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

by Michelle Willingham

  She could have sworn that the hobgoblin had winked! How ridiculous. He gazed knowingly back at her. She scorned herself for a fool and moved away. She should dress now, but in what? Last night’s gown was filthy.

  A sharp rap on the door startled her. “Are you awake?” Fen’s voice.

  She steeled herself to see him again. “Yes.” She didn’t much like her sulky tone. She didn’t want him to see her in this state, so she didn’t ask him to come in.

  “Open the door. I’m carrying a tray with coffee and breakfast.”

  Food and coffee! She would put up with being unattractive for that. He found her undesirable anyway, so what did it matter? It was absurd of her to care what he thought.

  She opened the door just enough to let him in. He’d already seen her in dishabille, but what if his valet was in the corridor? Hurriedly, she shut the door behind him.

  He set the tray on a table by the wall and turned. She wished he weren’t so good to look at. He must have been up for a while—his shirt was fresh, his cravat neatly tied, and his chin clean-shaven. He looked the perfect gentleman—or would, if he weren’t also wearing an apron and a tool belt.

  “My valet and I consulted on the best way to keep you safe,” he said. “We’re going to turn you into a boy.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Just for a day or two, until we’ve got rid of Slough and the spies. I was pondering what to do with you, and fortunately I remembered you’re rather flat-chested.”

  She flinched. She knew full well about this flaw. It meant she could never quite attain perfection, but must he say so? “I’m so sorry about my lack of the ideal figure.”

  He huffed. “I’m glad you don’t have much in the way of bosom.” She gaped, frozen with indignation, while he poured two cups of coffee. “I’ve never been particularly taken with large breasts,” he went on. “Yours are perfect.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. “How dare you!”

  He glanced at her. Was that amusement in his eyes? Or appreciation?

  It made her furious. “I don’t care what you think of my bosom!”

  He cleared his throat. “I simply meant that it won’t be too difficult to disguise you. He’s gone to find you some clothes.”

  Did Fen really like her breasts? She shouldn’t think about that. “Why must you turn me into a boy?” Such a masquerade was entirely improper. Women never wore breeches.

  “Two reasons,” Fen said. “One, because the charwoman will be here in an hour, and two, to make sure none of our customers recognize you.”

  And what if they recognized her in boys’ clothing? That would make the resulting scandal even worse. “Can’t you tell the charwoman you don’t need her? As for the customers, I’ll just stay out of sight.”

  “The charwoman needs the work, Andromeda, or she and her children won’t eat.”

  Mortification flooded her, so she put her nose in the air. “I’m not as selfish and heartless as you so obviously assume. I didn’t mean you should let her starve. Surely you can afford to pay her for a few days and send her away.”

  “If we do that, she’ll wonder what’s going on and gossip about it. Better safe than sorry.” He didn’t deny that he thought her selfish and heartless. He set a chair at either side of the table. “Come, sit and eat.”

  She’d lost her appetite, but after a look at the delicious array on the tray, it returned with a vengeance. Beignets, sausage rolls, and choux à la crème! She took a bite of one of the cream puffs. “This is scrumptious! Where did you get them?”

  “There’s a coffee house up the street run by the Vidame de Laborde, a French émigré—another aristocrat who has stooped to trade.”

  “No doubt from necessity,” Andromeda said and immediately wished she hadn’t. She didn’t mean to disrespect Fen, but there was a vast difference between an émigré who came penniless to England and the son of a wealthy peer.

  Fen didn’t even blink. Right—he didn’t care what she thought of him.

  “There’s a pâtisserie at the back, and these are their specialty,” Fen said.

  She savored the creamy filling. “Lady Corington had similar ones at the ball last night.”

  “Most likely from Laborde’s kitchens. His pastries are much in demand.”

  Years ago, she’d felt no need to talk when with Fen, but now it was uncomfortable, like conversing with a stranger. Then, they’d had more in common; now they lived in different worlds. She took a sip of coffee and ate a sausage roll. She sipped some more coffee. She dipped a finger in the powdery sugar on the beignet. It reminded her of something, making her faintly uneasy, but she couldn’t recall what. She took another sausage roll instead.

  She gazed around the room and finally found something to say.

  “Did you carve the figures on your looking-glass frame?” she said. As a boy, he had whittled constantly. “They seem so... familiar somehow.”

  “They should,” he said with a sudden smile. “I carved it from my memories of the fairies and hobgoblins back home.”

  “Fairies and hobgoblins?”

  “At your father’s estate,” he said. “Surely you remember Cuff the bedchamber hob, and Heck the buttery spirit, and all the rest.”

  “My mother told stories about them,” Andromeda said, nostalgia filling her again. “I must say, I like the way you’ve imagined them.”

  Fen frowned at her, his smile fading, his eyes perplexed. “I didn’t imagine them,” he said. “I saw them.”

  Andromeda rolled her eyes. “That sounds like something my mother would have said.”

  “Because she saw them, too.”

  Andromeda began to be annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fen. She made up stories based on tales she’d been told as a child.”

  Fen shook his head. “You saw them when you were small. You saw Cuff and Heck and the others. We both did.”

  “No,” Andromeda said. “We saw movement out of the corners of our eyes and said they were fairies, but we were just playing games.”

  Fen’s expression was pained. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “There’s nothing to remember,” she insisted, wolfing down another cream puff. Fen seemed to prefer the beignets, so she left them to him. “As a matter of fact, that happened to me this morning. I had the impression that one of the creatures on the looking-glass winked at me, but of course it didn’t really do so.”

  “What a pity,” Fen said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’ve forgotten. That wink was Cuff’s way of saying good-day to you. He’s somewhere hereabouts. He’s the only one I didn’t have to carve from memory, because he came with me when I left home.” He glanced toward the tin cup and plate by the wall. “He ate the bread and milk I put out, and I gave him the rest of your brandy, too.”

  She couldn’t stand any more of this. “Fen, stop this nonsense! We’re in danger from traitors and spies who murder people, and all you can talk about is hobgoblins.”

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I wondered why he came with me when I left, but it’s because he enjoys human company.” He grimaced. “Your father and aunt aren’t his sort of humans. I thought you were, and so did your mother, but evidently you’re not.”

  That struck her like a blow. “What do you mean, my mother thought I was. Was what?”

  “She had a sizeable amount of fairy blood, so she thought you must have some, too—but perhaps she was wrong.” He paused. “I know I have some. It’s not uncommon for children to see fairies, but I didn’t lose that when I grew up. Not only that, it’s their magic that guides my knives and tools, and inspires me when it comes to furniture design.”

  She couldn’t bear it. “Stop it! You’re as—as mad as my mother was.”

  “She wasn’t mad, Andromeda.” He sighed. “And whether or not you see the fairies, they’re still here.”

  She put her hands to her ears and shut her eyes. After all the chaos of yesterday, thi
s was too much. When he said and did nothing, she opened her eyes again. “Why did she discuss me with you?”

  “Who else was there to speak to? Your father and aunt, although worthy people, wouldn’t have understood. They already found her far too strange.”

  This was true—but it was because Mama’s mind was unbalanced.

  “She knew I cared for you,” Fen said.

  His eyes were kind but dispassionate; his use of the past tense meant that he didn’t care anymore, except perhaps as an old friend. Why couldn’t she become accustomed? Every single reminder hurt.

  “You believed in them at the time your mother died,” he said. “She gave you that heart-shaped locket, didn’t she?” It still hung at her breast, but she resisted the urge to clasp it in her hand.

  “I was nine years old. I believed in many foolish things then,” she retorted. Such as magic, but a household run by Aunt Mattie was no longer vibrant with promise or belief in anything much at all. And then, when she was seventeen, Fen had destroyed what little belief remained. She didn’t try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I learned soon enough what utter nonsense it all was.”

  He watched her, head cocked to one side, as if she were some strange, incomprehensible creature. “As a matter of interest, when did you stop believing?”

  How dare he ask such a personal question? “What business is that of yours?”

  “None, I suppose.” He shrugged and stood. “Stay away from the windows. I’ll see if Witherstone—that’s my valet―has found you something to wear. He’s completely in my confidence, by the way, regarding Lord Slough.” He took the last of the beignets, set it on a saucer, and left it on the floor by the wall.

  As if prying into her business wasn’t enough, now he was mocking her. Did he seriously expect her to believe that a hobgoblin would eat the beignet? Anger stirred and grew within her. “If you must know, it was at the same time I gave up other foolishness, such as believing in love!”

  Fen stared at her, his expression incredulous. He left the room, slamming the door behind him. By what right was he upset? Not content with playing stupid games with her, did he really not remember what he’d done to her five years ago?

  She hobbled back to sit on the bed. It must be midday by now; the sounds of saws and hammers reached her from below, and a fishy smell which must be glue. As a boy, Fen had made little tables and chairs for his sisters to play house with. His parents had never dreamed he loved building furniture so much that he would become a tradesperson—which his family certainly considered verging on mad.

  But that was nowhere near as mad as believing in fairies, or that his woodwork was propelled by magic. Surely he didn’t really believe that. How could he? She didn’t know what to think.

  He returned a minute later with a folding screen, which he set up against one corner of the room. “To give you a little more privacy,” he said, cool and calm, seemingly an entirely normal, rational man.

  But he wasn’t. No matter what he seemed, his mind was unbalanced. And yet... oh, there was an ache deep inside her, a longing to trust him and believe in magic once again.

  If only she could.

  She wouldn’t, though, for that way led to folly and disappointment. She must be practical. She ate the last sausage roll and looked longingly at the beignet by the wall. There was no reason why she shouldn’t eat it, but something held her back. It couldn’t be superstition, since she didn’t believe in hobgoblins anymore.

  But if Fen chose to leave food out for imaginary creatures, that was his business... wasn’t it? He might be somewhat mad, but that didn’t mean she should be inconsiderate of his wishes... should she? That made sense... didn’t it?

  A soft tap sounded on the door. “Miss Gibbons?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Witherstone, miss. Lord Fenimore’s valet. Kindly open the door so that I may pass you some clothing.”

  How embarrassing. Being seen in Fen’s nightshirt was even worse than if she’d been wearing her own nightdress. She opened the door a little, peering around it, keeping as much of herself as possible out of sight. A crochety-looking man with weather-beaten skin, spectacles, and a shock of black hair handed her a folded pile of clothing.

  “I trust these will fit, miss,” he said severely. “Don’t stick yourself with those pins. When you are ready, I shall trim and dye your hair.”

  She gaped at him. “Surely that’s not necessary.”

  “Lord Fenimore’s orders, miss. A common, ordinary brown will be less noticeable than gold.” He bowed and withdrew.

  She unfolded the clothing and laid it on the bed. Shirt, small-clothes, breeches, thick stockings, shoes, a frieze coat, an ugly spotted neckcloth, and a strip of white fabric which she supposed was meant to bind what little bosom she possessed. How horrid, but remaining in Fen’s nightshirt was worse.

  She took everything behind the screen, which had seen better days; the paper covering it was peeling, and the frame needed polishing. She tossed the nightshirt over her head and pulled on the small-clothes and stockings, followed by the breeches. They were a little tight, but she managed to button the fall, so at least they wouldn’t slide back down. She wound the strip of cloth about her breast and fastened it with the pins Witherstone had provided. One would think dressing a woman as a boy was all in a day’s work for the man.

  She put the shirt on, tucked it into the breeches as best she could, and slipped out from behind the screen. She stood before the mirror to tie the neckcloth. The hobgoblin gave no sign of winking this time, which was a relief. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Evidently, she was a boy of meagre means and less taste. She stowed the remaining coins from her reticule into her breeches pockets, donned the frieze coat, and carefully slid her feet into the shoes. The cushion of stockings and shoes protected her sore feet so well that they hardly hurt at all. Heartened, she drank the rest of the coffee and called for Witherstone.

  He came in. He had cold blue eyes behind the spectacles—she hadn’t noticed before. “Good day, Miss Gibbons,” he said, “and that, may I add, is the last time I shall address you as such. You are now an apprentice. Your name is Belch, and Lord Fenimore has hired you to do various odd jobs and help out in the office while Mr. Wellcome is abroad. You, I may add, will henceforth address me as Mr. Witherstone, as would be proper were our situations thus reversed.” His manner of speaking reminded her of Aunt Mattie’s dresser, who tried very hard to cover up her origins as a scullery maid and merely succeeded in sounding affected.

  “Very well, Mr. Witherstone,” she said. “It’s most kind of you to help me out, but wouldn’t it be simpler if I remained hidden? I thought the disguise was merely a precaution.”

  “Indeed, but when one is playing a role, it is best to embrace it wholeheartedly.” He spread a large sheet upon the floor and set a chair atop it. “Sit.”

  Trying not to bristle at his brusque manners, she obeyed.

  He brandished a pair of scissors. “You are now a nephew of Mr. Wellcome, and you loathe him as much as he loathes you.”

  “Why would I loathe Mr. Wellcome? He’s Lord Fenimore’s partner, isn’t he?” She cringed as he snipped at her curls.

  “Indeed, but he’s a rough sort of man, if I may say so myself, from an even rougher background.”

  I’ll bet you come from a rougher background too, she thought.

  “Belch, on the other hand, hopes to better himself in the world, and would much rather distance himself from Mr. Wellcome than work for him. Understandably so, as I’m certain you agree.”

  She wasn’t anywhere near as certain as he seemed to be. “Surely working for Trent and Wellcome is a good opportunity for a young man.”

  “Because of the association with Lord Fenimore?”

  “Yes, but also because it’s a flourishing business.” She paused. “Mr. Wellcome is aware of Belch’s discourtesy, and that’s why he loathes him?”

  “No, it’s because you, young Belch, are a lazy little
sod.” She must have opened her eyes in shock at this vulgarity, for he added implacably, “You must think of yourself as that boy. For the moment, you are that boy.” Did those cold blue eyes hold a hint of amusement?

  “In that case, I am glad Mr. Wellcome is not here, for I should not like to be rude to him, even in pretense.”

  Mr. Witherstone raised his brows. “How odd. Members of the upper class generally treat him as precisely what he is—common as dirt.”

  She was beginning to dislike Mr. Witherstone, who obviously considered himself far above the likes of Mr. Wellcome. Probably was jealous of him too, for Mr. Wellcome was a partner in a thriving business, whilst Witherstone was nothing but a valet. “That’s a horrid expression,” she said.

  Snip. “But true.” Snip, snip. Her golden curls fell to the floor.

  “Perhaps, but it shouldn’t be a derogatory term,” she said. “Where would we be without dirt? The earth is made of it. We grow our food in it. The common people are the backbone of England and should be valued and respected as such.”

  After a pause during which there was no sound but the tragic snipping of more curls, Witherstone said, “What a radical notion from such a perfect young lady.”

  “I’m not a perfect young lady anymore,” she retorted. This was true in more ways than one, since she would never regain her reputation. “I’m a sullen, ungrateful boy.” Perhaps it wouldn’t be so very hard to play the part; she couldn’t help but feel the unfairness of what had befallen her. She sighed. “But those were my mother’s words, Mr. Witherstone.” She’d forgotten until now, when Mama’s wisdom had sprung unbidden to her lips. “My father and aunt thought she was somewhat mad. They told me never to mention it for fear of ruining my chances of a good marriage, but that certainly doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Did you think she was mad?”

  “No, I thought she was wonderful.” Andromeda sighed again; today she missed her mother terribly, more than she had in years. Had she been mad, though? Not in her opinion of the lower classes, which made a good deal of sense, while Andromeda’s insulting words about Fen at the ball had been utterly stupid.