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

by Michelle Willingham

  “Bring the rushlight closer,” said the sinister spy, who seemed to be the leader.

  Why hadn’t she thought of that before? If she could put out their light, she might have a chance, but a rushlight was more tenacious than a candle. She dared not say the words aloud, so she flicked her hand and wished hard. Out! Please go out!

  More curses and stumbling about—she had succeeded! “Rekindle it at the fire,” one of the men said.

  Out, please! She flicked a hand again.

  “This fire is dead,” the leader said. “Try the other room. I will go downstairs and search it properly this time. Vite!”

  Out, please—out! She flicked a hand toward the sitting room and another toward Mr. Witherstone’s chamber, but her meagre skill wouldn’t work at a distance, and sooner or later they would break into the hiding place, light or no light. What if Fen never returned?

  That was foolishness. If these men knew Fen was dead, they wouldn’t have climbed in the window. They would have taken his key and used the front door. She took a deep breath. What mattered was that Fen wasn’t here now, so she would have to save herself.

  Footsteps stomped away. She would have no other chance. She slid the panel back.

  “Aha!” The leader had waited in the bedchamber to trick her, but before he could grab her, he screamed and stumbled back. Cuff must have bitten him again.

  Andromeda squirmed out of the secret space and dove forward. A rough hand grabbed her coat. Terror suffused her. She twisted and turned, calling on any and every magic. Help me!

  The fire in the grate roared up, not so dead after all. The man turned, startled, and she tore herself away and ran for the door. She flung it open just as another Frenchman emerged from Mr. Witherstone’s bedchamber, carrying a lighted taper.

  “It’s a boy! Stop him―he mustn’t talk!” called the leader. Andromeda barreled right into the startled man. He flailed, let go of the taper, and with a strangled oath, tumbled down the first flight of stairs. He thudded hard onto the landing and lay there, groaning.

  The taper landed on a pile of papers and set it alight. “Out, please!” she hissed, as the leader burst from Fen’s chamber. The flames died instantly. She ran down the stairs, leapt over the man on the landing, and hurtled into the showroom.

  Fen and Crockett dragged Harry up the street, one stumbling footstep at a time.

  “Once again, why am I helping you?” Crockett growled. “Because if you think I’m going to grovel to get back in your good graces, think again.”

  “D-drugged me,” Harry muttered again. “Good thing I only took a couple of sips.”

  “Which of them did it?” Fen asked.

  “Not a Frenchy,” Harry said. “English waiter. Gave me some cove’s leftover coffee.”

  “Except it wasn’t leftover, but purposely drugged,” Fen said.

  “A traitor working for the Frenchies.” Harry sounded even more miserable than Fen felt. “My fault. Can’t trust no one.”

  “How could you have known?” Fen asked. “How goddamned many of them are there?”

  “I’ll get him and the Frenchies, too. You’ll see.”

  “You need to stay out of this, Diggs,” Fen said. Harry growled, and Fen said, “Think about it. They must suspect something about you. Otherwise why would they drug a beggar?”

  “And why do we care?” asked Crockett.

  “I’ll tell you when we get indoors,” Fen said.

  “I’m allowed inside your hallowed premises again?” Crockett said. “I’m nothing but a disgusting worm, remember? Or have you changed your mind about that?”

  “No,” Fen retorted, “you’re still a worm, but I should have known better than to believe you.”

  “How gratifying. Now you’re saying I was always a lying bastard instead of just once.”

  “No, I’m saying I should have had more faith in Andromeda, and that just because you’re a vain, unprincipled libertine doesn’t mean you’re not a patriotic Englishman.”

  “Now you’re questioning my patriotism?” Crockett roared.

  “No, damn you. I’ll explain in a minute or two.” They were almost home. Was that a rushlight he spied though the window of the shop? No, two rushlights, and the sound of a mighty crash. “Who’s in my showroom?”

  He shoved Harry at Crockett. “Don’t let him fall over.” He went for the door, which was locked. He fumbled in his pocket for the key. The rushlights behind the window wavered and died. So did the lantern above the door.

  “Bloody light!” Fen snarled, and immediately the lantern flared into life again—which meant Andromeda was in there, close enough to hear him. There was a thud, a French oath, and stumbling footsteps. He got the door open and drew his knife.

  “Near the door to the workshop,” Andromeda panted, and flicked a hand in that direction. A rushlight flared up, revealing a crouching man. He lunged at Fen, brandishing a knife. Fen’s own knife spun forward and buried itself in the man’s chest.

  “By the window!” Andromeda cried, but Fen had already whirled to face the next attacker. The awl from his belt leaped to his hand, deflecting another blade, knocking it from the second intruder’s hand. The man fell against the window, shattering two of the panes, then swerved for the door.

  Eagerly, the awl flew across the showroom and skewered the second spy to the floor.

  “There’s one more!” Andromeda warned, and they both heard footsteps at the same time. “Upstairs!”

  Fen dashed up the stairs, but by the time he reached the bedchamber, the man had already escaped through the window and was gone.

  “Out, please!” Andromeda extinguished the rushlight on the floor just as its flames began to lick around the leg of a chair. They were once again plunged into darkness but for the dim light of the lantern above the door.

  Fen came back down the stairs. He pulled Andromeda into his arms. “Are you unhurt?”

  She was shaking so much she couldn’t speak, but she managed to nod, her cheek against his broad chest. Oh, thank God, thank God. For a long, long moment she huddled against him, catching her breath, waiting for her legs to agree to support her again. “Cuff bit them. I hope he didn’t get hurt.”

  “He’s sitting on the windowsill, looking pleased with himself.”

  “Thank you, Cuff.” She tried to pull away, but Fen didn’t let go. “I’m sorry about the mess,” she said. “I’m afraid some of your furniture got singed or broken. They kept blundering into things in the dark and dropping the rushlights. I don’t have proper control, and I was afraid I might set the whole shop on fire.”

  “The shop is replaceable,” Fen said. “You’re not.”

  For a brief, beautiful moment, she was transfixed by the sweetness of what he’d just said. She wished—she longed to believe he cared that much.

  “You’re magnificent, Andromeda. Thank God you came into your magic.” He squeezed her hard and finally let go. He blew out a long breath. “We didn’t fool Slough at all. He must have gone straight to Laborde and had him send his men over here. Damn—outfoxed on all counts.”

  Still shaky, she retrieved the fallen rushlight and set it in the sconce at the bottom of the staircase. Fen righted a couple of toppled chairs and moved a beautiful little secretary with a splintered leg to the side of the room. He pulled his knife from the chest of one of the spies, wiped it on his breeches, and stowed it in his tool belt with a soft thank you. He retrieved two knives from the floor—one belonging to each spy, she assumed—and stowed them as well.

  He went to the door, and she followed. Fen yanked the awl from the back of the other dead spy. It made a horrid sucking sound, and Andromeda shuddered with sudden nausea. Fen had just killed two men, and yet he seemed completely cool, wiping the awl and thanking it as well. He contemplated the corpse, squatted, and cocked his head as if listening. He withdrew something from the man’s pocket—a folding penknife? He stowed it in his breeches pocket, dragged the corpse away from the doorway, stuck his head outside, and
calmly bellowed, “Watch!”

  Andromeda took a deep breath and swallowed down her nausea. She looked out the open door past Fen and spied... Donald Crockett!

  Mr. Crockett gaped at them from the middle of the street. He was holding another man at arms’ length—the beggar who had almost caught her in the yard last night. The beggar swayed drunkenly back and forth. After a second’s frown, Andromeda realized Donald wasn’t pushing the beggar away, but keeping him from collapsing to the pavement.

  “What’s Mr. Crockett doing here?” she whispered. “I thought you didn’t want him to know I was here.”

  “I don’t, but you were right—we need his help,” Fen said grumpily.

  Relief washed over Andromeda. She couldn’t help but grin, her nausea forgotten. Donald could carry a message to her father!

  Fen scowled as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. “For God’s sake, Crockett, don’t just stand there. Bring him indoors.”

  Donald helped the stumbling beggar toward the door while holding his other hand to his nose—not surprising, as the man reeked of vomit and other horrid things. Silently, she waited in the shadows as Donald aided the beggar across the threshold.

  “To Wellcome’s office,” Fen said.

  Andromeda lit a branch of candles from the rushlight, while Donald and Fen helped the struggling beggar into the office and laid him on the floor. “Should I get something for him?” she asked. “A wet cloth to clean his face, perhaps, or some brandy?”

  “Later,” Fen said. “I’ll go deal with the Watch while you explain your predicament to Crockett.” He stomped away.

  Donald’s eyes widened. “Miss Gibbons? Is that you?”

  She returned his stare defiantly. “Yes, it’s I. What happened to that man?”

  “He’s ill, I think. Or drugged. I don’t care.” He frowned. “You’re dressed as a boy! You’ve cut your hair, too, and dyed it.”

  “I’m in disguise,” she said. “With good reason, I promise.” The beggar’s long, greasy hair had fallen away from his face, and he looked familiar somehow, which was odd, because she hadn’t seen his face the night before, only his ragged form rising from the pile of debris. The man’s eyes opened, half-hooded. With a groan, he sat up.

  Donald’s frown deepened to a glower. “What the deuce is going on here?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said.

  “You were here all the time, weren’t you?” Donald’s voice rose in fury. “You hid here when we were searching for you. You made me look like an idiot. What the devil is wrong with you? How dare you, damn it all?”

  “Five years ago, you lied about me to Fen,” she retorted. “How dare you?”

  Donald reddened. “I can’t apologize enough for that,” he muttered. “I—I don’t know what came over me. The words were out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to stop them.”

  That was a lame excuse if ever she’d heard one.

  “I’d never done anything like that before and haven’t since,” Donald said. “But I knew Fen would never repeat it, and it was better for you both in the long run, so I didn’t bother making an awkward explanation.”

  She suppressed a furious retort and merely said, “If I can forgive you, you can do the same for me. Fen says we need your help.”

  “Help be damned. I’ll get Lord Slough. He’ll take you back home where you belong.”

  “No!” she cried. “No, don’t! Please don’t get him,” and the beggar stretched out a hand and closed it around one of Donald’s boots.

  “Get your disgusting fingers off me,” Donald snarled, trying to kick the hand away and almost toppling. The beggar let go but stood, stationing himself between Donald and the door. Who was he, and why did he care whether Donald left?

  Donald sent him a contemptuous glance, then turned to Andromeda and blew out a long breath. “Decided you couldn’t stomach Slough, did you? I can’t say I blame you, but did you have to run away to do it? You’ve put him to a great deal of trouble, not to mention your aunt retiring to her bed in hysterics and your father almost going off in an apoplexy.”

  Her heart stuttered. “Papa is ill?”

  “If he isn’t already, he soon will be. I’ve never seen him so upset. Frantic, even.”

  She moaned. “I can’t go home just yet, so will you please take him a message? Tell him I’m safe and well.”

  “Safe and well?” repeated Donald.

  “Hush!” she said, for Fen had returned to the showroom, accompanied by a wide-eyed Charley. The beggar shut the office door, leaving it very slightly ajar, and began to pace slowly back and forth.

  “As you can see, I managed to deal with two of them,” Fen said.

  “Cor,” said the Charley.

  “Unfortunately,” Fen said, “the third man escaped.”

  “Never seen the likes of this before, me lord,” the Charley said. “Three burglars at once.” He shook his head, tut-tutting. “Look what they done to that pretty table. And that cabinet, fallen on its face.”

  “They led me a merry chase about the room,” Fen said. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to send for a wagon, we can clear these corpses away. Wouldn’t do to leave them lying here, now would it?”

  He led the watchman back outdoors, and Donald rounded on Andromeda again. “Even if you weren’t staying in a madhouse where burglars and beggars run wild, you wouldn’t be safe and well.”

  “I can explain,” she began, but he interrupted.

  “You’re ruined, you foolish girl, and like it or not, you’ll have to marry Slough now―if he’ll take you back. The way he was talking today, I’m surprised he asked you to marry him in the first place.”

  “Oh? What did he say about me?”

  “Nothing that I intend to repeat,” Donald said.

  She put up her chin. “Tell me! I don’t care what he thinks of me.”

  “Oh, ridiculous things,” Donald said, and when she tapped her foot irritably, he huffed and said, “That you are foolish and not at all attractive. Everyone knows you’re a pretty girl, although I’m beginning to have my doubts about your commonsense.”

  She ignored that, thinking about Lord Slough. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? Why ask to marry someone you find unattractive? I regretted accepting his offer, too.”

  “Then why not just say so? Cry off and be done with it? Much better than running away.”

  “I was afraid of the scandal,” she said. “But then I found out that scandal was the least of my worries, and I had to run away.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She took a deep breath. “I learned that Lord Slough is a traitor. He is selling information to the Vidame de Laborde, who is a French spy.”

  Donald goggled. “Slough a traitor? That’s absurd!”

  “It’s true! The men who broke in here are spies as well, and they came to kill me.”

  Then she remembered that no, their master only wanted them to capture her, because she was somehow necessary to Slough. In what possible way? She didn’t understand that at all, any more than why Slough had wanted to marry her.

  “Why would they kill you?” Donald demanded.

  “Because I overheard one of the spies plotting with Lord Slough at the ball,” she said.

  The beggar ceased pacing. “One of the two his lordship just snuffed, er, killed?”

  Andromeda eyed him once again, wondering where she’d seen him before... “No,” she said, “I didn’t hear his voice when they were chasing me about down here. I think he waited above in case I tried to get out by the window, and then he escaped that way himself.”

  The beggar seemed unexpectedly purposeful for a man who’d been semi-conscious only a short while ago. He reached into a cabinet and poured himself a measure of brandy.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Donald burst out, distracted—which meant he still wasn’t taking her seriously.

  “Lord Fen won’t mind,” the beggar said, giving Andromeda a slow, purposeful
wink. “He’s quality, is Lord Fen.”

  “The gall of the fellow, to use Trent’s nickname,” Donald muttered. “Of course he’s quality. He’s the son of a marquis.”

  “Got nothing to do with his birth.” The beggar swilled the brandy around his mouth and swallowed with every sign of appreciation. “Ah, that’s good. Authority,” he said grandly, “sits on Fen’s shoulders as if it’s comfortable there, while you merely reek of privilege.”

  “How dare you,” said Donald, very much on his high horse, but swiftly he descended to insult. “You reek of vomit!”

  “Privilege stinks far worse than vomit, and it don’t wash away.”

  “You disgusting varmint.” Donald clenched his fists. “I’ll have you taken in charge. Men have hanged for less.”

  The identity of the beggar dawned on Andromeda at last—Witherstone in disguise! She flapped an irritated hand. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Crockett, forget him and listen to me. Surely treason matters more than your stupid pride.”

  Donald puffed himself up. “It would if it really were treason, which I don’t believe.”

  “Just listen to me. I meant to tell someone in authority right there at the ball, but then I realized Lord Slough suspected I had eavesdropped, so I ran away instead.”

  Donald shook his head. “You must be mistaken. Not saying I like Slough much, mind you, but he’s no traitor.”

  “You men are so stupid,” she retorted. “It’s a good thing I didn’t try telling you or the Prime Minister or Fen’s father, because every single one of you would have dismissed me as hysterical.”

  “Rightly so,” Donald insisted. “Why did you come here?” Disapproval was etched all over his face. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of marrying Fen. That would never do, you know. You’ll never fit into this milieu.”

  Actually, she would fit in rather well if she chose to, which she didn’t. “No, I’m not going to marry Fen. I shan’t marry at all.”

  “Tsk,” Witherstone said. “Let his lordship know I’m going after the man who escaped—and that bloody Englishman who drugged me, too.” He plunked the empty glass onto the desk and left.