Dangerous and Disguised: Raised All Wrong, #1.5

By Judy Lynn Ichkhanian

He's the only one who sees beneath her disguise- now all he has to do is slip her out of it.

 

Lady Aimsbridge isn't at all what she seems- which is helpful, as not seeming like herself is her entire job. All she needs is a little more time so she can free herself from a contract with The Office, the queen's secret organization of henchmen, assassins, and spies. Moreover, she can free herself from Benjamin Havisham, her dangerous spymaster, because every time she reports to him, she falls a little more in love.

 

Benjamin isn't a fool. He knows what lies beneath Lady Aimsbridge's fat girth and purple hair. But as much as he desires the Celeste Fischer who inhabits her skin, he can't have her. She's his employee, and The Office will have him deported or killed if he doesn't toe their strict lines. Besides, no one in his occupation could reasonably expect to enjoy either a long life or happiness.

 

Is love possible when government agencies, villains, and newly-discovered fathers are set against a match? Victorian London has never been so dangerous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judy Lynn Ichkhanian
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223851950

Book preview

Dangerous and Disguised

Book 1 and ½ of the Raised All Wrong series

Judy Lynn Ichkhanian

Copyright 2022 by Judy Lynn Ichkhanian

All Rights Reserved

No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise spread without the prior consent of the author in writing.

The characters, organizations, and settings in this work are purely the result of imagination. Any resemblance to any living or dead figure or society or location are purely happenstance. Well, London existed. Australia existed. Queen Victoria existed. However, the images and outlines of such places or people may not have.

Dedicated To:

Those who resist the path others have set for them, Those who use love as their only guide, Those whose journey of self-discovery sometimes leads to strange and wonderful places.

​Also, To Alan Shaterian: Because seeing through your eyes was a wild and fascinating ride. Don’t bother yourself with the grammar – I’m sure it will set your head twirling.

When a woman hides herself from a man, it is usually the result of thinking him unworthy of accepting all that she is. Sometimes, though, it is simply the thought she is too outrageous to ever be loved.

Even so, when he thinks he knows her to her most intimate elements, he discovers the full breadth of her in small increments, and so does not die of surprise.

CHAPTER ONE:

London, June, 1859

Aimsbridge Row

The purported Lady Aimsbridge shrugged the weighted fat-suit from her shoulders and, with a sigh of relief, took her first real breath in hours. As she expanded her lungs, feather-stuffed cotton caught at her non-existent hips before plumping to the floor.

Looking down, she wrinkled her nose. Her otherwise spindly ankles looked like two clipped flower stems springing from an unattractive vase. She kicked at the fabric before lifting one foot and grinding her small heel down upon the rim. A horseshoe mark of black polish remained when she stepped from the mass and looked back.

She might have avoided the suit without catching it, of course, but she wasn’t in the mood to behave. Let the gentlemen at The Office pay for another. A soft silk this time might be nice, something that didn’t scrape the skin from under her arms every time she rotated… though perhaps it was silly to worry about the state of her hide when a noose waited to snap her neck.

Stepping back, she ground her heel again for good measure before crossing to the dressing table. An unladylike grunt escaped her lips and flung itself around the cavernous room. It suffocated for a brief moment upon the massive canopy bed before it rose to the ceiling where painted cherubs cavorted with tiny red birds amidst flowered vines. Theirs were the only ears to lay witness to the déclassé noise before they slung it back at her.

Shutting her eyes, she rolled the kinks from her neck one small movement at a time. A yawn rounded her lips as she shucked off her terraced slippers and sank onto the stool before the mirror. One by one, twenty pins plinked into the tin dish. She tilted the hideous purple beehive wig from her head and allowed her natural mousy-brown locks to tumble dank and fine to her shoulders. The pounding ring of agony pinching her brow finally softened.

Devolving into low-born Celeste Fischer, all eight stone of decidedly average bones and skin, had nightly become something akin to a religious experience. Infinite joy.

Infinite sorrow.

Taking up a cloth, she dipped it in the waiting basin of water and relentlessly scrubbed away as much of the cosmetic artifice as she could. Underneath the heavy layers designed to age her appearance, a few tiny lines creased the skin above her lip and at the corner of her eyes.

She gazed steadily into the mirror as she judged her appearance. Poets might never prod themselves to rhapsodize her true face, but at least she wouldn’t find herself caricatured as the evil step-mother in the last three penny dreadfuls as Lady Aimsbridge had. Ignominy could be a much-overlooked gift.

Suddenly, the smaller hairs along her arms and at the back of her neck stirred, a slip of icy chill blowing its warning. A whisper, a shift, so soft it might have been nothing but circulating air, reached from the furthest edges of the room to her ears.

She stilled before forcing her fingers to move. Adjusting the basin, she listened behind her. No further noise slithered an alarm, but then again … the windows were locked tight. Air should not dance about a closed room.

Stealing her expression, Celeste reached under the desk and slipped up her shift. The blade she always wore strapped to her thigh pulled free from its sheath.

Rise and pivot.

She knocked over the stool, hurtled past it, leaped the fat suit, and rushed across the room. She held the knife high, a silent scream upon her lips. The point just scraped the muscled chest emerging from behind the raspberry and cream toile drapery when it was knocked from her grip. Strong hands clutched her arms to her sides and pushed her to the wall. There, held upright upon her toes, she glared into her attacker’s face.

A little slow, Benjamin. I almost had your heart.

Well. A girl could dream.

Mr. Havisham, he corrected, his growly voice pinched into an omnipresent propriety. For just a moment, his hands clenched tighter before loosening.

She traced her lips into the most mocking smile she could manage. Benjamin. She purred his name and leaned toward him.

Tch. He clicked his tongue against his even white teeth and released her, though he did not step back. Settle down, Miss Fischer. I’m in no mood for your games. Haven’t you learned you cannot use your wiles upon me to good effect?

No, not yet. I still harbor hope.

Then at least one of us is a fool.

His steady gaze did not give any indication which one of them the fool might be, but something in the way he held his eyes slightly slanted toward her ear started her pulse tapping faster.

At least one meant there might be two, didn’t it?

Anyway, as she had thought, a girl could always dream.

CHAPTER TWO

Are you afraid to look at me directly? Have I grown warts?

His gaze rivetted back to meet hers. Fear would not be the term I would use.

A slight flush touched his forehead before he dropped his regard, down past her lips, her chin, all the way to the point where the line of her shift drooped against her barely-rounded chest. Despite his words, his attention rivetted there before skittering away again to her face. Every place he studied burned her skin like fire.

Desire, then.

He clenched his eyes shut and drew in a deep breath. Enough games, Miss Fischer. I shan’t play. We’ve business to discuss.

It’s always business with you, Benji. Doesn’t hard work deserve some reward?

His nose wrinkled, but he swayed toward her, just the tiniest bit, though she might have imagined it because she wanted it so badly. Two years was a long time to work under such a man without, well, being under such a man.

He stepped back, his hands deceptively loose. Like a lazing jungle cat, he could strike without warning. "You will address me with the respect due my position, Miss Fischer, even if you hold none for my person. Mr. Havisham, if you please."

Such is your name, yes. She ruined the dry response by giggling.

For a moment, his face screwed, as if he was uncertain whether to laugh or scold further. She waited to see which it would be.

He did neither. Instead, he shook his head and sighed. Fine. I yield for the moment. This attempt to wield power over you leaves me weary.

A tiny pang of guilt wove its way to her heart from the pit of her stomach.

You do look tired.

"Fatigued."

Fatigued. Yes. Of course. She bobbed her head in agreement.

His eyes softened before hardening again. On a more important note, your chin still gives you away. I saw you raise it the moment you noticed you weren’t alone, which awareness took an unsettling amount of time to reach. Had I truly been a menace, you would lie now in a pool of cooling blood.

True. She had ignored her initial instinct of not being alone in her haste to slide from her costume. Had she remembered her training, she would have checked behind the drapes, under the bed, and within the wardrobe first.

How many times have we talked about this? Any assassin worth his weight in, er, feathers … - he cocked his head toward the floor where her fat suit lay - would have had you for luncheon. A tasty meal you would have been, too.

She raised her chin higher. Instead of concealing yourself, you might have helped me with my skirts or my hoop. Damned contraption.

Miss Fischer! Language.

She smiled. She couldn’t help needling him. He was so proper. He expected equal propriety. It was a joy to disabuse him of his expectations. Surely, you will not faint like some newly-hatched debutant, will you? Words are just words, and how could a single one matter to a hero such as yourself? Benjamin. Benji.

She took a step forward, just a tiny one. He took a larger one away from her.

Her fingers lifted to whisper along her collar bone, briefly tangling in the pearls still draped around her throat. Did you watch me undress? I could have performed the actions more provocatively had I been apprised of your attention.

Provocative enough without the attempt. The words barely moved the air. Even in the half-dimmed room, a visible fiery blush rushed up from his neck and over his elegant features. He cleared his throat and glanced toward the ceiling.

Well, he had started it. Tasty meal, indeed.

Instead of falling into him as her body bade her do, she slid around his hulking form. As she perched upon the stool once more, her heart beating a staccato tattoo inside her chest, she lifted her hair. Undo the clasps, would you? This necklace weighs ten stone, at least.

Through the mirror, she watched as he stalked across the room, graceful as a feline. Power bunched and stretched with his movement. He looked unassuming at rest, all restraint and decorum, but when he rolled into motion ...

A shiver traced icy-hot fingers over the length of her limbs as her heart beat faster still.

If they weighed ten stone, they would see you dragging halfway to the floor. You would be unable to perambulate upright.

His fine accent and precise intonation bespoke his elegant ancestry. His was the voice she mimicked to perform her work because Society accents were tricky, the vocabulary impossible. By following him, she had developed a knack for stating matters in a certain way. The larger challenge was to sound natural while underlaying her words with blatant suggestion.

Society complained of rogues and roues. They never mentioned how difficult it was to seduce a gentleman.

She stroked the cold marble top of the table. If I was unable to perambulate, I would be constrained to lie abed, forcing all of Society to come on bended knee before me.

Tch. Much use to The Office you would be then, laid flat. He hovered behind her. An awareness of his long length flooded her, leaving a trail of aching madness.

I’m barely of use now.

He frowned. You had best hope such is not true. I would hate to see such fineness marred by rope-burn.

The backs of his long fingers brushed the sensitive skin at her nape as he unlatched the clasp on the triple-strand pearls, each bead as fat as a child’s marble. Her stomach fluttered and caved in upon itself as blood pooled between her legs. Everything contracted as the additional weight of jewels fell into his palms. The length slithered across her skin as he gathered the necklace up. In the looking glass, her reflection’s lips fell open as color raced into her cheeks. The woman within the silvered surface – her eyes glittered, the hazel color made golden by desire and candlelight.

Her gaze moved to his face. His lips turned up at the corners, just a bit.

He knew what he was doing to her. The reprobate.

As he stepped back, he dropped the pearls upon the dresser, a rush of slithering, cascading bounces. Celeste took a deep breath, willing her senses to stillness. Despite infinite practice, it took several moments to master her body’s responses.

If only she could master his. She glanced at him again. He was dressed in black evening kit. It heightened the appeal of his crooked nose, his dimpled chin, and those steel-gray eyes. There was something about a man dressed in black and white. Perhaps it was the purity of the duality. She felt her fingers itch to untie his cravat, to let it lie like twin silken snakes flowing down the length of his torso as she unfastened each pearl button until the vee of his skin tempted her lips past restraint. It was almost a physical pain, this desire to push him into the image of dissipation.

Damn him. He must have been out somewhere to be dressed so fine. Had he met someone? Danced with an Incomparable until duty led him to Lady Aimsbridge’s side instead? Was she pretty, this darling of Society? Connected? Rich?

Carefully, Celeste tilted the mirror to better see his bowed lips and the length of his long neck. The bones she could trace beneath the linen called her fingers.

Her lips pulsed.

Tell me about tonight. Have you written out your report yet? His gaze steadied upon hers through the mirror, his face a mask of responsibility.

She sighed. No careful flirtation then, and no careless one either.

There’s little to tell as far as Veritas is concerned, and none at all as concerns Her Majesty. I don’t believe Brynley is involved with either a sinister group of rabid Assyriologists or assassins. Your information was faulty.

He began to pace. Five steps, turn, five steps back. His hands clasped behind his back. You’re certain? We believed ...

Yes, I’m certain. She cut into his words. "Brynley’s attention centered upon Lady Arabella Warwick, who also garnered the attention of his cousin. Brynley spent the entire night either staring daggers at the two of