Alissa Johnson
Romance Author
Chapter One
 
 
    There was some disagreement regarding the origins of the long-standing and bitter feud between Miss Mirabelle Browning and Whittaker Cole, the Earl of Thurston.
    The lady in question was of the opinion that the discord had begun the first time the gentleman—and she used the term most loosely—deigned to open his mouth and thereby proved himself to be an ass.
    The gentleman—loath to be outdone—argued that the dislike had appeared directly upon sight, which was an obvious indication of fate. And as providence was the domain of the Heavenly Father himself, any and all unseemly behavior toward Miss Browning on his part was clearly an indication of the Almighty’s disfavor with the lady, and he but an instrument of God’s wrath. 
    The lady felt this opinion argued strongly in favor of the gentleman being an ass.
    Some said it all began when a young Mirabelle caused the slightly older Whit to fall head first out of a rowboat in front of the lovely Miss Wilheim, who promptly slipped and fell overboard herself, putting an end to their brief but dramatic romance. Others maintained that the whole business had started when a mischievous Whit had put a large bug down the back of Mirabelle’s dress during a musicale, causing the girl to jump, scream, swat madly, and otherwise endanger the people around her.
    Still others insisted they really had no care for when or how it had all begun, merely that they wished it to end. Immediately, if not sooner. Everyone, however, was in accord over the fact that the two, quite simply, did not get on.
    So infamous was their rivalry, that had anyone been watching as the two of them scowled at each other over a dandy horse on the back lawn of Haldon Hall, the Thurston estate, he or she would have sighed in resignation even while beating a sensible, and hasty, retreat to safety.
    Fortunately for the group of people currently attending the house party, Whit and Mirabelle stood alone, each with a hand on the new wheeled contraption and, much like two children fighting over a toy, each equally determined to gain sole purchase.
    As a sensible and—under most conditions—respectably reserved young woman, Mirabelle was perfectly aware of the ridiculousness and pettiness of the situation. As an honest young woman, she could admit that very little else would suit her current mood quite so well as the ridiculous and petty.
    A rousing good argument was just what she needed. As always, Whit was more than willing to oblige. 
    “Let go, imp.”
    As was his habit when truly annoyed, Whit clenched his jaw when he spoke. Mirabelle was fond of pointing out that the resulting muffled effect took something away from the impact. Just now, however, she was feeling a bit more mulish than witty.
    “I see no reason I should,” she retorted, tipping her chin up.
    “Likely because you couldn’t see reason if it were perched on the end of your nose.” He gave the horse a tug, which only succeeded in making her dig her heels into the soft ground. “You don’t even know how to use it.”
    “I certainly do. One sits there between the two wheels, holds on to the bars, and pushes with the feet. I’ll show you—”
    “No. You’re not riding it.”
    A mere ten minutes ago, she hadn’t given a single thought to riding the blasted thing. She’d merely been curious about it. But while she’d been standing there in the warm sun, amusing herself by turning the machine this way and that to discover how it was all put together, Whit had come round the house and ordered her, ordered her, not to get on it.
    She’d taken a good look at him, with his light brown hair tousled by the breeze, his cool blue eyes sparking, and his aristocratic features set in grim lines. Every inch of his tall, lanky frame spoke of power that took root in wealth, title, lands, and the sheer luck of having been born a man. The very same sort of power her uncle used to keep her under his thumb.
    And she decided she wanted to ride the damn thing after all.
    “You said it was for guests, cretin,” she pointed out.
    “You’re not a guest at Haldon.”
    She let go and stepped back, completely stunned by six words that meant more to her than he could possibly know. “I…that is the kindest—”
    “You’re an affliction,” he clarified, hefting the horse up. “Like dry rot.”
    She lunged and grabbed hold of the seat with both hands.
    A brief tugging match ensued. Whit was stronger, of course, but he couldn’t very well pull the horse from her tight grasp without possibly doing her an injury. And while Mirabelle considered him a flawed man—a very, very flawed man—she knew he wouldn’t go so far as to risk causing a woman bodily harm. She took some satisfaction in knowing, at the moment, he was likely chafing at that particular code of honor.
    Resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to pull the horse away from him, she briefly considered simply tugging as hard as possible before letting go abruptly, with the hope he’d fall hard on his backside. But when a door behind Whit opened, and she caught a glimpse of bronze silk and gray hair, she decided on a different plan.
    A mean, childish, and terribly unfair plan.
    A perfect plan.
    She let go, took a step back and put her hands up, palms out. “I couldn’t possibly, Whit. Please, I don’t think it’s safe.”
    “What the devil are you—?”
    “Whittaker Vincent! Are you encouraging Mira to ride that ghastly machine?”
    At the sound of his mother’s voice employing that time-honored and dreaded phrase—the first and middle name—Whit paled, then flushed, then narrowed steely eyes at Mirabelle.
    “You’ll pay dearly for this,” he hissed.
    Probably so, she conceded.  But it would be well worth it. 
    Whit turned and smiled at his mother. She was a small woman, with the blue eyes of her children and the rounded features she inherited from her father. Demurely dressed, rosy cheeked, and soft of voice, she often reminded people of a kindly aunt or younger version of their dear grandmama. It was a misleading impression Lady Thurston had long ago learned to use to her full advantage.  
    Whit swallowed hard. “Of course not. I was—”
    “Are you insinuating I am old?” Lady Thurston inquired.
    “I…” Confused, wary, Whit fell back on charm. “You are the picture of youth, Mother.”
    “Very prettily put. But are you certain? Nothing wrong with my hearing, then? My eyesight?”
    There was a pause as he recognized the trap, and then another as he realized there was nothing he could do but walk into it. Mirabelle was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud.
    “Not a thing, I’m sure,” he finally managed.
    “What a relief to hear it. For a moment, I thought perhaps you were going to tell me I had misread the situation. That can happen, you know, as one ages and the senses begin to dull. Very confusing, I imagine.”
    “I imagine,” Whit muttered.
    “Well, now that we’ve cleared up that misunderstanding, give your apologies to Mira, Whit, and put that thing away. I’ll not have one of my guests breaking open his head.”
    Mirabelle, feeling immensely pleased with Lady Thurston just then, poked her head around Whit’s shoulder.
   “What if Miss Willory should care for a ride?” she inquired with an innocent expression.
    Lady Thurston appeared to ponder that for a moment. “No, head wounds bleed profusely. And I’m quite fond of my carpets.” 
    Mirabelle laughed and watched Lady Thurston leave in a whirl of bronze skirts.  “I’m waiting, Whittaker Vincent.”
    Whit spun around to face her. “For what?” he snapped.
    “My apology, of course.”
    “Good. Keep waiting.”
    She laughed and turned to leave, satisfied with the idea that he’d be glowering at her back until she was out of sight.
    She jolted when his hand caught her arm and spun her back around again.
    “Oh, we’re not quite finished here, imp.”
 
   
 
 
Tempting Fate
Chapter One
1811
Off the coast of England

It was the general opinion of those who had the pleasure of her acquaintance for more than a fortnight, that Miss Sophie Everton had the most extraordinary luck of any human being in living memory. 
It was also agreed to be a shame, really, that said luck did not limit itself to being of the beneficial variety, but was remarkable instead by its consistency and balance.  
Sophie’s experiences with providence ranged from the mundane to the miraculous to the catastrophic.  But without fail, every windfall was paid for with disaster, and every misfortune was tempered with a boon.
By four-and-twenty, Sophie had nearly become someone’s seventh wife, been lost in a South American Jungle, and been shot straight through the arm with an arrow launched by a drunken hunter.  
In return, she had been saved from unwilling participation in matrimony by the unexpected death of the presiding wise man (her betrothed could not help but think this was something of a bad omen and paid her half a dozen healthy goats just to go away), had inadvertently stumbled across a previously unknown—and fortuitously friendly—tribe in the jungle, and had inherited a rather lovely townhouse in a fashionable London neighborhood—deeded to her upon death by the childless and remorseful archer.
Such an existence would likely reduce most young women to a state of perpetual hysteria.  Being of sound mind, reasonable intelligence, and, oh very well, slightly reckless nature, Sophie considered it a wondrous, if occasionally messy, life of adventure.  It was also, she was wont to point out, wholly unavoidable.  As such, she found it advantageous to keep a smile on her face and a wary eye on the world.
Much as she was now smiling warily at the gentleman sitting next to her on the deck of The Sailing Diamond.  Easily in his late sixties, and with endearing gray eyes, and a mass of white hair tied at the nape of his neck in a style two decades out of fashion, the man reminded Sophie of her father.
It was to be noted, however, that her father was not currently onboard the ship that would be, in two hours time, delivering his daughter to English soil for her first visit in nearly twelve years.
This man, of the kind eyes and unfortunate hair, had been a complete stranger until five minutes ago.
And a very strange five minutes it had been, she mused.  She’d snuck out from under the nose of her much loved, but often exhausting, chaperone in the hope of finding a moment of solitude and then, before she’d had the chance to so much as fully settle herself comfortably on a bench, this odd little man had sat himself down, and pressed a letter into her hand.  A letter bearing the seal of the Prince Regent.  Then he’d gone on to introduce himself as Mr. Smith and asked her, in the name of the crown, to please accept a mission of colossal national import.  To which she now replied:
“Hmm.”  
Mr. Smith waited patiently for any additional comment.  When none appeared forthcoming, he tugged at his wrinkled waistcoat and narrowed his wrinkled eyes. 
“I say, Miss Everton,” he began.  “You seem to be taking this all rather well.  I hardly expected a swoon, mind you, or some sort of fit, but I find myself surprised you’re not a bit more . . . well . . .”
“Surprised?” she offered helpfully.
“Rather.”
Sophie cocked her head in interest. “You must have done some research into my background before approaching me,” she pointed out reasonably.  
“As it happens, I did hear a great many stories about you,” Mr. Smith chuckled.  “They were so far into the realm of unlikely, however, that I attributed them to someone’s over-zealous imagination.”
“It’s possible they were,” she conceded, “but the truth has proved interesting enough in the past to negate the necessity of dramatic embellishments.” 
He gave her a humoring smile.  “Really?  Were you then, cornered just last year in an open air market by a Bengal tiger?”
It was Sophie’s turn to laugh.  People rarely believed the tales of her adventures, but she did so enjoy telling them.  There was a curious sense of satisfaction to be obtained from their reactions which generally ranged from delighted to horrified.  Never was there a doubt, however, that the listener was entertained. 
“Oh, yes,” she replied with no small amount of relish.  “And if you had any desire to see me surprised, you should have made an effort to witness that episode.   After Mr. Wang distracted the beast with some raw meat and a great deal of noise, I indulged in a rather embarrassing display of hysterics.  Have you ever seen a tiger, sir?” she inquired.  “They really are enormous.”
Mr. Smith blinked rapidly for a few moments—which she found gratifying—then coughed and peered at her as if he had just noticed something that intrigued him.
“Do you know?” he asked finally, relaxing his gaze and actually smiling at her. “I rather think you’re perfect for this mission.  You should do quite well.  Quite well indeed.”
“Well,” she responded, suddenly feeling a little lost.  “I’m happy to have your good opinion of course, but I must remind you that I have absolutely no idea what this mission entails or whether I shall agree to undertake it.”
Mr. Smith patted her hand congenially.  “Nothing to it, my dear.  Nothing to it.  You will, I presume, be residing at your cousin’s townhouse upon arrival?”
“It’s my townhouse, actually, but yes, I will be residing there with Lord Loudor.”
“Excellent.  Excellent.  And are you very well acquainted with his Lordship?”
Sophie narrowed her eyes in suspicion.  “We’ve kept up a fairly regular correspondence.  He’s been responsible for the management of my father’s estate since we left England”
“Indeed.  You’ll be reviewing his ledgers when you arrive, no doubt.  Well, try not to put him off, if you can help it.  Lord Loudor has a wide circle of friends and acquaintances.  He’s rather popular amongst the ton.  In particular, with a select group of gentlemen who garner no respect from me or my employer,” he motioned to the envelope, “and with whom we would like you to develop a better acquaintance.”
“You want me to spy on my family?!” 
If the gentleman had been hoping earlier for surprised outrage, he was no longer disappointed.
“Miss Everton,” he drawled with exaggerated courtesy. “The king, as you well know, is mad. Napoleon is ever at our gates, and two thirds of our army are at his. England, at present, is in a most insecure state, threatened from inside our borders—”
“From my cousin?” she demanded.
“Actually, Loudor is not currently a suspect.  He simply has 
the misfortune of naming several unsavory gentlemen among his friends.”
Sophie blew out a long breath and made a conscious effort to ease the grip she’d had on the folds of her skirt.  “That’s not misfortune, that’s poor judgment,” she grumbled. 
“Be that as it may, we would like for you to further your acquaintances with these gentlemen.  Find a way into their studies, their libraries—“
“Find a way into their studies!?”  Was he mad?  “Are you mad?  Good Lord, I’d get myself caught or injured.  I’ve no experience with that sort of thing.”  Well, perhaps a very little.  “There must be someone, anyone, who would better suit.”
Mr. Smith shook his head.  “No one so much as you.  You are, for all intents and purposes, new to London, without known sympathies or loyalties.  That, combined with your rank as a Viscount’s daughter, means no ballroom or parlor will be closed to you.  There is also the matter of your possessing some unusual skills, courtesy of your Mr. Wang, I believe.  Lock picking, knife throwing, some form of eastern combat—”
“I’m only a novice,” she interrupted.  Mostly. 
He continued on as if she hadn’t spoken.  “There is also the fact that we, Miss Everton, have something you need—money.”
She stared at him in bafflement, unsure of how to respond to that outrageous statement.  Did he honestly believe she was greedy enough to quite literaly jump through windows for a few coins?  Perhaps he wasn’t mad quite so much as dull-witted.  Maybe, if she spoke slowly, and very carefully . . . 
“I understand that my family’s finances are less stable than they have been in the past, but I have every faith that will turn about.  And we’re hardly impoverished—”
“Your father’s coffers are very nearly empty.  He stands to lose Whitefield within six months, a year at best.”
Sophie was stunned into speechlessness, a rare and unpleasant occurrence for her.  After much mental groping she managed, and then only poorly, “I . . . we . . . you must be mistaken.”
“There’s no point in my exaggerating the case, is there?  You’d find out the truth as soon as you reached London.  I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we are in a position to help you.  We are offering a considerable sum.”
For a dull-witted madman, Mr. Smith was annoyingly sensible. 
Dear God, why was she only now hearing of this?  And from a stranger?  In his last letter, her cousin had mentioned a few minor difficulties with the estate, but nothing she “need worry over.”
Taking him at his word, she’d made plans to travel halfway across the world to indulge in an expensive London season.  How mortifyingly stupid. 
And now they stood to lose Whitefield.  Though it had long been the family home and the only consistently profitable estate, it wasn’t entailed.  Whitefield could be sold, taken, lost. The means of their survival and the home of her lost mother and sister . . . gone.  
Unacceptable.  
Straightening her shoulders, Sophie turned to give Mr. Smith her best business-like stare. 
“You are not directly interested in any member of my family, is that correct?” 
“It is.”
“How much?” she asked coolly.
“I’m sorry?” 
“How much?” she repeated.  “How much money are you willing to offer for my services?”
“Ah, right. Well, upon arrival, you’ll be given access to a small sum available through a solicitor, pin money, as it were.  You’ll also have an open account at all the best shops in London. You’ll be able to purchase any necessary items associated with a young lady’s first season in London.  Upon completion of the mission, you shall receive fifteen thousand.  Well invested, it  should be enough to restore your family’s financial security.”
Sophie glanced at the envelope.  “And if they’re innocent? Will I still receive the money, or is payment contingent upon finding proof of guilt?”
     “If you find no proof, you’ll receive five thousand pounds, a third of the original fee.”
Sophie shook her head.  “Half,” she insisted, “of twenty-five thousand.”
     “Half,” Mr. Smith countered, “of twenty thousand.  That is as high an offer as I am authorized to give.”
Sophie thought hard.  
But not too long.
“Explain then, please, exactly what I have to do.”

As Luck Would Have It
McAlistair's Fortune

Chapter One

   Miss Evie Cole had long ago come to the conclusion that, contrary to pop u lar opinion, ignorance was not bliss.
     There were, after all, a great many miserable fools in the world.
     Furthermore, she was a perfectly happy young woman, and no one who knew her well would ever accuse her of ignorance. She was always in the know.
    She made absolutely certain of it.
    Just as she was making certain of it now, crouched outside the thick burl wood doors to the Haldon Hall library, her weight shifted to her stronger leg and one dark brown eye peering through the keyhole. Probably she should feel a bit guilty at eavesdropping on a private conversation. But having found herself the subject of that conversation, she experienced not so much guilt as fascination, amusement, and no small amount of annoyance at having stumbled across the scene too late to ascertain all the details.
    What she understood well enough, however, was that her aunt, the dowager Lady Thurston, and two family friends, Mr. William Fletcher and Mrs. Mary Summers,
were currently sequestered on the other side of those lovely old doors, arguing over how best to go about fi nding the stubborn Evie Cole a husband.
    It was nearly as amusing as it was insulting. Nearly.
    Mr. Fletcher, seated on the small settee in the center of the room, leaned forward and spoke with some excitement.“What better way to win a lady’s heart than to rescue her from certain danger? I can have a threatening letter drawn up and sent to Evie from London next week. Have her young man here the following day to protect her. It’s fast, simple, and eff ective.”
    Clearly impressed with neither Mr. Fletcher’s scheme nor his enthusiasm, Lady Thurston added a deliberate dollop of milk to a cup of tea and calmly handed it to Mrs. Summers. “It will never work, William.”
    He settled his stout frame back against the cushions. “Have you a better plan?”
    “The plan, though I do not approve of it, is not the problem.” She poured her own cup. “The problem is the objective itself— it simply cannot be done.”
    “You cannot make someone fall in love,” Mrs. Summers pointed out, straightening her rail- thin shoulders.
    “Least of all those two,” Lady Thurston added. “I am not at all certain they’re well suited. What’s more, Evie has categorically refused to marry.”
    “I refuse to accept that.” Mr. Fletcher ran a hand through what remained of his hair. “I made a promise to a man on his deathbed.”
    Mrs. Summers sent him a pitying glance. “You were tricked into a promise by a man who would— were he still alive— be the fi rst to admonish you for taking this matchmaking business quite so seriously. The late Duke of Rockeforte was a reasonable sort, despite his penchant for jests. I very much doubt he expected you to succeed in marrying off five children.”
    “You weren’t so dismissive when it was your Sophie we set out to match. Nor you,” he added, turning to Lady Thurston, “when it was Whit and Mirabelle.”
    “Yes, but that was Sophie, Whit, and Mirabelle,” Lady Thurston returned evenly. “Not Evie.”
    “Nevertheless, the promise was made, and I intend to keep it.” Mr. Fletcher held out against the ensuing silence for a solid thirty seconds— an impressive show of fortitude to Evie’s mind. She’d been subjected to that knowing silence from the inestimable Lady Thurston. It was daunting.
    “I intend to at least try,” Mr. Fletcher finally added.
    Lady Thurston gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “If you feel you must.”
    “I do. I’ll begin by—”
    Evie would never be entirely certain of how, exactly, Mr. Fletcher intended to begin, because the sound of laughter and approaching footsteps necessitated her immediate retreat to the small parlor across the hall. It was doubtful that the intruding staff would tattle, but it was best to not take chances.
    No matter, she’d been privy to the most important bits of the conversation, or at least enough of them to be quite confident that she was, once again, very much in the know.

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