The Earl Takes a Fancy

by Lorraine Heath

  After they left, she wandered through the shop, and everywhere she looked she had memories of Matthew. Waltzing around the shelves, tucking her hair behind her ear, lifting her onto the counter and kissing her senseless.

  That night, she sat in her window nook, looking across the way at his darkened residence. Where had he gone? How could she find him? He needed to know that she loved him with every fiber of her being, that she wanted to marry him, wanted to make a life with him.

  Waiting in vain for light to spill forth from his window, for him to return to her, she’d never felt lonelier in her entire life.

  Chapter 25

  Using a linen cloth, Fancy dried the platter that her mum handed her. It was the last of the dishes that needed to be washed after the luncheon they’d shared. It was Sunday, but not the first one of the month, so the rest of the family hadn’t gathered here, for which she was grateful because she had things to say to her mum and would rather say them privately. Besides, her mood was melancholy and wouldn’t serve anyone any good. She probably shouldn’t have bothered her mum, but she’d needed a little distraction.

  She could barely recall Saturday. She’d had customers but seemed to have forgotten where she’d shelved books, had been useless in helping anyone find a story they might enjoy reading. In her office, she’d intended to continue working on restoring Little Dorrit. Instead, she’d merely stared at nothing, striving to determine how she could find Matthew. She’d asked neighbors if anyone had seen him moving out. For her trouble, all she got was one account of three wagons and a coach pulling up, and liveried footmen hauling out furniture. No markings on the coach or wagons, but still—liveried footmen. Had she misjudged his means? Surely, he’d not been serious when he’d told her he could afford to purchase every book in her shop.

  “All done with that,” her mum said now. “Let’s pour ourselves a bit of brandy and then you can tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “Why would you think I’m troubled?”

  “Because, ducky, you’ve hardly spoken a word and you look as though you just learned that every book in England was tossed into the sea. So let’s settle in to have a good talk.”

  When they were sitting in the chairs beside the empty hearth, Fancy took a large swallow of the brandy and let it spread its warmth through her. Afterward, she slowly ran her fingers around the rim of the snifter. “At the last ball, I was caught alone with an earl. And it’s just not done. To make matters right, he asked to marry me. I told him no.”

  “Did you kiss him?”

  She furrowed her brow. “The earl? No. Why would I?”

  “It’s like that story, The Frog Prince, I remember Gillie reading to you. If you don’t kiss a fella, how will you know whether he’s the prince or just a frog?”

  She laughed lightly. Her mum must have been sipping brandy when Fancy wasn’t looking. “That’s just a fairy tale.”

  “Have you not kissed that fella that’s helping with your lessons?”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well, yes, I have.”

  “Is he reason you didn’t kiss the other bloke?” She leaned forward. “Maybe the reason you didn’t want to marry the other bloke.”

  Feeling tears forming she blinked them back. “I love him, Mum. His name is Matthew Sommersby. He’s kind and generous. He makes me laugh—just as you told me he should. I enjoy being with him.” She gnawed on her lower lip, unable to believe she was really going to confess this to her mother. “And I really like when he kisses me.”

  Smiling with satisfaction, her mum settled back in the chair. “Sounds like he’s a prince, then. A lot of frogs in this world, Fancy. When you find yourself a prince, you need to hang on to him.”

  “Oh, that’s just it, Mum. I lost him.”

  “How did you manage that, pet?”

  She took a sip of the brandy, relishing the warmth chasing away the cold that had started to spread through her. “He told me he loved me, wanted to marry me. But I told him I was going to marry the earl.”

  “Why did you tell him that?”

  “Because I thought I was. I thought I had no choice. I worried I would disappoint you if I didn’t. Your dream for me is never going to come true. Now I’m a scandalous woman, so I won’t be invited to any more balls. I won’t have an opportunity to meet a lord whom I’d like to marry.” Not that she would have if she’d attended a thousand balls. Her heart was taken, would forever belong to Matthew.

  “Hold on, pet. I’m hearing a lot of words and trying to make sense of them. Do you want to marry a lord?”

  “I want to marry a man who loves me.”

  “As well you should. You know none of us ever wanted you to marry a man who didn’t.”

  She finished off her brandy, took a big sigh. “Mum, what if I only wanted to manage my bookshop? What if I never marry?”

  “Pet, I want you to do what makes you happy.”

  “But you’ve always wanted me to have a fancy man and live in a fancy house and have a fancy life.”

  “Aye. A man who loves you, sees you as his moon and stars. A house where you walk in the door and feel like you’ve come home. A life where you’re happy and have everything you ever dreamed of—or if not everything, a good bit of it. You define what is fancy to you, and that’s what I want you to have.”

  A tightness loosened in her chest with the realization that she wasn’t going to be disappointing her mum. “I’m glad I didn’t marry the earl, then.”

  “But what about your Mr. Sommersby?”

  Sadness once more engulfed her. “Before I could tell him that I wasn’t going to marry the earl, he moved away. I don’t know where or how to find him.”

  “You need to talk to Beast, then. That lad has a knack for finding anything.”

  Monday morning Fancy awoke with a ray of hope. After returning from her mother’s the day before, she’d penned a letter to Beast asking for his help, which she intended to hand off to Lottie that evening. Of all her brothers, Beast was the most mysterious. She didn’t even know where he resided. While she was relatively certain her mother knew how to get in touch with him, she had decided to handle the matter in her own way.

  Glancing at the mantel clock, she saw that it was nearly nine. In all the days that she had managed the shop, she had never not opened the door when the hour struck nine. In spite of her lack of focus on Saturday, she threw back the covers, climbed out of bed, and prepared herself for the day. On the dot of nine, she unlocked her door, went to the counter, lifted her cup of tea, glanced at the calendar, and froze.

  It was the day that her sire was to go on trial. At ten. Matthew would be there, giving his testimony. He wouldn’t break that promise, surely. She could see him, find an opportunity to speak with him, and at least let him know that she wasn’t marrying Beresford. Perhaps they could begin anew. Or at least begin where they’d left off before they had their row.

  Marianne wouldn’t arrive for another couple of hours. As much as she regretted closing up her shop, she saw no help for it. After retrieving her reticule, she locked up and rushed along the streets until she reached the boardinghouse where Marianne lived. With the landlady’s permission, she dashed up the stairs to Marianne’s rooms, knocked briskly, and when a sleepy-eyed Marianne opened the door, she apologized. “I have something I have to do. Here’s the key so you can get into the shop.”

  “Should I go in early?”

  “If you’d like, but don’t feel you must. I’m sorry this has come up so unexpectedly. I don’t know how long I’ll be, and I just want to ensure the shop is opened at some point.”

  “I’ll change out of my nightgown and get right over there.”

  “Thank you, Marianne.” She turned for the stairs, stopped, turned back. “I apologize. I was so distracted on Saturday that I didn’t ask how your outing with Mr. Tittlefitz went.”

  Her clerk pressed a hand to her lips. “He kissed me, Miss Trewlove, and it was ever so lovely.”

  Reaching out, she sq
ueezed Marianne’s hand. “I’ve always thought the world of Mr. Tittlefitz. I’m glad he’s making you happy.”

  “Oh, he is. Now off with you. Don’t worry about the shop. I’ll see that it’s well cared for.”

  Feeling the tears welling, she blew Marianne a kiss and then raced down the stairs.

  She had little trouble finding a hansom cab, but the traffic was horrendous, and it was several minutes after ten before she entered the courtroom where Dibble was on trial. The room was packed, no seats to be had. She didn’t know why people cared so much about seeing the proceedings for someone they didn’t know. Or maybe they did know him. Perhaps he had many friends.

  Although based on his sneer as he stood in the dock, she doubted it. Then she realized he was glowering at Matthew who was striding toward the witness box. To see him again stole her breath. He exhibited such confidence and an almost regal bearing. She could tell he’d already managed to gain the respect of almost everyone in attendance. When he stepped up to claim his place, he looked over the courtroom, and she knew the moment he spied her standing at the back of the room because he went as still as death.

  He didn’t look as though he’d slept well, and she wondered if he’d been worried about his testimony or if perhaps he was regretting how things had gone between them when they’d last seen each other. She offered him a hesitant smile and wished she had some way to communicate to him that she had complete faith in his ability to see her sire put away. And that she desperately missed him and needed to speak with him.

  “If you will please state your name for the court?”

  He jerked his gaze to the wigged and robed man standing before him who had made the announcement. “Matthew Sommersby.”

  The man said something sotto voce. Matthew didn’t appear pleased. He glanced over at Fancy, cleared his voice. “Matthew Sommersby, Earl of Rosemont.”

  The tiny cracks that had appeared in her heart when she discovered him gone deepened until her heart shattered.

  He watched Fancy walk out of the room, and it took everything within him to remain in the witness box and give his testimony. She wasn’t supposed to be here. He never should have told her when the trial would occur. He’d done it to bring her peace of mind, to reassure her that it would happen, and justice would be served.

  As soon as he was done, he strode out of the courtroom and into the hallway, searching for her. But she was nowhere to be found.

  All for the best. What was there to say?

  She’d made her choice. She’d chosen Beresford.

  And he’d made his. He hadn’t told her who he was.

  As he had every night since he’d returned to his residence, Matthew lounged in his library and sipped his scotch. And as he had every night since his return, he thought of Fancy.

  Only tonight, he couldn’t escape the vision of her startled expression when he’d been required to give not only his name but his title. He’d known the court would insist on a full identification because his position among the aristocracy lent credence to his words, would help ensure that Dibble was adequately punished for the harm he’d caused, not only recently, but years ago. Even if the ancient news had not been brought to light in the courtroom, he knew it and had insisted the man not be let off lightly. The toad’s day in court had been merely for show.

  Matthew hadn’t meant for her to find out the truth of him in such a public setting and with no warning. He’d considered writing her a letter because he had known once she married Beresford, their paths would undoubtedly cross. He had intended to be polite, but cold, not to let her see how her trickery had wounded him to the core not only because he had so misjudged her but because it had meant he couldn’t have her for the remainder of his life.

  He’d fallen in love with her, damn it. Felled without realizing it. Wanted her as his wife.

  But she’d grown impatient, wanted her lord.

  Seeing her today had been at once a joyous and sorrow-filled moment. The sight of her still caused his heart to expand; the truth of her caused him to realize that when it came to women, he was an awful judge of character. He never would have expected Fancy Trewlove to use underhanded means to gain what she’d wanted. And he’d begun to believe she had a care for him, that if he asked for her hand, she would choose him, not knowing he had a title.

  But now she knew, and he still wanted her. With everything within him. If she had known who he was, if she had sought to have them discovered in a compromising position so he would have had to marry her—he wouldn’t have cared, because he would have had her in his life.

  With her legs drawn up, Fancy sat in the window seat with her cheek resting on her knees and gazed at the darkened windows across the way. Since Matthew’s departure, she ended every night in the same manner.

  No, not Matthew. Rosemont.

  Was she destined to have those she loved keep the truth of things from her?

  All day, she’d pondered why he hadn’t told her, and now in the still of the night, she remembered his reaction when the letter had fallen from her pocket, recalled him telling her how his wife had tricked him. Remembered Gillie’s ball where Lady Penelope and her friends had risked speaking with her because they’d wanted to know if he’d been invited. Learning how so many ladies had called on him. He’d come here to escape who he was.

  She’d wager every book in her shop that she had the right of that.

  She understood a little better his reaction when she’d told him about being caught in a compromising position with Beresford, but the understanding didn’t make her hurt any less. He’d accused her of duplicity, hadn’t even bothered to give her the benefit of the doubt. Although neither had she corrected his misassumption. She’d been too stunned by it, to be honest.

  But now to realize he’d held a part of himself from her, she had to wonder if she really knew Matthew Sommersby.

  “Good morning, James.”

  “Miss Trewlove.”

  “I’ll see myself to breakfast.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Following a fitful night’s sleep, it was nice to engage in a familiar routine, and she was quite looking forward to having breakfast with Mick and Aslyn. As usual, when she walked into the dining room, he set his newspaper aside and stood. “How are you this morning?” he asked.

  She forced her brightest smile. “Looking forward to a new day.”

  After selecting various tempting offerings, she joined her brother and Aslyn at the table. “How are you, Aslyn?”

  Her sister-by-marriage reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m doing well. You know I very much admire you for how you handled Beresford.”

  “I doubt anyone else does—at least anyone outside the family. But it hardly matters. I’m more than content with my decision.” She looked to her brother. “Is there anything in the newspaper regarding Dibble’s trial?”

  She should have stayed to hear the testimony, the verdict, and the sentence—if there was one—but following Matthew’s revelation, all she’d wanted was to leave. At the time, nothing had seemed more important to her sanity.

  Mick went so still, he could have been mistaken for a statue. “Dibble, you say?”

  She gave him a sympathetic, understanding smile. “I know he’s my father, Mick. I spoke with Mum. She explained everything.”

  “When was this?”

  “After he barged into the shop.”

  Fancy knew there were some who were terrified of her brothers, feared facing their wrath. Based on the fury that visibly washed over Mick’s features, she clearly understood why.

  “He what?”

  She told him everything about that night. Well, everything except for the way Matthew had tended to her. Even though he’d done little more than hold her, she doubted Mick would appreciate it, which was no doubt part of the reason she hadn’t told him about Dibble before.

  “Lord Rosemont came to your rescue?” Aslyn asked, clearly dumbfounded by the knowledge, repeating what Fancy had shared.
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  “He was leasing a residence. Only I didn’t realize until yesterday who he was, until he gave evidence at the trial. I didn’t stay. Don’t ask the reason.” Nodding toward the Times crumpled in Mick’s hand, she was surprised he hadn’t turned the newspaper back into pulp. “Is there anything?”

  He exchanged a glance with his wife, before pinning Fancy with his hard-edged stare. “I think there’s something you’re not telling us.”

  “With all due respect, Mick, it’s none of your business.”

  “Does it have anything to do with why you turned down Beresford’s offer?”

  Lifting her cup, surprised to find her fingers not trembling, she took a sip of her tea, set the cup back on the saucer. “You are not to confront him.”

  She supposed that was answer enough because he cursed harshly before rattling the paper and beginning to scour the pages. “Guilty,” he finally barked, then looked at her. “Ten years in Pentonville.”

  A sigh of relief rushed out. “Thank God.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me, Fancy, and let me know what was happening here?”

  He sounded truly hurt, and for that she was sorry. “You’ve taken care of me for so long, Mick. It’s time I took care of myself. And Matthew”—she pressed her lips together, squeezed her eyes shut, opened them—“Rosemont had seen to the matters I couldn’t.”

  “Rosemont,” he ground out, narrowing his eyes. “Perhaps I should have a word.”

  “No. And don’t you try and work your way around this by asking one of the others to see to him. None of you are to interfere.”

  “So there is something between you with which to interfere.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Leave off.”

  Beneath his breath, he grumbled something about irritating sisters being too independent by half. She took it as a compliment.

  “I will be having a word with Dibble, however,” he said sternly, in a voice that would brook no argument. “If he survives those ten years, when he gets out, I’ll be waiting for him.”