Chapter Two

“Something dreadful has happened to Papa,” Lily said, chewing a thumbnail. Brow taut with worry, she stared at her uncle seated at his gilt ornamented desk. Amid the richness of his library where leather-bound books filled the glossy wooden shelves, she sank deeper into the plush brocade cushions of the settee. Her shoulders slumped.

Lord Percy Coventry regarded her with a bland, unconcerned air. “You worry too much.” He stroked the silk stock at his neck. The late afternoon sun glinted off the garnet ring on his index finger.

“No, Uncle, you must take this seriously. Papa is in prison. Mr. Fletcher says so in his letter.” For effect, she waved the recent missive from the New York attorney in the air.

In his usual fashion, Percy crimped his lips with annoyance and provoked an ongoing disappointment. Just once, she wished they could agree without an argument. Ever since she’d come to live with him seven years ago, communication posed a continual challenge. Since the death of her aunt, the situation had worsened. Constant loggerheads summed up their relationship.

“Mr. Fletcher says Papa was jailed for his public outcry about the British officers quartered at his house.” My house, too, she recalled as a familiar ache, heavy as a stone, lodged in her chest. How she longed to go home. She wanted to have the pleasure of assisting Papa with his work and to enjoy the pretty flowers in the garden. And to sleep in her own bed.

Percy shook his head, as if he pitied Papa for a fool. “Once your father gets sick of jail and his ridiculous protest, he’ll post bail. Fletcher can handle the details. Life will go on as usual when Henry accepts the British are in New York for good. Most likely he’s at home as we speak.”

“So why hasn’t he written?” She slipped the attorney’s letter into her dress pocket, too obstinate to accept Percy’s glib explanation.

“You know how absent-minded he becomes when he works on a new invention. Besides, even without a war, the mail is unreliable. With our ships commandeered by American privateers, it’s a wonder we see any news from the Colonies.”

Stung by his words, she glowered and rushed to her father’s defense. “Papa’s never been too busy to write. And Mr. Fletcher’s letter got through.” No one would argue Henry Fitzhugh was thickheaded and lost to his work. Still, six months was a long time to forgo writing, even for him. The lack of contact, along with news of his imprisonment, fueled her apprehension and knotted her stomach.

Without thinking, she scrunched the pressed silk of her fashionable gown in her closed fist. Percy cringed, but before he could launch into another lecture about caring for her costly clothes, she spread her fingers and released the wrinkled fabric. She knew how he hated the expense to pretty her up, to make her a shining reflection of his well-dressed, glorious self. Image mattered to him, but not to her. Doubtless, the vainglorious man was calculating costs as they spoke.

She waited for him to utter a hopeful word about her dilemma.

“Lord Warwick wishes to marry you.”

“What?” she blurted and sat forward upon the settee. Marry me?

“It seems surprising, does it not?” He simpered and dabbed his nostrils with a lacy hanky. “One might have expected him to choose someone more…” Glancing at the patterned swirls on the ornamented ceiling, he rotated his hand as though he might scoop the proper word from the air.

“Someone from a titled family,” said Lily, astonished and flattered David wanted her for a bride. A special bond had been forged between them when she’d come to London after the death of her mother. Two lonely, awkward children, they’d become each other’s support. She was forever grateful for his friendship.

“More traditional and refined,” he added.

She bristled at his less than subtle reminder of her shortcomings. “David does as he pleases. Perhaps he recognizes my uniqueness.” Criticized for being too bookish, she cut a jagged path between her outspoken manner and her odd interest in machines and mathematics, subjects avoided by a proper lady. David didn’t seem to mind. Not many people were as accepting.

“A diamond in the rough, eh?”

“A challenge,” she countered.

Two unwanted souls, together they’d struggled to make their way in a cruel and difficult world. Nevertheless, with David in London and Papa in New York, she felt her loyalties divided.

“I should think Warwick is inspired by your father’s money. Henry has done well by his inventions and investments.”

“You would make this into a mockery.” As the third son, David was not likely to inherit his family’s sizable fortune, but it didn’t matter. Not to her. Hard as it was for Percy to accept, there were those who liked her. As for love, he held no such emotion in his heart. From the day she’d stepped off the boat, a frightened twelve-year-old girl, he’d made no secret of his dislike of children. He agreed to take her solely for Aunt Charlotte’s sake. For his trouble, Papa saw him well compensated.

“Should he propose, Niece, I expect you to accept graciously. You may never see another opportunity.”

Heat bled into her cheeks.

“Warwick asked my permission. I granted my approval this afternoon.”

Astounded, she reared back against the padded sofa. “You? It’s a duty reserved for Papa.”

“It would be, if he were here.” He huffed, as though blowing away an objectionable odor. “In the meantime, I have his permission to act on his behalf in all matters concerning your welfare. Very thoughtful of him, don’t you think?”

At his smirk, every muscle in her body tightened. It took considerable effort not to shriek at the unfairness of him to make such an important decision. This was her life. Shouldn’t she have some say in the matter? With a deep breath, she laid her palms one to each thigh, and forced herself to relax.

“So, you’ll marry Lord Warwick.” The comment wasn’t a question but a statement of fact.

She answered without haste. “At present, there are more important concerns on my mind. Papa must be in prison or he’d have written. Perhaps he’s sick or…” She faltered at the image of him shrunken and withering away with illness. An ache tore into her chest. “He may be dying.”

For a moment, her uncle remained quiet. Wrapped in a luxurious satin jacket with an embroidered waistcoat, his bony shoulders drooped with a weary sigh. “Don’t exaggerate your worries. I loathe hysterics.”

“I need to go to him.”

“To New York?” he choked. “What of the cost? And Lord Warwick?”

“I’m his only child. There’s no one else.” Only she, the loving daughter, could see to his care. It was her right.

Face pinched, he shifted his thin frame in the leather chair. “Your loyalty is misplaced for a father who, in all these years, has never found the time to visit.”

The hurtful words scorched her skin and prickled her spirit. In shame, she dropped her gaze. Her hands trembled as she clasped them over her lap, her nails sharp against her skin. “As you said, Papa is a busy man.” The words tumbled out, thick with emotion.

Over the years, she’d made excuses for Papa’s absence. His scientific work consumed his time. Furthermore, losing a beloved wife sickened him with despair. In spite of the justifications, an ugly fear gnawed at her peace. Perhaps another reason beyond his prolonged melancholy better explained his decision to send her to England. Perhaps he didn’t love her.

Stop.

Foolish thoughts would do no good. Shoulders pinched together, she sat up straighter, spine like forged steel, and forced a confidence shaky at best. “Had it not been for the hostilities in the Colonies, Papa would have sent for me.” Whatever the truth, she would cling to the best of explanations.

He ignored her as if she didn’t matter and shuffled the papers on his fancy desk with the gold inlays. Steam rose in her head. How she loathed his selfishness and petty cruelty. “I must go to him, without delay. He needs me.”

And I need him.

“No, Niece. It’s out of the question.”

“I will go!” She stamped a foot.

“See here, young lady.”

In the adjacent parlor, someone plucked a sour violin note and her uncle flinched. A rumble of voices in the corridor marked the arrival of early guests for the birthday celebration of Percy’s new wife. Wearily, he rubbed a point on his temple, his cheeks gaunt to the point of cadaverous. She felt a rise of sympathy, aware she was a constant irritant to him, like a pebble in his shoe. A knock at the library brought him to attention. “Enter.”

A liveried servant in blue and cream materialized in the doorway. He whisked across the thick carpet and proffered a silver tray to her uncle. Percy scooped up the card from its center. Brows wrinkled, he scanned the note. “Bring him to me at once.”

“But Uncle.” Lily’s troubled voice pealed as the servant retreated. “We haven’t finished.”

“Oh? I do believe we have.” Wigged head tilted, he observed her with all the appeal of dirt-smudged onions. “You’ll want time to primp before the party.”

She slammed a fist against her knee and spewed an unladylike harrumph. “I’m as ready as I could possibly be. Will you not accept I must go to him?”

“You are not going to New York. Think of Warwick and your future.”

She sprang to her feet. Every extremity tingled. “I must and I will.” At the loss of her composure, she recoiled. Acting like a spoiled child would not gain his cooperation. When his bloodless lips twitched in satisfaction, all hope sank like a stone in water. She tamped back tears of frustration. For once, why couldn’t he support her wishes? Before she could get her tongue around a word, there was another knock.

“Enter,” he snapped.

“Uncle, please.” In spite of her urgent plea, he directed his attention at his visitor. Curious, she turned to the door and gasped. Her early morning rescuer stood in the doorway. Seeing her near the settee, his jaw dropped.

“Oh, do come in, man,” complained Percy. “You aren’t the first bloke to gape at my niece.”

“It’s you,” she declared.

The stranger blinked rapidly, as though doused with cold water. “Your niece?” he said, continuing to stare.

“Miss Amaryllis Fitzhugh in the flesh,” Percy added wryly.

She marveled at the difference in the man’s clothing and status. This morning he appeared no more than a common laborer, tired, dusty and fierce. Half a day later, garbed in elegant clothes, he emerged at her uncle’s lavish home a figure of…well, quite a spectacular man.

“Miss Fitzhugh.” He executed a polished bow.

Too confused to utter a word, she gave a quick nod. His broad, lean shoulders seemed to span the width of the doorway. Composed and steady after his initial shock, he regarded her with the warmest congeniality and set off a popping sound in her head. He grinned and the flash of perfect teeth in his handsome face sent blood racing up her neck. She couldn’t recall a similar smile when he’d charged at David—when he’d been her bold protector. Short on air, she raised her hand to her tight throat. What was he doing here?

“Are you familiar with Mr. Faraday?” Percy asked. A battle waged to reclaim her voice. Before she could speak, he’d rapped his knuckles once upon his desk. “Well?”

“He came to my—”

Impatient, he flapped his lace hanky, waving the visitor further inside.

“We met while I was riding this morning.”

At her uncle’s insistence, the impressive man claimed a seat while Percy shooed her away with a glare of disapproval. “Be off, girl.”

The rude directive thrust her back to their current argument. How dare he? Angry heat ran riot over her skin. She tensed, ready to stand and fight. Spine straight as an iron rod, she stomped to the door and twirled with a swish of satin. “I’ll leave you to your guest.” Her nostrils flared. “But I reserve the right to discuss this later. I mean to get my way.”