All I Ever Needed

All I Ever Needed

The Compass Club Series

Book Three

by

Jo Goodman

USA Today Bestselling Author

ALL I EVER NEEDED

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"Jo Goodman is a master at historical romance."

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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.