Her mother’s arms came around her. “I’m so so sorry, love. After the lads saw to him, I thought he would stay away forever. No reason for you to know my shame.”

Fancy jerked her head up. “Your shame?”

“For laying with a bloke I hadn’t wed.”

“Ah, Mum, the shame is his, not yours.” Yet even as she said the words, she realized she felt a sense of shame as well. It hadn’t been easy growing up born out of wedlock, but at least she’d believed she was the product of something beautiful. To know ugliness had been responsible for creating her made her want to weep all over again.

“We can debate that later. Once your brothers find out about his visit—”

“I don’t want to tell them.” She was still struggling with the fact that her siblings had all known such a horrible secret about her and kept it to themselves. To protect her, but at what point was there too much protection?

“He took money from you.”

“No, he didn’t. A gentleman who lives in the area happened by and put a stop to things, had him arrested.”

“Thank the Lord for that. Still they need to know.”

“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—”