The Return of the Duke Read online

  She had mounted that argument over and again to no avail. Da could be as stubborn as Bertrand when he made his mind up. Nothing she said could sway him from his plan that the Sheridans should go their own way.

  “Don’t blame your father, dear,” Bea said now, as if reading her mind. “He wants what is best for you. Indeed, his decision might be the right one.”

  “’Ow can you say that?” Fancy swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. She’d never been a watering pot, but since the attack, she’d found herself perilously close to tears over naught. “I would be an extra pair o’ eyes and ears. You don’t know when the bastard might strike again—”

  “Wick and his men will look out for me.”

  Her friend’s confidence quieted Fancy’s protests more than any arguments could have. For Bea had never been a trusting sort, especially when it came to men. Yet now she exchanged a look with Mr. Murray, standing at a discreet distance by his waiting carriage. Some unspoken message passed between them. And Fancy realized the truth that her friend had not yet put into words.

  Bea ’as fallen in love, she thought in wonder. And Mr. Murray loves ’er back.

  Bea was glowing in a primrose carriage dress, her lavender eyes sparkling, her white-gold hair bound proudly back and no longer hiding her scar or her beauty from the world. Love had transformed her, prepared her for any hardships ahead. She had Mr. Murray to depend upon now, and he could offer more protection than a tinker’s daughter ever could.

  Gladness and a poignant ache filled Fancy’s heart.

  “You’re in good ’ands,” she said with a smile.

  “So are you.” Bea leaned closer. “But, my dear, don’t forget your promise to me. While Wick says Knighton is honorable, you must remain on guard. If he tries to take advantage of you—”

  “’E won’t,” Fancy said tremulously. “But I won’t forget my promise.”

  Bea touched her forehead briefly to Fancy’s “Take care, my dear. I shall miss you.”

  “You be careful, too.” Fancy’s smile wobbled. “Until we meet again.”

  They hugged and then Bea was gone.

  Fancy wiped away a few errant tears, then went to help her da and brothers finish packing up the wagon. They were loading the last travelling cases when a conveyance pulled up the circular drive. Her eyes widened. The time she’d been in Knighton’s carriage when he rescued her, she hadn’t been in a frame of mind to notice its splendor. The enormous black coach, led by half a dozen bays with glossy manes, was like something out of a faerie tale. Its lacquered sides and spotless windows, framed by fringed velvet curtains, were dazzling.

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of her.

  Her brother Liam ambled over and said in fervent tones, “Gor, pinch me, Fancy, for I must be dreamin’. This be our ride?”

  “Yes,” she said, equally awestruck.

  While Da had accepted the duke’s offer to accompany them to Northumberland, where there was a secluded campground known only to tinkers, he had decreed that it wasn’t right for Fancy to travel alone with Knighton. Her brothers had drawn straws; Liam, who’d chosen the shortest, was to be her chaperone. He’d endured ribbing from the other lads who’d lifted their pinkies at him, calling him a bona fide nob since he would be travelling in a lord’s fussy carriage rather than a tinker’s good, solid caravan.

  Liam was getting the last laugh, however, for their brothers now watched on with open-mouthed expressions as the driver opened the door to the sleek coach, letting down the steps. From what Fancy could see, the interior was upholstered in midnight velvet and outfitted with fixtures of polished brass.

  Then the Duke of Knighton emerged, and she lost track of the carriage altogether. He gleamed from the top of his hat to the toe of his boots. His strapping form was clad in shades of dark blue and grey, his jaw freshly shaven above his cravat of maize silk.

  Sweet Jaysus, ’e’s ’andsome, her heart sighed.

  He bowed and held out a gloved hand. “Ready, Miss Sheridan?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Her heart thumping, she placed her hand in his.

  His fingers engulfed hers, his masculine heat seeping through the barrier of black leather. He handed her up into the carriage, and Liam bounded in next, letting out a whoop of excitement as he took in the spacious and modern cabin. The facing benches were wide enough to fit four people apiece, with plenty of leg room.

  Sprawling next to her, Liam opened the wicker hamper on the floor.

  “Gor, get an eyeful o’ all ’em victuals,” Liam exclaimed.

  “Mind your manners.” Fancy shot an anxious look beyond him, where Knighton was conferring with Da. “You don’t want ’Is Grace to think you’re a beggarly sort, do you?”

  “This meat pie be nearly as good as yours.”

  Her gaze flew back to Liam, who was munching away on a golden pastry.

  “Put that back,” she said in a hushed tone. “You can’t ’elp yourself to whate’er you like.”

  “That’s what it’s ’ere for, ain’t it?” Liam took another large bite. “Besides, what would ’Is Nibs do with a ’alf-eaten pie?”

  “Well, just don’t eat anything else.”

  “The ’ell I won’t.” Her brother looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “There be a bloody feast in front o’ me and no Tommy, Godfrey, or Oliver to fight me for it. But since you be me sister and the one who ’itched us this fine ride, I’ll share the goods with you if you ask nicely.”

  “I don’t want—”

  Fancy caught herself as Knighton returned. He took the opposite bench, the cabin seeming to shrink in his presence. It wasn’t just his size; his virile male aura seemed to fill any space he occupied. His expensive scent curled in her nostrils, causing her heart to thrum like a hummingbird’s wings.

  “Are you both comfortable?” he inquired. “Do you require anything before we depart?”

  His tone was neutral, no hint of sarcasm or condescension. Yet Fancy’s gaze strayed to the open picnic basket, then to Liam’s greasy fingers. Then to the crumbs clinging to the corner of her brother’s mouth.

  Knighton must think we’re a pair o’ ill-bred bumpkins, she thought miserably.

  She knotted her fingers in the worn folds of her skirts. “No…that is, thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Actually, guv, would you ’ave anything to wash down this fine pie with?” Liam asked. “I’m feelin’ a might parched.”

  She cringed at her brother’s boldness.

  Knighton showed no sign of derision. He merely reached to the side of the cabin, opening a leather-covered compartment perfectly designed to look like part of the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a corked bottle. Even more marvelous was the fog of condensation clinging to the bottle: there must be ice in that compartment, an unheard of luxury.

  “Gor, will you take a look at that?” Liam cried. “If that ain’t the cleverest contraption I e’er saw, and I be a tinker’s son!”

  “I had the carriage maker design it specifically,” Knighton said.

  Removing glasses from another hidden compartment, he passed them to Liam and Fancy. He popped the cork and poured out the effervescent gold liquid.

  Excitement shone in Liam’s brown eyes. “Be that champagne?”

  “From a vineyard I own in France,” the duke replied.

  “Gor, I ain’t tried champagne before,” Liam chortled.

  Fancy shot her brother an annoyed look. Did he have to wave their lack of sophistication as if it were a blooming flag?

  “I’ve ’ad champagne before,” she rushed to say. “At Bea’s.”

  “I hope you both enjoy this vintage.” Knighton filled his own glass and raised it. “To a safe journey ahead.”

  As the carriage glided off, Fancy took a tentative sip. The beverage was crisp and delightfully cold. Bubbles tickled her nose, lively flavors dancing upon her tongue.

  “Do you like it?” Knighton’s gaze met hers.

  She nodded. “It tastes a bit l
ike figs and ’oney. And currant buns, maybe.”

  The duke’s brows shot up. Blushing, she realized how silly she must have sounded comparing expensive champagne to an ordinary morning bun.

  “I don’t taste currant buns, but it does quench a man’s thirst.” Liam drained his glass. “’Ow ’bout a topper, guv?”

  As Knighton refilled her brother’s glass, he said, “You have a refined palate, Miss Sheridan.”

  She blinked. “I do?”

  “Fig, orange blossom honey, and pain aux raisins. Those were the champagne’s notes as described by the vintner himself.”

  “Really?” She furrowed her brow. “What’s a pan o’ rays ann?”

  The stern line of his mouth twitched. “A pain aux raisins is a pastry. The French version of the currant bun which, in my opinion, is more delectable. Then again, I prefer French cuisine to English fare.”

  Intrigued, she asked, “’Ow come you know so much about the French?”

  Knighton paused to pour more champagne into the emptied glass Liam held out.

  “Have a care, lad,” he cautioned. “Champagne can go to the head.”

  Liam gulped down the contents. “We Sheridans can ’old our spirits.”

  “Suit yourself.” The duke handed him the bottle.

  With champagne in one hand and a sandwich he’d ransacked from the basket in the other, Liam was as happy as a pig in mud.

  “As to your question, Miss Sheridan.” Knighton returned his attention to her. “My mother was French. Her ancestors several generations back were Huguenots. Fleeing religious persecution in their native country, they ended up in London.”

  “Is your given name French? I’ve ’eard plenty o’ names in my travels but never that one.”

  “Yes, Severin has French roots. It means ‘serious.’” His expression was wry. “I have been told it suits me.”

  It did, in some respects.

  “Except around donkeys,” she said.

  Surprise and a hint of amusement lightened his eyes. “Touché, Miss Sheridan.”

  Pleased at his response, she sipped her beverage. “Do you speak French?”

  “Oui.”

  She would take that as a yes. She studied his impassive features, her head filled with questions about his unusual past. According to Bea, he’d come from the London slums, which was a strange place for a duke’s son to grow up.

  “’Ow did your parents meet?” she asked.

  His lashes fleetingly veiled his gaze. “That is a long story.”

  The champagne must have lent her courage, for she said, “We ’ave a long road ahead o’ us.”

  “The tale is tedious, and I make it a habit not to bore young ladies,” he said rather smoothly. “I would rather learn about you, Miss Sheridan.”

  “Me?” She couldn’t help but snort. “My life ain’t interesting at all.”

  As if in agreement, her brother let out a snore. He’d fallen asleep, his head leaning against the padded leather, a beatific smile upon his face.

  “It would be interesting to me as I’ve never met a tinker’s daughter before,” Knighton said.

  “You don’t ’ave to watch grass grow to know it ain’t a thrilling prospect,” she returned.

  At the smile that lit his gaze, her breath lodged. She knew then and there that she could get addicted to that look on him. To the way his mouth retained its firm edge, yet faint crinkles appeared around his eyes, silver glinting in the dark grey pupils.

  “You underestimate your own charms, Miss Sheridan,” he murmured.

  She knew that he was just being polite. A man like him doubtlessly had London’s most beautiful ladies throwing themselves at him. Yet here he was stuck in a carriage with her, a girl with a big purplish bump on her head and a brother whose snoring could wake the dead.

  Gathering up her courage, she said, “You don’t ’ave to say that, Your Grace. I’m already grateful for all you’ve done. I’m in your debt for rescuing me. Now you’ve gone out o’ your way to escort me when a man like you must ’ave more important things to do—”

  “Your wellbeing is of the utmost importance,” he said.

  “Why? I’m no one special,” she blurted. “And Bea ’as already decided on Mr. Murray—”

  His brows lowered into a foreboding line. “You think I am escorting you to impress Lady Beatrice?”

  “You did ask me to be your, um, ally,” she said uncertainly.

  “Let me make myself clear: my concern for your welfare is not for anyone’s sake but your own.” His jaw tautened. “I have not been a gentleman if that is what I have led you to believe.”

  “You’ve been a perfect gentleman,” she protested. “Kind and gallant—”

  “I cannot claim to be either of those things. I can assure you, however, that you are safe with me. I will protect you, Miss Sheridan, have no doubt of it.”

  His speech, delivered in cool, dispassionate tones, affected her the way a fervently uttered sonnet would. Her heart pounded giddily. Despite her promise to turn over a new leaf and let go of her silly fantasies, her infatuation was getting worse. The prince of her dreams was close enough to reach over and touch…yet he was forever out of her reach.

  Fancy slipped her hand into the skirt of her pocket. With mingled guilt and furtive delight, she caressed the button she had snipped from the jacket he’d lent her that day on the riverbank. She’d rationalized her small theft by telling herself that his valet surely had a spare. For her, this would be the only part of Knighton she would ever have. A keepsake that she would treasure all her life.

  “Deny it if you must, but you’re a true ’ero in my eyes,” she said with quavering emotion.

  The intensity of his gaze gathered like a storm. His nostrils flared slightly.

  “I am no hero, Miss Sheridan,” he averred, “but I would like to ask you a favor.”

  What favor could I possibly do for ’im?

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I would like for us to start anew. If you could find it in your heart to forget my fumbling words on the riverbank, I should like for us to be friends.”

  Friends. With Severin Knight. It wasn’t her faerie tale dream, but it was more than she’d thought possible. His offer cemented her belief that he was a decent man and not the seducer Bea feared he might be.

  If I think o’ ’im as a friend, Fancy said to herself, then maybe I’ll stop thinking o’ ’im in other ways. Ways that a tinker’s daughter should never think o’ a duke.

  “I’d like that, Your Grace,” she said shyly.

  “In that case, let us do away with formality. Call me Knight.” He sat back, his gaze steady.

  “If I’m to call you Knight,”—her tongue curled around his name, the intimacy causing her tummy to flutter—“then you ought to call me Fancy.”

  “Fancy.” His eyes held a faint smile. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” She meant to smile back, but to her mortification, she yawned.

  “You must be fatigued,” he said gently.

  Since the attack, she hadn’t slept well. She’d been plagued by terrifying dreams. As a result, she was tired, the dull ache at her temple making the rest of her head feel as heavy as an iron pot.

  “I think I could use a nap,” she admitted.

  “You are safe with me. I’ll keep watch. Rest now, Fancy.”

  Lulled by the warmth in his grey eyes and the smooth motion of the carriage, she closed her eyes and slipped into a healing sleep.

  9

  “We be almost there, guv!” Tommy, the youngest Sheridan, exclaimed as he looked out the window at the passing wooded landscape. “Ain’t no camping spot sweeter than this one in all o’ Cumberland, I reckon.”

  Severin nodded and cast a meaningful glance at Fancy, who was dozing. Getting the message, Tommy piped down, although he kept his nose pressed against the glass like an eager pup. Having travelled with the Sheridans for five days now, Severin was used to the exuber
ant ways of Fancy’s kin. Liam had bragged about the amenities to be found in Severin’s carriage, and since then the other brothers had jockeyed for the position of riding with Fancy.

  To Severin’s surprise, he found himself liking the lads who had a cheerfully adaptable approach to life. They didn’t seem to be bothered by sleeping in a different place each night, be it in an abandoned hayloft, on the narrow bunks in their family’s wagon, or beneath the stars. Oliver, the eldest brother, had informed Severin that they were skipping some of their usual stops in order to get distance from Staffordshire. Apparently, the family typically made stops to do patchwork and other chores for a number of farmers. In return, they would be offered hospitality, and Oliver bemoaned missing out on Farmwife Jenkins’ baking in particular.

  Severin couldn’t help but be impressed by the vast number of skills the Sheridans possessed. The tinkers he’d come across in London had specialized in mending and hawking tin. Around the campfire last night, Milton Sheridan had told him country tinkers were different.

  “Aye, me da taught me tinwork, as ’is da did before ’im. But tinkering ain’t limited to that.” Milton had taken a puff from his pipe, letting out a wreath of smoke that hung in the firelight. “The travelling life is about bein’ free as God meant us to be. Free from the shackles o’ society and ’aving the skills to stay that way.”

  “The skills,” Severin learned, included everything from horse trading to picking crops to cleaning chimneys. Indeed, the Sheridan boys had made a game of it last night. They each had to list an ability they possessed in turn, with no repeating, and the last brother to name a new skill would be the winner.

  That had been Godfrey, with his contribution of “candle-making.”

  To which Oliver had replied, “Let’s not forget skirt-chasing, eh, the only thing Godfrey be actually good at.”

  Godfrey had launched himself at Oliver. Which had led to the other lads jumping in with joyful whoops. Fancy had watched on, shaking her head in fond exasperation.

  Watching her sleep now, her lashes dark fans against her cheeks, Severin felt an unwelcome stirring of possessiveness. She looked so damned feminine and small curled up in a corner, her braided head resting against the velvet squabs. Her bruise had faded to a yellowish color, and she’d lost some of the jumpiness she’d had right after the attack. Still, Severin took care not to startle her.