled something about how lightning was attracted to trees.

  She returned to the tree that overhung Lady Charlton’s courtyard, but it was wet, and the trunk was too slippery to climb, and she had nothing to climb on to reach the branch. Feeling like a fool, she nerved herself to call out. “Mrs. Tweed? Tweed? Is anyone there?”

  Eventually Mrs. Tweed poked her head out the back door and, exclaiming distressfully, she hurried out with a large key. Tweed followed with a big black umbrella.

  Mrs. Tweed unlocked the gate, clucking over Lucy like a mother hen. “Oh, my dear, however did you get locked out? Look at you—you’re soaked to the skin. Come in, come in. Tweed, fetch hot water for the young lady’s bath. She’ll take it in the kitchen, where it’s warm and toasty.”

  Lucy stared as Tweed relocked the gate and hung the big iron key just inside the back door. There was a key. Why hadn’t she asked?