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

by Michelle Willingham

  “Ooh, pretty locket,” another man said, reaching for it.

  No! She mustn’t lose the locket! She clutched it with all her heart and suddenly remembered the knife in her other hand. She stabbed backward with all her might.

  Her captor gave a blood-curdling yell and dropped her. She yanked the knife from his thigh and wrenched herself away. Her cloak came off in his hands, but the precious locket was safe. She took to her heels, followed by shouts, curses, and more jeering laughter.

  Sobbing now, heedless of her torn and bleeding feet, she ran on. Her hair had fallen out of its pins and flew about her face, wisps sticking to her cheeks. No one pursued her, but she barely slowed as she passed people on the street. She sensed the interested stares but never turned her head, praying only to be left alone.

  She reached Holborn at last. The streets were emptier here. Now, where was Red Lion Street? Right by Red Lion Square, where she’d visited the inn mentioned in Pepys’ diary. After a few wrong turns, she found the street she sought, and immediately afterward, the imposing sign over the door: Trent and Wellcome.

  The shop was in darkness, as were the windows above. Had Fen returned yet? If so, how could she attract his attention? One long ago summer, when she was seven years old and he was eleven, he’d thrown pebbles at her window and taken her fishing at midnight.

  She cast about her, but it was too dark to find pebbles, and besides, what if he didn’t live here at all but in lodgings elsewhere? She couldn’t stand in the street, for someone was sure to see her and perhaps accost her again. She must find someplace to wait until morning. In the rear, maybe—there must be a place to load furniture into wagons.

  Beyond weary, she retraced her steps to a narrow archway between Fen’s building and the next. It smelled of damp and was darker than pitch. She shoved down her rising panic and edged into the alley, feeling her way. A rat scurried underfoot. She muffled a yelp of fright and bumped into the gate at the end. It was unlocked, thank God, for she had no strength left at all and couldn’t have climbed it. She stumbled through into a walled yard.

  Through heavy, aching eyes, she took stock of her surroundings. A shed stood tucked by the wall, a pile of rags and debris beside it. Ahead, two wagons were drawn up by a pair of closed gates. At the rear of the building, a bump-out addition spanned the entire width of the ground floor. The windows above it were dark. If Lord Fenimore dwelt here and had returned from the ball, he had already gone to bed.

  She sank onto her haunches at the back of the bump-out and brushed her hair away from her face. Theoretically, she could shin up the drainpipe—she’d done it at home as a child—but peering into a dark window would tell her nothing. Anyway, she was exhausted. The accomplishments of a perfect lady didn’t include running alone through the streets of London in the wee hours, fleeing traitors and spies.

  And yet, she’d done it. She allowed herself a tiny, triumphant smile. She had arrived, and soon she would speak to Fen and be safe. For now, she wanted nothing but to fall asleep. She settled herself on the doorstep, about to close her eyes, when a long snore, broken by a grunt, jerked her wide awake.

  Her heart in her throat, she scanned the dark yard, turning her head slowly, trying to find the source of the sound. It couldn’t be from above—the windows were shut—but...

  By the shed, the pile of rags shifted. She stared, and the rags moved again, followed by a yawn. One stretching arm appeared and then another. It was a man! She froze, forcing herself to remain utterly still. The pile of rags stilled, too. There was a long moment of utter silence.

  Whoever he was, he’d spied her. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt their malevolent stare. She shuddered at the thought of using the knife again. She took it between her teeth, grasped the drainpipe, and hauled herself up hand over hand.

  He lunged across the yard toward her, spewing curses. Terror gave her strength. She clambered over the gutter and rolled onto the top of the bump-out. She let go of the knife and gasped for breath.

  “There now,” growled a rough Cockney voice from below, “you’ll not escape old Diggs so easily!”

  Andromeda’s every muscle shook. Desperately, she closed her hand around the hilt of the knife.

  Behind her, a candle glowed. The window opened with a groan and a rattle. The knife slipped from her clutching hand and landed quivering on the roof.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Lord Fenimore said.

  Fen pushed the window full open, and Andromeda burst into tears. Oh, hell. He climbed out onto the roof.

  Diggs, the beggar who habitually slept in the yard, called from below. “You want I should fetch the Watch, my lord?”

  “Unnecessary.” Fen pulled the sobbing Andromeda to her feet. She gasped as if in pain, and tears streamed down her face. Her hair lay in a tangle on her shoulders, and her slippers were torn to ribbons. Had she walked all the way here in footwear suited only for dancing at a ball? What in hell was going on?

  His mind raced through the possibilities of what her arrival just before dawn, exhausted and distraught, might mean. She wasn’t wearing the same gown as before, but that could be because she’d spilled her wine.

  A knife on the roof beside her was making its presence known. Be still, he told it. Christ, was that blood on the blade? “Damn.” Confound it, he’d cursed again, but he couldn’t afford to have a woman on the premises. It just wouldn’t do, and especially not this woman, and especially not now.

  “Don’t usually see visitors of the female persuasion here, my lord.” Diggs sounded amused. Everyone knew about Fen’s past reputation, even though he’d been discreet for five years.

  “That’s not about to change. She’s just a friend who’s gotten herself into a spot of trouble.”

  Diggs snorted, and Andromeda gaped at Fen with wide, tear-drenched eyes. What if she really were with child? He hoped she wasn’t such a fool, but he didn’t intend to let it become his problem.

  He pushed her gently toward the window. “Go inside and wait for me. I’ll take you straight home.”

  “No!” squeaked Andromeda. “Please, you mustn’t. It’s—it’s life or death, Fen.”

  “Go inside,” Fen said through gritted teeth. “Now.”

  Andromeda hiccupped on a sob and got a hold of herself. She hiked her skirts, hobbled to the window, and hitched one leg over the sill. Her gown rode up, revealing shapely legs. She sagged inward, raised the other leg, and would have toppled inside if Fen hadn’t grabbed her by the arm and bum and let her down slowly.

  He made a point of not noticing the soft plumpness of that bum.

  He padded across the roof of the bump-out, got down on his haunches, and spoke quietly to Diggs. “Go back to sleep, and keep your mouth shut about this. There’ll be a shilling for you in the morning.”

  “Right you are, my lord.”

  Fen watched the beggar amble back to his pile of rags. What had happened to Andromeda between an hour ago and now? Why had she come to him? Why didn’t she want to go home? And what the devil was he going to do with her?

  He pulled himself together; he would get the story from her soon enough. The knife came eagerly to his reaching hand. He climbed in the window, shut it, and closed the curtains. Andromeda was huddled on the hearthrug, eyes closed, her knees drawn up to her chest, racked by great, convulsive shudders.

  He set the knife on the dressing table, examining in the candlelight the dark stains on the blade. He put one fingertip to the sticky blade, then sniffed it. Blood indeed.

  Something terrible must have happened to drive Andromeda here, and she was clearly in a state of shock. He knew an urge to take her in his arms, to hold and comfort her, but dismissed that as insanity. He had almost ruined his life once for Andromeda; never again.

  He lit the branch of candles on the dresser. “I’ll start a fire, shall I?” he said briskly. “Get you warmed up.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, teeth chattering. “Y-y-you’re stark naked, Fen.” />
  “So I am,” Lord Fenimore said without the slightest sign of embarrassment. “I’d just gone to bed.”

  Andromeda knew she should turn away. He didn’t care about her, wanted to get rid of her in fact, but still she couldn’t help looking at him. He was much more beautiful—and fascinating—than the few nude statues she had seen. A familiar, long-buried yearning tugged at her.

  “Sorry about that. I’ll get some clothes on.” He moved out of her line of vision. She didn’t know what she’d expected—not that Fen still loved her, for she already knew he didn’t—but he’d cursed at her and implied to his servant that she was a loose woman, and then he’d shrugged off his nakedness as irrelevant. Which, to a loose woman, it probably would be. Perhaps she deserved it. She’d been rude to him this evening, and maybe he’d even heard her insult him. She couldn’t blame him for being rude right back or for wanting to be rid of her.

  But that didn’t explain why he’d rid himself of her once before, many years ago. How he’d refused to speak to her, his eyes cold, his body utterly still but for his hands, which twitched slightly, poised at his sides, before he turned away. Something about him had frightened her a little, but that was nothing to the anguish of being spurned by the man she loved with all her heart.

  A tear trickled down her check. Hurriedly, she wiped it away. Fen’s attitude toward her, past and present, didn’t matter. She had done well tonight. Not only had she arrived safely on her own in spite of being attacked, but she hadn’t succumbed to superstition and begged the locket to save her. She’d snuffed that foolish thought straightaway.

  She couldn’t stop shivering, so she decided to start the fire herself. She hadn’t tried to light a fire since shortly after her mother’s death. Mama had taught her how, but Papa had since forbade it, saying it was servants’ work and beneath her. She laid the kindling, produced a spark with a flint, and lit the tinder. She blew on it, and the little flame grew obediently—surprising, since as a child the flame had ignored her pleas as completely as it responded to her mother’s coaxing. “It’s because you don’t have your magic yet,” Mama had said.

  Which was nonsense, of course—the servants who customarily lit the fires weren’t magical. Mama had been slightly mad, as Papa and Aunt Mattie kindly explained after her death. “Don’t mention it to anyone,” Aunt Mattie had remonstrated, “as madness in the family will spoil your chances of a good match.”

  Andromeda had never told them how, on her deathbed, Mama had pressed the locket into her hand and told her to call on its magic only if she truly needed it, for the consequences would affect the rest of her life. More nonsense, of course, since magic didn’t exist.

  And since the locket didn’t contain magic—how foolish to ever imagine such a thing!—Andromeda had often tried to open it to put something inside, but the catch was broken and wouldn’t budge.

  She leaned closer to blow on the fire again, adjusting a stick of kindling, and pleaded with the sluggish flames. “Oh, do take hold!”

  The kindling caught in several places at once. Startled but relieved, she sat back.

  “That was quick,” said Fen from behind her.

  “My―my mother taught me.”

  “Ah, well―she would know, wouldn’t she? She’d be an expert, in fact.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Her mother hadn’t been a servant.

  Fen squatted next to Andromeda, dressed in shirt and breeches and holding out a goblet. “Drink this. You’ll feel better afterward.”

  She sniffed the goblet. “I don’t drink spirits.”

  “You’re suffering from shock, and it will help.”

  “Sp-spirits make me foolish,” she said. “I can scarcely tolerate wine.”

  “Take a sip, for God’s sake.” He practically forced the goblet to her lips, so she complied. The brandy washed hotly into her gut.

  He set the goblet on the floor next to her and moved away to add coals to the fire. She propped her chin on her knees and watched him, but her eyes wouldn’t stay open. She was so very, very tired.

  “You mustn’t go to sleep,” Fen said, and she opened her eyes to find him cross-legged next to her on the hearthrug. The fire burned merrily now, and he had set a kettle on the hob. “Why are you here?”

  His voice was harsh; he must absolutely loathe her.

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I couldn’t go home, and I couldn’t go to any of my friends. You were the only person I could think of. I thought—” Why must her voice tremble? “Please don’t make me go home.”

  “Andromeda, you can’t possibly stay here for more than a few hours to recover. If you remain here, your identity will come out, which would be catastrophic for both of us.”

  Her continued presence would affect his reputation, she supposed, and might adversely affect his business as well. Her own reputation was completely ruined, but she was too tired to care about that.

  Sparks drifted up the chimney. “Tell me what’s wrong, and then I’ll decide what to do.” Fen said.

  She didn’t know where to begin. If she simply blurted Lord Slough is a traitor, he would think her insane.

  “Did you quarrel with Lord Slough?” he asked.

  She stared at him. “No! Whatever gave you that idea?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes people act rashly after a lover’s spat.”

  “I wouldn’t go out alone at night because of a silly quarrel,” she said. “What happened was...” The last thing she wanted to admit to Fen―no, for her own sake she should think of him as Lord Fenimore―was what a fool she’d been. “I had gone out of the ballroom to find someplace to be private.”

  His brows drew together. “With whom?”

  “With no one,” she said, and his brows rose skeptically. No—cynically. Did he think she’d sneaked off with a man? “What do you take me for?” The fire crackled, and sparks flew out, almost reaching the hearthrug.

  He said nothing, merely leaning forward to brush the sparks onto the hearth. Did he really see her as a loose woman?

  “I wouldn’t cheat on the man I’m going to marry,” she protested. Even if he had overheard that crass remark she’d made at the ball, an unkind comment didn’t automatically make her adulterous. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to explain that she had brought misery upon herself. “I—I just wanted to be alone.”

  “If you say so.” Clearly, he didn’t believe her.

  “I do say so,” she said, “and it’s true. I sat down to have a bit of a think and a—a cry, if you must know.”

  “The fellow didn’t come to meet you—is that it? Who was it, Donald Crockett?” She gaped. “He’s a handsome fellow, and you’ve always liked him. You certainly seemed to enjoy dancing with him tonight—more so than with Lord Slough.”

  She must look like a fool staring at him with her mouth open, but she didn’t know what to say.

  “Or one of his lecherous friends?” Lord Fenimore went on. “You can tell me the truth, you know. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

  “I am telling the truth!” she cried, and more sparks leapt out. Fen muttered a curse and moved the fireguard into place.

  “I was upset about something, just as I said, and it’s none of your business.” Her voice broke. “I’m not a cheat, and you’re horrid and loathsome. I don’t know why I thought you would help.” She stood and hobbled to the door, but where could she go? She leaned her forehead on the door jamb. “I wish I could just leave.”

  “Thus proving my point. People—hysterical women in particular—act foolishly when overset. The only reason you’re not storming into the night is because you already did that once, and you’re too exhausted and sore to do it again.”

  “It has nothing to do with exhaustion, and I’m not hysterical!” She longed to punch the smirk off his face, but he would take that as more proof of his utterly idiotic point. “I don’t know why I thought I would be safe here.”

  “Oh, you’re safe,”
he said coolly. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Except stupidity,” she snapped.

  Typical, arrogant male, it never occurred to him that he might actually be stupid. “Get on with it, will you? Just tell me why you’re here.”

  She took a deep breath. What he thought of her didn’t matter; stopping the treason did. She plunked herself back on the hearthrug. She shivered, chilly now, and wished the fire was hotter. It flared up, sending out a wave of welcome warmth. Fen glanced at her and moved as far away as he could while still remaining on the rug. Did he find her so very loathsome?

  “I was about to return to my aunt when I heard voices outside the room,” she said. “I couldn’t bear the thought of people seeing me with red-rimmed eyes.” Which seemed ridiculous now, but it had mattered very much at the time.

  She paused, but he said nothing, which probably meant he was thinking. She remembered with sudden vividness his habit of falling into long silences whilst in thought. No, more likely he was bored, impatient and uninterested in anything she had to say. He wouldn’t be for long.

  “When I realized someone was coming into the room, I hid behind the curtain,” she said. “I recognized Lord Slough’s voice.”

  Lord Fenimore turned his head, a crease between his brows. “Lord Slough? Which room was this?”

  “A little drawing room past the ladies’ retiring room. Lord Slough said he had a migraine. A footman lit a candle for him and left.”

  Suddenly, Lord Fenimore’s eyes were intent. “Go on.”

  “I didn’t want Lord Slough to see that I was upset,” she said. “I thought if I remained utterly still behind the curtain, he wouldn’t see me and would leave again before long.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Almost immediately, a man came in by the door from the terrace.”

  Fen let out a breath. “Did he indeed?”