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 pleasantly 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 makesense. Alice said curiously, “What would you do if I did give you the money?”
