The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

The girls—and Lucy—oohed and aahed over the sight, and for the first ten minutes there was no sound at the table other than “Please pass the . . .” and the sound of chewing and blissful sighs.

  Mrs. Tweed had provided a large pot of tea, but there was also milk for the children or lemonade, cold, tart-sweet and refreshing, which Alice chose. Lord Tarrant drank the tea but accepted a glass of wine when Tweed offered it to him.

  He ate some of everything but particularly favored the sausage rolls, as well as the cream-filled sponge and the number cakes. He was finishing his third sausage roll when he looked up and caught her watching him.

  “You were ravenous,” she said.

  He gave her a slow smile. “Yes, but I wasn’t talking about food.” Again his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  What was he looking at? She had a weakness for cream cakes, and she also loved the sugar-coated grapes. Was cream or sugar stuck to her lip? Fighting a blush, she picked up a napkin and scrubbed at her lips.

  His smile deepened, but all he said was, “Your cook is very good.” Three little girls looked up and nodded, their mouths full.

  “Papa,” Judy said after swallowing a mouthful of cake, “it wasn’t really Miss Bamber’s fault that we climbed the tree. I went up first and the others followed.”

  “Not true!” Debo said. “I was first! I won.”

  “Actually, the cat went up first, and Debo followed,” Lucy interjected.

  Lord Tarrant held up a hand, stopping a babble of argument. “Enough. Neither Lady Charlton nor I have any interest in who climbed what. The rule from now on is that there must be a responsible adult present before anything like that happens again. It could be dangerous.”

  “Is Miss Bamber a responsible adult?” Judy asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Now, I’m assuming you don’t want any more of this delicious food, so shall I ask Mr. Tweed to take it away?”

  His answer was immediate silence, and a renewed attention to the food at hand. Alice laughed softly. He certainly knew how to handle children. “You said you were having trouble finding a kitten of a suitable age,” she said quietly, aware of the small ears further along the table. “I might have a suggestion.”

  A dark brow rose. He gave an encouraging nod.

  “An acquaintance of mine, Beatrice, Lady Davenham, runs a literary society that I occasionally attend. She has several cats, and often has kittens. She’s too softhearted to drown them, and is forever foist—er, bestowing them on her friends. I could make inquiries, if you like.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you.” In the same low undervoice, he said, “Did you hear that, Debo?”

  The little girl nodded and said with her mouth full of cake, “Yes, Lady Charlton’s getting me a kitten from a Bee lady with lots of cats. When?”

  “Ears like a bat when it comes to Things Feline,” he told Alice.

  Alice chuckled. “The literary society meets tomorrow. I’ll take Lucy.”

  Lucy pulled a face. “Literary society?”

  “You’ll like it. I promise.”

  Chapter Ten

  That swine Bamber has been threatening Alice again, damn his impudence!” Thornton told James. It was early morning, the dew was still on the ground, and James and Thornton were on horseback. After a good fast gallop to sweep the cobwebs away, they were now walking their mounts and talking. Hyde Park was almost deserted, except for a family that rode out together most mornings.

  James gave him a sharp look. “Threatening? How?”

  “Sent her a note complaining that the girl wasn’t being seen with enough lords—can you believe the fellow’s insisting his daughter must marry someone titled?” He snorted. “He also sent a copy of one of the letters he’s blackmailing her with, threatening to make it public.”

  To whom had she written those letters, James wondered again. “Did you see it?”

  “No, she burnt it.”

  They rode on. James was thoughtful. Why would Bamber send Alice a copy of one of her own letters? To frighten her? It obviously had, if she’d told Gerald about it. But she’d burnt it, so she obviously was too ashamed to let him see it.

  “Has Radcliffe’s man—what was his name again?—discovered anything yet?”

  Thornton nodded. “Heffernan. He’s good, I’ll give him that. He hasn’t found Bamber—he’s a slippery bastard—but he’s already discovered a number of men who’ve been cheated by Bamber.”

  “Cheated? How?”

  “All kinds of cheats and swindles. You name it—financial schemes that turned out to be false, counterfeit deeds and certificates, fraudulent share schemes, card cheats, the sale of land he didn’t own. Quite inventive, really.”

  “And blackmail?”

  Thornton’s mouth twisted. “Harder to tell, according to Heffernan. Blackmail is the kind of thing people are more likely to deny, to hide. Cheat them out of their life savings and they’ll scream the house down, but blackmail them and they’ll deny there was ever anything to be blackmailed about. Understandable, I suppose.”

  A breeze sprang up as they were passing under a spreading oak, and drops of water spattered down on them.

  “None of the men we questioned knew anything about his daughter, howev—”

  James twisted in his saddle to stare at Thornton. “Good God! You didn’t ask them directly?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Thornton retorted irritably. “I know better than to draw the attention of angry, vengeful men to Bamber’s daughter. Lord, they’d have the girl for breakfast.” He brushed water droplets off his coat. “I simply asked whether they knew of any family—as a way of contacting him. None of them knew a thing.”

  “And you believe them?”

  Thornton nodded. “If they had any way of contacting him, they would have done so, believe me. His victims are out for his blood. The fellow has to be one step away from a one-way journey to Botany Bay, if not a lynching. No wonder he’s so hard to find.”

  “All the more reason to keep these inquiries discreet. I won’t have Lady Charlton and Miss Bamber bothered any further by Bamber’s nonsense than they already have been.”

  Thornton gave him a quizzical look. “You won’t have my aunt bothered?”

  James gave him a level look. “No.”

  “Then perhaps I should ask you again about your intentions in that direction.”

  “My intentions?” James responded. “Breakfast. My girls will be up and dressed by now. I don’t want to keep them waiting. We always take our breakfast together. ’Morning, Thornton. Thanks for keeping me up to date with the investigation.”

  “But I meant—” Thornton began, but James was already cantering away.

  * * *

  * * *

  Gerald’s visit to the Horse Guards had been an eye-opener. He’d found it fascinating working with Heffernan over the last few days, but it had been even more interesting listening to Tarrant and Radcliffe discussing the situation in post–Napoleonic Europe, on which they’d spent quite some time in that initial visit, before moving on to the question of Bamber.

  He’d never given much thought to what happened after a war was won—or lost—but it was clear from their talk that a war of a different kind was being conducted on a number of different fronts, only now it wasn’t called war—it was called diplomacy.

  Gerald had always assumed diplomacy was a dull kind of career, where dull people attended dull functions and made or listened to endless dull speeches. He hadn’t realized that under that smooth, polite surface appearance, all kinds of exciting things could be happening.

  Several times during the discussion he’d felt Radcliffe’s gaze resting on him with a thoughtful expression. Once this Bamber problem was dealt with, he might investigate the possibilities of the diplomatic service. It would be a change from frittering his life away with curricle races and card games and box
ing matches, endlessly waiting for his father to allow him some responsibilities.

  But first, the hunt for Bamber. It was all very well for Aunt Alice to assure him that the Bamber girl knew nothing about her father’s whereabouts, but Gerald wasn’t convinced. Aunt Alice was a soft touch, and Lucy Bamber—well, she was a tricky, twisty piece. He didn’t know quite what to think of her. She attracted and annoyed him in equal quantities. And she occupied far too much of his thinking time.

  He decided to ask her straight-out, face-to-face. He fancied himself a reasonable judge of character: if she lied to his face, he would know.

  To that end, he sought out her and Alice in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. His aunt was in her favorite burgundy pelisse, and Miss Bamber was walking on the arm of a large, neatly attired gentleman, smiling up at him with every appearance of interest.

  Gerald ground his teeth. What the devil was she doing with that crashing bore Humphrey Ffolliot? And what the devil was he doing to make her smile up at him like that, curse him?

  She was looking exceptionally pretty in shades of yellow, a breath of sunshine beneath a flower-trimmed straw bonnet that framed her face charmingly.

  This was an investigation, he reminded himself sternly. He was not swayed by charm—hers or any other female’s. He drew up beside them, greeted the ladies, gave a curt nod to Ffolliot and invited Miss Bamber to take a turn around the park with him in his curricle. Her creamy complexion flushed with surprised pleasure and, assisted with pompous ceremony by Humphrey blasted Ffolliot, who acted far too possessive for Gerald’s liking, she climbed up lightly to take the seat beside him.

  Part of her dress floated up and settled over his boot. He carefully removed it and shifted his leg so that they didn’t touch. He needed no distractions for this, and as it was, Miss Lucy Bamber was all too distracting for his peace of mind.

  “Ffolliot, eh?” he said as the curricle moved off. “Can’t imagine what you could possibly see in that fellow.”

  “Can’t you?” she said with a provocative glance. “And yet you introduced him to me as an eligible prospect.”

  Damn. He’d forgotten that.

  She added in a dulcet tone, “Mr. Ffolliot has been setting my opinions right. I had no idea how ignorant I was, being a mere foolish female. Such a masterful man.”

  Gerald snorted. If that’s the sort of fellow she admired, more fool her.

  They drove on in silence. She sat beside him looking pretty and guileless and all butter-wouldn’t-melt, a little smile playing around her delectable mouth. But he knew—he just knew—that underneath that angelic exterior, she was as devious and deceitful and disingenuous as her scoundrel of a father. She had to be. She was the whole purpose of his vile scheme. The contrast, the cheek of her, infuriated him. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. Or kiss her senseless. Which would be madness.

  She sat there smiling gently to herself as if she knew something he didn’t, and enjoyed knowing it, all the while pretending to be simply enjoying the park and the sunshine and the wretched tweeting birds. Little Miss Innocent.

  They reached a quiet corner of the park, and Gerald brought his horses to a stop and turned to her. “Miss Bamber.”

  She turned to him and the soft, expectant light in her eyes caused him to catch his breath.

  Female wiles. He hardened his heart. “I’ve met several men recently who knew your father.” He had to know whether she was involved with her father’s schemes, or if she even knew about them. And if she was involved, how much?

  Her eyes narrowed. “Checking up on me, Lord Thorncrake?”

  He refused to react. “Checking up on your father.”

  “You mean raking up dirt.” Her mouth twisted cynically. “And hoping to find some dirt on me, too, I suppose.”

  He arched a sardonic brow. “If the cap fits.”

  Her mouth tightened. She gazed out across the park, saying nothing.

  “You will admit, I hope, that I have a right to investigate your father, considering what he’s doing to my aunt.”

  “You mean the blackmail.”

  His brows flew up. “You know about that?” Alice had given him no indication that Miss Bamber knew anything about it.

  She gave a careless flip of her hand. “Only that it exists, not what it involves.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Why so surprised? There had to be some reason why Alice took me in, a perfect stranger. She told me about it when I tried to wriggle out of the whole mad scheme.”

  “Mad scheme?”

  “To marry me off to a lord.” She gave a scornful huff. “Ridiculous.”

  Why ridiculous, he wondered. Most girls wanted to marry into the aristocracy. He had the evidence of his own sudden popularity after his uncle died and his father became Lord Charlton and Gerald became Viscount Thornton. Females who’d never given him a second thought now hung on his every word and gave every indication that he was the finest fellow in the world.

  He wasn’t sure he believed her claim. “Why would you want to wriggle out of it?”

  She turned her head and met his gaze squarely. “Because I don’t like lords, and I can’t think of anything worse than to be married to one.”

  He blinked. “How do you know you don’t like lords? We’re not all the same, you know. ‘Lord’ is just a word, a title—it doesn’t tell you anything about the man who bears it.”

  She snorted. “It’s not just a word. It’s an attitude, a belief about one’s importance in the world. A lord thinks—no, he knows—that the world is his oyster. And that everyone else is some kind of lesser being put on this earth for his pleasure and convenience.”

  “That’s a revolting attitude!”

  “I know, which is why I could never bring myself to marry a lord.”

  “No, I meant your attitude toward lords. How do you that that’s what they think?”

  “I’ve met plenty of lords, and I know.”

  Her certainty annoyed him. “Where? How have you met this vast profusion of lords? You’ve only been in London a short while.”

  “Lords also infest the countryside, you know. I met dozens when I lived with the c—a grand lady I was living with.”

  “Another grand lady?” he said sarcastically.

  “Yes, a French comtesse,” she said coolly. “And she had grand visitors—lords and ladies, marquesses and dukes—coming to stay with her all the time.”

  “A French comtesse,” he repeated in a flat voice. What nonsense. “In France, was it?”

  “No, in England, not far from Brighton. She kept a pet goose.” Her sherry-colored eyes taunted him. “The goose you tried to run over.”

  “I did not try to run the blasted thing over. I stopped!”

  She gave an indifferent shrug, dismissing his words as she so often seemed to do. Gerald held on to his temper. She was trying to annoy him, and he refused to let her win.

  “And did your father blackmail her too?”

  She sent him a scathing look. “No, he made a different arrangement. Do you think it will rain later?” she said, making clear the conversation was closed as far as she was concerned.

  Gerald begged to differ. They drove down an avenue of trees, and something else she’d said occurred to him. “You said Alice took you in, ‘a perfect stranger,’ but I thought you were my aunt’s goddaughter. Was that a lie?” If so, he’d be surprised. Alice never told lies.

  “No, she really is my godmother.”

  “Then in what sense were you a stranger?”

  “Oh, work it out yourself,” she snapped. Color rose in her cheeks. “Is this what this drive is all about? Getting me alone so you could confront me about the sins of my father? Looking for reasons to blame me? Because if so—”

  “I have the right to look out for my aunt’s interests. She is family, after all.”

  “Oh,
‘family,’ is it?” she flashed. “Then why has the current Lord Charlton—your father—done nothing to help Alice out of the financial difficulties her husband—his brother, your uncle, the previous Lord Charlton—left her in? Yes, of course I know about it. And don’t you dare imagine that Alice has breathed a word of it. She’s far too proud to say anything, but servants let things slip, you know. And I have eyes and a brain. It’s obvious.”

  Gerald shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He completely agreed, but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

  She continued in a low, vehement voice, “As for your mother”—Gerald winced in anticipation—“she loses no opportunity to belittle Alice in front of others. A fine family you can boast of. But do I blame you for your uncle’s selfishness or your father’s miserly neglect of his duty or your mother’s bitchiness? No! So don’t blame me for my father’s dirty dealing! I blackmailed no one, I stole nothing, and I’ve never cheated anyone in my life!” Unshed tears glittered in her eyes.

  She breathed in a deep, ragged breath. “So how do you think I feel, knowing my father has made me the instrument of ruin for a dear, kind lady like Alice? And the only way I can prevent it is by marrying the kind of man I most despise!”

  Gerald stared at her. That aspect of things hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “Oh, look—there is Mr. Frinton.” Leaning out of the curricle, she waved vigorously.

  Corney Frinton, dressed up like a dog’s dinner, spotted her and, beaming, maneuvered his phaeton to come up beside them.

  “Miss Bamber, Gerald,” he managed, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously.

  “How splendid to see you again, Mr. Frinton,” Miss Bamber said warmly. “And what a very smart outfit you’re wearing. So stylish and elegant.”

  She was practically gushing, Gerald thought sourly, overdoing it, lavishing compliments on his friend just to annoy him, not that poor old Corney would realize. Corney Frinton would be over the moon if any female under eighty noticed him, let alone a pretty young thing like Lucy Bamber.