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

by Michelle Willingham

  “And what’s to say some government assassin won’t try to stick his chive into me before I leave England?” Harry said. “I don’t trust your old man an inch.”

  “He could have had you killed already if that was what he intended. He could have arranged it anytime these past five years.”

  Harry scowled. “For all we know, this is a last ditch attempt to get you out of trade.”

  Fen pondered a moment. The marquis had made several efforts to destroy their partnership, from supporting their competition to offering Fen a lucrative government sinecure. “Ordinarily I would suspect as much, but my father never threatened to kill you before.” He blew out a breath. “I fear he was too worried to think things through. Somebody is helping those prisoners escape, and punishing the wrong person will only perpetuate the problem. It has to be stopped, not swept under the rug.”

  Harry took a sip of brandy. “Aye, but I’m still not leaving. I can go to ground far better here in London. Might be a nice change from kowtowing to fools.” While most customers gave Fen a measure of respect—even those who disapproved of his occupation—they expected slavishness from a man born to the laboring class. It made Fen’s blood boil. Harry pretended to shrug it off as one of the tedious facts of life.

  The knife ceased its work, and Fen eyed the result: a leering grotesque of his father’s head. Despite the temptation to skewer the head on the point of the awl—a death’s head on a stick—he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His father was intolerable, but some respect and affection for him lingered within Fen.

  Harry snorted. “Meanwhile, we’re going to play spy?”

  Fen sighed, gratefully accepting his friend’s help. “It shouldn’t be difficult. All we have to do is review your recent activities and go from there. You were seen doing something that could be construed as treason. Have you met any French parolees lately? Associated with any smugglers? Been anywhere near the coast?”

  “I drove our wagon with the latest delivery to Lord Slough’s place in Kent,” Harry said. “One of the boys was sick, and I felt like taking a jaunt to the countryside...” His brows knit.

  “Did you meet any smugglers while you were there?”

  “Aye, but all we did was buy this brandy off them. They were delivering to Slough as well. Everybody buys directly from smugglers, including every aristocrat with an estate within reach of the coast.”

  Fen eyed the fiery liquid in his goblet. It was the best French vintage, but even his father wouldn’t say buying it was treason. “Fine, but did you come across any foreigners?”

  Harry set his goblet down and sat forward. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze met Fen’s. “God damn it to hell, I gave a ride to one.”

  Fen raised questioning brows.

  “I thought he might be better company than that guard Slough insists on sending with us,” Harry muttered. “The fellow was... a Spaniard, or so he said. How was I to know the difference, or that he was a parolee?”

  “That’s the whole point,” Fen said. “A wagon driver wouldn’t know.”

  “Surprisingly, Slough’s guard didn’t object,” Harry said.

  As simple as that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANDROMEDA GIBBONS HAD long since decided that Lord Fenimore Trent meant nothing to her. More than five years had passed since they’d last met. She had several London seasons to her credit and had molded herself into a perfect lady. Her previous acquaintance with Fen Trent was practically a figment of the imagination, so the inevitable encounter with him wouldn’t affect her in the least.

  Shouldering his way through the crowded ballroom and bearing down on them now, he didn’t seem as much like a figment as she’d hoped. She put her nose in the air and curled her fingers more tightly around the arm of her haughty betrothed, the Earl of Slough.

  In spite of having demeaned himself—she would never, ever understand why he had decided to become a tradesman—Lord Fenimore was an impressive figure, squarely-built and confident, with thick, dark hair and intelligent grey eyes. His coat of superfine made it clear that manufacturing furniture for the wealthy made him wealthy as well.

  Hopefully, her high-in-the-instep betrothed would choose to simply pass him by.

  “My lord.” Lord Fenimore’s warm voice resonated through her as it always had, sending a restless quiver into her gut. How annoying! Fen didn’t deserve to have an effect on her. Not that she had anything against tradesmen as such, but his ungentlemanly profession was all of a piece with his even more ungentlemanly treatment of her five years earlier.

  Lord Slough came to a halt. “What the deuce are you doing at this ball?” he demanded. “Never tell me you were invited.”

  “There are advantages to being patronized by His Highness,” Lord Fenimore said. “He commanded Lady Corington to request my presence.”

  “Tsk. Very bad ton, our new Regent,” Lord Slough drawled.

  In spite of herself, Andromeda bristled. Lord Slough’s comment might also be considered bad ton. One shouldn’t be rude to anyone, no matter how lowly—not that Fen showed the slightest reaction to the insult. A stolid front must serve him well now that his former equals treated him as an inferior. Quite rightly so, she reminded herself. He had chosen his lower status—made his bed (perhaps literally as well as figuratively) and should lie in it.

  Fenimore’s gaze paused on Andromeda. He bowed. “Miss Gibbons.”

  A chill passed through her at the cool indifference of his eyes. Instinctively, her free hand went to the gold, heart-shaped locket at her breast, but she withdrew it in a hurry and gave him the briefest of nods. “Lord Fenimore.”

  Lord Slough eyed her in surprise. “You are acquainted?”

  “Since childhood.” How exasperating that her voice sounded unnaturally high, and that her fingers itched to clutch the locket, as if its magic would protect her. Not that its magic had helped her in the past; quite the contrary, with the result that she doubted it possessed any magic at all. Still, it had been given to her by her dying mother and was a great source of comfort.

  But she shouldn’t need comfort just now. “The estate of Lord Fenimore’s father, the Marquis of Overwood, is only a few miles from my father’s.” Although Fen was four years older than Andromeda, they’d shared good times as children, believing in fairies and hobgoblins and getting up to mischief. Even the punishments they had both suffered seemed a precious memory.

  How ridiculous! She mustn’t let herself think that way, not when their former closeness contrasted so painfully with Fen’s current indifference.

  “So it is,” Lord Slough said. “That’s not a card you’re brandishing, is it, Trent?”

  “Naturally,” Fen said. “One must take advantage of every opportunity.” He proffered a card to Andromeda, who took it before she could stop herself. Trent and Wellcome, it said in bold, flourishing letters. Red Lion Street, Holborn.

  Lord Slough removed the card from her grasp with the tips of his well-bred fingers and dropped it to the floor. “The effrontery of the tradesman knows no bounds.”

  Fen grinned. He still had the charming, devastating smile of years ago. How dare he affect her so? He had done everything a gentleman shouldn’t do, whilst she had striven to become the perfect lady. For propriety’s sake, she must make herself think of him as Lord Fenimore, as if he were a mere acquaintance, rather than as her childhood friend, Fen.

  “We who work for our living have little choice,” he said. His gaze roamed upward, as if he were losing interest in the conversation, and then returned to Lord Slough. “The latest item we have built for you is almost ready to ship, my lord. The day after tomorrow, I believe.”

  Lord Slough made a moue of distaste. “Must you bring the shop into the ballroom?” He sighed heavily. “I pity your parents. You have lost all concept of good taste.”

  Andromeda bristled again. The Earl of Slough was known for his clever repartee, but sometimes his comments were merely stupid. “Not when it comes to furniture design,” she said
.

  Lord Slough chuckled and patted her hand. “My witty little wife-to-be.”

  She hadn’t meant it as a jest! Lord Slough had turned her defense of Fen into an insult. She reminded herself that Fen, no, Lord Fenimore—must by now be accustomed to slurs but felt herself pale with mortification all the same.

  “Accept my congratulations on your betrothal, Lord Slough,” Lord Fenimore said smoothly. “You have indeed won a rare gem.”

  If Lord Slough didn’t detect the sarcasm in Lord Fenimore’s voice, Andromeda certainly did. But she hadn’t meant to say anything cutting!

  “Have I not?” Lord Slough stroked Andromeda’s gloved hand. “By the way, my dear, the item Lord Fenimore referred to is a bed, constructed for you to my exact specifications.” He stroked her hand again, and she barely managed not to flinch. “Our marriage bed,” he purred.

  She should say something―thank Lord Slough at the very least―but no words came. Meanwhile, Fen’s gaze roamed upward again, and she thought she caught a flicker of movement by the chandelier―a trick of the candlelight, no doubt. Now, why did Fen look amused? Because he had once stroked Andromeda in such a way?

  She’d had no impulse to flinch from Fen—at least, not until later, when he’d given her the cut direct.

  “Ah, Lady Corington beckons.” Fen bowed and strolled away.

  “That,” Lord Slough said, “is an acquaintance you must not pursue.”

  “Certainly not.” She tore her gaze away from Fen’s retreating figure.

  “Do I sense a degree of constraint between you and Lord Fenimore?” asked her betrothed.

  Yet another aspect of Lord Slough she had begun to dislike. He had seemed merely clever and sharp-tongued before their betrothal. Since then, he had not only proven himself to be ill-mannered, but he also took note of—and commented upon—every tiny detail of her appearance, manners, and reactions.

  Since she had indeed reacted to Lord Fenimore in spite of herself, there was no point in denying it. “I dislike him intensely.”

  “Dear me.” Judging by his tone of voice, he didn’t quite believe her.

  Rightly so, since the moment she said it, she realized it was a lie. Was she disconcerted that Fen still affected her after so long? Yes, exasperatingly so. Was she hurt to the core? Unfortunately, still true as well. Wishing the past to become less than a memory hadn’t made it so. But dislike him? No.

  “Yes, indeed,” she lied again. “He had a tendre for me at one time—when I was a foolish seventeen-year-old and thought him quite handsome—and he was furious when I flirted with another man.” So far, this was the truth, but she couldn’t tell Slough what had really happened after that. She had never told anyone. A lady kept such heartbreak to herself.

  So she made up a slightly different ending to the story. “He acted as if I belonged to him, and when I told him it was no such thing, he acted quite—quite distressingly crude.”

  “Dear me,” chuckled Lord Slough.

  It was an accomplishment to make her fiancé laugh. “Perhaps his lower class tendencies were revealing themselves even then,” she said.

  Immediately, shame engulfed her. How could she say anything so crass?

  Lord Fenimore Trent let Lady Corington prattle on about how happy she was with the dining table and chairs he’d made for her, as well as her ideas for the window seats she intended to order next. For once in his life, he couldn’t concentrate on furniture. He and Harry were up to their necks in espionage, with little hope in sight.

  Oh, they knew who was helping prisoners escape. It couldn’t get more ironic: the traitor was the Earl of Slough himself, not merely the guard he’d sent on those deliveries to Kent. A close crony of the Marquis of Overwood, Slough must have played too deep and needed to recoup his losses, but he’d set up Trent & Wellcome as a scapegoat in case the treason was discovered. It was a simple, rather clever plan: order a great deal of furniture to be delivered to his estate in Kent, and have his confederate bribe the driver of the wagon to take a few passengers along. Fortunately, Harry had delivered a load, or he and Fen wouldn’t so easily have unmasked the traitor.

  It hadn’t occurred to either the government operative or Lord Overwood that the real culprit might be the Earl of Slough. The marquis’ fit of temper over Fen playing spy was nothing to when his errant son had the effrontery to suggest that he investigate Lord Slough. Now the marquis wouldn’t speak to Fen at all.

  One of these days, thought Fen, he would entirely lose patience with his father. But doing so wouldn’t help matters now, so he set his annoyance—no, his pain, might as well admit it—aside. The sooner Fen gave up on the old man, the better, but it would take more than the marquis’s stubborn stupidity to make that happen.

  Fen sighed, wishing he could simply kill Lord Slough and get it over with, but that wouldn’t save Harry. It would, however, keep Andromeda Gibbons from marrying a traitor.

  Not that Fen cared one way or another, or if he did, he shouldn’t. She certainly didn’t care about him, but that was no surprise. She had made that evident years ago. Now she not only regarded him as she would any tradesperson, but she wasn’t above making snide remarks about him. He had washed his hands of her over five years ago when she’d bedded his friend, Donald Crockett. Thanks to Donald’s lechery, Fen had had a lucky escape.

  He didn’t think Slough was likely to do her any physical harm, but Fen found himself battling contradictory feelings nonetheless. Some unpleasant, long-wounded part of him, buried deep inside until just now, felt that it served her right. Another, more rational side knew that he shouldn’t let an innocent woman tie herself to a traitor. A third part of his mind acknowledged that, failing a miracle, he would have to do so.

  His eyes were drawn upward; the hobgoblin on the chandelier was trying to distract him again. He’d postured throughout the conversation with Slough and Andromeda, faultlessly mimicking the earl. Time was when Fen and Andromeda would have laughed together at the little fellow’s antics, but today she’d ignored them. Why had she decided to wed Slough, who definitely didn’t have the Sight? Why not seek out someone who would accept her fairy heritage?

  Fen wrenched his mind back to important matters. Much as he would like to kill Slough—and the knife in his pocket was signaling its eagerness to do the job—it would do more harm than good. Whoever was paying him to help the prisoners escape would simply bribe someone else. The only way to stop the treason and prove Harry’s innocence was to catch Slough and his French contact red-handed.

  “Lord Fenimore?”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Corington. My mind wandered into the intricacies of design.” This was a lie; the magic that inspired him was doing its best, but he couldn’t concentrate with the double distractions of a restless knife—thank God he’d resisted the temptation to wear his tool belt to a ball—and Andromeda Gibbons.

  He needn’t watch the traitor dancing with Andromeda, but somehow he couldn’t help himself. They’d had street urchins following Slough for the past two days and watching his servants come and go and where they went. Tonight there were two extra footmen on the premises—one of whom was Harry in disguise—keeping an eye on his slippery lordship, ready to pursue him when he left. Somehow, somewhere, Slough would make contact with the French.

  Fen took out his notebook. “Let me jot down your ideas,” he told Lady Corington. “I’ll make some sketches to bring you next week. What sort of finish were you thinking of?”

  While Lady Corington discussed the relative merits of gilt lion’s paws versus mahogany eagles, and Fen tried to persuade her that japanning was a bore, Lord Slough passed Andromeda to Donald Crockett for the next dance. Fen had long ago accepted the unpalatable fact that Andromeda had bedded Crockett and likely others as well. Once a woman got a taste of sexual activity, she wasn’t likely to revert to a state of chastity. The thought caused him no more than a distasteful curl of the nostrils.

  She was an elegant dancer; she’d always been lithe and grace
ful, even as a tomboyish child—traits inherited from her beautiful, part-fairy mother, who had died young. What a pity Andromeda’s character didn’t match her delightful exterior. Meanwhile, Slough chatted with Fen’s father, pretending to be a loyal Englishman. Whatever Andromeda’s flaws, she didn’t deserve to be married for even a minute to such a man.

  But loyalty to Harry and to England ranked far above sentiment, and evidently Fen’s soft spot for Andromeda was very small indeed. Only a few more days until her wedding. If they hadn’t identified the French contact by then, he would have to let her marry Lord Slough.

  Andromeda danced with her betrothed and then with Donald Crockett, while self-loathing ate at her. She was in danger of becoming as unpleasant as Lord Slough. After she’d made that horrid remark about Lord Fenimore, his lordship had laughed again and said, “I wonder if Lady Overwood played her husband false.”

  How unfair! The Marchioness of Overwood was a good, faithful wife, and Lord Fenimore and his brothers all had the craggy Overwood features to prove it. But Andromeda had forced a chuckle in response, while panic sprouted within her like an uncontrollable bramble, pricking and scratching and scraping her from within.

  She didn’t want to marry Lord Slough.

  What had she been thinking when she’d accepted his offer?

  There was no reason to think, she told herself. She’d merely done what any practical-minded, well-bred lady would do. She’d decided long ago that love was for fools. Marriage was a business transaction, so she had concentrated on what was required of a lady, such as excellent deportment and myriad accomplishments. She had molded herself into the perfect wife and hostess for a man of rank and power. Lord Slough was an excellent catch—quite a bit older than she was, but wealthy, handsome, well-respected, et cetera.