The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter One
London, 1818
Finally she had a use for the epergne.
Alice, Lady Charlton—the dowager Lady Charlton, though she had neither the years nor the advantages of most dowagers—gave a last satisfied rub to the large silver epergne, which was extremely ugly but quite valuable. She’d always hated it, not simply because it was hideous, but because her sister-in-law, Almeria, who’d resented Alice from the start, had bestowed it upon her as a wedding present. It was, Alice believed, the ugliest sufficiently expensive gift Almeria could find.
Now Alice was going to sell the horrid thing. An appropriate gesture to mark the end of her troubles.
Eighteen months since her husband, Thaddeus, had died, the flood of his outstanding debts had—finally!—slowed to a trickle. Alice had almost stripped the house bare to pay them, and now she was feeling hopeful, almost happy. What would it be like to live free of obligation? To choose whether or not to live up to people’s expectations? She’d been trying and failing at that for the past eighteen years. More. Her whole life, really.
She didn’t really know what she wanted her life to be—well, she did, of course, but God had denied her that joy—and now she had to look to her future and decide how she wanted to live. At least she was secure and had a home to live in, thanks to Granny leaving her this house in London.
A presence in the doorway caught Alice’s attention. “Yes, Tweed, what is it?”
The elderly butler’s pained glance at her apron and stained old cotton gloves was a pointed reminder of his deep disapproval. “M’lady, m’lady, m’lady, you should not being doing menial tasks like that. Cleaning silver is a dirty job.”
“It certainly is,” Alice agreed cheerfully. They’d had this discussion before, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “And I’m glad to say I’ve just this minute finished it.” She placed the epergne beside the rest of the silver she was selling and sat back. “Something you wanted, Tweed?”
“A person at the front door, m’lady. Insisting on speaking to you.”
Alice frowned. “A person? Insisting?” Tweed had a fine-tuned vocabulary concerning callers, a combination of word and tone. A “person” was very low down on the Tweed Scale and the kind of caller he usually sent packing.
“You didn’t deny me?”
Tweed looked vaguely apologetic. “It’s the third time the fellow has called.” He presented a card on a silver salver. “An Octavius Bamber, m’lady.”
She picked up the card. Octavius Bamber? She’d never heard of him. “Not another debt collector, surely?” She’d hoped she’d seen the last of them. But no, Tweed knew to send them to her late husband’s man of affairs.
“No—at least I don’t believe so. But there is . . . something.” Tweed hesitated, then said, “He’s no gentleman, m’lady, but something he said just now made me a little uneasy. I think it might be wise for you to hear what he has to say.”
Tweed’s instincts were generally good. He’d been Granny’s butler forever, and he’d known Alice since she was a baby. If he thought she should see this man—after denying him twice—she would take his advice.
“Very well. I’ll speak to him in the front parlor.” She stripped off her gloves and apron, smoothed her dress, tidied her hair and went downstairs.
She entered the parlor quietly and came to an astonished halt. Octavius Bamber, his back to the door, was examining the contents of the room like a . . . like a bailiff. Or a debt collector. Lifting up ornaments, scrutinizing them, replacing them and moving on, quite as if he had every right to paw through her possessions. He peered at the signature on one of her paintings and scratched the ornate gold frame, presumably to test the gold leaf.
She cleared her throat, and he turned. His gaze swept over her in much the same way as he’d examined her belongings, as if calculating her value. One widowed countess, slightly used, not particularly pretty. She stiffened.
“So, Lady Charlton, you’ve finally deigned to see me.” Quite unembarrassed at being caught snooping, he replaced the jade figurine he’d been scrutinizing, crossed the floor and held out his hand. “About time, too. Octavius Bamber at your service.”
Ignoring his hand, Alice gave him a cool nod. Ladies didn’t shake hands, especially with unknown gentlemen, and this man had already annoyed her.
Who was he, and what could he possibly want? She’d never set eyes on him in her life. Of medium height, he was closer to fifty than forty and dressed expensively, if not particularly tastefully, in tight trousers, a florid waistcoat, a frilled shirt and a snugly fitted bottle green coat. A number of gaudy fobs dangled from his gold watch chain, and he wore several large, glittery rings. His thinning gray hair was elaborately tousled, and he reeked of pomade.
“Don’t fancy shaking hands with the likes of me, eh?” He shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. I don’t mind a touch of hoity-toity—when it comes from a true aristocrat, that is. And you’re the genuine article, ain’t you, m’lady? Widow of an earl, and the granddaughter of one.”
Alice didn’t respond. He obviously knew something of her background, but it was none of his business, and besides, it was irrelevant.
Without being invited to, he seated himself in the middle of the sofa, crossed his legs and sat back, his arms draped along the back of the sofa, perfectly at home. His gaze swept the room. “I see you haven’t yet sold off all your pretty bits and pieces. How much longer do you reckon you have ’til the money runs out?”
Ignoring his impertinence, she said crisply, “The purpose of your visit, sir?”
To her surprise he chuckled. “Like to get right to the point, eh, m’lady? Well, I don’t mind that. Don’t mind you looking down your nose at me, either. That’ll change shortly. You’re going to be grateful I’ve come.” He gave her a knowing smile, which slowly hardened. “I’ve business to discuss.”
“If it’s business, take it to my late husband’s man of affairs.”
“Oh, but it’s not that sort of business, m’lady. This is more”—his smile widened—“personal.”
“Then state it quickly and begone,” she said, hoping her nervousness wasn’t visible. After eighteen months she’d thought she was finished with the mess Thaddeus had left her after his death. Apparently not.
He produced a thick packet of folded letters tied with a puce ribbon, placed it on the low table between them and sat back with a smug look.
Alice frowned. “What are they?” They didn’t look like bills.
“You know perfectly well what they are, my lady. Your husband’s letters.”
She shrugged, feigning indifference. “My husband wrote many letters.”
“Ah, but these are love letters. To Mrs. Jennings.”
Cold slithered down Alice’s spine. “Who?” she managed.
But Bamber wasn’t fooled. “Come, come, your ladyship, no point in pretending you don’t recognize the name of your husband’s mistress. Very loyal to her, he was. Twenty years and more these letters go back.”
Twenty years. Longer than her marriage.
He continued, “And the most recent, written just days before he died.” He gave her the kind of knowing look people gave when they knew just where and how—and in whose bed—her husband had died. Her brother-in-law, Edmund, the new earl, had tried to hush it up, but Alice could usually read it in their eyes when someone knew.
Bamber leaned forward, undid the ribbon, flipped through the letters familiarly, then pulled one out. “Here’s one of the older ones. Take a look. It mentions you—many of them do, actually. See if it sparks some memories.” He held it out to her.
Alice didn’t want to touch the wretched thing, wanted to snatch it and the rest of the letters and hurl them unread into the fire. But the stupid, self-destructive impulse to know, to turn the knife, made her reach out and take the offered letter between nerveless fingers.
She slowly unfolded it. Thaddeus’s writing, big and bold, sprawled across the page. Phrases jumped out at her . . . my dreary virgin bride . . . cold as a fish and about as appealing . . .
Bile rose in Alice’s throat. Oh God, it was a description of her wedding night. In the worst kind of detail. Mocking her. Making fun of his bride’s ignorance and inexperience—to his mistress.
She crumpled the letter between numb fingers. “Where did—”
Bamber placed another letter in front of her. And then another, and another and another, leaving just enough time for her to glimpse—and flinch at—the contents before placing another letter on the top of the growing pile.
Vile, clever, mocking phrases stabbed at her, stripping her composure bare, each letter adding to the excoriation. The most painful and humiliating moments of her life, laid out for all to see, in black and white, described in Thaddeus’s distinctive, ruthless, incisive style. The pile grew until finally she could bear to look no more. Sickened, she shoved them away and sat back in her seat.
“Where did you get these?” The words came out hoarse.
“Bought them from the lady herself. Cost me a pretty penny, they did.”
Alice said nothing. She was numb with shock and disgust.
“He had quite a way with words, your husband.” Bamber’s gaze slid over her speculatively. “The detail he goes into. Quite . . . specific. Juicy.”
Alice swallowed. She could just imagine.
He patted the pile of letters and said brightly, “Nasty fellow, wasn’t he?”
Sick to her stomach, Alice looked at the thick stack of letters resting under Bamber’s pudgy hand. So many more letters as yet unread. Thaddeus’s opinion of his wife had only worsened with time.
“What do you want?” It would be money, of course, but the question was how much. She would have to sell her home after all.
He smiled and nodded, as if pleased with her bluntness. “I want you to bring my daughter out.”
It was so very far from what she’d been expecting that it took a moment for Alice to make sense of what he’d said. “Out? Out where?”
“In high society, of course. You bring her out, take her to balls and whatnot, introduce her to all the toffs.”
Alice stared at him blankly. “Why?”
“I want her to marry a lord,” he said.
“Which lord?” she said faintly.
“I don’t mind—as long as he is a lord. I have a fancy for my grandson to have a title. Lucy’s no beauty, but she’s well enough, and with your sponsorship . . .” He sat back, crossed his legs and regarded her complacently.
Alice shook her head, her mind numb, and yet at the same time whirling. He had no idea what he was asking. “I’m sorry, but—”
“I’m sure the ton would love to read these letters, Lady Charlton,” he interrupted in a silky voice. “I could make a pretty penny by publishing them. Quite lubricious they are, and not just the bits where he’s writing about Mrs. Jennings’s many charms. He writes quite a lot about you, too. Not quite so juicy, but . . . fascinating all the same.”
There was vomit in Alice’s throat. She forced it down.
Bamber continued. “Your husband left his mistress quite well-off, didn’t he?” He glanced meaningfully around the room. “She’s not selling off her paintings and pretty bits and pieces. She didn’t need the money and had no plan to sell the letters . . . until I mentioned the possibility of publishing them. Quite excited that thought made her.” He paused to let it sink in. “She really has it in for you, don’t she, your ladyship?”
It was true. Mrs. Jennings was a butcher’s daughter and the widow of a stonemason. Thaddeus had wanted to marry his beautiful mistress, but his father, the old earl, was outraged at the notion and insisted he take a bride from the aristocracy—a pure young girl who would bear him an heir—or be cut off without a penny.
Thaddeus might have loved his beautiful mistress, but he loved money more. For that, Mrs. Jennings had always hated Alice.
Your husband left his mistress quite well-off.And all this time, Thaddeus’s legal wife had been battling with his debts, the result of his carelessness and financial irresponsibility. Several times Alice had teetered on the brink of ruin, but she’d always handled things, made some arrangement, found something to sell. And finally she was almost debt-free.
Now, none of it would matter. This ghastly man and his packet of vile letters was going to plunge her into a different kind of ruin.
Crossing his legs, he leaned back and gave her a long, pensive look, before adding with casual relish, “Wouldn’t your fine society friends enjoy reading all these letters. All those fascinating, intimate, explicit details.”
Her stomach cramped. They would. They wouldn’t be able to help themselves.
She would never be able to look anyone in the face again.
“But if you agree to sponsor my daughter into society and help her find a lord to marry, nobody need ever know.”
Alice’s breath caught in her throat. Could he possibly mean it? He’d just give her the letters. And not publish them? “What are you saying?”
“The day my daughter marries a lord, I’ll give you these letters, free and clear. You can burn them or do what you like with them.”
Her heart sank. She was desperate—more than desperate—to get those letters, but with the best will in the world, what he was asking was impossible. She opened her mouth to explain why, but his next words robbed her of breath.
“I know it’s expensive to launch a young lady in society, and I’ll cover all the costs.” He pulled out a thick wad of banknotes from a pocket and laid it on the table. “That for her board and lodging.” He laid another bundle of banknotes on top of it. “That to cover her dresses—from a proper high-class mantua-maker, mind. The special dress for the royal presentation—”
Royal presentation?Only girls of the highest birth were presented at court. “That’s completely out of the quest—”
“This for shoes and fans and shawls and all the rest of the folderols that ladies require.” He added to the pile of notes on the table before her. “And naturally I’ll pay you a fee for your own expenses.” With a dismissive glance at her dress, he set the last bundle of banknotes down with a flourish. “Can’t have my daughter’s sponsor looking shabby, can we?”
Alice stared. She’d never seen so much money in her life. But what he asked was preposterous. “I told you—”
“Of course, once she’s married, as well as the letters, you’ll get a bonus, depending—I want a proper lord, mind. A duke would be best, but there’s not many of them around, so something a bit lower down will do. But I won’t stand for nothing lower than a baronet. My grandson will have a title, or I’ll want to know the reason why.” He sat back and eyed her smugly. “That’s opened your eyes, hasn’t it, my lady?”
Alice couldn’t deny it. He talked of shopping for a lord as if it were as simple as choosing cabbages from the market. “Mr. Bamber, even if I agreed to do what you asked, society doesn’t operate like that.”
He snorted. “Of course it does. Money talks to toffs the same as it does to everyone else.”
Alice eyed the stack of notes wistfully. Ironic that after all the scrimping and saving she’d done since Thaddeus had died, here she was having to reject an offer of a huge sum of money. But money was no longer her priority. The letters were the only thing that mattered to her now, and she would do almost anything to get them.
But he didn’t know what he was asking.
How could she make him understand? The ton was exclusive, meaning its members actively worked to excludepeople. Entry to the highest levels of society was not simply granted to people with money—it was all about birth and blood and breeding. Connections. Belonging. The daughter of a poor vicar with an aristocratic lineage was welcomed, whereas a rich man’s daughter of no particular background would be rigidly excluded. There were hundreds of unspoken rules designed especially to keep out people like this man and his daughter.
“I’m sorry,” she began, “but it’s just not possible.”
His cozy tone turned cold. “I think you’ll find it is possible, my lady. Even quite desirable. If you ever want to hold your head up in society again, that is.” He retied the ribbon around the remaining letters, making a neat bow, and slipped them into his breast pocket. He nodded at the letter still clutched numbly in her fist. “You can keep that one as a little reminder of what’s at stake.”
Sick at heart, knowing she was spelling out her own ruin, she forced herself to explain. “In society—the society in which I move, that is—everyone knows everyone else, or knows of them. It is usually a mother or a grandmother, an aunt or some kind of relative who sponsors a young lady for her come-out. How would I explain the sudden appearance of your daughter?”
He shrugged. “Tell ’em she’s some kind of cousin.”
She considered it for half a minute, then shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t work.” He opened his mouth to argue, and she hurried on. “My own parents were poor, but my lineage on both sides can be traced back to the Conquest. As a result, I am related to half the ton, and my husband was related to the other half. People in society know my relatives, down to the last second or third cousin and beyond. If I claimed to be related to your daughter, a dozen elderly ladies would be busy tracking down the bloodlines to sort out exactly how we are related. They’d spot her as a fraud immediately.” And both she and his daughter would be disgraced.
Though not as badly as if those letters got out.
Frowning, he rose and began to pace around the room. Alice watched him, biting her lip. She had to get those letters. She glanced at the poker hanging beside the fire, and a brief, mad thought passed through her mind. But she couldn’t do it.
He paused, staring intensely at a china shepherdess, then turned, a look of triumph on his face. “Tell ’em she’s your goddaughter then.” He plumped himself back on the sofa.
Alice stared. “But she’s not.”
“The old biddies don’t need to know that.”
She thought about it for a moment, then regretfully shook her head. “That wouldn’t work, either. I’m a terrible liar.” It was the truth, too, and he seemed to read it in her expression.
He fell silent, his eyes narrowed as he pondered the problem. Suddenly his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. “Then we make it not a lie.”
Alice blinked. “How?”
“We’ll get her christened and you can be godmother.”
“She’s never been christened?”
He shrugged. “No idea. That side of things I left to her mother, God rest her soul. But even if she was, there’s no evidence to say so.” He picked up the pile of banknotes and flipped them like a pack of cards. “Now, my fine lady, do you agree? Or do I take my money away and let society drool and snigger over your husband’s letters?”
His calm ruthlessness appalled her. Could this mad scheme possibly succeed? His words dripped like acid into her brain. Let society drool and snigger. Did she have any choice?
Hoping to buy some time to come to terms with the situation, she said, “I . . . I’d have to meet your daughter first.”
“Easily done. I brought her with me.” He rose, threw open the door and stuck his head out. “Hey, you, butler.” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
Tweed glided to the door, oozing silent outrage. Ostentatiously ignoring Bamber, he looked at Alice. “Was there something you required, m’lady?”
Again, Bamber snapped his fingers, treating her butler like a waiter in a low tavern. “My carriage is sitting outside with my daughter in it. Fetch her in here.”
Tweed gave no sign that he’d heard. He simply looked at Alice and waited. She nodded. “Yes, please ask the young lady to step in, Tweed.”
“Very good, my lady.” He stalked away.
“Insolent fellow,” Bamber commented. “I wouldn’t let him get away with that kind of behavior if I were you, my lady.”
Alice tamped down on her irritation. “Tweed has served my family all my life.”
He snorted. “And it shows. You need to treat your servants more strictly, my lady—show ’em who’s boss. If that fellow was my butler—”
“But he’s not,” Alice said firmly.
They sat in silence until Tweed ushered in a young woman, eighteen or nineteen years old. A little on the plump side, she was dressed in an expensive-looking, frilly, fussy pink dress, which in Alice’s view, did nothing for her. The girl’s light brown hair was an elaborate mass of stiff, careful curls, and a rope of unlikely pearls was looped several times around her neck. Her complexion was good, and her eyes were a pretty hazel color framed by long dark lashes. As her father had said, she wasn’t a beauty, but she was attractive—or she would be if she were better dressed.
The girl stood stiffly just inside the doorway. Her expression was wooden but somehow carried a hint of . . . was it mulishness?
She made no move to engage Alice, didn’t even look at her, just stared across at the window, as if wishing she were elsewhere. For a girl supposedly determined to enter society and marry a lord, she wasn’t trying very hard.
“My daughter, Miss Lucille Bamber, my lady.” Bamber snapped his fingers at his daughter. “Well, get on with it, girl. Make your curtsy to her ladyship.”
Was that a flash in the girl’s eyes? Alice couldn’t be sure. The girl sank into a graceful curtsy and said in a low voice, “How do you do, Lady Charlton?”
Alice inclined her head in acknowledgement. Someone had schooled the girl in deportment, at least. And her accent was good, better than her father’s.
“Prettily done. Now, don’t stand there like a looby, girl, come and sit down.” Bamber patted the space beside him.
Alice compressed her lips. The way he spoke to his daughter annoyed her, but there was more at stake here than bad manners.
Miss Bamber crossed the room and seated herself on a chair—not beside her father on the sofa. Interesting.
“I understand you wish to enter society, Miss Bamber,” Alice said.
The girl gave an indifferent shrug. She didn’t even look at Alice.
“Of course she does. She’s very eager to mix with all the lords and ladies,” Bamber said in a honeyed voice that failed to disguise his irritation. “Come, tell that to Lady Charlton, puss.”
“I’m very eager to mix with all the lords and ladies,” Miss Bamber repeated in a wooden voice.
“There, you see?” Bamber sat back.
Alice did see. The girl might have been taught to curtsy, but her manners were appalling. “Have you had much experience of parties and balls before, Miss Bamber?”
“No.”
“But she can dance,” her father said. “She’s as light as a feather on her toes, and as you can see, she’s been well trained in doing the pretty.”
Doing the pretty?Hardly. But Alice persisted with the interview. It was all a farce anyway. Unless she could find some way out of this mess, she was going to have to launch this overdressed, sullen girl into the ton anyway. Thaddeus’s horrid letters were an axe over her head. But success was looking more and more unlikely, for if the girl wasn’t enthusiastic, what hope did Alice have?
“And you are looking for a husband?” Alice prompted her.
For the first time, the girl met Alice’s gaze—a brief, flat, unreadable look—but she said nothing.
“Of course she is, it’s her dearest wish,” her father said. “Forgive my little puss, Lady Charlton. She’s shy, a little overwhelmed at being in such refined company. But that will change, won’t it, Lucy?” Beneath his coaxing tone was a hint of threat.
“If you say so, Papa.”
“Good, now wait outside, my dear, while I have a word in private with Lady Charlton.” Lucy left.
“Well? What do you say, Lady Charlton? Do we have a deal?” Bamber said.
Alice stared at him helplessly. She had no choice, she knew that—the thought of those letters being made public was too dreadful to contemplate—but introduce this stiff, churlish creature to society? Finding her anyone to marry would be hard enough, let alone a lord. She couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be done.
She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry, and she couldn’t bring herself to agree, couldn’t even speak. It was all too soon, too sudden. Too impossible. Too ghastly.
There was a long silence. Then Bamber pursed his lips. “Perhaps you need time to think it over.” He indicated Thaddeus’s letter, still crumpled in her fist. “Read that again, Lady Charlton, and consider the consequences of refusing me. I’ll call again tomorrow at ten. Be prepared for a christening.” Without waiting for her response, he left.
As soon as she heard the front door close, Alice dropped weakly back onto her chair.
“Is everything all right, m’lady?” Tweed asked from the doorway. He looked worried. His glance fell to the letter she was still clutching. Repressing the impulse to throw it in the fire, she folded the letter and tucked it away.
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,” she managed.
Tweed hesitated. “Did I do right by admitting him, m’lady?”
Lord, if he hadn’t, who knew what Bamber might have done? What if he’d gone straight to a publisher . . . Let society drool and snigger over your husband’s letters.
She repressed a shudder. “Yes, Tweed, your instincts were not at fault. You did the right thing.”
A troubled furrow appeared between his brows. “Will we be seeing more of him, m’lady?”
“I’m afraid so. He will be calling again tomorrow morning.” She hoped that would be all. With any luck, Octavius Bamber would fall into the Thames overnight and drown, taking the letters with him. But fate would not be so kind.
* * *
That night, Alice climbed into bed, took out Thaddeus’s letter and read it for the dozenth time. The scorn, the mockery implicit in his words, in his description of the intimate act of her wedding night—her wedding night!—brought it all back to her. That night . . .
She’d been so young, so very nervous. She hardly knew him, after all—their entire courtship had lasted only a few weeks, and they’d never been alone together—but she’d thought she could fall in love with him, her new husband, so tall, not exactly handsome but very impressive. So worldly and knowledgeable compared with her country-girl naïveté.
She’d been just eighteen. Innocent, ignorant, hesitant, shy.
He’d been drunk. Rough. Crude. Hasty.
He’d ripped open her nightgown, the one she’d so carefully embroidered, anticipating the night she would finally become a woman, a wife. He’d stared down at her nakedness and made some disparaging comment about the size of her breasts, and then he’d shoved her legs apart and thrust roughly into her.
She’d had no idea of what to expect. She wasn’t prepared for the pain, the rough squeezing of her breasts, the shock of his brutal invasion of her unprepared body.
She endured it as best she could, and he finally rolled off her and staggered out of the room—he hadn’t even undressed, just unfastened his breeches. She lay for a long time, unmoving—in shock, she thought now, looking back—until finally the cold air chilled her bare skin enough to make her curl up and haul the bedcovers around her.
And then, finally, the tears came, slowly at first, then in great choking sobs.
Before the wedding, Mama had told her that it wouldn’t be pleasant the first time, but she’d added vaguely that it would probably get better with time.
It never had.
Her wedding night became the pattern for the rest of Alice’s married life. She never knew when Thaddeus would take it in his head to plant an heir in her—that’s what he called it. She was grateful not to have to think of it as “making love.”
He’d enter her bedchamber with no warning—sometimes in the middle of the night, often in the wee small hours, usually drunk—undo his breeches and pound into her. And leave as soon as he’d finished.
It got so that she would be wakeful half the night, waiting for him to come and get the business over with so that she could sleep. She’d doze off, but the slightest noise would startle her out of a sound sleep. It was exhausting.
The circles under her eyes were visible, but the few who ventured to comment on them did so as a sly joke, implying that her eager husband was keeping his pretty new bride awake far into the night. Alice never denied it. It was true after all. In a way.
One time, utterly exhausted and weary of waking through the night in imagined fear, she’d locked her door to ensure she’d get some sleep. Enraged, he’d kicked the door down, and when he left, she was badly bruised and aching for days afterward.
But no matter how often—or how hard—he did it, he never managed to get her with child. “Useless, barren, cold fish,” he’d called her.
She’d had nobody to confide in, to talk about how difficult—unbearable, actually—she’d found it. Just days after her wedding, her parents had departed for the Far East—her father’s dream, to bring “enlightenment to the heathens.” Then, not a month after their arrival, Mama became poorly and in a short time had sickened and died. Papa passed shortly afterward.
Grandmama, with her painful arthritis, had become a virtual recluse, and Alice hadn’t wanted to distress her with things she could do nothing about. What was the point anyway? Marriage was “ ’til death us do part.”
Besides, though she knew it wasn’t logical, she’d felt too ashamed. She was a failure as a wife: she couldn’t please her husband, and she couldn’t conceive a child.
So having no other choice, she endured it. And having no desire to feature in society as a victim, she worked hard to give the impression that she was content in her marriage—not that anyone would believe her if she told them the truth: in public, Thaddeus could turn on the charm.
Eighteen years. Half her life trying to please a man who wouldn’t be pleased.
Now Thaddeus was dead—and if the manner of his passing was another source of shame to be endured, at least her marriage was finally at an end. He’d left her nothing but debts—the entailed property went to his brother, and he’d made no provision for his widow, only his mistress and his illegitimate son. His heir, but for Alice.
And then Grandmama—God bless her—had died and left Alice this house. A home of her own. Security.
Alice glanced at the letter in her hand. The last shameful legacy from her loving husband.
She put the letter aside, blew out her candle and lay in the dark, thinking. She wasn’t feeling sick and frightened now; she was feeling angry.
She hadn’t endured eighteen years of marriage, hadn’t maintained a public air of serenity—and Lord knew, there were times she almost couldn’t manage it—for the truth about her marriage to come out now.
Bamber’s demand was ludicrous, but that wasn’t Alice’s concern. At all costs she had to prevent the publication of those letters.
If only she’d had the presence of mind to snatch them from him and hurl them into the fire when he’d first brought them out. But she’d been in shock and hadn’t thought quickly enough. There was nothing to do now but carry out his wishes, introduce his dreadful daughter to society and try to find her a lord to marry.
And then she would be free and her life could begin.