This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Erica Ridley

  Cover design by Daniela Medina

  Cover illustration by Paul Stinson

  Cover photography © Shirley Green Photography

  Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First edition: October 2021

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  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-1954-1 (mass market), 978-1-5387-1955-8 (ebook)

  E3-20210831-DA-NF-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  Epilogue

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Praise for Erica Ridley and the Wild Wynchesters

  More Books by Erica Ridley

  To anyone who has ever longed to be loved for who they are

  And to Roy, for everything

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

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  Acknowledgments

  As always, this book would not exist without the support of many wonderful people. My fabulous editor, Leah Hultenschmidt, who gave me the green light I’d dreamed of. The team at Forever, including Jodi Rosoff and the intrepid art department, for the times you went above and beyond. My brilliant agent, Lauren Abramo, for wisdom, encouragement, and friendship.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Rose Lerner, who makes every book better. My thanks go to Olivia Waite for the assist in Latin. Emma Locke, Erica Monroe, and my early reader crew—thank you so, so much for your feedback and enthusiasm. Big thanks also go to Aleksei Valentin for the help. Intrepid assistant Laura Stout, for being my right hand in the United States, handling everything I cannot from Costa Rica. Darc, Jean, Lace, Lenore, Pintip, and Susan for the texts from the trenches and all the mutual support. You made the pandemic not only bearable, but productive—an amazing feat, and I love you for it.

  Muchísimas gracias to Roy Prendas, who makes every single day happy ever after. Te adoro, mi ’pote.

  And enormous thanks go to my amazing, wonderful readers. You’re all so fun and funny and smart. I love your emails and adore chatting books together in the newsletter VIP List, on social media, and in our Historical Romance Book Club group on Facebook. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.

  Thank you for everything!

  1

  October 1817

  London, England

  Tommy Wynchester strolled off one of the many boats docked at Billingsgate and melted into the marketplace. The smell of the water permeated the crisp air, as did the cacophony of voices, punctuated by the cries of vendors hawking fish, crabs, and countless other treats and treasures.

  It was the perfect place for a boatman to disappear.

  From the busy stalls clustered along the dock, a gentleman emerged. The brim of his hat was pulled down low against the chill autumn wind, but Tommy didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. Tall and rugged. Black hair and bronze skin. An annoying habit of quoting dramatically from the morning scandal columns when one was trying to eat one’s breakfast.

  “You got it?” Graham murmured when their elbows were close enough to touch.

  “Of course.” She slid him the package.

  He continued on.

  In moments, Tommy’s brother had vanished into the milling crowd, slipperier than the eels hawked beside the water. He might have a horse tied to a post somewhere under guard. Or he might scale the brick in a narrow alleyway, choosing to race across rooftops instead of slog through the congested street traffic.

  Tommy’s part in the mission was over. She could relax and give up the life of a boatman. And she knew just where to begin: the Clams & Cockles Inn.

  Two women sat in wicker chairs at Tommy’s favorite table overlooking the water. The diminutive blond one with the faraway expression and the clumps of red paint in her hair was Tommy’s sister Marjorie. The woman with the sharp green eyes and a sturdy sword stick was Tommy’s sister Elizabeth.

  The only one missing was Chloe.

  Tommy and Chloe had been inseparable from the moment they’d met at the orphanage. Tommy had been little more than a toddler. They’d grown up together, first as orphans with side-by-side cots and then as wards of the eccentric Baron Vanderbean.

  But Chloe had married a duke. She had new responsibilities and was no longer free to join in her siblings’ exploits, no matter how much Tommy missed her.

  “Where are they?” she asked as she took her seat.

  “Any minute now.” Elizabeth’s fingers caressed a brass handle in the shape of a serpent.

  “Your oysters!” sang out a lusty voice. A serving girl placed a brimming basket in the center of the table, along with a tankard of ale for Tommy.

  “You are the best sisters,” Tommy said fervently, and reached for the oysters.

  “And you’re the worst,” Elizabeth grumbled. “I wish I could swill pints of ale in public without receiving disapproving looks from passersby.”

  “Hit them with your sword stick,” Marjorie suggested. “Judging strangers is rude.”

  “Or become a boatman,” Tommy said between bites, careful to face her sister when she spoke. It was difficult for Marjorie to hear over the noise of a crowd. “No one pays any mind to what we do.”

  “You are not a boatman,” Elizabeth reminded her. “You are playing a role.”

  “Were playing,” Marjorie corrected, her voice loud and pointed.

  Tommy’s many temporary roles did feel like playing a game. She loved each while it lasted, but was always glad to remove her costume and be herself.

  “Did you find the fish spinster of your dreams?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I was working,” Tommy reminded her. “There will be time to look for love later.”

  “Liar,” Elizabeth said. “You stopped looking the moment you laid eyes on—”

  “Shush.” Tommy felt her neck flush. “Wynchesters meddle in other people’s business. Not mine.”

  Marjorie brightened. “And Graham?”

  Relieved by the change in topic, Tommy waved her hand toward the buildings on the other side of the market. “He’s off saving the day. Tonight, a father will finally reunite with his family. Thank you for the forgery, by the way.”

  “Always my pleasure,” Marjorie replied primly.

  “I could have gone on the boat with you,” said Elizabeth. “I could have bludgeoned villains or poked holes in them with my blade.”

  “No poking necessary,” Tommy assured her. “I would have signaled if we needed you.”

  “The signal wasn’t badgers this time, was it?” Marjorie asked.

  Tommy shook her head. “Polecats.”

  “Polecats,” Marjorie repeated. “Should I ask, or is it better for me to remain in blissful ignorance?”

  “Blissful ignorance,” Elizabeth answered with feeling. “I don’t even want to know how Jacob managed to train a polecat.”

  Each of the Wynchesters possessed unique talents that helped them to aid the downtrodden and the desperate. The siblings’ methods might have been unorthodox…or at times, a wee bit illegal…but at the end of the day, faith was restored to those who had lost hope, and justice was served.

  What could work up a better appetite than that?

  “Do you ever tire of being someone new?” Marjorie asked.

  “Never,” Tommy answered without hesitation.

  She loved the cool wind whipping through her short brown hair and the cozy warmth of the linen cravat tied about her neck. She also adored swinging a heavy hammer at an anvil, blustering along as a myopic old woman, or mincing about as a helpless maiden.

  Two decades ago, as a skinny six-year-old lying in a narrow cot in an orphanage, Tommy had dreamed about what sort of person she might become or what post she might hold when she grew up.

  She never imagined the answer would be all of them!

  One summer, rich, reclusive Baron Vanderbean had plucked six orphans from poverty and turned them into a family. He had given them a new direction and changed their lives forever.

  It had been fifteen months since Bean had died. Tommy still missed him every day. But the Wynchester siblings carried on, doing their part to improve the lives of others, the way Bean had once done for them.

  “What role haven’t you played?” asked Marjorie.

  “Prince Regent,” Elizabeth said before Tommy could answer. “That I’d like to see.”

  “Or a princess,” suggested Marjorie. “You have so many pretty wigs. You’d make a fetching Balcovian heiress.”

  “Pah,” said Tommy. “I had my fill of flirting with fops and aristocrats the night of my wretched come-out ball.” Proper debutante Miss Thomasina had been Tommy’s least favorite role. One she would not be reprising. “I feel sorry for Chloe having to be the Duchess of Faircliffe now, poor thing. I would never mingle with Polite Society for fun.”

  Elizabeth’s smile was wicked. “Not for…anyone?”

  Tommy popped an oyster into her mouth to avoid responding.

  “She would,” Marjorie whispered to Elizabeth.

  “I know she would,” Elizabeth whispered back. “If a certain someone asked her to.”

  Tommy glared at them both, unable to snap I can hear you talking about me without likewise showing herself capable of responding to her meddling sisters’ impertinent opinions.

  She ate another oyster instead.

  Elizabeth and Marjorie exchanged smug grins, as if Tommy had bared her soul.

  2

  Today was Miss Philippa York’s very favorite day.

  Thursday. The day of her weekly gathering of bookish-and-proud-of-it ladies, and a welcome respite to the monotony of being what her mother wanted.

  Philippa strode into the large, sunny parlor that doubled as her private library. Her personal quarters were too small to house her collection, so this was where her friends met. Their conversations spanned a variety of topics, and it was always best to have the book one needed in easy reach.

  Philippa adored everything about her collection: the differences in size, weight, colors, content, and of course, the inimitable smell of old pages. She loved the joy of acquiring a new volume she had not yet read, and she loved in equal measure the infinite comfort of rereading a cherished keepsake whose spine opened to all the best parts. She even loved spending a lazy morning reorganizing: this month, by color, next month by size and shape.

  And yet…sometimes she longed for more.

  Adventure. Excitement. Being part of a grand story in real life, rather than only on the pages of a book.

  Striding quickly, Philippa verified that the two dozen plush bergères were arranged in the usual oval. Her guests would arrive at any moment and she wanted everything to be just so.

  Philippa’s mother appeared in the open doorway. She cast a disapproving look about the carefully prepared parlor. “Remember, I shan’t offer your friends a formal tea until you take your duty seriously. They can stay for one hour, and not a moment longer.”

  This was Philippa’s punishment for failing to marry the Duke of Faircliffe when she’d had the opportunity. Mother would never forgive her. Faircliffe was everything Mrs. York had hoped and schemed for all these years: a lord interested in her daughter.

  And Philippa still held out hope that if she said and did the right things, her parents would come to appreciate her for more than the social connections her future husband would bring.

  Though the Yorks’ textiles fortune marked them nouveau riche, they lived in a prominent town house on exclusive Grosvenor Square in fashionable Mayfair. Philippa’s father was an important MP in the House of Commons. Their family was highly respected within the beau monde.

  Even Philippa possessed her own significant inheritance from her maternal grandparents.

  The only thing they lacked was a title.

  This was Philippa’s one job, and she had botched it. Her parents would remain unhappy with her until she corrected her misstep.

  “No formal tea.” She gave a sharp nod. “I remember.”

  Despite Mother’s displeasure, the sideboard contained libations and a tray of cucumber sandwiches. Mother was too irritated with her daughter to allow a more extravagant repast in the formal dining room, but nor could she have gossips claim that respectable Mrs. York had failed in her duty as a hostess. While Mother disapproved of some of the company Philippa kept, a few of the members were Important Ladies, and Mother would never dream of offending them.

  Stricter parents would not have indulged Philippa’s interests at all. Her passion for books and learning was horribly unfashionable. Mother undoubtedly regretted allowing her daughter a truly generous five seasons to make her match.

  And now Philippa’s time was up.

  “One hour,” Mother repeated. “You’ll not have a single additional moment of amusement until you attract—and accept—a suitor your father and I both deem satisfactory. He must be a prominent figure in the House of Lords, or at least eligible. Your father needs stronger allies. This is your duty, Philippa. No more fun until you accomplish it.”

  Philippa’s parents rarely agreed on anything…except this.

  “No fun allowed,” she murmured. “I remember.”

  It was difficult to forget, with the constant reminders.

  Ever since Philippa’s come-out, most conversations with her mother centered on which lords were the most marriageable, and how Philippa should best go about catching one of them.

  To be fair, her parents very much did their part. Not only did they try to be respectable and unobjectionable in every way themselves, but they had also granted their daughter a dowry large enough to purchase a small kingdom.

  The problem was not a lack of offers. Philippa’s father scarcely had time to prepare his parliamentary speeches with the endless river of fortune hunters eager to spend Philippa’s dowry.

  The problem was a lack of titled suitors. Her parents would have her marry a block of wood, as long as it possessed a coronet. A title in the family would lift everyone’s social status and provide much-needed connections for her father’s political career. The rest of the details were immaterial.

  The other problem…was Philippa.

  She did not wish to marry a man interested only in her money. Worse, Philippa was dreadful at flirting and liable to scare off a boast-worthy match before he could offer. Bad enough that she was a bluestocking, which repelled fashionable gentlemen at first whiff. She also had no taste, according to Mother. More precisely, Philippa had no interest in starting a romance with any man she’d ever met.

  Not that she was naïve enough to believe in a love match. This was business. Her family’s future depended on Philippa’s marital success.

  According to both parents, the best thing for all parties was to let the elder generation secure an impressive, titled suitor. All Philippa had to do was say yes and I do when instructed, and her parents and the groom would live happily ever after.

  “I was thinking,” said Mother. This was never a good sign. “I could limit your access to this parlor only to the days when your reading circle is in session.”

  “What?” Philippa burst out in unconcealed horror.

  Her personal sanctuary—and the books it contained—was her only escape.

  She moved in front of the glass case containing her prized collection of illuminated manuscripts, as though blocking them from her mother’s view would likewise erase their existence from her mother’s mind.

  Philippa fully intended to sneak a few volumes to her bedchamber before Mother locked her out of the parlor.

  “You already forbade further literary acquisitions until I am back on the marriage mart,” Philippa reminded her. “It is not my fault that the new season won’t begin until Parliament reopens in January.”

 

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