The Scoundrel's Daughter
Page 1
PRAISE FOR ANNE GRACIE AND HER NOVELS
“[A] confection that brims with kindness and heartfelt sincerity. . . . You can’t do much better than Anne Gracie who offers her share of daring escapes, stolen kisses and heartfelt romance in a tale that carries the effervescent charm of the best Disney fairy tales.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“I never miss an Anne Gracie book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn
“For fabulous Regency flavor, witty and addictive, you can’t go past Anne Gracie.”
—New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens
“With her signature superbly nuanced characters, subtle sense of wit and richly emotional writing, Gracie puts her distinctive stamp on a classic Regency plot.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will keep readers entranced. . . . A totally delightful read!”
—RT Book Reviews
“The always terrific Anne Gracie outdoes herself with Bride by Mistake. . . . Gracie created two great characters, a high-tension relationship and a wonderfully satisfying ending. Not to be missed!”
—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney
“A fascinating twist on the girl-in-disguise plot. . . . With its wildly romantic last chapter, this novel is a great antidote to the end of summer.”
—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“Anne Gracie’s writing dances that thin line between always familiar and fresh. . . . The Accidental Wedding is warm and sweet, tempered with bursts of piquancy and a dash or three of spice.”
—New York Journal of Books
“Threaded with charm and humor. . . . [An] action-rich, emotionally compelling story. . . . It is sure to entice readers.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Another [of] Ms. Gracie’s character-rich, fiery tales filled with emotion and passion leavened by charm and wit.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“The main characters are vibrant and complex. . . . The author’s skill as a storyteller makes this well worth reading.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A well-plotted, richly emotional and delightful read, this Regency novel brims with wonderful characters and romance.”
—Shelf Awareness
“I’ve already read this book twice and I know it won’t be long before I’m pulled back to these characters again . . . and again . . . and again.”
—The Romance Dish
Titles by Anne Gracie
Merridew Sisters
THE PERFECT RAKE
THE PERFECT WALTZ
THE PERFECT STRANGER
THE PERFECT KISS
Devil Riders
THE STOLEN PRINCESS
HIS CAPTIVE LADY
TO CATCH A BRIDE
THE ACCIDENTAL WEDDING
BRIDE BY MISTAKE
Chance Sisters
THE AUTUMN BRIDE
THE WINTER BRIDE
THE SPRING BRIDE
THE SUMMER BRIDE
Marriage of Convenience
MARRY IN HASTE
MARRY IN SCANDAL
MARRY IN SECRET
MARRY IN SCARLET
The Brides of Bellaire Gardens
THE SCOUNDREL’S DAUGHTER
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Anne Gracie
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593200551
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender
Cover photographs: Richard Jenkins (woman); ECassidy/Shutterstock (wisteria garden)
Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Shayan Saalabi
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To my longtime writing buddy, Alison Reynolds, with thanks for the friendship, the support and encouragement, the entertainment, and the flowers
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for Anne Gracie and Her Novels
Titles by Anne Gracie
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
He was making excellent time. Gerald Paton, Viscount Thornton, glanced behind him and grinned. No sign of his rival, Brexton. His team barely checked their pace as they passed between the narrow stone walls of the bridge and flew around the corner. They were beautiful steppers, well worth the sum he’d spent on them.
He pulled out his watch, flicked open the cover and checked the time. Three and a half hours. He was not only going to win the race, and two hundred guineas, he might even break the Prince Regent’s rec— What the hell?
A large white goose stood in the middle of the road. Swearing, he hauled on the reins. His horses instantly slowed, but even so it looked as though the blasted bird might not see another dawn. He wouldn’t particularly regret the loss of a goose, but his horses would find running over it horribly distressing.
A girl ran out into the road and scooped up the bird. And then stood there facing him.
“Out of the way!” he yelled.
She didn’t move, just stood there holding the goose in her arms and looking defiant.
He tightened the reins and hauled back on the brake. The curricle swerved to the left. There was a swirl of dust, the goose flapped its wings and honked, and his horses plunged and snorted. The wheels of his curricle bumped and scraped against the wall of the nearest building. And came to a halt just inches from the wretched girl and her blasted goose.
“Get the devil off the road!” he snarled. “Don’t you realize, you fool woman, that you could have been killed!”
“Yes, and whose fault would that have been?” she snapped back. “You weren’t even planning to stop, were you?”
“Nonsense. I slowed right down. If the blasted bird had any sense, it would have moved—”
“Who do you think you are? This is our village. You have no right to bowl through it at such a breakneck speed. What if a child had run out into the street? What then? Wo
uld you have happily driven over a child as well?”
“Of course not! Isn’t it obvious that I was slowing down—even for that stupid damned goose? Now move!”
“Don’t swear at Ghislaine.”
Ghislaine? Ridiculous name for a maidservant or farm girl or whatever she was.
“Dammit, Ghislaine, get out of my way. I’m in the middle of a race.” Even now, he could hear the sound of horses approaching.
“A pox on your stupid race. And Ghislaine is the goose. She’s a very special goose, aren’t you, Ghislaine?” She stroked the goose’s neck, murmuring soothing sounds.
“I don’t care what sort of a goose either of you are,” he roared. “Get off the damned road and let me pass!”
But it was too late. Brexton came racing up behind him and passed him at a smart clip with bare inches to spare, his wheels almost grazing Gerald’s.
“Flirting with pretty village maidens, Thornton? More fool you. See you in Brighton!” Brexton called as he passed. Laughter drifted back as he drove out of sight. It was as fine a piece of driving as Gerald had seen, and it put him in an even filthier temper.
“Now look what you’ve done!” he snapped at the girl.
She strolled off the road. “Oh pooh. All this fuss over a silly race? Men like you, you’re—”
Gerald didn’t wait to hear the rest of the sentence. He snapped the reins, and his curricle moved off.
* * *
* * *
Lucy Bamber walked back to the comtesse’s house. She smiled to herself at the remembrance of the man’s indignant expression. “We showed him, didn’t we, Ghislaine?” She was fed up to the back teeth with men, especially the high and mighty lordly types who thought they ruled the world. She’d met enough of them at the comtesse’s.
She turned the corner and came to an abrupt halt. A dusty traveling carriage stood outside the comtesse’s house. Another one. Her first impulse was to hide until whoever it was had left, but a moment’s reflection made her reconsider. The comtesse’s visitors sometimes stayed for days. The comtesse would need her to be either ‘ma charmante invitée’—my charming guest—or her servant, whichever the old lady deemed appropriate at the time. Given Lucy’s current appearance, in an old dress and an apron and with her hair blowing loose and wild across her face, it would most likely be the maidservant.
Which meant she would be fending off wandering hands for the duration of the visitor’s stay. Not that playing the charming guest was much different, just that the wandering hands were more subtle. Fine gentlemen—she despised them all.
Lucy opened the gate and set down Ghislaine. She removed the apron, dusted down her dress, picked off a goose feather or two, gathered her hair back into a tidy knot—it had come loose in her pursuit of Ghislaine—and entered the house. The door to the sitting room stood ajar, and she paused to peek in. “Est-ce toi, Lucille?” the comtesse called. “Entrez.” Oh dear. The old lady was in one of her moods.
Lucy reluctantly obeyed. A gentleman stood in front of the fire, his back to the door. The comtesse lay reclined on the chaise longue, a handkerchief soaked in eau de cologne—Lucy could smell it from the door—pressed to her forehead. It was not a good sign.
“Madame?” she said.
The gentleman turned and Lucy’s jaw dropped. “Papa?” She hadn’t seen or heard from him for more than a year.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just scanned her from head to toe, frowning as if displeased by her appearance. He pursed his lips and gave a brisk nod. “It’s time you were married, Lucy. Pack your things. We’re leaving.”
Chapter One
London, 1818
Finally she had a use for the epergne.
Alice, Lady Charlton—the dowager Lady Charlton, though she had neither the years nor the advantages of most dowagers—gave a last satisfied rub to the large silver epergne, which was extremely ugly but quite valuable. She’d always hated it, not simply because it was hideous, but because her sister-in-law, Almeria, who’d resented Alice from the start, had bestowed it upon her as a wedding present. It was, Alice believed, the ugliest sufficiently expensive gift Almeria could find.
Now Alice was going to sell the horrid thing. An appropriate gesture to mark the end of her troubles.
Eighteen months since her husband, Thaddeus, had died, the flood of his outstanding debts had—finally!—slowed to a trickle. Alice had almost stripped the house bare to pay them, and now she was feeling hopeful, almost happy. What would it be like to live free of obligation? To choose whether or not to live up to people’s expectations? She’d been trying and failing at that for the past eighteen years. More. Her whole life, really.
She didn’t really know what she wanted her life to be—well, she did, of course, but God had denied her that joy—and now she had to look to her future and decide how she wanted to live. At least she was secure and had a home to live in, thanks to Granny leaving her this house in London.
A presence in the doorway caught Alice’s attention. “Yes, Tweed, what is it?”
The elderly butler’s pained glance at her apron and stained old cotton gloves was a pointed reminder of his deep disapproval. “M’lady, m’lady, m’lady, you should not being doing menial tasks like that. Cleaning silver is a dirty job.”
“It certainly is,” Alice agreed cheerfully. They’d had this discussion before, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “And I’m glad to say I’ve just this minute finished it.” She placed the epergne beside the rest of the silver she was selling and sat back. “Something you wanted, Tweed?”
“A person at the front door, m’lady. Insisting on speaking to you.”
Alice frowned. “A person? Insisting?” Tweed had a fine-tuned vocabulary concerning callers, a combination of word and tone. A “person” was very low down on the Tweed Scale and the kind of caller he usually sent packing.
“You didn’t deny me?”
Tweed looked vaguely apologetic. “It’s the third time the fellow has called.” He presented a card on a silver salver. “An Octavius Bamber, m’lady.”
She picked up the card. Octavius Bamber? She’d never heard of him. “Not another debt collector, surely?” She’d hoped she’d seen the last of them. But no, Tweed knew to send them to her late husband’s man of affairs.
“No—at least I don’t believe so. But there is . . . something.” Tweed hesitated, then said, “He’s no gentleman, m’lady, but something he said just now made me a little uneasy. I think it might be wise for you to hear what he has to say.”
Tweed’s instincts were generally good. He’d been Granny’s butler forever, and he’d known Alice since she was a baby. If he thought she should see this man—after denying him twice—she would take his advice.
“Very well. I’ll speak to him in the front parlor.” She stripped off her gloves and apron, smoothed her dress, tidied her hair and went downstairs.
She entered the parlor quietly and came to an astonished halt. Octavius Bamber, his back to the door, was examining the contents of the room like a . . . like a bailiff. Or a debt collector. Lifting up ornaments, scrutinizing them, replacing them and moving on, quite as if he had every right to paw through her possessions. He peered at the signature on one of her paintings and scratched the ornate gold frame, presumably to test the gold leaf.
She cleared her throat, and he turned. His gaze swept over her in much the same way as he’d examined her belongings, as if calculating her value. One widowed countess, slightly used, not particularly pretty. She stiffened.
“So, Lady Charlton, you’ve finally deigned to see me.” Quite unembarrassed at being caught snooping, he replaced the jade figurine he’d been scrutinizing, crossed the floor and held out his hand. “About time, too. Octavius Bamber at your service.”
Ignoring his hand, Alice gave him a cool nod. Ladies didn’t shake hands, especially with unknown gentlemen, a
nd this man had already annoyed her.
Who was he, and what could he possibly want? She’d never set eyes on him in her life. Of medium height, he was closer to fifty than forty and dressed expensively, if not particularly tastefully, in tight trousers, a florid waistcoat, a frilled shirt and a snugly fitted bottle green coat. A number of gaudy fobs dangled from his gold watch chain, and he wore several large, glittery rings. His thinning gray hair was elaborately tousled, and he reeked of pomade.
“Don’t fancy shaking hands with the likes of me, eh?” He shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. I don’t mind a touch of hoity-toity—when it comes from a true aristocrat, that is. And you’re the genuine article, ain’t you, m’lady? Widow of an earl, and the granddaughter of one.”
Alice didn’t respond. He obviously knew something of her background, but it was none of his business, and besides, it was irrelevant.
Without being invited to, he seated himself in the middle of the sofa, crossed his legs and sat back, his arms draped along the back of the sofa, perfectly at home. His gaze swept the room. “I see you haven’t yet sold off all your pretty bits and pieces. How much longer do you reckon you have ’til the money runs out?”
Ignoring his impertinence, she said crisply, “The purpose of your visit, sir?”
To her surprise he chuckled. “Like to get right to the point, eh, m’lady? Well, I don’t mind that. Don’t mind you looking down your nose at me, either. That’ll change shortly. You’re going to be grateful I’ve come.” He gave her a knowing smile, which slowly hardened. “I’ve business to discuss.”
“If it’s business, take it to my late husband’s man of affairs.”
“Oh, but it’s not that sort of business, m’lady. This is more”—his smile widened—“personal.”
“Then state it quickly and begone,” she said, hoping her nervousness wasn’t visible. After eighteen months she’d thought she was finished with the mess Thaddeus had left her after his death. Apparently not.