2

E lizabeth startled awake in pitch blackness. Without making a sound, she kept perfectly still as she took careful inventory of her body.

First her toes. Her feet were sweltering. It was the beginning of May and she was draped with a blanket, but other than a bit hot, her feet were fine. Calves… would do. Knees… good. Thighs… normal. Hips…

Ah, there it was. The familiar ache she dreaded every time she was forced to give chase. Flinging herself into a full-blown tackle hadn't been the gentlest of maneuvers. It would have been easier to launch her sword through the thief's chest. If it weren't for a certain sibling's stuffy rules about not murdering ruffians in front of bystanders.

Elizabeth's back… Yes, her back definitely still felt that last tackle, but at least the muscles weren't spasming. Maybe her daily stretches had been helping, or maybe she'd just been lucky this time. There wasn't always a clear cause-and-effect to these things. Intermittent, debilitating flare-ups had plagued her since birth. Elizabeth's body would, on its own timetable and sometimes without warning, shut down for days or weeks at a time, and cause extraordinary pain.

She could trust her sword, and she could trust her siblings, but she couldn't trust her own damn body.

Elizabeth was never one hundred percent perfect, but today, she was all right. Her joints were swollen the way they always were. Her muscles ached the way they always did. This was a sixty-percent day. As usual, background pain was her constant companion, but at a level tolerable enough to allow for the swinging of blades and the vanquishing of enemies.

"Bad" days were terrible, and "good" days were… well, not terrific in terms of the discomfort that never went away, but great in terms of mobility. Eighty percent days were positively marvelous. Especially when there was a mission afoot.

Nonetheless, today she would make do with sixty and no mission. Elizabeth rolled out of bed gingerly and performed her customary hour of morning stretches with great care. She preferred to tempt fate on the battlefield, not by twisting the wrong way when dawn had barely broken.

" Never show weakness," she reminded her looking glass.

The message had been drummed into her as a child. Or shaken into her. And worse. She was no longer with that family, but she carried the hard lessons they'd taught her deep in her bones. It was one of the reasons she loved swords. A blade-wielding madwoman was visibly strong, capable of defending herself and others. And sometimes, first impressions were the only chance you got.

Flare-ups made her vulnerable. After a spate of heroics, her body required rest to fully recover. Only her immediate family had ever seen her in repose on a sofa. Clients and enemies alike believed her to be an indefatigable sword-wielding machine, which was how she liked it.

The other reason she liked swords was because they could be hidden inside sword sticks . Hers doubled as canes, which made them practical as well as deadly. Being underestimated was often a tactical advantage. And sometimes, her body simply needed support.

Elizabeth hurried down the stairs to breakfast. A swift speed made possible by the excellent craftsmanship of the even marble stairs and smooth wooden banister, and because the gods had blessed her with a greater-than-fifty-percent day.

She burst into the breakfast room with a smile. Not her attacking-cobra smile, but an I'm-ready-for-kippers-and-eggs smile. Which might have been the same smile.

"Good morning," said Marjorie, who was already at the table. She had a piece of buttered toast in one hand, and a splotch of blue paint on her nose.

Elizabeth cast her gaze toward Marjorie's husband to see if he, too, was speckled with paint. Answer: not yet. Adrian looked as though he had just woken up, and that his fondest wish was to go right back to bed—with his wife.

How the breakfast table had changed! Twenty-one years ago, an eccentric Balcovian nobleman called Baron Vanderbean had adopted six children between the ages of eight and eleven from various walks of life. They had called him Bean, and he became the father they'd never had.

In addition to Elizabeth and shy artist Marjorie, there was clever pickpocket Chloe, acrobatic spy Graham, sweet animal trainer Jacob, and fearless master of disguise Tommy. After Bean's death three years ago, the siblings' bond only grew stronger… and their family grew bigger. Chloe married the Duke of Faircliffe and moved out. Bluestocking Philippa fell in love with their sister Tommy and moved in. Next came Graham's wife, Balcovian warrioress Kuni—who was Elizabeth's fencing partner and was also teaching her how to throw knives. And then just last summer, Marjorie had married Lord Adrian, bringing the total number of justice-seeking Wynchesters up to ten. Eleven, if you counted the baby.

Elizabeth did not count the baby.

"We're all here," she said in surprise.

It had been weeks since the whole family had filled the dining room at the same time. They'd been busier than ever with clients and cases. More than that, four weddings in a row naturally meant that the newly married pairs would spend a fair portion of their time with their spouses rather than with their siblings. Chloe and Faircliffe only dropped by a few times per week to dine en famille .

Tommy piled a plate with kippers to share with Philippa. The lovebirds were always doing things like that. Little thoughtful, cozy gestures that Elizabeth would likely find deeply romantic if her heart weren't forged of steel like the blade of her sword.

Oh, very well. She would never admit it aloud, but Elizabeth longed for a partner, too. Not a flirtation, or even a temporary affaire, but the full, true, sonnets-will-be-written-about-this whirlwind of romantic love.

You wouldn't think a suitable companion would be this difficult to find. She was a woman of simple pleasures: scenic walks through pleasure gardens, wine-drenched candlelit dinners, impaling brigands through the gullet with a sharp blade. The usual.

She wasn't even finicky! Elizabeth was open to accepting love in any form. Man… Woman… A lethal warrior or two… No, three , each of them larger and deadlier than the last… All right, yes, Elizabeth was finicky. She would settle for nothing less than a fearless soldier in shining armor who wanted her fighting at their side forevermore.

And no babies! Nothing dampened an afternoon of light bloodshed quite like the squalling of a helpless infant. Elizabeth would happily skip up to the altar with anyone who swashbuckled. Proficiency with a blade was her one and only obligatory criterion.

And likely the reason she was still a spinster at the age of one-and-thirty.

"You'll never believe this," Graham said from behind a stiff broadsheet. Each morning without fail, he read every newspaper and gossip rag in London from cover to cover.

Elizabeth took her place at the long dining table and glanced over at him with interest. "Is it an advertisement from a dashing knight in search of a bride?"

"You do not want to marry this peacock." Graham lowered the paper, revealing mischievous light brown eyes the same shade as his skin. A riot of black curls tumbled over his forehead, and he shook them out of his face. "I swear, the more money some of these noblemen acquire, the fewer brains in their heads. You remember Richard Reddington, of course?"

Elizabeth perked up. "Did he assassinate someone again?"

"Those rumors have yet to be proven." Graham's disgruntled expression indicated that even his formidable network of spies had thus far been unable to confirm the whispered tales.

"Who is Richard Reddington?" asked Tommy.

"He's a viscount's son with dubious associates in and out of polite society," Graham answered. "He collects artifacts of war and struts around Dorset wearing replica military uniforms—despite the battles being long over and his never having fought in them."

"He loves to be the center of attention," Elizabeth explained. "When he's not waltzing and carousing, Reddington leads a troupe of men who perform military reenactments."

A troupe that wouldn't have to be exclusively comprised of male soldiers, if the men in question would accept the possibility of a woman wielding a weapon. Elizabeth would make just as good a leader as Reddington. Or at least a competent foot soldier.

Years ago, she'd applied to become part of his reenactment squadron—only to be laughed at for being a "useless jest." Reddington and his followers had called her rotund and ridiculous and as frightening as a mouse … despite refusing to take up arms against her in a nice, friendly duel to the death. Or at least until Elizabeth disproved their alleged male superiority.

With half a chance, she could also trounce him quite thoroughly in the enthusiastic debates on war strategies and past battles Reddington presided over in his various gentlemen's clubs. If women weren't barred from those, too.

Graham shook out the newspaper. "By day, Reddington parades through England with a flock of cronies flanking him, often in uniform. By night, he parades through ballrooms and humble homes alike, as the toast of the upwardly inclined."

Philippa cringed in agreement. "My mother would have wedded me to him without blinking. And she's far from the only society-adjacent hopeful for whom ‘heir to a title' absolves any other sins."

"But we mean real sins?" Tommy asked. "Crimes against something other than fashion and good breeding?"

Elizabeth stretched out her arms. "Just murder."

Tommy swung her gaze toward Graham. "Is that true, or is Elizabeth being bloodthirsty again?"

"Again?" Elizabeth repeated in offense. "I never stop being bloodthirsty."

"You're very sweet to Tickletums," Jacob whispered, pointing to the hedgehog sleeping beneath her chair. "As you are to all my animals. As well as to everyone in this family. And our clients."

"Never repeat such slander again," Elizabeth whispered back. "You'll ruin my reputation."

Graham ignored them and lowered the paper to answer Tommy. "Possibly true. Reddington is not without enemies, a few of whom have conveniently vanished off the face of the earth after committing some perceived slight against him."

"And the courts have done nothing?" Tommy exclaimed. "Can an heir apparent claim ‘right of privilege' to exempt himself from the law even before he's inherited his title?"

"There's no murder without a body and no crime without evidence," Graham explained. "All we have are unsubstantiated rumors. The truth is, he's lord of a large-enough sector of society that someone hoping to get on his good side might have acted without Reddington explicitly making the request. In any case, that's all old news."

"What's Reddington done now?" Philippa asked.

"He intends to host a mock battle of Waterloo."

Elizabeth stabbed a fork in her eggs. "Which is a battle he and his soldiers did not fight, in a country they've likely not been to. Or will they all be traveling to the Netherlands to put on the performance?"

Graham shook his head. "It'll be in Dorset, one hundred and forty miles southwest of London. Presumably at his vast country estate. For the first time, however, Reddington announced he'll be selling tickets."

Kuni's eyebrows shot up almost as high as her long black braids. She reached for the paper. "Charging admission, as though to a play?"

"It is a play," Elizabeth grumbled. "And for those who haven't noticed, women act in plays all the time. At least, they do when men let them. I hope no one buys a single ticket."

"I hope he trips and falls on his bayonet," said Jacob. "Reddington's family money comes from plantations in the West Indies. He's never worked a day in his life or earned any of his privilege. Yet he's treated as a god because he has a title."

"Never working a day in one's life is the dream, for mothers like mine who despair of their daughters marrying well," Philippa said.

"Reddington does put in considerable effort," Elizabeth admitted. "I may have witnessed him lead his troops through practice drills on a few occasions. Though the training would have gone more smoothly if he'd taken my advice. I swear, that's the last time I prepare an unsolicited two-hour strategy lecture for a faux war general."

" You spoke to Reddington?" Graham put down his newspaper. Rarely did any event occur in London without his knowledge. The fact that Elizabeth had successfully kept a secret caused his eyes to boggle. "When did you meet—"

"Pardon the interruption." Their butler, Mr. Randall, had appeared in the dining room doorway. "You've a guest." He held up a calling card. "Shall I show Miss Oak into the usual parlor?"

"Gracious, that's the third new client this week." Chloe looked up from her slobbering devil-child and exchanged exhausted glances with Faircliffe. "We've barely a moment to eat or sleep."

"I'll attend to the caller." Elizabeth leapt up. "Perhaps she needs an assassin-for-hire."

All of her siblings scrambled to their feet.

"Don't you dare greet the new client alone," Graham warned her.

"Or offer to murder anyone for money," Jacob added.

"Maybe she'll suggest it first," Elizabeth said eagerly. "I have room in my schedule to poke holes in a villain or two."

Swiftly, she and the others relocated to the front parlor, where their new caller awaited.

Miss Oak was an older woman with graying locks. She appeared slightly overwhelmed at the sight of ten-and-a-half Wynchesters streaming through the door. But the parlor was large enough to accommodate everyone. In no time, the introductions were completed and the Wynchesters were seated with their prospective client.

Elizabeth took the chair as far as possible from Chloe and her baby.

"I am in desperate need of your help," said Miss Oak. "There is no legal recourse I can take to right this wrong, and I've nowhere else to turn."

Elizabeth was unsurprised. Virtually all their clients' stories began with that same lament.

"Please," said Graham. "How may we assist you?"

Miss Oak gazed at them beseechingly. "Castle Harbrook is family land. My sister and I spent the past ten years planning to turn the property into an orphanage and school for the indigent. That castle is mine by rights, but my nephew, the Earl of Densmore, refuses to vacate the property or hand over the deed!"

Elizabeth bared her teeth in disgust at the heartless nephew.

The entire Wynchester clan held orphanages in the highest regard. Not only were most of the original Wynchester siblings orphans themselves, but also Chloe and Tommy had first met in an orphanage. Providing shelter to innocent children was a far worthier pursuit than whatever the Earl of Densmore intended to do with his appropriated castle.

"Whilst I sympathize greatly," said Chloe's husband, the Duke of Faircliffe, "property disputes are generally the domain of the courts and not something the Wynchester family can settle by hand. Have you considered hiring a lawyer?"

"I've considered everything. The lawyer is on my side, but can do nothing." Miss Oak rubbed her wan face. "The situation is not as simple as I've made it sound."

"Then, please," said Graham gently. "Start at the beginning. Explain in as much detail as you can. If it is possible for us to help you, then by all means, we will do so."

Miss Oak nodded and took a deep breath. "The property in question is a disused castle that has belonged to my family for centuries. That is, until forty years ago, when my parents decided to include it as part of my elder sister's dowry in order for her to secure an aristocratic husband."

Elizabeth whistled under her breath. "A castle would do the trick."

"You'd think so, but my sister was lucky enough to make a love match. The Earl of Densmore would have married Arminia if her dowry consisted of no more than a bag of dirt. He didn't want or need Castle Harbrook. But now that he had it, my brother-in-law discovered he liked it. Rather than implement the comprehensive orphanage plans my sister and I had devised, he remodeled the castle into a country home."

Of course he had. Elizabeth met her siblings' gazes. Why provide shelter and education for hundreds of homeless children, when you could use the space for port and billiards instead?

"Although the earl was disinclined to turn the castle into an orphanage or a school while he was alive, he had no quarrel with our philanthropic plans becoming the castle's eventual fate. He bequeathed the property to his wife in his will, and Arminia rewrote hers to ensure the property would come to me. And then they had a son."

"Figures," Elizabeth muttered. Babies were unpredictable little beasts.

Two maids entered the parlor with tea service. Chloe handed her devil-spawn to Faircliffe so she could perform duties as hostess.

"After the birth of their heir, your sister and brother-in-law wrote you out of their wills?" Elizabeth asked.

Miss Oak looked up from her tea. "No. The earl rewrote his to bequeath everything but the castle to his son, presuming the child would care for his own mother. Arminia's only property to speak of would be the castle, which remained bequeathed to me in her testament."

"Then what's the problem?" Tommy asked.

"No one has seen Arminia's will in years," Miss Oak replied grimly. "And without a document stating otherwise, the new Earl of Densmore is the de facto heir of both of his parents' holdings. Including Castle Harbrook."

Jacob frowned. "Didn't you mention a lawyer?"

Miss Oak nodded. "The same one oversaw the writing of both wills. He kept a copy in his office, and left the originals with my sister and brother-in-law. When the earl died, his testament was found in the top drawer of his desk, as one might imagine. When Arminia passed of the same illness the following morning…"

Philippa gasped. "Someone stole her will to keep the castle from becoming an orphanage?"

"Was it the nephew?" Elizabeth demanded. "I'll kill him for you."

"My nephew doesn't care about much of anything, save the gaming tables," Miss Oak said with a sigh. "I was his governess until he went to Eton. Densmore was unfocused and impulsive, but a good lad at heart. I trust that is still the case. The real problem, I fear, is my sister."

Tommy raised her brows. "Your… dearly departed sister?"

Miss Oak nodded. "Arminia has always been too clever for her own good, and an ardent devotee of puzzles. When we were children, she loved to devise elaborate riddles in which one could find a hidden treasure by following a series of cryptic clues. I never made it past the first step and quickly tired of such games, but the earl adored puzzles as much as he worshipped Arminia. Their favorite pastime was leaving each other complex riddles to solve."

"Oh no." Philippa winced. "You mean the countess hid her will decades ago, believing her husband could easily follow the clues to find it, only for him to die first and her immediately after, before she had the opportunity to ensure the document made its way to your hands."

"In fact," Marjorie said, "as far as Arminia knew, this puzzle for her husband was just a private game. She never expected anyone else to have to decipher it."

"That is exactly the situation." Miss Oak's eyes were bleak. "As you can see, it's hopeless."

"Not at all," said Tommy. "Philippa is brilliant with codes and puzzles of every kind. What are the clues? Perhaps we can solve it right now."

"That's just it," said Miss Oak. "I don't have any clues. And even if I did, they were meant for the earl to understand, not me."

"What do you have?" Elizabeth asked.

"Scores of letters from Arminia detailing our future plans," Miss Oak answered. "Castle Harbrook was to become a place for children to grow and learn and gain secure employment. We planned to employ underprivileged instructors who are just as worthy. And now none of it will come to pass. Worst of all—"

"You haven't told us the worst part?" Adrian said in disbelief.

"Every part is the worst part." Miss Oak's shoulders drooped. "The only will that surfaced was the prior earl's, which means everything now belongs to my nephew. And other than a brief glimpse of Densmore at the funeral, I've not laid eyes on him since."

"Dastardly," Elizabeth said with disgust.

Miss Oak's mouth tightened. "That lad is fully aware that his mother and I wished to turn the castle into a school and orphanage. Even if we haven't yet found Arminia's will, Densmore knows what it says. To then prevent me from fulfilling our dream… his mother's dream…" Her voice cracked.

"I imagine you sent your nephew correspondence?" Philippa asked gently.

"Enough to paper every wall in the castle," Miss Oak confirmed. "I didn't intend to open the school until after my year of mourning, but there was no reason to postpone possession of the deed and ensure all the pieces were in place. But without Arminia's testament, I have nothing. And her will is hidden somewhere in that castle."

"You mentioned a legal opinion being on your side?" Graham prompted.

Miss Oak set down her cup. "For as much good as it does. An accidental fire at the lawyer's office destroyed the only other copy. Densmore is my only hope. He responded to my inquiries only once, to say he had not come across his mother's will or any clues as to its location. Our year of mourning concluded last week. That very night, my nephew took it upon himself to go out drinking… and gambled away the castle in a card game."

Elizabeth gasped. "But it wasn't his to wager! He knew better."

"Perhaps why he wrote an IOU, but never handed over the deed," Miss Oak said.

Faircliffe inclined his head. "A debt of honor, like the letters from your sister, is not legally valid."

Chloe patted her baby's back. "Without a will, it could come down to possession of the title—and the castle."

Jacob placed the ferret he'd been holding on the floor. "Then we must talk Densmore into handing over that deed."

"Or steal it, if he refuses to cooperate," murmured Chloe.

Elizabeth smiled. "And then force him to leave the castle by sword-point."

"Has your nephew somewhere else to live?" Philippa asked.

Miss Oak nodded. "He owns several properties. Densmore does not need the castle for any practical reason and, indeed, has spent very little time there until after he lost that wager."

"The earl's there now?"

"He's not left the grounds since that night." Miss Oak's shoulders tightened in visible frustration. "I've a waiting list a mile long of bright young women eager to begin work as caretakers and tutors. I'd hoped to start interviewing instructors next week, but Densmore has barred the door and will let no one in."

"Wait." Marjorie turned toward Faircliffe. "Doesn't the earl attend the House of Lords?"

"I'm not sure I've ever seen him there," the duke replied. "I wouldn't recognize him if he were in this parlor."

"That's because he prefers gaming hells to Parliament," Miss Oak said. "The real question is how to stop him from giving the deed to Richard Reddington."

" Reddington ?" said all ten Wynchesters at once.

"That's who won my land in that card game," Miss Oak explained. "At least, so he thinks. Without Arminia's will to say otherwise… Should I attempt to keep the castle, Reddington has the resources to make my life difficult."

"I'll run him through with my blade," Elizabeth said quickly.

Jacob kicked Elizabeth in the shins.

"And take off Densmore's head, too," she whispered unrepentantly. "Her wretched nephew is the one willfully refusing to hand the castle over to his aunt, as his mother wanted. Only a scoundrel would disregard his parent's dying wish."

Elizabeth had no tolerance for heartless, selfish, dishonorable knaves. In fact, she would be proud to wrest Miss Oak's legally inherited deed from the dastardly Earl of Densmore's cold, dead hands!