The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

Corney swallowed, ran a gloved finger around his immaculately arranged collar and neckcloth, then gestured silently toward the seat beside his.

  “Take a turn around the park with you, Mr. Frinton?” she said. “Why, thank you. I’d be delighted.” And before Gerald had time to blink, she was clambering across from his curricle—without even setting foot on the ground—and Corney was solicitously helping her into his rig. As if she were some kind of delicate flower, which, Lord knew, she wasn’t.

  “Thank you for taking me up, Lord Thorncross,” she said across the gap. Her voice was flat and brittle and she didn’t even bother to look at him. “And for the lesson in family honor. Next time you think to invite me, don’t bother. Goodbye.”

  Corney blinked, gave Gerald a reproachful look, tipped his hat and drove away.

  Gerald watched her drive off with Corney. He owed her an apology, he knew he did. He didn’t want to apologize—he was still annoyed with her for reasons that weren’t clear to him—but he knew he’d gone too far. Alice had told him that Lucy wasn’t responsible for her father’s machinations, that Lucy was as much a victim as she herself was.

  But Gerald hadn’t believed her. Alice was such a softhearted woman.

  Now . . . The memory of Lucy Bamber’s pale, tense face, her eyes glittering with anger and indignation and . . . it looked almost like hurt, but it couldn’t be that, could it?

  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!

  He’d almost made her cry.

  I blackmailed no one, I stole nothing, and I’ve never cheated anyone in my life!

  It rang shockingly true.

  He watched the phaeton disappear, swallowed up by the crowd of fashionable carriages and horses, and a hollow feeling of shame—or was it loss?—lodged in his chest.

  What had he done?

  * * *

  * * *

  It being a fine day, James had decided to bring his daughters to the park, to see the fashionable people and horses—he caught himself up on the thought. Might as well admit it to himself. He was hoping to meet Lady Charlton again.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  He’d hired a barouche—he was trying out various carriages to see which would suit his enlarged family. Nanny McCubbin sat with a girl on either side of her, with Debo’s hand firmly clasped in hers, in case the little girl spied a cat somewhere and jumped out.

  Judy sat up beside her father, eyeing the colorful throng with interest, in particular the ladies on horseback. “Papa, when may I get a horse?”

  When, he noted, not may. But it was a reasonable question. All the girls needed to learn to ride. He’d had to teach their mother from scratch—Lady Fenwick had refused to allow her delicate daughter such a dangerous activity. Selina had taken to horseback like a duck to water. And as small children, both Judy and Lina had ridden up in front of their parents numerous times.

  “I’ll organize lessons for you first. Riding in London is not the same as riding in Spain.” Judy bounced on her seat with excitement.

  “Me too, Papa?” Lina asked.

  “You too,” he agreed.

  “Idonwannahorse. I. Want. A. Kitten,” said a gruff little voice.

  Up ahead, James spotted Lord Thornton’s curricle, pulling up beside Lady Charlton and Miss Bamber. Thornton took up Miss Bamber, leaving Lady Charlton alone in the company of that frightful bore, Ffolliot.

  “Look, there’s Lady Charlton,” he said, and the children and Nanny McCubbin craned to see her. He pulled up beside her. “Out you hop, girls. Stretch your legs,” he told the children, and helped Nanny McCubbin down.

  “Lady Charlton, would you care to take a turn around the park?” he said after the greetings were completed. Her look of thankfulness almost made him laugh. She climbed in with alacrity, and the barouche set off at once, leaving Nanny McCubbin and the children staring after him with mixed expressions.

  Ffolliot, having no interest in children and underlings, stalked off.

  “Thank goodness you happened this way,” Lady Charlton said. “I was ready to murder that man.”

  “No ‘happened’ about it. I saw you in the company of the biggest bore in London and came racing to the rescue, callously abandoning my children and their nanny in the process.”

  She laughed. “Thank you. But he’s not the biggest bore in London, I’m afraid. You clearly have not yet had the pleasure of the company of Mr. Cuthbert Carswell, pig breeder extraordinaire, who can talk for forty minutes at a stretch about the breeding of pigs—without ever being asked a question about anything! I promise you, he could outbore Mr. Ffoilliot.”

  He gave her a shocked look. “No! Ffoilliot is a member of one of my clubs, and I promise you nobody can empty a room faster. And you say this Carswell fellow is worse?”

  “Infinitely,” she said with feeling.

  “But how is it you are acquainted with these appalling windsuckers in the first place?”

  “My nephew introduced them to Lucy as likely prospects,” she said grimly.

  “Likely prospects? For what? Murder?”

  She laughed. “For marriage. Honestly, when I think of the gentlemen Gerald has introduced us to, I wonder what on earth he thinks eligible means!”

  “Impossible?”

  “Completely! Oh, they’re all wellborn, and each of them is well-off, I gather, but not one of them is the slightest bit likely to appeal to a lively girl like Lucy. I cannot imagine what Gerald was thinking.”

  “Can’t you?” he asked dryly.

  “No, I—” She gave him a thoughtful look. “You don’t mean . . .”

  He nodded. “Your nephew is no fool, so if he’s introducing impossible men to Miss Bamber, there’s a reason for it.”

  A faint crease appeared between her brows. “You don’t mean he wants her to fail, surely? When he knows the situation I am in.”

  “It’s more likely he wants them to fail—the impossible men.”

  “Ohhh,” she said on a long note. “I see what you mean. Do you know, several times I’ve thought those two were playing some sort of deep game. But honestly, if they have feelings for each other, why not say so—why not act on it instead of all this contrary rigmarole?”

  “Why not indeed,” he said meditatively. He gave her a thoughtful sidelong glance, opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again and decided not to say what was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he said, “I don’t know Lucy well enough to guess, but as for your nephew, I’m not sure he realizes it himself. He just knows who he doesn’t want her to marry. And thus, all these impossible men.”

  “What a devious boy he is. I am still cross with him, however. Do you know, at Vauxhall the other night, Gerald had the temerity to abandon Lucy and me to hours of Mr. Carswell lecturing us on pig breeds, the creation of and uses of—all with absolutely no encouragement! Gerald just walked off, leaving us stuck with Mr. Carswell in full porcine flight!”

  James couldn’t help laughing. “Flying pigs, were they?”

  Her lips twitched, but she managed to say with a fair attempt at indignation, “You, sir, are a callous beast, laughing at my misfortune. You may put me down at once.”

  “Here? In the middle of nowhere? Now that would be abandonment. Now, how shall we punish your nephew? String him up by his thumbs? Place him in the stocks? Or, better still, lock him in a cell with Ffolliot and your bacon-brained pig man.”

  “He is not my pig man.” She tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. “An hour with Carswell would teach you.”

  He patted her hand. “Poor love, you have endured some dreadful people, haven’t you?”

  There was a short silence. “What did you call me?” she said quietly.

  Ah. “When?” he sa
id unconvincingly.

  “You must not say such things,” she said after a moment. “It is not appropriate.”

  James took a deep breath. He hadn’t meant to raise this now, but the word had slipped out and the time had come. “I think it’s entirely appropriate.”

  She looked away from him, her gloved fingers knotting restlessly. “I told you when we first met that I wasn’t interested in anything other than friendship.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And using words of . . . of endearment is not fitting for a friendship between a man and a woman.”

  “What if I want more than friendship?”

  She shook her head distressfully. “No, no. It’s not possible.” He couldn’t see her face for the damned bonnet. He wanted to pull it off and toss it away.

  He placed a hand over her twisting fingers. “Look at me, Alice.”

  She stilled. “And you should not be calling me Alice. I have not given you permission.”

  “Look at me, please. We cannot discuss this with your face turned away from me.”

  “We’re not going to discuss it at all.” She finally turned her head, and he saw at once that she was distressed, more than he’d imagined. And it wasn’t simply a matter of propriety, so what was it?

  “It’s marriage I’m talking about, nothing dishonorable.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t—I won’t marry again.”

  “Why not?” he asked softly, and then when she remained silent, he added, “Can you not trust me a little? I promise you, I won’t bite.”

  She didn’t answer, just shook her head, her lips pressed together—to hide their trembling, he thought. What could be so distressing about an offer of marriage?

  “I don’t mean to press—”

  “Then don’t. Please take me back. Lucy will be back by now.”

  “Very well. I haven’t made this offer lightly, but I acknowledge that I’ve sprung it on you and that I could have chosen a more appropriate time and place. But we will talk about it again,” he said with gentle emphasis.

  “It will make no difference. My mind is made up.” And if he wasn’t mistaken, that sounded like flat despair.

  The carriage turned around, and they headed back toward the busier part of the park, where the fashionable people were parading. An awkward silence hung between them.

  * * *

  * * *

  Alice breathed slowly, trying hard to appear calm. Her hands were cold, her fingers trembling. She smoothed the fabric of her gloves over them and recalled the touch of Lord Tarrant’s hand over hers just a few moments earlier.

  She darted a sideways glance at him and found him watching her. The look in the eyes told her he was recalling it, too. And was puzzled by her abrupt rejection of him.

  She tried desperately to think of something ordinary to say. And remembered the card in her reticule. She pulled it out. “Oh, by the way, I spoke to Lady Beatrice—Lady Davenham, I mean; the lady with the cats—and she said she’d be delighted to give Debo a kitten. She gave me this card to give to you. It has her direction. There’s a note on the back.” She handed him the card.

  He examined it and chuckled. “I gather I’m to present this to her butler.” He read the writing on the back. “Admit Lord Tarrant and daughters on important kitten business.”

  “She said to call on her as soon as you liked.”

  “We’ll go today.”

  They reached Lucy, who was standing talking to a young man, with Lord Tarrant’s daughters and their nanny standing close by. The nanny was chaperoning Lucy, too, by the look of it. “Nanny McCubbin takes her duties seriously,” he commented. “She’s enjoying caring for the girls. My brother and I weren’t nearly such fun, I suspect.”

  Alice would have liked to learn more about Lord Tarrant and his brother, but the time for such confidences was gone, destroyed by his wretched intention to offer her marriage. Oh, why had he done it? They could never go back to their easy friendship now.

  “I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he told Alice. “At eleven?”

  She made an indifferent gesture. “If you must.” She climbed down, and the girls scrambled into the carriage, talking nineteen to the dozen. A passionate argument was in progress between Judy and the plump, motherly-looking nanny about some of the hats they’d seen ladies wearing and whether they were elegant or horrid with so many birds cruelly deprived of their feathers. The whole question hung on whether the poor birds would have survived their plucking or not. Nanny McCubbin was unable to state categorically that they did. What did Papa say?

  Lord Tarrant glanced at Alice with a humorously resigned expression, but she turned away, pretending not to see it. They couldn’t share such intimate glances any longer. But oh, it hurt.

  They waved the carriage and the girls off. “Are you all right, Alice?” Lucy said as it disappeared from sight. “You’re looking rather pale.”

  “A slight touch of the headache, nothing to worry about.”

  “Do you want to go home?”

  “No, a stroll in the fresh air will revive me. I’m fine.”

  But she wasn’t. Marriage! How could he deceive her like that when he’d offered her friendship? She’d been so enjoying their friendship, too—she’d never experienced anything like it. But it was all spoiled now. They could never go back to how it had been. She’d have to sever the connection.

  They strolled on. Ladies and gentlemen greeted them, bowed, made small talk. Alice went through the motions,

  Marriage. The whole idea appalled her. Under a man’s thumb again, subject to his whims and fancies, her own desires ignored, her opinions trampled underfoot. Belonging to a man, her body his to use as he willed, whenever and however he wanted.

  The marriage bed. She shuddered.

  “Are you cold?” Lucy asked.

  She shook her head and forced herself to pay attention. “Did you enjoy your drive with my nephew?”

  “Him? Hah!” They walked on, brooding in silence, stopping from time to time to exchange a brief greeting with an acquaintance.

  Alice responded absently, her mind wholly taken up with Lord Tarrant’s proposal. He wasn’t at all like Thaddeus, she told herself. But when she’d first met Thaddeus, he’d seemed charming—until after the marriage had taken place.

  Lucy suddenly said, “Lord Thornton didn’t invite me for a pleasant drive in the sunshine—it was to question me about my father. He’s been investigating me, did you know?”

  Alice did know, and it was her fault Gerald was looking into Lucy’s father’s background. Guiltily, she wondered whether she ought to confess to Lucy what she’d asked Gerald to do.

  “He’s trying to implicate me in Papa’s actions.”

  Alice gave her a sharp look. “But he can’t. You’re not complicit in your father’s actions—are you?”

  “No, of course I’m not.” Lucy gave her a hurt look. “Though I doubt your nephew, with his nasty, suspicious mind, believed me. He’s doing his best to paint me as some kind of an adventuress, which, to be fair, I suppose I am, though not”—she kicked at a stone on the path—“by my own choice. And then he had the cheek to lecture me about family!”

  “What about fam—?”

  Lucy rushed on, “You would have been proud of me Alice. I so wanted to hit him and knock that stupid, smug, superior expression off his face, but I managed to control myself. I was a lady—on the outside, at least. Luckily Mr. Frinton came past just then. He invited me to take a turn in his phaeton, so I went off with him, and I don’t care if it was rude to change carriages like that. He deserved it—Lord Thornton, I mean.”

  “I see. And how did you get on with Mr. Frinton?”

  “He was quite sweet. It was much pleasanter driving with him than it was with your horrid nephew—oh, I’m sorry, Alice. I know I shouldn’t say such things about you
r nephew, but honestly, he can be so infuriating.”

  Alice nodded. Men often were, in her experience. Promising a nice, safe friendship when really they were planning on marriage.

  “And it’s so much easier talking to Mr. Frinton than with that arrog—er, than to Lord Thornton.”

  “You mean Mr. Frinton actually spoke?”

  “At least twenty-eight words,” Lucy said. “And after spending fifteen minutes in a curricle with your nephew, I’m inclined to think I’d be better off with a man who never spoke.”

  They strolled on, heading for the gates now. “Did you tell Lord Tarrant about Lady Beatrice’s kittens?”

  “Yes. He’s probably gone straight there.”

  “Debo will be thrilled.”

  “Mmm.” She was going to have to break the news to Lucy. Those little girls, he’d used them to entice Alice into his so-called friendship. And all the time, he’d just wanted a mother for his daughters—it was clear to her now. Men! Why could they not simply say what they wanted? Why did they have to lie?

  She was going to miss those girls. Lucy would, too. She’d opened up so much more with them. The role of big sister suited her. She was going to make a lovely mother one day.

  “I doubt we’ll see much of Lord Tarrant and the girls in the future,” she told Lucy.

  Lucy turned to her in surprise. “Why? Are they going away?”

  “No, but . . .” Alice swallowed. “Lord Tarrant and I have had a . . . a disagreement. I fear we’ve reached a parting of the ways.”

  Lucy gave her a searching look, but all she said was, “What a pity. I liked him and his daughters.” There was no reproach in her voice. After a moment she sighed and added, “What a day, eh? I quarrel with your nephew, and you quarrel with Lord Tarrant. Men! Why are the wretches so impossible?” She linked her arm with Alice’s and they crossed the road into Mayfair.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lord Tarrant had said he would come at eleven. Alice had been restless and pacing all morning. She’d slept badly and had woken in the wee small hours and lain in the dark, waiting for the dawn to show through the crack in the curtains, going over the speech she would make to him.