Fairest of Them All (The Fairchild Cousins #1)

Chapter One

The note was annoyingly cryptic.

Phineas probably should’ve expected it to be, since it was written by a man who—along with a wide variety of other mostly useless interests—dabbled in cryptology. But that did not make it easy to ascertain exactly what might be inside such an unusual package.

Phineas had been in London for only a week after returning from nearly a year of traveling around Persia when Iago, his butler while in London and man-of-all-tasks when he traveled, brought the parcel to his study.

Wrapped in brown waxed paper and tied up with what looked like rolls and rolls of twine, it was smeared with mud and looked like it had been kicked down a few hills.

Curious and slightly wary, Phineas pulled his favorite knife—which was never very far from his person—out of the sheath in his boot and carefully sliced through the miles of twine.

Upon opening the paper, he discovered the note pressed against an oblong ball of straw and dried mud roughly the size of a small child’s skull.

He eyed the mud ball ruefully, doing his best to discount the possibility that it was, in fact, a child’s skull. But considering whose handwriting was on the note, he couldn’t completely eliminate it as a possibility since archeology was another area of study his friend dabbled in on occasion.

Perusing the note before going any further, Phineas was left with no additional clarification. All it said was:

Keep this as safe as you would your life. Nay! As safe as you keep Claudia! It’s valuable beyond imagining. I’ll fetch it when I’m free of watchful eyes.—Your mate in adventure, Barnaby

P.S. If they discover where I’ve sent it, they will come for it. You cannot let them have it!

Phineas hadn’t seen Barnaby Weathers in more than two years. The last he’d heard, his friend was traversing India in study of various honeybees—entomology being the man’s first and foremost passion.

He could understand why Barnaby might send him something for safekeeping.

They’d certainly protected each other’s backs through enough dangerous escapades to trust each other implicitly.

It was rather lucky, however, that Phineas happened to be in London when the thing arrived since he was so rarely to be found in England and never for any lengthy bit of time.

He was even more rarely in attendance during London’s grand social season, which had just begun. The annual marriage market was an experience he typically avoided at all costs.

Curiosity finally taking over caution, as it usually did, Phineas carried the large ball of hardened mud and straw from his study into the small walled garden behind Waring House. Crouching over a patch of bare earth, he used his knife to start breaking apart the solid mass.

The method his friend had used to secure whatever was inside implied a great desire to keep the item safe during shipment.

It also implied a lack of ready resources to do so.

When the mud and straw finally loosened enough for him to pry it in half by hand, he found another small parcel inside.

This one was wrapped in a colorful silk scarf, now ruined by the mud.

The fine material had been secured around something slightly larger than a man’s fist and was held with letter wax, pressed with Barnaby’s familiar seal.

Phineas hesitated for only a moment before he broke the seal and unwrapped the silk. His friend would not expect him to properly protect something if he didn’t know exactly what it was.

Anticipating something breakable and precious, Phineas was still not prepared for what he discovered.

Though the morning was as overcast as most London days, the item that fell into his hands glinted and glimmered in the minimal sunlight.

Gold filigree of the finest quality surrounded precious and semiprecious stones of all colors and sizes in the most stunning design.

No expert on ancient jewelry, he estimated the piece had to be at least several hundred years old.

But it wasn’t just a bit of antique adornment. It was an artistic masterpiece.

“Holy fucking Christ!”

It wasn’t the first time Phineas Coulter had held an enigmatic fortune in his hand, but it was the first time he’d held one so strikingly beautiful and utterly priceless.

Sparks of excitement and anticipation danced over his nerves as the lure of mystery and adventure ignited in his blood.

“Barnaby, you little shite,” he muttered with a slow grin. “What sort of trouble have you gotten me into this time?”

*

“How much longer until we depart?”

The impatient question came from the young Miss Bridget Martindale as she paced back and forth across the large dressing chamber.

Her cousin, Lady Lydia Balcombe, reclined on a chaise in the corner.

Still in her dressing robe, Lydia didn’t even bother looking up from the book she was reading to reply. “Another couple of hours, at least.”

“A couple of hours?” Bridget groaned dramatically. “How shall I bear it?”

Lady Eleanor Fairchild—another cousin—gently admonished, “Don’t tease her, Lydia. You know Bridget’s been awaiting her social debut for…what? Forever?”

Lydia snorted a laugh.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Bridget replied with a hint of petulance. “I didn’t have a Season last year like the both of you. It’s not fair that I’m a year younger and so a year behind you two in everything.”

Eleanor laughed. Then she winced at a particularly stinging pull on her scalp. She sat at the vanity in her dressing room while her lady’s maid tugged and twisted and crimped her hair into the latest style.

The three young ladies had gathered in Eleanor’s rooms at the Duke of Lindley’s London residence to get ready for the evening together.

While the duke was Eleanor’s father, his older sister, the Marchioness of Loxmarch, was mother to Lydia, and the duke’s younger sister, the Baroness Greenridge was Bridget’s mother.

Both ladies were quite content to leave their daughters under the duke’s domain when it came to social engagements.

The marchioness because she could barely tolerate anything possessing such frivolity as balls and parties.

And the baroness because she had far too many social commitments of her own, which certainly did not involve debutantes and eligible bachelors.

In less than thirty minutes, they would all pile into the ducal carriage and, with Eleanor’s older brother Ralston, revered heir to the dukedom, as escort, they’d head off to the first major ball of London’s social season.

“Just don’t have too great an expectation,” Lydia warned, her black brows lowering as she glanced at Bridget from the corner of her eye. “It might not be the glittering, romantic experience you’re hoping for, and I know how harshly you take disappointment.”

“Don’t worry,” Bridget assured brightly as she smoothed her hands over the satin fall of her ballgown.

“I’ve kept my expectations quite reasonable.

” Lydia and Eleanor shared a quick glance at that blatant falsehood.

Bridget never kept her expectations reasonable.

“But it shan’t dampen my excitement. I’m happy just to finally be a part of it all. ”

Concern tensed Eleanor’s muscles. Bridget was a hopeless romantic and idealist. Somewhere in her very active mind, she’d likely already envisioned a grand love affair with some handsome, noble prince of a man.

As was the case for most hopeful debutantes, she no doubt believed her true love awaited her in one of the ballrooms or drawing rooms of London.

Eleanor and Lydia both knew better.

In actuality, the marriage market was a cut-throat stage upon which debutantes and their mamas fought tooth and nail for the opportunity to snag the most eligible bachelors, while those highly sought-after gentlemen did their best to remain unattached for as long as possible.

In a word—it was wretched. For some, like Eleanor, it was downright loathsome.

As the daughter of an extremely powerful duke and the granddaughter of another via her mother, she’d grown up somewhat cloistered and protected within the privilege of the grand and influential Fairchild family.

Throughout her childhood, it was extremely rare for her to spend any time with people she hadn’t known since birth.

And though she’d always been rather shy and reserved in social situations, her tutors had ensured she knew all the necessary skills and manners that would be expected of her once she debuted into society.

And the expectations were high. Astronomical, really.

Being from such a fortunate and well-known pedigree, she was expected to display the epitome of her wealth, social station, and the legacy of her illustrious family lines.

Everyone anticipated that she would do great things.

And great things—when it came to a woman—meant marrying very, very well.

She’d known people would be constantly watching her, studying her, and judging her every move.

She thought she’d resigned herself to that fact.

She’d had no idea she’d be so unprepared.

At her very first ball last year, Eleanor discovered something new about herself.

She was utterly, terrifyingly incompetent when it came to socializing.

If someone spoke to her directly or just looked at her with the slightest bit of expectation in their eyes, she froze.

Like a block of solid ice. Unable to move or speak or even draw a proper breath.

Her heart would race, her mind would go utterly numb, and the oddest sounds would slip from her throat.

It was as if some unseen, unbreakable force would take total control of her faculties, leaving her shaken and shamed.