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  Let Me Be The One

  The Compass Club Series

  Book One

  by

  Jo Goodman

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Reviews & Accolades

  "Goodman has a real flair... Witty dialogue, first-rate narrative prose, and clever plotting."

  ~Publishers Weekly

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-792-0

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2002, 2015 by Joanne Dobrzanski All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover by The Killion Group

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  Dedication

  For the real Compass Club—Butz, Buddy, Johnny, and Karl. No, guys, I'm not giving you a cut, but thanks for letting me glimpse your secret, twisted minds!

  North. South. East. West.

  Friends for life, we have confessed.

  All other truths, we'll deny.

  For we are soldier, sailor, tinker, spy.

  —Compass Club Charter

  Hambrick Hall

  Prologue

  April 1796

  "I should very much like to see your quim."

  Madame Fortuna, née Bess Bowles, stared over the curved horizon of the crystal ball she held between her hands. Her dark eyes narrowed only fractionally, but it was sufficient to pin her young patron back in his chair. His thin face flushed and Bess felt her own palms grow warm, just as if she held his cheeks in the cup of her hands instead of the cooler crystal. It surprised her, this connection. She practiced her craft as a seer of fortunes and futures with a certain theatrical flair but without any real talent. Her mother and grandmother had had the second sight and she had seen—without benefit of crystals and cards—what heartache it had visited upon them.

  Bess Bowles contented herself with being a charlatan, taking the coin of men and women who ought to know better and didn't. She was an amusement, escorted into great country homes and London salons to entertain the guests with her readings. Tea leaves. Tarot. Palms. And, of course, the crystal. She had a repertoire of fortunes and dire warnings she had not begun to exhaust, and she was well into her thirtieth year of exploiting the human desire to know one's fate.

  Yet this young ruffian had not asked what his future held. He simply wanted to see her quim.

  Bess pushed the crystal ball aside. She noticed the boy's gaze didn't shift to follow the movement. He held her own unwavering stare, though she considered this was done with some difficulty. Brave little soldier.

  The vision of him as a young man handsomely turned out in regimental dress came to her so clearly that Bess had to cough to cover her choked surprise. Perhaps she deserved the moniker and reputation of Madame Fortuna after all. That unsettled Bess Bowles enough to dissolve the vision in her mind's eye. Better to show the rapscallion her quim.

  A small round table separated Bess from her patron. Her hands fell away from the crystal ball. She drew her palms along the scarred surface of the table until they were directly in front of her, and then she laced her fingers together. Her knuckles, swollen slightly with rheumatism that was particularly plaguing today, showed white.

  She looked the boy up and down again. His fair skin flushed under her scrutiny, but he didn't flinch in his seat. He was a towhead. His thatch of white-blond hair covered his scalp in several directions, including straight up. He looked as if he wanted to run a hand through it now. To keep from smiling Bess reminded herself of the bold request he had put to her. She really should box his ears.

  In a voice that was a raspy, reedy version of her own husky one, she demanded, "How old are you?"

  He blinked, genuinely surprised. "Don't you know?"

  She would box his ears. "Don't be impudent."

  He flushed more deeply."I most humbly beg your pardon, Madame." He squared his shoulders and drew himself up in the chair so that his height might be seen to its full advantage. The effect was opposite of what he wished, making his shoulders seem thinner against the broad back rails of the chair and actually lifting his feet so they dangled an inch off the floor. Still, he responded with dignity. "On my next birthday I will be—"

  "Ten," Bess said, cutting him off.

  "I'm ten now."

  "That's what I said, isn't it?"

  "I will be eleven."

  "Will you?" she asked darkly. "A lot can happen to a boy before his eleventh birthday." She watched him swallow hard; his small Adam's apple bobbed visibly and his collar looked as if it had tightened uncomfortably. This was better than boxing his ears. "Very well, my young earl."

  "Oh, but I'm not—"

  You will be. The thought came to her with such clarity that for a moment Bess believed she had spoken aloud. The boy seemed arrested as well. Indeed, he had cut himself off and was now regarding her with a look that could only be described as stricken, yet Bess knew by the press of her lips that she had not parted them to say the words. How did he know? How had she?

  Bess unfolded her hands and waved one dismissively. "It signifies nothing," she said. "Everyone who sits where you're sitting is 'my lord' this or 'my lady' that. It does even the meanest crofter good to give himself airs from time to time. That's the way of it, is it not? There's no harm in it." As she spoke, Bess studied the face across from her. A small amount of color had returned to his cheeks, but it was a pale imitation of the rosy flush that had pinkened them earlier. He wanted to be satisfied with her explanation, but clearly he was guarded. She understood. For this boy to secure his title, his father and brother would have to die. And they would. She could not measure the time left, only know that for all concerned it would be too soon. Bess felt it with absolute certainty. Now, in some manner that defied a reasonable explanation, the boy understood it as well.

  Bess rubbed her hands together. Her palms were not as dry as she might have wished. She had not asked for this second sight. On the contrary, she was quite satisfied with the gift passing her by. She sighed, her attention wandering back to the boy. Her prolonged silence had raised his watchfulness again. She supposed it was time to show him her quim.

  "I imagine your friends put you up to this," she said.

  The boy hesitated, but then honesty compelled him to admit, "They're not my friends precisely."

  "Aaah, yes. Then it was older boys who say you can be their friend if you do this one small thing."

  "That's right."

  "And those three boys I saw standing with you earlier? They look to be of an age with you."

  "Oh, yes. Those are my friends, Madame. We came to the fair together."

  "I see. Then why a
ren't they here with you? The same challenge was put to them as well, was it not?"

  "The very same," he admitted. "But we're light in the pockets, you see, and so we drew broom straws. I'm to tell them all about your quim."

  "Is that so? And who will report to the young villains who sent you here?"

  "We all will. It's no good if only one of us can be their friend. We're being particular about that. I shall have to be very precise in my description so they will have no difficulty convincing the Bishops we were here."

  "The Bishops," Bess said under her breath. She had been right to call them young villains. Year after year for more than a hundred years, boys passed through the cobbled courtyards of Hambrick Hall on their way to a superlative education. Among the graduates would be those who would shape the nation with their thinking, their sense of honor, and their acceptance of duty. Many names changed, but many more remained the same. It was the legacy of fathers, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers who had covered the same cobbles before, accepting their achievements and bearing their failures with the sort of stoic reserve other young men might express in the face of searing humiliation. Thanks in no small part to the Society of Bishops, Hambrick Hall had much to offer in the way of humiliation.

  As initiations went, Bess thought, this one was fairly harmless. On the other hand, she was fairly certain the Bishops did not expect this boy and his three friends to be successful.

  Bess pointed to the door of her traveling wagon. "Ask your friends to come in here." At daybreak she would be leaving for another fairgrounds far north of London. She didn't have to worry that tomorrow would bring a visit from the entire Society of Bishops demanding to see what she showed this quartet. "Go on. I'm not like to make this offer again."

  Chapter 1

  Battenburn Estate, June 1818

  It was their laughter that drew her attention. Elizabeth Penrose leaned to her left until her vision was unobstructed by the easel in front of her. The stool wobbled a bit as she shifted. A paintbrush dangled from her fingers. She failed to notice the fat droplet of blue-black watercolor collecting at the tip, gathering size and weight enough to break free and fall squarely on the one part of her lavender muslin gown that was unprotected by a smock.

  It was a pure pleasure to hear their laughter. Unrestrained, it had almost a musical quality. Four voices, all of them with a slightly different pitch, gave it a certain harmony. Elizabeth's eyes darted quickly to some of the other guests, and she saw more heads than hers had turned in the direction of the laughter. She did not think for a moment that the men had meant to call attention to themselves. Not above a half hour ago they had been circulating among the baron's guests, slipping in and out of the small conversational groups that had formed naturally once everyone had taken their fill of the picnic repast.

  Blankets covered a good portion of the gently sloping hillside. Like patches of a quilt, they were shaped into a larger whole by the strips of grass and wildflowers between them. In various states of repose the guests enjoyed the late afternoon sunshine, the occasional breeze, and the steady rushing rhythm of the stream running swiftly between its banks.

  Elizabeth blinked as the men laughed again, heads thrown back, strong throats exposed. Although the tenor was deep, there was something unmistakably youthful in the sound of it. Mischievous, she thought. She could not help smiling herself, feeling not so much an eavesdropper as a coconspirator, even though she had no idea what had prompted their great good humor.

  That they knew one another was not surprising, she supposed. With the exception of Mr. Marchman, they were all members of the peerage and breathed the perfumed air of the ton. What was interesting was that they appeared to be fast friends, not rivals, yet until they had slowly gravitated toward the same unoccupied stretch of blanket, Elizabeth could not have said for certain that they shared more than a polite nodding acquaintance.

  They dispelled that notion once again as the Earl of Northam plucked three ripened peaches from the basket beside him, drew his legs under himself tailor-fashion, and began to juggle. Fresh gales of laughter, a little ribald this time, practically erupted from the others. For reasons she did not entirely understand, Elizabeth Penrose felt a certain amount of heat in her cheeks. Though confident no one had noticed her, she nonetheless sought protection by ducking behind her easel.

  It was only as she began to apply brush to paper that she realized the Earl of Northam had stolen most of the subjects of her still life.

  Brendan David Hampton, the juggling, thieving sixth Earl of Northam, lost his rhythm when one of his friends pitched him another peach. "Devil a bit, East," he said, grinning, "but I could never get the hang of four." He gathered the peaches before they rolled off the blanket and lightly tossed one to each of the others. The one he kept for himself he held up in the palm of his hand and pretended to study it.

  "Tender-skinned. A copse of fine hair covering it. A delicate blush deepening to ruby at the cleft." Northam split the peach. "Succulent when parted. Moist. Scented. And the heart of it is revealed lying nestled at the center of the sweet delicate flesh."

  Quietly, so that his lips barely moved, he said, "Gentlemen, I give you Madame Fortuna's quim. God bless her." He paused. "And God bless naive Hambrick boys."

  Matthew Forrester, Viscount Southerton, South to his boyhood friends from Hambrick, almost choked on the bite he had taken. He coughed hard, torn between opposing forces of laughter and swallowing. Mr. Marchman leaned toward him helpfully and pounded the viscount on the back. Because he used more force than was strictly necessary, South glared at him meaningfully. The threat of retaliation went unregarded because it was difficult for any one of them to take South seriously when his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glistening with tears. To avoid another blow between his shoulders, he had to roll off the blanket entirely.

  "It's not dignified," he muttered, brushing himself off. "Knew this would happen if we got this close. Someone always brings up Madame Fortuna. It's amusing until someone's choking and someone else is trying to kill him by separating his cranium from his spine."

  "I believe you were the one to mention her first," Mr. Marchman pointed out calmly. He bit into his own peach. "And if I wanted to really separate your head from your shoulders, I'd use my knife."

  Gabriel Whitney, Marquess of Eastlyn, glanced automatically at Marchman's right boot. "You're carrying your blade, West?"

  Marchman's answer held no hint of the humor his friend had inserted into the question, though whether this absence was attributable to the question itself or the nickname attached to it was unclear. "Always," he said. He changed the subject, his gaze turning to Northam. "You don't appear to be enjoying the fruits of your labor."

  Indeed, Northam was still holding each half of his peach in his open palms. He was not looking at his comrades but rather beyond them to where an easel had been set up in a patch of bluebells. The young woman who had been painting there had removed her pad and was packing her supplies. Northam was not naturally given to expressions of remorse, but as he glanced at the split peach in his hands, a shadow of regret briefly darkened his eyes. "I believe, friends, I must make my apologies to the lady. I fear I have confiscated the subjects of her work."

  Eastlyn glanced over his shoulder. One of his brows kicked up. "Aaah, yes. Lady Elizabeth Penrose. I escorted her in to dinner last evening. You'd know that, North, if you had arrived on time. The very same goes for the rest of you."

  Northam scowled at him, but there was no real heat in it. "A difference of opinion with my mother delayed me until today. She, being of the opinion that it is time for me to take a wife. I, being of the opinion that the time has not yet arrived, nor is it imminently approaching."

  Moving back to the blanket, Southerton nodded. "I'm familiar with that argument. Tell me, do you suspect it is a daughter-in-law she wishes or grandchildren?"

  Northam did not hesitate. "Grandchildren."

  "Just so. It is the same with my mother, though she ne
ver speaks of it plainly. Why do you suppose that is?"

  Eastlyn casually drew back his arm and then snapped it forward, letting his peach pit fly in a long arc toward the stream, where it landed with a satisfying plop. "She doesn't speak plainly for the same reason no mother speaks plainly about such things: She doesn't want to believe her dearest son knows anything about how he might go about conceiving an heir."

  Marchman nodded. "East is right, though it pains me to admit it." He rested his watchful glance on each of them in turn. "Does this mean I shall soon be wishing you happy and kissing your brides? It appeals to me, you know. The idea of the three of you leg-shackled and me with an open field."

  The Earl of Northam tossed both peach halves at Marchman, who caught them neatly. "I don't think there is a field you haven't plowed, West." He stood, brushing his hands lightly together. "I am off to make amends," he said. "Endeavor not to embarrass me while I am in the presence of the lady."

  "Have a care, North," Eastlyn said. "She's Rosemont's daughter and a particular favorite of our host and hostess."

  "I don't intend to compromise her," North said dryly. "Merely want to speak to her."

  Eastlyn, Southerton, and Marchman watched him walk off. Eastlyn leaned back on his elbows and crossed his long legs at the ankles. Sunlight glancing off his chestnut hair gave it a streak of fire. A half-smile played casually across his lips and his dark brown eyes glinted. "I say he will be married before year's end."

  "To Libby Penrose?" Southerton asked incredulously. "You're daft."

  Now Marchman regarded Southerton with interest. "Libby? That appellation signifies some familiarity. You know her?"

  Southerton shrugged."Never saw her before today. Arriving late with North has its disadvantages. My sister knows her, though. They made their debut at the same time. She wrote me letters filled with the most excruciatingly painful details of her first Season. Of course it was all a delight to her, but I can tell you, I was almost grateful to be in the admiral's service and not in London. Lady Elizabeth figured prominently in those missives. Emma found much that she admired about Libby—as she called her—but I can't say that I remember any of the particulars. I do know that Lady Elizabeth was considered something of a bluestocking, which endeared her to Emma, but made her debut rather less than successful. Now that I think on it, Libby was older than Emma by, oh, two or three years, it seems. Why, that would make her twenty-six now."