The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  Lucy led her out onto the footpath. She didn’t want that woman to overhear the conversation.

  “Well, Lucy, what is it?”

  “That woman isn’t French at all. She’s a . . . a Cockney!”

  Lady Charlton raised her brows. “Yes, and . . . ?”

  “My father promised me a proper French dressmaker. Not some Cockney.” And he’d paid Lady Charlton well for it, so if she was trying to cheat by having Lucy dressed by some second-rate cheap Cockney dressmaker, Lucy wasn’t going to stand for it. She’d had enough of being badly dressed. For the first time ever, she was going to have what she wanted, not what Papa and his latest woman chose for her.

  Lady Charlton said coolly. “Really? I see. And which French dressmaker would you prefer?”

  “I don’t know, but Papa said—”

  “It will, of course, alter our arrangements quite considerably if we have to travel.”

  Lucy blinked. “Travel?”

  “To Paris.”

  “I don’t understand. Papa said you would take me to the best French dressmaker in London.”

  “Ah, I see.” Lady Charlton’s expression softened slightly. “The trouble is, there are no genuine French dressmakers in London at the moment. Oh, there are some very good dressmakers who call themselves French, who display in their shops French magazines containing the latest fashions from Paris. They call themselves French names and speak English with a French-sounding accent, but try speaking to them in French . . .” She shook her head. “Miss Chance is one of the rare few who refuses to pretend she is anything other than she is.”

  “Oh.”

  “And what she is, is an excellent and original dressmaker, patronized by some of the most elegant ladies in the ton. Now, I don’t wish to foist my choices on you, Lucy, but why don’t you come in and see what you think of Miss Chance’s ideas and creations? If you’re not happy, we’ll go elsewhere and try out some other dressmakers.”

  Lucy gave a reluctant nod. “Very well.”

  Miss Chance smiled at them as they reentered the shop. “All sorted? Right, through here, if you please, ladies.”

  The next two hours passed in a flash. First, over tea and thin, crisp almond biscuits, Miss Chance pulled out sketches and drawings and designs cut from magazines and questioned Lucy about her thoughts.

  Miss Chance really seemed to listen and was so interested in Lucy’s opinions and preferences that Lucy’s stiffness soon passed. From time to time, Miss Chance called to her assistant, Polly, to fetch this dress or that for Lucy to look at—and under Polly’s supervision, a variety of young women displayed various unfinished dresses for Miss Chance to make a point about or for Lucy to examine.

  Next she took Lucy into a room that Lady Charlton laughingly called Aladdin’s Cave. It was filled to the brim with swathes and rolls of fabric.

  Miss Chance then stood Lucy in front of a large mirror and began to drape fabrics over her, muttering comments that Polly noted down. “See, that color doesn’t do anything for you, but this”—she whipped off one shade and replaced it with another—“see how this one brings out your pretty eyes and makes your skin glow? Lovely complexion. Plenty would kill for skin like this, so we’ll be making sure the gentlemen notice, eh, Miss Bamber?” She chuckled as Lucy fought a blush. She wasn’t used to compliments.

  Then the discussion moved beyond color, to examining weight and drape and all kinds of other qualities Lucy had never considered. By the time they came to the discussion and selection of several designs, Lucy’s reluctance to let Miss Chance dress her had completely dissolved. This whole process was fascinating. She was learning so much.

  The only awkward part was when the assistant, Polly, led Lucy into a private cubicle to disrobe and have her measurements taken. Lucy hadn’t expected that at all.

  She’d tried to make excuses, to suggest that it could be done later, but Miss Chance and Lady Charlton looked at her in such surprise that the excuses died on her tongue.

  She stood stiffly as Polly helped her out of her clothes. She’d felt quite pretty while Miss Chance had been trying out fabric colors and textures and talking about the styles that would suit her best, but now, as layer by layer her horrid old, shabby, worn-out, too-tight, heavily patched underclothes were revealed, Lucy felt herself shriveling with shame.

  But Polly didn’t bat an eyelid. She simply took various measurements and noted them down in a special book. When she was finished, she gave Lucy a bright smile, quite as if she hadn’t noticed a thing out of place, saying, “There now, miss, that’s all done.”

  Lucy had reached for her old clothes, but from outside the cubicle, Miss Chance thrust several almost-finished dresses through the curtains, saying, “Pop her in these, Polly, see how they go.”

  The first one fit perfectly. “Come on now, Miss Bamber, let’s see you,” Miss Chance commanded, and shyly, Lucy stepped out of the cubicle.

  Miss Chance examined her with a critical expression, then stepped forward and tucked in the visible portion of Lucy’s chemise. Lucy felt herself blushing again, though not with pleasure this time. She’d told and told Papa she needed new underclothes, but . . .

  “Turn around.” The little dressmaker twirled her finger, and Lucy obediently turned.

  “Needs taking in at the back there, Pol.” She produced some pins, and pinned and tucked, then stepped back. “What do you think, Miss Bamber? Lady Charlton?”

  Lucy eyed her reflection in the big looking glass, and swallowed. She looked . . . she looked elegant. The dress was now a perfect fit thanks to Miss Chance’s pins. It was light and soft, in the palest sage green muslin, embroidered here and there with tiny white sprigs. There were no frills, though there were three narrow bands around the base of the skirt that no doubt stopped the hem from flying up. She swished back and forth experimentally. “It’s lovely.”

  “Isn’t it on order for someone else?” Lady Charlton asked.

  Miss Chance shook her head. “It was, but we’d barely started on it when the girl’s mother changed her mind. This was already cut out and tacked together, so we part finished it in case we found another buyer. If you like it, Miss Bamber, we’ll do the alterations and have it ready for you by this afternoon.”

  Lucy did like it. It was the nicest dress she’d ever worn.

  Finally, they drove back to Bellaire Gardens. Lucy’s head was in a spin. Miss Chance had promised to deliver two more day dresses, two evening dresses and a beautiful, smart pelisse by the end of the week. And that was only the start.

  She’d lost track of what they’d ordered. All she knew was that she’d never seen so many beautiful dresses in her life.

  Lady Charlton had overseen the whole process: all Lucy had to do was to approve the design and the fabric. The only thing that disturbed Lucy was when, at the end, Lady Charlton had handed over what looked like a substantial amount of cash. She asked her about it in the cab.

  “You paid her up front?”

  “Yes, a part payment.”

  “Papa says you never pay tradesmen up front. They should send you a bill, and you pay at your leisure.”

  Lady Charlton nodded. “In general that’s true. Miss Chance is an oddity in that she usually demands payment up front before the goods leave the premises. Some people refuse to patronize her for that reason, but she’s so good, she has her pick of clients, so it doesn’t bother her.”

  Lucy mulled that over. It made sense to her. Papa hardly ever paid his bills. It was one reason why they moved so often.

  * * *

  * * *

  I am expecting several morning calls this afternoon,” Alice told Lucy at breakfast several days later. “I would like you to make yourself available.” She’d thought that the visit to the dressmaker had been a turning point in her relationship with Lucy. The dresses had delighted the girl, and she’d actually been quite pleasan
tly behaved.

  But the moment Alice mentioned parties and balls and the possibility of vouchers for Almack’s, the sulky, ill-behaved creature returned. Alice was getting very tired of it.

  Lucy didn’t look up from buttering her toast. “Why are they called morning calls when they’re in the afternoon?”

  “I don’t know. They just are. Wear one of your new dresses—the sage green muslin, I think.”

  Lucy spread her toast with plum jam. “Who’s visiting then?”

  Alice hung on to her patience. “I don’t know. That is the nature of morning calls. People drop in at the accepted hour, stay chatting for twenty minutes or so—it’s not polite to stay much longer—and then leave. It is an excellent chance for you to begin getting to know people.” It had been the reason she’d done the rounds of morning calls over the past few days, calling and leaving cards and letting people know that she was resuming her social life, so people would begin calling on her—and Lucy—in return.

  Lucy, chomping on toast, said, “What if I don’t want to meet them?”

  “Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Alice said evenly. She was sure the girl was doing it to annoy her. “And I don’t care if you want to meet them or not. Your father has asked me to introduce you to the ton, and introduce you I will.”

  Lucy pulled a face. “Even if I don’t want to?”

  “Even if you don’t want to.”

  Lucy gave her a flat look from under her lashes and bit into her toast.

  * * *

  * * *

  By four o’clock that afternoon, Alice heartily regretted making Lucy meet her guests. Of the many fashionable society ladies who had called, one was a mother with several marriageable sons and one was a grandmother whose titled son had passed his thirtieth birthday and was showing no sign of wanting to marry and settle down. They’d come especially to meet Lucy.

  The girl had behaved abominably—slouching in her seat, responding to polite questions with a monosyllable or a grunt, making no attempt to initiate conversation, yawning in an openly bored manner and loudly slurping her tea. She even scratched under her arm several times, as if she had fleas or something. Which she most certainly did not.

  Alice would have been mortified if she weren’t so furious. Lucy’s behavior was both deliberate and provocative.

  The minute the last guest had left, Alice rang for Tweed. “Tell any further callers that I am not at home, thank you, Tweed.”

  “Thank God for that,” Lucy said and made to leave.

  “Not so fast, young lady.” Alice shut the door. “Sit down. I want a word with you.”

  Lucy gave her an insolent look. “About what?”

  “About your appalling behavior.”

  Lucy leaned back in her chair, her expression speculative. “You know the solution to that, don’t you?”

  Alice frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “My father is paying plenty for you to bring me out. It’s perfectly clear that you don’t want me here, and I certainly don’t want to be here, so give me half the money Papa paid you, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  It was the last thing Alice expected. “You don’t want to do this?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not aiming to marry a lord?”

  Lucy’s answer was a contemptuous snort.

  “Then why . . ?”

  “Why did Papa arrange this? Because he wants to make himself sound important—to be able to speak of ‘my daughter, Lady Fancypants’ or, better still, ‘my daughter, the Duchess of Stiff Rump.’ Because he doesn’t listen to me, because he doesn’t care what I want, because it isn’t about me; it’s all about him!”

  The contradictions in Lucy’s behavior began to make sense. Alice said curiously, “What would you do if I did give you the money?”

  “Make a life for myself.”

  “What kind of a life? Where would you go? What would you do?” The girl had no family that Alice knew of. Only her father. And the world was a harsh place for a young girl alone.

  Lucy made a frustrated gesture. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t be this, pretending to be someone I’m not, cold-bloodedly hunting a lord, all to live a life where I’ll never belong, never be happy. I don’t belong in high society, and I know it, if Papa doesn’t. He’s not the one who’ll suffer. He won’t be rejected and scorned and humiliated and looked down on.”

  “What makes you think it will be like that?”

  “It was at school—every one. Papa always chose really exclusive schools, the kind that only take girls from aristocratic families. He lied. He told them I was the granddaughter of a baron.” She rolled her eyes. “The girls invariably knew, of course. First it was my accent—”

  “But your accent is quite good.”

  “It is now,” Lucy said. “After five fancy schools it should be.”

  “Oh.”

  “And it’ll be the same here. People will soon find out I’m not ‘one of them,’ and it will be just like school. So I’d rather not go through any of it, if it’s all the same to you.” She leaned forward, her expression pleading now. “So will you do it, my lady—give me the money, I mean?”

  After a short silence, Alice sighed. “I’m sorry, Lucy, I can’t do that. Your father and I made an agreement and I—”

  Lucy flung up her hands. “Oh! You’re just like Papa! You don’t care about what I want at all! It’s all about money with you people, isn’t it? A person’s happiness doesn’t matter to you at all!” She stormed out of the room, furious and, if Alice was any judge, on the verge of tears.

  Alice sank onto the nearest chair, shocked by the outburst and what it had revealed. The reasons for Lucy’s atrocious behavior were clear to her now—and in retrospect, she should have realized. But she’d assumed that Lucy was merely spoiled and indulged and used to having her every whim met.

  Some frank talking was required. And an apology.

  Because understanding Lucy’s reluctance to enter the ton didn’t make Alice’s situation any better. If anything, it made it worse. Somehow, she had to get those letters back. But how?

  Maybe she could talk Bamber into changing his mind about a lord. But in that case, would he still give her the letters? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t do nothing.

  The first step was to find out where Bamber was living. And where he kept the letters.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lucy,” Alice said at breakfast next morning, “Do you know where your father lives?”

  Lucy looked up sharply. “Why? Are you going to tell him—”

  “It’s just in case I need to contact him. He never left me his address.”

  Lucy sniffed. “That’s because he hasn’t got one.”

  “What do you mean?” He must have one. Everyone had an address.

  “I told you I never had a home, didn’t I? Not since Mama died. That’s because Papa doesn’t stay anywhere very long.”

  Alice was troubled, and not just by what Lucy was telling her. There was a brittleness beneath the girl’s seemingly careless outlining of her situation. “But how do you contact him?”

  Lucy shrugged. “I don’t.”

  “But what if you were ill or in desperate need of him?”

  Again she shrugged. “I survive or I don’t. But he finds out eventually. He seems to have eyes and ears all over the place.”

  “What about letters? Doesn’t he have an address to which people can send correspondence?”

  “He had to leave an address with the headmistress when I was at school,” Lucy admitted.

  “Well then—”

  “But it was a different address every time.”

  There was a short silence. “So there is no way of contacting him.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not lying to me, are you?�
�

  Lucy snorted. “Would it make any difference if I was? But no, I really don’t know where he is, or how to contact him. I never have.”

  Alice’s tea was cold. She drank it anyway. So much for her plan to steal the letters back.

  Lucy continued eating her breakfast, feigning indifference, but Alice was filled with unexpected compassion. What must it be like to be so alone? Her only relative a father who arranged her future without consultation, a father whose whereabouts was unknown—even to his daughter.

  Alice glanced at the door. No sign of the servants. “Lucy,” she said quietly, “I would give you all your father’s money”—Lucy looked up, hope shining in her eyes—“if I could, but I can’t. Our agreement wasn’t about money.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, he gave me money, but that was just to cover your expenses. He did promise me a bonus once you were married, but the reason I agreed to bring you out in society was . . . was nothing to do with money.”

  “But if you don’t care about the money, you could give me whatever is left.”

  Alice shook her head. “No. I’m afraid the consequences for me would be . . . unbearable.” There was a short silence, then she added, “Your father has some . . . documents that will ruin me if he releases them.”

  “Blackmail?” Lucy’s mouth twisted. She gave a harsh laugh. “That’s more like it. He wants me off his hands, so—”

  “He wants you settled and happy.” Alice was learning not to be shocked at Lucy’s acceptance of her father’s less-than-sterling qualities.

  Lucy snorted. “No, he just wants me off his hands. I know my father. But at least I understand now. You’re as unhappy with this situation as I am, but we’re stuck with it.”

  Alice nodded. She refilled her cup, the tea now not only cold but bitter. It suited the moment.

  “We have to find some way to go forward, Lucy—something that will not upset you or endanger me.”

  Lucy gave her a sharp look. “He hasn’t threatened you, has he? Because he’s never—”