by Anne Gracie
He produced a thick packet of folded letters tied with a puce ribbon, placed it on the low table between them and sat back with a smug look.
Alice frowned. “What are they?” They didn’t look like bills.
“You know perfectly well what they are, my lady. Your husband’s letters.”
She shrugged, feigning indifference. “My husband wrote many letters.”
“Ah, but these are love letters. To Mrs. Jennings.”
Cold slithered down Alice’s spine. “Who?” she managed.
But Bamber wasn’t fooled. “Come, come, your ladyship, no point in pretending you don’t recognize the name of your husband’s mistress. Very loyal to her, he was. Twenty years and more these letters go back.”
Twenty years. Longer than her marriage.
He continued, “And the most recent, written just days before he died.” He gave her the kind of knowing look people gave when they knew just where and how—and in whose bed—her husband had died. Her brother-in-law, Edmund, the new earl, had tried to hush it up, but Alice could usually read it in their eyes when someone knew.
Bamber leaned forward, undid the ribbon, flipped through the letters familiarly, then pulled one out. “Here’s one of the older ones. Take a look. It mentions you—many of them do, actually. See if it sparks some memories.” He held it out to her.
Alice didn’t want to touch the wretched thing, wanted to snatch it and the rest of the letters and hurl them unread into the fire. But the stupid, self-destructive impulse to know, to turn the knife, made her reach out and take the offered letter between nerveless fingers.
She slowly unfolded it. Thaddeus’s writing, big and bold, sprawled across the page. Phrases jumped out at her . . . my dreary virgin bride . . . cold as a fish and about as appealing . . .
Bile rose in Alice’s throat. Oh God, it was a description of her wedding night. In the worst kind of detail. Mocking her. Making fun of his bride’s ignorance and inexperience—to his mistress.
She crumpled the letter between numb fingers. “Where did—”
Bamber placed another letter in front of her. And then another, and another and another, leaving just enough time for her to glimpse—and flinch at—the contents before placing another letter on the top of the growing pile.
Vile, clever, mocking phrases stabbed at her, stripping her composure bare, each letter adding to the excoriation. The most painful and humiliating moments of her life, laid out for all to see, in black and white, described in Thaddeus’s distinctive, ruthless, incisive style. The pile grew until finally she could bear to look no more. Sickened, she shoved them away and sat back in her seat.
“Where did you get these?” The words came out hoarse.
“Bought them from the lady herself. Cost me a pretty penny, they did.”
Alice said nothing. She was numb with shock and disgust.
“He had quite a way with words, your husband.” Bamber’s gaze slid over her speculatively. “The detail he goes into. Quite . . . specific. Juicy.”
Alice swallowed. She could just imagine.
He patted the pile of letters and said brightly, “Nasty fellow, wasn’t he?”
Sick to her stomach, Alice looked at the thick stack of letters resting under Bamber’s pudgy hand. So many more letters as yet unread. Thaddeus’s opinion of his wife had only worsened with time.
“What do you want?” It would be money, of course, but the question was how much. She would have to sell her home after all.
He smiled and nodded, as if pleased with her bluntness. “I want you to bring my daughter out.”
It was so very far from what she’d been expecting that it took a moment for Alice to make sense of what he’d said. “Out? Out where?”
“In high society, of course. You bring her out, take her to balls and whatnot, introduce her to all the toffs.”
Alice stared at him blankly. “Why?”
“I want her to marry a lord,” he said.
“Which lord?” she said faintly.
“I don’t mind—as long as he is a lord. I have a fancy for my grandson to have a title. Lucy’s no beauty, but she’s well enough, and with your sponsorship . . .” He sat back, crossed his legs and regarded her complacently.
Alice shook her head, her mind numb, and yet at the same time whirling. He had no idea what he was asking. “I’m sorry, but—”
“I’m sure the ton would love to read these letters, Lady Charlton,” he interrupted in a silky voice. “I could make a pretty penny by publishing them. Quite lubricious they are, and not just the bits where he’s writing about Mrs. Jennings’s many charms. He writes quite a lot about you, too. Not quite so juicy, but . . . fascinating all the same.”
There was vomit in Alice’s throat. She forced it down.
Bamber continued. “Your husband left his mistress quite well-off, didn’t he?” He glanced meaningfully around the room. “She’s not selling off her paintings and pretty bits and pieces. She didn’t need the money and had no plan to sell the letters . . . until I mentioned the possibility of publishing them. Quite excited that thought made her.” He paused to let it sink in. “She really has it in for you, don’t she, your ladyship?”
It was true. Mrs. Jennings was a butcher’s daughter and the widow of a stonemason. Thaddeus had wanted to marry his beautiful mistress, but his father, the old earl, was outraged at the notion and insisted he take a bride from the aristocracy—a pure young girl who would bear him an heir—or be cut off without a penny.
Thaddeus might have loved his beautiful mistress, but he loved money more. For that, Mrs. Jennings had always hated Alice.
Your husband left his mistress quite well-off. And all this time, Thaddeus’s legal wife had been battling with his debts, the result of his carelessness and financial irresponsibility. Several times Alice had teetered on the brink of ruin, but she’d always handled things, made some arrangement, found something to sell. And finally she was almost debt-free.
Now, none of it would matter. This ghastly man and his packet of vile letters was going to plunge her into a different kind of ruin.
Crossing his legs, he leaned back and gave her a long, pensive look, before adding with casual relish, “Wouldn’t your fine society friends enjoy reading all these letters. All those fascinating, intimate, explicit details.”
Her stomach cramped. They would. They wouldn’t be able to help themselves.
She would never be able to look anyone in the face again.
“But if you agree to sponsor my daughter into society and help her find a lord to marry, nobody need ever know.”
Alice’s breath caught in her throat. Could he possibly mean it? He’d just give her the letters. And not publish them? “What are you saying?”
“The day my daughter marries a lord, I’ll give you these letters, free and clear. You can burn them or do what you like with them.”
Her heart sank. She was desperate—more than desperate—to get those letters, but with the best will in the world, what he was asking was impossible. She opened her mouth to explain why, but his next words robbed her of breath.
“I know it’s expensive to launch a young lady in society, and I’ll cover all the costs.” He pulled out a thick wad of banknotes from a pocket and laid it on the table. “That for her board and lodging.” He laid another bundle of banknotes on top of it. “That to cover her dresses—from a proper high-class mantua-maker, mind. The special dress for the royal presentation—”
Royal presentation? Only girls of the highest birth were presented at court. “That’s completely out of the quest—”
“This for shoes and fans and shawls and all the rest of the folderols that ladies require.” He added to the pile of notes on the table before her. “And naturally I’ll pay you a fee for your own expenses.” With a dismissive glance at her dress, he set the last bundle of ba
nknotes down with a flourish. “Can’t have my daughter’s sponsor looking shabby, can we?”
Alice stared. She’d never seen so much money in her life. But what he asked was preposterous. “I told you—”
“Of course, once she’s married, as well as the letters, you’ll get a bonus, depending—I want a proper lord, mind. A duke would be best, but there’s not many of them around, so something a bit lower down will do. But I won’t stand for nothing lower than a baronet. My grandson will have a title, or I’ll want to know the reason why.” He sat back and eyed her smugly. “That’s opened your eyes, hasn’t it, my lady?”
Alice couldn’t deny it. He talked of shopping for a lord as if it were as simple as choosing cabbages from the market. “Mr. Bamber, even if I agreed to do what you asked, society doesn’t operate like that.”
He snorted. “Of course it does. Money talks to toffs the same as it does to everyone else.”
Alice eyed the stack of notes wistfully. Ironic that after all the scrimping and saving she’d done since Thaddeus had died, here she was having to reject an offer of a huge sum of money. But money was no longer her priority. The letters were the only thing that mattered to her now, and she would do almost anything to get them.
But he didn’t know what he was asking.
How could she make him understand? The ton was exclusive, meaning its members actively worked to exclude people. Entry to the highest levels of society was not simply granted to people with money—it was all about birth and blood and breeding. Connections. Belonging. The daughter of a poor vicar with an aristocratic lineage was welcomed, whereas a rich man’s daughter of no particular background would be rigidly excluded. There were hundreds of unspoken rules designed especially to keep out people like this man and his daughter.
“I’m sorry,” she began, “but it’s just not possible.”
His cozy tone turned cold. “I think you’ll find it is possible, my lady. Even quite desirable. If you ever want to hold your head up in society again, that is.” He retied the ribbon around the remaining letters, making a neat bow, and slipped them into his breast pocket. He nodded at the letter still clutched numbly in her fist. “You can keep that one as a little reminder of what’s at stake.”
Sick at heart, knowing she was spelling out her own ruin, she forced herself to explain. “In society—the society in which I move, that is—everyone knows everyone else, or knows of them. It is usually a mother or a grandmother, an aunt or some kind of relative who sponsors a young lady for her come-out. How would I explain the sudden appearance of your daughter?”
He shrugged. “Tell ’em she’s some kind of cousin.”
She considered it for half a minute, then shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t work.” He opened his mouth to argue, and she hurried on. “My own parents were poor, but my lineage on both sides can be traced back to the Conquest. As a result, I am related to half the ton, and my husband was related to the other half. People in society know my relatives, down to the last second or third cousin and beyond. If I claimed to be related to your daughter, a dozen elderly ladies would be busy tracking down the bloodlines to sort out exactly how we are related. They’d spot her as a fraud immediately.” And both she and his daughter would be disgraced.
Though not as badly as if those letters got out.
Frowning, he rose and began to pace around the room. Alice watched him, biting her lip. She had to get those letters. She glanced at the poker hanging beside the fire, and a brief, mad thought passed through her mind. But she couldn’t do it.
He paused, staring intensely at a china shepherdess, then turned, a look of triumph on his face. “Tell ’em she’s your goddaughter then.” He plumped himself back on the sofa.
Alice stared. “But she’s not.”
“The old biddies don’t need to know that.”
She thought about it for a moment, then regretfully shook her head. “That wouldn’t work, either. I’m a terrible liar.” It was the truth, too, and he seemed to read it in her expression.
He fell silent, his eyes narrowed as he pondered the problem. Suddenly his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. “Then we make it not a lie.”
Alice blinked. “How?”
“We’ll get her christened and you can be godmother.”
“She’s never been christened?”
He shrugged. “No idea. That side of things I left to her mother, God rest her soul. But even if she was, there’s no evidence to say so.” He picked up the pile of banknotes and flipped them like a pack of cards. “Now, my fine lady, do you agree? Or do I take my money away and let society drool and snigger over your husband’s letters?”
His calm ruthlessness appalled her. Could this mad scheme possibly succeed? His words dripped like acid into her brain. Let society drool and snigger. Did she have any choice?
Hoping to buy some time to come to terms with the situation, she said, “I . . . I’d have to meet your daughter first.”
“Easily done. I brought her with me.” He rose, threw open the door and stuck his head out. “Hey, you, butler.” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
Tweed glided to the door, oozing silent outrage. Ostentatiously ignoring Bamber, he looked at Alice. “Was there something you required, m’lady?”
Again, Bamber snapped his fingers, treating her butler like a waiter in a low tavern. “My carriage is sitting outside with my daughter in it. Fetch her in here.”
Tweed gave no sign that he’d heard. He simply looked at Alice and waited. She nodded. “Yes, please ask the young lady to step in, Tweed.”
“Very good, my lady.” He stalked away.
“Insolent fellow,” Bamber commented. “I wouldn’t let him get away with that kind of behavior if I were you, my lady.”
Alice tamped down on her irritation. “Tweed has served my family all my life.”
He snorted. “And it shows. You need to treat your servants more strictly, my lady—show ’em who’s boss. If that fellow was my butler—”
“But he’s not,” Alice said firmly.
They sat in silence until Tweed ushered in a young woman, eighteen or nineteen years old. A little on the plump side, she was dressed in an expensive-looking, frilly, fussy pink dress, which in Alice’s view, did nothing for her. The girl’s light brown hair was an elaborate mass of stiff, careful curls, and a rope of unlikely pearls was looped several times around her neck. Her complexion was good, and her eyes were a pretty hazel color framed by long dark lashes. As her father had said, she wasn’t a beauty, but she was attractive—or she would be if she were better dressed.
The girl stood stiffly just inside the doorway. Her expression was wooden but somehow carried a hint of . . . was it mulishness?
She made no move to engage Alice, didn’t even look at her, just stared across at the window, as if wishing she were elsewhere. For a girl supposedly determined to enter society and marry a lord, she wasn’t trying very hard.
“My daughter, Miss Lucille Bamber, my lady.” Bamber snapped his fingers at his daughter. “Well, get on with it, girl. Make your curtsy to her ladyship.”
Was that a flash in the girl’s eyes? Alice couldn’t be sure. The girl sank into a graceful curtsy and said in a low voice, “How do you do, Lady Charlton?”
Alice inclined her head in acknowledgement. Someone had schooled the girl in deportment, at least. And her accent was good, better than her father’s.
“Prettily done. Now, don’t stand there like a looby, girl, come and sit down.” Bamber patted the space beside him.
Alice compressed her lips. The way he spoke to his daughter annoyed her, but there was more at stake here than bad manners.
Miss Bamber crossed the room and seated herself on a chair—not beside her father on the sofa. Interesting.
“I understand you wish to enter society, Miss Bamber,” Alice said.
T
he girl gave an indifferent shrug. She didn’t even look at Alice.
“Of course she does. She’s very eager to mix with all the lords and ladies,” Bamber said in a honeyed voice that failed to disguise his irritation. “Come, tell that to Lady Charlton, puss.”
“I’m very eager to mix with all the lords and ladies,” Miss Bamber repeated in a wooden voice.
“There, you see?” Bamber sat back.
Alice did see. The girl might have been taught to curtsy, but her manners were appalling. “Have you had much experience of parties and balls before, Miss Bamber?”
“No.”
“But she can dance,” her father said. “She’s as light as a feather on her toes, and as you can see, she’s been well trained in doing the pretty.”
Doing the pretty? Hardly. But Alice persisted with the interview. It was all a farce anyway. Unless she could find some way out of this mess, she was going to have to launch this overdressed, sullen girl into the ton anyway. Thaddeus’s horrid letters were an axe over her head. But success was looking more and more unlikely, for if the girl wasn’t enthusiastic, what hope did Alice have?
“And you are looking for a husband?” Alice prompted her.
For the first time, the girl met Alice’s gaze—a brief, flat, unreadable look—but she said nothing.
“Of course she is, it’s her dearest wish,” her father said. “Forgive my little puss, Lady Charlton. She’s shy, a little overwhelmed at being in such refined company. But that will change, won’t it, Lucy?” Beneath his coaxing tone was a hint of threat.
“If you say so, Papa.”
“Good, now wait outside, my dear, while I have a word in private with Lady Charlton.” Lucy left.
“Well? What do you say, Lady Charlton? Do we have a deal?” Bamber said.
Alice stared at him helplessly. She had no choice, she knew that—the thought of those letters being made public was too dreadful to contemplate—but introduce this stiff, churlish creature to society? Finding her anyone to marry would be hard enough, let alone a lord. She couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be done.
