The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Two
Alice, having spent most of the night sleepless and trying in vain to think of a way out of the mess, had no appetite for breakfast.
“Oh, and Tweed,” she said as the butler turned to leave, taking her cold, untouched breakfast with him. “The young lady who visited us yesterday will be coming to stay for an indefinite period. Please have a bedchamber prepared. The blue room, I think.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Tweed bowed, his expression conveying the kind of blank imperturbability that told her—skilled as she was in the many nuanced Shades of Tweed—that he was dying to know but would rather burst than ask her why on earth she would consider bringing the daughter of such a man into her household. Let alone installing her in the blue bedchamber!
Bamber called promptly at ten. In a tight voice, Alice agreed to sponsor Lucy Bamber into society.
To her surprise, Bamber had booked a church that very morning for his daughter’s baptism. He’d obviously had no doubt that Alice would agree to his terms, because barely were the words out of her mouth than he was calling for his carriage and telling her to put on her coat and hat, that he’d booked a church for his daughter’s baptism and that the vicar would be waiting.
At the last minute she remembered that as a godmother—even a spurious one—she ought to give Lucy something to commemorate the event, and casting around for something suitable, she thought of the Bible Thaddeus had given her when they’d first become betrothed.
It was a beautiful thing, bound in white kidskin with a mother-of-pearl cover and virtually untouched. At the time she’d been entranced, but of course, once she was married, the associations with Thaddeus had soured her on it. Now it seemed a perfect gift, releasing her from the unhappy memories it evoked and entering a new beginning with a new owner.
She wrapped it in a pretty shawl and gave it to Lucy in the carriage on the way to the church. The girl muttered a grudging thank-you—prompted by her father—and stuffed it unexamined in her reticule. And for the rest of the journey, which took almost an hour, she had ignored Alice and said not another word. Sulking.
Alice was quietly simmering. Miss Lucy Bamber needed a lesson in manners.
* * *
It was strange being part of the baptism of an adult. Of course Alice knew adults were baptized—her father had been a vicar, after all—but it was usually only when someone converted from another religion. She was more used to babies being baptized.
Now, standing at the font of the small village church, listening to the minister’s words, she felt a little uncomfortable, but she could see no way around it. If she were to introduce the girl as her goddaughter, she had no option but to go through with the ceremony.
She’d been a godmother twice before, when holding the tiny warm bundle in her arms had made her ache with longing for a babe of her own. But it wasn’t to be.
She stood by while the minister went through the ceremony in a brisk, almost businesslike manner. Miss Bamber bent awkwardly to allow the holy water to be poured over her head, and the minister and Alice each said their part. It was all over in minutes.
As they emerged from the dim hush of the church into the bright daylight, another carriage pulled up behind the one they’d come in. It was empty except for the coachman. “That’s for me,” Octavius Bamber said. “I have business elsewhere. You don’t need my escort back to London.” He handed his daughter into the carriage, saying, “Be good for her ladyship now, puss.”
His daughter just looked at him. She hadn’t said a word to him during the entire journey out from London and had simply stared out of the window. Now she gave him a flat look and turned away, no farewell or anything.
As a beginning, it was more than unpromising.
Bamber turned to Alice to help her up the steps, but she glanced at the girl in the carriage and stepped away out of earshot.
“There are things we need to discuss,” she said.
“Nonsense, you know what you have to do and what will happen if you don’t. Best you get on with it.” He handed her a bundle of banknotes. “This will keep you going for the first little while. I’ll make arrangements to send the rest later.”
“But—”
“Off you go now. I’m a busy man.” He started toward the second carriage.
“Mr. Bamber!” She had to make one thing clear to him.
He turned back. “What?”
“Do you intend to call on your daughter and me in London? Because if so, I have to say—”
“Call on you? Good God, no. Why on earth would I come calling on you? We’ve made our agreement, and that’s the end of it. It’s all up to you now.”
It was exactly what she’d planned to tell him—that if he wanted his daughter to be accepted by the ton, it would be best if he stayed away—but all the same it shocked her that he could so easily hand his only daughter over to a complete stranger.
“But your daughter . . .”
He shrugged. “She’s eighteen, a grown woman. I’ll keep an eye on you, naturally, to make sure you’re holding up your end of the bargain, but I’ll do it from a distance. I’ll attend the wedding, of course, give the bride away, but that’s the extent of it. I want her off my hands and settled. Oh, and Lady Charlton, you have until the end of the season. If she’s not married, or at least betrothed by then, I will have those letters published.”
“The end of the season? But that’s—”
“Plenty of time. Now, good day to you, your ladyship.” He climbed into his carriage, rapped on the roof and drove off, leaving Alice staring after him with her mouth open.
He’d left Lucy without a backward glance, without even a proper farewell. Leaving his daughter in the care of a woman who had every reason to despise her.
What sort of a man did that? Foolish question. Bamber was a blackmailer. A scoundrel with delusions of grandeur. And apparently a heartless parent as well.
She stuffed the banknotes into her reticule and climbed into the carriage, feeling the first glimmer of sympathy for Lucy. But the girl scowled and turned her face away, hunching herself into the corner of the carriage and staring out the window. Dumb insolence or nerves? It was hard to tell.
They set off back to London. The miles passed in silence.
Alice considered her options. If she ever wanted peace again, she had to get this girl married off as quickly as possible, to a lord and by the end of the season, no less. But who would want her?
She had no desirable family connections. Her father was unspeakable, but he seemed to have plenty of money. Lucy wasn’t bad-looking: if she could be brought to behave in a more amenable manner—and to dress better—there might be a chance.
But who? She sat staring blankly out the window, making a mental list of unmarried lords. No point pursuing those gentlemen who currently graced the ton’s unwritten list of the catches of the season. That left the less desirable ones, the fortune hunters, the sworn bachelors, the widowers . . .
Alice knew plenty of widowers. Her sister-in-law, Almeria, was forever pushing them at her. She was determined to get Alice off the family’s hands and ignored Alice’s repeatedly expressed intention never to marry again.
But Lucy was very young. Alice was reluctant to match a young girl with a much older man. She might not like the girl, but she didn’t want her to be miserable in her marriage.
Oh, why did it have to be a lord? There were plenty of perfectly nice, perfectly eligible gentlemen looking for a bride.
Her eyes ran over the frilled and flounced orange dress the girl was wearing. The first thing would be to get her some elegant new clothes. Alice would have to approach that tactfully. Taste was such a personal thing.
Several times on the trip back to London, Alice tried to make conversation, but the girl answered with either a shrug or a flat, insolent glance or with nothing at all.
Alice’s mood went from seething with anger to despair and back again. How on earth was she going to get this overdressed, mannerless creature accepted into society? For two pins she’d send her back to her father. But the consequences of that would be appalling.
She was well and truly stuck with her.
Eventually the carriage pulled up in front of Alice’s house. The coachman put the steps down and began to dump Lucy’s luggage on the front steps. For a girl about to make her come-out, there wasn’t much. Lucy picked up a battered old carpetbag and a bandbox. Tweed appeared at the door, and after ushering Alice and Lucy inside, he began collecting bags.
Mrs. Tweed, the cook-housekeeper, waited in the hallway. Alice greeted her with relief. “Mrs. Tweed, this is Miss Bamber, who is going to be staying with us for some time. Would you show her to her bedchamber, please?”
“Pleased to, m’lady. Welcome to Bellaire Gardens, miss. Tweed and me hope you’ll be happy here.” Mrs. Tweed gave the girl a motherly smile and took the bandbox from her. She would have taken the carpetbag, too, but Lucy clung to it.
Alice said briskly, “Yes, welcome, Lucy. Now off you go upstairs. Mrs. Tweed will answer any questions you have about the house. Freshen up and we’ll take a spot of luncheon in half an hour. After that, my maid, Mary, will help you unpack. We’ll have to share her, I’m afraid. My staff is rather . . . sparse at the moment.”
Lucy frowned. “I’ll unpack for myself.”
“As you wish,” Alice said indifferently. Less work for Mary. She’d inherited her grandmother’s staff along with the house. None of them was particularly young, and Alice had known them all her life. Grandmama had also left her an allowance that covered the servants’ wages and the household expenses. If she were frugal.
She just hoped that Octavius Bamber hadn’t underestimated the cost of launching a young lady in her first season.
“Tweed generally sounds a gong ten minutes before mealtimes to let you know when to come downstairs. Mrs. Tweed will show you where we will eat.”
Lucy went upstairs with the Tweeds, and Alice fought the urge to collapse into the nearest chair and pour herself a glass of something strong.
She regretted now that she’d had the blue room prepared for Lucy. She’d given the instructions in a foolish moment of sympathy, a reaction to her own dislike of the father and his impossible ambition for his daughter. But now, having spent several hours in a carriage with her, exposed to her sullen, barely cooperative conversation—like drawing teeth, and she was not shy, whatever her father claimed!—Alice had decided any sympathy was wasted.
Lucy Bamber was reserved, difficult and prickly. And her dress sense was dreadful. It was not a promising start.
Somehow Alice had to find a titled gentleman willing to marry this rude, spoiled hedgehog of a girl.
* * *
Lucy followed the housekeeper up the stairs. Past the first floor—“Reception rooms,” the old woman told her. Past the second floor—“That’s where Lady Charlton’s bedchamber and favorite sitting room are.” She led Lucy up the narrower stairs to the third floor and down the corridor to a room right at the back of the house. Lucy’s lip curled. That’d be right. In with the servants, no doubt.
Mrs. Tweed opened the door and gestured for Lucy to enter.
The ancient butler set down a valise and two bandboxes and trudged off to fetch the rest of her luggage from the hall, while his wife bustled about the room, twitching things into place and explaining things in a familiar, chatty manner. Lucy wasn’t really listening.
Papa had stressed to her that she must learn to treat servants properly, to speak firmly to them when you wanted something and to ignore them for the most part, as if they weren’t there. Because that’s what the aristocracy did.
Most importantly, she was not to allow any cheek or personal references. He’d explained that Lady Charlton had no idea how to treat servants and had allowed hers to get into some very bad habits. He’d added that her butler was a very cheeky fellow in need of a severe set-down.
Lucy didn’t think the butler was the slightest bit cheeky. She found his solemn air of dignity quite intimidating. And now the butler’s wife was being all cozy and motherly. What was she supposed to do about that?
And they were both practically a hundred years old. Their faces were as wrinkled as the skin that formed on warm milk, the housekeeper’s hair was silvery white, and the butler had almost no hair at all, just a thin fringe of white circling a shiny pink pate. She was plump; he was thin and stooped, and he wheezed slightly as he set the last of her baggage down in front of the wardrobe.
It made Lucy a little uncomfortable, letting an old man carry her things up all those stairs. She knew how the aristocracy treated servants. She’d learned it the hard way, and she didn’t much like it.
“Now then, miss, you let us know if there’s anything else you need,” the old woman finished. “Tweed and me’ll do what we can to help you settle in. Nice to have a young lady visiting,” she added warmly and patted Lucy on the arm.
Lucy murmured her thanks and wondered whether she ought to have reprimanded her for that pat on the arm. She was certain Papa would have, saying it was encroaching and overfamiliar and she was not to allow a servant to treat her that way.
But it felt . . . nice. Friendly. Not encroaching at all.
Oh, she was never going to manage this. Marry a lord? She couldn’t even handle servants. What had Papa been thinking?
The comtesse had treated Lucy as a kind of mix between a pupil and maidservant. She was prideful and arrogant and impossible to please, and would drill Lucy mercilessly for an hour or two each morning, rapping out orders in French about how to curtsy according to rank and instructing her in other obscure rituals of the ancien régime. Correcting her accent. Teaching her to behave as ma charmante invitée. Then she would send her off to dust the furniture, scrub the floor, fetch the eggs and chop onions in the kitchen, like a servant. Frau Steiner had been much the same, only with her, it was music, not manners. And all in German.
Would Lady Charlton be any better? She doubted it.
The minute the Tweeds had closed the door behind them, Lucy plumped down onto the bed. Her fists were knotted in frustration, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to scream or cry—or both. But what was the point? Papa had done what he always did: appeared out of the blue, swept her away to God-knew-where, for who-knew-what reason, dumped her in a strange place with a strange woman and minimal explanation—and then left.
Lord knew when she’d see him again.
The comtesse had been most put out by the lack of notice, but Papa had ignored the old lady’s ranting. His behavior had been a far cry from when he’d first brought her to the comtesse—then he’d been all over the old lady, as charming and obsequious as a honey-dipped snake. But he’d got what he wanted from her and was barely polite to the old lady now. He’d hustled Lucy away so quickly she had no time to say farewell to anyone. Not that she’d had any actual friends there.
They’d stopped for a few days at Epsom—for the races, of course—and afterward Papa had presented her with several new dresses, including the ugly pink one she’d worn yesterday and the orange thing she was wearing now. She detected the less-than-subtle taste of one of Papa’s ladies—he liked them bold and a bit vulgar—and she’d said so, quite bluntly.
Papa said it didn’t matter, that she was going to London to make her come-out and marry a lord, and that the lady who would sponsor her come-out would take her to the finest French mantua-maker and order her a whole new wardrobe. In the meantime Lucy would wear what he had provided and like it.
There was never any point arguing with Papa. He never listened. And since all her old clothes were faded and a bit tight—it was several years since she’d had anything new—she had no choice but to obey. Though not the bit about liking it.
She flung herself back on her new bed. She felt like drumming her heels on the counterpane, kicking some of her frustration away. But it was quite a nice counterpane, and she was still wearing her new high-heeled half boots, and it wouldn’t be a good idea to have her first act in this house be an act of vandalism.
Besides, experience had taught her that giving way to temper only ever made things worse.
She took ten long, slow breaths, forcing herself to become calmer. There was no point in being upset—she was stuck here in this house with this woman who Papa said was going to get her married to a lord.
A lord! Really, Papa was the absolute limit. As if any lord would be interested in plain Lucy Bamber, of no particular beauty, no fortune, no background and no accomplishments. Another one of Papa’s plans that was bound to end in humiliation—Lucy’s humiliation.
She’d begged and pleaded with him to change his mind, but he’d turned a deaf ear to all her pleas and arguments, and as always, here she was, delivered like a parcel and abandoned.
For two pins she’d run away, only she didn’t have two pins, or even tuppence—and in any case, where could she go? She had nowhere to run to and she wasn’t naive enough to try. She’d tried once, and afterward Papa had made her walk by herself down a grimy, narrow street lined with scantily dressed girls and women, some her age and younger, selling their bodies, calling out their “wares.” It was a terrifying lesson in the fate of unprotected girls, and she’d never forgotten it.
You needed money to run away, and Papa had seen to it that she didn’t have a penny of her own. She’d seen the thick wad of banknotes he’d given to Lady Charlton.
This mad scheme of his. Whatever did he imagine would come of it?
And though she wouldn’t mind getting married, she really, really didn’t want to marry a lord. She’d met enough of them at the comtesse’s to know what they were like, and she’d known several girls from titled families at the various schools she’d attended—horrid, snobbish cows, for the most part.
Those girls had despised Lucy for her accent, her lack of family, her lack of “background”—and Lucy had despised them right back.
Lady Charlton would despise her, too, she knew, even though Lucy’s accent was better now. And those lords of hers would take one look at her and turn up their aristocratic noses. Or slip their horrid, soft white fingers into her clothing, assuming she would be honored by their lordly attentions.
She’d given quite a few lordly types a nice shock when she’d reacted to that kind of attention. Though some of them got quite excited by a slap. Horrid beasts.
No, she really didn’t want to be part of fashionable society, where everyone thought themselves superior to everyone else. She had to find some way out of this stupid plan of Papa’s.
She rolled off the bed, made use of the necessary, then washed her hands and face. A marble-topped table held a large jug of water—still warm—a bowl for washing in and a small cake of soap. It was good-quality soap, too, and smelled faintly of roses.
Why was Lady Charlton doing this? Why would a grand lady like her agree to take in an unknown girl and try to find her an aristocratic husband. For money?
It was obvious that Lady Charlton was a trifle purse-pinched—Lucy had noticed the darker patches on the walls of the upper floors where paintings had once hung, and there was evidence that there had once been rugs on the floors. But despite its faded elegance, this house was impressive and right in the heart of fashionable London. It would be worth a mint.
Maybe she was a gambler and was in debt and had no choice. That was a possibility. She didn’t think it was for love. Papa had a way with the ladies, but his taste ran more to vulgar widows—mutton dressed as lamb. Lady Charlton was quietly elegant, not his style at all. Though you never knew with Papa.
She dried her face and hands on a towel.
Had Papa somehow forced Lady Charlton to take her in? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done that kind of thing before. And whenever Papa coerced people into taking Lucy, they invariably took it out on her.
But this room . . . Lucy looked around the room with a new eye. It was a very nice room altogether, by far the nicest bedchamber she’d ever had. It wasn’t large, but it was spotless. Papered in a pretty pale blue, the room had a large window on one wall that let in plenty of light. As well as the bed—which was large and surprisingly comfortable—there was a tall chest of drawers, a spacious wardrobe, a dressing table with a looking glass attached and, beside it, a full-length cheval mirror.
It wasn’t opulent, but nor was it shabby. It was clean, attractive and comfortable. She hadn’t expected that.
The clock in the hall chimed the quarter hour. Lucy glanced at her reflection in the cheval glass and pulled a face. Oh, how she hated this dress. The sooner Lady Charlton took her to that fancy French dressmaker, the better. If she listened to what Lucy wanted, that is. Not that anyone ever did.
Beneath the window sat a small chaise longue and beside it a narrow shelf of books. Lucy loved to read, and had a weakness for the kind of books that Papa called “rubbishy novels.” Curious, she went to investigate the titles—and then stopped dead. Her room was at the back of the house, and she had expected to look out onto brick walls or a dingy laneway. She stared out, entranced.
Her window looked out into trees. A hundred shades of green in the heart of gray old London. She pressed her face against the glass, looked down and felt some of the tightness in her chest slowly loosen. Between a gently fluttering veil of tender spring leaves, she could make out a smooth swathe of velvety green lawn.
There were neatly edged garden beds, bursting with bright spring colors: golden daffodils, tulips in red and yellow, and something blue—hyacinths or maybe the last of the bluebells. Beneath the taller flowers, a rich floral tapestry in soft jewel tones that she thought might be primulas. Mama would have known; she loved flowers.
It was hard to be sure, to see exactly which flowers were out. Narrow pathways wound between the lavish, exuberant flower beds and disappeared behind a bank of shrubs, leading who knew where.
In the middle of the garden sat an odd, intriguing little building made mostly of glass. She dodged, trying to look through the screen of leaves, but the breeze was making them dance and shift, so it was difficult to see. Was it a temple? A folly? Oh, and was that an arch of wisteria? Who owned this wonderful garden so full of delights?
A heavy bong reverberated from below, startling her and reminding her that she was supposed to go down for luncheon. She hadn’t been able to eat a thing this morning, she’d been so full of dread. And frustration. And anger. Now she was ravenous.
She dragged herself away from the enticing view, tidied her hair and hurried down the stairs. The last house she’d lived in that had a proper garden with flowers had been one she’d lived in with Mama, but that was small, just a few flowers in front and mostly vegetables behind. Now she only had to look out her window to gaze into a magical garden. And in London, of all places. It was an unexpected gift.
She passed a number of doors on her way downstairs. Spare bedchambers, Mrs. Tweed had told her as they’d passed earlier. Any one of them could have been hers. She doubted any of them had a view: they faced the side of the building, so would probably look out onto a brick wall of the house next door.
But Lady Charlton had given her unwanted guest a light, pretty room with a magical view. Why? Lucy couldn’t understand it. If Papa had forced Lady Charlton to take Lucy in and present her to society, Lady Charlton would surely resent her.
If their positions were reversed, Lucy would probably want to stick her uninvited guest in a stuffy closet or some dark little hole. Or a chilly attic room, like the one the comtesse had given her. Or squeezed her into a dusty room filled with old furniture and boxes, as Frau Steiner had. And in the various schools she’d attended, Lucy had always been given the most uncomfortable bed or the dark corner nobody else wanted.
She’d never in her life had such a pretty, comfortable bedchamber, let alone one with such a lovely view. It was quite a puzzle.