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

by Michelle Willingham

  When Gerry Kingsley goes to Bayou Gavotte to check out probable gold-digger and possible murderer Mirabel Lane, the last thing he expects is to fall in love with the irresistible twenty-something vampire.

  No, what he really doesn’t expect is to unearth―once and for all―his family’s sinister, convoluted past.

  http://www.amazon.com/Back-Bite-You-Novella-Gavotte-ebook/dp/B00K0LC2GY/

  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/back-to-bite-you-barbara-monajem/1120138656

  https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/back-to-bite-you

  To Tempt a Thief

  Gail Ranstrom

  Dedication

  For Cheryl, Lisa, and Becky, who keep me sane, and for Katie, Natalie, and Jay, who are my heart.

  Chapter One

  Carlton House

  London, June 19, 1811

  DARIUS ‘DARE’ RUSTEN, Fifth Earl of Collingwood, took a deep drink of his wine, wondering how soon he could make his excuses and leave this dreadfully dull affair through which he was forced to suffer. Not only was he surrounded by fools, the elaborate and gilded architecture of Carlton House was beginning to pain him. As the Regent’s new home, he supposed the decor of Carlton House was a deliberate attempt to garner praise and envy. Dare, however, found comfort and calm in quiet elegance rather than something so overwrought and garish as this gilded demi-palace.

  “I say, Dare! Are you listening at all?”

  He straightened and came back to the conversation. “Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

  “I believe I can guess what,” Henry, the Viscount Morton, said with a laugh, and winked, referring, no doubt, to the gaming hells. “And I shall be pleased to accompany you. But Rother just asked if you had any idea who it is.”

  “Who what is?”

  “The Mayfair Shadow.” Charles Rother sighed in exasperation. “Have you not been listening?”

  “London’s abuzz with the latest evidence of his boldness.” Morton contributed that information with a hint of pleasure. “Snatching Lady Eaton’s pearls in the midst of a fête.”

  “Tempest in a teapot,” Dare pronounced. “Just a string of a few coincidental robberies. I doubt there is an actual Mayfair Shadow. Likely just random thefts by various thieves and pickpockets. And I would not doubt Lady Eaton’s pearls are simply misplaced. Hysteria has gripped the ton, and now every missing item is being deemed stolen.”

  Peter Littleworth raised an eyebrow. “Do not make a liar of me, Dare. I see a similar modus operandi in the most daring of recent thefts. I mark they started ’bout two months ago. First there was Lady Halston’s broach, then Miss Clark’s necklace, and then the Duchess of Fortrose’s family ring—colossal diamond. She near went into a fit, I hear. And now Lady Eaton—”

  Dare held up one hand in surrender. “Spare me. I concede you may have a point, but I am not overly worried. The bounder will soon be caught and the matter forgotten.”

  “Pray you are right,” Littleworth said. “I shall hope the goods are found, too. My sister has been a victim. Lost an earbob. Blood ruby.”

  Lost was likely the literal truth.

  “What good would single earbob do a thief?” Morton asked.

  Dare shrugged. “The stone has value and the gold could be melted.” Now his interest was piqued. A single earbob seemed like an excess of effort for the monetary return. Had a thief had been interrupted in the middle of his caper and had to leave one earring behind? Or had it been a simple loss? “Where’d it go missing?”

  “Stolen,” Littleworth corrected. “She first noticed it was gone at the theatre. Simply gone.”

  “It could have caught on her wrap.” Dare mused. “Did she look for it on the floor or in her box?”

  “Of course she did. Why Rother and I were on our knees looking in corners and beneath chairs. We scoured the lobby.”

  “Someone might have picked it up after it fell.”

  Morton snorted. “However it came to be missing, it is gone.”

  “It was the Mayfair Shadow, I tell you,” Littleworth insisted. “Julia is not careless with her belongings. She recalls being bumped from behind while standing in the lobby at intermission.”

  Yes, Julia Littleworth was many things, but careless was not one of them. Sharp-tongued, perhaps, snobbish and caustic, but not careless.

  Morton grinned at him. “Don’t know why you are not more indignant, Dare. After all, you are always going on about the law and how people who subvert it ought to be duly punished.”

  Littleworth snorted. “You should never have read for the law or been admitted to the bar if you are not outraged by this rash of crimes.”

  Dare squared his shoulders. “I have not set up a practice, and well you know it. As for being outraged, I am—if this is, indeed, the case of a thief. And what would you have me do? If the charleys were not so blasted incompetent, this matter would be settled.”

  “Then you settle it.” Littleworth challenged.

  “Me? Are you joking?” Dare asked.

  “My ten pounds to your two that you cannot do any better than the charleys.”

  “Rubbish!”

  Morton laughed. “If ’tis rubbish, Dare, prove it. What say we put it on the books? You should be willing to put your reputation on the line for what you believe.”

  Deuced nuisance, putting bets on the books at the clubs. Now, if he was to keep his reputation intact, he’d have to accept the absurd wager. But, to be honest, he would be glad of an opportunity to uphold the law. He’d always believed that those guilty of breaking the law should be swiftly and severely punished. Without the law, society would be in chaos and there’d be no protection for the weak.

  He took a deep breath. “Very well. I shall find the culprit and bring him to the authorities. And I will be even more pleased to take your ten pounds, Littleworth. But, when I succeed, I want a dash more. The day after I deliver the culprit to the Home Office, you shall place a notice in the Times stating that Darius Rusten, Lord Collingwood, is the foremost thief-taker in the realm.”

  His friends laughed and slapped him on the back, agreeing to his terms, but— “We must set a time,” Littleworth said. “Else how would we know when you’ve given up? How long do you think this should take you, Dare?”

  “Certainly no more than a month.”

  “Amusing, Dare. The charleys will have the Shadow by then, and how would we know if you were even looking? You could tell us you were hot on his trail but the charleys nipped him first. No, if you’re to prove your claim, you must beat them to it.”

  Feeling a bit reckless at this point, Dare shrugged. How difficult could it be to find a disreputable man lurking around the ton? “Two weeks, then. And all I must find is the culprit or one missing piece of jewelry attributed to the Shadow, since I still believe there is little or no connection between the missing items. A sort of legend has grown about this... this Mayfair Shadow. Every misplaced valuable is being blamed on the fellow—if he even exists.”

  “Done!” Morton gave him a wink. “We shall convene tomorrow morning at White’s. Shall we say half-past ten? Only a fortnight left before the infamous Dare, Lord Collingwood is the laughingstock of London!”

  Dare gave his friend a good-natured grin as he headed for a view of the ballroom. “I wouldn’t count my money yet were I you, Morton.”

  If there was one thing Miss Gertrude ‘Trudy’ Carr could not countenance, it was a bully, so when she heard Lady Beatrice’s sharp voice, she halted and turned.

  “Really, Miss Fenway! Did we invite you to join our conversation?” Lady Beatrice, the haughty daughter of His Grace, the Duke of Morvill, asked.

  Miss Fenway colored to a hue resembling a soldier’s jacket. “I overheard you mention roses, and I—”

  “You were eavesdropping? How déclassé!”

  “No! No, it was not like that, Lady Beatrice! I was passing—”

  “You should have kept on going.”

  “I... yes, I... should...” Miss Fenway,
deeply mortified, looked as if she might be sick or faint. She took one shaky backward step.

  “Henceforth, Miss Fenway, if I should wish your opinion, I shall ask it. Unless I do, please do not presume to speak with me.”

  The other girls who had been in conversation with Lady Beatrice snickered and covered their grins with their fans.

  Trudy stiffened her spine and raised her chin a fraction. If there was one thing she knew about, it was being overlooked or thought insignificant. She took a moment to control her temper, then stepped forward. “I, for one, should be quite interested in what Miss Fenway has to say about roses. Hers are quite the loveliest in London. Everyone says so.”

  Lady Beatrice sniffed. “Mine are said to be the loveliest, Miss Gertrude.”

  “Really?” Trudy feigned surprise. “I had not heard that.”

  “Well, I... all the servants say...”

  Trudy arched an eyebrow. “Ah, the servants.” She could tell by the quick blink of Lady Beatrice’s dark-brown eyes that she hadn’t missed the implication that her servants would be frightened to say anything else. And now that Lady Beatrice was flummoxed, Trudy was done here. She took Miss Fenway by the arm and steadied her under the guise of leading her to the punchbowl. “Come, Miss Fenway—Jane, if I may. You must tell me what you use to obtain such lavish results. Why, your pinks alone run the gamut of blush to brilliant. And your whites! Not a stain of rust upon them.”

  When they were out of earshot, Miss Fenway lost her battle to hold back tears. “Oh, dear. That really was quite unforgivable of me...”

  “You? Faugh!” Trudy exclaimed as she slipped a handkerchief from the little silver mesh reticule dangling at her wrist and gave it to the girl. “Jane, there is no conceivable way in which you could have been at fault. Lady Beatrice is rather too high in the instep and a bully besides. Someone should give her a good set-down.”

  “I believe you just did, Miss Gertrude—Trudy. Was it wise of you to tempt her so? She could ruin you in society.”

  “Could, perhaps, but I think she will not.” In truth, Trudy knew the girl would be angry with her for standing up to her, and her manner would cool, but she would likely say nothing. That was the best advantage of having a father who owned the foremost bank in London. Nearly everyone, from dukes to rag pickers, was in his debt in one way or another, thus no one would slight his daughters.

  Jane gave a faint smile through her tears. “I would hate for you to be ostracized for your kindness to me.”

  Trudy shrugged. “Let her do her worst. I care not a fig for what they or society thinks of me. I do not suffer fools and bullies gladly, and you are not the first to be subjected to Lady Beatrice’s haughty mien, nor are you likely to be the last, unless someone checks her behavior.”

  The girl glanced yearningly across the room. “Oh, there are my parents in the corridor. I shall ask them to take me home. I do not think I could endure this any longer.”

  Unwilling to leave Jane alone and vulnerable, she escorted her to her parents. As she took her leave, tears welled in Jane’s eyes again and her voice tightened with emotion.

  “I am truly grateful, Trudy. You are kind beyond description. If there is ever anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask. All the favors in the world cannot repay you for rescuing me tonight.”

  Trudy gave the girl a quick hug and a wink. “Just rescue me, should I need it one day.”

  She watched until Jane and her parents claimed their cloaks and then turned back to the ballroom, debating whether to return to Lady Beatrice’s group or find her sisters.

  Lady Beatrice, the silly fool, still stood in conversation with Lydia Bradley and Lady Edith Tully—held court, actually. She really was self-important. Had she no compassion? No manners? But for the accident of birth, she could be as humble as Miss Jane Fenway. Someone really should teach her that lesson. Teach her that cruelty had consequences.

  She felt a familiar nudge on her shoulder from behind and a voice whispered in her ear. “I recognize that look, Gertie. What are you plotting?”

  She’d known it was Lancelot before he’d spoken. Her younger brother’s nudges were as familiar as his voice. And he was the only person alive she allowed to address her as ‘Gertie.’ “Not plotting, Skippy. Just wondering how Lady Beatrice lives with herself. Honestly—”

  “Ah, here we go again. You’ve got your back up on ‘the principle of the thing,’ haven’t you? What did Lady B do?”

  “She snubbed Miss Fenway in a particularly cruel and public manner.”

  “So you rescued the girl, eh?”

  “Well—”

  “Don’t deny it. I saw the flummoxed look on Lady B’s face and you guiding the girl away. Always rescuing others, are you not? So I thought you might be plotting some manner in which to teach Lady B a lesson. Am I right, Gertie?”

  He’d always been able to read her mind. “There is no suitable way. As a duke’s daughter, she has resources we do not. Jane just reminded me she could ruin our family with a crook of her finger.”

  Lancelot laughed. “That is a bit extreme, Gertie. Our money makes us equal to... oh, more than an ordinary earl. At least a marquis.”

  “Economically, Skippy, not socially. Father would be in a snit if I invited gossip—and you know there’d be gossip.”

  “Ah, well. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at teaching her a lesson.”

  She turned to her ‘little’ brother, taller than her by at least a head and sinfully handsome. She had no doubt he could cause Lady Beatrice considerable discomfort if he chose, but— “Best not. Father is already angry with you over your escapades. If you do not reform, he will do as he threatened and send you to Australia or the Americas on remittance.”

  He gave an elegant shrug and offered his arm. “Gads! There’s nothing worse than being a remittance man, eh? Shall we beard the lioness?”

  Trudy glanced over at Lady Beatrice just as said lioness turned to say something to one of the other girls. The emerald brooch she was wearing flashed in the candlelight, the sparkle catching Trudy’s eye. Laughter greeted Lady B’s words, which were not likely even amusing. The others toadied to her just because she was a duke’s daughter, and they were all afraid of her vicious tongue, not to mention the power she held in society. Even Trudy, she was ashamed to admit, had hesitated before she’d interceded for Jane.

  “I wish I could think of a suitable way to humble her, but it is quite difficult to give a duke’s daughter a set-down.”

  Lancelot chuckled. “There’s more than one kind of set-down, m’dear.”

  Lady Beatrice turned and her brooch twinkled again, once more catching Trudy’s attention. Stunning piece, really. A symbol of her importance. A badge of her consequence.

  Trudy glanced up at Lancelot and noted a quirk of his eyebrow and the twitch of a little smile on his lips. Was her brother speculating on what manner to avenge Jane? She took a deep breath and let him lead her back toward the elite little group where she was now likely to be given the cut.

  But, of course, they’d all welcome handsome, charming, debonair Lancelot Carr.

  Dare stood in one of the small alcoves containing benches for society’s wallflowers and studied the scene. If the Mayfair Shadow was present—and no self-respecting thief would miss an opportunity like this—there should be some sign. Someone who was behaving suspiciously. Who looked as if he did not quite belong?

  Alas, there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary. Here a furtive look, there a guilty smile, all a part of human nature. What he found particularly interesting, however, was that nearly everyone appeared to be hiding something—a fact he’d never before noticed.

  His gaze caught on a young woman across the dance floor. He could not clearly make out more than the curve of her cheek and the corner of her mouth. She was on Lancelot Carr’s arm, watching the guests dance and cavort around her, but he caught the sound of her delighted laughter—a sound so natural and unconstrained that it had to be genuine, no
t merely socially polite.

  Her figure was every man’s dream—she was slender, and cerulean blue silk clung to beguiling curves in all the right places. Luscious, intriguing curves. A graceful ivory hand waved a silvered lace fan indolently in the sultry, crowded ballroom. He found himself hoping she would turn toward the light so he could get a clearer picture. He waited, and a moment later, his patience was rewarded as she stirred and turned to the light, her attention riveted by turns on Lancelot Carr and a group of young ladies standing near the French doors to the terrace.

  Lovely. Truly lovely. Taken in parts, she was not the ideal beauty, but in whole, she was stunning. Her hair was a fraction too light to be brown but not quite light enough to be blond. Golden, he thought, would best describe it. The glossy lengths shone with streaks of pale blond and glints of caramel. Her eyes—he’d wager they were dark, but he could not tell from this distance—were wide set, perfectly shaped, a little larger than ordinary.

  Ah, and her mouth! Generous, deep-pink lips tipped upward at the corners, revealing a happy and—dare he think it—sensual nature. Lips perhaps a bit too lush for some. Almost naughty. He smiled when he noted the creamy peach color across her cheeks and perfect nose. Quite natural, and revealing that she did not resort to the artifice of rice powder to pale herself into the fashionable pallor of the day. Charming. Ingenuous. Compelling.

  She was clearly no green slip of a girl just in from the country. He judged her to be in her early twenties. She had a ‘town’ polish, and if that was so, where had she been? How had she escaped his notice?

  Odd, how he and his friends attended all the best events, went everywhere one wanted to be ‘seen,’ acknowledged and danced with every notable debutante each season and still did not recognize one when she was in front of them. When had he stopped noticing?

  An oversight he would correct at the first possible opportunity.

  Carr took her arm and led her to join a group of young ladies near one of the terrace doors. One of them was George Bradley’s little sister, Lydia. Hmm. Between Lancelot Carr and Miss Lydia, he was certain he could contrive a proper introduction.