“This is a Trewlove pub?”
“My sister Gillie’s,” Fancy told him.
“The duchess.”
She smiled because keeping up with her family members was a task, and it seemed he’d already mastered it. “Yes.”
Coming to her feet, aware of him quickly following suit, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a crown. Unfortunately, the newspaper clipping came out with it and fluttered down to land near the toe of his polished boot. Before she could react, he was reaching down to gather it up. She pressed the coin into the serving girl’s hand. “This is for you, Becky.”
“Ah, Miss Trewlove, ye don’t ’ave—”
“You took such good care of us. Thank you.”
The girl gave a quick bob of her knees. “Appreciate it, miss, sir.” Then someone was calling for her, and she was racing off to see to another’s needs.
When Fancy looked at Mr. Sommersby, it was to discover him staring at the embarrassing clipping that had the audacity to open itself up as it made its way down to the floor. She held out her hand. “I’ll relieve you of that now.”
“Why would you carry this about with you?”
“Because I find the letter terribly romantic and enjoy reading it. And if I may be honest”—she didn’t know why she felt a need to confess to him, perhaps because she feared without further justification, he would think her a silly chit—“I hope to meet Lord Rosemont at the ball next week and have the opportunity to spend time in his company.” To offer her condolences, to come to know better a man who had given his wife so much of his heart.
Mr. Sommersby hesitated several heartbeats before carefully folding the letter and placing it in her waiting palm. “It is a dangerous thing, indeed, Miss Trewlove, to fall in love with a man before ever having met him.”
Chapter 4
If the mutinous glimmer in her eyes was any indication, Miss Trewlove had not taken kindly to his remark. He didn’t know why he’d made it. What did he care if she went around snipping poppycock from newspapers and carrying it about in her pocket?
Perhaps because he realized, much to his mortification, that he’d misjudged her. He’d viewed her as open and honest, had begun to take more than a casual interest in her, only to learn that a devious mind possibly lurked behind those deep brown eyes that reminded him of a doe he’d adopted as a pet when he was a lad and spent most of his time in the countryside.
It irked, irked that she was planning to land a lord and would use any means necessary to obtain him. He found it more irritating that because of a daft letter, she might possibly be setting her sights on the Earl of Rosemont.
“I’m not in love with him,” she finally snapped, stuffing the clipping back into her skirt pocket. “His wife adored him, and I find it commendable that he should inspire such devotion. But more, her entreaty to bring him out of his sorrow touched my heart. Not that it’s any of your concern nor should I have to justify myself.” She heaved an impatient sigh. “Thank you for providing conversation during dinner. It’s late. I must be off.”
It had grown dark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a leisurely meal. Generally, he wolfed down his food so the task of providing his body with sustenance was done, and he could move on to drink. “I’ll escort you back to your shop.”
“I’m fine on my own. No one would dare accost me. They know my brothers would see them dead.”
“You’re assuming everyone hereabouts knows you’re a Trewlove. I didn’t.”
She opened her mouth to protest, and quickly shut it, obviously coming to the realization he’d already won the argument. “I can’t stop you if you’ve a mind to accompany me.”
However, she was certainly determined to give it a go, because she turned on her heel and marched briskly for the door, a couple of lads jumping out of her way, obviously realizing they were in danger of being mowed down. Just as she neared the door, he easily caught up to her, reached around her, grabbed the handle, and pulled. She passed over the threshold with a muttered “thank you” that, for some inexplicable reason, made him smile for the second time that evening. He’d grown accustomed to happiness being absent for some time and it was a strange thing to feel it tapping on his shoulder.
In silence, guided by the lit streetlamps, they crossed the street and strolled along the bricked pavement until they arrived at her shop. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a key. This time no paper fluttered to the ground. After unlocking the door, she went still a heartbeat before looking over her shoulder. “I hope you won’t be a stranger to the shop, Mr. Sommersby.”
She was protecting her business. In spite of her ambitions. Or perhaps because of them. She didn’t strike him as a woman who would accept failure of any kind, including when it came to securing her lord. “I’m certain I’ll be in want of another book before long, Miss Trewlove. Sleep well.”
Pushing open the door, she slipped through and closed it in her wake. He heard the turn of the lock. She’d left a gaslight burning, and he waited until the main part of her shop went dark. Although the windows sporting little shelves for books and knickknacks prevented him from having a clear view inside, he still managed to follow the journey of a lamp’s glow as it rose higher—no doubt her climbing the stairs—until it disappeared from his sight, assuring him that she would soon be safely tucked into her rooms. Glancing around, he considered returning to the pub for another brew but as she was no longer there, the din within those walls that usually drowned out his thoughts didn’t hold much appeal.
He headed down the street and turned the corner. Looking up at the brick building, he could see pale light spilling out of a window on the top floor. She was in her rooms now, undoubtedly preparing for bed, removing the pins from her midnight-black hair, dragging the brush through the long strands. Braiding it. Then she would slowly unbutton the bodice of her navy frock—
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt. He was not going to be enticed into falling into her web of deceit by her passion for books or her ability to create a shop that invited one in and offered comfort as welcoming as a warm blanket on a chilly evening. Or her large eyes or her pretty face or her kindness to a pub serving girl or her welcoming of a stranger.
He passed the mews that ran between her shop and his residence. Continuing on, he took a right at the street, turned up the path to his terrace house, jogged up the steps, and let himself in. Reaching for the gaslight, he turned up the flame until the soft yellow glow illuminated the front parlor. He went straight ahead through the tiny hallway, ignoring the narrow stairs that led to the floor where he slept, and entered the small room where he ate the meals prepared by the woman he’d hired to come in daily to cook in the small kitchen beyond and keep things tidy. A stuffed chair rested near the fireplace, and he’d spent many an evening reading there. He went over to the plain table that housed a solitary decanter and poured himself a tumbler of scotch.
With comfort in hand, he climbed the stairs. At the top, the narrow landing branched off into a door on either side. He went through the one on his right, into his bedchamber, simply furnished with a fourposter bed, a table beside it, an armoire across from it, and a high-backed brocade chair in the corner. He carried on until he reached the window.
Taking a sip of his scotch, he leaned a shoulder against the window casing. When he was in a contemplative mood, he preferred to become lost in whatever lay beyond his own window. In the early mornings, he’d watched drays pulled by large horses make their way through the mews. Late at night, he’d often witnessed drunkards stumbling around. He’d seen a number of cats, a few dogs, and the occasional child. And sometimes, like tonight, his gaze would drift upward to the faint glow from her window spilling into the darkness and defeating a small part of it. Often he wished it would reach into his soul and conquer the black void that resided there.
Because it was a terrible abyss of emptiness and despair, craving that which he’d never possessed and never would: love. Having put his heart at risk
once, he was determined to never do so again.
Watching shadows moving behind the drawn curtains on the top floor of the bookshop, he wondered if the window looked into her bedchamber, if he was observing his neighbor preparing for sleep. He wondered if Fancy Trewlove took the Earl of Rosemont into her dreams.
The poor girl was going to be disappointed when she attended her first ball because her hopes of being introduced to Rosemont would be dashed. He would not bow before her, take her hand, and kiss it. He would not ask her for a dance, hold her in his arms, and sweep her over a polished parquet floor. He wouldn’t tell her that she had the most expressive brown eyes he’d ever seen. He wouldn’t confess that more than once during dinner, he’d decided that her mouth had been perfectly designed for kissing.
No, the Earl of Rosemont would do none of those things.
Because now he knew her plans, and he wanted no part of them or her.
Chapter 5
At half seven the following morning, Fancy rapped her knuckles on the door to her brother’s suite of rooms in the hotel. It was quickly opened by a tall footman who bowed deferentially. “Good morning, Miss Trewlove.”
“How are you this fine morning, James?” She skirted around him, removed her hat and gloves, and handed them over to him.
“Very fine, miss. It’s kind of you to inquire.”
Hardly. It was simply good manners, although she was given to understand the nobility never thanked their servants or engaged them in idle conversation. “I’ll see myself to breakfast.”
“Very good, miss.”
As she made her way down the corridor, she couldn’t help but reflect at how comfortable she felt within her brother’s lodgings. As she stepped into the smaller dining room, Mick set his newspaper aside and came to his feet. Not that he’d been reading it. Rather he’d been leaning toward his wife seated beside him and telling her something that caused her cheeks to turn a pinkish hue. Fancy wanted that, a man who, long after they’d been married, would whisper wicked things in her ear.
“Good morning, little sister,” Mick said, the normal teasing tinging his tone because she was not only the youngest but the smallest of Ettie Trewlove’s children. Even Gillie was nearly as tall as her brothers. “How are you this morning?”
A bit tired. Thanks to Mr. Sommersby, she’d not slept well. Surreptitiously parting the drapes just enough to peer through them, she’d seen him standing in the window of his bedchamber, looking out. Because he was too far away for her to see his features clearly, she couldn’t be sure if he was staring at the mews or the sky or even had his eyes closed. His movements, however, were more discernible. He’d leaned against the window casing and sipped something. Scotch most likely. Lazily, languidly. As though the view were arresting and deserving of his utmost attention.
She’d taken those damned green eyes into her slumber and dreamed of a man who enjoyed reading penny dreadfuls, whispering the words provocatively in her ear as his hands stroked places that had never been stroked by a man. She’d grown warm, writhing with need, only to awaken to find her blankets and sheet on the floor, Dickens peering out from beneath the mound with a narrowed glare, leaving her to wonder if perhaps she’d kicked him out of the bed as well. Not that she would confess all that to her brother.
“Doing very well, thank you. And you?” She headed for the sideboard where his personal cook had prepared a virtual feast, not that any of it would go to waste. Aslyn always distributed any remaining food to area shelters tasked with feeding the hungry.
“Couldn’t be better.”
She walked to the table where a footman pulled out a chair for her. After sitting, she looked at Aslyn. “And you?”
“Perfect.”
“In every way,” Mick added as he took his seat.
Of all her brothers, Mick was the last one she’d ever expected to be so frightfully besotted. Another reason she didn’t often take her dinners here. While she was ecstatic that the couple had fallen so madly in love, it was difficult to watch when she had yet to acquire the same level of devotion. Besides, she often felt like an intruder, knowing if she weren’t present a good deal more touching, stroking, and kissing would go on.
“How did you spend your evening?” Mick asked.
“I had dinner at the Jolly Roger. When I returned to the shop, I stacked five books on my head and walked up the stairs balancing them—”
“Did you really?” Aslyn asked. “Five?”
Fancy smiled softly, imagining her sister-by-marriage had spent a good deal of time balancing books atop her head because she possessed one of the finest postures around. “No, I was only jesting. I think I have my walk down pat. I didn’t practice anything at all. I simply read.” She thought about mentioning Mr. Sommersby, finding out if Mick knew anything at all about his tenant, but she wanted to hold the gentleman close, keep him just for herself. She also wanted to avoid an inquisition. How had she met him? How well did she know him? Was he trustworthy? How did she know? And it wouldn’t do at all for it to be known she’d spent time in his company without a chaperone, although she could effectively argue she’d been watched over by the staff at the Jolly Roger. He might even take it upon himself to send Mr. Sommersby packing if he thought the man would distract Fancy from reaching the goal her family had set for her.
“You will have little time for reading once your Season gets underway,” Aslyn said. “I’ve been making a list of the women on whom we’ll make morning calls after your introduction into Society. And I’ve no doubt some will make calls upon you. I’m wondering if it might be better if you spent your days here, since we’ll let it be known that ours is the residence where you will take callers. We’ll certainly want the gentlemen to visit you here, so you can be properly chaperoned.”
“You’re optimistic. I think it’ll work exceedingly well if you simply send a servant over to fetch me when I’m needed.” She didn’t want to give up any more time in her shop than she had to because a day would arrive when she’d have to give it up altogether. “Perhaps I’ll even entertain a few in the shop. I could serve tea in the reading parlor.” It was a room above the shop set aside for people to lounge about in comfortable chairs and read to their heart’s content. “It would only require having one of your maids come over to prepare tea in the kitchen in my lodgings.”
“I suppose that’s an option. Shall we see how it goes?” Which meant Aslyn didn’t much like the option. “And, of course, there are always the gardens here.”
Behind the hotel, away from the street, Mick had created an oasis of greenery where his guests could take tea, read, or stroll about. It might be more relaxing, less taxing, to take her callers there. If she had callers. She was striving to keep her expectations modest and realistic so as not to be frightfully disappointed when her entrée into Society happened at a snail’s pace.
With her fork, she poked at her buttered eggs. Suddenly nothing before her seemed appetizing. Perhaps because the thought of gentlemen calling on her reminded her of Mr. Sommersby’s admonishment. It is a dangerous thing, indeed, to fall in love with a man before ever having met him.
Mr. Sommersby’s reaction had taken her aback. He’d sounded almost jealous, although certainly she’d misread that. They’d only just met, and he hadn’t given any indication he had anything other than a friendly interest in her—if even that. Perhaps it was simply that he held a disdain for the aristocracy. He might be a gentleman of means, but if he was living in this area of London and not Mayfair, then his means were no doubt quite modest.
As she’d told him, she was not in love with the Earl of Rosemont. The letter merely served as an example of what Fancy hoped to acquire. Still it had been embarrassing to be caught with it in her pocket. “Aslyn, are you acquainted with Lord Rosemont?”
The widening of her eyes indicated she was surprised by the question. It was one Fancy should have thought to ask sooner since Aslyn had once inhabited the same world as the earl.
“We were introdu
ced, yes, but only in passing. We never spoke at length. I suppose you’re thinking of the letter his wife arranged to be printed in the Times.”
“I know it’s silly to place such stock in a letter a woman wrote on her deathbed, but that’s the very reason I find it so compelling, so persuasive—that she would go to such bother before leaving this world. He must be an extraordinary man.”
“One would think. However, knowing he would never be a suitor, I paid very little attention to him.” She gave a light laugh. “Although to be honest, I saw most men as only a potential dance partner and little else because I always expected to marry Kipwick.” The Duke of Hedley’s son and heir. Mick had stolen her away from him, originally with the intention of ruining her, but then she’d conquered his heart.
Fancy watched as Aslyn reached over and threaded her fingers through Mick’s. He brought them to his lips and simply held them there, meeting her gaze, his warming. “The best laid plans and all that.”
Aslyn arched a delicate brow. “Are you referring to yours or mine?”
He chuckled low. “Both.”
Fancy knew any further conversation on Lord Rosemont would not be had now as the couple were becoming lost in each other. She folded her linen napkin and set it beside her plate. “I should be off.”
Guiltily, Aslyn looked at her. “But you hardly ate.”
“I had more than enough. Thank you for inviting me to breakfast. Don’t bother getting up, Mick.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ll see myself out.”
As she was walking from the room, she heard soft murmuring, a sigh.
Once she left Mick’s apartments and was out in the hallway, she glanced over at the glass double doors with “Trewlove” etched in them. She could see Mr. Tittlefitz, Mick’s secretary, already at his desk. She wandered over, pushed open one of the doors, and stepped in. He immediately jumped to his feet.
“Miss Trewlove. What a delightful surprise.”
The Earl Takes a Fancy Page 4