All I Ever Needed Read online

  All I Ever Needed

  The Compass Club Series

  Book Three

  by

  Jo Goodman

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  ALL I EVER NEEDED

  Reviews & Accolades

  "Jo Goodman is a master at historical romance."

  ~Fresh Fiction

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-796-8

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  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.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2004, 2015 by Joanne Dobrzanski. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover by The Killion Group, Inc.

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Prologue

  1796, Hambrick Hall, London

  "There's a toll to be paid."

  Gabriel Whitney slid to a halt as an arm was stiffly extended to block his path. Hambrick Hall's cobbled courtyard was still slick from an unexpected morning shower, and Gabriel's balance was not only threatened by the abrupt command to stop, but by the large parcel he held in front of him. The parcel was bobbled but not squeezed. He was scrupulously careful about that. Scones and biscuits and sweet raisin muffins would not be so tasty if they were reduced to crumbs. Crumbs were acceptable as evidence of a delicious repast, but hardly what one wanted as the main course.

  With his balance and his parcel secured, Gabriel looked away from the water-glazed cobbles and toward the owner of the extended appendage. "There's a toll?"

  "I've just said so, haven't I?" Young Lord Barlough looked to his two friends who stood ready to perform the same turnstile function as their leader. They were already levering their forearms in anticipation of Gabriel making a dash around the human gate he had become. He dropped his outstretched hand to demonstrate that he was unconcerned by such an action. "He can't really run, can he? He has the parcel, and we know he won't risk damaging it. It would never do to ruin his cakes and custards."

  "Scones and biscuits and muffins," Gabriel said helpfully. "If the toll's for cakes and custards, then it doesn't truly apply." It was a reasonable enough objection to raise, though Gabriel was not terribly surprised when Barlough made him out to be foolish.

  "Scones and biscuits and muffins." The timbre of Barlough's voice rose and fell in the singsong cadence peculiar to childhood mockery. It also emphasized the rather uncertain pitch that sometimes visited Gabriel at odd moments. Barlough had no sympathy for anyone on the cusp of puberty now that he had moved past it himself. "The toll's for sweets," he said plainly. "Any sort of sweets. You have scones, you say?"

  Gabriel nodded. A spiraling lock of chestnut hair fell forward over his brow. With his hands occupied securing the brown paper parcel close to his chest, he couldn't push back the offending curl, and it tickled him each time he bobbed his head. He thought he might not have noticed it at all if he'd had a free hand to absently scratch it, but he could not deny that the tickling was becoming devilish annoying. He considered tossing his head back but suspected it would elicit some comment from the others about his resemblance to a horse. He shouldn't mind if they called him a great black stallion, but Barlough was certain to compare him to a brood mare. It was rare that anyone missed an opportunity to point out that he was of a certain size around his middle owing to his appreciation of cakes and custards.

  Gabriel pushed his gently rounded jaw forward and tried blowing upward to shift the fallen curl. It fluttered once and fell back, tickling him far more than it had done previously.

  "You look like a girl when you do that, Master Whitney." Barlough's brow kicked up as he once again looked for affirmation of this observation from his compatriots. "Didn't he look like a girl?"

  Gabriel kept his eyes steady on Barlough, but Harte and Pendrake were still in the field of his vision. He saw them nod in unison, and his face flushed at the grave insult. It would have been a lesser slight for Barlough to make the inevitable horse analogy. Gabriel knew girls. He had an older sister and four female cousins. Girls were soft and round and rosy-cheeked. They had rioting curls and pouting mouths and were prone to fits they liked to call the vapors or worse, a strenuous bout of tears.

  It occurred to Gabriel that he felt somewhat like crying himself. He sucked in his lower lip and bit it hard. The pain helped stiffen his resolve.

  "He's blushing," Pendrake said. He made to nudge Barlough, but that worthy adroitly sidestepped the contact. As the Archbishop of the Society of Bishops, Barlough was not to be casually elbowed as though he were a chum. Respect for his position in the Society demanded that certain formalities be observed. Realizing his error, Pendrake made to cover the breach by quickly pointing his finger at Gabriel. "Blushing," he repeated. "Like a girl."

  Gabriel felt the heat in his cheeks and knew it was true. He almost dropped the parcel to bring up his hands to cover them. If the color had been ruddy, it might have been acceptable. Old salts at sea were imprinted with ruddy color from the spray of water and the constant press of the wind. No one ever accused them of blushing. Gabriel's color, though, was as pink as a baby's bottom. It was humiliating. If he was going to drop the parcel, he thought, it would be to bring up his fists. The thought of it was already making his fingers curl. If he wasn't careful, he would not only ruin all the good things his mother had sent him, but he would ruin the plan as well.

  Naturally there was a plan. His friend South had insisted there must be. Gabriel was more inclined to simply use his fists. It was as God intended, he had argued, when men were given knuckles and an opposable thumb. But South had been blessed with a brilliant head for debate and had managed to convince their mutual friends Brendan and Evan of the superiority of his thinking. Outnumbered three to one, Gabriel had conceded that perhaps fisticuffs were not the best way to challenge the Society of Bishops. He had, in turn, suggested slingshots, then cudgels, both of which had a certain appeal, slingshots because they were the weapon of choice when David faced Goliath, and cudgels because Gabriel liked the sound of them, even if he wasn't entirely clear on what manner of weapon they might be.

  Gabriel Richard Whitney, known as East to his best friends, was one-quarter of the Compass Club. It was not a recognized institution at Hambrick Hall. Certainly it did not have the prestigious lineage and history of the Society of Bishops. The origins of the Compass Club were not steeped in vaguely mysterious circumstances, nor was there a long oral history to pass on to generations of new initiates. In contrast to the Society, the Compass Club had only recently come into existence. The members had not once considered the idea of future generations, and although they had recently adopted a charter, it was merely bad verse penned by South. They all liked it well enough, but no one,
not even South, denied it was bad verse.

  Still under rather heated discussion was the matter of a blood oath. There was no disagreement concerning the oath. To a man they were in favor of being sworn enemies of the Society of Bishops. It was the issue of blood that cleaved them squarely down the middle.

  Brendan Hampton, North to his friends, and Viscount Southerton, addressed familiarly and affectionately as South, were in favor of a bloodless oath. Evan Marchman, the one they called West, and Gabriel were of the opinion that blood shed over an oath was not only highly desirable but perhaps even necessary. The outcome was yet to be decided, but Gabriel suspected in this matter he and West would prevail. North and South could not maintain their position too fiercely lest it be mistaken for missishness. Gabriel knew he was not the only one who did not want to be compared to a female.

  This last thought brought Gabriel around to face his predicament. He'd agreed to not using force to settle this dispute with the Bishops, and for all that he was only ten, he was still a man of his word. With some effort, he allowed his fingers to unfold and settle lightly around the parcel again. The smell of the baked goods was tantalizing. His mother had wrapped the package herself, he knew, but the contents were Mrs. Eddy's. At his mother's behest, their cook had been preparing all manner of special desserts for him for as long as he could remember. He was particularly partial to custard pie, but that confection did not travel well from their country home in Braeden. The Bishops would have been suspicious of custard, or at least they should have been if they'd read Hufeland's "Macrobiotics, or the The Art to Prolong One's Life." There were certain foods one should take pains to avoid, especially if they were three days old.

  "How much is the toll?" Gabriel asked. He felt the heat in his cheeks recede as he put his mind to the mission at hand. If his composure in the face of their teasing wasn't enough to end it, he would simply have to ignore it. A certain amount of diplomacy was required here, and although it sometimes pained Gabriel to engage in such reasoned discourse, he also understood the necessity of it.

  Barlough dismissed Gabriel for a moment to eye the package. He wondered about the scone-to-muffin ratio. He was not partial to muffins because there were often raisins, though he liked them plain well enough. Perhaps he would pick out the raisins for the others to have and keep the muffins for himself. There would be a mild protest from Pendrake and Harte, but they would accept his leavings because he was the archbishop and there was no higher authority in the Society. His decision would be the final word. "Your parcel," Barlough said to Gabriel. "Hand it over."

  "All of it? I say, that's rather steep, don't you think?" It was tantamount to robbery, though Gabriel refrained from saying so. It was also not unexpected. For three weeks the Compass Club had been observing Society members exacting tribute from their Hambrick Hall classmates. Boys in anticipation of receiving posts from home were their targets. Society members followed their hapless classmates until an opportunity presented itself to make the demand of payment. Usually the collection involved money, but exceptions were made. Young Master Healy had paid with his favorite commander from his army of tin soldiers. Reginald Arnout had been required to hand over a slim leather-and-gilt volume of Blake's poetry. The coup de grace was the payment they received from Bentley Vancouver: a dozen cards illustrated with heretofore unimaginable acts of sexual depravity. They were French, of course, a gift to Bentley from his older brother on the eve of his thirteenth birthday. After only a fleeting glimpse of the promised land as he walked from the post, Bentley had been accosted by the advance guard from the Society. He had had to produce the cards that he had just tucked away and give them over. Poor Bentley was inconsolable.

  It was then that Gabriel decided they must act. Once he was convinced that thrashing Barlough was not a sound strategy, he had offered his own dependable parcel from home as the best means of exacting retribution.

  "I don't think I like giving you all of it," Gabriel said. "Perhaps a few of the scones will do."

  One of Lord Barlough's eyebrows arched dramatically. "You're a cheeky brat, aren't you?" He looked around the courtyard. It was all but deserted. The few boys that were visible were hurrying to class and knew better than to take an interest in what was transpiring under the stone archway. As long as there had been a Hambrick Hall there had been a Society of Bishops. They remained in existence because they went about their business without fear of reprisal. "Are your friends hiding nearby? Is that what makes you so brave?"

  Friends. It made Gabriel smile to be reminded that he had friends. It was a relatively new experience for him and one he'd discovered he quite liked. He'd been lonelier than he knew, solitary in his room except for the cakes and tarts and biscuits he kept hidden under his bed, in his desk, and at the bottom of his armoire. No one except his mother seemed to understand how much he missed being at Braeden, and although it was a poor kind of comfort to eat one of the pies when he was alone, it was better than not being comforted at all.

  "My friends aren't around," Gabriel said, schooling his features quickly. "They have important matters to occupy them."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yes."

  "It was a rhetorical question I put to you. That means it does not require an answer."

  "Oh."

  "Your brain is a bit fat, isn't it?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Gabriel's fingers were tightening again. To keep from throwing the first punch, he repeated the promise he'd made like a mantra. His lips moved around the words he could not utter aloud.

  "Fat clog your ears, too?"

  Gabriel's cherubic features remained very still, though his eyes—an almost exact match for the polished chestnut color of his hair—were watchful. It was no good to try to look menacing. He hadn't developed the countenance for it yet, what with his defining bones still softly molded in a perfectly round face, his jawline lost in the fold of a small second chin. He was unafraid to physically take on these members of the Society, even though he knew he would ultimately lose. Their numbers alone would defeat him. The well-deserved reputation he had as a thrasher would not serve him when the tribunal counted three and he was but one. The realization that perhaps what the Society wanted was more than what he carried in his arms helped Gabriel manage his temper this time.

  "Let me pass," Gabriel said evenly.

  On either side of Barlough, arms were immediately raised. The young lord nodded approvingly at Pendrake and Harte for their quick response. "Your parcel, Feast."

  Gabriel frowned. Had Barlough truly just called him Feast? "East, m'lord. My friends call me East."

  "It matters not a whit to me since I am in no way your friend. I shall call you Feast. You look as if you regularly eat one." Barlough held out his hand, palm up. "Now, your parcel. I admit to a partiality for scones, and I suspect from the look of you that these have much to recommend them."

  "I don't think you'll like these."

  Barlough did not ask for an explanation. He was weary of the haggling and more than a little sorry that Gabriel could not be stirred to some ill-considered action. In a fluid motion that put everyone who witnessed it in mind of a cobra striking, Barlough snatched the parcel from Gabriel's hands by neatly slipping his fingers under the binding twine. He tossed it into the air when Gabriel made a lunge for it. Pendrake, the tallest of them, easily caught it. He held it out of Gabriel's reach by simply holding it overhead.

  Belatedly aware of the ridiculousness of his position, Gabriel let his arms drop to his sides. He had an urge to hang his head but wisely chose not to overplay his hand. Instead he made a swipe at his eyes and brushed away the pitiful tear he had managed to squeeze out.

  With a derisive smile that spoke more eloquently of his thoughts than any words he could have summoned, Barlough stepped aside. He made a show of graciousness by bowing slightly and using his arm in a sweeping gesture to indicate that Gabriel could now safely cross the courtyard.

  Wishing he had a black eye and a few scraped knuckles to show
for this encounter with the Bishops, Gabriel nonetheless knew that there had been a victory of sorts here. He had not only chosen his battle, but he had chosen a strategy that did not involve violence. He wondered if he was on his way to becoming a tinker after all.

  * * *

  All four members of the Compass Club were standing in the darkly paneled upper corridor of Yarrow House when Barlough bounded out of his room and skidded into the hallway. The door behind him might have slammed shut if Pendrake and Harte had not been following so closely on his heels. For a moment they looked around, their movements frantic, eyes darting, arms swinging. Their feet danced in place while they considered what to do. Occupied by the problem that pressed them, they did not notice the small gathering at the far end of the hall. Even if they had, sunlight streaming through the stained-glass arched window put the individual faces of the Compass Club in dark relief and concealed the immediate identity of North, South, West, and most particularly East, who was standing at the forefront.

  Trying first one door, then another, finding each one locked in turn, they hurriedly made their way down the hall in search of the very thing that would give them respite. Pendrake and Harte were startled to find they could not enter their own rooms. "Now what do we do?" Harte demanded. Bent awkwardly at the waist, his legs pressed tightly together, he gripped a brass handle to yet another door that would not open to him.

  Pendrake's bowels rumbled uncomfortably. It was the only reply he could make, and it echoed so loudly inside his body that he was certain the others could hear it. They might have, but their own bowels were engaged in similar activity. At the end of the hall, the sound of so much digestive thunder gave the Compass Club their first unrestrained smile since East had been accosted that morning. Their patience had been borne out.

  Barlough saw them first. His manner changed immediately as he strove for some measure of dignity. He walked stiff-legged, his buttocks clenched tightly. "You!" he said, patently astonished by East's presence in the private quarters of the Society's residence. "What are you doing here?"