by Jo Goodman
Beyond a Wicked Kiss
The Compass Club Series
Book Four
by
Jo Goodman
USA Today Bestselling Author
BEYOND A WICKED KISS
Reviews & Accolades
"Witty dialogue and clever plotting."
~Publishers Weekly
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-797-5
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2004, 2015 by Joanne Dobrzanski. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Dedication
For my thithter Yvonne, who puts up with me even when I'm being pithy.
Author's Note
Dear Reader,
The Compass Club stories all begin at Hambrick Hall, an exclusive, though entirely fictional, school in London. The four boys who make up the total membership of the club remain fast friends into adulthood. Like all friends, they connect and collide and go their separate ways, coming together again when the need is there.
The adventures of Northam, Southerton, Eastlyn, and Westphal do not happen one after another, but more or less at the same time. (How convenient, uncomplicated, and boring life would be if my friends would put their lives on hold until I get through my crisis!) The books are independent of one another, yet you might experience a sense of deja vu as you read certain scenes. That's because there are some events that are played out again, though from a slightly different direction. Sometimes it's North's, sometimes South's, sometimes... well, you get the idea.
All the best,
Jo
Chronology
The following timeline is offered to help interested readers put the adventures of the Compass in chronological order. To make certain no important plot points are revealed, the timeline is limited primarily to those instances when the club connects and reconnects.
June 1818:
North, South, East, and West picnic at the Battenburn Estate.
North makes the acquaintance of Lady Elizabeth Penrose.
East first hears the gossip that he is engaged to Lady Sophia Colley.
July 1818:
The Compass Club attends a wedding at the Battenburn Estate.
East wrestles with the consequences of his rumored engagement.
Aug. 1818:
The Compass Club is part of the crush at Lord Helmsley's salon.
South asks East to lend him his box at the Drury Lane Theatre.
Sep. 1818:
East travels to Tremont Park for business, returns to London for pleasure.
South, East, West, and North disrupt the comedy at the Drury Lane.
South makes amends to the crowd's favorite actress, Miss India Parr.
Oct. 1818:
South escorts North's wife to the gala at Lady Calumet's, while East and West keep North company at home.
Nov. 1818:
South's journey to Ambermede is aborted, his companion goes on without him.
North, South, and East join West at their club to console him upon learning his father has died and that he is named heir to the Westphal title and fortune.
West is surprised by Miss Ashby upon leaving the club.
Following the services for West's father, the Compass Club retires to West's home, where they individually seek Colonel John Blackwood's counsel.
South, East, and West offer North their help.
Dec. 1818:
West visits his estate for the first time and becomes familiar with Miss Weaver's Academy for Young Ladies.
South spends Christmas at Ambermede.
East spends Christmas in Clovelly, puts a period to his engagement.
North is in London, West returns to London at Christmas.
Jan. 1819:
The French Ambassador's winter ball is attended by North and East—West is helpful, attending to certain details in the ambassador's library.
West visits South at the cottage at Ambermede before going on to Miss Weaver's Academy.
Feb. 1819:
North, East, and West come together to assist South and Miss Parr.
East's business is concluded with the help of his friends.
Mar. 1819:
The Compass Club attends a reception in honor of the Colonel.
North, East, and South help West prepare a special reception at The Flower House for the Society of Bishops.
Prologue
August, 1798 Westphal Estate
He would never belong. It seemed to him that this was one of the truths of his life. He understood that it had been thus since birth, though at birth he had been supremely innocent of the fact. He could not say with certainty when the knowledge had been impressed upon him. There was no moment that he could recall as an epiphany. Rather, he suspected the truth had been trickling into his consciousness as though from an underground spring for all of his twelve years. Moments such as the one he was experiencing now made him realize how very deep the water had become.
Evan Marchman was a spy. Perched comfortably in the lofty branches of a chestnut tree, Evan had a nearly unobstructed view of the countryside. Where his vision was blocked, it required only that he dip his head a fraction to see through a crack in the spread of leaves. To someone on the ground he was virtually invisible. His position in the crown of the tree might only be noticed if he gave himself away. Evan had no intention of doing that. He might be captured.
And tortured. Surely there would be torture.
He didn't like to think of that. What spy did? he wondered. Better that he should fall from the tree and break his neck than be taken by the enemy. Better that he put a period to his own existence by a planned misstep than be hauled away to the duke's dungeons. Thumbscrews. Leg irons. Hot pokers. Whips. The rack.
Evan reined himself in before all the things he didn't like to think about were the only things he could think about. Spy work took considerably more discipline of thought than he had yet acquired, he decided. It was still another thing to which he would have to apply himself. His grin faded slowly, the dimple on the left side of his mouth disappearing with it as he schooled his features and his mind and waited.
He heard them before he saw them. The sound of merriment was lifted on the back of the wind and carried across the wide green pastures and gentle hills. A flock of sheep raised their heads in unison to see what was toward. The grazing cattle were not similarly inclined. They simply began moving to another patch in the quilted landscape.
Evan had glimpses of the progress of the party coming from the di
stant manor house. At the odd bend in the road, dust eddied above the carriages, and occasionally a pair of riders on splendid mounts from the duke's stable could be seen breaking free and making a dash over a hillock. No single voice could be heard above the others, no part of speech or song came to the treetop for Evan to make out, but he did not think he was imagining the gaiety of the approaching group. Above the sounds he heard on this perimeter of the wood—the cry of the swallows, the sough of the wind in the boughs, the lapping of water at the lake's edge—he heard a veritable symphony of laughter.
He knew he should leave his cradle in the chestnut before the laughter was under his nose. He was not really a spy. It would be an interminable afternoon if he stayed here. There would be nothing to do but watch them, and nothing good could come of it. His mother would be disappointed in him if she knew what he was about. When he'd left the cottage this morning he had told her only that he meant to go fishing. He'd had the foresight to take his tackle with him, but it was simply part of the deception. He knew he had planned to come here even if he might somehow convince her otherwise.
Knowing that he should make his escape was not the same as doing so. He had been thinking of coming to just this spot from the moment he'd heard of the duchess's desire for a picnic entertainment for her guests. The intelligence had come to him by the usual route. The duchess had informed her secretary, who had made arrangements with the first butler, who had told the cook, who had ordered the kitchen staff, who had exchanged long-suffering glances, and then set about making it happen. Evan had heard it from one of the scullery lads who, once away from the strictures of the duke's country house, chattered like a magpie. Daft was what Johnny Brown pronounced it. Daft.
"Quality," Johnny had said, rolling his eyes. "The tricks they get up to. Imagine choosing to sit in the devilishly tickly grass, sharing a feast with the ants and the rabbits and the hedgehogs. They ain't got the common sense of common folk, that's what it is. Three dining halls and a breakfast room at the manor and Her Grace decides to take her guests to the lake. Not that anyone will fish for their supper. For their entertainment, perhaps, but not for their supper." Johnny had shaken his head wonderingly and spit. "Daft."
Evan wasn't sure he agreed with Johnny, but with no firm opinion of his own to offer, he kept silent. He had not the least objection to picnics and was happy to indulge his mother's penchant for them. They fished for their own supper, though, and cooked the leaf-wrapped trout on a small, three-stone fire. The tender, smoky flavor could not be captured indoors, and there was something about being outside that lightened his mother's mood. One didn't even notice the devilishly tickly grass, let alone mind it.
Perhaps the duchess was not so different from his mother. Perhaps her mood was also lightened by sitting under the clear canopy of a halcyon sky. Calling to mind the beatific smile that came to his mother on those occasions, Evan could not begrudge Her Grace that same singular pleasure.
He could not imagine, however, that the duchess would beam any smile in his direction. If he caught sight of any unguarded moment of joy, it would be because she did not know he was nearby. She would gladly suffer the steady march of a thousand ants upon her person for an entire afternoon before she would suffer a single moment in his presence.
Lest he embarrass her, anger the duke, and shame himself, Evan remained still as stone in the treetop.
The riders on horseback arrived first. There were four men and two women. One of the women was helped down from her mount; the other leapt to the ground unaided. Two of the men led the horses away and tethered them in a shady spot at the edge of the wood. Evan watched them approach but no one looked up, and the horses did not stir unduly. By his reckoning, they had come as close to him as was likely to happen in the course of the afternoon and hadn't had their attention drawn to him. It was going to be all right. He was safe.
The carriages followed in short order and the passengers alighted quickly, expressing unanimous approval of the splendid countryside before them. Evan thought their view was pretty enough, but it paled beside his own. He was the one who could see the breadth of the lake and most of its length. He could make out the subtle contrast of blues and silver in the rippling, reflective surface of the water. He could see beyond the first rise of the land to the field of wildflowers, and he could watch the shifting wave in the grass as the blades bent in the wind. His horizon was some distance from the one they saw on the ground, and his panorama encompassed a vast portion of the Westphal property at Ambermede. The duke's guests had but a small piece of it; Evan had almost the whole.
The guests fanned out along the lake and hillside, choosing spots for their blankets and baskets. The women wore bonnets trimmed with ribbons the color of mint leaves and wild strawberries, and short gowns of matching polka-dotted calico. They looked bright and cheerful and gay, just as if they were meant to be part of this landscape rather than apart from it. Even the men, with the notable exception of the duke, did not look out of place. In their nankeen breeches, spencer jackets, and loose linen shirts, they looked at their ease for fishing or swimming or just napping. Most of them were already bareheaded, their hats having been the first thing they tossed to the ground once the rugs were spread.
The Duke of Westphal was still wearing his top hat, a beaver-and-silk affair more suited to the crowded social paths of a London park. He wore kid gloves and carried a walking stick in his right hand. His white drill trousers bore no creases from his confines in the carriage, and the points of his collar looked as sharp as tacks. His jacket followed the line of his shoulders and arms closely, defining the shape of his tall, athletic figure as much as containing it. He did not laugh openly, nor smile with ease, yet he appeared in no way discomfited by his surroundings. He was as comfortable embracing his severity as his guests were in their abandon.
Evan watched the duke offer his arm to Her Grace and gingerly lead her to the blanket that had been set out for them. The duchess was delicate to the point of frailty. She had a fine porcelain complexion and features that were very nearly gaunt. The sharp bones of her face stretched her fair skin taut, hollowing out her cheeks and making her eyes appear more deeply set than they were. She was dressed as brightly as any of her female guests, but the apple-green gown did not infuse her with color; rather, it drained the last vestige away.
Evan saw that clearly when she tilted her head back to make some reply to her husband. Her face was raised in his direction, and for a moment it seemed that she must have seen him. Her eyes rested on a point beyond the duke's shoulder, with Evan directly in her line of sight. If she could have but seen through the fan of broad leaves, she would have spied a face as pale as her own, owing to the fact that Evan thought he might be caught out.
He was not. He watched her smile briefly in acknowledgment of the duke's comment before her head turned smoothly away from him again. Evan's heartbeat slowed and recaptured its normal rhythm. He was pleased to discover that he had not moved in the least or given up any small sound of alarm.
Mayhap he did have a talent for spy work.
It had seemed so remote a possibility when his friend South suggested it as to be laughable. Upon reflection, he realized he had laughed. So had the others. North. South. East. "Why a spy?" he'd asked Southerton. "Why not a barrister? Or a surgeon? Exploring might suit me as well."
"It's in aid of the rhyme," South had told him simply. "North. South. East. West. Friends for life we have confessed. All other truths, we'll deny. For we are soldier, sailor, tinker..." He had paused dramatically. "And barrister? It doesn't work now, does it, West? You must see that it doesn't work. The rhyme's the thing."
Evan had said he supposed that was all right, then. He would be the spy.
"Jolly good," East had said, happy to have it settled without having to thrash anyone. He'd offered up a scone instead of a handshake.
North had rubbed the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, a gesture not quite as absent as it appeared. Without saying a word, he rem
inded everyone that Evan had broken that appendage and left his handsome countenance with rather more character than his mother thought was good for him. They all agreed it was just the sort of facer a spy might have to plant someday.
Evan realized that delivering a sharp jab to his enemy's nose would only be necessary if he were caught. It remained outside his current plan. He would not allow that to come to pass. Comfortably cradled as he was in his tree, he was not likely to give himself away or be discovered by happenstance.
Setting his mind to the present, Evan let his gaze slide away from the Duke and Duchess of Westphal and concentrate on the youngest members of the lakeside gathering. Not all of those enjoying Their Graces' hospitality were adults. There were half a dozen children among the guests. The oldest was the heir, Will Fairchild, Lord Tenley, two years Evan's junior. He was organizing the play for all the other children, deciding who should hide and who should seek and where they must go and where they should not. His voice was pitched high, and the cadence was clipped. There was no question that he would be obeyed. Tenley was not so much eliciting cooperation as issuing orders, and each word was carried easily to the very top of the boughs. Evan wanted to plant him a facer.
Whether out of fear or respect, the others fell in line. Except for the youngest among them, Evan did not know their names. The little girl with the shock of hair so blond it was almost white in the sunlight, he had learned quickly was Ria. Within moments of alighting from the carriage, someone was always calling to her. "Ria, come here."
"Don't wander, Ria."
"Stay away from the horses, Ria."
"Ria."
"Riiii-aaa." Evan wondered why they didn't tether her. At the very least, she required leading strings.
"Maa-riii-aaa!"
So it was not "Ria" at all, Evan thought, but "Maria." Watching her fairly fly among the guests, sturdy legs churning over the blankets and into the high grass, always within a hairsbreadth of taking a spill, no one could be blamed for rarely using her Christian name. There was scarcely enough time to call out three syllables when two would do. Someone caught her—her father, Evan supposed—before she went towhead over bucket into the duchess's picnic basket.
