The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Eight
Twilight was fading into darkness as James rang the doorbell of his in-laws’ country home. He’d been traveling all day, only stopping to change his horses, and was glad to have reached his final destination. He couldn’t wait to see his daughters.
The butler opened the door and said in surprise, “Colonel—” He broke off. “I beg your pardon, it’s Lord Tarrant now, isn’t it? My condolences on the loss of your brother, my lord.”
James nodded brusquely. “Thank you, Sutton.”
“Welcome back to England, my lord. I didn’t realize we were expecting you.”
“You weren’t. Lord and Lady Fenwick are in, I presume? But it’s the girls I’ve come for.” He glanced up the stairs. “In the nursery, are they?”
James took several steps forward, but the butler stepped in his way, his expression troubled. “I will let Lady Fenwick know you have arrived. If you would care to wait in the drawing room, my lord, I will have refreshments brought in.” He gestured.
“I don’t need to wait, I just want to see—” But the butler had gone. Damned formality. He was half tempted to run up the stairs to the nursery anyway, but he supposed a few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t as if the girls were expecting him.
He ran his hand over his stubbled chin. He probably should have stopped at an inn and shaved and changed his clothes, but dammit, he wanted to see his daughters. They wouldn’t care if he was rumpled and unshaven. They’d seen him in worse condition than that. At least, Judy and Lina had.
Little Deborah. He wondered what she’d look like, whether she’d take after her mother or him.
“Tarrant.” His mother-in-law greeted him from the doorway. He rose and would have bowed over her hand, but she waved him back to his seat. His father-in-law followed her in and gave James a curt nod as a greeting. James nodded back.
“You didn’t tell us you were coming.” His mother-in-law wasn’t smiling, but some things never changed.
“I apologize for any inconvenience, Lady Fenwick.” He’d tried once, as a newly married man, to call her mama-in-law, but she’d frozen him out so severely that he’d never tried again.
His in-laws had never approved of him. They hadn’t wanted him—a younger son, and a soldier in time of war!—for their daughter, but Selina only gave the appearance of being gentle and biddable. She’d stood firm until her parents had no choice but to give in. And then she’d insisted on going to war with him, following the drum, sharing the discomfort and the difficulties and the danger. She’d loved every moment of it, and he’d loved having her with him.
She’d born him two healthy children under unimaginable conditions. The two little girls had relished army life as much as their mother did.
But four years ago Selina had been experiencing a difficult third pregnancy and on medical advice had reluctantly agreed to return to London, taking the two little girls with her.
The baby had lived, but Selina had died shortly afterward. Childbed fever, they said. Her parents blamed him, even though he’d been a continent away, risking his life for king and country, and Selina was in London in the care of her parents, with the best medical attention available.
James dragged his thoughts back to the present. He neither wanted nor needed his in-laws’ approval. He was here for one thing only: his daughters. He glanced at the doorway. “Where are the girls?”
“Would you like tea?”
“Later, perhaps, but first I would like to see the girls.”
Lord and Lady Fenwick exchanged glances. “They’re not here at the moment.”
James frowned. They wouldn’t be outside at this time of the evening. “Where are they?”
There was an awkward silence.
His voice hardened. “Where are my daughters?”
“Attending Miss Coates’s Seminary for Young Ladies. It’s a very genteel establishment—”
“At school? Judy and Lina?” Judy was eleven and Lina only seven. They were far too young to be sent away to school.
James tamped down on his anger. He was here for his girls, not to argue with his in-laws. “Then I’ll just see Deborah.”
His mother-in-law glanced away. “She’s with her sisters, of course.”
He rose to his feet, rage coursing through him. “Deborah? In a boarding school? Dammit, she’s only four years old!”
His mother-in-law shrank from him. His father-in-law bristled with righteous indignation. “Language, sirrah! And you cannot expect a frail, elderly lady like my wife to care for someone else’s children.”
James cast his mother-in-law a scornful look. “Frail and elderly, my foot! As I recall, you turned fifty-four last month. In any case, I haven’t noticed a shortage of servants in this establishment. And they’re not ‘someone else’s children’—they’re your grandchildren!”
Lady Fenwick snorted. “They’re a trio of young hoydens, more like—and no wonder, dragged up in the wake of an army of rough soldiers, living in frightful conditions in close proximity to foreigners instead of being raised as decent Christian young ladies. School was the only possible alternative.”
“And yet Deborah has been entirely in your charge since birth.”
“Yes,” she said disdainfully, “but she carries your blood.”
He clenched his jaw. “I doubt very much whether you had the raising of her anyway. Your own daughter was raised by nursemaids and governesses—oh yes, I know all about her upbringing. But at least you never sent her away to live with strangers.”
She shrugged a thin shoulder. “There was no need. Selina was a quiet, well-behaved, well-bred gel—until she met you.”
He let that pass. The woman knew next to nothing about her own daughter. “There was no need to send the girls away from all they knew, especially since they’d lost their mother.”
She dismissed that with an airy wave. “Children adjust. They’re perfectly happy there.”
He pulled a worn, stained letter from his breast pocket and held it up. “And yet these ‘perfectly happy’ girls wrote to me saying they were miserable and begging me to come and get them.”
Lady Fenwick frowned and sat forward. “They can’t have. They were given—” She broke off.
“Given letters to copy?” He nodded, remembering the short, bland, almost formal letters his daughters had written each week. “I thought as much. They didn’t sound at all like my lively little Judy, and Lina used to draw pictures all the time. I haven’t had a single picture from her in months—until this.” He held up the letter showing a brief letter in childish script and a drawing of three small girls of varying heights, all looking sad.
“Children always complain—” his father-in-law began.
“Enough.” James cut him off with a curt gesture. “I have no interest in your excuses. Just give me the address of that school, and I’ll be gone.”
Lord Fenwick glanced at his wife, then rose and took a pen and paper and ink from the drawer in a nearby table. He scribbled the address and handed the paper to James.
James glanced at the address and almost crushed it in his fist. It was another day’s travel away. He stalked to the door.
Lady Fenwick rose and followed him. “What are you planning to do with my grandchildren?”
James snorted. “It’s too late to pretend any concern for them. You’ve shown your hand. Goodbye. My daughters and I shan’t bother you again.”
She drew herself up indignantly. “You—you can’t mean to deny me their company, surely?” There was a thread of anxiety in her voice.
He knew the real source of her concern: How would it look to outsiders for a grandmother whose only granddaughters had nothing to do with her? He let her stew for a minute, then said evenly, “If the girls want to see their grandparents, of course I will allow it. Despite what you seem to think, children need family.”
* * *
James gave instructions to his driver, and the coach headed off into the night, the coach lights glowing gold against the darkness. He would stop at the first decent inn he came to; he refused to spend a single night with his in-laws.
Brooding, he stared through the coach window at the shifting shadows of the passing countryside. He thought of his daughters, the last time he’d seen them. Seven-year-old Judy and three-and-a half-year-old Lina, with her shabby, much-loved dolly, standing at the rail of the ship, clinging to their mother’s hands, Selina standing straight, red-eyed but calm, the swell of her pregnancy outlined by the wind pressing her dress against her.
Now Selina was dead, and Ross and his parents, too, drowned in a boating accident. Not to mention all the friends he’d lost during the war. So much death . . .
James’s girls were all he had left. Sending them away at such a young age, when they could have stayed with family—that he couldn’t forgive. Three little girls in a seminary for young ladies, one of them just four years old—still a baby.
Why, why, why had they been sent away? He couldn’t understand it.
He knew his girls weren’t hoydens—or if they were, it was a reaction to their mother’s death. But that was no reason to send them away. Servants could be hired who would care for children with all the warmth their grandparents lacked.
His daughters had been born into a rough and unsettled life, traveling with an army, but they’d thrived. They might have lived in tents and billets and slept on the ground or in the back of a wagon, but between Selina and himself—and his batman and the woman he’d hired to help Selina—they’d had a home, a home made of people and love, not bricks and mortar.
He’d missed them damnably, had thrown himself into his work to ease the ache of loss.
He pulled out the letter and read it for the umpteenth time. Short and to the point, just like Judy. We hate it here, Papa. We miss you. Please come and get us.
Judy’s writing. He settled back in the corner of the carriage, remembering her birth.
He’d been waiting outside the tent, pacing anxiously while Selina labored within, giving birth to their first child. One of the camp followers was acting as midwife. She was a burly, no-nonsense woman who’d birthed six of her own and attended the birth of many more. She’d pushed back the tent flap, saying, “It’s a girl,” and handed him a tiny, blood-smeared bundle wrapped in a towel. Then she disappeared back into the tent, saying, “Stay outside. We ain’t finished yet.”
James stared down at the tiny bundle, the little red scrunched-up face, the impossibly small starfish hand with fingernails like small pink jewels.
Holding her carefully, terrified of dropping such a small, delicate creature, he’d used the end of the towel to clean her face, wiping off smears of blood and some waxy substance. And then she’d opened her eyes.
She’d stared up at him, so intense, like an ancient, wise little soul, and he’d stared back, hardly able to breathe, and it was as if she’d reached her little starfish hand into his chest and squeezed his heart. Emotion swamped him, and he knew he would die to protect this little scrap of newborn humanity, his daughter.
And as she grew and flourished, gave him her first real smile, took her first steps, spoke her first words, the feeling only grew stronger.
He was there too when Lina was born, this time in a tumbledown peasant cottage. He took delivery of the naked, squalling, red-faced, kicking, angry baby, and this time he knew what to do. He’d bathed her, pink and slippery, in a basin of warm water, which, as well as cleaning her, somehow calmed her. And when she’d curled her soft, tiny fist around his big rough-skinned finger and stared up at him, he was gone, just as before.
He’d shown the baby, clean and pink and quiet now, to her big four-year-old sister. Judy had gazed at the little face with wonder and said, “She’s awful ugly, isn’t she?”
James smiled recalling it. He’d grown up believing that children belonged to their parents, and that was true of some. But not James: he belonged, heart and soul, to his daughters.
* * *
Alice was fast losing patience with her nephew. So far he had brought four young gentlemen to meet Lucy, none of them in the least bit suitable. Mr. Frinton—sweet boy or not—could barely get out a word in female company. After him had come Sir Heatherington Bland, a morose fellow who, far from being bland, had a distinctively pungent body odor.
Then there was Mr. Humphrey Ffolliot, who had Opinions, which he shared at the slightest provocation—in fact with no provocation at all. The country was Going to the Dogs! Too Many Blasted Foreigners! As for Women, they’d got completely Out of Hand and no longer Knew Their Place!
Lucy appeared to listen demurely to every word, murmuring a comment every now and then. It seemed to Alice that far from agreeing with him, Lucy was gently mocking him. Not that Mr. Ffolliot noticed. He informed Alice as he was leaving that her goddaughter was a Fine Example of Womanhood.
And yesterday Gerald had introduced his friend Tarquin Grimswade, a very pretty young man dressed in rainbow shades. He claimed to be a poet and an artist, but he was so self-absorbed that Alice thought for all the notice he took of other people, he might as well be performing in front of a mirror.
Lucy had behaved very naughtily and had faintly mirrored his flowing hand movements and facial expressions as they spoke. Mr. Grimswade had found her charming.
And now this evening, they were to meet prospective suitor number five. Gerald had invited Alice and Lucy to Vauxhall Gardens, where there was to be a concert, followed by a gymnastic display and then fireworks. Alice always enjoyed fireworks, and Lucy had never seen them, so they were both looking forward to the outing.
It was a lovely evening, clear and warm, with a faint breeze. Gerald collected them in a carriage. He had hired a box for the evening, and as they arrived, a stout young man in tight yellow inexpressibles rose to his feet. Number five.
Gerald introduced them. “Mr. Cuthbert Carswell,” he said. “A friend from my school days.”
Mr. Carswell bowed ponderously. “Delighted to meet such lovely ladies.” From the faint creaking sound that accompanied his bow, he was wearing a Cumberland corset, like the Prince Regent. Alice glared at Gerald. Gerald avoided her eye.
They seated themselves, a waiter instantly appeared, and Gerald ordered refreshments. Shortly afterward he spotted some acquaintances, excused himself and disappeared, leaving Alice and Lucy alone with Mr. Carswell.
Alice watched him striding away and disappearing into the crowd. Outrageous behavior for a host.
Unlike Mr. Frinton, Mr. Carswell had no difficulty carrying on a conversation. In fact, it soon became clear that, like Mr. Ffolliot, he was quite capable of carrying one on without involving anyone else.
“Did Lord Thornton happen to mention that I recently discovered that I am the presumptive heir for Lord Buttsfield, who owns a barony in Yorkshire?” He smirked at Lucy. “Lord Buttsfield is an elderly gentleman, a confirmed bachelor with no plans to marry, so it is my expectation that before very long I will become Lord Buttsfield. And when I marry”—he added in case she missed the point—“my wife will become Lady Buttsfield.”
“How exciting for her,” Lucy said.
“Yes. I fancy quite a few ladies will be setting their caps at me.”
“Naturally,” Lucy agreed coyly.
“In the meantime I have a snug little property of my own, in Yorkshire, where I am involved in conducting some very exciting developments in pig breeding.”
“Pig breeding, reeeally?” Lucy repeated with every evidence of fascination. Alice wasn’t fooled for a moment.
“Yes,” he continued enthusiastically. “I’m crossing the best of my Old Yorkshire sows with some Chinese pigs—I was after the famous Chinese Swimming Pigs, but sadly couldn’t find any reliable source. But these other Chinese pigs are well suited to my purposes,” he enthused. Without waiting for any inquiry as to his purposes, he continued, “They are small, but they mature early and put on a great deal of fat very quickly. Which is just what one wants in a pig.” He nodded in satisfaction.
Lucy glanced at her escort’s rounded stomach and pudgy thighs, and winked at Alice, her eyes dancing. Alice didn’t find it at all amusing. What on earth had Gerald been thinking, inviting this man? He couldn’t possibly believe that Lucy would be attracted to such an insensitive bore. Boar. Boor.
“And the best thing about the pigs I’m breeding—do you want to know?” Nobody said a word or moved a muscle. Alice decidedly did not want to know. “It’s their color,” he said triumphantly. “Guess what color they are?”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Alice said repressively. Had nobody taught this young man that it was not polite to prattle on forever, let alone dwell on the intricacies of pig breeding to ladies? Especially ladies he’d only just met.
“Go on, guess!”
“Puce!” Lucy guessed.
Mr. Carswell laughed heartily. “No, no. Try again.”
“Blue!”
“Ha-ha. Try again.”
Alice looked around, hoping for some release from what promised to be an endless guessing game. But there was no sign of Gerald or the refreshments, she could see nobody else she knew, and the concert hadn’t yet begun. The fireworks would come later.
“Pink?” Lucy said.
Mr. Carswell sniffed. “Pink? Common everyday, ordinary pigs are pink,” he said disapprovingly. “My pigs are special.”
“Then put us out of our misery and tell us what color your very special pigs are,” Lucy said.
“White!” he said triumphantly. “Pure, glorious white from snout to tail. They are refined pigs, you see, bred by refined people.”
“Is the flesh white too?” Lucy asked. “I can’t imagine eating white ham. Or white bacon.”
“Oh, we don’t eat them,” Mr. Carswell declared, shocked. “They are purely for show.”
“Then what’s the point?” Alice asked crossly.
“My dear lady,” he began, “the breeding of pigs is a complex and delicate process, rather beyond the lesser understanding of our dear females, but I shall try to simplify it for you.” He then embarked on a long and dreary explanation.
Alice gazed out over the throngs of people wandering through the pleasure gardens and wished Gerald would come back so she could strangle him for inflicting this appalling fellow on them.
Gerald finally returned at the same time as a waiter bearing a tray with champagne. Gerald glanced at Lucy, who was listening to Mr. Carswell with every appearance of fascination. She looked up, gave him an absent little wave and turned back to Mr. Carswell with a rapt expression.
Scowling, Gerald handed the drinks around, then said loudly and heartily, “Well, how are you all getting on?”
“Famously,” Lucy said. “Mr. Carswell has been telling us all about his fascinating pig-breeding program. Do you have any idea of the complex process in getting bacon onto your plate, Lord Thornbroke?”
“No.”
“Then you must tell him aaaall about it, Mr. Carswell,” Lucy said. “I’m sure he’ll be as fascinated as I was.”
“Oh, I will, I will,” Mr. Carswell said.
Gerald’s mouth tightened. Alice narrowed her eyes. So, he knew perfectly well the kind of man he’d inflicted on them. She would have words with Gerald.
“And did you know,” Lucy said, bright-eyed, “that Mr. Carswell is in line to become the Baron of Beef?” Alice choked on her drink.
“No, no, dear lady,” Carswell corrected her with an indulgent smile. “I’m to be the Baron of Buttsfield.”
“Silly me, my mistake,” Lucy said gaily. She raised her glass at Gerald. “Good health, Lord Thornbottle.”
The waiter then returned bearing more refreshments, including bread and butter, some chicken, an onion tart, some cheesecake and a dish of the shaved ham that Vauxhall was famous for.
“Call this ham?” Mr. Carswell picked up a slice with his fork and held it up disdainfully. “Paper thin. And not near enough fat on it.” He then embarked on a long-winded explanation of how other pigs he’d bred in the past produced a much finer ham than the stuff they were being served. He had just begun to describe the various breeds of pig and their entrancingly different qualities, when the concert began.
“Hush now, everyone,” Alice said crisply. “I very much dislike it when people talk through musical performances.” She directed a beady eye at Mr. Carswell.
He swallowed and the flow of porcine information abruptly stopped. The music swelled, and under cover of the sound she had a quiet word with Gerald. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”
“Playing at, Aunt Alice?” Gerald said with an innocent expression.
She eyed him narrowly. “You know very well what I’m talking about.”
Mr. Carswell leaned forward and gave her a reproachful look.
Alice leaned closer to Gerald. “I’ll speak to you later.”
* * *
I’m going to strangle Gerald,” Alice declared after he’d delivered her and Lucy home from Vauxhall. “I’ve asked him to call on me first thing in the morning. I was too angry to speak to him tonight.”
“Didn’t you enjoy yourself, Alice?” Lucy asked. “I did, immensely. Especially the fireworks.”
Alice looked at her. “You can’t possibly have enjoyed Mr. Carswell’s conversation.”
Lucy gave a gurgle of laughter. “The Baron of Beef? I did, in a way.”
“But the man was such a bore!”
Lucy giggled. “I hope you spell it b-o-a-r.”
Against all inclination, Alice laughed. “Exactly! But how could you have possibly enjoyed talking to him—or listening to him, I should say. You looked quite rapt.”
“I wasn’t. I was just pretending to listen. Men like that only need the appearance of an audience.”
“Then why—”
“Didn’t you notice your nephew’s face?” Lucy said with a mischievous smile. “The more I doted on Mr. Porker’s conversation, the crosser Lord Thornton got. It was the same with Mr. Ffolliot. I cooed agreement with that dreadful man while Lord Thornton sat there glowering. It was so entertaining.”
“So you think Gerald is doing it deliberately?”
“Offering me impossible men? Yes, of course. I must say, he’s showing a great deal of ingenuity in coming up with them. I expect he’ll be running out of impossible gentlemen soon and will have to dig up some poor creature out of the gutter. Or debtor’s prison.” She laughed.
“Don’t you mind?”
“Not at all. It’s vastly entertaining.”
“But why is he doing it?”
Lucy’s smile was like the cat’s that ate the cream. “Perhaps to punish me for making him lose his race. He certainly gets cross when I seem to enjoy these men’s company, doesn’t he? And they enjoy mine.”
Alice doubted it had anything to do with the wretched race. “Well, you might not mind these ridiculous stratagems, but I do,” she said with asperity. Getting Lucy safely married was not a joke to her. Her future peace of mind rested on it.
Lucy seemed to realize this. She leaned forward to place a hand on Alice’s arm. “Please don’t worry, Alice. I promise you I will find myself a husband, and quickly. It just won’t be with your nephew’s help, that’s all.”
* * *
But, Aunt Alice, you said you wanted your goddaughter to meet suitable eligible men.”
“Don’t try that flummery on me, Gerald,” Alice said. Gerald had called on her, as she’d requested the previous night. Lucy had gone off with Lady Peplowe and Penny to visit Hatchards bookshop, so Alice had her nephew to herself.
“Not one of the men you’ve produced has been in the slightest bit suitable—eligible, perhaps, but you can’t possibly believe that a girl like Lucy, who is bright and lively, could be interested in marrying a man who never speaks or one who never stops speaking, and then only about pigs! Or one with the kind of attitudes that Mr. Ffolliot espouses? Or the rest? Honestly, Gerald, you couldn’t possibly have dredged up any worse candidates if you tried!”
“Nevertheless, she seems to have made a conquest of them all,” Gerald muttered.
“Is that disappointment I hear in your voice, Gerald? Because if Lucy has made a conquest of any of those impossible gentlemen, it is simply because she is a polite, kindhearted girl. She might appeal to them, but none of them could ever appeal to her.”
Gerald snorted. “Polite and kindhearted? She’s just trying to annoy me.”
Alice wasn’t going to argue with that. Lucy was playing her own deep game, as was Gerald. “At least now that we’re getting more invitations to balls and parties, she’s starting to meet suitable gentlemen at last.”
“Does that mean you no longer have need of my services?”
“If you were in the least bit serious about it, I would, but since you seem to want to make a mockery of my difficulties—”
“I’m not.”
Alice merely looked at him with brows raised.
“Oh, very well. I might not have chosen the more suitable of my acquaintances for Miss Bamber, but—”
“They were, I have no doubt, the least suitable, and if you are determined to waste our time, I beg you will desist. Now, how have you been doing with your search for Lucy’s father, or have you been spending all your time on finding ridiculous matches for Lucy?”
Gerald grimaced. “I’ve made inquiries all over, but it’s as you said: the man seems to have no permanent address. He’s as slippery as an eel. I’ve tracked him to several different addresses, but at each one he’s been long gone. Have you thought about hiring a Bow Street Runner?”
“Are you mad? Word would be out in no time. No, we need to make discreet, private inquiries, not have it on public record.”
“Then may I share the problem with Lord Tarrant.”
Alice looked at him in horror. “Lord Tarrant? No! Why on earth would you want to tell him my private business? I barely know the man.” Bad enough that he haunted her thoughts with his offer of friendship. She didn’t want him involved any deeper in her life.
“No, but I know him very well,” Gerald said. “And there’s no one I’d trust more with my problems.”
“It’s not your problem, though, is it?”
“You’re family, Aunt Alice, and your problems are my problems.”
“That’s all very well, but Lord Tarrant—”
“Has connections.”
Alice eyed him cautiously. “What sort of connections?”
“There’s a fellow in the Horse Guards who runs the most extraordinary network of investigative agents. They’re famed for efficiency and discreet inquiry. They don’t usually do private work—the network was built during the war to gather wartime intelligence—but there’s not as much work for them in peacetime, and there might be a possibility that one of the agents could track down Bamber’s whereabouts on your behalf. If anyone can swing it, it would be Tarrant. He’s a friend of the fellow who runs it.”
Alice didn’t like the sound of it. She didn’t want Lord Tarrant to be involved. She hardly knew him. She didn’t want him to know she was being blackmailed, didn’t want him to think badly of her. And she would die if he ever read those dreadful letters.
“You can trust Tarrant, Aunt Alice. He’s the most honorable, capable, trustworthy man I know.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t want him to—”
“Don’t you want Bamber found?”
“Yes, of course I do. It’s just . . .” She took a breath and tried a different tack. “What would you do to Bamber if you found him?”
“Force the swine to give up those letters.”
“Yes, but how? You wouldn’t hurt him, would you?”
“What do you care if I did? The man deserves a dam—a dashed good thrashing.”
“Yes, but it could get you into terrible trouble. People go to gaol for that kind of thing. Besides, scoundrel as he is, he’s also Lucy’s father.”
Gerald gave a derisive snort.
“And none of this is her fault.”
“It’s not yours, either. Now, may I tell Tarrant about the problem or not?” She hesitated, and he added, “It’s the best chance we have, and if Miss Bamber is refusing to have anything to do with lords, you’re effectively breaking your agreement with her father. Finding him and getting the letters back is your only hope, and for that we need Tarrant and his connections.”
Alice sighed. It made sense, but she really, really didn’t want Lord Tarrant to know. He would never look at her in the same way again.
“I know you’re uneasy about it, Aunt Alice, but it really is the best solution. Tarrant is off fetching his children at the moment, but he should be back in London soon.”
“In that case, give me until then to think about it. When Lord Tarrant returns, I’ll let you know my decision.”
Gerald then took his leave. Alice took herself outside to walk in the garden. Fresh air and greenery always helped her think more clearly.
But from the uncomfortable question of allowing Gerald to tell Lord Tarrant about her problems, her thoughts drifted to notions of a friendship between a man and a woman. Exactly what did Lord Tarrant imagine it would entail?
What did she know about bringing up young girls anyway? She’d never had anything to do with children.
* * *
Miss Coates’s Seminary for Young Ladies was a tall, gray, stone building just outside the village of Daventry. Surrounded by a neat green garden, it didn’t really look like a prison for young hoydens. Though appearances could be deceptive.
Inside, James met Miss Coates, a tall, thin spinster with a calm, intelligent mien. Once he’d established his identity and shown her his credentials, her attitude warmed considerably. “I’ve never before taken in a child as young as Deborah,” she told him, “but her grandmother was adamant that the girls had to stay together.”
“Her grandparents were of the opinion that the girls were difficult to handle. I believe ‘hoydens’ was the word they used.”
“ ‘Hoydens’?” Miss Coates laughed. “Far from it. They have all the usual energy of children of that age.” She eyed him. “I understand that Judith and Selina spent their earliest years traveling with Wellington’s army.”
“That’s correct. Their mother returned to England for Deborah’s birth.”
She nodded. “That explains why they follow orders so well. They’re lively and high-spirited—at least Judith and Deborah are—but they’ve never caused me or my staff any real difficulty.”
He wondered again at his mother-in-law’s description of them as hoydens. “And Lina?”
She hesitated, then said, “Selina is a dear, sweet child, but quite shy and withdrawn.”
James wondered what that might mean, but he said nothing.
Miss Coates continued, “Your daughters don’t sleep in the dormitories, as the other girls here do. They have their own bedchamber. During the day, my servants care for Deborah, but outside of class time and in the evening, she is with her sisters.”
“I see.” He was agreeably surprised by the woman’s good common sense.
She gave him a thoughtful look, then said, “May I speak frankly, Lord Tarrant?”
“Please do.”
“Judith and Selina take good care of their little sister, but it is far from an ideal situation. Judith seems to feel she is responsible for both her younger sisters, and though she handles the responsibility well, she needs to be a child again, not be a little mother at the age of eleven.”
“I quite agree.”
“What are your intentions for the girls, then?”
He raised a brow. It was not for this spinster schoolmistress to question his intentions—he was their father. For a moment he was tempted to give her a sharp set-down, but he had to admit she had impressed him, and it did seem as though she had attempted to do her best by his daughters.
Though there was that letter . . . He pulled it out and placed it on the desk in front of her. “How do you explain this?”
She glanced at it and nodded. “I’m afraid that was my fault.”
“In what way?”
She sighed. “Judith had fallen behind on her evening assignments, claiming she was too busy with Deborah to do them. I informed her that if that was the case, perhaps Deborah would be better off sleeping with Betty, the maid I’d hired to look after her during the daytime. I was bluffing, of course—I would never have separated them—but Judith didn’t know that, and she was, naturally, furious.” She gave him a rueful glance. “Quite a temper your eldest daughter has.”
He tapped the letter. “This letter is completely different from all the others I’ve received from the girls.”
She grimaced. “I know, they copied the others from model letters. You probably won’t believe me, but that’s not the common practice here—their grandmother gave strict instructions as to how they should communicate.” She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I caught Judith trying to smuggle this letter out. I confiscated it, read it, and then posted it myself.”
His jaw dropped. “You posted it?”
“I did,” she said composedly. “And it achieved what both Judith and I intended.”
“And what was that?” This woman was surprise after surprise.
“It brought you here.” She leaned forward across her desk. “Those girls need a home, Lord Tarrant, not a room of their own in a boarding school, no matter how good the school, and I pride myself that this is one of the best. I’m quite willing to keep them—they are dear girls, one and all—but it is my opinion that they need to be part of a family, to belong, to have a home and to feel loved.”
He blinked. “I couldn’t agree more. While I thought they were happy and being well looked after by their grandparents, I was content to leave them. Life in the army was no life for small girls, not without their mother.”
“And what has changed?”
He refolded the letter and tucked it away. “My older brother died recently, and I inherited the estate and the title and the responsibilities. I now have a home to offer my children, and the income to support them. I have resigned my commission and intend to make my life here in England, with them.”
She sat back, smiling. “I am so glad.” She picked up a small bell and tinkled it. A moment later a young woman appeared. “Would you bring down the Tarrant girls, all three of them, please.” The young woman’s gaze slid to James, but the headmistress said, “Don’t explain—just tell them they’re wanted in my office.” The young woman left.
James waited. Impatient and absurdly nervous, he rose to his feet and began to pace around the headmistress’s office. The door was open. He could hear footsteps and voices on the stairs. He glanced at the headmistress. “If you don’t mind, I’ll . . .” and he was out in the lobby, gazing up the stairs, waiting for his children.
They came down the stairs in a group, three across, Judy and Lina on the outside, little Deborah in the middle, holding their hands. The teacher or assistant, or whatever she was, brought up the rear. Not that James even noticed her. He had eyes only for his daughters. They’d grown so much.
They saw him and came to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs. “P-Papa?” Judith said uncertainly. Then, at his smile, “Papaaaaaa!” she shrieked, and letting go of her little sister’s hand, she leapt down the stairs and flung herself at him, just as she always used to. He caught her and managed not to stagger back.
“Oh Papa, Papa, Papa!” she said, hugging him in a death grip around his neck. “You came, you came!” She was laughing and sobbing at the same time.
He hugged her to him, his little girl, all legs and arms now. So tall. Eleven. He couldn’t speak for the lump in his throat. Oh, those lost years. He ached for them.
Eventually Judy loosened her grip on him and slid down to resume her own two feet. Smoothing her hair back, he turned to greet his other two daughters.
There was Selina, the image of her mother, staring at him with big blue eyes—her mother’s eyes. She waited on the stairs, making no move to approach.
“Lina, it’s Papa. It’s Papa!” Judith shouted.
But when Lina had last seen her father she was not quite four.
“You don’t remember me, do you, Lina?” James said gently.
She just looked at him, her forehead furrowed. And then she shook her head.
“But it’s Pa—” Judy began.
“It’s all right, Judy,” he said. “Lina was a very little girl when you left. She was not quite Deborah’s age. It’s not surprising she doesn’t remember me.”
He glanced at Deborah, the child he’d never met, and took a swift breath. Dark-haired little Deborah didn’t resemble her mother in the least. She was the image of his brother, Ross, at the same age. There was a portrait somewhere of Ross as a child, with the exact same expression. She eyed him suspiciously, then, scowling, plonked her bottom on the stairs and folded her arms, making it clear she had no intention of coming closer.
He almost laughed; Ross, too, had had that same stubborn expression.
A hesitant tug on his coat drew his attention. It was seven-year-old Lina. After an intense, troubled scrutiny, she held up her arms, the way she used to as a toddler. “Up?” James said softly, as he used to.
She nodded, and he picked her up, a stiff, wooden doll in his arms. And then she suddenly softened and leaned forward and pressed her face against his neck. “Ohhhh, you smell just the same,” she whispered and hugged him tightly. “I do remember you, Papa, I do.”
James just held her for a long, long moment, fighting back unmanly tears.
And then it was time to meet his third daughter. He approached the stairs and knelt down so that their faces were more or less level. “Good afternoon, Deborah. We’ve never met, but I’m your f—”
“Debo,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m Debo, not Deborah.”
He nodded. “I see. Well then, Debo . . .”
She leaned sideways and looked past him at Judy and Lina standing behind him. “You sure this is Papa?”
They assured her he was. She examined him carefully. She didn’t look too impressed. Her scowl was as black as ever. She leaned forward and hit him on the shoulder. “You left us.”
“I did,” he admitted. Technically they’d left him, but he wasn’t going to argue.
“Why you left us?”
“I had to. I was a soldier, and the king needed me. A soldier works for the king.”
“The king?”
He nodded.
“Because of the king . . .” She considered that. Her scowl deepened, and her lower lip pushed out. She hit him on the shoulder again. “Then I hate the king.”
And there it was, another piece of his heart given over to a small, helpless, angry creature.
“We’re all going to be together now. I’ve come to take you and your sisters home.”
“Where is home?” Debo demanded.
“With me, with all of us together.” He hadn’t yet taken control of the country estate—he still thought of it as Ross’s estate, Ross’s home. But he’d lived there as a boy, and it was his now. “I have a house in London and a house in the country, but we’re going to live in London first.” There was work to be done in London, documents to be signed, reports to consider and act on.
And a lovely, skittish lady . . .
Debo considered the possibilities, then tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You got a cat in London?”
“No.” Cats made him sneeze.
“Hmph!” The scowl was back.
Behind him Miss Coates spoke, “Deborah has a great fondness for cats. She has been waiting for the kitchen cat to have kittens.” She added softly, “The kitchen cat is a very fat tom.”
James turned back to his smallest daughter. “There might be a cat in one of the houses, Debo—I don’t know.”
The frown didn’t lift. Clearly “might be” wasn’t good enough for this small, adorable despot.
“I suppose we could get a kitten.”
“Good.” Debo stood up. “We going now?”