by Anne Gracie
“And you say this villain is using these letters to blackmail Lady Charlton?” James said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know what’s in them?”
Thornton shook his head. “She wouldn’t say. Just that they were very personal and private, and she would be devastated if they were made public.”
Love letters, then, James thought. It surprised him. She didn’t seem the type to conduct an illicit affair. He couldn’t deny that he felt a little disappointed. It wasn’t the impression he’d had of her.
Still, she was in trouble, and he’d agreed to help.
“What have you done so far to track him down?”
Thornton outlined everything he’d done, ending with, “He’s a slippery damned weasel.”
“And are we sure that Miss Bamber isn’t involved? She’s not hiding her father’s whereabouts, for instance.”
Thornton pursed his lips. “Aunt Alice is convinced that Miss Bamber is as much a victim as she is, but I’m not so sure. What kind of man would blackmail a stranger to take in his daughter and then give her no way of contacting him? It’s not credible. What if something went wrong? Bamber has no way of knowing that Aunt Alice has a heart as soft as butter.”
James nodded. It did seem most unlikely.
“Did you question Lady Charlton’s butler?”
“About any letters posted? Yes, but Tweed said Miss Bamber hasn’t left any to be posted. I suppose she could have posted something herself, but she goes nowhere unaccompanied, so it would be quite difficult to slip away and contact her father.”
But needs must, James thought. His eleven-year-old daughter had managed to get a letter to him, even if she’d been caught doing it. Or maybe, as things stood at the moment, Miss Bamber felt no need to contact her father.
“You seem to have done everything possible to find the man,” James said. “What do you think I can do?”
Thornton looked a little self-conscious. “I was thinking that fellow you know in the Horse Guards—Radcliffe, isn’t it?—might be able to help.”
James considered it. Radcliffe didn’t usually involve himself in private matters like this, but he supposed there was no harm in asking his advice. He knew people, did Radcliffe.
“There’s no guarantee he’ll be able to help.”
Thornton nodded. “I know, but I’d feel better knowing we have explored every possible avenue. Alice is a good person. She doesn’t deserve to be under someone’s thumb like this. Not now, when she’s finally free.”
Finally free. An interesting turn of phrase to use about a relatively recent widow, James thought.
“What can you tell me about her marriage?” Thornton hesitated, and James added, “It would seem to have a bearing on the blackmail.”
Thornton acknowledged the truth of that with a long sigh. “Uncle Thaddeus was . . . I think he was a bit of bully.”
“Think?” James remembered him from school. He was a nasty piece of work back then.
Gerald wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “The thing is, he could be quite charming in public. The ladies seemed to love him. But the way he treated my father—Papa was a younger son, you know, and Uncle Thaddeus used to, I don’t know, rub Papa’s nose in it. Papa was dependent on him for everything—he’d been left nothing in Grandpapa’s will—but Grandpapa expected Uncle Thaddeus to make over one of the lesser estates to Papa’s management and use. That’s the way it’s always been done in our family. Only Uncle Thaddeus didn’t.”
James could see that the issue rankled. From what he gathered, Thornton’s father had done exactly the same to Thornton as his uncle had done to him. But that wasn’t the issue that concerned him at the moment. “And how did your uncle treat his wife?”
“He wasn’t . . . kind. When there was only family present, he treated her, oh, like a servant. Dismissively. As if she didn’t matter. Quite cruelly at times.”
James stiffened. “Physically?”
Thornton shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His lack of certainty set James’s teeth on edge. “It was a different kind of cruelty, like a cat toying with a mouse. Embarrassing her, making cutting comments, humiliating her in front of others.”
James’s hands closed into fists. To treat such a gentle lady so . . .
“For instance, he never lost an opportunity to belittle her, especially in front of my mother. Alice is barren, you know, and I don’t recall a single occasion when Uncle Thaddeus didn’t mention the fact, directly or indirectly. He had a very cutting tongue.”
“Why particularly in front of your mother?”
Thornton gave a shamefaced grimace. “Mama used to encourage him. She’s never liked Aunt Alice, I don’t know why. It’s not fair. Alice doesn’t deserve any of it; she’s the kindest person.”
There was a short silence. James thought that Thornton was probably wondering the same thing he was: If Charlton had been openly cruel to his wife in company, what must he have been like in private?
“But if she did have a lover,” Thornton burst out, as if he’d been having a silent argument with himself, “I, for one, don’t blame her. She deserved some happiness in her life. Didn’t she? Well, didn’t she?”
His words hung in the air. James didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what he thought about it at the moment. He was appalled by what Thornton had told him about her marriage. But infidelity? His emotions were all over the place.
“Any idea who this lover might have been?”
Thornton shook his head. “I don’t think I ever even saw her with a man, except at balls and parties. But that doesn’t prove anything, I suppose.”
“I don’t really care about the lover,” James said, surprising himself, “but if we knew who he was, we could follow him up. He must surely know something about Bamber, if he gave—or sold—him the letters.” And if he did hand over private love letters from Lady Charlton, the man deserved a damned good thrashing.
“So will you speak to Radcliffe?”
“Yes, I’ll call on him tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
“Of course.” They made arrangements to meet the next morning, then Thornton thanked him and left. James poured himself another brandy and pondered the question of Lady Charlton and her secret lover.
He couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. But that was foolish. At his age, he should know better than to put people on pedestals.
So she was human. But he’d stake everything he owned that she wasn’t a wanton. In fact he’d thought her quite shy of men. He’d flirted with her in the mildest way, and she’d practically run a mile.
And as far as he could see, she made no effort to encourage the attentions of other men. Quite the contrary.
So if she’d had a secret lover—and he wasn’t sure of that, though what else could those letters be about?—it must have been for love, rather than the boredom or neglect that drove many wives to infidelity. And given the shameful way her husband had treated her, who could blame her for that?
It was a mystery. But it wasn’t going to hold him back from doing everything he could to help her.
And did this revelation of her past change how he felt about her? Did it make him want her any less? He swirled the last of his brandy, inhaled the potent fumes and considered the question.
The answer he found was, quite clearly, no. Well, then . . .
* * *
* * *
The following day Lord Tarrant sent a note to Alice, informing her he was back in London and adding that he was looking forward to introducing her to his daughters.
Alice read the note through several times, looking for some hidden meaning, but there was none. She responded with a note inviting him and his daughters to afternoon tea the day afterward.
As soon as it had gone, she felt absurdly nervous. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. A daytime visi
t by three small girls and their father was nothing to be nervous about. Besides, Lucy would be there.
She’d thought of him far too often for her peace of mind, the image of his tall person and those mesmerizing gray eyes popping up in her thoughts at odd moments throughout the day. And especially at night.
But it was ridiculous to imagine she’d missed him. She hardly knew him.
He’d made it clear that he just wanted friendship from her, she reminded herself. Friendship! Which suited her perfectly.
But did friendship mean the same thing to him that it did to her? There were times when she’d noticed an intense look in his eyes that seemed to indicate more than just friendship. It was that look that disturbed her, and generated unsettling feelings in her, feelings she’d never had before, sometimes when he wasn’t even there. Feelings that seemed to be guiding her to the edge of some unknown cliff.
Oh, what nonsense. She was a mature woman, past her prime, and he knew she wasn’t interested in marrying again. She’d also made it plain to him that she wasn’t the kind of widow who’d welcome men to her bed. It was just afternoon tea, for heaven’s sake.
Mrs. Tweed was thrilled when Alice told her there would be a gentleman and three small girls coming for afternoon tea. She immediately went into a frenzy of baking plans, which only exacerbated Alice’s nerves. “Whatever you think best, Mrs. Tweed. I’m sure you’ll do us proud,” she said and scuttled out of the kitchen in fine cowardly form.
* * *
* * *
The day of the visit by Lord Tarrant and his children dawned clear and sunny. Lucy was up early and disappeared into the garden, as she did most mornings. Delicious scents floated from the kitchen, as did the sound of singing, loud and slightly off-key. Mrs. Tweed was in a good mood. Children in the house, at last.
Alice pushed that thought from her mind. It wasn’t a reproach. Mrs. Tweed was just happy. She liked children, and she enjoyed baking. And it was a lovely day, and not too hot.
Tweed, too, had been fussing around all morning, making sure everything was in perfect order. Fresh flowers in the hallway and drawing room. Floors polished and smelling faintly of beeswax, cushions plumped, windows washed, the silverware shining—all days before the usual household routine.
One would imagine the King was coming to call.
As the time grew closer, Alice dithered about what to wear. She didn’t want to appear to be dressing up for him. She wasn’t dressing up for him. It was just an ordinary afternoon visit. With small children, who would no doubt end up with sticky hands from the delicacies that Mrs. Tweed was making.
But she didn’t want to look drab, either. Neat and quietly à la mode would do, she finally decided, then emptied her wardrobe looking for something neat but not too stylish. She finally settled on one of her old mourning dresses, a dove gray dimity frock. It was a little on the drab side, but if there were any doubt about her intentions, it would send a subtle message. She was not trying to attract.
Her maid, Mary, eyed the chosen dress disapprovingly. “You’re not wearing that, are you, m’lady? Not for afternoon tea with his lordship and the little girls.” Clearly Alice’s entire household was taking a very different view of the purpose behind the visit.
“Yes, Mary, I am. I don’t know why everyone is making a fuss. We have visitors for afternoon tea all the time.”
Mary sniffed, and fastened the dress with an expressionless face that fooled Alice not at all. “At least wear this, m’lady,” she said, draping a lacy cream shawl around Alice’s shoulders.
Alice pushed it off. “No, I don’t like wearing shawls when taking tea. They always slide off me.” Or the ends fell into her teacup.
“Then what about this?” Mary brought out a three-quarter-sleeved, dark-cherry-pink spencer. It was an old favorite, and Alice had almost forgotten she owned it, but she had to admit it suited the dress perfectly, without making her feel as though she’d gone to any special effort. She gazed at her reflection in the looking glass and nodded. It would do.
* * *
* * *
Alice paced restlessly around the drawing room awaiting the arrival of Lord Tarrant and his children, and she was rearranging the flowers for the fifth time when Tweed knocked on the door.
“This communication just arrived, m’lady.” He held a silver salver, on which sat a letter. “Delivered by an Unknown Person. I found it slipped under the door. Shall I burn it, or do you want to read it?” His expression made his own preference clear.
Alice held out her hand. “No, I’ll read it. You didn’t see who delivered it?”
“No, m’lady.”
Tweed retreated. Alice could think of only one person who would send her a letter by such means. She broke open the seal, unfolded the letter and another piece of paper fell out. She picked it up, set it aside and read the letter. Just as she thought, it was from Bamber.
Lady Charlton,
I am extremely disappointed. So far my daughter has been seen being escorted by various undistinguished Misters, one Viscount—your own nephew—but no Earls or Dukes. It is Not Good Enough. I made it Very Clear to you that she is to marry a Titled Man. To refresh your memory of our agreement, I have enclosed a Reminder—a copy only. I hold all the originals.
Octavius Bamber, esq.
She unfolded the enclosed paper and glanced at the contents. Bile rose in her throat. She crumpled the copy in her fist. She did not need to read the whole thing. She remembered the occasion . . .
She walked over to the fireplace and threw the letter in the fire. She watched as it briefly flamed then slowly turned to ash. Oh, that all her problems could so easily be destroyed.
But what to do?
She is to marry a Titled Man . . .
It seemed she’d been unduly optimistic in assuming that Bamber’s main desire was to see his daughter settled securely and happily. This letter made it clear that all he cared about was a title.
If only the wretched man had called in person, she would have talked to him, tried to convince him that Lucy’s happiness mattered more than any title. But he’d probably paid some urchin to deliver the letter. He must know that the money he’d given her for Lucy’s expenses had run out by now.
She had promised not to force Lucy into an unwelcome marriage and she utterly refused to break that promise. And since Lucy was as determined as ever to eschew lords, it was more important than ever that Bamber’s hiding place was found and the letters retrieved and destroyed. He had, after all, broken his side of the agreement by not providing her with the money he’d said he would.
She sat down and penned a quick note to Gerald, then drank a cup of coffee to brace her nerves.
Octavius Bamber would not ruin her day.
* * *
* * *
Lord Tarrant and his daughters arrived right on time. He introduced Alice and Lucy to each girl in turn, starting with the oldest, Judith. She curtsied and greeted Alice with faint reserve, as if wondering just who Alice was and what their relationship was to be. Or maybe Alice was ascribing her own foolish imaginings to the child.
Simple friendship, she reminded herself.
The next daughter, Lina, also curtsied—it was clear the girls had been well trained—and murmured her greetings in a shy almost-whisper. She was a pretty child with blonde hair and wide blue eyes, and Alice wondered if she resembled her late mother. Judith’s gray eyes obviously came from her father, but otherwise there was no strong resemblance.
Of the three girls, the littlest, Deborah, looked most like him, with curly dark hair and wide gray eyes. She bobbed a quick, crooked curtsy and rattled off, “HowdoyoudoLadyCharltonMissBamber.” She glanced cautiously at her father, then added, “Yougotacat?”
Lord Tarrant gave Alice a look that was half amusement, half apology.
Alice gave a rueful smile. “Why, no, I’m sorry, Deb
orah. I’m afraid we haven’t.”
“Oh.” The small person scowled.
“There’s one that’s often in the garden,” Lucy said. “I’m not sure who it belongs to, but I often see it out there. A ginger tom, very friendly and well fed, so it obviously belongs to someone.”
Deborah’s eyes lit up. “Can we go see?” Judith nudged her, and Deborah added, “Pleeeeease.”
Lucy glanced at Alice for permission. Alice raised a brow in query at the children’s father. He sighed and nodded, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Lucy assured him. “It’s a glorious day. Shame to waste it by being inside. Come along girls.” She whisked all three girls away, leaving Alice alone in the drawing room with Lord Tarrant. Which had not been the plan. At all.
Those smoky-gray eyes . . .
She invited him to sit. “Sherry?”
“No, thank you.”
“Your daughters are charming.”
“Even ‘Yougotacat?’ Debo?”
She laughed. “She does seem rather more interested in cats than people.”
His eyes crinkled with amusement. “It was practically the first thing she said to me when we met. And now the first thing she says to me each morning is ‘Wegettingthatkittentoday?’ Which she repeats at intervals throughout the day.” His mouth quirked. “At that first meeting I did mention a vague possibility of getting a kitten. How was I to know she’d take it as a sacred oath signed in blood—my blood.”
Alice laughed.
“In my defense,” he added, “I had no idea quite how determined a person that small could be. She’s utterly relentless.” It was clear he adored the little despot.
“So are you going to get her a kitten?”
“Of course, if only to save my own sanity.” He gave a snort of amusement. “The headmistress of the school she was at told me that Debo had been checking the kitchen cat every day, waiting for it to give birth. ‘It’ being a very fat tom.”