A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors

by Michelle Willingham

  As Jack and Annabelle exchanged bows with the other couple, she raised her eyebrows in a mute question. He responded with a subtle shrug.

  “Whatever small service I may have performed, you are most welcome.”

  “I am Lady Thorgraham,” she replied, “and this is my husband. I wanted to thank you for giving Lord Hawthorne his comeuppance some weeks ago. It was long overdue.”

  Before Jack could reply, Annabelle spoke up. “I quite agree, Lady Thorgraham. I trust the villain will know better than to show his face here tonight, or I might be tempted to punish him further.”

  Her ladyship’s gentle eyes took on a glow of camaraderie. “I would be the last to condemn you if you did, Mrs. Warwick, though I suspect our husbands might deal with him before you or I had the opportunity.”

  Lord Thorgraham gave a fierce nod, of which Jack’s heartily approved.

  He motioned to a nearby table. “If you are not otherwise engaged, we would be honored to have you join us.”

  The Thorgraham’s were quick to agree and the ladies soon fell deep in conversation. After roundly abusing Lord Hawthorne, their talk turned to the rash of recent jewel thefts. They had begun to discuss the attendance of exiled European royalty at the Regent’s fete when Jack spied Gabriel near the buffet. He was speaking in an animated fashion with a young woman—Miss Brennan, no doubt.

  Jack caught his wife’s eye and nodded in their direction. Just as Annabelle’s gaze flew toward their friend, Miss Brennan gave a sharp cry and struck him hard across the cheek. Then she turned and fled as the buzz of conversation in the tent rose to a fever pitch.

  “Oh dear,” said Lady Thorgraham. “It seems Lord Hawthorne is not the only gentleman in London who has fallen out of favor.”

  After a moment to absorb the shock of Miss Brennan’s blow, Gabriel dashed off after her. Neither of them returned to the banquet tent that night. As Jack ate, drank and conversed for the next two hours, he often found himself wondering what would come of his friend’s volatile encounter with the pretty Irish heiress.

  Meanwhile, Annabelle made a heroic effort to conceal her growing weariness. As the hour neared four in the morning, she could not suppress a yawn. “I beg your pardon, Lord and Lady Thorgraham. I assure you, it is not your company I find tiresome. I am not accustomed to keeping such fashionably late hours.”

  “Nor am I.” Her ladyship sounded rather grateful to Annabelle for broaching the subject. “Much as we have enjoyed the Prince’s hospitality, I know my little son will be awake and looking for my attention in a very few hours.”

  The two couples were among the first to depart for the night, though not before Jack had invited Lord and Lady Thorgraham to dine with them the following week.

  When Jack took his seat in the carriage, Annabelle listed against him. “That was a much more enjoyable evening than I anticipated.”

  Jack gathered her close, savoring the sensation of her head resting against his chest, even as the ostrich feather in her hair tickled his nose. “Any evening I spend in your company is bound to be enjoyable, my dearest, though none more so than when it is just the two of us.”

  Annabelle tilted her face toward him. “I see you are not entirely cured of your reckless streak, my dear Mr. Warwick.”

  “Indeed?” He could not resist her fond teasing. “What makes you say that, pray?”

  She gave a sweet, wanton chuckle that roused his body even as it flooded his heart with tenderness. “The fact that you risk making such tender declarations after I have imbibed so much of the Regent’s fine champagne.”

  “Ah. And what risk am I running, if I may ask?” He could guess the answer, yet longed to hear it from her.

  “The risk of being kissed repeatedly of course.” Annabelle pressed her lips to his briefly, to demonstrate the danger. “And perhaps arriving on your doorstep in a scandalous state of undress.”

  “Our doorstep,” Jack whispered, relishing the delightful taste of that word. “I assure you that is one scandal I am more than happy to risk!”

  The End

  Dear Reader,

  If you have read many of my other books, you probably know how much I enjoy putting a new twist on favourite plots from fairy tales, films and classic fiction. I have written romance novels based on My Fair Lady, Much Ado About Nothing, The Secret Garden and Beauty and the Beast, to name a few. As you may have guessed, Scandal on His Doorstep was inspired by the film Three Men and a Baby.

  As in the film, three confirmed bachelors who share living quarters are unpleasantly surprised to find themselves suddenly responsible for a baby girl. But Jack Warwick, Rory Fitzwalter and Lord Gabriel Stanford live in the fashionable Mayfair district of London at the beginning of the Regency era. While it seems that one of them must be the baby’s father, it is not clear which.

  As they seek the answer to that question, Jack enlists the help of his late cousin’s widow to care for the child. Annabelle agrees with reluctance. She does not want to get too close to Jack, who unknowingly broke her heart. But their growing fondness for the baby rekindles suppressed feelings between the two, forcing Jack to risk his heart and Annabelle to fight for those she loves.

  In the end, it appears Jack is not the baby’s father after all, though he and Annabelle plan to love and care for little Sarah until her birth parents can be found. Meanwhile, Lord Gabriel begins to suspect the child may be his daughter. He seeks out Moira Brennan, a woman with whom he had a passionate liaison, but could not wed. The longer she eludes him, the more certain Gabriel becomes that the Irish heiress is concealing a scandalous secret. When he confronts her at the Prince Regent’s fete, her violent reaction confirms his suspicion! I hope you have enjoyed reading Jack and Annabelle’s story and will watch for Gabriel and Moira’s, coming in 2015.

  To get news of my future books, previews of covers and excerpts, special giveaways and more, sign up for my newsletter: http://eepurl.com/F4RWX

  Deborah

  Website: www.deborahhale.com

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  About the Author

  Deborah Hale's first novel won the Golden Heart award for Long Historical and was nominated for a RITA award for Best First Book. Since then Deborah has written more than thirty books in the genres of historical romance, inspirational romance and otherworld fantasy. Her books have been translated into more than a dozen languages and sold millions of copies worldwide. Deborah invites you to visit her website for more information.

  “Hale’s characters are so finely created they become real in her readers’ minds and hearts.” - syndicated romance reviewer, Sheryl Horst

  Confessions of a Courtesan

  If you think British noblemen never married their mistresses in the early 19th century... or if you were intrigued by Jack Warwick’s reference to Charles James Fox and Elizabeth Armistead... you might enjoy reading my historical novel based on one of England’s greatest true love stories!

  Scandalous but True! Lizzie Cane is a highly sought-after courtesan with the world at her feet and one rule: Never fall in love. But that's a rule she's about to break...

  “A captivating true story that explores the passionate life of a brave and extraordinary woman who was ahead of her time.” ~ USA Today-bestselling author Julianne MacLean

  http://amzn.com/B005UNWLSQ

  Snowbound with the Baronet

  If you like a sweeter Regency romance, join Lady Cassandra Whitney and her former beau, Sir Brandon Calvert, when they find themselves storm-stayed at a humble cottage on the road to Bath...

  http://amzn.com/B00IKUXASQ

  LADY OF THE FLAMES

  Barbara Monajem

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, Summer 1811

  LORD FENIMORE TRENT stood before his father’s desk, striving to keep a straight face. It wasn’t easy, what with the Overwood House
hobgoblin making rude gestures behind the older man—but anytime Fen was called in to speak with his father, it was no occasion for laughter. “What do you want with me, sir?”

  “Sit down, for God’s sake,” the Marquis of Overwood said. Elegant from top to toe, he was the epitome of aristocratic grace—as well as the arrogant prejudice typical of his class.

  Fen’s class, too, but he did his best to ignore that distasteful fact. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand.” He didn’t object to sitting down, but when and if he did so, he would have to ignore the chair to which his father had gestured, for the hobgoblin, whose sense of mischief equaled its skill at mockery, had immediately leapt to occupy it.

  No one in the family but Fen could see the hobgoblin; in fact, others often came close to squashing him. But since Fen couldn’t explain the hobgoblin’s presence to his father, the marquis would take his choice of a different chair as a deliberate act of discourtesy.

  Fen had enough difficulty remaining civil with his father without confronting him over where to sit. He’d already annoyed him by obeying his summons while wearing his carpenter’s belt.

  The marquis sighed. “I didn’t ask you here to persuade you to quit humiliating the entire family. I realize that is a lost cause.”

  In that case, why had he brought it up? Every time they’d met in the past five years, the marquis had complained about the furniture shop Fen had opened with his partner, Harry Wellcome. “I’m glad to hear that, Father,” Fen said, “since your humiliation, or lack of it, is in your hands alone. I have done nothing illegal or immoral since I opened the shop. In fact, I’m practically a paragon of virtue.”

  His father’s face darkened, but he said nothing. Five years earlier, Fen had been one of the most notorious rakes in London, known also for his skill with knives and swords. The marquis had been obliged to rescue him from the consequences of several deadly knife fights, as well as a duel in which he’d almost killed an outraged husband. He would never condone Fen’s descent into trade, but a kind word from time to time about his reformed character when it came to duels, drunken brawls, and scandalous liaisons would have been appreciated.

  Fen sent that foolish thought to the netherworld of long-banished dreams.

  “And patronized by the Prince Regent as well, I understand,” the marquis said after a pause. “Quite a coup, but you do realize, don’t you, that your name and breeding were instrumental in bringing it about.”

  Fen didn’t bother denying it. “As well as the quality of my furniture.” And the magic that drives me. The awl on his belt quivered in response to that thought.

  “Quite possibly,” the marquis said, surprising Fen, until his father added, “But although the Prince may recognize quality—which I take leave to doubt—his taste is execrable.”

  At least, thought Fen grumpily, the Prince was willing to try the new and different. And if magic prompted him and Fen’s other customers a little, why not? Otherwise, they’d never try anything new.

  “Please sit down, Fen.” The marquis sounded so uncharacteristically uneasy—concerned, even—that Fen pulled up a chair next to the hobgoblin’s and complied. Surprisingly again, the marquis showed no sign of objecting to his choice of chair. He cleared his throat. “I have invited you here on a far more serious matter—that of national security.”

  “I know nothing about such matters. I’m a simple tradesman now.” Fen always enjoyed saying that. He crossed his legs and sat back. It wasn’t the slightest bit simple being in trade, but his father would never understand that.

  The Marquis folded his hands together on the desk. His expression was truly grave. “I have received some extremely disturbing information about that partner of yours.”

  Fen stiffened. If the Marquis wished to berate Fen, so be it; he could handle it. Deriding his business partner was another matter entirely. He narrowed his eyes. They had been over this before. “Every Englishman who seeks change in our manner of government is not a seditionist.”

  “Anyone who seeks to upset the natural order of things is a danger to England,” the marquis said. “In peacetime one may perhaps ignore such people”―he flicked a manicured hand as if disposing of a gnat— “as they can do little harm. But in wartime, discontent undermines the power of our government.”

  Fen uncrossed his legs preparatory to leaving. “I repeat—Harry Wellcome is no seditionist.”

  The marquis went on as if Fen hadn’t spoken. “Unfortunately, discontent often leads to something far worse.”

  “Damn it, Father,” Fen said. The marquis considered Harry, a Cockney from an impoverished background, almost less than human. Never mind that he had a brilliant mind for business and a stout heart. “I associate with many of the same people, and I don’t hear you accusing me.”

  The marquis made a derisive noise. “You’re an air dreamer, Fen. Your mind is on furniture, not politics.”

  True, but this was partly by choice. Magic had called to him, but in theory at least, he could have ignored it. But that would have meant more fights and more unintended killings, because one way or another, sharp implements leapt into his hands. Far better to find a peaceful use for such powerful magic. But his father wouldn’t understand—couldn’t, since he didn’t believe in magic at all. Not the marquis’s fault; he’d had no personal experience of it, so why would he?

  It was this ignorance on his father’s part that enabled Fen to be endlessly patient, but the old man was sorely trying that patience today.

  “Not only that, you are still my son, and my son does not commit treason.”

  “Treason?” Fen’s mind whirled. The awl, sensing his distress, moved uneasily in its leather loop, and the hobgoblin tried to distract him by performing cartwheels across the desk.

  “To put it plainly, I can put up with a younger son in trade. I cannot tolerate one connected with treason.”

  Fen got a hold of himself and quieted the awl with a hand. “Harry Wellcome is a patriotic English merchant. He would no more dream of committing treason than you or I.”

  “Unfortunately, that is untrue,” the Marquis said. “I have learned to my dismay that he aided paroled French officers to escape.”

  “What? That’s impossible. Who told you this?”

  “That is none of your business,” the marquis said.

  Fen stood. He didn’t expect his father to trust him with government secrets, but this was too much.

  “Don’t get into one of your tempers, Fen,” the marquis said. “I cannot risk it becoming known that I conspired to warn a traitor.”

  “And I cannot accept unfounded accusations of my business partner and friend,” Fen retorted. Anxiety uncurled in his gut; who could be slandering Harry? “When did this happen? The escapes, I mean.”

  “Very recently,” his father said.

  “And where?”

  “I wasn’t told the precise location,” his father said. “Smugglers on the coast were involved as well, but that is no surprise.”

  “Which smugglers? Where on the coast? How am I to clear Harry’s name if I have no accurate information on what he is supposed to have done?”

  “You cannot clear his name,” the marquis said. “He was identified by our operatives and is in imminent danger of arrest for treason. Therefore, I require that you get him out of the country immediately.”

  “I can’t just send him away. He’s not a servant at my beck and call, but an equal partner in the shop.”

  “Allow me to clarify,” the marquis said. “One way or another, Wellcome must go. If he were to die suddenly, the problem would be solved. I can arrange to have him dispatched, if you prefer that solution.”

  Fen gaped. He knew his father for a ruthless man—a necessity, when one worked for the Home Office in wartime—but incredibly, he was suggesting that Fen agree to the murder of his closest friend. The awl quivered, and his whittling knife thrashed, ready to exact retribution for this vile suggestion. Cease, Fen ordered his tools.

  �
��I thought not,” the marquis said. “But tradesman though you are, I assume you do not wish to disgrace the family name by association with a traitor. Or perhaps the prospect of your business in ruins motivates you better.”

  “Obviously I wish for neither, sir, but―”

  The marquis quelled him with a hand. “Therefore, I am offering you an alternative. If you value Wellcome’s life, send him out of England now.”

  Fen put his father’s ultimatum to Harry Wellcome an hour later. They were slouched in two of the cushioned chairs—a new design of Fen’s—in the small suite of rooms they shared above the shop, their feet on the table and goblets of brandy to hand. Fen aimlessly whittled a scrap of pine, letting the irritated knife have its way.

  “Not bloody likely,” Harry said.

  “I told him it was your decision, and that I intended to find out who the real traitor was regardless of what you chose to do.” Fen gave a mirthless laugh. “That was when the old man lost his temper, espionage being far lower than cabinet-making on the scale of acceptable occupations.”

  “It never even occurred to him that I might not be the culprit,” Harry growled.

  Which was why Fen felt obliged to make a push to convince Harry to quit the country at least for a while. “Precisely, and now your life is at stake. You must leave England, but he didn’t insist that you go to France, for whom you are supposedly working.”

  Harry snorted. “How kind of him.”

  Fen blew out a breath. “He offered to have you murdered instead, Harry, so in a way it is kind.”

  “To you, not to me. I’m not going.”

  “Listen to me,” Fen said. “You don’t have to go far. Ireland might do, somewhere beyond the Pale. Better yet, America. Anyplace where you’re out of reach.”

  Harry got that stubborn look that meant he wouldn’t change his mind. Next he would take offense and start milording Fen. They had met years earlier in a brawl in a thieves’ ken—Harry the expert street fighter and Fen the wielder of knife magic. They’d fought their way laughing out of the tavern, formed an unlikely friendship and then a furniture shop, but they had never quite overcome the differences in their birth.