A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors
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About other matters... She didn’t want to think about that. If Mama had been mad, so was Fen.
“In the interest of disguising your voice, bear in mind that you are a surly young fellow who mumbles a great deal,” Mr. Witherstone said. “Lord Fenimore will become disgusted with your laziness as soon as it is safe to send you home.”
Fen was already disgusted with her, it seemed. “I hope you will give me something to do in the meantime. I’m not at all lazy, and I’d rather not sit about fretting.”
“Oh, you may be sure I shall put you to work.”
He sounded disconcertingly gleeful, but she thanked him anyway.
“No, no,” he said. The scissors went snick-snick, and more locks of hair drifted to the floor. “You have forgotten your part. Belch wouldn’t thank me for anything, much less for giving him work to do, unless threatened with a beating.”
“I have spent the last several years training to become the perfect lady,” she said. “Good manners are second nature to me.”
“In the character of Belch, you are far more likely to swear at me,” Witherstone said.
“What a lovely notion,” she said. “I’ve been forbidden to use bad language, so naturally it sounds like fun.” She conjured up something their groom might say—words she would never, ever use. ‘Damn you, Witherstone, you poxy slave driver!’ Will that do?”
He gave a shout of laughter, hastily muffled. “Very well indeed.” He set the scissors down and quickly ran a comb through her remaining hair.
How would it feel, she wondered, to be a surly young fellow who swore at every turn? It was a far cry from her previous role.
For the perfect lady, she now realized, was just another role. She’d been preparing for it for years, but it had been snatched from under her. Who would she become now?
Mr. Witherstone wrapped a towel around her shoulders and shook a bottle containing a dark, evil-looking liquid. With unexpected gentleness, he said, “You needn’t look so wretched, Belch. This dye will wash out easily, and your hair will regrow.”
If she looked unhappy, it wasn’t because of her hair. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep from being caught by Lord Slough.” She didn’t want to talk about herself. “I wish I needn’t have come here, disturbing you and Lord Fenimore, but at least I arrived with some useful information.”
“Indeed,” he said. “I believe Lord Fenimore harbors a certain fondness for you, Miss Gibbons.” So much for insisting on her being young Belch.
“That’s kind of you to say,” she said, knowing full well Witherstone was merely being just that—kind. She glanced furtively at the dishes by the wall. The beignet still sat where Fen had left it. “Does his lordship commonly leave food out for a, er...”
“Hobgoblin?” Witherstone, who had come around to face her, rolled his eyes in the direction of the cup and plate and sighed. “Yes, but otherwise he acts as a rational man should.” He dribbled some of the dye onto his palm. “Shut your eyes and keep them shut.”
She obeyed. “I’m relieved to hear that.”
His hands worked quickly through her hair. “I have often tried to discard these ridiculous offerings for fear that leaving them out would attract vermin, but Lord Fenimore becomes extremely vexed.” He paused, then moved to the side to apply more dye. “Rats and mice are messy creatures, but the plates are always left entirely clean. Obviously, his lordship consumes the offerings himself.”
“That makes sense,” Andromeda said uneasily. She couldn’t imagine Fen doing any such thing. If one believed in fairies, one also believed that taking back what one had given them would surely lead to retribution. But if Fen didn’t eat the food, who did?
Mr. Witherstone soon finished with the dye and permitted Andromeda to open her eyes again. “An excellent job, if I may say so myself.” He corked the bottle. “His lordship said Trent and Wellcome would fail if I discarded what was left for the hobgoblin. Nonsensical, but since it matters so much to him, I put up with his little jests. I am the first to admit that we have never had problems with rodents.”
Of course not, because the hobgoblin keeps them away.
Oh, what was she thinking? That was pure superstition.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BELOW IN THE shop, Fen pulled himself together with difficulty.
Andromeda didn’t believe in magic anymore. For someone of fairy blood, this was tantamount to existing in a permanent half-light. He wondered when she’d undergone this horrendous transformation, and realized almost immediately that it must be the fault of her father, who’d been embarrassed by his flamboyant wife, and his widowed sister, Andromeda’s Aunt Mattie, who’d come to live with them. Between them, they must have convinced Andromeda that her mother’s talk of fairies was childish nonsense to be forgotten when she grew up. Fen had been away at school and then at Oxford, and after that going wild on the Town. He hadn’t seen much of Andromeda again until she was almost ready for her come-out, so he’d had no idea of how much she’d changed.
“No wonder you left the Gibbons household to live in London with me,” he whispered to Cuff, who nodded sadly back from his perch on a roll-top desk.
But what did all this have to do with not believing in love? Andromeda had once told Fen that she loved him, and that was years and years after her mother’s death.
He wandered into the workshop, inspecting in daylight the job he’d done of destroying one of the legs of that damned bed—marriage bed, as Slough had put it, as if he were some medieval overlord anticipating one of those barbaric public beddings they’d done in olden times. What a contrast to another bed he’d made recently—for Count Grazki, a member of the court of King Vlad. The count had ordered an exquisite bed on the occasion of his marriage, and he’d been truly appreciative of Fen’s efforts—unlike Slough.
If Andromeda didn’t believe in love, then she hadn’t loved Lord Slough. No surprise; the marriage had been a practical one on her part, undertaken for its worldly advantages.
The shop bell rang, and in came the Dowager Lady Shelton and her daughter. Fen sighed inwardly; with Harry officially abroad, he was stuck dealing with all the customers himself. He adjusted his tool belt and entered the showroom with a touch of a bow. He never offered his well-born customers more than the courtesy he would have afforded them before he’d become a tradesman. Show no shame: he’d taken that as a motto right from the start.
“I should like to purchase a secretaire for dear Althea,” Lady Shelton said, adding immediately, “Have you heard the news?”
“I don’t believe I have.” His heart sank even though he knew what to expect. “What news?”
“Miss Gibbons—Andromeda Gibbons, you know—has disappeared!”
It was easy enough to appear incredulous. “How is that possible? I saw her last night at the Corington ball.”
“Exactly so,” Miss Shelton said, nose in the air. “Prancing about on the arm of Lord Slough in the most odious way.”
“Too true,” Lady Shelton said. “She spilled wine on her gown―but then, she always was a clumsy girl.”
What arrant nonsense, but Miss Shelton’s expression said she completely concurred. “She went to change her clothing and never returned.”
“Lady Corington ordered the entire house searched, but she was nowhere to be found,” Lady Shelton said.
“Good Lord,” Fen said. “Where can she have gone?”
Lady Shelton lowered her voice. “People are saying that she has eloped with another man.”
Fen grimaced. Matters did not look good for Andromeda, but he had to do his best to salvage her reputation. “Surely a runaway match is out of character for Miss Gibbons.”
“I for one don’t believe it.” Miss Shelton spread her hands. “She was engaged to marry the Earl of Slough. What sane woman would turn her back on such a marriage?”
“Ah,” her mother said. “But there’s another possibility.”
“What other possibility?” her daughter cried eagerly.
If this sort of gossip got about, Andromeda had even less chance of recovering her reputation—although less than nothing couldn’t be much worse. “Mrs. Gibbons was a most pleasant lady,” Fen said.
“Perhaps, but she laughed at odd moments for no reason, and dragged her poor longsuffering husband to the strangest festivities—pagan folly suitable only for peasants and children. All Hallows’ Eve and May Day morning and whatnot.”
Idiotic woman, but she didn’t know any better. “Most people near where Miss Gibbons and I grew up enjoy such rites,” he said mildly.
Miss Shelton giggled. “Actually, they’re rather fun.” Her mother glared, and she made a droll face. “Mother, you needn’t worry. I shan’t actually participate in anything foolish, whatever Andromeda might do.”
“What I should like to know is, what does Lord Slough see in her?” Lady Shelton listed attributes on her fingers, one by one. “Pretty enough, but there are others far prettier.” She tipped her head in the direction of her daughter, who couldn’t hold a candle to Andromeda. “Sufficiently well-born, but again, there are others of better birth.” This was true. “The Gibbons family has no great status or wealth.”
It must be lust, thought Fen. There was no other reason why a starched-up earl would choose the daughter of a retired colonel of no particular distinction. It was all rather disgusting—Slough marrying for lust and Andromeda for... lust might be part of it, but certainly for worldly advantages. One couldn’t blame her. Fen knew he’d done the right thing in refusing to bed her so many years ago. Marrying him would have meant misery on one side or the other. Either she would have had to live with an outcast, or he would have been stuck in the tedious life of a landless younger son of the aristocracy. The magic of his blades would never have tolerated that. Sooner or later, he would have killed one person too many and been forced to flee the country.
As for Slough—well, if Fen had been in the midst of committing treason, he wouldn’t have had much time, energy, or thought left for marriage. Slough could just as easily slake his damned lust elsewhere. Why Andromeda indeed?
“If she’s not mad,” said Lady Shelton, “on which subject I reserve judgment, and if she hasn’t eloped, where can she have gone?”
“I for one believe it is something far worse.” Miss Shelton widened her eyes. “What if she was abducted?”
“Abducted from the Corington ball? Don’t be absurd, Althea.”
Miss Shelton pouted. “It’s no more absurd than an elopement. Just think—anything may have happened to her!” She shuddered artistically.
“Let us hope not,” her mother said severely—but with a smirk.
Once again, Fen tried to rescue Andromeda’s reputation. “Surely it’s more likely that she went home with a friend and neglected to inform her aunt―or her aunt forgot. If I remember correctly, the lady is prone to hysteria.”
“Too, too true,” Lady Shelton said. “One can only hope.”
“But I for one am sure that it’s too much to hope for,” Miss Shelton said. “She is surely lost!”
Fen had had enough. He gestured toward the section of the showroom with various desks. “A secretaire, you said.”
“Yes, embellished with marquetry,” said Lady Shelton.
“Mama!” her daughter exclaimed. “Not marquetry. It’s so passé. Lion’s paws are all the rage now. And of course I want one of those marvelous little secret drawers.”
This was no surprise; a rash of thefts earlier in the year, by a man known as the Mayfair Shadow, had led to a great many orders for desks and cabinets with secret drawers. The thefts now seemed to have ceased, but London’s wealthy still clamored for cunning hiding places for their valuables—for which Fen should be thankful, as the coffers of Trent and Wellcome were overflowing as a result.
But today his mind was a stew of conjecture, with no room for rich, foolish women, regardless of how much they might spend. They spent an hour poring over drawings, as well as opening and exclaiming at every secret drawer in every piece of furniture in the showroom. Meanwhile, what was going on with Andromeda? Hopefully Harry had finished with her by now, for the charwoman would arrive any moment. Speak of the devil, there was the char—he spied her as she passed the window on the way to the entrance to the yard.
“Here’s the charwoman,” Witherstone said from the window. “You’ve got to be quick.” He shoved several rags into one of Andromeda’s hands and the last beignet on its saucer into the other. “She’ll eat it if we leave it there, and his lordship will be furious. We’ll put it back after she leaves.” He hustled her onto the landing. “Mr. Wellcome’s office is the second door on the left. There’s a can of furniture wax beside an old occasional table. Lock yourself in and polish the table. The char knows not to go in there when the door is locked.”
“But there are customers downstairs!” Andromeda squeaked, listening hard. “What if I am acquainted with them?”
“They won’t even glance at the likes of you, young Belch,” Witherstone said. “Run along now.” When she hesitated, he said, “’Urry up! Move!” He pushed her smartly through the door and shut it behind her, giving her no choice. His superior accent, she noticed, had deserted him at the last minute.
Andromeda took a deep breath, mumbled a curse or two to give herself courage, and plodded down the stairs to the showroom, imagining herself lazy (which she wasn’t) and disgruntled (which Mr. Witherstone sometimes made her want to be).
“I for one feel most dreadfully sorry for Lord Slough,” said a familiar voice. Andromeda faltered, glancing involuntarily toward Fen and the two women examining a desk. Oh, Lord, it was that tedious Shelton girl and her mother. Hurriedly, Andromeda turned away, yanking the dirty cap Witherstone had given her further over her forehead.
Above her, the door opened again. “Move your arse, young Belch,” growled Witherstone. Andromeda sped up until she was out of his line of sight, then slowed to an amble. How could she help but eavesdrop?
“The poor man is devastated,” Miss Shelton went on. “Positively in agony, and what’s worse, even if Miss Gibbons is found, he can’t possibly marry her now.”
“Has he sent people out to look for her?” Fen asked.
“I expect he must have, but what use is that?” Lady Shelton said with the same smirk as before. “He could never marry a woman who has been despoiled. Think of the succession! He’ll have to find someone else.”
Andromeda artfully dropped the handful of rags and muttered a curse. Slowly, she bent to pick them up again.
“So he will,” Miss Shelton simpered. “Someone who will appreciate the honor bestowed upon her.”
Andromeda suppressed a snort.
“But, Miss Shelton,” Fen said, “didn’t you say you believe Miss Gibbons was abducted?”
Abducted? Where had she got that idea?
Althea Shelton sniffed. “Either way, she’s ruined. I for one hope that she has eloped, because at least she will get a husband, however inferior. Otherwise, no one will marry her now.”
This, unfortunately, was absolutely true. Plodding footsteps and a shrill Cockney voice sounded from somewhere behind the showroom—the char! Andromeda slipped into Mr. Wellcome’s office and locked the door.
Cutting it too close, Andromeda, thought Fen irritably, but the disguise was an excellent one, and she was out of the way for now. Hopefully Harry had holed up someplace where the char wouldn’t see him. The fewer people who might recognize him, the better.
At last, Fen rid himself of Lady Shelton and her daughter. He considered checking on Andromeda to see how she’d taken the news that everyone knew about her disappearance, when the bell at the door jingled and Donald Crockett came in.
“Fen! There you are.” Crockett was one of the few friends who hadn’t dropped the acquaintance completely, but he had never condescended to come to the shop before. He glanced about him w
ith an air of distaste at the evidence of hard work, but then his expression turned grave. “Have you heard?”
“About Andromeda Gibbons, you mean? Lady Shelton and her daughter were here, all agog with the news.”
“It’s incredible. She has vanished into thin air!”
“How could she simply vanish? I couldn’t get a word of sense out of those women. I’m counting on you to tell me what happened.” Such as how Lord Slough had behaved, and what, if anything, he was doing to find Andromeda.
Disjointedly, Donald explained about how she’d gone to change her soiled gown but had never returned to her aunt. “The maid said Miss Gibbons left the bedchamber, and that was the last she saw of her. Andromeda’s aunt had hysterics. It wasn’t pretty, I tell you.”
“What a bacon-brained woman,” Fen said. “If she’d kept her mouth shut and searched for Andromeda on the sly, there might have been a chance of finding out what happened before the whole world knew about it.”
Donald nodded his agreement. “I called on Colonel Gibbons this morning. The poor fellow is distraught, and the aunt has taken to her bed.” He sighed. “I hoped Miss Gibbons might have come here.”
How the devil had Donald arrived at such an inconvenient conclusion? “Why here?” Fen asked. “We hardly know each other anymore. Last night was the first time I’d seen her in years.”
“Yes, but she had a tendre for you at one time, and you for her.”
“Ancient history,” Fen said. “She had no reason to come here.”
“I suppose not, but she wasn’t herself last night, and I’m grasping at straws. She said she had a headache, but now I wonder if she was lying.” Donald blew out a breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Slough has people out asking if anyone’s seen her. By God, anything may have happened to her.”
“Lady Shelton thinks she found someone she liked better and eloped with him.” Fen made a face. “I can’t say I’d blame her. Slough is a dead bore.”
Donald’s expression lightened. “Aye, Slough would be a mighty cold fish to take to bed.” His face fell again. “No, that won’t fadge. She’s not the sort to elope, old fellow. Much too straight-laced.”