The Return of the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  The image floated through Fancy’s mind.

  “That’s amazing,” she said wonderingly. “My brothers learned similar tricks to earn money at the fairs. Godfrey can walk with a dozen plates on ’is ’ead while juggling apples—”

  “I am not a circus performer,” Aunt Esther said coldly. “Neither do I wish for your debut at Princess Adelaide’s salon to be a vulgar exhibition. Now, come here, gel, with your shoulders back, your back straight but not too stiff, and your head balanced on your neck, not to the right, not to the left, but aligned with your spine.”

  Fancy managed to make it to the chair. “’Ow…how was that?”

  “Like a performance given by a foxed puppeteer.” Aunt Esther sighed. “Never mind. Sit so that we may review the use of utensils.”

  Fancy looked down at the battalion of gleaming silverware…and gulped.

  It was nearing three o’clock by the time Aunt Esther declared that she had had enough for the day. While the lady went up for a nap, Fancy decided to get a breath of fresh air. Guilt prickled her when she remembered that she hadn’t visited Bertrand for two days, and she decided to kill two birds with one stone and head to the stables behind the house.

  On her way out, a sound caught her attention. It came from the half-open door of the library. She hesitated, and when she heard the noise again, she went in.

  The library was a high-ceilinged room that smelled pleasantly of parchment, wood polish, and leather. Tufted seating occupied the area in front of the hearth, and shelves of books lined the walls. Fancy followed the sound, like that made by an injured puppy, to the leather divan. Toby was sitting on the floor behind it, hugging his knees to his chest, his dark head buried in his arms.

  His head jerked up at Fancy’s approach, and her heart ached at his reddened eyes, the wet tracks running down his cheeks.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He wiped his sleeve over his face and only succeeded in smearing snot over the fabric. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” Easing herself to the ground—which wasn’t the easiest thing with her voluminous skirts and tight lacing—she sat beside him. “You look like someone who’s ’aving…having a rough go o’ it.”

  Tears welled in his brown eyes.

  “Everyone hates me,” he said between hitched breaths. “I can’t do anything right.”

  He buried his head in his arms again.

  Fancy placed a light hand on his shoulder, which shook with his sobs. When he didn’t pull away, she put her arm around him and sat with him while he got it out, the way her ma had done for her and her siblings whenever they had a low moment.

  Eventually, Toby quieted, and she said, “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” His cheeks stained red, he averted his gaze.

  When he pulled away, Fancy didn’t stop him. Growing up with her brothers, she knew how embarrassed males could get when it came to tears or any sign of perceived weakness. Her brothers would rather get a bloody nose than be caught crying.

  “You needn’t stand on formality with me, dear,” she said gently. “Call me Fancy.”

  Nodding, Toby wiped his sleeve over his eyes. “Will you promise not to tell anybody that you saw me crying?”

  Fancy made a quick decision. “I will on one condition.”

  “What is it?” he sniffled.

  “I want to know why you were crying.”

  He looked at her, his bottom lip quivering. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me,” she suggested.

  “It’s just that I try to get things right, but I always get everything wrong,” he blurted. “Last night, I nearly pelted you with an oyster. This morning I wanted to see if Jonas would take me riding, but when I went to ask him, I accidentally ran into him and made him spill the whisky he was holding all over his waistcoat. He called me a cl-clumsy oaf and told me to stay clear of him in the f-future.”

  Toby looked away, clearly trying to stop himself from crying again.

  Fancy briefly wondered why Jonas was drinking whisky in the morning.

  Aloud, she said, “Accidents do ’appen…happen, I mean. To everyone.”

  “Does everyone have multiple accidents every single day?” Toby asked morosely.

  Oh dear. The boy had a point.

  “Have you always been, um, prone to accidents?” Fancy asked.

  Toby gave a forlorn nod. “When Papa visited Mama when they were both alive, Mama only let me see Papa for a few minutes. She didn’t want me to embarrass her. Eleanor got to visit as long as she wanted because she’s perfect.”

  Fancy’s heart hurt for the boy. “No one’s perfect, Toby.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he said with a quivery sigh. “You don’t know what it’s like when everything you do is wrong.”

  “I understand that more than you know,” Fancy said with feeling.

  “How could you? You’re so pretty, grown-up, and nice. Everyone likes you.”

  Touched, and a bit astonished by the boy’s perceptions, Fancy felt that she had to be honest.

  “That’s flattering, Toby, but it isn’t true,” she said earnestly. “I spent the entire morning trying to improve my manner o’ speaking so that I won’t embarrass the family name. And my lessons didn’t go well.”

  Toby blinked. “Why not?”

  “I keep dropping my h’s no matter ’ow…how hard I try not to,” she said ruefully. “I almost gave poor Mr. Stanton a fit of apoplexy. And when Aunt Esther tried to teach me table manners, I kept confusing the salad fork and the fish fork. And I spoon my soup the wrong way.”

  “There is a wrong way?” Toby’s freckled brow wrinkled.

  “Not in my family,” Fancy admitted. “But according to Aunt Esther, you’re supposed to spoon away from you.”

  Toby pursed his lips. “I never thought about it before.”

  “That’s probably because you are doing it right.” Fancy smiled at him. “See? You do plenty of things well. But I suppose it’s ’uman…human nature to remember the things we do wrong.”

  “I guess,” Toby said doubtfully. “But I’m not good at anything important.”

  Fancy was beginning to wonder if Toby’s lack of self-confidence had something to do with his accidents. Maybe if he doubted himself less, he might be more surefooted in the things that he did.

  On impulse, she said, “I don’t believe you, Toby. Everyone is good at something.”

  “Not me.”

  “Yes, you are,” she insisted. “It’s like the soup…you might not even realize you’re good at something because it comes to you so naturally that you take it for granted.”

  Toby chewed on his lip. Then hesitantly, he said, “It is not a real skill. Or an important one.”

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  “I like animals.” He hitched his shoulders, looking embarrassed. “And they seem to like me. Or, at least, they like me more than people do.”

  “Why, Toby, that is a marvelous talent to have,” Fancy said excitedly.

  Doubt warred with flickering hope in his eyes. “You think so?”

  “I know it. My da is famous for ’is…his ability to handle horses and beasts of burden. Everyone wants a horse trained by him,” Fancy said proudly. “He’s a successful tinker, you know.”

  “I wish my father had been like yours,” Toby said wistfully. “Papa didn’t care for animals.”

  “My da always said there’s no truer friend than an animal. In fact, as part of my wedding present, he gave me a donkey—”

  “A donkey?” Toby bolted upright. “Donkeys are tip-top! You are so lucky, Fancy.”

  “Well, Bertrand can be a bit grumpy, and he doesn’t listen to me the way he does to Da. Actually,” Fancy said, on a stroke of inspiration, “I was on my way to the stables. Would you like to come with me and meet him?”

  “I would like that more than anything!” Toby cried, bounding to his feet. “May I bring Bertrand
some carrots?”

  Smiling, Fancy took the small hand he gallantly offered her and rose in a swish of silk.

  “That is an excellent idea,” she said. “Since I neglected to visit Bertrand for two days, we may need a bribe to win him over.”

  25

  Two nights later, Severin found himself in his wife’s bed, and for the second night, he did not make love to her. Not because he didn’t want to. Last night, she had told him with rosy cheeks that her monthly visitor had arrived, and she couldn’t engage in their usual bedtime activities. He’d surprised them both by saying that he would like to stay anyway, if she didn’t mind the company, and her smile, as well as her words, had told him that she didn’t mind at all.

  Cuddling Fancy close, Severin savored the tranquil moment. The fire crackling in the hearth, the scent of his wife’s hair. Was this what men referred to as domestic bliss?

  “’Ow was your day?” Fancy asked in her charming way.

  Severin found himself telling her about his troubles at work.

  “’Ave…have you met with Mr. Bodin to discuss the new loom?” she asked.

  “No, chérie. There’s no point in talking with men like Bodin.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Why not?”

  “He is distrustful of anything I have to say. He’ll twist our conversation, use it to rile up the other workers like he’s done in the past. He’s a rabble-rouser,” Severin said dismissively. “I’m not giving him a voice. If he objects, then I’ll toss him out on his arse.”

  “But you said Mr. Bodin has made trouble in the past,” she pointed out. “If it were so easy to be rid of ’im…him, why didn’t you just fire him before?”

  Behind his wife’s innocent face lay an astute mind.

  “Because Bodin has too much sway with other workers,” he admitted. “He could convince them to riot or walk off the job. Either way, it would be a mess of a situation. I don’t want to fire him unless it’s a last resort.”

  “Is there a way you could appeal to him? Convince him that you are only doing what’s best for the workers? That, without the new technology, the weavers might be out of jobs altogether?”

  “He works for me,” Severin said with a scowl. “I don’t have to convince him of anything. Besides, he’s a hard-headed bugger, incapable of listening to reason.”

  “Hmm.”

  He raised his brows. “What does hmm mean?”

  “Da always said that it takes two to negotiate. Maybe Mr. Bodin doesn’t listen because he thinks you’re not willing to do the same.”

  Disgruntled, Severin said, “It is not my job to listen to him. He is my employee, not vice versa. Trust me, when I fought my way up through the ranks, none of my employers asked my opinion. And I didn’t go around offering it either. I just did my bloody job and was grateful to have one.”

  “You would know best.” She smiled at him. “I’d like to see your office someday.”

  “I’ll give you a tour.” Ready to change the topic, he asked, “How was your day?”

  This led to Fancy giving him an account of her activities. He found it oddly soothing to hear her domestic anecdotes. Perhaps it was the way she told her stories: she seemed to see the world through a lens that, while not precisely rose-colored, let in mostly the good. She saw the best in everything, even his siblings.

  “You wouldn’t believe how well Toby is doing with Bertrand,” she said. “’E…he has the donkey literally eating out of his hand. Bertrand ate so many carrots that Cook ran out and had to send for more.”

  Severin felt his lips quirk at her enthusiasm. Leave it to Fancy to find something Toby could do without hurting himself or others.

  “The boy could talk of nothing else at supper,” he commented.

  “He seems more confident, don’t you think?” she asked. “I think that’s the root of ’is…his problem. If he becomes surer of himself, then maybe he’ll have less accidents.”

  As he looked at his wife’s eager expression, warmth spread through his chest. How could he have doubted Fancy’s ability to manage his siblings? With her kind and loving nature, she could win anyone over.

  “Maybe Toby just likes having your attention,” he said softly.

  And I don’t blame the lad.

  “That’s true too.” She rolled so that she lay partly atop him, her chin propped on her folded arms. “But I think he would like your attention even more.”

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, enjoying the satiny texture and the privilege of touching her.

  “Toby doesn’t want my attention. He’s a bundle of nerves when I’m around,” Severin said. “I’m not a soft touch like you.”

  “He’s only nervous because he wants you to like him. During the visits with Bertrand, he’s told me some things about his life in France. It sounded lonely,” Fancy said, her expression troubled. “He wanted your father’s approval, I think, but the duke was never around to give it.”

  “My sire was hardly a shining example of fatherhood,” he said dryly.

  “Exactly. Which is why it would be nice for you to spend more time with Toby and your other siblings.”

  “Me?” He stared at her.

  “Yes, you.”

  “I am not their father. I’m not even their full-blooded kin.”

  “But you are their guardian. The only one who’s cared enough to take an interest in them.”

  “It was out of necessity, not caring,” he said bluntly.

  “Why didn’t you just leave them in that drafty old chateau?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You could’ve left Toby and Eleanor there with their governess, and Cecily and Jonas to their own devices. But you brought them all to London. Why?”

  “Because our father made me their guardian. I was only doing my duty.”

  “You could have done it from London and left them in France,” she insisted.

  “I could not. They weren’t living respectably—”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I didn’t want them to live the way I did,” he bit out. “I didn’t want them fending for themselves and acting like damned heathens.”

  He realized that his chest was heaving beneath her palms. The gentle, understanding look in her eyes made his lungs work even harder, everything in him tautening…waiting.

  “Because you are a good man,” she said. “You care about them, virtual strangers, more than your father ever did about any of his children.”

  He didn’t know what to say so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Toby looks up to you, and a little encouragement would go a long way,” she went on. “He’s a charming fellow, much cleverer than he lets on. He volunteered to escort me to Madame Rousseau’s tomorrow for the final fitting of my dress for Bea’s wedding, and afterward we’re going to Gunter’s. Gemma said children adore the ices served there. I invited Eleanor along as well.”

  “Eleanor at a dress shop?” He smiled humorlessly. “I would have a care, if I were you. She might read a treatise on the rights of workers and encourage the seamstresses to riot.”

  “I doubt that since Madame Rousseau pays her seamstresses twice the going wage.”

  He canted his head at her. “How would you know that?”

  “Fittings take a long time; you have to chat about something,” his duchess said blithely. “I was wearing one of my old gowns, and Madame—her name is Amelie, by the way—commented on the fine workmanship. I told her I made it myself and that I’d done piecework from time to time. That led to a conversation about the trade in London, and Amelie told me that since she’d worked her way up as a seamstress, she knew ’ow…how hard the work was and how little it paid. So she pays her own apprentices better and… Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “Because I’m sure that while Madame is privy to plenty of gossip, this was undoubtedly the first time a duchess confessed to working as a seamstress,” he said.

  “Oh.” Fancy bit her lip. “Was it wrong of me to
tell her? She seemed so nice…and Aunt Esther says Amelie’s discretion is even more famous than her dressmaking.”

  “Tell her whatever you want, sweeting.” He brushed his knuckles against the curve of her cheek. “I find your candor charming.”

  A notch formed between her brows. “I wasn’t trying to be charming.”

  “I know. You are naturally that way.”

  Her gaze shimmered with emotion, and her gaze darted to his mouth before she tucked her head against his shoulder. She let out a quivery sigh that he felt in his balls. Even though it had only been two days since their last bedding, he was already hungry for her. He didn’t know why talking with her about everyday matters should make him feel randy, but it did.

  “I’m so lucky you’re my ’usb…husband,” she whispered.

  “I am the lucky one, Fancy.” He meant it; he couldn’t think of another woman who could bring out the best in Toby and try to lure Eleanor from her shell. Who would care enough to do so.

  While Imogen had given him the names of dressmakers, tutors, and the like who she’d claimed could make his siblings respectable, she had not offered to provide them guidance herself. Not that he had any right to expect that from her, especially not after the one disastrous meeting she’d had with them. Imogen had been subjected to Cecily’s vulgar fawning over her jewels, Jonas’s inexpert flirtation, and Eleanor’s utter indifference. Toby had capped things off by upending a cup of tea on her lap.

  Imogen had not come for a return visit.

  Yet Fancy was somehow making inroads with his siblings, a feat he had frankly begun to think was impossible. She shouldn’t have to go at it alone. They were his kin, after all, and his responsibility.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “I have some time tomorrow. I shall escort you on your outing.”

  Her lips curved against his chest. “That would be lovely.”

  The following afternoon, Severin accompanied Fancy, Toby, and Eleanor to the modiste. He was relieved that Amelie Rousseau was as discreet as his wife had said. The modiste seemed to have taken a genuine liking to her new patron.