The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Seven
Gerald lounged against the wall of the box, idly observing the comings and goings of the people in the stalls below. He wasn’t terribly fond of the theater, but Tarrant had invited him, and Gerald had nothing else planned.
Voices outside the box alerted him to the imminent arrival of the rest of Tarrant’s party. The door opened, Gerald straightened, and as the first person stepped into the box, she came to a dead halt. It was that girl. Her excited expression faded, and for a moment she looked dismayed.
Seconds later his aunt bumped into her. “Lucy, whatever are you doing—oh, Gerald. We didn’t expect—how lovely to see you.” She gently pushed the girl aside and came forward to greet him.
“Evening, Aunt Alice. I didn’t realize you were to be one of Tarrant’s party, either.” He nodded at the girl. “Good evening, Miss Bamber.” Swathed in a green velvet cloak trimmed with snowy swansdown and wearing a green-and-cream-striped turban, she looked like one of Persephone’s handmaidens.
She inclined her head graciously, all signs of dismay gone. “Lord Thorndike.”
“Thornton,” he grated. The wench was doing it deliberately.
She touched a white-gloved hand to the side of her face in an unconvincing gesture of regret. “Of course. So shatterbrained of me.” Her sherry-colored eyes danced.
Gerald eyed her balefully. She wasn’t the slightest bit shatterbrained. Or the least bit sorry. And he was sure he’d seen her somewhere before. That cheeky expression, those eyes, that attitude . . . That mouth . . . But where?
The orchestra began, and the audience settled—as much as it ever did. “Are we waiting for any more people to arrive?” Aunt Alice asked Tarrant.
“No, as I said, it’s a very small party.” He seated Aunt Alice and took the seat beside her. Gerald seated Miss Bamber and placed himself a little behind her. For some reason he felt he needed to keep an eye on her.
Tarrant hadn’t invited a party at all, Gerald realized. He was only interested in one person: Aunt Alice. He’d invited her goddaughter for the sake of propriety, and Gerald so he’d keep the girl occupied.
Tarrant was pursuing his aunt. But for what purpose? Men did chase after widows. But not Aunt Alice, surely. She’d always been the soul of virtue.
Tarrant. Gerald had always thought him a man of honor. The chivalrous type. A man of integrity. He’d make her a good husband.
But he’d told Gerald quite clearly that first night at the club that he had no intention of marrying again.
Aunt Alice was busy scanning the crowded theater through her opera glasses. Tarrant leaned back lazily in his seat, watching her with an indulgent expression.
What were his intentions? Gerald felt very protective of his aunt. She’d always been kind to him, and his family had treated her so unkindly. She was all alone. Someone had to look after her.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. He turned his head to find Lucy Bamber regarding him with narrowed eyes. She immediately switched her attention to the stage, pretending she hadn’t noticed him.
Something nagged at the back of his mind. Who the devil was she?
The play began, and she leaned forward, as if entranced. At first Gerald thought she was putting it on, but soon he realized she really was entirely caught up in the foolishness onstage—of course she would sympathize with the rebellious daughter. And then the comedy . . .
Her laughter was . . . distracting.
Most young ladies he knew tittered or giggled, or else cultivated a world-weary air of ennui, thinking it frightfully sophisticated to appear bored with everything.
Lucy Bamber’s laughter was wholehearted, spontaneous and annoyingly infectious. Gerald found himself smiling at stage antics he’d seen a dozen times and hadn’t thought funny the first time. But she found them hilarious. And he couldn’t help but smile in response.
Which was irritating. He didn’t want to smile along with her.
When the first act ended, she clapped ecstatically and turned to Aunt Alice with an expression that took his breath away. “Oh, Alice, isn’t it wonderful?” Then she saw him watching her, and the bright animation dimmed. She raised a brow as if to say, “Well? What are you looking at?”
Gerald stomped away to fetch refreshments.
He returned with champagne to find the box full of several visiting ladies and far too many visiting gentlemen. Tarrant, he noticed, hadn’t moved an inch from where he’d been sitting beside Aunt Alice. Gerald’s lips tightened. Tarrant had always been clever tactically.
Lucy Bamber was surrounded by young gentlemen—including two of his friends. She was sipping champagne and smiling. His friends were behaving like besotted fools, flirting and flattering. And she was lapping it up, dammit.
A small table had been brought in and spread with drinks, glasses and a range of appetizing refreshments. Of course Tarrant would have arranged provisions beforehand. He’d always been efficient.
The realization did nothing for Gerald’s mood. He drained his glass of champagne, poured another, leaned against the wall and watched his friends competing to make Lucy Bamber laugh. He wished he’d never come. He hated the theater.
* * *
They were well into the third act, and Gerald had lost all interest in the play. He sprawled moodily in his seat, legs crossed at the ankles, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching Lucy Bamber through half-closed eyes. The candlelight limned her profile. It wasn’t a classic profile by any means; she wasn’t a beauty. But something about her drew him, though he was damned if he knew what.
It was warm in the theater—all those candles and the heat of a thousand bodies—and she’d removed her long white gloves. Her cloak hung loosely over the back of her chair, as if she’d shrugged it off unthinkingly, letting it lie where it fell in folds around her. Her attention was wholly on the stage; they were at the part where everyone was pretending to be somebody else—stupid story—as if that would fool anyone. She stroked the swansdown edging of her cloak rhythmically, as if she were patting a cat, stroking the soft feathers between her fingers. Stroke . . . stroke . . . stroke.
He sat up frowning, a thought picking elusively at the edge of his brain. An image of another slender hand stroking something soft and white . . . Feathers . . . A long white neck . . .
And then it burst upon him. “The goose girl!” he exclaimed. “You’re that goose girl!”
Lucy Bamber didn’t respond. Her hands stilled. She gazed at the stage, frozen, lifeless as a statue.
“That’s where I saw you before. The goose girl!”
“Shhh!” Several people hissed at him.
“But I tell you—”
“Ssshhhhh!” Louder now. Heads were turning. Aunt Alice turned around, caught his eye and made a hushing gesture. Gerald hushed, but the knowledge wanted to burst from him.
He waited impatiently until the end of the act. The moment it did, he turned on Lucy Bamber. “I knew I’d seen you before. You’re that goose girl!”
She raised a slender, incredulous brow. “I’m the what?”
“That goose girl!”
She gave him a puzzled look, fingered the fluffy trimming on her cloak and said, “It’s swansdown, not goose feather.”
“I’m not talking about the blasted cloak. You’re that goose girl. I know you are, so don’t try to wriggle out of it.”
“Gerald dear—” his aunt began.
“I’m not mistaken, Aunt Alice. When I met this—this female, she was a goose girl.”
Lucy Bamber shook her head in a show of bewilderment that made him want to throttle her. “I dressed up as a shepherdess for a costume party once, so perhaps—”
“Don’t prevaricate!”
“But I really did dress up as—”
“We met on the Brighton road, not two weeks ago. You were carrying a goose. I knew I’d seen you before, and it only just came to me.”
“I? Carrying a goose?” She sounded utterly incredulous. She glanced at his aunt and Tarrant, as if inviting them to join in her incredulity. “What were you doing on the Brighton road, Lord Thornthwaite, when this goose and I supposedly met you?” Her voice and expression were serious, but her eyes glinted with knowing mischief.
“I was—” he broke off and felt himself redden slightly. He hadn’t told anyone how a goose and an impertinent chit of a farm girl caused him to lose his race. If it got out, his friends would never let him hear the end of it. “It doesn’t matter. What I want to know is why a common goose girl is attending the theater with my aunt.”
“Is she?” The wretched girl looked around eagerly. “Where? Point her out to me.”
Aunt Alice had a sudden coughing fit and buried her face in her handkerchief.
“I’m talking about you,” Gerald snapped. “As you very well know. You had a goose called . . . Ger—Ghislaine. That was it. Ghislaine.”
“A goose? Called Ghislaine?” She gave him a worried look. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head or something when you were on the Brighton road?”
“No, I—”
“Gerald dear, that’s enough. You’re making a scene,” Aunt Alice said, apparently recovered from her coughing fit.
In a low, furious voice he said, “I’m not making a scene, Aunt Alice, but that girl—”
“Is my goddaughter. In any case, this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Now please go outside, have a glass of something and breathe in some fresh air.”
It was the last straw. She was treating him like a schoolboy. With a last glare at the wretched goose girl, who looked both smug and mischievous at the same time, Gerald flung himself out of the theater box. And ordered a brandy. A large one.
* * *
So what if he recognized me? I don’t care.” Lucy said as she plumped down into an overstuffed chair. Lord Tarrant had just dropped them home from the theater. Alice hadn’t invited the gentlemen in. Gerald had come with them in the carriage. He’d been silent, brooding and glowering for the rest of the evening, and she simply couldn’t deal with him at the moment.
“In fact,” Lucy continued, “I quite enjoyed it. Did you see his face?” She chuckled.
Alice stared at her. Quite enjoyed it? She didn’t understand Lucy’s complete about-face. At the party she had fled from Gerald’s presence in case he recognized her. Now that he had, Lucy was claiming she didn’t care. Alice was, frankly, rattled. “But what will happen when he tells everyone? We’ll be ruined.”
“No, we won’t,” Lucy said confidently. “He won’t tell anyone.”
“But—”
“Didn’t you see how he stopped himself? He doesn’t want to admit he lost that race because of a goose.”
Alice pursed her lips thoughtfully. Lucy was right. He had stopped himself. “But knowing that it was you he met is only the start of it. He’ll be busy unraveling the rest. I know Gerald—once he gets an idea in his head, he won’t give up.”
“Pooh! What’s there to discover? So what if he met me on the road? So what if I was carrying a goose? I can have done all those things and still be your goddaughter—and I am your goddaughter. That was smart of Papa, even if he is a scheming rotter. And I’m here by your invitation”—she caught Alice’s look—“as far as he knows, at any rate. He doesn’t need to know that Papa forced you. Or how.”
“I suppose so,” Alice said uncertainly. Knowing Gerald, she figured he’d be around here first thing in the morning demanding to know the truth, and what was she going to tell him?
“It doesn’t matter what your nephew knows or thinks he knows, Alice—he can’t tell you what to do. He’s just a nephew.”
She was right, Alice knew, but Alice didn’t have Lucy’s brash confidence. And she hated telling lies. “You really don’t care, do you?”
Lucy shook her head. “No. He can’t hurt me. It’s pride. He’s angry that he lost that stupid race, and so he wants to bring me down. But I won’t let him.”
Alice frowned. “What makes you think he wants to bring you down?”
“The way he looks at me, as if I’m the lowest of the low. Lords are like that. But I don’t care.” Lucy rose. “I’m for bed now, Alice. Thank you for a lovely evening. Goodnight—and stop fretting. It’ll all turn out all right.” And with that she went up to bed, apparently without a worry in the world.
The worries stayed downstairs with Alice, who sat staring into the fire, mulling over the situation and trying to decide what to do.
Part of the trouble was that she had no real idea who Lucy was. Oh, she’d had some education and training in ladylike behavior—when she chose to use it—but for all Alice knew, she could be illegitimate or the daughter of a prostitute or a convict or anyone. All she knew for certain was that Lucy was the daughter of a scoundrel.
If the ton learned she had been trying to pass off a girl like that as a true-born lady . . .
For Alice, the consequence would be social disgrace—even without Bamber’s releasing those letters. The consequences for Lucy? Social disgrace in a society that she didn’t much care about. But she’d be on her own again.
The more Alice came to know her, the more she liked Lucy. There was a kind of reckless courage about her—she supposed it came of having to manage for herself for most her life. Lucy thought that Lord Tarrant’s daughters had had a strange life, but from Alice’s point of view, Lucy had had just as strange an upbringing. No permanent home, five schools, two foreign ladies and a father she couldn’t even contact? And who knew what else?
Yet despite it all, Lucy was a kind girl. The minute she’d learned about her father blackmailing Alice—and even though this masquerade was the last thing Lucy wanted—she’d accepted Alice’s position and tried to make the best of it.
The servants liked her, too, despite her initial truculence and bad behavior. Servants were usually excellent judges of character.
If only Lucy hadn’t run into Gerald on the Brighton road.
He was as stubborn as his father. He was also quite protective of Alice. What to do? Tell him the truth, or try to stick to the story they’d concocted? Or take him into her confidence and enlist his help in trying to trace Bamber and get the letters back?
Oh, the indecision.
* * *
James’s carriage drew away from Bellaire Gardens. “What the devil was up with you tonight?” he said to Thornton. “I don’t know what all that goose girl nonsense was about, but—”
“It’s not nonsense,” Thornton insisted. “And it confirms the uneasy feeling I’ve had about my aunt and that girl since the beginning. I did meet her on the Brighton road in some small, obscure village. I talked to her, face-to-face, as close as you and I are now. She was shabbily dressed and carrying a goose. So why is a girl like that living in my aunt’s house, being introduced to the ton?”
“I’m not sure what I think of Miss Lucy Bamber,” James said. “She’s a minx, that one. But I can’t believe your aunt would be party to such a—”
“Didn’t you notice Aunt Alice’s reaction? She was worried, on edge, but she wasn’t surprised. She knew that girl was a goose girl. Oh, she tried to pretend she didn’t know what I was talking about, but she’s a hopeless liar, always has been. And I can always tell.”
James said nothing. He had noticed Alice’s reaction. There was guilt there, as well as anxiety.
Thornton hurried on. “When I was ten, I broke my leg—fell off my horse—and was laid up for weeks. I was bored to death, but Aunt Alice read to me by the hour and played endless games of cards and other games. I can always tell when she’s bluffing or trying to trick me. Always.” He met James’s eyes. “Something fishy is going on. I’m sure of it.”
“I see.” James nodded. It was an outrageous claim, that a titled lady would take in a goose girl and try to pass her off as a lady—for what purpose?—but Thornton had always been levelheaded. “Have you asked her directly about it?”
“No, but until I worked out where I’d seen that girl before, all I had to go on was nebulous suspicion. I’m going to speak to her about it first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Just be sure of your facts then, because as things stand, it’s your word against that of Miss Bamber. And frankly, hers is more believable. A goose called Ghislaine?”
They drove through the London streets in silence. Several times Thornton glanced at James, opened his mouth, then shut it again. He glanced out the window, shifted uncomfortably, opened his mouth but again said nothing. Clearly, he had more on his mind.
The carriage pulled up in front of Thornton’s lodgings. He opened the door, jumped down, then turned back and said in a rush, “Tarrant, I need to ask you something.”
“Yes?” James had a fair idea of what it was.
“I’m very fond of Aunt Alice, so I must ask, what are your intentions?”
“To fetch my daughters and bring them back to London,” James said smoothly. “ ’Night, Thornton.” He rapped on the roof of the carriage, and it moved off.
James knew perfectly well what Thornton was asking him, but he was damned if he’d answer to her nephew. Alice was a grown woman, a widow in her middle thirties. James only needed to explain his intentions to her.
* * *
She was going to have to confess. Alice had decided. The idea of trying to continue the bluff with Gerald was impossible. She’d never been a good liar and to attempt it would strain her nerves horribly.
Once she’d made that decision, a weight lifted off her shoulders.
Gerald arrived at ten, still faintly smoldering and obviously prepared for an argument. She greeted him calmly and served him coffee and gingernuts—his favorites.
“Aunt Alice, that girl—” he began.
“I know what you’re going to say, Gerald,” she interrupted.
“No, you don’t. I really did meet her on the Brighton road where—”
“She and a goose called Ghislaine caused you to lose your race.”
“I know it sounds ridic—” He broke off. “How did you know?”
“Lucy told me all about it.”
He stared at her. “So you did know all along. I knew it!”
“Yes. Now drink your coffee, Gerald, and I’ll explain the whole thing. And I hope I can trust you to keep a confidence.”
He didn’t like that, she saw, but the appeal to his gentlemanly instincts did its job. He gave a curt nod. “Of course.”
Alice explained the situation: the unexpected appearance of Octavius Bamber, the blackmail, Bamber’s requirement that Alice sponsor Lucy’s come-out, the baptism—everything. It was quite a relief to get it all out in the open, even if it was to a disapproving nephew.
When she’d finished, he said, “These letters, Aunt Alice, are they, er . . . ?”
“Deeply embarrassing. You don’t need to know any more.”
“No, no, of course not,” he said, reddening. No doubt his imagination was working overtime, but she couldn’t help that. She had no intention of explaining their contents to anyone.
“Well, the solution to that is obvious. I’ll confront that swine Bamber and force him to give the letters up, and then you can be rid of that girl and—”
“And how, pray, will you find Bamber?” His assumption that it was all so easily fixed was irritating.
He looked at her in surprise. “Don’t you know where he lives?”
“No, of course not. Otherwise I would have acted sooner.”
“I’ll ferret him out,” Gerald said confidently.
“I wish you would try. But be warned, even Lucy has no idea how to contact her father.”
“Her! She’d lie her way out of anything.”
“I believe her, Gerald. I admit, I disliked and resented her at first, but I’ve come to know her better, and I believe she’s almost as much a victim in this as I am.”
He gave a scornful snort. “You’re too softhearted for your own good, Aunt Alice.”
“Lucy has no desire to enter society, no desire to marry a lord.”
“Hah! So she claims.”
“You must admit she’s been at pains not to attract you. Perhaps that’s the reason why you—”
He frowned. “Why I what?”
Alice shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” Gerald had taken an unusual amount of interest in Lucy—the two seemed to strike sparks off each other whenever they met, and Alice didn’t think it was just about a race and a goose.
With almost every young unmarried miss in London falling over herself to please and flatter Gerald, the one girl who showed no interest in him whatsoever was bound to stand out.
She continued, “The point is, Lucy had as little say in the situation as I did. I like the girl, Gerald, and I want to help her as best I can. But I will need your assistance.”
“My assistance? Aunt Alice, this is ridiculous. I have no intention of helping—”
“Me?” Alice interjected. “You won’t help me out of this situation, Gerald?” She waited.
He looked uncomfortable. “It’s not that, I just—”
“Just what?”
“Dash it, Aunt Alice, I don’t want her getting away with it.”
“Getting away with what? She’s as stuck as I am. If this gets out, we’ll both be disgraced. It won’t matter as much to me,” she lied. Other people’s good opinion had always been important to her. “My situation will remain unchanged, though it will be embarrassing and uncomfortable for a time. But imagine the repercussions for Lucy, a girl with no fortune, no home and no family—unless you count her scoundrel of a father, which I don’t. From all I can make out, he has a history of dumping her with strangers and leaving her to sink or swim.”
Gerald looked slightly perturbed. Good, he was finally considering Lucy’s situation.
Alice rammed home her argument. “That girl is effectively all alone in the world. And for a single woman without support, that means poverty and destitution—or worse. Would you really wish such a fate on that bright, funny girl?”
There was a short silence, then Gerald said, “Very well, Aunt Alice, you’ve made your point. I don’t have to like it—and I don’t have to like her—but I suppose I’ll have to help. Apart from tracking down her father, what do you want me to do?”
“Help me find Lucy a husband.”
Gerald’s jaw dropped. “What the h— What on earth do you imagine I can do?”
“I don’t know many young bachelors. You do. Most of your friends are eligible, in fact. You’re in an excellent position to bring them to meet Lucy.”
He stared at her. “Dash it, Aunt Alice, I can’t go around dragging my friends into parson’s mousetrap. I’d soon have no friends at all.”
“Nonsense! Nobody’s saying they have to marry Lucy, just that she needs to meet a number of suitable young men, and hopefully find one who will suit.” She added in a steely voice, “A man who values her for who she is, not for her bloodline or what fortune she can bring. A kind man who can make her happy.” Lucy would have what Alice had not, she was determined on it.
He scowled. “How would I know what would make a chit like that happy?”
“Don’t be difficult, Gerald. Just bring around some nice young men, and Lucy—and the young man, of course—will do the rest.”
“I suppose I could try,” he said morosely.
“Excellent. But don’t bother bringing any of your titled friends.”
“Why? What’s wrong with them?” he said stiffly.
“Lucy isn’t interested in anyone with a title.”
“The devil she’s not!”
Alice shrugged. “The girl is entitled to her opinion, and you will respect it, if you please.”
“And if I don’t please?” he muttered.
Alice looked at him. “You know, Gerald, you’ve complained that your parents treat you like a schoolboy instead of a former army officer. I’m beginning to see their point.”
He made a face. “I’m sorry, Aunt Alice. It’s just that I’m no blasted matchmaker. I’d much rather go after that scoundrel Bamber, wring his neck and wrest those letters from him.”
“You’re welcome to do what you can about the letters,” Alice told him. “And if you do manage to retrieve them, I’ll be most grateful. In the meantime, please bring your friends around to meet Lucy.”
* * *
Have you thought about what we’re going to wear to Lady Peplowe’s masquerade ball?” Lucy said to Alice later that day.
Alice gave her a blank look. “I hadn’t given it a thought.” She frowned. She didn’t want to spend money on a fanciful costume that would only be worn once—the money Bamber had given her for Lucy’s expenses was dwindling rapidly. It was not nearly what he’d promised her, and there was no sign of any more forthcoming.
Another reason for Gerald to track him down.
“I think we’re going to have to wear dominos.”
Lucy’s face fell. “Oh no, we can’t. Dominos are so dreary. The only people who wear them are those who are too staid and dull to dress up.”
“We can’t afford a proper costume, Lucy.”
“Isn’t there something we can improvise with?”
Alice thought about it. It had been years since she’d attended a costume ball. Thaddeus didn’t like them. But she did recall at least one occasion . . .
“I suppose we could. I’m fairly sure some of my old costumes are in a trunk in the attic. But goodness knows what condition they’ll be in. Some of granny’s old clothes are stored up there, too, I think.”
“Ooh, I love old clothes,” Lucy said. “Can we go up now and see what’s there?”
Pleased by the girl’s easy acceptance of her budget limitations, Alice agreed, and they immediately went up to the attic to see what they might find. She hadn’t been up there since she was a little girl.
The attic was dusty and contained all kinds of forgotten items—a battered and balding rocking horse, a dollhouse with faded wallpaper and small dusty carpets that she remembered with fondness. There was old-fashioned furniture in need of mending and several large trunks and chests, as well as hatboxes and all kinds of mysterious objects discarded over the years.
“Oh, how sweet,” Lucy exclaimed, finding a box containing dollhouse furniture and other tiny items, all looking well used and in need of repair.
“Let’s not get too distracted,” Alice said, laughing. “We’re after costumes, remember?” Lucy reluctantly put the dollhouse items aside and went back to searching through the trunks.
“Look! A treasure trove,” Lucy exclaimed, opening a box and pulling out a glittering tangle of costume jewelry. “And what’s this?” She lifted out a tissue-wrapped bundle and unwrapped it to reveal a slightly dented papier-mâché headdress in faded gold.
“Oh, it’s my old Cleopatra outfit,” Alice exclaimed. “I’d quite forgotten about it.” It was from very early in her marriage. She’d dressed for her first costume ball, all excited, but when she came down in her outfit, Thaddeus had taken one look at her and ordered her back upstairs: he wasn’t taking her anywhere dressed so outrageously.
She never did go to the ball.
She found the dress that went with the headdress and shook it out. It was a long, floaty garment made of layers of gauzy blue and green fabric, but it wasn’t outrageous—there were too many layers for even the shape of her body to be visible. The neckline was scooped low, but it was not at all immodest. Looking at it with fresh eyes, she was indignant on behalf of her younger self. Thaddeus was just being mean.
Somewhere there was a belt of gold medallions that cinched around her waist—yes, there it was, along with a couple of bangles shaped like snakes that wrapped around her upper arm. She’d worn gold sandals, she recalled. She still had them somewhere.
“It’s perfect,” Lucy exclaimed.
Alice shook her head. The headdress, belt and armbands were sadly tarnished. “I can’t possibly wear these. They’re far too shabby.”
“I can fix them,” Lucy said confidently.
“How?”
“Wait and see. And Mary will be able to freshen up that dress so it will look as good as new. Now, that’s your costume sorted. I thought this might do for me.”
She held up a filmy white muslin dress.
Alice frowned. “But that’s not a costume. It’s just one of my old muslin dresses from years ago. It’s very old-fashioned.”
“Yes, from the days when London ladies dressed a bit like Greek and Roman goddesses,” Lucy agreed. “And that’s who I’m going as—someone from the ancient world. I’ll make a headdress of leaves and add a few draperies. Wait and see—it’ll be perfect.”
Alice gave it a doubtful look. “The muslin is a bit yellowed, isn’t it?”
“Mary will know how to fix that, too. And if she doesn’t, who cares?” Lucy added gaily. “I’ll be an ancient, slightly yellowed Grecian goddess.”
* * *
The following morning Lucy woke to a world bathed in sunshine. “I’ve received a note from Gerald,” Alice told her at breakfast. “He’s arranged for one of his friends to take you for a drive in the park this afternoon.”
Alice explained that she’d taken her nephew into her confidence and that he’d agreed to help Lucy find a husband. Lucy was feeling rather cynical about Lord Thornton’s miraculous about-face, but she didn’t tell Alice that.
“What friend is this? Will he collect me from here?”
“No, you and I will promenade in the park at the fashionable hour,” Alice said, “and Gerald will drive up with his friend, a Mr. Cornelius Frinton. Gerald will step down and accompany me on my walk, while Mr. Frinton takes you for a circuit of the park in his phaeton.”
Lucy frowned. “Won’t I need some kind of chaperone?”
“Not for a drive in the park in an open carriage in full view of everyone,” Alice assured her. “Besides, I expect Mr. Frinton will have a tiger or a groom in attendance.”
“Do we know anything about this Mr. Frinton?”
“Not really. Just that he’s a friend of Gerald’s from school, and that, according to Gerald, he’s eligible and reasonably well-off.”
“Very well then. What shall I wear? The bronze walking dress?” Lucy was still learning the various kinds of dress suitable for different activities. A dress was not simply a dress. Apparently.
“Perfect. And the olive green pelisse—it’s sunny now, but it’s bound to change. And if it’s still sunny this afternoon, take a parasol—that lovely skin of yours needs protecting. Or if there are clouds building, we’ll take umbrellas.”
* * *
Hyde Park was full of fashionable people sauntering along, dressed to the nines, seeing and being seen. The sunshine was in intermittent evidence, concealed by fluffy white clouds from time to time, so no parasol was necessary. Lucy’s straw hat tied with a gauze net scarf in bronze was deemed sufficient protection for her complexion.
She strolled along with Alice, feeling rather smart. Alice made a point of stopping to chat with anyone she had the slightest acquaintance with, warmly introducing Lucy each time as her goddaughter.
Alice was a truly generous soul but Lucy had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, it was what they’d agreed, but she was beginning to feel guilty about the trouble Alice was going to on her behalf. Not that Lucy could change anything.
How had Papa found anything to blackmail Alice with? She was the nearest thing to perfect that Lucy had ever met: kind, ladylike, moral, modest, careful with money but generous with her possessions—right now Lucy was wearing Alice’s hat, kid gloves and earrings, which went perfectly with her outfit.
And even when Alice was furious—and Lucy was well aware that she had driven Alice’s temper to the limit early on—she’d never yelled or anything. She’d just spoken firmly and made her position very clear.
Above all, she had never once blamed Lucy for what Papa had done. It would have been so easy for her to have taken her temper out on Lucy, but she hadn’t, and for that more than anything, Lucy was enormously grateful. All her life she’d received some blame, if not all, for her father’s actions. But not from Alice, not once.
Alice had even promised Lucy that she wouldn’t try to force her into marriage, that she wanted her to find a kind man she could love. Reading between the lines, Lucy guessed that Alice hadn’t married that sort of man. In fact, she never talked of her husband at all. Which made her concern for Lucy’s welfare and happiness all the more generous and touching.
She owed it to Alice to find a husband as quickly as possible and stop Papa’s blackmail from hanging over her. That Lord Thornton had decided to help her find one was surprising—more than surprising, really—but Alice had assured her most sincerely that he was trying to help.
Lucy was yet to be convinced.
“Here they are now,” Alice said as Lord Thornton and another young man drove up in a smart black-lacquered phaeton drawn by two high-stepping gray horses. Lucy was impressed. They stopped and Lord Thornton jumped lithely down.
After introductions and a brief conversational exchange, Lord Thornton helped Lucy climb into the phaeton, and she and Mr. Frinton drove off.
Mr. Cornelius Frinton was not a handsome fellow, with his ginger hair, a bony face, and a large, beaky nose. He made up for his lack of looks by dressing immaculately in the very latest fashions; in fact, his shirt points were so high that he had some difficulty turning his head.
At least that was what Lucy assumed at first, when, after several conversational openings, he had failed to look at her once. Nor had he responded with anything other than a choked kind of gurgle, or a murmur of assent and a convulsive twitch of his rather prominent Adam’s apple. And every time she spoke and he failed to respond, he blushed.
He wasn’t deaf. She briefly wondered if he had a speech disorder, but after he’d greeted several masculine acquaintances in perfectly clear English, she finally realized what the matter was: Cornelius Frinton was cripplingly shy with women.
Oh, but she’d like to strangle Lord Thornton.
She set out to put Mr. Frinton at his ease, chattering about his lovely horses, about the weather, about life in London. Noticing that he bowed or nodded or doffed his hat to quite a few people, she said, “You seem to know a lot of society people, Mr. Frinton. I know practically no one in London. Could you point me out some of the more well-known ones?”
That worked a treat, and from time to time he’d indicate someone and say a name, and even, once or twice, give a little more information. “Lady in blue hat. Silence, Lady Jersey. Almack’s patroness. Silence, because she never stops talking.” And then he blushed beetroot.
Lucy laughed. “Not your problem then.”
He turned his head and looked at her, and when he realized she wasn’t being critical, he gave her a shy smile.
They ended up circling the park twice, then drew up to where Alice and Lord Thornton were waiting. Lord Thornton helped her down. “Did you enjoy your drive?”
Lucy wanted to smack his smug face. “Yes, indeed,” she said blithely. “Mr. Frinton and I had a lovely chat, didn’t we Mr. Frinton?”
“Chat?” Lord Thornton looked quite disconcerted.
Mr. Frinton nodded, bowed to Lucy. His Adam’s apple bobbed frantically, and he said in a strangled voice, “Delighted. Take you up anytime, Miss Bamber.”
Lord Thornton gave her a narrow look. She bared her teeth at him in a bright smile. With a set jaw, he climbed back into the phaeton. As the carriage moved off, Lucy called, “Thank you for a delightful drive, Mr. Frinton. Goodbye, Lord Thornbottom.”
He didn’t even bother to correct her.
“How did it go?” Alice asked. “I must say, I’m a little surprised by Gerald’s choice. Mr. Frinton is hardly the most prepossessing of men.”
“Yes, not blessed by the looks fairy, and dreadfully shy, poor boy, but perfectly sweet all the same.” Alice might believe that Lord Thornton was trying to help Lucy find a husband. Lucy knew better.
As if she needed his help anyway.