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

by Michelle Willingham

  “Andromeda, straight-laced?” Fen said, incredulous.

  “She’s obsessed with propriety. She wouldn’t be able to stomach the scandal, so she would never take such a risk.”

  Fen pondered that. Evidently, Andromeda had changed a great deal in the last several years. “Then maybe she feared worse. Maybe she thought Slough would realize she’s not a virgin. He’s a dangerous man when crossed.”

  Crockett’s eyes popped wide. “She’s not a virgin?”

  “Oh, come now. You’re the one who deflowered her.”

  There was a silence. Crockett frowned. Gradually, realization crossed his face. Damn his eyes, had Crockett forgotten the event that had changed both Fen’s life and Andromeda’s?

  Donald flushed. “Well, er, actually, old fellow...”

  Fen scowled. “Actually what?”

  “Actually, I didn’t deflower her.”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t?”

  “I did my best to get under her skirts, but she would have none of me.”

  Fen’s mind staggered under this revelation. “Then―” His voice came out as a harsh growl. “Then why the devil did you tell me you had?”

  “Er, well, as a matter of fact, it―” Crockett went red, then white. “It, er, was for your own good. You were thinking of marrying her, but that would have meant abandoning the notion of going into trade. I felt it to be my duty to help you make your decision.”

  Rage swarmed behind Fen’s eyes, and the tools on his belt quivered with eagerness. “You lying bastard. You didn’t want me to go into trade. It had nothing to do with your duty or my own good, and you know it.” He clenched his fists; otherwise he might grab one of his tools and do some irreparable damage.

  “No, no, I swear it did, old fellow.” Crockett put up his hands to fend Fen off. He backed into a chair, knocking it over, and landed on his rear. He scrambled up in a hurry. “I wanted to help.”

  Fen swung at his traitorous friend, clipping him on the jaw. “You disgusting little worm. You just couldn’t bear the thought of failing where I would have succeeded.” He opened and closed his fists, fighting the call of the awl, the chisel, a knife.

  Crockett rubbed his chin, backing away and knocking over a pier glass, shattering it. “I, er, I suppose that may have been part of it, but it was all for the best, old fellow.” He dodged a table. “You know it w―”

  “I’ll throttle you,” Fen roared and descended upon his former friend, pinning Crockett to the floorboards with a knee. He gripped the bastard’s throat and squeezed. Crockett thrashed, choking, and Fen’s rage grew. He squeezed harder. Crockett clawed at him, weakly now.

  My, my,” said a loathsome voice. “First he descends to trade―and then to murder.”

  Fen let go.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LORD SLOUGH WAS here!

  At the sound of shouts and toppling furniture, Andromeda had opened the office door the tiniest crack to see what was happening. She had been on the point of running out to implore Fen to stop when Lord Slough appeared in the doorway to the shop.

  He hadn’t seen her—she was sure of that—but she dared not shut the door completely for fear of drawing his attention in her direction. She huddled in the office, heart hammering, while poor Donald Crockett gasped and wheezed. What had gotten into Fen? He really had run mad.

  “Good day, Lord Slough.” Now Fen sounded perfectly composed, but perhaps such sudden about-faces were common in lunacy. “How fortuitous that you’re here. I meant to send you a message but was otherwise occupied.”

  “With squeezing the life out of your friend?” Slough said. “Erstwhile friend, I imagine.”

  “We were quarreling about a woman,” Fen said.

  “Hardly surprising, given your reputation and Crockett’s,” said Lord Slough. “However, I thought you habitually solved such disputes with a sword or a knife, not your bare hands.”

  Fen uttered a short laugh. “Thank you for bringing me to my senses. I’d rather not hang over a worthless female.”

  Andromeda found herself assailed by a maelstrom of emotions. Why, on top of entirely logical fear and dismay, should she care that Fen had fought over a woman?

  “Get back to work, all of you,” Fen said. “The day’s entertainment is over.” Laughter erupted, and Andromeda realized that the sounds of saws and other tools had ceased during the fight. Fen’s cabinet makers must have crowded the doorway to the workshop to gawk at the brawl.

  “One of you take the pier-glass frame to the back, and another get a broom and clean up the broken glass,” Fen said. Soon there was silence but for Donald’s wheezing, and then the sounds of work recommenced.

  “You mentioned a message, Trent?” Slough asked at last.

  “Ah, yes, Lord Slough,” Fen said. “I regret to say that one of the legs of the bed split open and needs replacing.”

  “Split open?”

  “Yes, alas. Regrettably, there was a flaw in the wood.”

  “When will it be fixed?” Slough demanded.

  “The repairs will take a couple of days.” Fen’s tone was polite. How could he put up with being treated like a servant?

  “That is unacceptable,” Slough said. “I need that bed now.”

  Donald Crockett croaked, “You’ve found her, then?”

  “Must you bring up that deplorable matter in public?” There was a snarl in Slough’s voice. “No, I haven’t found her.”

  “Then I fail to see why the bed is so urgently required,” Fen said coolly.

  “I see the news has reached the dregs of society,” Slough said. “It’s not your business to understand my doings. It’s your business to supply the bed I require.”

  “Perhaps, but I can’t wave a magic wand and fix the leg.”

  “Then give me another bed,” Slough snapped.

  “Regrettably again, I have no other bed available. I can of course recommend another manufacturer—one who supplies ready-made furniture.”

  “Damn you,” Slough said. Fen didn’t respond. Andromeda sank her head on her knees, still quivering inside but relieved. Lord Slough didn’t suspect that she was here.

  Fine, but in that case, why was he here? Fen hadn’t yet sent him a message about the broken bed—and how convenient that was, because if Fen couldn’t deliver the bed, he couldn’t be caught carrying escaping prisoners, either...

  Oh. Had Fen broken the bed on purpose? He must have. What a clever way to give himself time to find the French spy. That certainly wasn’t the work of an unbalanced man.

  Fen’s mind felt as if runaway horses were pulling it in two directions at once. He still reeled under the revelation that Crockett had never bedded Andromeda. That Fen had given her the cut direct for no reason. That he’d been a jealous, unthinking fool.

  But... at the time he’d thought perhaps it was for the best. It had solved the problem of choosing between crafting furniture—a safe, satisfying use of his magic—and Andromeda and the life to which he’d been born. Her supposed faithlessness had made the decision painfully easy.

  Except that now his love for Andromeda had surfaced as if it had always been there, waiting. What a damnable struggle to use nothing but his hands on that bastard Crockett!

  But he couldn’t afford to think about his longing for Andromeda right now. What the devil was Slough doing here? Fen had intended to postpone sending a message about the broken bed until the last possible moment, for fear of disrupting Slough’s plans to meet the French spy. But for what other reason would he come here today?

  “This is damned inconvenient,” Lord Slough said, “but I see there is nothing to be done. Stop moaning, Crockett. I’ve been up all night, and do you see me complaining? Is there a coffee house anywhere in this godforsaken part of town, or is it all gin shops?”

  Fen ignored the ludicrous insult. “Laborde’s isn’t far, about halfway to Oxford Street.” He eyed the still-cowering Crockett, who gave him a miserable glare. Fen didn’t want to speak to the dastard
ever again, but for the moment he had to pretend they’d tiffed over a tavern wench.

  He scowled and offered Crockett a hand. He would have laughed at his former friend’s wary expression if he’d been in a mood to be amused. “Get up off the floor. Laborde has excellent brandy, too.”

  At the mention of a drink, Donald’s eye brightened a little. He took Fen’s proffered hand, stood, and dusted himself off.

  “Smuggled, no doubt,” Slough said. “What is the world coming to?”

  “Doing it a little too brown, my lord,” Fen said. “I’ll wager all the brandy at your estate in Kent is smuggled straight from France.”

  “Quite possibly; my butler takes care of such matters. Still, one must uphold the official stance, or the lower orders will lose all respect for the law,” Slough said.

  Crockett shot Fen another glance. “Pray accept my apology, Lord Fenimore,” he said formally.

  “No need for an apology,” Fen said, because he would never accept one. He hoped his narrowed eyes made this clear to Crockett. He watched them out the door and nodded to an urchin lounging just outside the alleyway—the replacement for the one who’d been detailed to Slough since last night. The boy stood and strolled after them, whistling.

  The char was on her way down the stairs with her mop and bucket; he paid her and opened the door to help her out. Shutting it behind her, he eyed the door to Harry’s office. He owed Andromeda an apology—a sincere one this time, but the thought of confessing that he’d believed Crockett’s lie boggled the mind.

  “She truly did love me, once upon a time,” he whispered to Cuff, who was perched on the windowsill. “When she learns the truth, she will loathe me—and rightly so.”

  Cuff gazed out upon the street. This might mean anything from indifference to anger. Fen hoped the hobgoblin wasn’t overly upset with Andromeda. The hob didn’t seem to mind Harry, who’d never believed, but Andromeda had less excuse for ignoring him. Fen sighed. Maybe it didn’t matter, seeing as she probably wouldn’t forgive Fen, in which case she and Cuff need have no further interaction.

  Regardless, Fen should turn his mind to the problem of Slough and his French contact. The apology could wait for a more opportune time... but traitors, spies, and the security of England didn’t seem to matter in face of the enormity of what he had done five years earlier.

  “Please don’t be angry with her,” he said. “She lost her belief in magic, but it wasn’t really her fault. You know what her father and aunt are like.”

  Cuff didn’t move.

  “First I must apologize and explain myself to her,” Fen said. “Then I’ll do my best to make her believe once more.”

  Again, Cuff showed no sign of interest. Fen could only hope he would eventually come around.

  The door to Harry’s office was still slightly ajar, so he pushed it open and went in. Andromeda was on her knees by an occasional table, polishing one of the legs with beeswax. Surprisingly, she’d done quite a good job of it; the table shone. She glanced up at him and went back to work.

  He shut the door behind him. “You don’t really have to do that,” Fen said. “The disguise is just pretense.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she said, that little nose in the air again. “I’m not a lazy good-for-nothing.”

  “Did Witherstone call you that?”

  “No, but the boy I am pretending to be is lazy. Witherstone was trying to annoy me, I think, but in spite of that I rather liked him, and I refuse to sit about fretting when I can do something useful.” Her nose went higher. “Do you object?”

  “No, I suppose not, but you weren’t bred for physical work.”

  “Nor were you,” she snapped, but a twinge of uneasiness crossed her features. “Am I doing a bad job of it? It looks just like when the maids wax the tables at home.”

  “You’re doing a fine job.” Her shapely thighs, encased in the breeches, distracted him; he shouldn’t look at her. Truth be told, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her while he confessed. He turned away, hands behind his back, and paced the room, steeling himself to speak. “Andromeda, I―”

  The last beignet, with one corner bitten off, lay on the desk. It drove all thought of apologies from his mind. “How the devil did that get here? It was for Cuff.” By God, what if this grossest of insults drove Cuff away for good?

  “Witherstone said the charwoman would eat it if we left it there, so I should bring it with me.”

  “But not that you should eat some of it,” he said. “Andromeda, how could you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she retorted. “It was going stale, and if I don’t eat it, you will. In fact, why shouldn’t we have left it for the charwoman? I’m sure she would appreciate such a treat.”

  “That’s not the point,” he said. “You know very well I won’t eat it, because I gave it to Cuff. Do you remember nothing at all about the consequences of taking away a gift one has already given to one of the fair folk?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I remember, and it’s all nonsense, and I intend to prove it.” She snatched up the beignet and bit into it. Her eyes widened, and she took it back out of her mouth, intact apart from her tooth marks. “This is what I smelled last night.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fen took the beignet from her slackened fingers before she had a chance to bite it again, and set it on the saucer. Better to give Cuff what was left than nothing at all, although he might not forgive Andromeda—or Fen—regardless.

  “The spy,” she said. “He smelled of―of tobacco and something else, but I didn’t know what, and then this morning something about the beignets seemed strangely familiar. It’s the smell. The spy smelled just like this does!”

  Impatiently, Fen spread his hands. “So? Maybe he was a guest and had just eaten one.”

  “I don’t think so. He came from outdoors. He’d been on the terrace for a while, waiting, and had killed that poor man, remember? Besides, if he’d been one of the guests, he needn’t have met Lord Slough in such a clandestine way.”

  Realization swept over Fen. The terrace. The torn strip of linen he’d found there. “That strip of linen came from an apron.” More realization struck him, this time with dismay. “Damnation.”

  “Which strip of linen?”

  “One I found on the terrace last night,” Fen said. “Go back upstairs and stay there.” He dashed out but returned immediately. “Bring the beignet up with you and put it back where I left it for Cuff. Lock the shop door behind me; we’re closed until I return.”

  She obeyed him unhesitatingly about locking the door and reluctantly when it came to the beignet. No, she was more than reluctant—almost shame-faced, which made no sense at all.

  She turned her mind to practical matters. She needed something to do while she waited upstairs, and fortunately she had already thought of it. In one corner of the office she’d seen a pile of wallpaper scraps which were just right for repapering the screen upstairs. She had papered bandboxes before, but never such a large surface as a screen, so it would be a challenge—an excellent way to occupy her mind. A pot of glue and a brush sat beside the scraps. Perfect.

  She carried the paper and glue upstairs. She couldn’t possibly manage the beignet as well, so it would just have to stay where it was. If Cuff really was here, he could eat his little treat downstairs just as easily as up, and...

  Oh, what was she thinking? Once again, she was letting herself lapse into old, best-forgotten ways.

  But she should bring the wax and the rags upstairs as well, to polish the frame of the screen, so since she had to go downstairs anyway... and since Fen was being relatively kind to her, it behooved her to consider his feelings, even if he was somewhat mad... Grumbling, she fetched the wax, rags, and beignet. She set the beignet on the floor by the wall, exactly where Fen had left it earlier.

  “Ooh, naughty girl,” said a voice behind her. She started, but it was only Witherstone. “You took a bite.”

  “I’m not a girl, remember? I’m a g
ood-for-nothing boy.”

  “Who shows no respect for the hobgoblin. Tsk. Lord Fen will be annoyed.”

  “He already is. He scolded me, but then he left as if the devil was after him.” She’d been too aggravated to think clearly, but now she understood. “I believe he thinks someone in the French pastry shop is involved with the spies.” She explained what she’d told Fen about the spy and the smell of the beignet. “And Lord Slough just went there for a cup of coffee! Maybe it was to meet the spy.”

  Witherstone’s brows rose. “Laborde is the spy?”

  “Maybe,” Andromeda said. “but it could be any Frenchman who works there.”

  “Not if Slough is going to see him openly with that Crockett fellow in tow. He wouldn’t be seen giving the underlings the time of day.”

  Andromeda pondered this. “Perhaps, but he can’t bargain openly with Laborde, either.”

  “Lord Fen likes Laborde,” Witherstone said, his tone disparaging. “Fancies him a friend.”

  “Why shouldn’t Lord Fen be friends with him? They have quite a lot in common.” How horrid for Fen to learn that someone he liked was a spy. At least in her case, she’d already disliked Slough before finding out the worst.

  Witherstone snorted. “Bloody English aristocrats, obsessed with all things French. I suppose you’re just the same.”

  “I’m not an aristocrat, merely a gentlewoman,” she retorted. “I learned to speak French as a matter of course. And the French do tend to be at the forefront of fashion. My modiste is an émigrée, too.” She paused. “Poor Fen. If Laborde truly is the spy, it will be quite a blow.”

  “He’ll get over it.” Witherstone indicated the paper and glue. “What’s all that for, then?”

  “I’m going to repaper the screen,” she said. “It’s filthy.”

  “Be my guest,” Witherstone said with another derisive noise. “I’m off for a nap. Don’t wake me unless the building’s on fire.”