The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  Lucy’s blush and Gerald’s possessive grin confirmed it. They were in love.

  Gerald left, and Alice and Lucy decided to go to Miss Chance’s establishment after lunch, to order Lucy’s wedding dress. Alice couldn’t help feeling a little wistful, but she pushed those thoughts aside. No regrets.

  They were in the hall, debating whether they would need umbrellas or not, when the front doorbell jangled furiously. Tweed had barely opened the door when Gerald burst in, waving a small, slender book bound in red leather. On the cover, elegantly tooled in gold, was the title, Letters to a Mistress, by a Noble Gentleman. “That unprincipled swine Bamber has broken his word—he’s published those damned letters!”

  For a moment, Alice thought she was going to faint. Or throw up.

  “Alice, are you all right?” Lucy led her into the drawing room, where she sank onto the sofa.

  “Are you sure they’re the letters that Thaddeus wrote?” It was a foolish question; of course Gerald was sure.

  “See for yourself.” Gerald offered her the book, but she waved it away. She didn’t want to touch the vile thing, let alone read it. “An advance copy was sent to my father,” Gerald continued. “They don’t use names, of course, but most of the ton will understand who Lord C. and Lady C. and Mrs. J. are, especially given the scandalous way Uncle Thaddeus died in Mrs. Jennings’s bed. Papa didn’t read it, but Mama did, from cover to cover. I stole her copy.”

  Alice groaned.

  The doorbell jangled again, and this time it was James who burst into the room. “Have you heard—” He broke off, seeing the small red book in Gerald’s hand. “I see you have.” He crossed the room in two steps and sat down beside Alice, taking her hands in his. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “Just a bit shaken. I’d thought we were finished with all that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy croaked. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Alice assured her.

  “I should have known.”

  “How could you possibly have known?”

  Lucy’s eyes were tragic. “It’s not like Papa to pass up an opportunity to make money and—oh! That’s what he meant by that last part in his letter—when he apologized to you, Alice, and claimed he had no choice. I thought at the time he was apologizing for the blackmail. Why didn’t I realize there was more to it? No choice, indeed.” She bit her lip, then glanced at Gerald. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “There certainly is,” James said decisively. “I only came here to warn you. I’m off to the publisher’s.” He picked up Letters to a Mistress and pocketed it. “I’ll do what I can to stop this nasty little book from being distributed.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Gerald said.

  Alice rose to her feet, a little shaky but determined. “I’ll go, too.”

  James shook his head. “It would be better if you didn’t. So far, given that only initials have been used, there’s nothing concrete to link you with the book. But if you’re seen going into the publisher’s . . .”

  Alice could see his point, but she didn’t like it. “But I can’t just sit here and wait.” That would be too feeble for words.

  Lucy linked her arm through Alice’s. “We planned to go shopping this morning. It’s probably the last thing either of us feels like doing, but . . .”

  Alice took a shaky breath, then nodded. Lucy was looking pale and shamefaced. The poor girl must be feeling dreadful about her father’s betrayal. This morning, after Gerald had left, Lucy had been radiantly happy; now she looked pinched and miserable. Alice could wring Bamber’s neck.

  “Very well, it’s not the kind of bold action I’d prefer, but I will not allow this horrid little book to get in the way of your wedding plans. So we will go out and shop. In style. Heads held high.”

  James squeezed her hands. “That’s the spirit. Come, Gerald, let us deal with this grubby little publisher.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The publisher’s premises was a narrow building in a lane off Fleet Street. It was a small operation, and as James and Gerald entered, they could see men and women at work, printing, binding and packing books. All with red linen bindings and bearing the title Letters to a Mistress. The leather ones that had gone out were no doubt to entice members of the ton to open them. Elegant and salacious. And vicious.

  Their entry caused a stir, but there was no lull in the activity. A plump, fussily dressed little man peered out from an office and emerged smiling. “Ebenezer Greene at your service, gentlemen. How can I help you?”

  James pulled the small red book from his pocket. “You are responsible for this, I believe?”

  The smile vanished. “Yes,” Greene said cautiously. “What do you—”

  “The original letters, if you please,” James said crisply.

  “The orig—?” Greene glanced toward his office. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What letters?”

  “The letters you’ve printed in this grubby little book.” James seized him by the collar. “Now, unless you want to see the inside of a prison cell . . .” He marched the man into his office and thrust him with a shove toward a large iron safe.

  “But, but, but—”

  “Those letters were obtained illegally, and I will have no hesitation in prosecuting you to the limit of the law. Now, give me the letters and I will be prepared to purchase all the copies currently printed. Otherwise . . .”

  There was a crash from the room outside. Greene rushed out. “My formes! No! You can’t—”

  “Can’t what?” Gerald said, heaving another frame full of print to the floor and smashing it up with his boots. Tiny metal letters burst from their confinement and scattered across the floor. The workers, some of whom were women, stood back watching. Nobody seemed interested in interfering.

  Gerald picked up another frame and tipped it onto the ground. The wooden frame shattered. Pages of type broke into a thousand pieces, becoming meaningless. James smiled. No chance of reprinting the book now.

  Greene moaned and wrung his hands.

  James said, “So far we’re only interested in preventing you from printing any more copies of this nasty little publication. But if I don’t get those letters, my friend and I will destroy your printing press as well as the—what did you call them?—the formes. I fancy a press will be harder to replace.”

  Another forme crashed to the floor, another sixteen pages destroyed. Tiny metal letters were scattered everywhere.

  “No, no, I beg you, stop it. I bought those letters in good faith.”

  “Vile letters that don’t deserve to see the light of day.”

  Crash! It sounded as though Gerald was enjoying himself. James glanced at the printing press and said meditatively, “I’ve never tried to destroy a printing press before, but it can’t be too difficult.”

  “Oh please, no.” The plump little man was almost weeping. “I’ll give you the cursed letters, just leave my press alone.” He hurried into his office, opened the safe and pulled out a thick sheaf of letters tied with a ribbon. “Here—take them. And then leave.”

  James flicked through the sheaf. “They’d better all be here, because if not . . .”

  “They’re all there, I assure you, all that that wretched man sold me. It’s him you should be punishing, not me.”

  “You’re both despicable,” James said coldly. He held up the leather-bound copy. “How many of these did you send out?”

  Greene glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. “Twenty-five,” he said sulkily. “They cost a fortune, too.”

  “That’s the list, is it? Good.” James picked it up, glanced at the list of names, and pocketed it, ignoring Greene’s protests.

  He returned to the print room and held up the book to the watching workers. “There is a large black carriage waiting in the lane outside. Sixpe
nce for every box of these books that you load into it. My coachman is expecting you—he will keep tally and pay you.”

  The workers glanced at one another, then rushed to grab boxes of books and carry them downstairs. In minutes not a single box or book remained. James glanced around the room and gave a satisfied nod. He turned to Greene and held out a ten-pound note.

  Greene eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that for?”

  “To pay for the books, of course,” James said in a bland voice.

  “You’re paying me for them?” he said incredulously.

  James arched an eyebrow. “Naturally. I’m not a thief.”

  Greene glanced at the shambles that was his printing works. But he didn’t utter a word.

  “Did you have enough money?” James asked his coachman when he went downstairs.

  “Yes, m’lord. With three and six left over.”

  “Keep it.”

  James and Gerald fitted themselves in around the boxes of books. “That was fun,” Gerald said as they drove off. “Filthy work, though. Ruined my gloves.” He pulled his ink-stained gloves off and tossed them out of the window. “Probably wrecked my boots, too, but it was worth it.” After a moment he added, “Lucky your coachman had enough change on him.”

  James gave him a sideways glance. “Luck never came into it. You should know from your years in the army that preparation is all.”

  “Of course. Clever.” After a moment Gerald asked, “What will you do with all these books?”

  “Burn ’em.”

  They drove in silence for a while. “You don’t look as happy as I expected,” Gerald said. “I thought it went quite well.”

  James shook his head. “These damned leather-bound copies are still out there.”

  “Oh hell, I never thought of that. How many do you think went out?”

  “Twenty-four, not counting your mother’s copy. I got the list from Greene while you were busy smashing things.”

  * * *

  * * *

  You can’t be sure that’s what they were whispering about,” Lucy insisted. She and Alice had returned from seeing Miss Chance. Alice had found the experience uncomfortable. The minute they’d arrived, two ladies in the shop had fallen silent. Then they’d started whispering, glancing at Alice from time to time as they did.

  Miss Chance had taken her and Lucy into the back for a private consultation, and when they returned, all the other ladies in the shop were covertly staring at Alice, some with expressions of sympathy, others with ill-disguised salacious glee. It was obvious to her that they knew about the letters.

  “I think we can assume that it was,” Alice said. “Gossip travels like wildfire.”

  Tweed was hovering, looking concerned. He didn’t know quite what was up, but he could tell she wasn’t herself. Alice ordered tea and biscuits.

  Lucy frowned. “What are we going to do about the Reynolds’s ball tomorrow night?”

  What indeed? Alice was warmed by Lucy’s use of we, indicating she would loyally stand by Alice. But by tomorrow night, barely a soul in the ton would be unaware of the letters. Word of mouth would happen first—whispers carried from house to house during morning calls, and details shared and discussed, details of the most humiliating moments of her past brought to life by Thaddeus’s clever, vicious pen.

  Scandalous stories about one of their own. Servants would be sent to the bookshops, the books would fly off the shelves and later be passed around.

  James and Gerald arrived and Alice called for more biscuits and a fresh pot. James asked for a fire to be lit, which was odd because it wasn’t a cold day, but she asked Tweed to light the fire anyway.

  While the fire was getting started and the tea and biscuits were being handed around, Gerald enthusiastically described their adventure at the publisher’s.

  “And now, here’s something for you,” James said, passing a small bundle to Alice. A thick sheaf of letters bound with a puce ribbon.

  And suddenly Alice realized why he’d wanted a fire lit. She received the letters with nerveless fingers.

  “You do want to destroy them, I presume,” James said when she’d sat in silence for several minutes.

  “Oh yes, oh yes indeed.” She knelt before the fire, pulled the ribbon off and fed the letters one by one into the fire. She watched as each one smoked and twisted, then burst into flames. Sparks danced up the chimney, leaving a pile of gray ash behind.

  With every letter burned, she felt lighter, freer. It was a cathartic experience—she was purging herself of Thaddeus, finally and forever.

  The last letter curled up and crumpled into ash, and she dusted off her hands and rose. Turning, she saw the little red leather book sitting on the side table. She would like to burn it, too, but it would make a terrible stench, and she didn’t want it polluting her home. The purge was not yet complete, but she felt so much better already. “Did you secure all the copies?” she asked.

  “All but the leather-bound copies that were sent out in advance,” James said.

  “Like that one of Mama’s.” Gerald indicated his copy.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get them back,” James assured her. “There are only twenty-four, and I have a list.”

  Yes, but if Almeria had already read it cover to cover, then others would have. Alice could tell by his somber expression that James knew that. Pandora’s box was already open.

  “Maybe we should send our apologies to Lady Reynolds,” Lucy said. “She and Sir Alan are very kind—they’ll understand.”

  “Lord, yes, the Reynolds’s ball tomorrow night,” Gerald exclaimed. “I forgot about that. Of course you won’t want to go.”

  James nodded. “If you like, I could take you—and my girls—Lucy, too, of course—to Towers, my country estate. We could stay there as long as you want, wait until this thing blows over.”

  Alice sipped her tea in silence. Run from the gossip? Hide?

  Thaddeus had already done his best to ruin her life. Now it was Bamber using Thaddeus’s words from the grave—and what a fool she’d been to trust the promise of a blackmailer. She thought about her sister-in-law, Almeria, avidly devouring the letters that shamed her. She thought about the ladies in Miss Chance’s shop and their ill-natured whispering.

  She put down her cup with a snap. “I’ve had enough.” They all looked at her cup, which was three-quarters full. “I won’t run. I won’t hide. I refuse to be a victim a moment longer.”

  They blinked at her in surprise. “I am eight-and-thirty years old, and I don’t care what others think of me—especially ill-natured gossips who mouth pious words of sympathy while secretly enjoying my misfortune.”

  She gestured to the ash in the fireplace. “I am not the same girl whose misery those letters described so despicably. I am a different woman now—my own woman—and I refuse to hide away from awkward social encounters or cower in the country, no matter how beautiful and welcoming I’m sure Towers is.”

  Her glance took in all of them. “This horrid little book will reveal people for who they truly are. You, my friends, offered instant support. There will be a few others, I know. And those who don’t, those who secretly revel in what they will see as my humiliation—well, who needs that sort of friend anyway? Not I.” She rose to her feet. “And I am going to the ball.”

  “Brava!” James applauded, and the others joined in. “So, Cinders,” he said when the excitement and congratulations had died down, “what time shall I bring the pumpkin around to collect you?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the carriage going to the ball, Lucy sat beside Gerald, and Alice and James sat opposite. Alice was obviously tense, her face pale and tight in the faint, transient light inside the carriage. But she was going to the ball, determined not to be cowed by the ugly situation she was in—the ugly situation Lucy’s papa had put her in.

  L
ucy hoped that one day she’d have the courage Alice was showing.

  Alice was an extraordinary woman. She’d taken in Lucy unwillingly, purely because of Papa’s blackmail, and yet, with every reason to despise her, Alice had made Lucy feel like a friend or a beloved daughter. Even when Papa had abandoned her, Alice had insisted Lucy must stay, that she had a home with Alice for as long as she needed.

  And now despite all Alice’s goodness to Lucy, she was being punished.

  The shame of it scorched Lucy, even though she knew it wasn’t her fault. But she was determined to make it up to Alice somehow.

  She nudged Gerald, leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “I have a plan.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It was obvious from the moment they arrived that Lady Reynolds knew about the book, for she stepped forward, seized Alice’s hands in hers and said warmly, “I am so very glad you came tonight, my dear. One would have understood if you chose not to, of course, but I am so very proud of you for coming. If there is anything my husband or I can do to support you in this difficult time, please don’t hesitate to say so.” She squeezed Alice’s hands. “And don’t worry, you have many friends here.”

  Beside her, tall Sir Alan Reynolds gave a nod and added gruffly, “Your late husband deserved a flogging for writing such filthy stuff. Never liked the feller.”

  Alice thanked them both, blinking back incipient tears. When you were braced for spite and scandal, unexpected warmth and kindness could so easily unravel you.

  Nevertheless, their greeting reminded her that most people here tonight would either have read some of the letters or heard about them. I am no longer that girl, she reminded herself. In fact, she added in her mental conversation, I don’t think I ever was the girl that Thaddeus’s letters described. It was a freeing thought. Thaddeus never knew her at all.

  Lady Peplowe met her in the hallway and drew Alice aside. “Are you all right, my dear? I’ve heard some disquieting rumors about a book.”