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.