The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  “I don’t need—” she began.

  But she was shivering, and Mary, the maid, said, “You’ll have a nice hot bath, miss, and no arguing. Lady Charlton would never forgive us if we let you catch a chill.”

  Lady Charlton would probably be delighted if she died of pneumonia, Lucy thought. She didn’t want Lucy living with her, just as Lucy didn’t want to be here.

  Tweed placed an enamel bathtub in front of the fire and filled it with steaming water. Mrs. Tweed and Mary then shooed him out and turned to help Lucy undress. Lucy stepped away, wrapping her arms around herself.

  “No need to be shy, miss. We’re all women here.”

  But it wasn’t shyness or modesty that stopped her; it was shame. As usual, Papa had only concerned himself with the appearance of things. The ugly orange dress might look expensive, but her underwear was a disgrace: worn, patched and repatched, barely even suitable for cleaning rags.

  Oh well, she supposed, no use putting off the moment. They’d soon realize. Nothing was secret from servants.

  She turned her back, stripped off her dress and then her underwear, and stepped into the bath.

  Lucy could practically hear the silent looks Mary and Mrs. Tweed must be exchanging, but there was nothing she could do. Finally Mary said, “I’ll see what I can do with this dress. I just hope it hasn’t shrunk.” Lucy hoped it had.

  After her bath, Lucy wrapped herself in the large, toasty-warm towels Mrs. Tweed had heated for her and, with a muttered thanks, hurried upstairs to her bedchamber.

  Ten minutes later Mary knocked on her door. “Mrs. Tweed sent this up for you, miss.” She brought in a tray containing a large cup of hot chocolate and a slice of Dundee cake and placed it on the dressing table.

  Lucy’s cheeks were hot. “Thank you, Mary.”

  The whole episode had been an exercise in mortification. And kindness.

  * * *

  * * *

  Evening fell and hunger was beginning to rumble in Gerald’s belly. But where to dine? The landlady of his bachelor suite provided an excellent breakfast, but that was all. He had a number of friends he could call on who’d be happy to join him for dinner, but truth to tell, he was becoming a little weary of the company of young men his own age. They were all too often . . . callow. Fine for a frivolous evening out, but right now he was not in that sort of mood.

  Particularly since he’d lost the race by a whisker. Brexton would be crowing about it all over London. Brexton was not a gracious winner.

  Gerald was a member of White’s, but so was his father and his father’s friends, and in their company he was the one who felt callow. The way his father spoke to him—especially in front of his friends—as if Gerald knew nothing and understood less—it grated. Anyone would think him a schoolboy, not a man back from years commanding troops at war.

  So his preference tonight was for the Apocalypse Club, a club formed specifically for officers returned from war. He headed for St. James.

  He entered the club and, to his surprise, spied a tall, dark-haired man he hadn’t seen since Waterloo. “Colonel Tarrant, well met.”

  Of all the men Gerald might have run into, Tarrant was the most welcome. He’d been Gerald’s commanding officer, a fine leader and, despite the gulf between a colonel and a captain, a friend.

  The tall man rose and held out his hand with a welcoming grin. “Paton. Good to see you. Join me for a drink before dinner?” They settled back in comfortable leather armchairs and prepared to catch up.

  “I thought you were still on the continent, colonel. How long are you back for?”

  “For good, I hope,” Tarrant said. “And I’m a colonel no longer. I’ve sold my commission and am returning to civilian life.” He added gruffly, “And it’s Lord Tarrant now.”

  “Oh yes. I heard about your brother. My sincere condolences. You were close, weren’t you?”

  Tarrant nodded. “My best friend as well as my brother. Stepping into his shoes has not been easy.” He sipped his wine and grimaced. “Every time someone addresses me as ‘Lord Tarrant,’ I turn my head, expecting to see Ross.”

  Gerald nodded sympathetically. “I’m still not used to people calling my father ‘Lord Charlton,’ when that’s always been his brother.”

  “Oh yes, and you’re a viscount now, aren’t you? Lord . . . ?”

  “Lord Thornton, for my sins.”

  Tarrant raised a brow. “Not enjoying your rise to the peerage?”

  Gerald shook his head. “No, it’s—it’s . . . oh, nothing.” He shouldn’t have said anything about his new position. He wasn’t one to wash his family’s dirty linen in public. Not that his father’s miserliness and determination to control every aspect of his newly inherited estate was dirty linen, precisely. Just endlessly frustrating for his heir.

  He pulled a face. “It’s nothing—just that now there is a title in play, my mother is after me to take a wife and start breeding an heir. She and my father never fail to remind me that my uncle died without issue. His wife was barren, you see.”

  “Ah.” They sipped their drinks and stared into the flames.

  Gerald glanced at Tarrant. “I suppose you’ll be doing much the same.”

  “Lord no. I have no interest in marrying again. I have my daughters.”

  “But no heir.”

  Tarrant shrugged. “The title won’t die out: there are male cousins around.”

  Gerald envied him his freedom to do as he chose. “So, tell me, what’s the news from Europe?”

  Tarrant filled him in. Europe, in the wake of Napoleon’s ravages, was still a mess, with much rebuilding to be done, physically, economically and politically. “Every man and his dog jockeying for power,” Tarrant said, shaking his head. “The process won’t be over for years yet—if ever.”

  “So what will you do now?”

  “Apply myself to the running of my brother’s—no, my estate. And become a family man again.”

  “Yes, the two little girls. You won’t be bored, leaving such a busy and exciting life to settle in the country?”

  “I won’t be bored. To be honest, I was weary of death and destruction, and now the endless negotiation and devious stratagems.” He shook his head. “It’s not for me. Not any longer.”

  Gerald thought it all sounded fascinating.

  “And there are now three little girls to keep me busy,” Tarrant added, and Gerald belatedly recalled hearing that the colonel’s wife had died in England after giving birth to their third child. Was it four years ago? Or five?

  “A gallant and lovely lady, your late wife,” Gerald said quietly. Young Mrs. Tarrant had traveled with the army, camping in tents, sharing the difficulties and the privation and the danger, but always with a smile for her husband’s men. “You knew, of course, all we junior officers were in love with her.”

  Tarrant smiled. “Perfectly understandable. I was myself.”

  “How old are the girls now?” She’d given birth twice in the middle of an army at war. Afterward, the two little girls had traveled with them. They’d been the darlings of the regiment.

  “Judy’s eleven—can you believe it?—and Lina is seven, and the baby, Deborah, is four.”

  So, four years since the colonel had lost his wife.

  “I haven’t seen them yet,” Tarrant added. “They’re in the country with their grandparents, Lord and Lady Fenwick.” Seeing Gerald’s surprise—Tarrant had always been devoted to his children—he explained, “I only arrived in England a few days ago, and I’m getting Tarrant House prepared for them. It’s been closed up for several years, and I found leaks in the roof, birds’ nests in the chimneys and all sorts of other problems. Ross was never one for coming to London. As soon as the house is fit for habitation, I’ll drive down to collect them—I’m hoping by the end of the week. But we shall see.”

  They went in
for dinner then, and over steak and kidney pie and roly-poly pudding with custard—the Apocalypse Club catered to no-nonsense, hearty appetites with food that stuck to the ribs—they caught up on the last few years. The time flew—they had many acquaintances in common, and having worked together so closely for so many years, the two men knew each other well.

  They talked of many things, but Gerald kept thinking about the current European situation. The fighting might be over, but so much was still unresolved. Disputes and dissension continued, but now they were handled through diplomatic channels.

  Then, over cheese and biscuits with port, Gerald described the peacetime pleasures he’d been enjoying, even mentioning the curricle race in passing, skipping the part about the goose and the maidservant. It still galled him to have lost the race for such a reason.

  Afterward, one of those silences fell—the contemplative sort, broken only by the murmur of other diners and the clink of glassware and cutlery.

  Tarrant swirled the brandy around his glass. “So, Thornton, this is your life now, betting on races and card games and boxing matches.”

  Gerald ruefully acknowledged it. His life was so superficial by comparison. He knew it—had felt it even before he’d run into Tarrant. And now, with the tales of his frivolous exploits still hanging in the air, he found himself viewing his life from the point of view of a man well used to doing important work, a man with a purpose in life.

  As he had once been . . .

  But what else was a man to do when his every attempt to be useful was blocked by a jealous father? “Actually, since you’re in town, my mother is holding a small party, supposedly to celebrate my twenty-seventh birthday. It’s mainly family and a few close friends. I’d be very pleased if you’d come.”

  Tarrant eyed him doubtfully. “An intimate family party? I wouldn’t like to intrude.”

  Gerald grimaced. “A ‘family’ party with a lot of unrelated but eligible young females present—I did mention my mother is trying to shove me into parson’s mousetrap, didn’t I?” He added in a confiding rush, “I’d be very grateful for a bit of masculine support.”

  Gerald knew very few of his current friends would attend—either they were also bent on avoiding parson’s mousetrap, or they were the kind of friends his father called “fribbles and wastrels” and wouldn’t be invited. But Mama would hardly refuse to invite his former commanding officer, a military hero who was now a lord.

  Tarrant sipped his brandy. He was going to refuse, Gerald knew it. And why wouldn’t he? An insipid family party with a room full of marriage-minded chits was hardly likely to appeal to a man of Tarrant’s sophistication, especially having come straight from the drawing rooms and diplomatic circles of Europe.

  “Please? It would mean a great deal to me.”

  “Very well, if you don’t think I’ll be intruding, I’d be delighted.”

  “Excellent!” Gerald sat back, pleased. He knew Tarrant was only being polite, but he didn’t care. “I’ll get Mama to send you an invitation.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Alice met Lucy coming down the stairs just as the final reverberations of Tweed’s dinner gong were dying away. “Oh, Lucy, how did your aftern—” She broke off in surprise. Lucy looked quite different. Her hair was no longer a mass of careful, elaborately lacquered curls but was pulled up into a loose, simple knot that suited her much better. And she’d changed her dress, the same overbright pink of the day before, but looking more elegant, less fussy.

  “I like your hair like that.” She stepped closer, eying Lucy’s dress. “Is that the same dress you were wearing the other day, because if it is—”

  Lucy bristled. “I unpicked all the frills. And I don’t care if you think I ruined it. I hate frills and—”

  “You haven’t ruined it at all,” Alice interrupted her firmly. “In fact, it looks much better on you now than it did.” She wasn’t being tactful, either. Without the frills, Lucy looked less . . . less bunchy and more graceful. Good dressmaking would make quite a difference.

  “Oh.” Lucy paused, still prepared for combat. “I hate the color, too.”

  Alice nodded. “It is rather a garish shade. Something in a softer pink would suit you better. We shall see. I’ve arranged a private consultation with my dressmaker for tomorrow morning. Shall we go in?” She gestured toward the dining room. She was looking forward to a glass of wine with her dinner.

  The calls she’d made after Almeria had gone from bad to worse. Everyone seemed to assume she was resuming her place in society in order to find a husband—apparently Almeria had spread the word. Everyone had suggestions—elderly widowers for the most part. And when she said she was not planning to marry again, it was greeted with polite laughter, as if she couldn’t possibly be serious. So then she’d mentioned Lucy.

  Your goddaughter? The questions flowed thick and fast. Who was this goddaughter? From where had she sprung? Who were her people? Where was her mother? Who was her mother? Why had Alice never mentioned this goddaughter before?

  “I was hard-pressed to come up with acceptable answers,” she told Lucy over the first course. “Until people asked, I hadn’t realized quite how little I know about you and your background.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Lucy spooned up her soup. “Make something up.”

  “It does matter,” Alice said, exasperated.

  “Only to you,” Lucy said. “I don’t care what you say. Just tell me, and I’ll say it, too.” She buttered another slice of bread.

  The depth of the girl’s indifference was frustrating. Did she think that lords—even husbands, for that matter—were so easily come by? That she needn’t even bother to try?

  Tweed entered with the next course, a raised chicken pie with vegetables.

  Alice said, “Mary tells me you got caught in the rain this afternoon.”

  Lucy gave her a wary look. “I tried to shelter in that pretty little building, but it was locked.”

  “The summerhouse? Sorry, I didn’t think to tell you. It’s always kept locked, ever since the residents of one of the other houses on the garden square had houseguests, a group of unruly young men who got frightfully drunk one night and left the place in an absolute shambles. Because of that, the key is only made available to residents who have proved themselves to be completely trustworthy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you notice the small stone Japanese lantern on the flags by the summerhouse doorway?”

  Lucy thought for a moment. “Do you mean the thing that looks a bit like a stone birdhouse, except it’s sitting on the ground?”

  Alice nodded. “Inside it you’ll find the key. Just remember to lock up when you’re finished and return the key to the same place.”

  Lucy eyed her doubtfully, as if she didn’t quite believe that Alice would trust her with the key, but all she said was, “I’ve never seen anything like—what did you call it? A summerhouse?”

  “Summerhouse, folly, temple—people call it different things.”

  “I’d call it a fairy palace,” Lucy said softly, then seeing Alice’s expression, added dismissively, “or I would if I were a child.”

  “I’m sorry you got drenched,” Alice said.

  Lucy touched her hair. “I had to wash my hair.”

  Alice didn’t think that was the only reason. It was becoming clear that Lucy preferred a simple, unfussy style in all things, but Alice didn’t want to make the girl any more self-conscious than she already was, so she simply nodded and said, “Mary told me your other dress is ruined.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? Didn’t you like it?”

  “I hated it. It was badly cut and ridiculously fussy, and the color made me look like a—like a sick canary.”

  Lucy smiled. “I think you might enjoy meeting my dressmaker. She’s also a woman of robust opinions, particularly when it
comes to matters of fashion.”

  Chapter Four

  The cab turned into Piccadilly and pulled up in front of an elegant shop with a large picture window. With green velvet curtains draped behind the window and a single long white-satin glove and a length of silk draped over an elegant black wrought iron stand, it looked quite classy, Lucy thought. The name Chance was lettered in elegant gold script with a simple white-and-gold daisy painted on the glass.

  Chance meant luck in French. Lucy hoped Lady Charlton was right about the dressmaker listening to her opinions. It would be the first time ever, she thought sourly. But then Papa—and his latest mistress—weren’t in charge here.

  Inside, the shop was modern and elegant. Lucy looked around approvingly. A short, fashionably dressed woman came limping toward them, a wide smile on her face. Some kind of assistant, Lucy assumed.

  “Lady Charlton, delighted to see you again. It’s been a while.”

  “It has, Miss Chance,” Lady Charlton said warmly.

  Lucy stiffened. Miss Chance? This was a mistake, surely?

  Lady Charlton continued, “But today your client is my goddaughter, Miss Lucy Bamber, who will be making her come-out this season.”

  The little woman’s brows rose. “This season, eh?” She gave Lucy a long, thoughtful look, then gave a decisive nod. “Bit of a rush, but we’ll manage. If you’ll step through here, ladies, we’ll ’ave this consultation inside.” She turned her head. “Polly, love, bring tea and biscuits through for Lady Charlton and Miss Bamber, will you? This will take a while.”

  A discreetly dressed young woman nodded and disappeared through the green velvet curtains.

  The short woman gestured. “Through here, if you please, my lady, Miss Bamber.”

  Lucy didn’t budge. She grasped Lady Charlton by the sleeve. “A word in private, if you please.” She jerked her head, indicating outside.

  Lady Charlton gave her a quizzical look. “Very well. A moment please, Miss Chance. My goddaughter and I need a word.”