Alice stared. She’d never seen so much money in her life. But what he asked was preposterous. “I told you—”
“Of course, once she’s married, as well as the letters, you’ll get a bonus, depending—I want a proper lord, mind. A duke would be best, but there’s not many of them around, so something a bit lower down will do. But I won’t stand for nothing lower than a baronet. My grandson will have a title, or I’ll want to know the reason why.” He sat back and eyed her smugly. “That’s opened your eyes, hasn’t it, my lady?”
Alice couldn’t deny it. He talked of shopping for a lord as if it were as simple as choosing cabbages from the market. “Mr. Bamber, even if I agreed to do what you asked, society doesn’t operate like that.”
He snorted. “Of course it does. Money talks to toffs the same as it does to everyone else.”
Alice eyed the stack of notes wistfully. Ironic that after all the scrimping and saving she’d done since Thaddeus had died, here she was having to reject an offer of a huge sum of money. But money was no longer her priority. The letters were the only thing that mattered to her now, and she would do almost anything to get them.
But he didn’t know what he was asking.
How could she make him understand? The ton was exclusive, meaning its members actively worked to exclude people. Entry to the highest levels of society was not simply granted to people with money—it was all about birth and blood and breeding. Connections. Belonging. The daughter of a poor vicar with an aristocratic lineage was welcomed, whereas a rich man’s daughter of no particular background would be rigidly excluded. There were hundreds of unspoken rules designed especially to keep out people like this man and his daughter.
“I’m sorry,” she began, “but it’s just not possible.”
His cozy tone turned cold. “I think you’ll find it is possible, my lady. Even quite desirable. If you ever want to hold your head up in society again, that is.” He retied the ribbon around the remaining letters, making a neat bow, and slipped them into his breast pocket. He nodded at the letter still clutched numbly in her fist. “You can keep that one as a little reminder of what’s at stake.”
Sick at heart, knowing she was spelling out her own ruin, she forced herself to explain. “In society—the society in which I move, that is—everyone knows everyone else, or knows of them. It is usually a mother or a grandmother, an aunt or some kind of relative who sponsors a young lady for her come-out. How would I explain the sudden appearance of your daughter?”
He shrugged. “Tell ’em she’s some kind of cousin.”
She considered it for half a minute, then shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t work.” He opened his mouth to argue, and she hurried on. “My own parents were poor, but my lineage on both sides can be traced back to the Conquest. As a result, I am related to half the ton, and my husband was related to the other half. People in society know my relatives, down to the last second or third cousin and beyond. If I claimed to be related to your daughter, a dozen elderly ladies would be busy tracking down the bloodlines to sort out exactly how we are related. They’d spot her as a fraud immediately.” And both she and his daughter would be disgraced.
Though not as badly as if those letters got out.
Frowning, he rose and began to pace around the room. Alice watched him, biting her lip. She had to get those letters. She glanced at the poker hanging beside the fire, and a brief, mad thought passed through her mind. But she couldn’t do it.
He paused, staring intensely at a china shepherdess, then turned, a look of triumph on his face. “Tell ’em she’s your goddaughter then.” He plumped himself back on the sofa.
Alice stared. “But she’s not.”
“The old biddies don’t need to know that.”
She thought about it for a moment, then regretfully shook her head. “That wouldn’t work, either. I’m a terrible liar.” It was the truth, too, and he seemed to read it in her expression.
He fell silent, his eyes narrowed as he pondered the problem. Suddenly his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. “Then we make it not a lie.”
Alice blinked. “How?”
“We’ll get her christened and you can be godmother.”
“She’s never been christened?”
He shrugged. “No idea. That side of things I left to her mother, God rest her soul. But even if she was, there’s no evidence to say so.” He picked up the pile of banknotes and flipped them like a pack of cards. “Now, my fine lady, do you agree? Or do I take my money away and let society drool and snigger over your husband’s letters?”
His calm ruthlessness appalled her. Could this mad scheme possibly succeed? His words dripped like acid into her brain. Let society drool and snigger. Did she have any choice?
Hoping to buy some time to come to terms with the situation, she said, “I . . . I’d have to meet your daughter first.”
“Easily done. I brought her with me.” He rose, threw open the door and stuck his head out. “Hey, you, butler.” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
Tweed glided to the door, oozing silent outrage. Ostentatiously ignoring Bamber, he looked at Alice. “Was there something you required, m’lady?”
Again, Bamber snapped his fingers, treating her butler like a waiter in a low tavern. “My carriage is sitting outside with my daughter in it. Fetch her in here.”
Tweed gave no sign that he’d heard. He simply looked at Alice and waited. She nodded. “Yes, please ask the young lady to step in, Tweed.”
“Very good, my lady.” He stalked away.
“Insolent fellow,” Bamber commented. “I wouldn’t let him get away with that kind of behavior if I were you, my lady.”
Alice tamped down on her irritation. “Tweed has served my family all my life.”
He snorted. “And it shows. You need to treat your servants more strictly, my lady—show ’em who’s boss. If that fellow was my butler—”
“But he’s not,” Alice said firmly.
They sat in silence until Tweed ushered in a young woman, eighteen or nineteen years old. A little on the plump side, she was dressed in an expensive-looking, frilly, fussy pink dress, which in Alice’s view, did nothing for her. The girl’s light brown hair was an elaborate mass of stiff, careful curls, and a rope of unlikely pearls was looped several times around her neck. Her complexion was good, and her eyes were a pretty hazel color framed by long dark lashes. As her father had said, she wasn’t a beauty, but she was attractive—or she would be if she were better dressed.
The girl stood stiffly just inside the doorway. Her expression was wooden but somehow carried a hint of . . . was it mulishness?