A Scandalous Lady by Rachelle Morgan Page A

back around to accept his blessing and offer another apology, she found the lady watching her through narrowed eyes. Fanny clutched the folds of her coat tighter around her, keenly aware of the threadbare condition of the shirt and trousers she wore beneath.
    â€œWho is your friend, West?”
    â€œOh, yes. Devon, meet—” He leaned down, and his warm, brandy-laced breath caressed her ear. “You never did tell me your name.”
    A moment passed before Fanny recovered from the disturbing sensation of his whisper against her skin. Of course she’d have to give him her name; she couldn’t very well let him introduce her to his lady as Queen Victoria.
    â€œMe name—” The Cockney accent of her environment slipped unwelcome into her speech. Maybe it was the impervious lift of the lady’s brow, or the nearly imperceptible sneer of her mouth, or maybe it was the opulent surroundings that drove home an awareness of where she’d come from, and where she was now.
    Whatever the source, it struck her suddenly that this was no place for the likes of Fanny Jarvis, notorious knuck. Maybe, just maybe, this was her chance to rise above the sewage fumes and vermin. No more huddling in the freezing rain, waiting for marks. No more skulking in the shadows to avoid the coppers.
    No more Gentleman Jack Swift.
    From the recesses of her soul, the blossom of a memory unfurled. Of a little girl with plaited saffron braids and boundless spirit. A girl she’d long lost hope of ever seeing again. And in a single, defining moment, the innocent child she’d once been beckoned to the jaded adult she’d become. “My name is Faith.” She tipped her chin decisively. “Faith Jervais.”
    From this point forward, Light-Fingered Fanny, as the boys in the band had taken to calling her, no longer existed.
    As if sensing the newborn strength in her decision, the baron smiled. A flash of dimple in his left cheek, a spray of creases at the corners of his eyes. A warm and unexpected glow spread through her breast at his approval.
    â€œDevon . . .” he dragged his gaze away, “meet Faith Jervais. Faith, may I present my sister, Lady Devon de Meir Heath, Duchess of Brayton.”
    His sister? Well, that explained their familiarity with each other. The swell of relief that the lady was not his wife slipped into her system so quickly that it caught Faith unprepared. Why their relationship would matter one way or the other, she couldn’t begin to guess.
    Nor did she want to speculate.
    Looking closer at Lady Brayton, however, the resemblance did become more noticeable. Both were strikingly fine-looking folk, sharing the same dark hair, sloping features, and patrician postures. Faith wasn’t sure where “duchess” ranked in the nobility chain but the way the woman carried herself, she suspected it was pretty high up there.
    The baron set his hat on a narrow cherrywood table, hung his coat upon a tree, leaving him clad in impeccably tailored coat and dove gray trousers. “Miss Jervais will be joining my staff.”
    The glow instantly vanished when his sister gasped. “Troyce, you cannot be serious!” She shuddered delicately. “She smells abominable, and I do believe I see her hair crawling.”
    The blood drained from Faith’s face, then rose again, swift and blazing at the implication. “Why you . . .”
    A tight grip on her arm held her from charging forward. “Faith . . .” he warned.
    â€œI do not have bugs!” she cried.
    â€œCalm yourself.” His tone suggested she’d best obey him, and he addressed Lady Brayton with the same authority, “Have a care, Devon. I realize that she looks a bit worse for wear at the moment, but Millie will see that she is made presentable. Millie!”
    A short, heavyset woman in a white mobcap and a somber gray robe appeared in the entryway, holding a candlestick. She