“I’m not ready for them to learn that I know the truth about my... sire.” Her brothers had never referred to the men responsible for their existence as their father, but always as only their sire. She was beginning to understand why they’d chosen a more impersonal term. She didn’t want to acknowledge any sort of intimate relationship with Dibble—and yet it was there all the same.
Mum was kneeling on the floor, her hands folded over Fancy’s knee. “I’m ever so sorry, pet.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Mum. You did what you did to keep the others safe. I understand that.”
Reaching up, she touched Fancy’s cheek. “You’re still my precious girl.”
But now she felt sullied by the truth.
From the moment Matthew had left Fancy, he’d wanted to return to her, but suspected she needed some time alone with her thoughts and worries. So he waited until late morning.
When he walked into the shop, Marianne greeted him, but her smile was a little less bright.
“Hello, Mr. Sommersby.”
“Miss Marianne. Is Miss Trewlove about?”
“She’s tidying up the reading parlor.”
“I’ll go up, then. I need to have a word with her.”
“Of course, sir.”
He bounded up the stairs and entered the reading parlor. She was sitting on the floor, near the fireplace, several books stacked beside her as she wiped a cloth over the now empty shelf. He strode over to her and crouched down. “Fancy—”
“The thing about having a bookshop that one doesn’t consider when deciding to have a bookshop is that there are so many shelves and so many books that need to be constantly dusted. After you’ve gone through them all, it’s time to start over.” She picked up a book, gently wiped the cover, and returned it to the shelf.
His heart ached for her. “You spoke with your mother. I’m going to assume she confirmed the truth of his words.”
Without looking at him, she nodded and ran the cloth over another book. “He was the landlord, and she didn’t have the coins for the rent.”
He slammed his eyes closed. “Christ.” Opening his eyes, he placed a hand on her shoulder.
She curled it away from him. “I bathed when I got home, and yet I still feel so dirty.”
“Perhaps it’s only the dust from the books.”
She looked at him then and the sadness in her eyes would have brought him to his knees if he were still standing. “Oh, Matthew, the filth runs much deeper than that.”
“You are not that man. He is no part of you.”
“Did you ever look at your parents and think, ‘they are no part of me?’”
In his world, lineage was so deuced important. Of course he’d never done that. He’d grown up aware that the very fact theywerepart of him was what made him special, made himwhathe was, if not who he was. “I concede your point.”
“Normally, I would take great joy in being correct.”
“But, Fancy, the people who are responsible for your existence do not necessarily determine the type of person you become. My father was a harsh man. Not once did I ever hear him laugh. The people who reported to him were terrified of him. They knew he could destroy their lives with a word. He gave me my eyes; he gave me my hair. But he did not give me my soul. I work with many of the same people he did, but I listen to their ideas and discuss ways to improve things. He was dictatorial, thought no one knew more than him. For him, all that mattered was his opinion. I recognize that I don’t know everything, that it’s worth listening to others’ suggestions. In other words, I’m far more reasonable than he was.” He touched his fingers to his chest. “That is me. I am different from him. You are different from your father. You are Fancy Trewlove, and there are aspects to you that have nothing at all to do with him.”
“I doubt any among the aristocracy would agree. They care so damned much about lineage, about blood, about heritage. I had the disadvantage of being born out of wedlock but still had pride in my mum and the man she told me was my father. I felt worthy because of what I’d believed they’d shared. I’d always thought my father was the hero and it turns out he’s the villain.”
He hated that she was filled with such doubts. “But you’re the heroine, the one who does such good for others.”
“While I appreciate your sentiment, knowing the truth of who sired me, how could I in any way be an appropriate wife for a lord?”
“If they find the circumstances of your birth objectionable—something over which you had no control—they can go to the devil.” His words caused her to smile slightly, but it was enough to cheer him. He wanted to tell her that he was an earl and her beginnings made him only admire her all the more. But now was not the time for her to learn that he hadn’t been completely honest with her either. Not telling her he was the Rosemont of the damned letter hadn’t seemed a bad thing when he’d first met her. But now that he’d come to know her, it was difficult to find the proper time to spring the news on her. She would look upon him differently, just as he now viewed her through different eyes and realized how incredibly remarkable she was not to be anything like the maggot who sired her. “In all honesty, Fancy, you need never tell anyone.”
“Then it’s not honest, is it? There’s a deceptive quality to it. And if he’s not convicted—”
