Yesterday, Bea had informed Fancy of the plan to go to London for shelter. There, they would also follow up on clues about the attacker that Bea and Mr. Murray had found. Fancy felt twin twinges of anticipation and anxiety: despite all her travels, London was one place she’d never been. Da refused to take the family there, saying that the city was too dangerous and no place for a Sheridan.
Yet in two days’ time, escorted by Mr. Murray and Knighton, Fancy and her family would be departing with Bea for that mysterious metropolis shrouded in fog. She could not shake the feeling that an adventure was about to begin.
“Despite their bad blood, Wick claims that Knighton is a man of honor,” Bea continued.
“What ’appened between them?” Fancy asked curiously.
“Wick hasn’t been forthcoming about it…other than to say that Knighton was the loser. Men.” Bea rolled her eyes. “When it comes to competition, they behave like children.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Having grown up with brothers, Fancy knew this for a fact. “Did Mr. Murray tell you anything else about the duke?”
“He said that Knighton came from the stews and has a rags-to-riches story. Prior to inheriting an actual duchy—Wick hasn’t the faintest how Knighton pulled that one off—Knighton was already known as one of the ‘dukes’ of the London underclass because of his success in Spitalfields. He owns multiple fabric manufactories. His particular moniker is the ‘Duke of Silk,’ due to his trade, obviously, but also his smoothness of manner. Wick says Knighton is known for his stoicism, refinement, and for keeping his cards close.”
Fancy absorbed the information. She’d sensed that beneath Severin Knight’s noble bearing was a ruthless strength of will. Although breathtakingly elegant, he’d never seemed like a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Knowing that he’d built his empire by the sweat of his own brow fueled her admiration of him.
“That explains a lot,” she murmured.
“Knowing all that, will you promise to be careful around Knighton?” Bea pressed.
Hesitating, she said, “I promise.”
In truth, she doubted she needed to be careful. Bea, being a loyal friend, was overestimating Fancy’s effect on Knighton. Why would a duke be interested in a tinker’s daughter who argued with donkeys and fought losing battles with fish?
If Knighton showed concern for her, it was because of his nature. He might have been hurt by love in the past, but he still had a noble heart. That was why he had stayed to rescue her and volunteered to provide escort to London.
“That puts my mind at ease, dear,” Bea said.
“I ain’t the only one we ’ave to worry about.” It was Fancy’s turn to reach out, to take her friend’s hand. “’Ow are things with Mr. Murray?”
Bea looked nonplussed. “They’re rather, well…”
“Spit it out.”
“Splendid.” Bea’s features pinkened. “Wick is everything I never thought to find.”
“I’m glad,” Fancy said warmly.
“Things are far from settled between us. We still have to apprehend the villain behind the attacks.” Bea’s brow pleated. “And iron out the issue of the railway and my land.”
“But you’re ’appy now.”
“Well, yes. I suppose I am.”
“Then enjoy it, dear.” Fancy smiled. “No one deserves it more.”
As the day of departure approached, Severin felt increasingly on edge.
He’d had the unsettled feeling since Lady Beatrice had agreed to the London plan. In his experience, the warp and weft of life was never without wrinkles. Call him cynical, but when things seemed to be going too smoothly, he knew he was about to hit a snag. His history had taught him this.
At age fifteen, he had hauled a girl out of the path of a runaway carriage, only to be struck down himself by Cupid’s Arrow. He’d lost his heart that day to Imogen and had it crushed when she’d married another man ten years later.
At age eighteen, he had quit the Hammonds to work as a guard-for-hire. He’d proven good at the job and saved up enough money to finally get hismamanout of the madhouse. He’d paid a mad-doctor to certify her sane, found an attendant who could look after her while he was at work. When he’d told her that during his last visit to see her, his mother’s grey eyes had lit up with rare joy and lucidity. When he’d arrived to take her from Bedlam the next day, an attendant had broken the news: she’d died during the night.
This year, his life had taken perhaps the most unexpected turn of all. He’d inherited a duchy and the guardianship of four siblings. Two of whom hated his guts for trying to curb their wild ways and the other two, well, he hadn’t a clue what to do with thirteen-year-old twins. Yet he couldn’t leave the four to fend for themselves; he knew what that was like and wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
In short, life was not easy. If it seemed to be, then trouble was just around the corner.
Thus, Severin was not surprised when Milton Sheridan strode into the drawing room, where he, Lady Beatrice, and Murray were discussing the plans for departure. Severin rose, the hairs on his nape prickling. Even the tinker’s mishmash of an outfit—an appalling mix of puce, saffron, and rust—did not detract from the resolute set of his features. Milton Sheridan looked gravely determined, and that did not bode well.
