The Return of the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  “May God watch over this babe. For her own safety, she must never return to London,” she read aloud. “Sounds to me like someone was trying to protect you, Fancy. What do you think about the handwriting?”

  “The penmanship is rather unrefined,” Maggie mused. “There are not the usual flourishes that I associate with an upper class lady’s hand.”

  “Maybe it was written in a hurry?” Gabby suggested. “I leave out the curlicues when I have to scribble a quick note.”

  “Or it could have been written by a woman with less formal education,” Maggie said. “A servant, perhaps.”

  Impressed with her friends’ observations, Fancy said, “You all make excellent points.”

  “Now for the gown.” Tessa held up the silk garment, tilting her head this way and that as she studied the embroidered flower. “Flora and fauna are not my strength. I cannot tell a cornflower from a cabbage. What do you think, Gabby and Maggie?”

  “Is it a rose, perhaps?” Gabby squinted at the embroidery. “I wish it wasn’t so small…”

  “I have something that’ll help.” Reaching into the pocket of her skirts, Fancy took out her tinker’s friend. She found the correct handle and swiveled out a small magnifying glass.

  “How clever!” Gabby exclaimed.

  “And handy,” Tessa said. “Wherever did you come by such a contraption?”

  “My da made it. He calls it a tinker’s friend, and I never go anywhere without it.” Fancy showed her friends the other tools and smiled at their oohs and ahs of delight. When they were done admiring, she held the magnifying glass over the embroidered flower.

  “The bell-shaped petals resemble a rhododendron or azalea, I think,” Maggie said. “What do you make of those yellow specks?”

  She pointed at the tiny stitches at the center of the flower.

  “Stamen?” Gabby guessed. “I count ten of them.”

  “Why don’t I do a drawing?” Maggie suggested. “I’ll show it to my gardener; he is quite knowledgeable about such things.”

  “That is a wonderful idea,” Gabby said brightly. “We could also consult with the Ladies’ Botanical Society, if needed. I am a member.”

  Looking at the ladies’ determined faces, Fancy felt a welling of gratitude.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I don’t know how I would manage without you.”

  “That is the point of having friends, isn’t it?” Tessa’s wink was roguish and heart-warming. “None of us have to manage alone.”

  29

  The next day, as the carriage wound into the heart of Spitalfields, Severin wasn’t certain how Fancy had talked him into the current undertaking. Well, that was a lie: he did have some inkling. He suspected it had to do with the conversation he and his duchess had shared in bed the night before.

  She had been telling him about her day and visits with her new friends whilst simultaneously wending a trail down his body with her lips. She’d apparently enjoyed his prior eve’s lesson and wanted to try it again. He’d known, without a doubt, that he was a lucky bastard. Just as she had done something with her tongue that made his hips buck and his hands clench the sheets, she’d asked him for a favor.

  “Anything,” he’d said hoarsely.

  Had she asked him to take down the moon and stars for her, he would have put in his best effort just to have more of her sweet kisses.

  After he came down from the scalp-tingling bliss of spending in his wife’s mouth (and returned the favor), he’d cuddled her close and asked her what she wanted. She’d requested that he give her and Jonas a tour of his offices. His first inclination had been to deny her, for the sake of her safety and his own sanity. The last thing he needed was Jonas running amok in his manufactory.

  “You said I could have anything I wanted,” she’d said reasonably. “I’ll be safe with you and the half-dozen guards you’ve assigned to me. I think Jonas would benefit from seeing you at work. He might become less of a rabble-rouser if you gave him something productive to do.”

  Knight had sincerely doubted that Jonas was capable of producing anything but trouble. Yet seeing Fancy’s determination—and the droplet glinting at the corner of her mouth—had softened his perspective. It had hardened another part of him, however. Not wanting to waste time arguing over his brother, he’d given in and gotten down to the important business of making love to his wife until dawn.

  Which explained why he was now leading Fancy and Jonas into his offices. Not taking any chances with Fancy’s safety, he had ten guards on watch; no one was getting within an inch of his wife. He gave a brief history of the company as they headed up the stairs to the top floors where the weaving took place. Fancy was full of questions and, surprisingly, so was Jonas.

  “Why are the looms on the upper floors?” Jonas mopped his brow as they mounted the steps. “Wouldn’t it be easier not to have to lug supplies up and down all these flights?”

  “A good point,” Severin acknowledged. “Weaving, however, depends on light, which is better the higher up one goes.”

  He led them to the uppermost floor, his lips quirking at Fancy’s gasp of awe.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” she exclaimed. “Look at that view…and all those looms.”

  His sense of pride grew as he introduced some of his senior weavers to her and watched her win them over one by one. Fancy looked every inch the duchess in a navy and white striped walking dress, matching feathers in her bonnet. A navy belt with a square gold buckle circled her narrow waist. Her hands were encased in white gloves, a striped reticule that matched her dress dangling from her wrist.

  As beautiful as she was, he knew his men weren’t just responding to her physical charms. Fancy exuded natural warmth as she asked questions about their craft. The weavers eagerly showed her the basic operations: the laying down of the warp threads, the task of the weaver’s assistant who arranged those threads for a specific design, and the use of the shuttle to interlace the weft and warp threads. To the delight of the weavers, Fancy even tried her hand at passing the shuttle. The friendliness in her brown eyes was capable of disarming even the most hardened of men. This came into play in an unexpected way soon after Severin showed his wife and Jonas into his office.

  He was pointing out buildings through his window when he heard his secretary’s voice outside the door. “You cannot barge in there, Mr. Bodin. His Grace is in a meeting—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse who Knighton’s meeting with,” came the surly reply. “Get out o’ my way.”

  The door swung open with Potts, his secretary, clinging valiantly to it.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Potts sputtered. “I tried to stop him but—”

  “I’ll handle this,” Severin said. “You may go.”

  Bodin stormed in. He was a stocky, dark-haired fellow who reminded Severin of a bulldog. Bodin had his barrel-chest thrust out, his square-jawed face the essence of belligerence. His gaze veered to Fancy and Jonas, who stood frozen by the window. Severin immediately stepped in front of his wife and brother, his gaze narrowing on his erstwhile employee.

  “State your business, Bodin,” he said in glacial tones.

  “I’m ’ere to discuss the machines you purchased to replace your workers,” Bodin barked.

  “You had better know your place,” Severin said. “Or you will be seeking employ elsewhere.”

  “I ain’t afraid o’ you,” the weaver taunted. “I’ve ’ad masters before you, and I’ll ’ave masters after. What I won’t ’ave is you destroying the livelihoods o’ decent working men with damned machines.”

  “Christ,” Severin heard Jonas mutter. “The cove sounds like Eleanor.”

  Severin clenched his jaw. “If you don’t like how I run my business, then you are free to leave.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t make it that easy for you, Your Grace,” Bodin vowed. “If I leave, I’m taking the rest o’ the weavers with me. I’ll shut you down; not even your bleeding machines can run without men, and
after I’m done, I’ll see to it that no one works for you.”

  Severin’s nape chilled. Bodin was not the sort to make empty threats. He wouldn’t claim he could bring about a walk-out unless he knew he could.

  The bloody bastard’s been campaigning behind my back. Severin curled his hands. I ought to pound him to a fare-thee-well.

  “I am sure there is a better solution than that,” Fancy’s clear voice declared.

  Before Severin could stop her, she wriggled around him to face the angry weaver.

  “Who the devil are you?” Bodin demanded.

  “I’m Fancy Sheridan Knight,” she said. “Um, the Duchess of Knighton.”

  “Seeing as this is men’s business, Your Grace,” Bodin said with an insolence that made Severin tighten his fists, “you’d best leave the talking to me and your ’usband.”

  “I would, if you were actually talking to one another,” Fancy said brightly. “But as my da always says, bargaining involves more than flapping your lips. You ’ave to listen as well.”

  Bodin narrowed his eyes. “’Ow does your sainted father know so much about bargaining, eh?”

  “’E’s a tinker,” Fancy said promptly. “Bartering is ’is livelihood.”

  “Is this some sort o’ jest?” Bodin swung an incredulous glance at Severin. “You expect me to believe that you married a tinker’s daughter?”

  “You’ll show Her Grace the proper respect,” Severin snapped.

  “I’m sure Mr. Bodin meant no disrespect.” Fancy smiled—actually smiled—at the bugger. “After all, ’e’s just calling me what I am. I ain’t ashamed o’ my da’s trade.”

  “Nor should you be,” Bodin said sternly, crossing his arms over his burly chest. “Working men ’ave no cause to be ashamed o’ their ’ard-earned living.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Fancy said earnestly. “I was brought up to value a good day’s work. My da taught me the skills o’ ’is trade.”

  “Good for you, missy—” Bodin frowned and caught himself. “I mean, Your Grace.”

  “It’s all right. I’m still not used to being addressed by my title,” Fancy admitted. “For most o’ my life, people just called me by my first name.”

  “Fancy—” Severin said in a warning tone.

  “See?” she said cheerfully to Bodin.

  “Fancy’s a fine name,” the weaver said. “And it’s a breath o’ fresh air to meet a lady who doesn’t put on airs.”

  “Putting on airs is ’arder than you think,” Fancy confided. “I’m trying to learn ’ow to do it.”

  “I prefer ’onesty to uppity manners. My wife Meg is as blunt as a ’ammer, and I like it that way.” After a pause, he added, “As it ’appens, Meg’s pa is a tinker.”

  “No! Really?” Fancy exclaimed. “Does ’er pa travel in the countryside? Maybe ’e knows my da, Milton Sheridan?”

  “My father-in-law is based in London. Couldn’t say one way or another whether ’e’s acquainted with your family, ma’am.” Bodin cleared his throat. “Now as much as I’ve enjoyed talking to you, I’ve business to discuss with your ’usband—”

  “Important business, I know,” Fancy said, nodding. “Knight ’as told me all about it.”

  “’As ’e now?” Bodin raised his heavy brows. “What did ’is lordship ’ave to say on the matter?”

  This had gone far enough. Too far already, by Severin’s reckoning. When he looked at Fancy, however, he saw the imploring look in her eyes.

  Trust me, she seemed to be saying. You wanted to be a team, remember?

  He found he couldn’t bring himself to put a stop to her stratagem. He wanted to see where she meant to take things and was prepared to jump in with both fists if Bodin showed her the slightest insult. For once, however, the weaver’s belligerence seemed tempered by what Severin was beginning to recognize as…respect.

  “Knight said you were a man o’ principle,” Fancy was saying.

  Bodin snorted. “Pull my other leg, ma’am. It’s shorter.”

  “It’s true. My ’usband said you truly believe that you’re doing the right thing by your fellow workers, and I believe ’e admires you for it. Because ’e wants the same thing.”

  “If that were true, ’e ’as a peculiar way o’ showing it. ’E’s building machines in secret at one o’ ’is warehouses to replace us weavers,” Bodin accused.

  “I am testing the machines,” Severin corrected. “Until I know for certain that they will improve productivity, I see no need to disclose my actions to the competition.”

  “You see? ’E’s not keeping a secret, merely trying to gain a competitive edge.” Fancy’s tone was calming. “An edge that will ’elp preserve the jobs o’ ’is workers.”

  “Workers ’e means to replace with machines,” Bodin shot back.

  “Machines can’t run themselves, can they?” she asked in a sensible tone. “Men will still be needed. Now their work might be changing, but it’ll be work just the same. As my da always says, the key to tinkering ain’t about skills: it’s about the ability to adapt those skills to any situation.”

  “’Ow are weavers supposed to adapt to these bloody modern contraptions?”

  Although Bodin’s expression remained suspicious, he sounded less hostile. Could it be that the weaver was actually listening for once? Then Severin was flummoxed to realize that he, himself, was picking up something new: worry threaded the other’s tone. Perhaps it had always been there, hidden beneath that bellicosity.

  Severin’s own anger began to wane as he realized Bodin was awaiting an answer.

  “I’ll provide training,” he said curtly. “Once I verify that the machines are, indeed, of use.”

  Bodin squared his shoulders. “You’ll guarantee that no weaver will lose ’is livelihood?”

  “I make no guarantees. But any man who is willing to learn the new technology will have a chance to continue working for me. Change is going to happen, whether or not you, or I, like it,” Severin said. “Factories in other countries are modernizing, producing silk and other fabrics in greater quantities and cheaper prices. If we don’t adapt and embrace the new technology, our entire industry will die, and there will be no jobs of any kind for weavers, that I can guarantee you.”

  Bodin’s jaw worked, but he said nothing.

  “So you see, sir, you and Knight are fighting on the same side.” Fancy’s tone was soft and persuasive, Severin noted with amusement, even as she went in for the kill. “The futures o’ the weavers depend on making this new technology work. And that would go a lot easier if you and Knight could band together, convince the other men that this is the path to the future.”

  She gave Severin a meaningful look. Taking her cue, he extended his hand.

  “What say you, Bodin? Shall we work together?” he asked.

  Bodin stared at the hand offered to him and made no move to take it. Severin told himself that he’d expected this. Nothing in life came easy, and if a bloodbath was what Bodin wanted, then that was what he would get.

  Severin began to withdraw his hand, only to find it grasped in a beefy grip.

  “All right, Your Grace,” Bodin said. “We’ll give the machine a shot.”

  Hiding his surprise, Severin returned the crushing handshake. “I am glad to hear it.”

  Fancy beamed at both of them. “So am I.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Your Grace,” Bodin said. “My Meg will be tickled when I tell ’er I met another tinker’s daughter.”

  “I’d like to meet Mrs. Bodin,” Fancy said warmly. “Would she come by for tea one afternoon?”

  “I’m sure she’d enjoy that.” With gruff admiration, the weaver added, “Ain’t often she gets invited to tea by a true lady.”

  30

  A couple evenings later, Fancy waited anxiously to be announced at Maggie’s ball. She and Knight were standing in the receiving line that led into the ballroom; Esther, Jonas, and Cecily were behind them. Peering into the glittering sea, Fancy felt her
heart flip-flop like a fish out of water. She nervously ran her gloved hands over the skirts of her new wine-colored gown.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Knight said in an undertone. “You will do fine.”

  “I’m not fidgeting,” Fancy whispered back. “I was straightening my dress.”

  “I can see you tapping your slipper from here,” Cecily said from behind her.

  There was no heat in Cecily’s voice, however. When Fancy turned to look at Knight’s sister, she saw that the girl wasn’t sulking. In fact, Cecily’s face glowed with excitement unobscured by any cosmetic. Learning from wily Aunt Esther, Fancy had made Cecily’s invitation to Maggie’s ball conditional upon two things: the girl had to forgo the face paint and allow Fancy to have the final say on her gown.

  Although Cecily had pouted, she’d agreed to the terms. She was a natural beauty, with her tawny hair in dangling ringlets, her green eyes sparkling as she took in the gaiety of the ball. She wore a lilac satin ballgown that showed off her slender figure yet remained modest, thanks to the demure ruffle Fancy had sewn to the neckline. Cecily had been over the moon when she’d learned Fancy had secured her an appointment with Madame Rousseau to have new dresses made.

  “You have no reason to be nervous, Fancy,” Jonas drawled.

  He had Cecily on one arm, Aunt Esther on the other, and looked quite dashing in his formal evening wear. Fancy had convinced him to trim his hair, and he’d blushed when she told him the ladies would find him even more handsome now that they could see his eyes.

  “If you can defend Knighton against an angry weaver,” he added, “then surely you can take on the beau monde.”

  Fancy darted a glance at Knight and was relieved to see amusement in his eyes. She’d been worried that she’d overstepped yesterday during the encounter with Mr. Bodin. When she’d fretted about it last night, Knight had reassured her that he valued her help. Then he’d expressed his appreciation in another way. A way that made her toes curl in her slippers just thinking about it now.

  As if he had gleaned her thoughts, Knight’s gaze heated.