The Return of the Duke Page 14

  “I ain’t afeared on account o’ Miss Bea.” Da took a shaky breath. “It’s on account o’ you, Fancy, going to London. There be a reason why I’ve ne’er taken you there.”

  “I know you think the city isn’t safe but—”

  “It ain’t because o’ that. It’s because o’ you, me girl. Your past.”

  A tingle raced up her spine. “What do you mean?”

  “Me and your ma, we didn’t tell you everything about the day we found you in the fields.” Da drew on his pipe as if to fortify himself. “We kept it a secret from you, me Fancy, because we wanted to protect you.”

  Premonition shivered through her. “Protect me? From what?”

  “I don’t know,” Da said heavily. “But whoe’er left you in the fields that day…they did it because they thought you be in danger.”

  The tingle became a chill that spread over her insides. At the same time, a wall of reassuring warmth came up behind her: Knight. Although he was not touching her, she could feel his protective strength, and it anchored her.

  “You will explain that statement, Sheridan,” Knight said.

  Da exhaled. “Wait ’ere. I ’ave something to show you.”

  He went into the caravan. The sounds of rummaging came from within, and he returned scant moments later. He held out a piece of folded fabric to her.

  With brimming curiosity, she unfolded it, holding it up.

  “It’s a babe’s christening gown…mine?” she asked, astonished.

  The garment was of immaculate quality and showed no signs of aging. The thick ivory silk slid smoothly beneath her fingertips, and lace as delicate as a spider’s web trimmed the neckline and wrists, a wide panel extending down the front.

  “When I found you, petal, you be wearing this, wrapped in a velvet blanket as fine as any I’d seen. That is why I named you Fancy,” Da said in a gruff voice. “You looked like a wee faerie creature, and when you saw me, you stopped crying. You looked at me with big, wondering eyes and cooed. I knew then I couldn’t leave you there.”

  Shock percolated through her. “But who would abandon a babe in such finery…and why?”

  “May I?” Knight took the garment from her, examining it with an expert eye. “French silk, first-rate. The lace looks equally expensive, Belgian most likely.” He’d turned the gown around, pointing to a bit of embroidery on the left shoulder. “Did you see this?”

  Fancy leaned in to take a closer look. The tiny, bell-shaped bloom was exquisitely rendered in shades of red and pink, flecks of yellow at its center.

  She squinted at it. “Is it a rose?”

  “Hard to say,” Knight replied. “Pretty though.”

  Fancy’s mind was whirling. The christening gown was undoubtedly costly. Did that mean she’d come from a background of wealth, perhaps even…nobility?

  She turned to her father. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?”

  “Because I was trying to protect you.” His expression bleak, Da took a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to her. “This be tucked in the basket next to you. Me and your ma ’ad a shopkeeper read it to us.”

  Fancy took the note with trembling hands. It was yellowing at the edges, the spidery handwriting difficult to read. Beneath Knight’s gaze, she felt her cheeks warm. Her reading was improving, thanks to Bea’s lessons, but under pressure she still had to sound out the words.

  “May God…watch over…this babe,” she managed to read aloud. “For ’er own safety, she must never re…return to Lon…London.”

  The words sunk in.

  “Why must I be kept from London?” she asked, bewildered. “Who am I?”

  “I don’t know, petal,” Da said heavily. “But me and your ma, we weren’t going to risk you coming to ’arm. That’s why we stayed away from London all these years. And that’s why I didn’t want you marrying Knighton: I knew ’e would take you there and deliver you into the arms o’ danger.”

  “Fancy will come to no harm,” Knight said. “You have my word.”

  Although his statement was calm, it had the lethality of a honed blade.

  “I can’t stop you from going to London. But now that you be knowing the truth,” Da said heavily, “you’ll be taking extra caution with me girl, you ’ear?”

  “I would take care of my wife regardless,” Knight said evenly.

  My wife. Fancy didn’t miss his emphasis on the words, and his possessiveness thrilled her. Seeing the worry carved on her father’s brow, however, she reached out and took Da’s hand. She felt his calluses, the working man’s strength that had taken care of her all her life, and love for him welled.

  “Don’t worry, Da.” She gave him a smile and a reassuring squeeze. “All will be fine.”

  He returned her squeeze. “I ’ope you’re right, petal. By the grace o’ God, I ’ope you are.”

  17

  The journey to London took five days. Knowing how badly Fancy wanted to see her friend, Severin instructed his groom to make the trip as quickly as possible without compromising comfort. They drove most of the day, stopping only to refresh the horses and to stay the night at coaching inns along the way. While it wasn’t the wedding trip Severin had wanted to give his new bride, the time nonetheless seemed to fly by.

  He realized that it was the first time he’d spent this much time with a female before. With Imogen, his visits had always been limited and furtive. With his mistresses, he hadn’t seen the point in lingering after the tupping.

  Fancy was different.

  Bedding her was sublime. Her blend of innocence and eagerness kept him in a perpetual state of arousal. Although she was inexperienced, she showed no shame about the pleasure she found at her husband’s touch. She wasn’t coy, didn’t play games, and it made Severin want to fuck her constantly. It was a good thing she had no trouble napping in the carriage for he kept her up at night, plowing her until she cried out her pleasure, her snug sheath milking him of his own.

  But his attraction to her was about more than just coupling.

  She was a good companion, for starters. She didn’t complain, need to make constant stops, or ask how much farther until the destination. Instead, she made the time pass quickly with her entertaining anecdotes about the travelling life. Her stories about Bertrand alone could fill a book.

  She was also full of curiosity about Severin’s everyday life. Luckily, his replies did not seem to bore her. Unlike others whose eyelids would begin to droop when he expounded upon the latest version of the Jacquard mechanism and other innovations of his trade, Fancy was inquisitive, asking thoughtful questions.

  While he’d always admired her character, he was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t fully appreciated her intellect. Her sweetness and honesty were accompanied by a clever and resourceful mind. Day by day, he was discovering that his wife was possessed of an astounding repertoire of skills.

  Before they left Scotland, Milton Sheridan had taken Severin aside. Surprisingly, the tinker had decided not to accompany them to London.

  “Fancy made ’er choice, and she be in your ’ands now,” Sheridan had said gruffly. “But while she ain’t mine to look after anymore, I’ll be wanting your word you’ll take good care o’ me girl.”

  Having given his word, Severin did not like to repeat himself. But he’d made an exception for his wife’s father. Now that he understood that Sheridan’s reservations about their marriage stemmed from the mystery of Fancy’s past, he could afford to be generous.

  Moreover, he thought the tinker’s decision not to go to London was for the best. Upon their arrival in Town, Fancy would face the daunting prospect of gaining the ton’s acceptance, for herself and his siblings. The presence of her tinkering family would exponentially increase the difficulty of that task.

  “I’ll look after her,” Severin had said.

  “Good.” Sheridan had extended his hand.

  Severin had taken it, surprised by the strength of the tinker’s grip and his next words.

&nb
sp; “As you know, me Fancy don’t come with a dowry.” Before Severin could aver that he had no need of one, Sheridan went on, “But what she brings be more valuable than money. She’s learned the art o’ tinkering from me, ain’t nothing me girl can’t fix.”

  Severin hadn’t wanted to damage his father-in-law’s pride or the present truce by stating the obvious: as a duke, he retained an army of people to fix things for him.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said with solemn gravity. “I am certain that will prove useful.”

  “I’ve a feeling it will,” the tinker replied with a sage nod. “Fancy won’t come to you entirely empty-’anded, ’owever. I’ve given ’er my best tinkering invention, and I also ’ave a special wedding gift for the both o’ you.”

  Which was how Bertrand the donkey ended up leading Severin’s team of horses. According to Sheridan, the damned donkey liked to be in the lead, and for some reason the thoroughbreds deferred to the mangy grey creature. Bertrand set a brisk pace for the team and kept it going.

  Near the halfway point of their journey, a rainstorm descended out of nowhere. As drops pelted the carriage, Severin and Fancy sat side by side, discussing her father’s revelations about her past.

  “Growing up, did you wonder who your real parents were?” he asked.

  “As strange as it sounds, not really,” she admitted. “Even though I knew I was a foundling, I never felt like one. My parents didn’t treat me any differently than my brothers and loved us all the same.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “Very.” Her smile was wistful. “I wish you could’ve met my ma.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Loving and kind. She told the best stories, faerie tales about princesses and ’appily ever afters.”

  That explained his wife’s romantic streak.

  “She was also practical and could tinker as well as Da,” Fancy went on. “We ’ad these ironstone dishes that my brothers kept dropping. She mended those plates countless times, but you couldn’t see the cracks—that’s ’ow good she was at it.”

  “She sounds like a woman of many talents.”

  Nodding, she said, “Ma would’ve been shy around you...at first. She was like that with strangers. But once she got to know you, she would ’ave made you feel like part o’ the family.”

  “You take after her,” he murmured.

  “I consider that the greatest compliment.” Fancy paused, canting her head. “What was your mama like?”

  She was beautiful, proud, and whored for us to survive. In the end, the poverty and desperation broke her. I failed to save her, and her ending was brutal.

  “She was a good woman and did her best by me,” he said. “Back to your parents. Do you have any curiosity now about who your true kin might be?”

  Fancy’s brow pleated, no doubt at his abrupt change of topic. But he had divulged as much as he meant to about that part of his past. That dark time before he became a gentleman.

  “Yes and no,” Fancy said slowly. “A part o’ me is curious, but another part thinks it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Why would a person abandon a ’elpless babe in a field? The only reason I can think o’ is the obvious.”

  “The child was born out of wedlock,” he stated.

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Are you worried about the note your father found?”

  “It was written o’er two decades ago.” She knit her brows. “Whatever the trouble was, I don’t see ’ow it could find me now.”

  “It seems unlikely,” he agreed. “But if you wish, I could hire an investigator—”

  “What would be the point?” she asked with quiet dignity. “I’m ’appy knowing that I’m the daughter o’ Milton and Annie Sheridan. They’re my real parents. I don’t need to know the identity o’ whoe’er threw me away.”

  Severin couldn’t argue with her logic. And, practically speaking, an investigator was unlikely to turn up much based on a christening gown and an old note.

  The carriage suddenly went over a bump, careening with such force that Fancy soared off the seat. He caught her and held her securely, his other hand gripping the carriage strap while the conveyance came to an unpromising halt.

  “Stay here, sweeting.” He opened the door. “I’ll see what’s going on.”

  Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and he trudged through the slick mud to stand next to his driver, Rogers, and valet, Verney, both of whom had descended from the covered driver’s perch to survey the damage.

  “Apologies, Your Grace,” Rogers muttered, droplets dripping off the brim of his hat and clinging to his dark whiskers. “I ran into a rock on account o’ the rain. Now one o’ the front wheels is broken.”

  Severin examined the wheel. Two of the spokes bore large cracks.

  “Can you repair it?” he asked.

  “Aye, with the proper tools. And I would need to prop up the cabin.” Rogers looked resigned. “I’d best ride ahead to the next village and bring back ’elp.”

  “What ’appened?” Fancy called breathlessly.

  Severin turned to see his wife coming up behind them, her braids bouncing against her shoulders as she navigated puddles. She hadn’t even donned a cloak.

  Removing his coat, he bundled her in it. “You shouldn’t be out here, chérie. You’ll get soaked.”

  Her gaze strayed to the wheel. “I wanted to see if I could ’elp.”

  “Rogers will ride ahead to the next village to obtain assistance. Let’s get you back inside—”

  Fancy had already gone to examine the wheel. “Mind if I ’ave a look?”

  Rogers and the valet exchanged a glance that was just short of eye-rolling, but they stepped aside for their new mistress. Lucky for them because Severin wouldn’t tolerate any disrespect toward his duchess.

  “I see cracks in these two spokes.” She ran her fingers over the fissures, heedless of the mud. “Any other damage, Rogers?”

  “No, Your Grace,” the driver said.

  “Well, there’s no point in you riding to the village and back in this weather. I ’ave something that ought to ’old the wheel together until we get to the village. Verney, would you mind fetching my travelling case? I need my tools.”

  The valet slid a questioning look at Severin, who inclined his head. “Do as Her Grace bids.”

  Fancy and Verney went to the luggage compartment, and she soon returned with a worn leather bag slung over her shoulder. Verney followed, holding an umbrella over her and a stack of toweling.

  Crouching by the wheel, she instructed, “Be sure to keep the umbrella o’er the wheel. It needs to stay dry while I mend it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Verney dutifully positioned the umbrella.

  Severin watched in fascination as Fancy spread a towel on the ground and took out a large jar from her bag. Using more of the toweling, she proceeded to dry off the wheel in brisk, meticulous motions. When she was done, she reached into her skirts, pulling out a…pocketknife? It was compact, about the length of her hand and half as wide.

  “Da gave this to me as a wedding present. It’s one o’ ’is best inventions,” she said proudly. “’E calls it a tinker’s friend because no tinker should be without it. It ’as all the basic tools, and it folds up to save room. ’Ave a look.”

  Amused and intrigued, Severin looked on as she pulled out various tools that had been tucked inside the metal casing, attached to the contraption by a rotating bolt. The tools were scaled-down versions of the originals and included a screwdriver, blade, and spatula amongst others. Fancy reached for the jar, opening it to reveal a thick, dark substance. Scooping up the treacly stuff with the metal spatula, she began patching the wheel with it.

  “What is in the jar?” Severin asked.

  “Da’s proprietary concoction.” Her brow furrowed in concentration, she didn’t take her eyes from the task. “It’s a mixture o’ tree sap, coal tar, and linseed oil, plus a few other ingredients. It dries in a blink and will ’old anythin
g together.”

  “Amazing,” he murmured.

  “No one tinkers better than Milton Sheridan,” she said proudly.

  He wasn’t referring to her father’s inventions, handy as they were. His duchess finished filling the cracks in the wood, seeming oblivious to the astonished and admiring looks from the other men.

  “There, that should do it.” She stood, wiping her tinker’s friend clean before folding it up and returning it to her skirts.

  Rogers examined the wheel. “Blimey, you fixed the bleedin’ thing,” he said in awe. “And saved me a ride in the rain.”

  “It wasn’t me but my da’s concoction.”

  At Fancy’s friendly smile, the driver looked spellbound.

  Severin couldn’t blame the man. Tendrils had escaped from her braids, curling delicately upon her pink cheeks. Her rain-spiked eyelashes made her brown eyes appear even bigger. She looked like a friendly faerie, one disarmingly unaware of her charms.

  “I think Rogers can take it from here,” he said.

  He steered her back into the carriage, closing the door behind them. She shed his wet jacket and perched on the squabs, toweling off her braids. As the carriage began to move, Severin drew the curtains together.

  She tilted her head. “Why are you closing the curtains?”

  “We need to get you out of your wet things,” he said.

  “I’m not that wet—”

  Her sentence was lost in a squeak as he tugged her onto his lap so that she straddled him. Flipping up her damp skirts, he found the slit in her drawers and ran a finger along her feminine cleft. The contrast between her silky thatch and slick flesh made him instantly hard.

  “You’re getting there,” he said in satisfaction.

  Her eyes widened, her hands clutching his shoulders. “But, Knight, we’re in a carriage—”

  She gasped. Probably because he’d released his erection and was running the burgeoned head along her dewy folds. As he breached her hole, warm honey bathed his cockhead.

  Bloody heaven.

  “What are you… It can be done this way?” she breathed.