The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  * * *

  * * *

  It’s not working,” Lucy told Gerald as soon as she could grab a moment alone with him. Lord and Lady Falconer’s rout was already a “sad squeeze,” and more people were arriving every minute.

  The news about their betrothal was well and truly out, and many people had come up to congratulate her. Some, of course, were less welcoming of the news, the Countess of Charlton being one of them. Almeria was circulating among her friends, telling people that it was a mistake, that it would be called off as soon as her son came to his senses and that “that Bamber creature,” as she was calling Lucy, had entrapped him.

  “Don’t worry about Almeria,” Alice told her. “The more people she tells that kind of thing to, the more sympathy you’re getting. It’s extremely bad form of her to be so obviously antagonistic toward her son’s choice—particularly when he seems so happy. Besides, anybody who knows Gerald knows he’s not the kind of man to be entrapped by anyone.”

  But whatever slander Almeria was spreading about Lucy didn’t bother her. It was, after all, a false betrothal. Almeria would get her victory in the end, much as it would vex Lucy to have to grant it to her.

  “What’s not working?” Gerald asked.

  “It’s been two days now since the betrothal was posted in the newspapers, and there has been no word from Papa.”

  “I know,” Gerald said.

  Lucy frowned up at him. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve had men watching the house ever since dawn that first morning.”

  Men watching the house? Lucy wasn’t sure what she thought about that. Lying in wait for Papa as if he were a criminal.

  But he was a criminal. He’d blackmailed Alice. He’d also failed to give her the money he’d promised her. Lucy knew full well that Alice was now paying for all Lucy’s needs out of her own pocket—a pocket that was lean at best.

  And she knew he owed many people money. And that some of his schemes had resulted in serious losses for his investors, though not Papa, never for Papa. So, yes, he was a cheat and a blackmailer—a criminal. She couldn’t deny it.

  But he was still her father. And though he hadn’t ever been much of a parent, he had done his best for her, according to his own peculiar and haphazard standards. He had put her in the finest schools—even if she was later expelled for his failure to pay the bills. And he had intended she would benefit from her time with Frau Steiner and the comtesse—and she had learned from them, even if most of the time they’d used her as a maidservant.

  Papa always come up with schemes that sounded good. He just wasn’t very good at carrying them out. Or was it that he simply didn’t care about the people he involved in his schemes, as long as he benefited in the end?

  Oh, Papa . . . Had he always been like this? Even with Mama? She couldn’t tell; she’d been too young. But probably he was just the same. They’d moved so often, and she was sure that wasn’t Mama’s choice.

  “How long do you think we should give it?” she asked Gerald.

  “How long for what?”

  “Our betrothal. If it doesn’t bring Papa and the letters to us, there’s not much point in going on, is there?”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of time yet,” he said easily.

  “I suppose.” She glanced across to where Almeria was leaning in close to one of her cronies, whispering furiously in her ear, all the while sending dagger looks at Lucy.

  Brightening, Lucy sent the woman a wide smile and twinkled her fingers at Almeria in a gleeful wave. Almeria stiffened in outrage and resumed the vehement whispering.

  Lucy laughed. Yes, indeed, there was still plenty of time to enjoy the fruits of her betrothal.

  * * *

  * * *

  Do you have any engagements for Thursday next?” James said as he escorted Alice in to supper. Lord and Lady Falconer were known for the quality of their suppers. James was hoping for crab or lobster patties.

  She turned her head sharply. “Thursday next? You mean the day after tomorrow? Is that when—we, er, you plan to, um . . . ?”

  “Yes, I’m hoping for ‘um’ on Thursday, if that suits you.”

  She glanced furtively around. “And you’re asking me here? In this company?”

  His eyes danced but he said solemnly, “It is perfectly proper to inquire about a lady’s social arrangements, whether in company or not.” And then he added, for he could see his question had seriously discomposed her, “I simply wish to invite you to take a turn in my new carriage, Lady Charlton.”

  “Your carriage?”

  “Yes, my carriage.”

  “Oh, your carriage,” she said, finally understanding. She added in a clear voice, sufficient to be heard a good ten feet in any direction, “I would be delighted to take a ride in your carriage, Lord Tarrant.” And then she realized the possible interpretations of that statement and blushed rosily.

  James hid a smile. His beloved was not built for deception. Duplicity of any kind was simply not in her nature.

  “Good,” he murmured, “my horses are raring to go.”

  Her blush deepened.

  “In that case, I will call for you at nine.” He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “Pack a bag. We will stay overnight.”

  “Overn—?” she squeaked and tried to turn it into a cough.

  “Possibly longer.”

  Her eyes widened, but she said nothing as they took their places. James was delighted to see that there were both crab and lobster patties, and plenty of both. Alice just picked at her food. She was nervous, but he could do nothing about that. Not until Thursday.

  “What about Lucy?” she asked in a low voice.

  He served her a slice of lemon curd cake. Her favorite. “What about her?”

  “I can’t just go off and leave her.”

  “Why not? Much as I like your goddaughter, she’s not coming with us.”

  She spluttered over a mouthful of wine. “No, but it would be most improper to leave her on her own in my house.”

  He wanted to laugh. But he saw her point. “What if Nanny McCubbin and my daughters came to stay? That would be adequate chaperonage, would it not.”

  “Y-es. Or perhaps I could ask Lady Peplowe to invite her to stay a few days. Lucy and Penny Peplowe get on very well together. I’ll give it some thought.”

  * * *

  * * *

  To James’s amusement, Alice raised it with Lucy going home in the carriage that evening, telling her that she’d heard this evening that an old friend of hers was ailing and Alice had decided to visit her.

  No, Lucy couldn’t accompany her because . . . because her friend was quite poor and lived in a very small cottage. There was no room.

  Who was this friend? An . . . an old school friend.

  Her name? Mary—yes, that was it. Mary.

  James leaned back against the carriage squabs, enjoying the tangled story Alice was attempting to weave in order to have an excuse to get away for a couple of days. He had no doubt the darkness inside the carriage hid a positive battalion of blushes.

  The possibilities of Penny Peplowe or Nanny McCubbin and the little girls were debated. Then Gerald leaned forward and said, “Actually, I have been thinking of taking Lucy to meet my grandmother, who lives outside Aylesbury.”

  “Your grandmother?” Lucy exclaimed. “But I can’t—”

  “She’s heard so much about you already.”

  “I just bet she has,” Lucy muttered.

  Gerald laughed. “I promise you’ll like her. She’s not at all like my mother. In fact, she’s been heard to say—when provoked—that Mother was a fairy changeling, and not the good sort. Grandmama would love to meet you.”

  “What an excellent idea,” James said.

  “Yes, and you can take my maid, Mary, with you,” Alice agreed.

&
nbsp; “Yes, I’m sure Lady Charlton will manage perfectly without the services of her maid,” James said in a provocative voice.

  A small foot kicked him on the ankle. Alice said with dignity, “Thank you, Gerald, that’s the perfect solution.”

  James didn’t think Lucy was as pleased with the idea as everyone else. In fact, he got the distinct impression she was extremely reluctant to go, but he didn’t care. As long as it made Alice free to come with him, he didn’t give a damn what Lucy did.

  “Good, so that’s all settled,” he said as the carriage drew up outside Bellaire Gardens. “Good night, ladies,” he said as he handed them down. “It’s been a delightful evening.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The following morning a letter arrived addressed to Lucy in a flamboyant hand. Tweed presented it to her on a silver salver. She eyed it with a sinking heart. She knew that hand.

  She looked at Alice. “It’s from Papa.”

  “What does it say?”

  Lucy broke open the seal, scanned the contents swiftly, then read it aloud.

  My dear Daughter,

  By the time you receive this letter, I shall be far away, sailing the high seas, heading for America. Congratulate me, Daughter, for I have married a Mrs. Lymon. She is a Widow from Boston, Massachusetts, the relict of an Extremely Wealthy man, so you will be Glad to know I shall be living in the Comfort, even Luxury, to which I have always aspired. I shall not be returning to England—it has become increasingly Unfriendly to me and I am glad to shake its Dirt from my boots and to start a New Life.

  So, Daughter, for all your misgivings, my little Scheme was successful and you are securely betrothed to a Viscount and the Heir to an Earldom. Thus I can happily leave you, knowing I have done all I can to Assure your Future.

  Please give Lady Charlton my thanks—and apologies. I had no choice.

  Live well, my child.

  Farewell from your Loving Father,

  Octavius Bamber, esquire

  She choked on the last few lines.

  She ought to be used to this. How many times had he dumped her on strangers and abandoned her. This time it was forever. He was glad to go. I can happily leave you.

  “Oh, Lucy, to leave the country—forever—without any warning, or even a personal goodbye.” Alice slipped an arm around Lucy and hugged her. The warm sympathy in her voice brought a blurring of tears to Lucy’s eyes. She blinked them angrily away.

  She would not let her father bring her to tears, not again. Never again. How often as a young girl had she soaked her pillow with lonely, miserable, fruitless tears every time Papa had left her, assuring her that this—wherever it was, with whoever it was—would be the making of her. And then he’d drive blithely away without a backward glance. Leaving her behind to sink or swim.

  And now she was alone forever, without even having the pretense of a father.

  Well, better no father at all than one who regularly turned her life upside down with no warning. She could choose now how she would live her life.

  And if the future stretched ahead, frighteningly blank, that simply meant she needed to make plans. She couldn’t batten on Alice much longer.

  “I’m all right,” she told Alice wearily. “It’s not as if it’s anything new.”

  She folded and refolded the letter until it was a small square and slipped it into her sleeve. It was so typical of Papa—the self-centeredness, the self-congratulatory tone and the complete disregard of her feelings. All he cared about was his own success. So her future was assured, was it? Did he even know—or care—anything about Lord Thornton apart from his title? For all Papa knew, he could be a horrid wife beater or cat torturer or anything.

  After a moment, Alice said hesitantly, “Did he even mention the letters?”

  Lucy shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe he’s burned them.”

  Lucy shook her head. Who knew, with Papa.

  “But what would be the use of them now? He’s got what he wanted—you’re betrothed to a viscount. And he must know I have no money to buy them.”

  Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all over. Maybe Papa’s forgotten all about them. It wouldn’t be unlike him. He has an enviable ability to put awkward or uncomfortable thoughts out of his mind, particularly when he has a new scheme in mind.” In this case, a rich widow.

  Alice sighed. “He’s acting as if his ‘scheme’ is all over, but I would feel a lot better if he had enclosed the letters.”

  “It would cost more to post,” Lucy said. “Papa can be quite ridiculously penny-pinching at times.” She stood up and said briskly. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m in need of fresh air. I’m going out into the garden. Do you want to come?”

  Alice said gently, “No, my dear, you’ve had a big upset. I think you’ll be happier alone to sort out your feelings.”

  Lucy nodded. Happier alone. Yes, she’d better learn how to be that.

  * * *

  * * *

  Gerald called at Bellaire Gardens later that afternoon, ostensibly to finalize the arrangements to take Lucy to visit his grandmother, but also to bring Alice the news.

  “Lucy is out in the garden,” Alice told him.

  “Good,” he said. “But first some news. My man Heffernan sent a message. Bamber has left the country. He sailed from Bristol two nights ago, on a ship bound for America.”

  “I know,” Alice said. “Lucy got a letter from him this morning, bidding her farewell forever. He’s married a rich American widow and says he’s never coming back.”

  Gerald stared at her, shocked. “He said goodbye by letter? Without even trying to see her? That swine. His own daughter! How did she take it?”

  Alice shook her head. “She’s devastated, of course, but determined not to show it. She says it’s nothing new. It seems she’s quite accustomed to being abandoned by that wretched man—but honestly, how could any young girl become accustomed to such carelessness? Especially as he’s her only living relative. And she’s such a dear girl. Oh, I could strangle him.”

  “You’ll keep her with you of course.”

  “Yes, of course, though she has her pride. My guess is she’ll try to insist on leaving.” Alice snorted. “To go where? That man has left her with nothing. I’m just thankful she is safely betrothed to you. Were it not for that . . .” She shook her head.

  Gerald frowned. The betrothal was currently as strong as wet paper. He would have his work cut out for him now. “Perhaps this visit to my grandmother might cheer her up.”

  Alice gave him a skeptical glance. “You think so?”

  “Why not? At least it will be a change. I’ll go and speak to her now.” On the point of leaving, he turned back at the door. “There was no mention of the letters, I suppose?”

  “None.”

  “Damn him—sorry, Aunt Alice.”

  “Don’t be,” Alice said. “I quite agree.”

  He found Lucy in her favorite spot, under the spreading plane tree, painting. Or rather, pretending to paint. He stood in the shadows and quietly watched her for several minutes. Her brush never moved. She just sat, staring blankly into the distance.

  He couldn’t imagine how she must feel. To be so callously abandoned, so entirely alone . . .

  No matter how unsatisfactory his own parents were, they were at least there.

  He must have moved or made a sound, for she turned her head and sprang up. “Gerald.” She put her paintbrush down, smoothed her dress and faced him with a forced smile. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s time this sham came to an end.”

  He strolled toward her. “What sham would that be?”

  “The betrothal.”

  “Oh, that. There’s no hurry.”

  “You don’t understand.” She took a small square of paper from her sleeve
and handed it to him. “I received this today. My father has left the country. As you will see, there’s no longer any reason to continue this betrothal charade,” she said in a colorless voice.

  Gerald unfolded the square and started to read. As he did, his anger grew. The smug self-satisfaction of the man. His complete disregard for his daughter’s feelings. Not even a pretense that she would be welcome to visit or that he intended to share any of his good fortune with her.

  “You see?” she said when he’d finished reading. “It’s time I set you free. I’m not quite sure how to proceed—do I send the notice to the papers? Or is it more proper for you to do so? Only I don’t want people to think you have been in any way dishonorable.”

  He refolded the letter and passed it back to her. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not ready to cancel our betrothal yet.”

  A troubled crease appeared between her brows. “Why not? We only did it to bring my father out from wherever he was lurking. Now he’s on his way to America, there’s no point.”

  “Yes, but there are other things to consider,” he said vaguely.

  “What things?”

  “People. My grandmother for a start.”

  She stared at him, puzzled. “What does your grandmother have to do with it?”

  “She’s very much looking forward to our visit tomorrow. I’d hate to disappoint her.”

  “But she doesn’t even know me. And won’t she be even more disappointed if we break off the betrothal after the visit?”

  “She’s expecting us. And if you don’t come with me,” he added in a burst of inspiration, “Alice won’t be able to go and stay with her friend—and you know how she hates to let people down. As a betrothed couple, with a maid in attendance, you and I can travel quite respectably, but if we were no longer betrothed, it would be quite scandalous.”