When she came to London last year after leaving off mourning, she’d thought that the city’s metaphorical grass would be greener. So far, it hadn’t lived up to its allure. Or maybe she was more a Shellingham than she knew. Not that she’d wanted to immure herself at Chalfont Abbey and take up tapestry-stitching and dispensing soup and advice to the deserving poor—though with finances in the state they were, she might have been better off if she had. Freddy, alas, had been hopeless at managing money and left his estate in disarray. While she was just able to get along, putting profits back into the Abbey lands so that her elder son would have something to inherit besides debts, there was little left over each quarter.

  Therein lay the problem. She’d been so single-mindedly bringing up her sons and managing Freddy’s estate that she had no idea what she wanted for herself.

  Not a Lord Keene or a Lord Ordway, certainly. And as for Lord Quinceton—she shivered. To find her heart’s companion, though—a man who would be both friend and lover as poor Freddy had never been—oh, how wonderful that would be. However, looking for such a paragon took time and attention…and just now, she had her first investigation to lead for the Lady Patronesses. Surely that should provide purpose enough. And besides, it was fun.

  All her fellow Lady Patronesses agreed that while running the Wednesday night subscription balls was something of a bore, it provided the perfect cover for their more interesting—and secret—work as the ton’s protectors against supernatural wrongdoing. Annabel had been surprised to learn just how much there was of that when Sally Jersey and Maria Sefton recruited her the previous year…and to learn what her fellow members were capable of. She’d felt a little daunted by half-Gorgon Dorothea and shape-shifter Georgiana, next to whose powers her own shadow-shaping seemed a little flat. But as it turned out, everyone’s abilities were of use for some investigation or other—

  “Lady Fellbridge!”

  Startled, Annabel looked up. The carriage had just pulled up before her house. Standing on the pavement before her door was a stout man in a brown worsted suit and carefully tied cravat, clutching his hat and staring at her anxiously. When he saw that he’d caught her eye, he gave her an ingratiating smile and bowed low, then scuttled forward, bending his head and surreptitiously mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he did. “Your ladyship, please—a moment of your time—nay, a second—”

  Annabel fought the urge to grab a shadow from within the carriage and wrap it around herself to vanish from view. This was the fourth one this week: some well-to-do businessman who’d made his fortune, no doubt hoping to beg or cajole an Almack’s voucher for his wife and daughters. Usually the hopefuls were content to confine their pleas to long, flowery letters extolling her kindness and generosity, but this week they all seemed to have decided to take the direct approach. It was a hazard of her position as a Lady Patroness; they’d all had to deal with them. Emily said she’d had a couple at her house that very morning.

  “I’m very sorry, sir, but I have urgent business within,” she said, not unkindly, as her footman opened the carriage door and handed her out.

  “But your ladyship!” There was a desperate note in his voice. “They said that you—I can afford it, I assure you…”

  Her step slowed. Afford what? And who were “they?” Might this have something to do with the vouchers forged in her name? She turned to ask him what he meant, but her footman had interposed his six feet of liveried muscle between them. “You heard her ladyship,” he growled. “Be off with you.” Before she could intervene, the man had scurried away.

  Annabel tried not to show her chagrin; John had only been doing his job. “Thank you,” she said, and hurried up the stairs and through the door held open by Hanscomb, her butler.

  “We are suffering quite a plague of those lately, madam,” Hanscomb commented, helping her off with her pelisse.

  “I know. It’s very tiresome, though I can’t help feeling a little sorry for them.” This one—or another—would surely be back, and then she could question him. She took off her hat and gloves with a sigh, then brightened as a peal of laughter drifted down from the upper reaches of the house. “Where are the boys?” she asked, turning to the stairs.

  “Lord Fellbridge and Masters Chalfont and Blackburn are in the library, I believe.”

  “Thank you, Hanscomb.” Annabel paused on the first step. “I am expecting Lady Frances Dalrymple to call today. After she arrives, I shan’t be home to anyone else.” The custom was for the assistant on an investigation to call on the principal to discuss plans of attack; it was a novel sensation to be the one receiving the call, rather than paying it.

  “Very good, madam. Shall I bring refreshments?”

  “Yes, and then we shan’t want to be disturbed.” A shout, followed by another gust of laughter, drew both her attention and her steps upward. She paused in the library’s open doorway and smiled at the tableau before her.

  Will, the eight-year-old ninth Earl of Fellbridge, stood at the table by the window with his hands clapped over his mouth, his face red from the effort of suppressing what was evidently strong mirth. His younger twin, Martin, less restrained, lay on the floor laughing helplessly. They were absurdly like Freddy, possessing his large frame and handsome Roman nose and slight tendency to fleshiness which she tried to counteract by making sure they got as much fresh air and exercise as possible. They had her clear, pale-blue eyes, though, and her mother insisted they had her smile.

  The third occupant of the room sat at the table by which Will stood, smiling down at a piece of paper. The twins’ friend, Augustus Blackburn, was a small, rotund, and rather homely child who was saved from complete unattractiveness by his meltingly sweet brown eyes with long eyelashes and his exquisite manners. According to Martin, Gus had latched onto them like a drowning man to a log after they had rescued him from a pair of bored second-form boys intent on using him as a punching bag. No first-form boys, and very few second-formers, cared to go up against the sturdily-built Chalfont twins.

  He’s a Colleger—a scholarship boy—and has no mum, and his father’s a tutor at Oxford and forgets about him sometimes, Will had written when asking if Gus could accompany them home for the half-term holiday. Annabel had agreed at once. Poor child, to be left to the mercy of a neglectful parent, even if that neglect wasn’t malicious. How well would Freddy have cared for the boys if she’d been the one to die early?

  “Do you think I got the mouth right? That’s the hardest part,” Gus was asking Will anxiously.

  On the floor, Martin fell into fresh paroxysms of giggles. “Right? It’s him to an inch!”

  Will uncovered his mouth long enough to take another look, then gave up the struggle. “It is him to an inch, Gus,” he gasped through his hilarity. “Only worse!”

  “Well.” Gus’s smile widened into a grin. He reached for a pen, dipped it into the inkwell before him (Annabel was glad to see it was set well away from the edge of the table and Martin’s flailing limbs) and wrote something carefully at the top of the paper.

  “Did he sign it?” Martin demanded. “Capital!”

  “Mama!” Will had spotted her. He tried to make his expression sober but failed miserably.

  “’Morning, O mater mea.” Martin looked up at her upside-down from the floor. “See? I’m learning something!”

  “Good morning, Lady Fellbridge.” Gus leapt to his feet and bowed.

  “Good morning, Augustus. At least one of you has some manners.”

  “I said ’morning.’” Martin crossed his eyes and gave her a seraphic smile.

  “Saying it whilst lying on the floor doesn’t count.” She came into the room, pausing to nudge Martin in the ribs with the toe of her slipper. He protested, giggling, and curled into a ball like a giddy hedgehog. “Something seems to be inspiring a great deal of amusement here.”

  “It’s one of Gus’s drawings.” Will held the piece of paper out to her. “Look at this! Isn’t it brilliant?”

  “Oh, not really.” The boy blushed and looked down at his feet.

  Annabel took the paper and tried not to chuckle too openly. It was a caricature of a man in academic robes—clearly one of the boys’ masters at school—and though she had never met him she could appreciate how Gus had subtly exaggerated the man’s features into ridiculousness, at the same time communicating something of his manner and character. A very sophisticated piece of work for a nine-year-old, to be sure.

  “Not your favorite master, I take it?” she said, handing it back to him with a smile. She should probably remonstrate with them for mocking their elders, but her brothers’ tales of some of their masters at school had impressed themselves all too well on her. She looked at Gus’s hands; they were small and clumsy-looking, with stubby fingers—certainly not what one expected of such a clever artist. Appearances could deceive, couldn’t they? “Well, make sure you keep these well-hidden when you’re at school. I don’t think Mr. Turtle—er, Tuttle, would make an appreciative audience.”

  “Don’t worry, we do,” Will assured her. “The bigger boys have stopped ragging Gus so much because they all want him to draw pictures of their masters.” He nudged Gus. “Becket Major wants you to do one of his step-father because he’s a rotter and Becket hates him. You’ll have to make sure you get a good look at him come the Fourth of June when all the old boys will be around. He says he’ll pay you, if it’s good enough.”

  “Or bad enough,” Martin corrected him. The three burst into giggles again.

  The next evening, Friday, was a rout-party at Clementina’s—Annabel’s favorite kind of social entertainment. One could play cards, or listen to the music that was usually provided, or just find a quiet (relatively speaking) corner and talk with friends, depending on one’s mood. Talking was precisely what she hoped to do: to ask Georgiana (in person, that is; she had sent her a note yesterday as well) to help with the investigation, and see if anyone had heard how Andie was.

  Clementina was receiving her guests in the tall, marble-paved hall of her house, her figure striking in a primrose Circassian gown against a backdrop of potted palms. Yellow had not perhaps been a felicitous choice; she looked pale and tired though it was barely half-past eight, and Annabel remembered that she was three months along, if not showing yet. No wonder she’d been a little short-tempered this morning.

  “We’re all your friends here,” she murmured as they shook hands. “No one would take it amiss if you received sitting down, you know.”

  “I would,” Clementina murmured in reply, then, to Annabel’s surprise, burst out, “You’re so lucky! I won’t even be able to think about leading my first investigation till next season.” Clementina had joined the Lady Patronesses last year as well, just before Annabel. But with a baby on the way, Sally would not risk putting her on any investigations.

  “Next season will be here before you know it,” she replied soothingly. Clementina didn’t need to know precisely why she’d been given this investigation. “It seems to arrive more quickly every year.”

  “I hope so.” Clementina assumed her usual calm, somewhat bland demeanor. “September can’t get here quickly enough.” She glanced down at her still gently-rounded abdomen. “This does horrid things to my sense of smell.”

  Annabel remembered how she couldn’t bear certain scents when she was carrying the boys. “You should go to the country till then. Summer in London is hardly the place to be if you’re feeling even more sensitive to odors.” The Thames in July and August was enough to nauseate anyone; to Clementina with her exquisitely keen senses it would be torture. Perhaps that was a matter the Lady Patronesses should consider undertaking some season.

  “The country isn’t much better, believe me. And Peter doesn’t want to leave his clubs. He has political aspirations and wants to stand for Parliament in a year or two, so he’s busy laying the groundwork.”

  And spending ridiculous amounts of money at his tailor’s. Annabel watched Clementina’s husband across the hall, where he was huddled with some fellow dandies from Brooks’s club. But Clementina could afford him; she’d been an enormously wealthy heiress. “Pray don’t overtax yourself tonight. Or anytime this summer. You’re needed…and we do care.”

  For a moment Clementina’s expression was stiff. Then it softened, like wax in the sun. “Thank you, Annabel. I—I truly appreciate your concern.”

  Annabel smiled and left her to receive more guests. Poor Clementina. She’d learned to be distant and standoffish because being close to people could be so overwhelming to her senses. It was a form of self-defense. But it was also a shame that she should be a victim of her own abilities. Perhaps she’d learn to unbend a little with the Lady Patronesses if they were careful with her.

  She made a circuit of the rooms. In one salon a violin, cello, and piano played a trio by Mr. Beethoven; in the dining room a noisy preponderance of the gentlemen present had gathered around the table at which a footman was serving punch.

  In the salon on the other side of the hall, she found Frances Dalrymple and Maria Sefton in conversation on a sofa. “No Georgiana?” she asked, sitting down with them. “I was hoping she’d be here tonight.”

  “No, she had to be at her sister-in-law’s card party. Frances was just telling me that you’ve already had your meeting,” Maria said, vigorously waving her ivory-sticked fan before her. She was one of the older members of the Lady Patronesses and often complained of the heat. “What are your plans?”

  Annabel was always taken aback when members like Maria or Dorothea chattered freely about Lady Patroness matters in public. Once, in her earliest days as a member when she’d timidly remonstrated with Dorothea over it, Dorothea had laughed. “If you whisper and behave in a secretive fashion, everyone will try to listen to what you are saying. If you speak loudly and carelessly, they will pay you no attention whatsoever,” she said—and on the whole, Annabel had to admit she was right. Nevertheless, it still felt alarming.

  “We shall begin with keeping a close watch on the office on the mornings when Mr. Willis is selling tickets,” she said, though in a voice quieter than Maria’s. “We intend to ask Georgiana to help as well.”

  Her meeting with Frances, shortly after Sally left, had been brief and straightforward. They had decided they needed to get their hands on an actual voucher so that Frances could try to take a reading from it. More than one would be even better. The plan was to have Georgiana, in the shape of a bird, follow any footmen with dubious vouchers home. She could slip into houses through open windows and, if possible, steal the vouchers; if not, Annabel could conceal herself in a shadow and slip inside to accomplish the same task. And once they had one or two, Frances would hopefully be able to wring some information from them, so long as the footman who’d last held them hadn’t been thinking too hard of what bawdy house he’d visit on his next half-holiday or something similar. She had decided not to tell Frances about Andie, lest it influence how she read any vouchers they might obtain; Frances was a hopeless romantic, and there was no telling what she might incorporate into her reading.

  Maria fanned herself vigorously. “Georgiana! I don’t envy you working with her, even though we are old friends. ’Pon rep, she’s becoming more bad-tempered by the minute.”

  Frances nodded agreement. “I had noticed that but didn’t want to say anything. Is it the sciatica? It wouldn’t surprise me, under the circumstances. The last time she changed—a marmoset, wasn’t it—”

  Annabel reached out with one foot and delicately prodded Frances in the ankle, at the same time turning to look behind her. With her affinity for shadows she’d felt something dark loom up behind their sofa sometime in the last minute, so it was with no great surprise (though a great deal of displeasure) that her gaze fell upon the Marquis of Quinceton, leaning casually on the sofa back and clearly (and shamelessly) eavesdropping.

  “My lord,” she said coldly. “Have you perhaps lost something? That is the only reason I can think of for you to be lurking behind us.”

  “The only reason? Why, Fellbridge! I had assumed you to possess more imagination than that.”

  Annabel bit back a retort. He’d started calling her “Fellbridge” last year when she’d returned to London after her mourning year in the country. It had been annoying then and hadn’t stopped being so, though she’d learned to ignore it, mostly. It was easier just to do her best to avoid the odious creature.

  “Quin!” Frances squealed, scrambling to peer behind her. Annabel had not thought anyone over the age of twelve capable of making such a sound, much less a woman of five-and-thirty. “I did not know you would be here tonight!”

  “Neither did I. Yet here I am.” To Annabel’s dismay the Marquis came around and managed to insinuate his tall form onto the seat next to her, close enough that if she moved, she would be forced to brush against him. “Since you seem to find my lurking objectionable, Fellbridge, I shall cease at once and listen openly and unashamedly to your charming conversation.” His dark eyes sparkled at her with mischievous amusement. It was marginally better than the usual hungry wolf look he gave her, but only marginally.

  Frances didn’t seem to find him odious, however. She was positively simpering at the man. Annabel supposed that he might be considered handsome, with strong, chiseled features and an athletic physique—Freddy once said he was particularly fond of fencing and spent hours each week at Angelo’s Academy in Bond Street—but she had always preferred fair men to dark.

  Not to mention charming, polite ones to—to ones who didn’t unabashedly eavesdrop on private conversations. What had he heard? Had any of them said anything of a too-sensitive nature? She sent Maria a desperate look across Frances, who was still smiling at Quinceton across her.

  Maria laughed. “There, an honest man! We were just discussing the most shocking thing, Quin—someone is forging vouchers to Almack’s!”

 

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