The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Three
Alice had made a poor start with Lucy, she realized as she washed her hands before luncheon. She’d let her resentment and anger toward Bamber spill over onto the daughter, which was hardly fair. The girl had made no effort to cooperate or even be polite, but then, if Alice had been put into a similar situation, she might feel like being rude and resentful, too.
She wouldn’t have shown it, though. Alice had spent a lifetime being a good, obedient girl. And then a good, obedient wife.
And what had that achieved? Certainly not happiness. Perhaps if she’d rebelled earlier . . . No. Pointless to repine over the past. She just had to get this girl married off, and then she would be free to become the kind of woman she wanted to be.
Whatever that was.
Lucy was just eighteen, and Alice’s memory of that age was that it was full of emotional ups and downs. At eighteen, in a matter of weeks, Alice herself had been betrothed, married and pitchforked into London society. Alone, because shortly after her wedding, Mama and Papa had sailed for the Far East.
It wasn’t all that different from Lucy’s situation now. Left alone to sink or swim.
As the elder, Alice needed to take the lead, because if this scheme were to work, she needed to establish a relationship with Lucy that was, at the very least, civil and cooperative.
Luncheon was a simple meal of clear soup, bread and butter, sliced ham and a green salad. After grace, they drank the soup in silence. Then as they were buttering bread and serving themselves ham and salad, Alice spoke. “Are you happy with your room, Lucy?”
Lucy nodded and continued buttering her bread.
“My maid, Mary, will come after lunch and to unpack for y—”
“I said, I don’t need her. I’ll unpack my own things.”
Alice blinked at the abrupt declaration, but all she said was, “Very well.”
For the next few minutes they addressed themselves to the meal.
“You’re not his usual type.”
The comment out of the blue startled Alice. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wouldn’t have picked you as one of Papa’s fancy women.”
One of his fancy women?Alice stiffened. “Are you implying that there is something—something personal—between your father and me? Because if so, you are quite, quite wrong.”
Lucy quirked a cynical brow. “Really?”
“Yes, really! I met him for the first time yesterday.”
The girl narrowed her eyes. “You never met him before that?”
“Never. I hadn’t even heard of him.”
“Then why . . ?”
“Why did I agree to take you into my home and sponsor your come-out?” It was a fair question and not unexpected.
Lucy nodded. “And go through that—that stupid godmother rigmarole. Mama had me baptized when I was a baby.”
A trickle of relief ran down Alice’s spine. So the girl didn’t know the sordid details of the arrangement her father had made with Alice. “It’s business.”
“So you’re doing it for money.” It wasn’t a question.
Alice nodded, hoping she looked convincing. Money played no part in why she’d agreed to this mad scheme, but she was accepting money from Bamber to cover the costs. But the less Lucy knew about the arrangement, the better.
At least the girl was talking now.
She tried for some more pleasant conversation. “Where do you come from, Lucy?” The more she knew about her background, the easier it would be to introduce her.
Lucy poked at her salad. “Nowhere.”
“What do you mean ‘nowhere’?” Everyone came from somewhere.
Apparently uninterested, the girl lifted a shoulder.
Alice persisted. “Well, where were you living before your father brought you to me?”
“With another woman, a Frenchwoman in Sussex.” Her tone was world-weary.
“And this woman was your father’s . . .” Alice paused delicately.
“No. She wasn’t one of his mistresses. She was old.” She glanced at Alice. “Much older than you.”
Alice was slightly shocked at the casual way this girl spoke of her father’s mistresses. At Lucy’s age, Alice had had no idea that men even kept mistresses. She’d been so innocent back then.
Bamber had implied that Lucy’s mother was dead. Perhaps that’s why Lucy was so knowledgeable about the ways of men, because she’d been brought up by her father.
“How long did you live with this Frenchwoman?”
“The comtesse? Just over a year.”
“Comtesse?”
Lucy nodded. “She escaped France during the Terror. Her husband was killed and her castle was burned to the ground, so she never went back. She had plenty of visitors, though.”
“I see. Well, where did you live before you went to stay with the comtesse?”
“With Frau Steiner.”
“Let me guess—she was German.”
“Austrian. And before you ask, I was with her almost a year.”
Alice raised a brow. “And before that?”
“School. Miss Fitcher’s Seminary.”
“And before that?”
“School. Miss Mitchell’s establishment.”
“Before that then?” Alice was getting a little annoyed at the girl’s deliberate evasiveness.
“School. And before that, another school. And before that, another,” Lucy finished, throwing Alice a faintly challenging look.
The conversation paused while Tweed bought in stewed apples and a baked-rice custard.
“Are you saying you were expelled from all those schools?” Alice said after Tweed had left. Good God, what had she got herself into?
Lucy lifted an indifferent shoulder, as if she had no idea, and cared even less. Alice frowned. Lucy had been asked to leave at least five schools, and there must have been a good reason for that.
But she could tell from Lucy’s mulish expression that she wasn’t going to explain, and Alice didn’t want to push the issue, not this early in their acquaintance.
“Did you never go home in between these schools?”
“No. I told you—nowhere to go to.”
There was a certain bleakness to that. Alice hesitated, then said gently, “I was sorry to hear you lost your mother, Lucy. How old were you when she died?”
Lucy helped herself to apples and rice custard. “Eleven, and before you ask, we moved around when Mama was alive, too. And the day after her funeral, Papa put me in school.”
“I see.” Alice didn’t, not at all, but she was beginning to see a pattern. The way Bamber had dumped his daughter on Alice and left gave her an inkling of what kind of life the girl might have had.
The details of Lucy’s history, scant as they were, gave her much to think on, although it was mostly speculation. She and Lucy needed to become friendly enough for an exchange of more personal information, rather than this cautious fencing. Then she would understand better. But clearly, it would take time.
* * *
After luncheon, Alice headed out to make some morning calls, leaving Lucy to entertain herself and unpack. Once Lucy was properly dressed, she would accompany Alice on the calls, but not yet.
If she had to bring this wretched girl out, she needed to reconnect with the social scene. She’d been out of circulation for the last eighteen months, first because of her year of mourning, and later because she didn’t really feel like facing all those curious looks. And ugly suggestions. The rumors about Thaddeus’s manner and place of death were still circulating.
Now they served as a reminder of how much worse it would be if those letters ever got out. The knowledge stiffened her backbone.
She called on her sister-in-law, Almeria, first. Almeria was far from her favorite person, but now that she’d become the Countess of Charlton, it was incumbent on Alice to pay her respects before she started making other calls. To do otherwise was to court insult, and Almeria was very prone to seeing insult where none was intended.
It was strange, arriving at her former home as a guest. She’d never liked the house: the furnishings and decoration were heavy and too ornate for her taste, and she’d always found it cold. It had always felt like Thaddeus’s home, not hers, even though she’d lived there for eighteen years and spent much more time there than he did.
Almeria, dressed in her signature puce, with silver piping, was receiving, and several other ladies were also making calls. The butler, Dawes, who had been Alice’s butler until eighteen months ago, announced her arrival. “The Dowager Countess of Charlton.”
After the introductions—the other guests were two society matrons and their young daughters, just out this season—Almeria turned to Alice with an opening salvo. “You’re looking sadly pinched and drawn, Alice dear. Dying of boredom, I expect. You really should get out more. You widows mustn’t let yourselves get any drearier, you know.”
Alice inclined her head politely and said nothing. The other guests exchanged glances.
Almeria continued, “I, on the other hand, have been a positive whirlwind of activity, bringing this house up to scratch.” She laid a hand across her chest, indicating utter exhaustion. “How on earth did you bear it, my dear? Everything so outdated and shabby.” She smiled sweetly and turned to the other ladies. “Of course, coming from an obscure country vicarage, dear Alice would have no notion of how an earl’s town house ought to appear. But I have it in hand now.”
Alice said nothing. Thaddeus had refused to let her change a thing, but she had no intention of justifying herself to Almeria. The house hadn’t been to her taste, but it had never been shabby or outdated.
As a new bride, she’d been taken aback by Almeria’s constant saccharine-coated hostility, but eventually someone had informed her that Almeria had set her cap at Thaddeus and was thought to be first in the running to be his bride, but as the years had passed and no proposal was forthcoming, she’d given in and married Thaddeus’s younger brother instead.
And then, ten years later, Thaddeus swept back from a rural visit, betrothed to a young lady nobody had ever heard of—neither a great beauty nor a great heiress, though her bloodline was distinguished. A simple vicar’s daughter.
Almeria had never forgiven Alice for succeeding where she’d failed, and now that Almeria was the countess and Alice the dowager—and she’d produced a son, while Alice had proved to be barren—Almeria couldn’t pass up any opportunity to crow over their change in status.
If only Almeria had married Thaddeus. What might Alice’s life have been then?
“So what have you been doing with yourself, Alice dear?”
It was said in such a world-weary, patronizing voice that Alice found herself saying, “I have a guest staying with me. A young lady.”
“A guest? You mean a lodger, I suppose? Dear me, how the mighty have fallen,” Almeria said with a titter and a meaningful glance at her other guests.
“No, not a lodger,” Alice said, with an edge to her voice. “I am preparing to sponsor the young lady’s come-out.”
Almeria’s eyes narrowed. “Young lady? Which young lady?”
Alice instantly regretted mentioning it. “My goddaughter, Miss Lucy Bamber.”
“A goddaughter?” The finely plucked brows twitched. “I know both your goddaughters. Why have I never heard of this one before now?”
“I have no idea who you might or might not have heard of, Almeria.” She was pleased to hear she sounded quite cool. “I have known Lucy Bamber since before she was baptized.” Which wasn’t a lie, not really.
“Bamber?” Almeria pursed her lips. “I don’t know any Bambers. Who are her people? Where does she come from?”
Alice went blank. Oh heavens. What to say? She should have thought this thing through before making her announcement. Her own fault for letting Almeria goad her into speaking unprepared.
“Aunt Alice?” came a voice from the doorway. Almeria’s son, Gerald, Lord Thornton, entered the room.
“Gerald, my dear boy, safe home at last!” Almeria turned to her guests and explained, “My son was in a curricle race, all the way to Brighton. So dashing! And so dangerous. Tell me, dearest boy, did you break the Prince Regent’s record?”
“No, Mother, I did not.” He turned to Alice and bowed over her hand. “Aunt Alice, how lovely to see you. You’re looking very well, I must say.”
Alice greeted him, thankful for the distraction. Gerald had always been a favorite of hers. Almeria’s guests were sitting up, the older ladies beaming, and the two young ones blushing and smoothing their skirts. Alice suddenly realized why Almeria was entertaining two very young ladies and their mothers.
“Your aunt claims she is sponsoring a young lady for the season,” Almeria said as Gerald sat down.
“That sounds exciting, Aunt Alice.”
“I hope so,” Alice agreed.
“A young lady’s come-out is an expensive matter. How can you possibly afford it?” Almeria said.
Alice ignored her. It was none of her business, and to ask such a question before guests was the height of rudeness.
“Mother,” Gerald said in quiet reproof.
His mother pouted. “Well, it is expensive.”
Gerald turned to Alice with a warm smile. “I hope you’re coming to my party next week, Aunt Alice.”
“Party?” Alice said blankly.
“For my birthday.” Gerald turned to his mother. “You did invite Aunt Alice, didn’t you, Mother? I particularly asked you.”
“Of course I invited her.” Almeria shrugged. “It must have gone missing in the post. In any case, it’s a small family party, a simple ‘at home’, hardly worth her attending.”
Since all Almeria’s invitations were hand delivered, the excuse fooled no one.
“In that case, I’ll invite Aunt Alice, and her guest, myself,” Gerald said.
His mother’s thin lips thinned further.
At that point the other guests reluctantly acknowledged their visit had, sadly, extended past the time generally accepted for morning calls. They rose and took their leave, pressing invitations on Lord Thornton to parties and visits to the theater and rides in the park—to all of which Gerald responded with charm while at the same time managing to avoid accepting any of them.
Alice seized the opportunity to escape with them. Explaining that she had errands to run, she hurried away.
* * *
As soon as the guests had left, Gerald turned to his mother. “That was not well done of you, Mother. You know Aunt Alice is not well off.”
His mother pouted. “So you constantly claim, but sponsoring a young lady is an expensive enterprise, so you see, she must have money. Your father was right not to give her an allowance.”
“Uncle Thaddeus didn’t leave her a penny. It’s a damned disgrace.”
“Gerald! Such language.”
“Well, it is.” Gerald was unrepentant. “Father inherited everything, so it’s his responsibility to make the provision for his brother’s widow that his wretched brother failed to.”
“Nonsense! If Alice can waste money bringing out some girl nobody’s ever heard of, she clearly has money to spare. Unless the girl really is a lodger, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least, Alice having no sense of what is appropriate to her position.”
Gerald blanched. “Lodger? What makes you think—”
“And if she actually is short of money, she can do what everyone else does—find herself another husband and get out of our hair.”
“Mother!”
His mother lifted a hand. “That’s enough, Gerald! I’ve had quite enough of dreary Alice for today. I won’t hear another word about her.” She patted the seat beside her. “Now come over here and tell me how you found Lady Elizabeth. Or do you prefer her cousin, Miss Pumphrey?”
“Neither,” he said absently. If his aunt really had taken in a lodger, she was in worse straits than he’d thought. He’d argued repeatedly with his father about the need to make her an allowance—Uncle Thaddeus had cheated Alice and her unworldly father in the matter of marriage settlements, and as far as Gerald was concerned, it was a stain on the family honor to have the dowager countess left in such dire straits. Besides, he was fond of her.
But his father was a complete penny-pinch and even made Gerald—his heir and only son—a miserly allowance, hoping to make him dance to his tune. And his mother despised Alice and wouldn’t hear of giving her any support.
“Both young ladies seemed very taken with you,” his mother continued.
Gerald repressed a sigh. His mother was forever throwing eligible young ladies at his head, citing his need to beget an heir, but at twenty-seven, he was in no hurry to settle down. His early adulthood had been spent overseas, part of an army at war. Having sold out after Waterloo, and then finding himself raised to the peerage, courtesy of his uncle’s death, he was enjoying the diversions of peacetime London. And was in no mood to find a leg shackle just yet.
He rose. “Thank you, Mother, I’m off.” He wanted to catch Alice for a private word.
“Won’t you stay for dinner? We have guests and you’d be most welc—”
“Sorry, Mother, I have other plans.” He didn’t, but he knew what kind of dinner his mother would arrange: one with a blushing young lady seated on either side of him. He’d taken lodgings in town for this very reason—he valued his independence. And it limited his mother’s opportunities to thrust potential brides at him.
Gerald hurried out into the street, ran to the corner and looked both ways. Yes, there was Alice, crossing Berkeley Square, all on her own. She ought to have a footman or maid with her, but he doubted she could afford it. Her situation was a disgrace.
He ran after her. “Alice, Aunt Alice!”
She turned and watched his approach with a faint frown. “Is something the matter?” she said when he arrived.
“I’m not sure—is there?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Mother said—” He broke off as a sudden spatter of drops fell. “Look, it’s going to rain. Let us go into Gunter’s. We can talk while we wait out the rain.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, but the heavens opened, and they ran the short distance to Gunter’s and entered with rain pelting down behind them. They found a table, and Gerald ordered a pot of tea and some almond biscuits.
When their tea arrived, Gerald said, “Mother said you’ve taken in a lodger. Is that true?”
She made an annoyed sound. “Oh, what nonsense. Almeria was just making mischief. You know her way. I do have a young lady staying with me, and it pleased your mother to call her a lodger. But she is a guest.”
He lowered his voice. “Are you sure, Aunt Alice? Because if you are in financial difficulties, I could speak to Father again and—”
“I said I wasn’t, Gerald.” She laid a gloved hand on his arm. “It’s kind of you to trouble yourself, but really, my situation is not your responsibility.”
“No, it’s my father’s,” he said bitterly. “But he will do nothing. But if she’s not a lodger, who is this girl? Mother said nobody has ever heard of her.”
“Lucy Bamber is my goddaughter. I’m perfectly all right, and there’s no need for you to worry. Now please, let us drop the subject.” She fixed him with a bright, determined smile. “Tell me, how did your race go?”
* * *
Lady Charlton had gone out, which meant Lucy was free to do what she liked. She finished unpacking her things—it didn’t take long: she didn’t have much. She prowled around the room, picked up a novel, put it down, picked up another one. Both were books she’d been planning to read, but that garden, so green and private, enticed her.
Who did it belong to? It was spacious and beautiful, but each time she looked, it was empty. Typical of rich people: they had all these beautiful things just for show and didn’t use them.
She crept down the stairs and slipped out into the back courtyard while Mrs. Tweed’s back was turned. There was a black wrought iron fence and gate at the end of the small courtyard. She tried it. Locked. Of course. People locked everything in London.
She peered through the railings. Nobody in the garden at all. What a waste. A big tree grew just inside the garden, with one large branch hanging over the fence. She eyed it thoughtfully.
She never had been one for following the rules, and who cared anyway? If the owners of this gorgeous garden weren’t using it . . .
A small, round wrought iron table stood in the corner of the courtyard. She dragged it to the fence, climbed onto it, tucked up the skirts of the horrid orange dress, and used the branch to swing herself over the fence. She dropped to the ground, grinning. She was in.
She walked the paths carefully, keeping an eye out for an owner, or an angry gardener, but there was not a soul, only the birds and a red squirrel that eyed her cheekily before bounding up an oak.
Time disappeared as she explored, lost in a new world, until a few heavy drops of rain startled her back to awareness. The clouds overhead loomed thick and slaty: this wasn’t a quick shower then. Bother.
She ran to the pretty little glass building and tried the door, but it was locked. The rain grew heavier. Her wet skirts clung to her, cold and clammy against her legs.
She tried to shelter under a big tree, but lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, and she recalled something about how lightning was attracted to trees.
She returned to the tree that overhung Lady Charlton’s courtyard, but it was wet, and the trunk was too slippery to climb, and she had nothing to climb on to reach the branch. Feeling like a fool, she nerved herself to call out. “Mrs. Tweed? Tweed? Is anyone there?”
Eventually Mrs. Tweed poked her head out the back door and, exclaiming distressfully, she hurried out with a large key. Tweed followed with a big black umbrella.
Mrs. Tweed unlocked the gate, clucking over Lucy like a mother hen. “Oh, my dear, however did you get locked out? Look at you—you’re soaked to the skin. Come in, come in. Tweed, fetch hot water for the young lady’s bath. She’ll take it in the kitchen, where it’s warm and toasty.”
Lucy stared as Tweed relocked the gate and hung the big iron key just inside the back door. There was a key. Why hadn’t she asked?
“I don’t need—” she began.
But she was shivering, and Mary, the maid, said, “You’ll have a nice hot bath, miss, and no arguing. Lady Charlton would never forgive us if we let you catch a chill.”
Lady Charlton would probably be delighted if she died of pneumonia, Lucy thought. She didn’t want Lucy living with her, just as Lucy didn’t want to be here.
Tweed placed an enamel bathtub in front of the fire and filled it with steaming water. Mrs. Tweed and Mary then shooed him out and turned to help Lucy undress. Lucy stepped away, wrapping her arms around herself.
“No need to be shy, miss. We’re all women here.”
But it wasn’t shyness or modesty that stopped her; it was shame. As usual, Papa had only concerned himself with the appearance of things. The ugly orange dress might look expensive, but her underwear was a disgrace: worn, patched and repatched, barely even suitable for cleaning rags.
Oh well, she supposed, no use putting off the moment. They’d soon realize. Nothing was secret from servants.
She turned her back, stripped off her dress and then her underwear, and stepped into the bath.
Lucy could practically hear the silent looks Mary and Mrs. Tweed must be exchanging, but there was nothing she could do. Finally Mary said, “I’ll see what I can do with this dress. I just hope it hasn’t shrunk.” Lucy hoped it had.
After her bath, Lucy wrapped herself in the large, toasty-warm towels Mrs. Tweed had heated for her and, with a muttered thanks, hurried upstairs to her bedchamber.
Ten minutes later Mary knocked on her door. “Mrs. Tweed sent this up for you, miss.” She brought in a tray containing a large cup of hot chocolate and a slice of Dundee cake and placed it on the dressing table.
Lucy’s cheeks were hot. “Thank you, Mary.”
The whole episode had been an exercise in mortification. And kindness.
* * *
Evening fell and hunger was beginning to rumble in Gerald’s belly. But where to dine? The landlady of his bachelor suite provided an excellent breakfast, but that was all. He had a number of friends he could call on who’d be happy to join him for dinner, but truth to tell, he was becoming a little weary of the company of young men his own age. They were all too often . . . callow. Fine for a frivolous evening out, but right now he was not in that sort of mood.
Particularly since he’d lost the race by a whisker. Brexton would be crowing about it all over London. Brexton was not a gracious winner.
Gerald was a member of White’s, but so was his father and his father’s friends, and in their company he was the one who felt callow. The way his father spoke to him—especially in front of his friends—as if Gerald knew nothing and understood less—it grated. Anyone would think him a schoolboy, not a man back from years commanding troops at war.
So his preference tonight was for the Apocalypse Club, a club formed specifically for officers returned from war. He headed for St. James.
He entered the club and, to his surprise, spied a tall, dark-haired man he hadn’t seen since Waterloo. “Colonel Tarrant, well met.”
Of all the men Gerald might have run into, Tarrant was the most welcome. He’d been Gerald’s commanding officer, a fine leader and, despite the gulf between a colonel and a captain, a friend.
The tall man rose and held out his hand with a welcoming grin. “Paton. Good to see you. Join me for a drink before dinner?” They settled back in comfortable leather armchairs and prepared to catch up.
“I thought you were still on the continent, colonel. How long are you back for?”
“For good, I hope,” Tarrant said. “And I’m a colonel no longer. I’ve sold my commission and am returning to civilian life.” He added gruffly, “And it’s Lord Tarrant now.”
“Oh yes. I heard about your brother. My sincere condolences. You were close, weren’t you?”
Tarrant nodded. “My best friend as well as my brother. Stepping into his shoes has not been easy.” He sipped his wine and grimaced. “Every time someone addresses me as ‘Lord Tarrant,’ I turn my head, expecting to see Ross.”
Gerald nodded sympathetically. “I’m still not used to people calling my father ‘Lord Charlton,’ when that’s always been his brother.”
“Oh yes, and you’re a viscount now, aren’t you? Lord . . . ?”
“Lord Thornton, for my sins.”
Tarrant raised a brow. “Not enjoying your rise to the peerage?”
Gerald shook his head. “No, it’s—it’s . . . oh, nothing.” He shouldn’t have said anything about his new position. He wasn’t one to wash his family’s dirty linen in public. Not that his father’s miserliness and determination to control every aspect of his newly inherited estate was dirty linen, precisely. Just endlessly frustrating for his heir.
He pulled a face. “It’s nothing—just that now there is a title in play, my mother is after me to take a wife and start breeding an heir. She and my father never fail to remind me that my uncle died without issue. His wife was barren, you see.”
“Ah.” They sipped their drinks and stared into the flames.
Gerald glanced at Tarrant. “I suppose you’ll be doing much the same.”
“Lord no. I have no interest in marrying again. I have my daughters.”
“But no heir.”
Tarrant shrugged. “The title won’t die out: there are male cousins around.”
Gerald envied him his freedom to do as he chose. “So, tell me, what’s the news from Europe?”
Tarrant filled him in. Europe, in the wake of Napoleon’s ravages, was still a mess, with much rebuilding to be done, physically, economically and politically. “Every man and his dog jockeying for power,” Tarrant said, shaking his head. “The process won’t be over for years yet—if ever.”
“So what will you do now?”
“Apply myself to the running of my brother’s—no, my estate. And become a family man again.”
“Yes, the two little girls. You won’t be bored, leaving such a busy and exciting life to settle in the country?”
“I won’t be bored. To be honest, I was weary of death and destruction, and now the endless negotiation and devious stratagems.” He shook his head. “It’s not for me. Not any longer.”
Gerald thought it all sounded fascinating.
“And there are now three little girls to keep me busy,” Tarrant added, and Gerald belatedly recalled hearing that the colonel’s wife had died in England after giving birth to their third child. Was it four years ago? Or five?
“A gallant and lovely lady, your late wife,” Gerald said quietly. Young Mrs. Tarrant had traveled with the army, camping in tents, sharing the difficulties and the privation and the danger, but always with a smile for her husband’s men. “You knew, of course, all we junior officers were in love with her.”
Tarrant smiled. “Perfectly understandable. I was myself.”
“How old are the girls now?” She’d given birth twice in the middle of an army at war. Afterward, the two little girls had traveled with them. They’d been the darlings of the regiment.
“Judy’s eleven—can you believe it?—and Lina is seven, and the baby, Deborah, is four.”
So, four years since the colonel had lost his wife.
“I haven’t seen them yet,” Tarrant added. “They’re in the country with their grandparents, Lord and Lady Fenwick.” Seeing Gerald’s surprise—Tarrant had always been devoted to his children—he explained, “I only arrived in England a few days ago, and I’m getting Tarrant House prepared for them. It’s been closed up for several years, and I found leaks in the roof, birds’ nests in the chimneys and all sorts of other problems. Ross was never one for coming to London. As soon as the house is fit for habitation, I’ll drive down to collect them—I’m hoping by the end of the week. But we shall see.”
They went in for dinner then, and over steak and kidney pie and roly-poly pudding with custard—the Apocalypse Club catered to no-nonsense, hearty appetites with food that stuck to the ribs—they caught up on the last few years. The time flew—they had many acquaintances in common, and having worked together so closely for so many years, the two men knew each other well.
They talked of many things, but Gerald kept thinking about the current European situation. The fighting might be over, but so much was still unresolved. Disputes and dissension continued, but now they were handled through diplomatic channels.
Then, over cheese and biscuits with port, Gerald described the peacetime pleasures he’d been enjoying, even mentioning the curricle race in passing, skipping the part about the goose and the maidservant. It still galled him to have lost the race for such a reason.
Afterward, one of those silences fell—the contemplative sort, broken only by the murmur of other diners and the clink of glassware and cutlery.
Tarrant swirled the brandy around his glass. “So, Thornton, this is your life now, betting on races and card games and boxing matches.”
Gerald ruefully acknowledged it. His life was so superficial by comparison. He knew it—had felt it even before he’d run into Tarrant. And now, with the tales of his frivolous exploits still hanging in the air, he found himself viewing his life from the point of view of a man well used to doing important work, a man with a purpose in life.
As he had once been . . .
But what else was a man to do when his every attempt to be useful was blocked by a jealous father? “Actually, since you’re in town, my mother is holding a small party, supposedly to celebrate my twenty-seventh birthday. It’s mainly family and a few close friends. I’d be very pleased if you’d come.”
Tarrant eyed him doubtfully. “An intimate family party? I wouldn’t like to intrude.”
Gerald grimaced. “A ‘family’ party with a lot of unrelated but eligible young females present—I did mention my mother is trying to shove me into parson’s mousetrap, didn’t I?” He added in a confiding rush, “I’d be very grateful for a bit of masculine support.”
Gerald knew very few of his current friends would attend—either they were also bent on avoiding parson’s mousetrap, or they were the kind of friends his father called “fribbles and wastrels” and wouldn’t be invited. But Mama would hardly refuse to invite his former commanding officer, a military hero who was now a lord.
Tarrant sipped his brandy. He was going to refuse, Gerald knew it. And why wouldn’t he? An insipid family party with a room full of marriage-minded chits was hardly likely to appeal to a man of Tarrant’s sophistication, especially having come straight from the drawing rooms and diplomatic circles of Europe.
“Please? It would mean a great deal to me.”
“Very well, if you don’t think I’ll be intruding, I’d be delighted.”
“Excellent!” Gerald sat back, pleased. He knew Tarrant was only being polite, but he didn’t care. “I’ll get Mama to send you an invitation.”
* * *
Alice met Lucy coming down the stairs just as the final reverberations of Tweed’s dinner gong were dying away. “Oh, Lucy, how did your aftern—” She broke off in surprise. Lucy looked quite different. Her hair was no longer a mass of careful, elaborately lacquered curls but was pulled up into a loose, simple knot that suited her much better. And she’d changed her dress, the same overbright pink of the day before, but looking more elegant, less fussy.
“I like your hair like that.” She stepped closer, eying Lucy’s dress. “Is that the same dress you were wearing the other day, because if it is—”
Lucy bristled. “I unpicked all the frills. And I don’t care if you think I ruined it. I hate frills and—”
“You haven’t ruined it at all,” Alice interrupted her firmly. “In fact, it looks much better on you now than it did.” She wasn’t being tactful, either. Without the frills, Lucy looked less . . . less bunchy and more graceful. Good dressmaking would make quite a difference.
“Oh.” Lucy paused, still prepared for combat. “I hate the color, too.”
Alice nodded. “It is rather a garish shade. Something in a softer pink would suit you better. We shall see. I’ve arranged a private consultation with my dressmaker for tomorrow morning. Shall we go in?” She gestured toward the dining room. She was looking forward to a glass of wine with her dinner.
The calls she’d made after Almeria had gone from bad to worse. Everyone seemed to assume she was resuming her place in society in order to find a husband—apparently Almeria had spread the word. Everyone had suggestions—elderly widowers for the most part. And when she said she was not planning to marry again, it was greeted with polite laughter, as if she couldn’t possibly be serious. So then she’d mentioned Lucy.
Your goddaughter? The questions flowed thick and fast. Who was this goddaughter? From where had she sprung? Who were her people? Where was her mother? Who was her mother? Why had Alice never mentioned this goddaughter before?
“I was hard-pressed to come up with acceptable answers,” she told Lucy over the first course. “Until people asked, I hadn’t realized quite how little I know about you and your background.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Lucy spooned up her soup. “Make something up.”
“It does matter,” Alice said, exasperated.
“Only to you,” Lucy said. “I don’t care what you say. Just tell me, and I’ll say it, too.” She buttered another slice of bread.
The depth of the girl’s indifference was frustrating. Did she think that lords—even husbands, for that matter—were so easily come by? That she needn’t even bother to try?
Tweed entered with the next course, a raised chicken pie with vegetables.
Alice said, “Mary tells me you got caught in the rain this afternoon.”
Lucy gave her a wary look. “I tried to shelter in that pretty little building, but it was locked.”
“The summerhouse? Sorry, I didn’t think to tell you. It’s always kept locked, ever since the residents of one of the other houses on the garden square had houseguests, a group of unruly young men who got frightfully drunk one night and left the place in an absolute shambles. Because of that, the key is only made available to residents who have proved themselves to be completely trustworthy.”
“Oh.”
“Did you notice the small stone Japanese lantern on the flags by the summerhouse doorway?”
Lucy thought for a moment. “Do you mean the thing that looks a bit like a stone birdhouse, except it’s sitting on the ground?”
Alice nodded. “Inside it you’ll find the key. Just remember to lock up when you’re finished and return the key to the same place.”
Lucy eyed her doubtfully, as if she didn’t quite believe that Alice would trust her with the key, but all she said was, “I’ve never seen anything like—what did you call it? A summerhouse?”
“Summerhouse, folly, temple—people call it different things.”
“I’d call it a fairy palace,” Lucy said softly, then seeing Alice’s expression, added dismissively, “or I would if I were a child.”
“I’m sorry you got drenched,” Alice said.
Lucy touched her hair. “I had to wash my hair.”
Alice didn’t think that was the only reason. It was becoming clear that Lucy preferred a simple, unfussy style in all things, but Alice didn’t want to make the girl any more self-conscious than she already was, so she simply nodded and said, “Mary told me your other dress is ruined.”
“Good.”
“Good? Didn’t you like it?”
“I hated it. It was badly cut and ridiculously fussy, and the color made me look like a—like a sick canary.”
Lucy smiled. “I think you might enjoy meeting my dressmaker. She’s also a woman of robust opinions, particularly when it comes to matters of fashion.”