“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.”
“Agoose? CalledGhislaine?” 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’mnotmaking 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. Alicehadn’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 Iamyour 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’sbrash 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. Lords 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?
