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

by Michelle Willingham

  He grinned and placed his hand over hers where it rested on his other arm. “I could not help but call your bluff, Miss Trudy. I would not want you thinking I am predictable in addition to my stodginess.”

  “Ah, I see.” She laughed, glad that the lanterns were farther apart than on the Grand Walk. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice her blush. “Then shall I be shocked so that you will not think me wayward?”

  “Oddly enough, Miss Trudy, I find the notion of you being shocked, and of what it would take to achieve that, intriguing. But shall we call a truce?”

  “Agreed. Truces are much more agreeable than surrender, are they not?”

  He laughed. “I am not surprised that the notion of surrender does not appeal to you.”

  “It would take very unusual circumstances for me to admit defeat, Collingwood. I do not give up easily.”

  He stopped and faced her with a puzzled look. “Was that a warning, Miss Trudy?”

  “Were you thinking of challenging me, Collingwood?”

  “No.”

  “Then it was merely an observation.”

  They began walking again, farther away from the crowds and noise, and she thought how odd it was to have this little push-and-pull between them—as if they were testing one another.

  “Did I mention that I encountered your brother at White’s yesterday?”

  “Yes, he always goes off after breakfast and returns in time for supper, but I never quite know where to find him in between. What does he do there?”

  “Has coffee. Reads the paper. Meets with his friends. Hunts up a game—what we all do, Miss Trudy.”

  “Game? What sort of game?”

  “Whist, faro, vingt-et-un, anything on which we can place a wager.”

  A niggling doubt tickled the back of Trudy’s mind. “Does my brother wager often?”

  “We’ve met over the tables a few times, at White’s and a hell or two.”

  She held her breath. “Is Lancelot a good gambler?”

  “He holds his own. He has a knack for numbers, I think.”

  She started breathing again. “He was always good at his arithmetic lessons.”

  “Aye, but his judgment needs a bit of work. Not uncommon for young men.”

  “Reckless?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Optimistic, perhaps. Sometimes plays a little deep. If I had any advice for him, it would be to exercise more caution in the matter of choosing his opponents. I know you will be amazed, Miss Trudy, but not all players are ethical.”

  She merely raised an eyebrow at that and he laughed.

  “You and your brother were schooled together?”

  She nodded.

  “Ah, that explains it, then.”

  “What does it explain?”

  “Why you are so outspoken and confident. Education will do that, you know.”

  “Hmm. I believe I am supposed to hide that. Men do not like educated women.”

  “Only men who are not sure of themselves.”

  Oh, Collingwood was very sure of himself. And, from what she’d been able to determine, he had every right to be. She looked up at him in the dim light afforded by the sparse lanterns and smiled. Faith, but he was handsome!

  A slight rustling in the brush to their right caught her attention. Then a soft, muffled moan carried to them. Was someone hurt? She halted. “I think someone is injured, Collingwood.”

  He gave her a patient look with a tilt of his head. “We should continue, Miss Trudy.”

  He led her a few steps before she balked. “But someone could be hurt.”

  “I do not believe that is the case.”

  Another moan, cut off this time, and coupled with more rustling. This seemed very odd to her. “But surely we should investigate.”

  He bent his head close to hers and whispered. “I think it far more likely it is someone looking for... privacy.”

  “Privacy? But whatever for?” Another sigh was followed by something Trudy could only think of as ripping, and it sent a shiver up her spine. That was not the sound of someone relieving themselves.

  “Miss Trudy, please trust me on this. You do not want to interrupt.”

  Interrupt? Oh, how mortifying! Collingwood had recognized the sounds of a couple... well, doing whatever couples did when they evaded their chaperones. The heat of a deep blush invaded her cheeks. She turned away and prayed he would not laugh at her naїveté.

  They reached the end of the walk and Collingwood turned her down a diagonal path leading toward the fireworks.

  “I hope you will forgive me for saying so, Miss Trudy, but you seem a bit preoccupied. Is something amiss?”

  Her thoughts had returned to her family. She couldn’t talk about Lancelot, so she reverted to the conversation she’d started with her brother before he’d run off. “I’ve been wondering, what with Laura’s wedding coming so soon, if she loves Colonel Burke. He must love her since he acquired a special license so they can be married at our home.”

  “Does it matter if she loves him?”

  She frowned, wondering if she was the only one who worried about such things. “Would it not make things... easier? More pleasant?”

  He gave her a look that nearly undid her. A confusing mix of admiration, disbelief, and astonishment. And not only that, she suspected he was going to kiss her.

  Good God! Dare looked down into those stunning, golden-green eyes and wanted to kiss those plush, rosy lips more than he wanted to breathe. No woman had ever affected him on such a primal level. There was nothing rational about it, and it hit him like a punch to his gut.

  This was absolute madness! He’d known her barely three days. How could he be so obsessed in so short a time? But she was fascinating, funny and smart. She was honest, unaffected and original.

  And she might be the only woman who could make him believe in Fate.

  Just as he moved to draw her into his arms, she sighed and looked away.

  He tried desperately to recall himself to the conversation. There’d been a question, hadn’t there? Ah, yes. Would not love make marriage easier? More pleasant?

  “I believe it would, Miss Trudy. But love is an elusive thing. I’ve seen it grow and die within the space of a month. Perhaps mutual backgrounds, interests and goals would be more long-lasting.”

  “You do not think affection can be long-lasting?”

  “Rarely.”

  “But what you describe is a partnership. I could never yield or subjugate myself as part of a business agreement. I would regard that as little more than...”

  And now she was alluding to the marriage bed! And even—“Prostitution?”

  She nodded and he had a vision of her deep-golden hair spread across his pillow, her creamy flesh tinted pink with the heat of their passion. Her lips swollen with his kisses. The very thought of that aroused him instantly and he resisted the impulse to pull her into the bushes as that other couple had done. Damn. She could have no idea what this conversation was doing to him.

  Conversation. Yes, he needed to concentrate on the conversation instead of the fetching way she tilted her head, almost as if she were positioning that luscious mouth for his kiss. “Are you anxious for it to be ‘your turn’ to marry?”

  “I have not given it much thought. Heaven only knows how long that day may be in coming. If I had my way, it would be far into the future. Life is much too interesting to narrow my world to a home, husband and babies.”

  “Younger women than you are saying their vows. And, since your mother wants you married in order, you will still have to wait for Miss Fiona. Are you not impatient to have a home of your own? Children?”

  She laughed. “Why, Lord Collingwood, how kind of you to be concerned that I might be left upon the shelf.”

  “Oh, drat. I’ve done it again, have I not?”

  “You have indeed.”

  He was saved thinking of a reply by the thunderous boom of the first of the fireworks. Miss Trudy gave a little gasp, then laughed as a sparkling burst
of red blossomed over the gardens and trailed downward before disappearing.

  “I adore fireworks,” she said, her eyes wide with wonder. “Is there anything more exciting anywhere on earth?”

  Odd, how he’d been thinking the same thing as he looked at her. “One thing, I think.” Surrendering to the inevitable, he slipped one arm around her waist and traced her lips with his index finger as he drew her closer.

  There was a moment—one split second—when he could see a touch of panic in her eyes. But then the corners of her mouth lifted ever-so-slightly in invitation. Brave girl...

  Ah... Jesus, Joseph and Mary. The feel of those lips beneath his was everything he’d hoped for. Soft, pliant, indecently sensuous. But when he sought entry, she hesitated. If she’d been kissed before, she hadn’t been kissed properly.

  He urged her with little nibbles and kisses, then drew her closer until he could feel her breasts against his chest—soft and firm at the same time. She gave a tiny gasp and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

  She moaned at the touch of his tongue and he felt the resistance drain from her, her tension releasing in a sigh. She lifted her arms to circle his neck and her fingers stroked the curl at his nape, sending a deep shudder through him. He’d have to kill whoever taught her that. Later.

  “Coll... Colling...”

  She was so breathless she could not speak. But then so was he. “Dare,” he growled. One simple syllable. He wanted that. His name from her lips. The familiarity. The intimacy. He’d never been more tempted than he was in that moment.

  “Dare...” He drew her closer, no longer caring if she could feel his erection through their clothes and against her belly. He wanted the contact, needed it, and he prayed she did, too.

  Yes. She moaned and dropped her head back to give him access to her throat. By all that was holy, were it any other place and time, he’d take her then and there. For now, he’d content himself by nudging the edge of the shoulder of her gown aside. There. Right there. That vulnerable spot at the well of her shoulder blade. He kissed. He licked. He sucked. He left his mark. Staked his claim.

  And then he became aware of the sound of more bursting fireworks and approaching voices. More people coming to watch the display. He struggled for sanity and loosened his hold on Trudy, then steadied her as she came back to the moment.

  “We will finish this later, Trudy.”

  Dare sat at a corner table and watched the tavern door. William Esham, the Bow Street Runner he had hired, was supposed to meet him at the Hammer and Anvil at midnight, and it was now half past the hour. He shook his head and swallowed the cheap, watered whiskey he’d ordered. Not an auspicious beginning.

  And it left far too much time for him to remember Trudy... and the kiss.

  Bloody hell—what had happened to him? He was no green youth, and he’d never done anything that reckless. He knew the potential consequences quite well—had they been caught, he’d have been honor-bound to marry her. Furthermore, he’d been unconscionable to leave that little mark, and to leave Trudy to answer the questions about how she’d come by it. If she came to grief over something he’d done in a moment of madness, how would he live with his conscience?

  What was it about that little Lorelei that drew him? Left him craving more of her company? Their inappropriate conversations? The fact that she could make him laugh? That she was so unlike any woman he’d ever met before?

  Had he actually told her they’d finish later? Good God! That ought to have her running to her father for safety. Or calling the watch to have him arrested. All his ruminations were probably unnecessary. No need to worry how he’d face her. He’d likely frightened her to death and he’d never see her again.

  He signaled the serving girl for another whiskey, then changed his mind. He was done waiting for the runner. He had more important things to do than sit in a seedy tavern waiting for a man who would likely never come. He’d find a new runner tomorrow.

  He stood and tossed a few coins on the table.

  A rough-looking man with a noticeably swollen nose came through the tavern door, fixed Dare with piercing green eyes and came toward him.

  “You Collingwood?” he asked.

  Dare nodded.

  “Thought so. You’re the only gent in here who could afford me.”

  “Excellent deduction.” Dare nearly winced at the sarcasm in his voice. “Esham, I presume? You’re late.”

  “Aye? Well, I had some business to finish.”

  The man lifted Dare’s abandoned whiskey and tossed it down in one gulp. He noted a rip in the man’s otherwise presentable coat and his raw-scraped knuckles. No need to guess what had kept him.

  One side of his mouth lifted in a grin. “I swear to God—some men are so stupid they don’t know when to answer a question.”

  They sat across from one another. Dare held up two fingers to the barkeeper and a moment later the serving girl delivered two whiskeys in questionable glasses.

  Esham tossed his down posthaste and grimaced. “Now, what’s this all about?”

  “I need an investigator to look into the Mayfair Shadow thefts.”

  “I’m already on that case. I have several commissions to locate stolen goods. What did you lose?”

  His reputation if he didn’t solve this damn puzzle. “I’m not a victim, Esham. I simply want the bastard caught. I am working a few angles, and I need someone to interview victims as to the time and place of their loss.”

  The man nodded, all business now. “I’ve got a list and I’ve interviewed a goodly half of ’em.”

  “Excellent. I do not require you to work exclusively for me—you can continue to work for the others—as long as you are working only on Mayfair Shadow cases. I am willing to pay handsomely for all the information you gather.”

  Esham nodded again and looked contemplative. After a moment he smiled and then winced and touched his lip, his finger coming away with a blot of blood. Dare was suddenly glad that Esham had made their meeting at all.

  “Fair enough. And I’ll tell you what I’ve got before I tell the others. But I want the favor returned, Collingwood.”

  Dare nodded his agreement. “My information will be for you alone, Esham. Do not share it with the watch. They couldn’t find their own asses with a lantern and both hands.”

  Esham laughed and Dare thought he might be a decent-looking man when the swelling went down.

  “Mum’s the word, then. I like you, Collingwood. I’m only going to charge you half what I’m charging the rest. Need the answer to just one question, though. What’s this affair to you? What’s your stake in this if you’ve lost nothing?”

  No reason to equivocate. “I made a bet that I could find the Shadow before the charleys.”

  Esham’s eyes widened and he gave a great guffaw. “Well, now. We’ll have to see that you win, eh? How much?”

  Dare sat back and sighed. “Not nearly enough, I think.”

  “I’ll send you what I’ve got in the morning.”

  Trudy stood at her bedroom window and looked down at the gardens, dappled with shadows as clouds scudded across the moon. Restlessness had kept her awake and she had paced her room most of the night.

  Between that extraordinary kiss—her first—and Lancelot’s refusal to answer her questions, her mind bounced in all directions at once, refusing to settle long enough to solve anything.

  We will finish this later, Trudy.

  Finish? There was more? How could there possibly be more when her heart raced every single time she thought of it?

  She went back to her vanity mirror and shrugged the edge of her nightgown aside so she could touch that lovely spot where he’d kissed her and left a mark. Fascinating. She closed her eyes and lived the experience again, then felt the fire in her cheeks as she recalled the feeling of him pressed against her. She didn’t know how, but she knew that Collingwood... Dare?...had crossed some invisible line with that particular move. He had surprised her once again. She hadn’t ima
gined that he would be the sort to act on such an impulse or be capable of such... was it passion? Yearning? Lust? Nor that she could be so wanton.

  Ah, yes. Wanton now, as well as wayward, incorrigible, frank and impertinent.

  She shuddered and turned away from the mirror. Those thoughts were both sweet and terrifying. And they did absolutely nothing to soothe her or lull her into sleep. In fact, they left her vaguely unsatisfied.

  She went back to the window to watch the stables behind the gardens, waiting for Lancelot’s return. Though she suspected he would tell her nothing, she knew him well enough to guess his reaction—more evasions and misdirections, followed by unconvincing lies if she did not relent. How could she persuade him to confess so they could fix this dreadful thing?

  Proof! Yes, if faced with proof, Lancelot would confess and they could find a way make this come aright. She would promise not to tell Father and she’d help him anonymously return the items he’d stolen. Then they could forget all about this incident. Pray he still had the stolen items and had not sold or disposed of them!

  She fetched her silk robe from the foot of her bed and tip-toed down the passageway to Lancelot’s room. His door was always unlocked, so she glanced over her shoulder to make certain no one else was about, then slipped into his room.

  Where would he hide something he did not want the servants to find? His bureau? His wardrobe? Certainly not under his bed or his mattress. In the course of their duties, servants had access to all those places and almost every facet of their employer’s life. She turned around several times, examining every nook and cranny. And then her glance settled on his escritoire. Servants would dust the surface, but they would never move anything or open the drawers.

  One tug told her the drawers were locked. So where would he put a key? Pray he did not have it with him.

  She checked the little compartments that held nibs, ink bottles, leads and sand, as well as the pen tray, but found nothing. Surely Lancelot was not so distrustful of the servants? No, he would put the key somewhere safe, but easy to find. She looked beneath a stack of papers and his ink blotter, but nothing. Then she carefully lifted the inkwell, and there it was—a small key.