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, and 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.
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 banknotes 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.
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