“What a lucky fellow I am,” he said softly. “To have a duchess who is not only beautiful but an invaluable helpmate as well. Now, relax, my sweet.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Tonight, we Knightons will take the ton by storm.”
Smiling tremulously, she nodded.
“Not the kind that leaves a trail of destruction in its wake, one hopes,” Aunt Esther said.
The lady’s flawless delivery of the witticism dispelled Fancy’s tension.
She was giggling, and Knight’s eyes were gleaming with laughter when the butler announced, “The Duke and Duchess of Knighton!”
As Severin watched his wife whirl around the dance floor with their host, the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville, pride inflated his chest.
Fancy’s debut in Society was a success. He didn’t know how he could have doubted her. Through her hard work and ingenuity, she had transformed herself from a tinker’s daughter into the belle of the ball.
She looked breathtaking in a gown of claret velvet that matched her lips and the ruby ring he’d given her. The rich shade suited her coloring, and Madame Rousseau had earned every penny of her hefty bill with the design of the gown. The off-the-shoulder bodice showcased Fancy’s smooth shoulders, accentuating the fullness of her bosom and slenderness of her waist. The sleeves and hem of the domed skirts had been artfully adorned with vibrant silk flowers.
With a touch of whimsy, Severin thought that his wife could be a storybook faerie queen cavorting with mortals for the eve. As she laughed at something her partner said, he felt a tug of jealousy. Not because he questioned Fancy’s fidelity or that of the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville, whose devotion to his own beautiful duchess was the stuff of legend. No, Severin was jealous simply because he wanted his wife—all of her, even her laughter—to himself.
The realization caused a rattling of a dark cage inside him. He flashed to the teetering bag of bricks, the smashed rubble, how fragile and stricken Fancy had looked. He saw his own mama, blade in hand, her eyes unrecognizable. And he felt the icy burn of the scar, a reminder that everything that mattered could be taken away in an instant.
“Knighton, I did not expect to see you here,” came the familiar, bell-like tones.
Seeing Imogen gliding toward him, he exhaled, slamming the lid on chaos.
“Good evening, Lady Cardiff.” He bowed politely over her hand.
Imogen carried herself with the confidence of a woman who knows that she will stand out in any room she enters. She was as perfect as an oil painting. Her rose-gold hair was artfully twisted upon her head, her lissome figure draped in ice-blue silk. The collar of sapphires circling her slender neck was no match for her eyes.
She smiled at him. “Your siblings are doing well this eve.”
“They are, aren’t they?” He looked out into the ballroom. “The credit goes to my wife.”
Cecily, he saw, was taking a turn around the dance floor with a respectable lord, Aunt Esther watching the pair with eagle eyes. Jonas was fetching lemonade for a debutante. And Fancy…he frowned. She had been asked to dance again, this time by a handsome buck he did not know.
“Your duchess is making quite the splash. That is Lord Egerton dancing with her,” Imogen said. “He is newly returned from Italy, where he is studying to be a sculptor, I believe.”
Sculptor, is he? Severin narrowed his eyes as Egerton pulled Fancy closer than necessary during a spin. If the bastard wants to keep his hands, then he had better keep them off my wife.
“He has a reputation for being a rake, but I shouldn’t worry. Lady Knighton strikes me as a lady who can take care of herself.”
Hearing the light rebuff in Imogen’s words, Severin felt his neck heat. Was his possessiveness obvious? Did he look like a fool?
“I am not worried,” he said brusquely.
“Of course not. I apologize for misspeaking.”
Hearing the quiver in Imogen’s voice, he cursed himself inwardly. He thought back to the hours she’d spent teaching him how to be a gentleman, what a good friend she had been to him when he had had no others. It wasn’t her fault that he was distracted. That he was a jealous fool who wanted to punch any man who danced with his wife.
“You said nothing wrong.” He softened his tone. “Did I mention how lovely you look tonight?”
“You think so?” Her eyes shone. “Cardiff didn’t like my gown. He prefers darker colors, but you have always liked me in the lighter shades. Remember the gown I wore to my debut? You told me I looked like an angel.”
Discomfort tread up Severin’s spine. “That was a long time ago.”
“Forever, it seems,” she said wistfully. “And yet also like yesterday…at least for me.”
Guilt constricted his chest. He felt suddenly as if a chasm had opened between the past and the present, and he had a foothold in each. He struggled to maintain his balance, to not fall into the dark abyss. All he knew was that standing here, talking with Imogen, he didn’t feel…right.
He scanned the room for Fancy. She’d left the dance floor and was standing with a circle of ladies—the hostess and the wives of Kent and Garrity. His wife was laughing, bright as a flame in her red gown, and he had the urge to warm himself by her fire.
He turned to Imogen. “I must speak with some friends. Shall I return you to your husband?”
“Cardiff isn’t here,” she said. “That is for the better.”
The look that flashed through Imogen’s eyes made him frown. Before he could ask her what she meant, she drew her shoulders back.
“I shan’t keep you from your friends, Knighton,” she said stiffly. “Good evening.”
She walked away.
Fancy laughed with her friends even though she had no idea what they were saying.
The evening had started with such triumph. She had managed to enter the ballroom with dignity and grace…at least, she hadn’t fallen on her face as she’d feared. Jonas and Cecily were behaving. Knight had partnered Fancy in a waltz, the first time they’d danced together. He was a masterful leader, and she’d floated in his arms, cherishing every moment of it.
Although she would have been content to dance the night away in her husband’s arms, she’d learned enough from Aunt Esther to know that a fashionable couple did not live in each other’s pockets. Her dance card had filled with astonishing quickness, and she’d obligingly twirled around the floor with a number of partners.
After the last dance had ended, she’d been claimed by Tessa, Gabby, and Maggie. The ladies were delightful company as usual, and while chatting and sipping champagne with them, she’d looked around the room for Knight. It had taken her awhile to find him because he’d been standing half-hidden by some potted palms…with Imogen.
Fancy’s pleasure in the evening had faded as she saw, between the fronds, her husband lean his head down to catch something Imogen was saying. With a sickening pang of jealousy, she’d had to confront what a perfect picture they made. Imogen was breathtaking in an icy blue gown that showcased her willowy figure. Knight, tall and darkly handsome in his elegant evening wear, was her natural foil.
Heart hammering, Fancy had made herself look away. She’d chided herself for being silly, a jealous fishwife. Knight had never lied about his past with Imogen; their history was complicated. And if the two were to meet up in public, of course they wouldn’t ignore one another. It made sense that they would have a chat as old friends.
“Fancy, is something the matter?”
Her gaze flew to Maggie, who was regarding her with concerned green eyes.
“N-no,” she stammered. “I was just, um, woolgathering.”
“You are a bit flushed.” Maggie’s brow pleated. “Is it too stuffy in here? I could have the windows opened.”
“No, I’m fine,” Fancy said quickly.
“I don’t think it’s the room temperature that has her blood boiling,” Tessa said.
Fancy’s face heated at the shrewd observation. Tessa wasn’t the Duchess of Covent G
arden for nothing. The lady had a sharp mind and blunt tongue to go with her generous heart.
“What is it then?” Gabby asked, her blue eyes confused.
“Over by the potted palms,” Tessa muttered. “Well, don’t all look at once. He’ll see you looking, and Fancy wouldn’t want that.”
Taking turns, Gabby and Maggie peered over at Knight and Imogen before quickly turning back to the group.
“Who is she?” Gabby asked in a hushed voice.
“Lady Imogen Cardiff,” Maggie said. “I don’t know her well. Her husband is an acquaintance of Ransom’s.”
“She and Knight knew each other as children.” Fancy spoke up before her friends could speculate any further. “They’re just old friends.”
“Then why do you look like a puppy that just got kicked?” Tessa asked.
“Fancy doesn’t look like a puppy.” Gabby paused, her auburn brows knitting. “Well, except around the eyes, but I mean that as the greatest compliment. Your eyes are ever so soulful, Fancy.”
“Um, thank you.” Swallowing, Fancy confided, “I just wish I was as elegant as Lady Cardiff.”
“She’s not that elegant,” Tessa said in the way of a loyal friend. “And you’re prettier.”
“Sometimes it is not just about being pretty though, is it?” Gabby’s eyes rounded with sympathy. “It’s about feeling like you are. It took me a long time to feel confident in my looks…and in myself.”
Fancy stared at the redhead, who looked ravishing in a violet taffeta gown that showed off her ample curves. “But you’re so lovely.”
“So are you,” Gabby returned. “But it doesn’t mean anything unless you feel your own worth.”
“If a lady doesn’t feel beautiful,” Tessa put in, “then I blame the husband.”
“Knight is the most considerate of husbands,” Fancy protested.
“Drawing room considerate?” Tessa raised her brows. “Or bedchamber considerate?”
“Tessa,” Gabby said, giggling. “That’s wicked. You’ll shock poor Fancy.”
“I’m not shocked,” Fancy said, although her cheeks throbbed with heat. “He’s considerate…um, everywhere.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Tessa declared.
“I second that notion, and I can do that without inquiring about the, ahem, rooms of your marriage.” Maggie leaned forward, her smile conspiratorial. “Knighton might be conversing with Lady Cardiff, but he has been secretly looking your way this entire time.”
“Truly?” Fancy breathed.
“Not only is he looking your way, now he’s headed here,” Tessa said in an urgent rush. “We cannot let him know we were talking about him. Quick, ladies, laugh.”
Thus, Fancy found herself joining in, with no idea what she was laughing at.
“Good evening, ladies.” Knight’s deep voice cut in. “May I join the loveliest and merriest group at the ball?”
“Of course you may, Your Grace,” Maggie said with a smile.
Knight picked up Fancy’s hand, casually kissing the gloved knuckles. “Care to share the source of your hilarity, sweeting?”
Fancy stammered, “W-we were, um, just laughing over…over…”
Her brain froze; she was a terrible liar.
“Puppies,” Gabby blurted.
Knight tilted his head quizzically. “What is so amusing about puppies, Mrs. Garrity?”
“Oh, you know, they’re round and, um, ever so soft…and have such big, soulful eyes. Some have the cutest spots, too,” Gabby babbled, her face as red as her hair.
Clearly, she was no better at lying than Fancy was.
“I…see,” Knight said, giving her a strange look.
Luckily, the other husbands materialized at their wives’ sides, providing a welcome distraction. Ransom, a dashing fellow with a short beard and mustache, apologized to the group, saying that he had a dancing emergency…and whisked his duchess off to the dance floor.
“I saw you ladies laughing uproariously,” Mr. Kent said to Tessa. “Care to share, sprite?”
“We were just gossiping, that’s all,” Tessa said blithely.
“I thought you were talking about puppies?” Knight lifted his brows.
“Amongst other topics, none of which were of consequence,” Tessa evaded deftly. “Gentlemen, now that we have you here, how goes the investigation of Fancy’s origins?”
Fancy had to hand it to Tessa: the lady knew how to take a situation in hand.
Mr. Garrity spoke first. “My men have located three Charleys who worked the streets of St. James’s. One recalled that a child went missing from a well-to-do merchant around the time in question, but the child was a boy.”
“We’ve had disappointing results in St. George Hanover Square,” Mr. Kent said, his bespectacled gaze somber. “Finding those Charleys takes leg work. When we do find them, I cannot tell if their reporting is reliable or if they are making up a story to get some coin.”
“That is because you’re honest, darling,” his wife said. “I can always tell when someone is lying.”
“Takes one to know one?” Mr. Kent said dryly. “Should I be worried?”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “I would never lie to you, of course.”
Fancy had to giggle at Mr. Kent’s long-suffering look.
Lips twitching, Knight said, “The Charleys we located in Piccadilly didn’t recall anything useful either. On the bright side, my guards have been keeping a close watch, and they’ve seen nothing suspicious and no signs of threat to Fancy.”
“That is good news,” Mr. Kent said. “And I also spoke with my brother Ambrose. He’s consulting with his Bow Street Runner contacts, and I should hear back from him soon.”
“Maggie told us her gardener identified the flower on Fancy’s christening gown,” Tessa said. “He thinks it is a species of rhododendron, due to the shape of the petals and number of stamen.”
“Interesting, but not enough to lead us anywhere,” Mr. Garrity said. “We’ll keep interrogating the Charleys. At present, however, I believe I will claim my wife for this waltz.”
He held his arm out to Gabby, who gazed dreamily at him as they headed to the dance floor.
“Chérie?” Knight’s eyes smiled at Fancy, and he was so handsome that her heart hurt. “May I have the pleasure of a second waltz?”
She nodded mutely and took his arm.
Behind her, she heard Mr. Kent say, “Well, my dear, if you can’t beat them…”
“Let’s join them,” his wife replied with a laugh.
31
Leaving Maggie and Ransom’s ball that night, Fancy felt like she was floating on air. The waltz still played in her head, and she hummed along as they exited the gracious townhouse with Jonas, Cecily, and Aunt Esther.
“Did you enjoy the evening, sweeting?” Knight asked.
“I did,” she said. “Especially dancing with you.”
“The pleasure was mine.” His eyes soft as smoke, he said, “Wait here. I’ll see where our carriage is.”
Leaving her and their family in the care of guards, he headed out into the foggy cobblestone street crammed with vehicles.
“That went passably well I thought,” Aunt Esther remarked.
From Aunt Esther, that was praise indeed.
“Yes, it was—” Fancy began.
“Your Highness,” an urgent voice said. “I must speak to you.”
Confused, Fancy turned in the direction of the raspy female voice. A woman stood several yards away beneath a streetlamp. The yellow light limned her cloaked figure, her loose and scraggly hair, the deep fissures age had worn into her face. Her deep-set eyes had a wild glow.
Before Fancy could react, the guards closed ranks around her.
“Stay back, Your Grace. We’ll ’andle this,” one said.
Another addressed the woman. “Keep your distance, mort.”
“You must listen to me, Your Highness…” The woman advanced.
“Stay back,” one of
the guards warned, drawing his pistol.
“I mean no harm—”
The woman never finished her sentence for a carriage stopped beside her, a group of men in dark coats alighting and descending upon her like a flock of vultures. They circled her, blocking her from Fancy’s view. The woman screamed and then…nothing.
“Fancy!” Knight’s voice, his pounding footsteps. He appeared at her side, his breaths harsh, his eyes blazing. “Are you all right?”
“I-I’m fine.” Numbly, Fancy realized that her teeth were chattering. “A w-woman came out of nowhere. The g-guards protected me.”
“Stay with Her Grace,” Knight told the guards grimly. “I’ll see what this is about.”
She grabbed his arm. “Be careful—”
“I’ll be right back, sweeting. Stay here.”
He strode off toward the huddle of dark coats. Fancy watched, pulse racing, as he spoke with the group’s leader, a short, thin man wearing a dark hat. After a few moments, the men stepped aside for Knight to have a look at the woman. Fancy’s chest clenched when she glimpsed the piteous figure slumped like a ragdoll against the lamppost.
Her thoughts whirled. Why would that woman want to hurt me? What is going on?
A wagon stopped next to Knight and the gathered group. The cabin was enclosed, with bars over the windows, the kind of conveyance used to transport criminals and madmen. The back of the cabin opened, more men in black coats descending. They hefted the unconscious woman into the wagon as if she were a sack of coal and shut the door.
Knight exchanged a few words with the leader before the latter joined the driver on the perch of the wagon, and the vehicle rattled off into the night.
“What was that about?” Fancy blurted the instant Knight returned.
“We’ll talk in the carriage,” he said.
They piled into their conveyance, ladies on one side, gentlemen on the other, and Knight shared what he learned. The man he’d been talking to was Dr. Karl Erlenmeyer, an Austrian physician specializing in mental disease. Dr. Erlenmeyer ran Brookfield Asylum, a private institute for the insane located in Highgate. The woman who’d accosted Fancy was one of his patients.
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