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

by Michelle Willingham

  CHAPTER TEN

  FEN WALKED AS fast as he dared; he couldn’t afford to cause comment of any kind. He passed the urchin, gave him quick instructions to continue to follow Slough until further notice, and arrived at the coffee house just as Slough and Crockett reached the door.

  “What are you doing here?” Slough said.

  “Fancied a cup of Laborde’s coffee,” Fen said. “And a bit more of the company of my friend Crockett,” he added, slapping Donald on the back as they entered the building. He guided them to the best table and motioned to the waiter—a pleasant fellow he considered a friend. Damn it, would it transpire that every Frenchman in the place was a spy? He shook off his dismay and ordered coffee for them all.

  Surprisingly, apart from making a snide remark about Fen’s ever-present tool belt, Slough didn’t take offense.

  The Vidame de Laborde bustled out from the rear of his shop, rubbing his hands and greeting Fen. He didn’t unbend to ordinary patrons, but he was another friend of Fen’s—a good friend, but Fen didn’t hold out much hope that the man wasn’t also a spy. It was understandable; he was a Frenchman, no matter how long he’d lived in England. Evidently the fact that England had welcomed and aided him didn’t weigh up against his origins and the possibility of being restored to elite status when he returned to France.

  Two valued friends in one day, each a traitor in his own way. Damn, that hurt. He forced himself to appear jovial. “Have you met my good friend the Vidame de Laborde?” he asked Slough. “Vidame, the Earl of Slough.”

  Laborde bowed deeply. “My lord, I believe you ordered pastries for your upcoming nuptials. Allow me to offer my congratulations.”

  “If there is a wedding at all,” Donald Crockett said, and Slough shot him a vicious glare. Was it simply because he didn’t want his troubles broadcast any more than necessary? Or because he didn’t want his cohort to find out that their convenient arrangement was in danger? If the vidame was indeed the spy; Fen didn’t want to jump to a hasty conclusion.

  “I hope it won’t come to that,” Lord Slough said, “but the wedding may have to be postponed.”

  Only postponed? It would make more sense for Slough to cancel it.

  “Postponed for how long?” Laborde asked. “One must plan ahead for these events, you understand.”

  “I haven’t the slightest notion.” Slough was the sort who never understood anything but his own concerns.

  “Perhaps forever,” Crockett said gloomily. “Lord Slough’s betrothed has vanished into thin air.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Slough snapped. “There must be a simple explanation. Maybe she went to a friend’s house and forgot to inform her aunt.”

  Fen had to hide his surprise. Slough should be repudiating Andromeda and perhaps spreading rumours that she was not in her right mind, in case she surfaced and denounced him.

  “Then why hasn’t the friend popped up to dispel the rumours?” Crockett asked. “The news is all over London, and I’m worried about her.”

  How dare that dirty liar suggest that he cared about Andromeda, when he’d actually done his best to ruin her? Admittedly, he hadn’t lied about it to anyone but Fen, but what if Fen had spread the gossip? Not that he would ever do such a thing, but how was a sneak like Crockett to know that?

  Laborde clucked. “But how distressing, Lord Slough.” He was trying to hide his amusement; he didn’t know he had anything to fear. “Where can she have gone?”

  “How should I know?” Slough looked daggers at the Frenchman. No wonder, since Laborde no doubt assumed, like the rest of London, that Andromeda had eloped with someone else.

  Their coffee arrived along with a plate of the choux a la crème for which Laborde’s was famous. The Frenchman, a sociable sort, chose to take coffee with them. Would he and Slough presently retire to Laborde’s office on some pretext or other?

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want the damned bed,” Slough said, suddenly rounding on Fen. “I must marry soon, but I already had my doubts about Miss Gibbons’ suitability as Countess of Slough.”

  This was closer to what Fen had expected with regard to both Andromeda and delivery of the bed. Had Laborde’s gaze sharpened at the mention of the bed, or was Fen imagining things?

  “I need an heir,” Slough pronounced, “and her figure is too boyish for successful breeding.”

  “What a load of horseshit,” Fen retorted, and immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  Slough’s mouth dropped open. The Frenchman watched them through dark, twinkling eyes. He had a lively sense of humor. Damn, if only there wasn’t a stupid war going on. Fen hated to lose one of the few friends left to him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Slough drawled.

  “Plenty of slim women bear healthy children, and buxom ones die in childbirth as often as anyone else,” Fen said as mildly as he could manage.

  Slough shrugged. “A rather stupid girl, in any event, taken to bouts of excessive sensibility, and not to my taste.”

  Fen reminded himself that he had no need to knock Slough’s teeth down his throat because one way or another he would soon be dead—possibly at Fen’s hands, if he had any say in it.

  “I say, Slough, that’s unfair,” Crockett piped up. “I’ve always found Miss Gibbons to be quite clever and charming.” Damn him for being the one to stand up for her, but Fen dared not show more than a mild interest in Andromeda.

  “Maybe you should marry the bitch, then,” Slough retorted.

  Crockett put up his hands, blenching. “Not the marrying kind.”

  “Or you, Trent,” Slough said. “She had a tendre for you when she was a young girl. If she is ruined, as now seems to be the case, no gentleman will touch her.”

  Fen ignored the insult to himself; he was used to that. It was far more difficult to stomach the slight to Andromeda. Somehow, he managed an amused-sounding snort. “According to you, she’s a stupid, unattractive bitch unsuited to childbirth. Why in God’s name did you ask her to marry you?” Why indeed? He’d always assumed Slough had been in lust with Andromeda, but this didn’t seem to be the case.

  Laborde’s sharp, interested eyes flicked from one man to another. His lips twitched into a tiny smile. “What an unsympathetic lover you are, Lord Slough.”

  Maybe the earl, a vain man, wanted to make it clear that it was he who had lost interest first, not Andromeda. He also wanted people to believe that Andromeda was foolish, perhaps even hysterical like her aunt, and that whatever she might suddenly do—such as calling him a traitor―wasn’t the work of a rational woman.

  Slough flicked an irritated hand. “I’m not the first man to regret a hasty engagement, but no doubt her aunt will remember to which friend Miss Gibbons went.”

  The complete silence following this remark showed that neither Crockett nor Laborde believed that. Nobody would believe it.

  “And I shall be obliged to marry her in the end,” Slough said.

  Now, this made no sense at all. Perhaps Slough didn’t realize Andromeda had overheard him and was truly baffled by her flight, truly believed she had run away with someone else. But even if she reappeared, Fen couldn’t imagine Slough marrying a woman with the slightest breath of scandal attached to her.

  So why act as if he would?

  “La pauvre petite,” Laborde said. “Perhaps she is better off lost than married to a man who cares nothing for her.”

  “I should dashed well say so,” Crockett said, and once again Fen had to suppress his fury at his dastardly friend for having the right to pretend to care.

  “The bed will be repaired in a few days,” Fen said, “and will await your convenience.”

  Laborde sipped his coffee. “Alas, one thousand pastries cannot await anyone’s convenience.”

  After an odd pause, Slough swiveled to glare at the Frenchman. “A thousand?” he barked. “I ordered two thousand.”

  “Two thousand pastries?” cried Fen. “How many guests have you invited to the wedding br
eakfast?” Usually weddings were smallish affairs. Slough had an exaggerated notion of his own consequence, but still...

  “None of your damned business, Trent,” Slough snapped.

  “Perhaps it is for the best that your nuptials are postposed, monsieur,” Laborde said primly. “One thousand is all I can provide.”

  “Nonsense,” Slough said. “That is completely unacceptable.”

  “Sometimes the unacceptable must nevertheless be agreed upon. You are not my only customer, Lord Slough.”

  Slough ground his teeth. “Fifteen hundred, then,” he retorted. “I need at least fifteen hundred pastries.”

  Crockett rolled his eyes at Fen, who would have done a better job of feigning amused nonchalance if he weren’t still so enraged at Crockett, as well as at the slights to Andromeda—and stunned at the realization that, as a ruined woman, she might be within his reach after all.

  But she didn’t want him now and didn’t believe in magic anymore, and in any case she would never speak to him again, once he’d apologized...

  He mustn’t let himself think about any of this, but surely he could be forgiven for caring more about Andromeda than the absurd conversation between Slough and Monsieur Laborde.

  “For a regular customer, I might make such an effort,” Laborde was saying in that same prim voice. “Alas, in the case of a customer from whom I do not expect future business, I cannot stretch myself beyond twelve hundred.” He cocked his head to one side, the twinkle evident. He seemed to enjoy these ridiculous... negotiations. “Perhaps twelve hundred fifty.”

  Good God, that is exactly what they were—negotiations!—for the names of some British spies. Appalled at his own witlessness, desperate to cover up his shock, Fen drained his cup and signaled for more coffee.

  “You forget yourself, Laborde,” Slough said. “It is I who shall decide whether we do future business—not you.”

  Laborde rose and gave Slough a bow that perfectly mixed respect and insolence. “I must return to supervise my kitchens, as I have a large order from a certain duchess for her party tonight.”

  Slough downed the rest of his coffee with a scowl. “Damned bourgeois frog,” he snarled loudly. “I’ve had enough of you all.” He stood and stomped out without paying.

  Did this mean he had changed his mind about selling the names to Laborde—or was at least holding out for a better price? If so, it gave Fen the respite he needed to inform his father and hopefully convince him to act.

  From the door to the kitchen, Laborde caught Fen’s eye and offered him a very Gallic shrug. Evidently he didn’t suspect; he believed they were still friends.

  Fen paid the reckoning and hurried back to the shop, afire with conjecture, needing to confer with Harry. It wasn’t until he reached the shop that he realized that his erstwhile friend was still beside him. “What the devil do you want, Crockett?” Fen said.

  “Nothing, I suppose,” Crockett said. Damn the fellow, he was pouting. “You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”

  “Never,” Fen said. “Go away and don’t come back.”

  Crockett sneered. “Get off your high horse, Trent. You don’t give a damn about the girl. Slough insulted her left and right, and you didn’t bat an eye.”

  Fen whirled, clenching his fists. His tools clamored for his attention.

  Crockett stood his ground. “If you cared, you would be worried about her, too.”

  Fen ignored his tools and relaxed his fists. The last thing he needed was to get into another brawl. “Are you quite finished?”

  “You’ve turned into a bloody toad-eater. You’d put up with anything just to sell another bed.” Donald turned on his heel and stalked off up the street. Let Crockett think what he liked, if it meant he stayed away.

  Fen went to his office and dashed off a quick note to his father, naming the Vidame de Laborde and at least one of his employees—the one who’d spoken to Slough at the ball—as French spies, and once again explaining the urgency of the situation. He gave it to another of the local urchins with orders to deliver it to the Marquis of Overwood, and sent another boy to keep an eye on Laborde’s shop.

  Harry, he found, was in his own office. “You’re insane,” Fen said. “This is the first place they’ll come looking for you. The black hair and darkened skin aren’t enough of a disguise.”

  Harry glowered. “Someone has to take care of the accounts.”

  “Then do it upstairs,” Fen said, “where there’s an escape route or two.”

  “Can’t concentrate,” Harry retorted, “with that girl talking to herself all the time.”

  “Does she do so?” Fen said, remembering that Andromeda’s mother had done the same. Must be a fairy habit that Andromeda had picked up, even though she had no magic.

  “You look like a lovesick calf.” Harry chuckled. “Your lady love is repapering a screen. She actually offered to do so after polishing a table this morning. She’s not as useless as I expected.”

  “She’s not my lady love, and of course she’s not useless, any more than I am.”

  “Put her back in her rightful environment and she’ll be the same as always,” Harry said. “She’s clever, though—got to admit that. Puts two and two together. She says you reckon Laborde is a spy.”

  “Yes, damn it.” Must Harry sound so self-satisfied? He was enjoying the infamy of the aristocracy—both French and English—far too much. “The effrontery of the fellow,” Fen said. “He and Slough carried on negotiations—disguised as an order for pastries—right under my nose.”

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “He’s the master spy, then.”

  Fen nodded. “They didn’t conclude negotiations. Slough refused the offer, but he’ll have to come to terms soon. He’s too pressed for time.”

  “So Laborde’s not the one who killed Stinson,” Harry said. “That’ll be one of his minions—the fellow who worked at the ball last night.”

  Fen nodded. “I’ve written to my father, but since he’ll most likely continue to ignore me, it’s up to us to make sure the exchange doesn’t take place. One of the boys is following Slough and another is sweeping the crossing close by the pâtisserie.”

  Harry stood. “Come dusk, I’ll borrow some of Digg’s rags. If Slough shows up, I’ll send the boy to alert you.” He rubbed his hands together. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find out who worked the ball.”

  “Don’t start asking questions. You’ll arouse suspicion,” Fen said. “And you can’t just kill the fellow. He’ll be caught and hanged—a far more unpleasant fate than a quick knife to the heart, and less risky for you.”

  “Looks like a customer is arriving, so back to work for you,” Harry retorted. “Otherwise you’ll arouse suspicion.”

  Fen blew out a breath and returned to the showroom. Outside, a barouche carrying a familiar dowager drew up. The last thing he wanted was to deal with another tedious customer when the fate of English spies—perhaps the fate of England herself—was at risk. But he’d done his best and would continue to do so, and he had to acknowledge that Harry was right. If the marquis made no move to help, he and Harry would have to rid the world of the two major plotters tonight.

  But that wouldn’t clear Harry’s name.

  He turned his thoughts to Andromeda. He should have had more faith in her years ago. His behavior had been as unforgivable as Crockett’s—both then and last night. Worse, the more he thought about it, the more he realized the effect his unguarded words must have had on her. Undeserved insults with no option to defend oneself had been his lot for years, but he’d put up with them because he cared more about crafting fine furniture than the opinions of a lot of prejudiced fools. But Andromeda didn’t even know why she’d been insulted—by a man who’d once claimed to love her. It couldn’t get worse.

  Not only that, she was now within his reach. She was ruined. Surely marrying him would be better than nothing...

  He cared about Andromeda more than he wanted to admit, but would she ever believe that now?r />
  The dowager’s footman opened the door, and the old lady came in, tapping her cane. With a sigh, Fen bowed to another of his annoying but lucrative customers.

  Andromeda spent an hour scraping old paper off the folding screen. She’d caught the flicker of surprise in Witherstone’s eyes when she’d said she would paper it. He still thought her an idle, pampered girl capable of nothing but being a polite ornament to some arrogant man. He probably thought polishing one table should have worn her out. Melancholy and fear were far more likely to exhaust her—and the best cure for those was activity.

  She hummed and talked to herself as she worked, but couldn’t entirely stifle unhappy thoughts, such as Fen fighting over a woman and believing in hobgoblins...

  Perhaps he’d gone back to the rakish ways of his youth, before he’d become a merchant. Plenty of tales had trickled back from London to their village about Fen’s bad behavior as a young man. About dalliances with women, and how he’d almost killed a man in a duel... But that wasn’t the worst. By what she’d heard—although it was hard to believe—he’d stabbed a couple of men to death in drunken brawls. This wasn’t like the kind, fun-loving Fen she’d known as a child, who’d only fought to discourage bullies from preying on others... In any event, only his father’s influence had saved him from having to flee the country.

  She wished she could ask Witherstone what Fen did in his spare time, but it would show that she still cared about him. The valet might even tattle to Fen—how humiliating. Soon Witherstone went downstairs, ridding her of that foolish temptation.

  On the saucer by the wall, the beignet sagged forlornly. It seemed foolish not to eat it, and yet guilt washed over her at the bite she had taken. She couldn’t afford to believe in Cuff the hobgoblin, and yet she knew for sure that Fen would never eat such offerings. Maybe he wasn’t really putting out food for a hobgoblin, but playing tricks on his valet.

  No, that wasn’t the Fen she knew. He truly believed in the fair folk, and although she didn’t, some deep, lonely part of her missed doing so and wished she could. She touched the locket at her breast, longing for comfort, but it gave her none. If anything, it made her feel worse, as if by denying Cuff’s existence, she insulted it as well.