The Earl Takes a Fancy

by Lorraine Heath

  “I don’t want to tell them.” She was still struggling with the fact that her siblings had all known such a horrible secret about her and kept it to themselves. To protect her, but at what point was there too much protection?

  “He took money from you.”

  “No, he didn’t. A gentleman who lives in the area happened by and put a stop to things, had him arrested.”

  “Thank the Lord for that. Still they need to know.”

  “I’m not ready for them to learn that I know the truth about my . . . sire.” Her brothers had never referred to the men responsible for their existence as their father, but always as only their sire. She was beginning to understand why they’d chosen a more impersonal term. She didn’t want to acknowledge any sort of intimate relationship with Dibble—and yet it was there all the same.

  Mum was kneeling on the floor, her hands folded over Fancy’s knee. “I’m ever so sorry, pet.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Mum. You did what you did to keep the others safe. I understand that.”

  Reaching up, she touched Fancy’s cheek. “You’re still my precious girl.”

  But now she felt sullied by the truth.

  From the moment Matthew had left Fancy, he’d wanted to return to her, but suspected she needed some time alone with her thoughts and worries. So he waited until late morning.

  When he walked into the shop, Marianne greeted him, but her smile was a little less bright.

  “Hello, Mr. Sommersby.”

  “Miss Marianne. Is Miss Trewlove about?”

  “She’s tidying up the reading parlor.”

  “I’ll go up, then. I need to have a word with her.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He bounded up the stairs and entered the reading parlor. She was sitting on the floor, near the fireplace, several books stacked beside her as she wiped a cloth over the now empty shelf. He strode over to her and crouched down. “Fancy—”

  “The thing about having a bookshop that one doesn’t consider when deciding to have a bookshop is that there are so many shelves and so many books that need to be constantly dusted. After you’ve gone through them all, it’s time to start over.” She picked up a book, gently wiped the cover, and returned it to the shelf.

  His heart ached for her. “You spoke with your mother. I’m going to assume she confirmed the truth of his words.”

  Without looking at him, she nodded and ran the cloth over another book. “He was the landlord, and she didn’t have the coins for the rent.”

  He slammed his eyes closed. “Christ.” Opening his eyes, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  She curled it away from him. “I bathed when I got home, and yet I still feel so dirty.”

  “Perhaps it’s only the dust from the books.”

  She looked at him then and the sadness in her eyes would have brought him to his knees if he were still standing. “Oh, Matthew, the filth runs much deeper than that.”

  “You are not that man. He is no part of you.”

  “Did you ever look at your parents and think, ‘they are no part of me?’”

  In his world, lineage was so deuced important. Of course he’d never done that. He’d grown up aware that the very fact they were part of him was what made him special, made him what he was, if not who he was. “I concede your point.”

  “Normally, I would take great joy in being correct.”

  “But, Fancy, the people who are responsible for your existence do not necessarily determine the type of person you become. My father was a harsh man. Not once did I ever hear him laugh. The people who reported to him were terrified of him. They knew he could destroy their lives with a word. He gave me my eyes; he gave me my hair. But he did not give me my soul. I work with many of the same people he did, but I listen to their ideas and discuss ways to improve things. He was dictatorial, thought no one knew more than him. For him, all that mattered was his opinion. I recognize that I don’t know everything, that it’s worth listening to others’ suggestions. In other words, I’m far more reasonable than he was.” He touched his fingers to his chest. “That is me. I am different from him. You are different from your father. You are Fancy Trewlove, and there are aspects to you that have nothing at all to do with him.”

  “I doubt any among the aristocracy would agree. They care so damned much about lineage, about blood, about heritage. I had the disadvantage of being born out of wedlock but still had pride in my mum and the man she told me was my father. I felt worthy because of what I’d believed they’d shared. I’d always thought my father was the hero and it turns out he’s the villain.”

  He hated that she was filled with such doubts. “But you’re the heroine, the one who does such good for others.”

  “While I appreciate your sentiment, knowing the truth of who sired me, how could I in any way be an appropriate wife for a lord?”

  “If they find the circumstances of your birth objectionable—something over which you had no control—they can go to the devil.” His words caused her to smile slightly, but it was enough to cheer him. He wanted to tell her that he was an earl and her beginnings made him only admire her all the more. But now was not the time for her to learn that he hadn’t been completely honest with her either. Not telling her he was the Rosemont of the damned letter hadn’t seemed a bad thing when he’d first met her. But now that he’d come to know her, it was difficult to find the proper time to spring the news on her. She would look upon him differently, just as he now viewed her through different eyes and realized how incredibly remarkable she was not to be anything like the maggot who sired her. “In all honesty, Fancy, you need never tell anyone.”

  “Then it’s not honest, is it? There’s a deceptive quality to it. And if he’s not convicted—”

  “He will be. I spoke this morning with the barrister who will be prosecuting the case. With my testimony”—along with the weight and influence of my rank—“he has little doubt Dibble will be found guilty.”

  She studied him for a full minute. “While that’s a relief, I still think I should also be a witness. I don’t want Dibble to think I’m afraid of him. I want to face him, take satisfaction in bringing about his comeuppance.”

  “As much as I admire you for that, why put yourself through it when there’s no reason?”

  “I hate what he did to my mum. He took advantage of her, and his position gave him the power to do so. I’d like to see him gelded.”

  Although he hadn’t expected her to be so vindictive, he didn’t blame her for the sentiment. “I doubt they’ll go that far, but he will be punished. Prison is not an easy existence.”

  “I know. My brother Finn spent time in prison. He never spoke about it, but it changed him, made him more somber.” She picked up a book, dusted it, and set it on the shelf. “Do you view me differently now that you know the truth of how I came to be?”

  “Yes.”

  When she jerked her gaze around to meet his, he cradled her cheek, grateful that this time she didn’t withdraw from his touch. “I now know you to be stronger than any other woman of my acquaintance. Last night you were accosted, physically and emotionally, and you did not cower in the face of the truth. You are truly remarkable, and any lord would be fortunate to have you as his wife.”

  Any lord, including him.

  Chapter 21

  Later that afternoon, after Marianne had left for the day, Fancy stood at the counter, going through the post that had been delivered when a cream-colored envelope caught her eye. Her name was inscribed in elegant script on the vellum. Her fingers were trembling slightly as she turned the missive over, broke the seal, and unfolded it. The words flew at her, a jumble that hardly made sense.

  Ball.

  Fairhaven Hall.

  Pleasure of your company.

  She stared at the date. At the end of the month. In the evening. Of course, in the evening. Eight. The Marquess and Marchioness of Fairhaven requested her presence.

  She could hardly fathom it. S
he wasn’t related to them at all. But here they were wanting the pleasure of her company.

  She remembered a time when she would have been overjoyed. Now all she could think was that she didn’t belong, wasn’t worthy of such an elaborately designed invitation. She shoved it back into the stack, carried the pile into her office, and crammed it all into a drawer, as though doing so would extinguish its existence.

  Returning to the counter, she watched the clock tick off the minutes before she would lock her doors, determined to keep the shop opened until the proper time, even though she found it to be a chore. She hated Dibble for taking away her joy of working, grateful he’d not moved beyond the storeroom, so she had no memories of him invading this section of her shop.

  In spite of Matthew’s earlier visit and his kind words, she was unable to shake off the gloom that had settled over her as she struggled to deal with how vulnerable she suddenly felt. Vulnerable and off-kilter. She wasn’t as she’d always believed herself to be: the product of a grand love. She had devoured romantic stories because they represented a world that had come together to create her. While she knew her mum loved her, she couldn’t get past the fact that she’d come to be because of ugliness, and that made her feel ugly. On the surface, deep down, throughout.

  Her chest ached, her soul was battered. She wasn’t deserving of all the dreams her family had dreamt for her. She felt like an imposter. Her past was a lie, and while she understood why her family had sought to spare her the truth, even loved them for it, she felt unmoored.

  As soon as the clock struck six, she headed for the door. She’d nearly reached it when it suddenly opened, and Matthew walked through carrying two wicker baskets, one lidded, the other overflowing with a cornucopia of flowers.

  “Closing up for the day?” he asked.

  “Unless you need a book.”

  “Not tonight. I thought you might like to join me for dinner.”

  “I’m really not in the mood for the pub.”

  “I thought you might not be.” He held up the lidded basket. “So I’ve brought the pub to you.”

  Her heart gave a little squeeze at his kindness. “Oh, Matthew, I don’t think I’ll be good company.”

  “I’m not expecting you to be, but I also suspect you’ve not eaten today, and you do need to eat.”

  Only then did she realize he had the right of it. She had no appetite but didn’t want to grow faint from lack of nourishment. “Is there enough in the basket for both of us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to come upstairs, then?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “You are going to behave.”

  His smile held a bit of deviltry. “Only if you want me to.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and oh it felt so good, especially as she’d thought she might never find the wherewithal to laugh again. Reaching around him, she locked the door and then closed her hand around the handle of the basket holding the flowers. “I’ll take this.”

  “You might as well. They’re yours.”

  “I’ve never seen so many in one place. Or such an assortment.” A myriad of colors greeted her when she looked down. “You must have pleased many a street flower girl today.”

  Matthew had actually had his gardener snip them from the gardens at his London residence. He’d wanted at least one of every variety and every color. When he’d left her earlier, he’d had the sense that she was still struggling with the facts of her origins and he wasn’t about to leave her languishing in self-doubt.

  He followed her up to her rooms. Having paid them little heed the night before once he’d located her bedchamber, he was now surprised to discover how simple the parlor was. Although it wasn’t precisely a parlor. It was a relatively large room that included a small kitchen, where she had set her basket on a square table. Joining her there, he placed his basket beside hers. He hadn’t actually brought her the pub but rather had asked the cook at his proper residence to prepare something. The dear woman who had served the household for years had been thrilled with the opportunity to provide dishes that would be eaten by more than the servants. He did hope Fancy wouldn’t think anything of the fare being a bit fancier than what was usually served across the street.

  “I haven’t a vase,” she said. “Will you be offended if I use a pitcher?”

  “It would take a good deal more than that to offend me.”

  She brought over a pale yellow piece and began arranging the stems in it. “Feel free to look around, make yourself comfortable. I won’t be but a minute here.”

  Wandering away from her, he noted that the remainder of the area was devoted to comfort. A dark blue settee and a low rectangular table rested before the fireplace. On either side of them and nearer to the hearth were two plush chairs of robin egg blue with threads of yellow creating an assortment of swirls. She liked her yellow, it seemed.

  The mantelpiece held a framed portrait of four tall men and one tall woman—all young, not much older than twenty if that, he’d wager—standing outside a tavern. The Mermaid and Unicorn, according to the sign hanging over the threshold. An older woman of small stature stood among them. Pressed up against her and nearly buried in her skirt was a tiny sprite who couldn’t be much older than six or seven.

  “My family,” she said quietly, coming to stand beside him. “The day Gillie opened her tavern.”

  “I thought as much.” Another nearby photograph, also framed, sat a few inches from the first. Based on the gown Lady Aslyn wore and the church behind the assembled group, he assumed it had been taken on the day she stunned London Society by marrying a man with no lineage. Fancy had been on the cusp of womanhood, her grace and charm shining through.

  “Shall we eat before it cools?” she asked.

  He’d taken it to the pub and asked Hannah to warm it for him, so he hadn’t technically lied when he told her it came from the pub. At the table, he opened the bottle of chardonnay that he’d brought, poured them each a glass, and sat down with her to his left. He liked having her there. He wasn’t surprised to find her china was patterned in yellow and blue. “You like yellow and blue.”

  Her smile was forced, didn’t seem to quite belong on her face. “The combination reminds me of the sun and sky on the loveliest of days.”

  He found her to be so much like sunshine herself that she brightened the dullest moods—until last night. Now, she was the one needing brightening.

  His cook’s chicken slathered in a tart orange sauce was one of her specialties and one of his favorite dishes, yet Fancy ate with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been given an old shoe to gnaw on. Even the wine, an excellent vintage from his cellar, held no appeal for her.

  “I inherited coal mines in Yorkshire.” It was a boring thing to admit, but he was unaccustomed to the quiet between them and wanted to bring forth her true smile.

  His words seemed to pique her interest a bit, at least enough that she reached for her wine. “Where you grew up.”

  He nodded.

  “Shouldn’t you be off managing them?”

  “I have an excellent foreman who sees to matters. He sends me reports. I do occasionally visit.” More often when he retired to the country after the Season ended.

  “Did you ever work in the mines?”

  “A few times. Backbreaking labor, but it gave me an appreciation for the men who toiled within them.”

  “Do you use children in the mines?”

  “In spite of my father’s numerous faults, one of his redeeming qualities was that he didn’t believe in child labor. Except when it came to me. He resented that I should have a childhood. Thought I should take on responsibilities as early as possible.”

  “My family would have kept me a child forever if they could have.”

  “They only sought to protect you.”

  “Because they all knew the truth about my father. I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.” She took a long sip of the wine, nearly emptying he
r glass. He promptly refilled it.

  She ran her finger up and down the stem, and he couldn’t help but think about how much he’d like her stroking it over his jaw. Only he wasn’t here for his needs. He was here for hers. “He’s not worth your thoughts.”

  “I know, and yet I hardly know who I am any longer.”

  He hated that the blighter caused her to have so much as a single doubt about herself. “You’re Fancy Trewlove of the Fancy Book Emporium. Fancy Trewlove who is taking London Society by storm.”

  She gave a small laugh. “More like a gentle breeze.”

  “In the life of a Season, two balls hardly signifies. By its end, you’ll have won them all over.”

  She looked at him, averted her gaze, sipped her wine. “Today I received an invitation to the Fairhaven ball.”

  So Sylvie, bless her, in spite of her protests had issued the invitation at his request. He would have to send her a gift. Although Fancy didn’t seem as pleased as he’d expected her to be.

  “I met the marquess and marchioness at Gillie’s ball,” she continued. “None of my relations are related to them. It’s the first sign that I’m being accepted.”

  “And that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Normally, yes. But I’ve been reflecting on the Collinsworth ball, the next for which I have an invitation. I’m thinking of not going, of ending my Season.”

  He didn’t like the thought of her flirting with other men but preferred even less that she would give up on something she’d worked so hard to attain. “You’re intending to let him win?”

  “No, I just . . . in a year or two I’ll go back. Maybe. I’ve been ruminating about what you told me earlier. I could keep this secret, but I worry it would fester and that I would live in fear of it coming out. Would it not be better to admit the truth of things? Especially if I am to have any hope at all of having the sort of marriage I desire.”

  Weary of going through the motions of eating when his entire focus was on her, he shoved his plate aside and leaned toward her. “What sort of marriage do you desire?”