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. 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.