danger facing her bosom chum. According to Bea, clues found at the barn suggested that the fire had been no accident. For weeks now, Bea had been receiving threatening unsigned notes, warning her to leave her land. The list of potential culprits was long: plenty of men coveted Bea’s land and didn’t approve of an independent woman managing her own affairs.
Fancy was determined to help her friend in whatever ways she could. She’d asked Da and her brothers to check the locks on Bea’s property. Between Fancy’s odd jobs in the village, she kept an eye on Bea, and she wasn’t the only one doing so. Wickham Murray, a dashing railway industrialist, had taken a clearly protective stance with Bea as well.
When Mr. Murray had first arrived, Fancy hadn’t known what to make of him. A charming Adonis, he’d come to buy the estate that Bea had no intention of selling. Yet, day by day, Fancy had witnessed the conflict between the pair turn into a passionate romance. While Bea called herself a “realist” who didn’t take stock in love, Fancy was a dreamer who believed in faerie tale endings. Her intuition told her that Bea had found her Prince Charming.
Today, Fancy had had the wild thought that she’d found her own prince as well.
Disrobing, she stepped into the tub, the thought of Severin Knight warming her as much as the steaming water. Sweet Jaysus, the fellow was a looker.
“Handsome” was too paltry a description for Mr. Knight. With his dark hair, cool grey eyes, and rugged features, he affected Fancy down to the fibers of her being. She’d never responded to a man that way before. She had felt his gaze in the racing of her pulse, the leashed power of his brawny form in the throbbing of her blood. His deep voice had scattered goose pimples over her skin.
What she’d felt had been more than physical attraction, however. She was usually shy and awkward around strangers…especially toffs like him. Her ma had taught her that it was best to keep her head down around rich settled folk, and she’d learned not to attract undue attention. Yet Mr. Knight had treated her with courtesy, offering to help her with Bertrand. And the way he’d managed the willful donkey had been brilliant and humane…albeit a tad crafty.
Mr. Knight, she’d observed, wasn’t the kind of man who wore his emotions on his finely tailored sleeve. Unlike her brothers—who also enjoyed playing tricks on her—he was subtler in his reactions. A smile had lit his grey eyes, even though his mouth had retained its rather stern line. For some reason, the hint of boyish delight in such an austere and elegant gentleman had made her heart thump with longing.
Sighing, she let herself enjoy the soak before soaping and rinsing. Donning an old flannel robe, she returned to her room to dress for supper. Bea had invited her and Da to the manor, and the other guests that evening would include Mr. Murray and Mr. Knight who, as it turned out, knew each other.
Mr. Murray had been with Bea at the barn, and he and Mr. Knight had seemed equally surprised to see the other. Fancy had gleaned that the men had had business dealings in London, the air between them crackling with male competition. Learning that Mr. Knight had come to pay respects to Bea—apparently he was a friend of Bea’s brother, the Duke of Hadleigh—Mr. Murray had seemed none too pleased.
Supper should be interesting, Fancy thought wryly.
She opened the wardrobe, pondering her choices. Not that there was much to ponder: she had two dresses, and the one she’d worn earlier in the fields needed a good sponging. Which left the putty-colored frock as her other option, unless…
She crossed over to her travelling trunk. The enormous battered case held all her earthly belongings. Opening it, she took out the tissue-wrapped dress lying on top.
She’d made the dress for herself, using a bolt of pink silk Bea had given her for a birthday present. She’d copied the latest fashion, giving the dress a modern silhouette with a long, fitted waist and full skirts. Since she hadn’t had enough ribbon for trimming, she’d used some leftover silk thread in white and pink to embroider tiny blossoms along the neckline and hem.
At the time, she’d argued with herself over the pointless extravagance: when, after all, would she have reason to wear such a gown? A wise woman would sell the dress, use the money for