The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  The moment Lord Tarrant left, Alice heaved a sigh of relief. His presence made her feel so strange: prickly and hot, and oddly tense. And yet, apart from overstaying his visit, his behavior had been perfectly proper.

  It was kind of him to invite them to the theater.

  Still . . . how was it that he could dominate a room simply by sitting quietly on a sofa? Was it those polished-pewter eyes? No matter who was talking, no matter whom she was looking at, she’d been aware of him the whole time. Each time he’d crossed his legs, she’d noticed.

  His buckskin breeches weren’t that tight, and yet she was very aware of the hard muscularity of his legs. She’d never really looked at a man’s legs before. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her staring but she feared he had. For almost the entire length of his visit, she’d felt the warm touch of his gaze resting on her.

  Friends, she reminded herself. He just wanted friendship from her, because she was a woman and he had three small daughters. And because he didn’t know many people in London. It sounded quite appealing—as long as she could get past these unsettling feelings.

  It wouldn’t be for long, she was sure. He’d be looking for a wife soon, once he was settled and knew more people. With a title and three daughters, he’d want someone young who could bear him a son. Not a barren woman past her prime. Not that Alice wanted to marry again.

  She’d never had a male friend before. She didn’t have many friends at all. Between them, Thaddeus and Almeria had managed to alienate any friends Alice had made.

  A male friend might be interesting. She felt a small frisson of excitement.

  “Thank you for accepting Lord Tarrant’s invitation.” Lucy broke into Alice’s chain of thought. “I can’t wait to see inside a real theater. Frau Steiner talked about theaters all the time. She was an opera singer—retired, of course. But, oh, she had so many interesting stories. Lord Tarrant definitely likes you.”

  Alice blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Oh no, I think he’s just being polite. He’s been out of society so long, he doubtless doesn’t know many people.”

  “It sounds as though his daughters have had a very strange upbringing.”

  Alice began to place the tea things onto a tray. “Yes, I wondered about the tents and peasant cottages, too.”

  Lucy moved to help her. “Well, I like him. In fact, I think he’s charming. I can’t understand why you were uncivil to him the other night.”

  “I wasn’t uncivil, just . . .”

  “Worried about how I was behaving?” Lucy suggested.

  “Perhaps a little,” Alice admitted. “But now that I know why you did what you did, I think everything went quite well. You already have several admirers.” She gestured toward the bouquets that had arrived the morning after the party. They were still fresh.

  Lucy wrinkled her nose, apparently unimpressed by the senders of the bouquets. Admittedly they were rather old. “The main problem was your nephew almost recognizing me.”

  “Yes, well, I doubt we’ll see much of Gerald. Young bachelors don’t generally frequent the kind of events we’ll be attending, and you gave him no encouragement.” Alice picked up the tea tray. “And if we do run into him, we’ll just have to hope he doesn’t remember.”

  “My lady!” Tweed said disapprovingly from the doorway. “That’s my job.”

  Alice let him take the tray from her. She didn’t have nearly enough servants, and collecting a few teacups and plates to take to the scullery was hardly a job that was beneath her, but it clearly offended Tweed’s notions of what was proper.

  Chapter Seven

  Gerald lounged against the wall of the box, idly observing the comings and goings of the people in the stalls below. He wasn’t terribly fond of the theater, but Tarrant had invited him, and Gerald had nothing else planned.

  Voices outside the box alerted him to the imminent arrival of the rest of Tarrant’s party. The door opened, Gerald straightened, and as the first person stepped into the box, she came to a dead halt. It was that girl. Her excited expression faded, and for a moment she looked dismayed.

  Seconds later his aunt bumped into her. “Lucy, whatever are you doing—oh, Gerald. We didn’t expect—how lovely to see you.” She gently pushed the girl aside and came forward to greet him.

  “Evening, Aunt Alice. I didn’t realize you were to be one of Tarrant’s party, either.” He nodded at the girl. “Good evening, Miss Bamber.” Swathed in a green velvet cloak trimmed with snowy swansdown and wearing a green-and-cream-striped turban, she looked like one of Persephone’s handmaidens.

  She inclined her head graciously, all signs of dismay gone. “Lord Thorndike.”

  “Thornton,” he grated. The wench was doing it deliberately.

  She touched a white-gloved hand to the side of her face in an unconvincing gesture of regret. “Of course. So shatterbrained of me.” Her sherry-colored eyes danced.

  Gerald eyed her balefully. She wasn’t the slightest bit shatterbrained. Or the least bit sorry. And he was sure he’d seen her somewhere before. That cheeky expression, those eyes, that attitude . . . That mouth . . . But where?

  The orchestra began, and the audience settled—as much as it ever did. “Are we waiting for any more people to arrive?” Aunt Alice asked Tarrant.

  “No, as I said, it’s a very small party.” He seated Aunt Alice and took the seat beside her. Gerald seated Miss Bamber and placed himself a little behind her. For some reason he felt he needed to keep an eye on her.

  Tarrant hadn’t invited a party at all, Gerald realized. He was only interested in one person: Aunt Alice. He’d invited her goddaughter for the sake of propriety, and Gerald so he’d keep the girl occupied.

  Tarrant was pursuing his aunt. But for what purpose? Men did chase after widows. But not Aunt Alice, surely. She’d always been the soul of virtue.

  Tarrant. Gerald had always thought him a man of honor. The chivalrous type. A man of integrity. He’d make her a good husband.

  But he’d told Gerald quite clearly that first night at the club that he had no intention of marrying again.

  Aunt Alice was busy scanning the crowded theater through her opera glasses. Tarrant leaned back lazily in his seat, watching her with an indulgent expression.

  What were his intentions? Gerald felt very protective of his aunt. She’d always been kind to him, and his family had treated her so unkindly. She was all alone. Someone had to look after her.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. He turned his head to find Lucy Bamber regarding him with narrowed eyes. She immediately switched her attention to the stage, pretending she hadn’t noticed him.

  Something nagged at the back of his mind. Who the devil was she?

  The play began, and she leaned forward, as if entranced. At first Gerald thought she was putting it on, but soon he realized she really was entirely caught up in the foolishness onstage—of course she would sympathize with the rebellious daughter. And then the comedy . . .

  Her laughter was . . . distracting.

  Most young ladies he knew tittered or giggled, or else cultivated a world-weary air of ennui, thinking it frightfully sophisticated to appear bored with everything.

  Lucy Bamber’s laughter was wholehearted, spontaneous and annoyingly infectious. Gerald found himself smiling at stage antics he’d seen a dozen times and hadn’t thought funny the first time. But she found them hilarious. And he couldn’t help but smile in response.

  Which was irritating. He didn’t want to smile along with her.

  When the first act ended, she clapped ecstatically and turned to Aunt Alice with an expression that took his breath away. “Oh, Alice, isn’t it wonderful?” Then she saw him watching her, and the bright animation dimmed. She raised a brow as if to say, “Well? What are you looking at?”

  Gerald stomped away to fetch refreshments.
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  He returned with champagne to find the box full of several visiting ladies and far too many visiting gentlemen. Tarrant, he noticed, hadn’t moved an inch from where he’d been sitting beside Aunt Alice. Gerald’s lips tightened. Tarrant had always been clever tactically.

  Lucy Bamber was surrounded by young gentlemen—including two of his friends. She was sipping champagne and smiling. His friends were behaving like besotted fools, flirting and flattering. And she was lapping it up, dammit.

  A small table had been brought in and spread with drinks, glasses and a range of appetizing refreshments. Of course Tarrant would have arranged provisions beforehand. He’d always been efficient.

  The realization did nothing for Gerald’s mood. He drained his glass of champagne, poured another, leaned against the wall and watched his friends competing to make Lucy Bamber laugh. He wished he’d never come. He hated the theater.

  * * *

  * * *

  They were well into the third act, and Gerald had lost all interest in the play. He sprawled moodily in his seat, legs crossed at the ankles, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching Lucy Bamber through half-closed eyes. The candlelight limned her profile. It wasn’t a classic profile by any means; she wasn’t a beauty. But something about her drew him, though he was damned if he knew what.

  It was warm in the theater—all those candles and the heat of a thousand bodies—and she’d removed her long white gloves. Her cloak hung loosely over the back of her chair, as if she’d shrugged it off unthinkingly, letting it lie where it fell in folds around her. Her attention was wholly on the stage; they were at the part where everyone was pretending to be somebody else—stupid story—as if that would fool anyone. She stroked the swansdown edging of her cloak rhythmically, as if she were patting a cat, stroking the soft feathers between her fingers. Stroke . . . stroke . . . stroke.

  He sat up frowning, a thought picking elusively at the edge of his brain. An image of another slender hand stroking something soft and white . . . Feathers . . . A long white neck . . .

  And then it burst upon him. “The goose girl!” he exclaimed. “You’re that goose girl!”

  Lucy Bamber didn’t respond. Her hands stilled. She gazed at the stage, frozen, lifeless as a statue.

  “That’s where I saw you before. The goose girl!”

  “Shhh!” Several people hissed at him.

  “But I tell you—”

  “Ssshhhhh!” Louder now. Heads were turning. Aunt Alice turned around, caught his eye and made a hushing gesture. Gerald hushed, but the knowledge wanted to burst from him.

  He waited impatiently until the end of the act. The moment it did, he turned on Lucy Bamber. “I knew I’d seen you before. You’re that goose girl!”

  She raised a slender, incredulous brow. “I’m the what?”

  “That goose girl!”

  She gave him a puzzled look, fingered the fluffy trimming on her cloak and said, “It’s swansdown, not goose feather.”

  “I’m not talking about the blasted cloak. You’re that goose girl. I know you are, so don’t try to wriggle out of it.”

  “Gerald dear—” his aunt began.

  “I’m not mistaken, Aunt Alice. When I met this—this female, she was a goose girl.”

  Lucy Bamber shook her head in a show of bewilderment that made him want to throttle her. “I dressed up as a shepherdess for a costume party once, so perhaps—”

  “Don’t prevaricate!”

  “But I really did dress up as—”

  “We met on the Brighton road, not two weeks ago. You were carrying a goose. I knew I’d seen you before, and it only just came to me.”

  “I? Carrying a goose?” She sounded utterly incredulous. She glanced at his aunt and Tarrant, as if inviting them to join in her incredulity. “What were you doing on the Brighton road, Lord Thornthwaite, when this goose and I supposedly met you?” Her voice and expression were serious, but her eyes glinted with knowing mischief.

  “I was—” he broke off and felt himself redden slightly. He hadn’t told anyone how a goose and an impertinent chit of a farm girl caused him to lose his race. If it got out, his friends would never let him hear the end of it. “It doesn’t matter. What I want to know is why a common goose girl is attending the theater with my aunt.”

  “Is she?” The wretched girl looked around eagerly. “Where? Point her out to me.”

  Aunt Alice had a sudden coughing fit and buried her face in her handkerchief.

  “I’m talking about you,” Gerald snapped. “As you very well know. You had a goose called . . . Ger—Ghislaine. That was it. Ghislaine.”

  “A goose? Called Ghislaine?” She gave him a worried look. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head or something when you were on the Brighton road?”

  “No, I—”

  “Gerald dear, that’s enough. You’re making a scene,” Aunt Alice said, apparently recovered from her coughing fit.

  In a low, furious voice he said, “I’m not making a scene, Aunt Alice, but that girl—”

  “Is my goddaughter. In any case, this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Now please go outside, have a glass of something and breathe in some fresh air.”

  It was the last straw. She was treating him like a schoolboy. With a last glare at the wretched goose girl, who looked both smug and mischievous at the same time, Gerald flung himself out of the theater box. And ordered a brandy. A large one.

  * * *

  * * *

  So what if he recognized me? I don’t care.” Lucy said as she plumped down into an overstuffed chair. Lord Tarrant had just dropped them home from the theater. Alice hadn’t invited the gentlemen in. Gerald had come with them in the carriage. He’d been silent, brooding and glowering for the rest of the evening, and she simply couldn’t deal with him at the moment.

  “In fact,” Lucy continued, “I quite enjoyed it. Did you see his face?” She chuckled.

  Alice stared at her. Quite enjoyed it? She didn’t understand Lucy’s complete about-face. At the party she had fled from Gerald’s presence in case he recognized her. Now that he had, Lucy was claiming she didn’t care. Alice was, frankly, rattled. “But what will happen when he tells everyone? We’ll be ruined.”

  “No, we won’t,” Lucy said confidently. “He won’t tell anyone.”

  “But—”

  “Didn’t you see how he stopped himself? He doesn’t want to admit he lost that race because of a goose.”

  Alice pursed her lips thoughtfully. Lucy was right. He had stopped himself. “But knowing that it was you he met is only the start of it. He’ll be busy unraveling the rest. I know Gerald—once he gets an idea in his head, he won’t give up.”

  “Pooh! What’s there to discover? So what if he met me on the road? So what if I was carrying a goose? I can have done all those things and still be your goddaughter—and I am your goddaughter. That was smart of Papa, even if he is a scheming rotter. And I’m here by your invitation”—she caught Alice’s look—“as far as he knows, at any rate. He doesn’t need to know that Papa forced you. Or how.”

  “I suppose so,” Alice said uncertainly. Knowing Gerald, she figured he’d be around here first thing in the morning demanding to know the truth, and what was she going to tell him?

  “It doesn’t matter what your nephew knows or thinks he knows, Alice—he can’t tell you what to do. He’s just a nephew.”

  She was right, Alice knew, but Alice didn’t have Lucy’s brash confidence. And she hated telling lies. “You really don’t care, do you?”

  Lucy shook her head. “No. He can’t hurt me. It’s pride. He’s angry that he lost that stupid race, and so he wants to bring me down. But I won’t let him.”

  Alice frowned. “What makes you think he wants to bring you down?”

  “The way he looks at me, as if I’m the lowest of the low. L
ords are like that. But I don’t care.” Lucy rose. “I’m for bed now, Alice. Thank you for a lovely evening. Goodnight—and stop fretting. It’ll all turn out all right.” And with that she went up to bed, apparently without a worry in the world.

  The worries stayed downstairs with Alice, who sat staring into the fire, mulling over the situation and trying to decide what to do.

  Part of the trouble was that she had no real idea who Lucy was. Oh, she’d had some education and training in ladylike behavior—when she chose to use it—but for all Alice knew, she could be illegitimate or the daughter of a prostitute or a convict or anyone. All she knew for certain was that Lucy was the daughter of a scoundrel.

  If the ton learned she had been trying to pass off a girl like that as a true-born lady . . .

  For Alice, the consequence would be social disgrace—even without Bamber’s releasing those letters. The consequences for Lucy? Social disgrace in a society that she didn’t much care about. But she’d be on her own again.

  The more Alice came to know her, the more she liked Lucy. There was a kind of reckless courage about her—she supposed it came of having to manage for herself for most her life. Lucy thought that Lord Tarrant’s daughters had had a strange life, but from Alice’s point of view, Lucy had had just as strange an upbringing. No permanent home, five schools, two foreign ladies and a father she couldn’t even contact? And who knew what else?

  Yet despite it all, Lucy was a kind girl. The minute she’d learned about her father blackmailing Alice—and even though this masquerade was the last thing Lucy wanted—she’d accepted Alice’s position and tried to make the best of it.

  The servants liked her, too, despite her initial truculence and bad behavior. Servants were usually excellent judges of character.

  If only Lucy hadn’t run into Gerald on the Brighton road.

  He was as stubborn as his father. He was also quite protective of Alice. What to do? Tell him the truth, or try to stick to the story they’d concocted? Or take him into her confidence and enlist his help in trying to trace Bamber and get the letters back?