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

by Michelle Willingham

  Breakfast was always an informal time, but she, Lancelot and her father enjoyed the easy camaraderie of the breakfast table, especially when her mother declined to join them. Some days they gossiped between themselves, and other days they were silent as their read their papers of choice. She buttered a piece of toast and dropped a little sugar in her teacup before opening her paper and scanning the headlines. Most of them had to do with the fête at Carlton House last night, but it was the item at the bottom of the page that caught her attention. Squeezed into a tiny corner of the page, it looked as if it had been fit in at the last moment.

  She blinked and read it again. “Gads!”

  Father looked up. “Watch your tongue, Trudy, or your Mother will faint.”

  “Mother would say worse under the circumstances. The Mayfair Shadow has struck again!”

  Lancelot turned a page in his paper and nodded. “Here it is. What? Lady Beatrice? Good God. Someone stole that ostentatious emerald of hers! At Carlton House last night.”

  “Lancelot! Not in front of Trudy.”

  Trudy hid her smile. What would her father say if he knew the half of what she and Skippy had learned when their tutors’ backs were turned? Send her off to a convent school in Switzerland, no doubt.

  Her father turned the pages of his newspaper, stopped and read for a moment. “Well, this is a very brazen theft, is it not? The unmitigated gall of the bounder! He must be stopped.”

  “I believe several victims have hired Bow Street Runners to find the man, Father. I was with Lady Beatrice last night and she still had her brooch when I departed, flashing it at every opportunity. Why, she must be beside herself!” And then, for no particular reason, she chuckled. Risking a quick glance at Lancelot, she could tell he was more amused than outraged, too.

  “What’s so amusing, poppet?”

  “Just...” she started giggling again, “just that Lady Beatrice was particularly unpleasant last night and the thought crossed my mind that the Shadow could not have chosen a more perfect victim.”

  She glanced again at Lancelot. He’d said he’d find a way to put Lady Beatrice in her place. Surely he wouldn’t have... no. Of course not. That would be reckless, even for Lancelot.

  Father spoke from behind his newspaper. “Hmm, well I intend to speak to some friends. I think we should offer a reward for the fellow’s capture. Why, he violates all standards of civilized behavior!”

  Lancelot looked at her and rolled his eyes.

  “And you, missy,” her father peeked around his newspaper to her, “mind you are not next. That is striking a bit close to home, is it not?”

  “I have nothing to steal,” she said with a smile. “Laura and Fiona always wear the valuable pieces. And anyway, Lady Beatrice only tolerates me. We are not close friends. I find her quite overbearing and, were she not the daughter of a duke who is a friend of yours, I would not bother with her.”

  “Surely you are not saying she deserved to be robbed?”

  “Of course not. Just that her demeanor makes if difficult for me to feel any sympathy for her.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall call upon His Grace this afternoon and offer my support.”

  “Guess who Gertie danced with last night, Father.”

  She glared at her brother. He could have thought of some other topic to change the subject. And why should he want to change the subject anyway? The Mayfair Shadow was fascinating to discuss.

  Her father fastened her with a speculative look—expecting something scandalous, no doubt. “Not just the usual, Trudy? Who, then?”

  “Lord Collingwood.”

  “Indeed?” Her father looked impressed. “You could do worse, poppet. He is eminently respectable. And he is ripe to find a wife.” He laid his finger against his nose. “I know he is quite well set-up. No worries that he’d only be after your dowry.”

  “No, just that he needs any equally ripe female to provide him with an heir.”

  “Pish! Females ought not to speak like that! And what’s wrong with wanting a child, I ask you? Man’s got to have an heir.”

  “Did you not just say that I must wait my turn? If he is ‘ripe,’Lord Collingwood will be married by the time it is my turn.”

  Lancelot peered over the top of his teacup. “I’ve heard it said that it will take a very unusual female to catch Dare’s attention. Many have tried, none have succeeded.”

  Dare? For Darius? A misnomer, or a jest at best. He did not seem the daring type or the sort to take chances at all. More the type to ‘toe the mark’ and adhere to all the rules. “Well, do not get your hopes up, Father. He said he finds me...” Wayward? Impertinent? Unforgettable? “...uh... frank.”

  “Damn it all, Trudy! Must you always be outspoken? Why can you not learn to flirt prettily like Laura and Fiona?”

  “Oddly, Father, at the time, I thought we were flirting.”

  “And you must stop that immediately anyway. Your mother and I are growing tired of turning away your potential suitors. I vow, once Fiona is wed, there will be a line at our door.”

  Trudy blinked. Really? A line? Why had no one told her?

  Lancelot gave her a wink. “Don’t fret, Gertie. I would wager that Fi will take her time making her choice.”

  “That is not what we heard last night, Skippy.”

  “Here! What’s this? Fiona has a suitor?” Her father’s eyes widened.

  “Lydia Bradley said that she’d heard that Fiona has a ‘rather particular friend.’ But it was likely said in jest.”

  “Lydia? Lydia Bradley? I did not know that she and Fiona were close.”

  “Oh, Father. ’Tis a tempest in a teapot. Lydia was likely just teasing me since I mentioned I was not anxious for marriage.”

  Her father harrumphed and shook his paper to straighten the creases. “It had better be. You know how set your mother is on having you girls married in order.”

  “Since I was five.”

  “And anyway...” Lancelot winked at Trudy. “I doubt Fiona would elope with Laura’s wedding so near. It would be her turn next anyway. No, I think it is Gertie we need to worry about. Now, if she ran off—”

  Still lovely, and still with hearing that defied logic, Ellen Carr swept into the breakfast room. “She would not dare! That is precisely why I refuse to allow gentleman callers for her. I’ve had the very devil of a time persuading Laura to make a choice. Nothing must ruin it now.”

  Her mother was flawlessly dressed and every hair was in place as she went to the sideboard and poured herself a cup of tea. Trudy had often heard her mother described as ‘a very handsome woman,’ and ‘the perfect wife.’ What no one outside of the family knew was that Mother ruled the household completely, while Father ruled only the bank.

  “Lancelot is teasing, Mother. No doubt he will marry before Fiona and I do.”

  Her brother grinned. “Rumor has it that—”

  “No! I will hear no more of this.” Father folded his newspaper and placed it back beside his plate. “There will be no scandal, no running off to Gretna Green, and no gossip for the next few weeks, do you hear me? Your mother would expire of apoplexy if anything ruined Laura’s wedding.”

  Yes, Ellen Carr was a determined woman. Every last member of the family was careful not to excite her or cause her worry. The price they’d pay in dramatic declines and fits of hysteria was far too high, and precisely why everyone let her have her way.

  Ellen nodded her agreement and cast a jaundiced eye at Trudy and Lancelot. “Indeed, I would. Now promise me, you two. No scandals!”

  “I shall be a virtual paragon,” Trudy said, followed by a faint whisper behind her newspaper that only Lancelot could hear, “for the next fortnight.”

  Chapter Three

  DARIUS RUSTEN, 5TH Earl of Collingwood, wagers the sum of two pounds to Peter Littleworth’s ten that he will apprehend the Mayfair Shadow, or a missing item attributed to the Shadow, within a fortnight from the date of this notice and before the charleys. Additionally, should h
e succeed, Littleworth will place an advertisement in the Times that Collingwood is the foremost thief-taker in the Realm. Should he fail, Collingwood will place an advertisement in the Times stating that he has failed Lady Justice, and is an incompetent thief-taker.

  Dare put the pen back on the inkstand at White’s Gentleman’s Club and smiled at Littleworth, Rother and Morton. His course was committed—at least for the next fortnight. He would avoid all entanglements and refuse to be distracted. He had a thief to catch.

  With the wager now put to paper, they went to the mahogany sideboard to pour themselves coffee, and Henry Morton clapped him on the back. “This is most excellent. Where will you begin, Dare?”

  “At the beginning, of course.”

  In truth, his secretary was compiling a list of victims and their missing items. Before the day was out he would employ a Bow Street Runner to question the victims as to the when, where and how of their losses. And, in keeping with the wager, he would attend every soirée that would tempt a thief for the next fortnight.

  “Have you seen the Times this morning?” Rother asked no one in particular. “Seems Morvill’s daughter, Lady Beatrice, is missing her emerald brooch. Swears she had it at Carlton House last night, and witnesses verified her claim.”

  Dare nodded. “I saw it.”

  “Well, she noted it was gone before she departed, so she is the Shadow’s most recent victim.”

  “Possibly,” Dare allowed. He knew Lady Beatrice was quite careful of her belongings, and the brooch was one of her favorites. However it came to be missing, the girl was bound to be furious.

  Thinking back, when he’d scanned the crowd for any suspicious or secretive persons, he’d only noted Miss Gertrude Carr. Coincidentally, she had been a part of Lady Beatrice’s group. He grinned to himself. It was completely absurd to think of her in that context. The Shadow? Absurd!

  “What do any of you know about the Carrs?”

  “The banking Carrs?” Rother asked. At Dare’s nod, he continued. “As you know, Lancelot Carr is a member here. His father, Robert Carr, has more money than Midas. And his beautiful daughters will turn to gold once they wed. Fabulous dowries, I hear.”

  “Comely and wealthy? Then why are they not all wed?”

  Morton laughed. “The mother does not allow callers for the younger daughters. ‘One at a time,’ is her motto. And a great pity, too, since the youngest is the comeliest, though they are all stunning. The eldest, Laura, has taken her time making her choice. But I hear there’s a wedding coming soon.”

  Littleworth scratched his head. “That will only leave two. Miss Fiona is bound to find someone quickly. And that will leave the ripe and delicious Miss Gertrude.”

  Dare was surprised to note how that comment annoyed him. How many men were lining up for Miss Trudy and just biding their time?

  Rother added cream to his coffee and shrugged. “A few friends of ours have asked permission to address Miss Gertrude and have been denied. To add to that, she is quite outspoken.”

  “And amusing,” Littleworth nodded.

  How was it that his friends knew more about Miss Trudy than he did? Perhaps he could dampen their enthusiasm. “So you would have to make allowances for her eccentricities?”

  Morton laughed. “Good God, no! A woman who says what she means? That’s a gift, not a curse.”

  “Our mother does not think so.”

  They turned to find Lancelot Carr, empty cup in hand, standing behind them.

  “Hope you don’t think we were speaking out of turn, Carr.”

  “As long as it is flattering, you will have no problem from me.” Lancelot refreshed his coffee and turned back to them. “My sisters are all quite above the usual cut. I’m very fond of the lot of them, you know.”

  The others laughed and moved off toward the lounge, drawing Carr with them. Dare stayed behind with his thoughts. He would need to leave in a moment anyway. The Shadow did not restrict his activities to nighttime. There was a garden fête this afternoon he thought he’d attend. Then, two days hence, there was some sort of gala at Vauxhall Gardens. Tempting, indeed, for a thief.

  He glanced back at the betting book, wondering if the odds were going to favor him or Littleworth, but he was immediately taken with the lad standing over the open page. He had sherry-colored hair cut in a Brutus and a slight frame, but when he looked up, it was his eyes that caught Dare’s attention. Green. Not greenish or hazel, but a rare, true green, and framed with dark lashes. Almost feminine.

  He shifted his gaze downward to the boy’s chest. Did he detect a carefully hidden swell there? Good Lord! He’d swear the lad was no lad at all, but a female in disguise. But what business would a female have in White’s? And why run the risk of being discovered? He glanced around to see if he was alone in his suspicions.

  Littleworth was watching the lad, too, his arms crossed over his chest. If he suspected the lad was a lass, he gave no sign of it, but his expression was deadly serious. Dare frowned and was about to confront the boy when old Rutherford Towe folded his paper and signaled him over to the corner where he was seated.

  Consigning the lad to Littleworth’s discretion, Dare joined the older man and sank into an overstuffed chair facing him. “Something on your mind, Towe?”

  “Couldn’t help but overhear, lad. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Dare shook his head. “Unavoidable at times, is it not? It is good to know that we can trust to the discretion of the club, eh?”

  Towe nodded. “The Carrs are a good family, y’know. Excellent lineage back to the Doomsday Book. Robert is descended from a few dukes and a marquis by way of the younger sons.”

  He wondered why Towe had chosen to tell him this. Had the rumor that he’d danced with Miss Gertrude been making the rounds already? “I’ve only recently become acquainted with them. I’ve played cards with Lancelot on a few occasions, but other than that...”

  “Good lad, Lancelot. A bit wild, but that’s as common as can be with young men. Got to test their limits, eh? Sow their oats? It’s a rite of passage.”

  Dare smiled and sipped his coffee. “I pushed the limits myself when I was younger.”

  Towe guffawed at that. “I recall your father despairing of you. Thought you’d never come to your senses. Then ’twas off to Cambridge with you. When you came back years later, you were a different man. Too serious, your father said. Too rigid. As if the entire world rested on your shoulders.”

  “Those years changed me. Made me realize my duty to myself, my family and my country. Studying the law opened my eyes to man’s responsibilities to their fellow men.”

  “Nearly broke your father’s heart when you went off to fight in the Fourth Coalition. He was terrified you’d never come back. Wasn’t your responsibility to be killed, he said. ‘Twas your responsibility to carry on the family line.”

  “I came home whole, Towe, which is more than a good many men did.”

  “Drained the spontaneity right out of you, lad. Wish you’d enjoy yourself more. The world doesn’t rest on your shoulders, you know. And not everything is black and white. Bend, lad, before you break.”

  “I am flexible, Towe.”

  The older man snorted in disbelief. “You’d better be if you get yourself involved with the Carrs. Miss Gertrude especially. I saw your face when the others mentioned her.”

  Dare laughed. “I am not involving myself with anyone. I’ll be far too busy catching the Mayfair Shadow.” He stood and bowed to the old lord. “Beginning right now.”

  Standing beneath a canopy in the Ashland’s garden with a group of her friends, Trudy paid half-hearted attention to the gossip of Lady Beatrice’s stolen emerald as she watched her brother move between groups. Lancelot was a social being, gregarious and outgoing. A society favorite. He had friends in every corner of London, and quite a following amongst the ladies. He was bound to make an excellent marriage.

  Charles Amory, the baron’s son, quite dapper with his ever-present affectation of a sil
ver-headed walking stick, was animatedly telling a joke. He was a good-looking man, but he hadn’t Lancelot’s humor, or Lord Collingwood’s cachet. Actually, for the heir to a peer, he was a bit boring. He’d made a halfhearted attempt at wooing her a year ago and, when she hadn’t encouraged him, he’d lost interest. Since then, she’d given him wide berth. No sense in encouraging any male after what she’d learned from her father at breakfast.

  At least she thought Mr. Amory had lost interest. Hmm. Perhaps he hadn’t lost interest at all, but had gone away after being told that she would not be ‘available’ until her older sisters were wed. She tilted her head and looked at him in a new light. Would she have entertained his interest? He was quite suitable, after all, and would be Lord Amory one day. Perhaps...

  Lancelot’s little group burst into laughter, followed by the usual male nudging and back-slapping. Men. So interesting. So odd. She was about to turn away when she noted a familiar move by Lancelot.

  One hand on Mr. Amory’s shoulder, he slipped his other hand closer to Mr. Amory’s side. Then a distracting little bump or jostle, and Lancelot stepped away. Were it anyone but her brother, she’d think... Surely not! Why would her brother be picking pockets? She glanced quickly at the others in the jovial group. No one else was aware of what had just happened. But to Trudy, the signs were unmistakable.

  Every summer, her father allowed gypsies to camp on the back acreage of their estate in Devonshire for a time. Growing up, she and Lancelot would sneak away after their lessons and spend afternoons with the gypsy children learning to ride and fish and hunt for berries and edible roots.

  And sometimes, when there was nothing else to do, they’d practice the ‘light-fingered lift’ with the other children. One would play the ‘mark’ and the others would try to pick their pockets or snatch a reticule or other easy valuable and dash away. Lancelot had a softer touch than she, but they had both become quite adept. They had even made a game of relieving Laura or Fiona of some bit of frippery, wait for them to miss it, and then ‘find’ it for them for rewards of biscuits or sweets. To this very day their sisters were not aware they’d been bilked out of their treats.