thought, one that she’d been having more and more often. To her secret shame, she’d grown tired of moving around. Of packing and unpacking. Of bartering her skills to strangers to earn her keep.
That was why, in her dreams, her prince carried her off to a castle, which didn’t have to be an actual castle. What would she do with all those rooms…and could you imagine the cleaning? She shuddered. A cozy cottage would suit her better. She would settle there, in a place that she could call her own, and use her skills to take care of the people she loved.
Yet she couldn’t share this dream with her da for fear of hurting him. He was set in his travelling ways and wouldn’t understand. She didn’t want to appear ungrateful for the wonderful life he’d given her. Even worse, she thought with an anxious pang, he might think that she didn’t fully belong…that the foundling he and ma had raised wasn’t a true Sheridan after all.
“Maybe I won’t marry, Da.” She managed a light tone. “I’ll stay with you forever.”
“The winds o’ change are blowing, me Fancy,” he said gently. “I feel it in me bones that you’ll be leaving us soon. I just pray that the lucky chap who wins your ’eart is deserving o’ you.”
At her father’s solemn words, a shiver ghosted over Fancy’s nape.
The moment was broken by the slamming of the front door, the squeal of cupboards being opened and closed. Her brother Godfrey’s voice boomed from the kitchen.
“Can’t a man get a decent bite after a day’s work?” he bellowed. “Where’re Fancy’s tarts?”
“You and your tarts,” Oliver’s voice retorted. This was a sly reference to the fact that Godfrey, who was a year older than Fancy, was the skirt-chaser of the family.
“Liam ate all the tarts!” Tommy shouted.
“Bleedin’ tattler,” Liam returned.
More thudding and swearing ensued.
Da patted her on the cheek. “All right, me girl. I’d best go settle the lads and let you get dressed.” He unpinned the gardenia from his lapel, pressing it into her palm. “To go with your pink frock.”
“You think I should wear the dress?” Fancy said in surprise.
“Ain’t no reason to waste something so pretty. But wear it for yourself, me Fancy. Wear it knowing that you made that dress with your own two ’ands, that you’re as grand as anyone at that supper table tonight, which is to say…wear it with pride.”
Bemused, Fancy watched her father leave. She raised the gardenia to her nose, its sweet perfume stirring the romantic notions of her heart.
Notions, she told herself firmly, that she would be wise to keep under wraps.
3
Things were not going as planned, Severin brooded that evening.
He was the first to arrive and sipping on an aperitif in Lady Beatrice Wodehouse’s well-appointed drawing room. As he waited for his hostess to make an entrance, he contemplated abandoning his plan. Not because he didn’t find his duchess candidate pleasing: Lady Beatrice was all that her brother had claimed her to be. During his brief meeting with the lady as she’d managed the aftermath of the fire, Severin had found her competent and sensible. She was lovely too, her scar adding to the uniqueness of her pale blonde hair and violet eyes.
In fact, Lady Beatrice was fashioned from a similar mold as Imogen, being tall, willowy, and fair. Women like that never lacked for male attention, so Severin ought not to have been surprised to find another suitor sniffing after Lady Beatrice. The fact that his competition was Wickham Murray, however, was irksome.
Severin knew Murray, both being self-made industrialists who had deep roots in the London underworld. Murray’s moniker was The Iron Duke since he was a partner in Great London National Railway, along with Adam Garrity and Harry Kent, two other powerful underclass men with whom Severin was acquainted.
In general, Severin respected Murray and his partners. At least, he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating any of them when it came to negotiating a deal. He’d heard through the grapevine that Great London National Railway was in trouble, shareholders starting to revolt because of some delay in laying down track…as it happened, in Staffordshire.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that Murray was here now. If Severin had to guess, the Scot was after Lady Beatrice’s land. He took a sip of the bitter liqueur, wondering if she and Murray were lovers.
Murray was a rake whose prowess with females was the stuff of legend. Severin wouldn’t put it past the too-charming Scot