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Seduction on WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from The Duke’s Price

Ruth was responding to him. She might not realise it, but Perry did. Physically, the signs were obvious, but emotionally, too, she had softened towards him as he told his stories, ably supported by Walter, who had been with him through it all.
He had not intended to mention Lockswell or the young man’s mother. He never spoke of them, but Bella’s faintly hostile attitude, at first amusing, had begun to grate. Clearly, Ruth had told her pupil what the price was for his assistance, and she was indignant on her mentor’s behalf. Polite, but ever so slightly scornful. When she mocked his age, he had responded without thinking.
If he was not mistaken, the fact he’d been a widower for more than half his lifetime had softened the girl’s attitude, though he had not been seeking her pity. No doubt she’d invented a whole romantic story about the poor duke grieving for the love of his youth.
What would she think if she knew the truth? What would Ruth think? She would probably pity him more than ever—yes, and despise him too, the weak innocent ignorant creature he had been, a dupe of his uncle and his faithless wife.
There was a reason Perry never spoke of the youth he had been and the mistakes he had made.
Ruth, he was pleased to note, didn’t take it on faith that he was a pitiable widower, pining for his long-dead wife. She was warier than ever. Whatever she thought of his personal revelations, she was not allowing it to overwhelm her good sense.
It was already too late for her, did she but know it. He had her hooked, senses and emotions. Only by the most careless of mishandling would he lose her now. And Perry was far too experienced to mishandle a seduction.

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Travelling with the wicked duke on WIP Wednesday

Another passage from The Duke’s Price, now on preorder.

“We did not have much packing to do,” Bella told DeAth, when they were settled in a comfortable carriage and on their way to the next town. “Ruth and I shall need to go shopping, DeAth. Or should I call you ‘Papá’?”

Ruth found herself sharing an amused smile with the unaccountable man.

“DeAth will do,” he said. “I hope to reach Toulouse tonight. I am certain that city will have shops to supply suitable clothing and other items for a wealthy merchant’s ladies.” He turned questioning eyes to Ruth. “If we are delayed on the road, will you be able to manage for one more night?”

“We will,” Ruth assured him.

“Why not ‘Papá’?” Bella enquired. “Do you feel too young to have a daughter of nearly fifteen, DeAth?”

He didn’t allow Bella’s impertinence to ruffle his equanimity. “I know I am old enough to have a daughter of your age. I do not, as it happens.” He grinned. “At least, as far as I know. But I do have a son, Bella. My heir, the Marquess of Lockswell.

“He will be twenty-five this year.”

“Goodness!” Bella said what Ruth was thinking. “You cannot have been more than a boy!”

DeAth laughed outright at that. “Are you asking my age, young lady? I am three and forty, and yes, that means I was married at the age of seventeen.”

“You are a widower, then, excellensia? DeAth, I mean?” Bella asked.

Ruth should really remind her that such personal questions were impolite, but Ruth also wanted to know.

“These twenty-three years. And that is enough, senorita. No more questions.”

He started telling them a story about his last trip through France, making an amusing tale of being chased out of town by burghers who had been treating him as one of their own until a Frenchman he’d met in London recognised him as the Duke of Richport.

When that episode had reached its end, with a lucky escape thanks to a sympathetic barmaid, Walter mentioned another escape, this time in Greece, and that led to a further tale and then another, so that Ruth was surprised when they rolled into a village and stopped at an inn for the first change of horses.

“It is very hard, Ruth,” said Bella when they had a private moment while the men were busy. “To lose his wife when he was not yet twenty. I wonder that he has not married again. Perhaps he loved her very much, and cannot bear to see another in her place. Perhaps that is why he is a rake. Do you not think that is possible, Ruth?”

Ruth thought it was more likely he had been a wicked youth, and that his wife had died of a broken heart. Ruth was going to take it as a warning. Don’t let his charm, his storytelling and his kindness fool you into thinking he is a good person. He reinforced the lesson repeatedly over the course of the day, letting his hand linger as he helped her in and out of the carriage, or ushered her through a doorway at one of the inns they visited on the day.

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Ten year celebration

Next Saturday, March 15, 2025, The Bluestocking Belles will hold their 10th Anniversary party. The party takes place in the Brigade FB group (link at the bottom). We have Twelve hours of guests, fun, prizes and conversation about books. I’ve included the list of guests in the photo above.

NOTE: Daylight Savings time happens in the US on March 9th. The time is 10AM EDT. It is easiest to remember the party is at the same time as in New York (NYT). So, 10AM in New York is when the party starts.

Come! Stay or pop in and out. Come the next day; the posts will be there. Invite your friends.
Here’s the Brigade: https://www.facebook.com/groups/BellesBrigade

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Putting on the top hat

In the first draft of The Secret Word, I used the term “top hat”. Then I looked it up and found I was too early for the name. Though the first top hat was made in the 1790s and they quickly became popular, they were not called top hats until Victorian times. In 1810, they went by several names, depending on the variety. Isn’t research fun.

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Family interference on WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from The Secret Word.

***

“Yer young fella’s gaffer came by to threaten me today. Me! At my work! Happen I’ll lurn him that Bertram Wright ain’t to be pushed round by a useless blot of an upper crust snot rag. Says that scoundrel of a grandson is already betrothed!” Father was furious. His careful speech, much like that of the class he aspired for his grandson to join, had been slowly and thoroughly learned. It was very seldom that he slipped back into the words and accent of his youth.
Another sign of his anger was the way he was pacing, to and fro across the parlor rug.
Fortunately, Clemmie had already heard from Chris the probable topic that had so upset her father. “Our Mr. Satterthwaite was angry with his grandfather when we met this afternoon, Father. Apparently, the man turned up in Chr— Mr. Satterthwaite’s office this morning, demanding that Mr. Satterthwaite stop courting me as the older Mr. Satterthwaite had already signed a marriage agreement for Chris. Of course, Mr. Satterthwaite told him where he could put his plans.”
That stopped Father’s furious pacing. “He did? Yes, I suppose he did. Though the man is his grandfather.”
“The man abandoned our Mr. Satterthwaite sixteen years ago, when he was a child. To turn up now and dare suggest Chris owes him anything? Chris told him in no uncertain terms that whom he marries or does not marry is not the business of Mr. Satterthwaite senior, and he wants nothing to do with the man.”
“Is that right?” Father had taken up station in front of the fireplace, rocking back and forth, his hands in his pockets, and a smile on his face. His temper was gone as if it had never been.
“When are you seeing ‘Chris’. Tonight, is it?”
Father had not missed her slip of the tongue, then. It was too late to unsay it. She could do nothing more than hope he wouldn’t find a way to turn it to her disadvantage. Hers and Chris’s.
Honestly, why did the pair of them have to be cursed with such conniving selfish vicious old men?
“Yes, Father. He is escorting me to the Sutton ball.”
“Sutton as in the Earl of Sutton? That’s the Duke of Winshire’s heir.”
At her nod, he whistled. “Sutton, eh? You are flying high, Clementine, my girl. When Satterthwaite arrives, tell him I want to talk to you both before you go out.”
Clemmie could do nothing but agree, and wait with as much patience as she could muster for Chris to arrive.
Hours later—it seemed much longer—evening rolled around and with it came Chris, looking incredibly desirable in his black evening coat and silver-grey breeches and stockings, this time teamed with another waistcoat—this one in a dark blue silk brocade.
He must have chosen it to co-ordinate with her gown, which he had asked about during their afternoon drive. It was silver grey embroidered in dark blue, and was one of two new gowns she had had made. Father had reluctantly agreed to pay for a single new ball gown, but Clemmie had taken a leaf from Chris’s book and gone off Bond Street. The modiste was so reasonably priced compared to the Bond Street shop that Clemmie was able to purchase two.
“Father had a visit from your grandfather,” Clemmie told Chris.
“The vile old villain,” said Chris. “I should have expected it. What did he want?”
“Do you know? Father never said. I just assumed it was that you couldn’t marry me. I told him about Mr. Satterthwaite’s visit to you, and how you dealt with it. He cheered up, then. He wants to talk to us before he goes out, Chris, but he didn’t say what about.”
“We are about to find out, then,” Chris said, “for here he comes.”

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Tea with a time travelling baker

The Duchess entered her parlor, and stood in the entrance. “My word. Who pray tell, are you?”

Bronwyn fidgeted. She knew not where she was exactly, only that one moment she was working in the castle kitchens at Lincoln Castle, and the next moment, she was here. 

She gazed about the room. Strange furnishings, yet of brightly coloured materials, silks and such rich fabrics, she’d never seen the like of before. But the grand woman who stood in the entrance had spoken, and she hadn’t understood a word the woman had said. 

The duchess repeated her question.

Bronwyn gave a hasty curtsey, poorly done, and bowed her head meekly. “Forgive me, mistress, but I know not where I am. Where are we?”

The duchess cocked her head a moment. “My dear girl…” She clapped her hands and began to speak in a different tongue. “If I am not mistaken, you are speaking an old tongue, what we today would call ‘MIddle English’, I believe.”

Bronwyn’s eyes lit up. “Yes, mistress. You’re right. But where I am?”

“You’re in my parlor. How did you get here? Did the servants let you in?”

Bronwyn dropped her gaze. “I am a servant, mistress. I’m sorry, I don’t know. I was in the castle kitchen before, and then suddenly I was here. I know not how, or why.”

“Well you look famished, and I am parched. Sit, and we’ll have a spot of tea.”

Bronwyn swallowed. Sit, with a lady? “Mistress, you are most kind, but—”

“But nothing. Sit down and join me. I insist. I long for diverting conversation and you look as if you have a story to tell. Please.” The duchess gave her a pointed look.

Bronwyn sat but instantly jumped up again.

“What is wrong?” the duchess asked.

“Nothing. It’s just… The cushion. It’s so… soft.”

The duchess laughed and pulled the bell for a servant. When one entered a moment later, she said, “We’ll have tea. And whatever scones or biscuits the cook has ready, please.”

Once they were alone, Bronwyn sat, very carefully perched at the edge of the extremely comfortable sofa cushion, and faced her new acquaintance.

“I am the Duchess of Haverford. And you are?”

“Bronwyn Blakenhale, of Lincoln, mistress.”

“And what year is it, pray tell?” the duchess asked.

Bronwyn cocked her head. “Why, it’s the year eleven hundred and forty-one of course.”

“Indeed. Well. Whilst we wait for tea, do tell me your story.”

A moment later, tea arrived, and Bronwyn needed no further urging. 

“My Papa and I were in the market when a man came, a nobleman, and he placed an order for bread rolls.”

“Bread?”

“We are bakers, mistress. He wanted an expensive order. Pandemain, nice bread rolls for dinner at the castle.”

“Pandemain?”

“Made from a white flour, we sift the flour two to three times and use more expensive flour than the cheap brown. The nobles like it,” Bronwyn said.

“My word. You do not shy away from giving your opinion, do you?”

Bronwyn took that moment to sip her tea, watching her hostess closely. She said, “But… after that, trouble happened.”

The duchess paused, her cup halfway to her lips. “Oh? What? You burnt the bread?” she teased.

Bronwyn shook her head. “No, mistress. Worse. When we brought them to the castle, I spied a man messing with them, and I raised a fuss but no one believed me. Then a cook got sick, the nobleman who ordered the rolls died, and—”

“Oh my word.” The duchess set down her tea. “Do you mean to say your bread rolls killed someone?”

“Yes.” Bronwyn met the duchess’s eyes. “Poison. But it was not our fault. We weren’t trying to kill anyone.”

“So what happened?”

“The king and queen demanded to see us. They imprisoned my Papa and sent me to work in the kitchens. Now I have to solve this and find out who it was who really poisoned our rolls.”

“Surely someone else can do that. What can you possibly do?”

“I can cook, and look around, and talk to people. And bring my Papa food in prison. I have to find out who is behind this. If I don’t, they’ll hang him.”

“Oh my dear girl.” She rose. “I can feel our time together grows short. Do visit me again for tea, sometime. And best of luck.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” Bronwyn rose and tried to curtsey, but was awkward, all limbs and unfamiliar footing. Her face turned pink.

“And do practice that. It may help if you work with more aristocrats.” The duchess said.

“Yes, Mistress. Farewell.” Bronwyn stepped into the shadows.

As the duchess opened the curtains of her parlor more to let the light in, Bronwyn was gone. 

Read more about the murder mystery in Winter’s Poison!

Winter’s Poison

E.L. Johnson

Bronwyn Blakenhale’s world is about to turn upside down. A young baker who wants a bit of independence from her simple life in twelfth-century Lincoln, she gets involved in courtly politics when an expensive order for bread rolls leaves one man dead at the king’s table, and all fingers point at her and her father.

With her father imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, Bronwyn is tasked by the queen to find out who poisoned the rolls and likely meant to kill the royal family. But with her father surrounded by men loyal to the opposing empress, spies afoot in the castle, and a poisoner on the loose, Bronwyn’s time is short. Now, if only she didn’t have young men like the squire Rupert to distract her.

Rupert Bothwell, the squire of a knight, has a friendly smile for everyone, including a beautiful lady at court who admires him, but he insists on walking Bronwyn home at night. Is he just being chivalrous or is there something more? But Bronwyn has more to deal with, as a childhood friend steps in to help her family’s bakery and makes it clear he doesn’t want her friendship, but her heart.

From feuding factions and turncoat knights at court to castle prisons and an invading army on the horizon, Bronwyn must find the killer and prove her father’s innocence—or lose all that she holds dear. In a world dominated by intrigue and murder, Bronwyn might just surprise everyone and prove that she is no ordinary baker.

https://www.amazon.com/Winters-Poison-Medieval-Historical-Mystery-ebook/dp/B0DTWVCYT5?ref_=ast_author_mpb

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You can’t choose your family on WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from The Secret Word

Chris had asked Harry Satterthwaite and Michael Thurgood to stand up with him. He hadn’t expected Billy to attend, but there the man was, sitting on the groom’s side of the church a few pews back from the front. Tiny was there, too, and at least a dozen of the other men—floor managers from each of the gambling dens, the man who operated the loan business, and managers of Billy’s other shops.

The women, too, for Billy had women managing each of his brothels, as well as a laundry, a pawnbroker, two barefoot schools, and some of Billy’s residential properties.

Chris had worked with them all, and was pleased to have them at his wedding, all dressed in their best clothes and looking as respectable as the other people in the pews on that side. 

The others were strangers, but the resemblance of some of them to either Harry or Michael identified them. They were his Satterthwaite and Thurgood relatives, come to see him married. Chris was touched. 

Would they take exception to the company in which they found themselves? If they did, no matter. He’d lived his life without them up until now. He could continue doing so. Would Wright take exception to their presence? He would not arrive until Clemmie did. It was to be hoped that, by the time he realised that Chris’s family had come out in his support, it would be too late to stop the wedding.

Those on the bride’s side were mostly strangers, except for a few he’d met when in company with Wright. Business magnates and merchant nabobs, and the women with them presumably their wives. 

Here came his godmother, and behind her Clemmie’s maid, Maggie and the companion, Mrs. Bellowes. Aunt Fern  strolled down the aisle to join those on the groom’s side while Mrs. Bellowes settled on the bride’s side. Maggie took a seat at the back, with several other people Chris recognised from Wright’s household.

And if Aunt Fern, Mrs. Bellowes, and Maggie were here, then Clemmie must be close! Chris stood up straighter, his eyes on the door by which she would enter. His cravat suddenly felt tight. He didn’t realise he was running his finger around his neck, trying to give himself room, until Michael Thurgood leaned over and told him, “You’re messing up your cravat. Stop touching it.”

And then suddenly the wait was over and Clemmie was walking toward him. Somewhere, music was playing. Presumably, Wright was escorting her. Chris saw only Clemmie. How lovely she was! What fools those men were who called her plain.

His heart seemed to fill his chest, pressing his lungs so that his breath came short and caught in a suddenly dry throat. He loved Clementine Wright, and in a few minutes, she would be his wife, promised to him for a lifetime. Wright and the minister exchanged a few words, and Wright extended Clemmie’s right hand to the minister who gave it to Chris.

Chris smiled into Clemmie’s eyes, and she smiled back. That smile and her touch anchored him through the rest of the ceremony, when his joy made him feel so light that he thought he might float away. 

He said his responses when prompted, trying to infuse his love, his certainty into his voice. He thrilled to hear the love in her voice and to see the happiness in her eyes when she spoke. 

At last it was time to encircle her finger with the ring he had designed and had made for her. For a moment, it caught on her knuckle, but he pushed firmly and it slid into place. 

The minister prayed, asking for God’s blessing on the marriage. He then took their right hands and indicated they should join hands. 

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

He then spoke to the congregation. But before he could finish explaining that he and Clemmie had proclaimed their consent, made their vows and given and received a ring, there was a commotion—someone shouting from the back of the church. Grandfather, the swine.

“Stop the wedding. Stop this travesty. The boy”

Harry touched Chris’s arm. “I’ll handle it. Carry on, minister.”

Clemmie started to turn to look, but Chris refused to give Grandfather even a look. “It is our wedding, Clemmie,” he said. “Ignore him.” And to the minister, he said, “My grandfather disapproves of my choice of bride, sir, as you can hear. But I am of age, and I have the permission of Clemmie’s father and the blessing of my cousin and my uncle, both earls, who are respectively the heads of the Satterthwaite and the Thurgood families. Carry on with the wedding, please.”

Reassured, the minister raised his voice to be heard over several voices shouting. “I pronounce that they are man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” 

Next came a blessing, and during it, the altercation at the back of the church faded away. Grandfather was, presumably, being dragged off. And a good thing, too.

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A rant about left and right—and circles and straight lines

 

It seems to me that conservatives and liberals are on opposite sides not of a line, but of a circle.

Because the thing about circles is that they are round. When the right and the left approach around one side of a circle, they meet in harmony. When they keep going further to the right or further to the left, and they also eventually meet and become the same, and the place they meet is tyranny and the suppression of freedom.

For that reason, I don’t think the terms far right and far left are very useful. And terms like fascist and communist are not much better, carrying as they do so much emotional residue from past experiences. And producing as they do the same effects on their subject populations. 

I propose a different set of terms—ones that represent a line rather than a circle.

At one end, you have elitists. They want power, wealth, and control to reside with a small group that they regards as better qualified and more worthy than the rest of the population. To elitists, the goal is power and wealth. The rest of human kind exists to make the elitists more powerful, more wealthy, and more in control. Anyone who fails to serve the elitists or—worse—opposes the elitists, does not deserve to continue existing.

Think of them, if you like, as Western-style dragons, dragging their bloated bodies over a mountain of gold and sparkly things. Wealth that they can’t use, don’t need, and won’t share. And all the rest of the population as rats and mice—rats who serve the dragon, polishing its scales and bringing it food, and mice hiding in holes, hoping not to be noticed.

To elitists, the world will function more efficiently if only a few people are in charge. And they regard efficiency as a good thing. And for a while, it might work, though it inevitably turns sour, for robber barons cannot avoid stealing things—from one another, if they’ve finished fleecing their subjects. Whether it ends in Game of Thrones or bloody revolution, nobody wins when the knives come out. One mouse cannot kill a dragon, but no dragon can stand against a million mice with nothing to lose.

At the other end, you have idealists. To an idealist, power, wealth and control are at best irrelevant and at worst necessary means to the goal. The goal is community well-being. To an idealist, a community cannot be well unless all in it are well, so those at this end of the line accept people for who they are, and respect the opinions and needs of others. They don’t measure people by their possessions or their power, but by how they relate to others, and how they contribute to the community. 

To idealists, the world will be a happier and kinder place if everyone has a right and opportunity to be heard. This is not very efficient in the short term, but it produces better results in the long term. Besides, efficiency is not a major driver for idealists. Not when compared to fairness.

Think of it as a herd or pack of almost any type of animal. Or, if you will, as the Shires, where hobbits make the land productive and party often.

As a student of history, I know that all societies drift toward elitism over time, and the true idealist society has never existed, though my own country and various Scandinavian countries have had times of moving in that direction.

But I still prefer idealism.

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Bargaining on WIP WEdnesday

Another AI image. It’s not terrible.

In this excerpt from The Duke’s Price, my wicked duke makes his offer–and tells the governess his price. (On preorder for release April 1st.)

Miss Henwood was leaving. Was Mort going to do it or wasn’t he? It was unlike him to vacillate. “Miss Henwood,” he said, just as she was about to step through the door into the tower behind him. “I have another proposition for you.”
“Yes?” Her voice was cautious. Wise woman! Beware wicked dukes bearing gifts.
“I have a yacht moored in Collioure, just across the border from Spain in France. I will escort you and the princess to Collioure, and then transport you to England.”
“You will?” The hope in her voice tugged at the dried-up shrivelled vestiges of his conscience. Ridiculous. He was a villain. A villain with some gentlemanly standards, but a villain, nonetheless. If he was going to betray his friend and go to the trouble of a no-doubt uncomfortable dash through the mountains and countryside, then someone had to pay.
“I have a price,” he said.
Miss Henwood did not flinch. “Which is?”
“We will travel as a family—husband, wife and daughter. Or, given she looks like neither of us, step daughter, perhaps.”
Miss Henwood took the few steps back to his side before commenting. “That seems sensible.”
“We shall travel as husband and wife in every way except the church blessing on the arrangement, which shall be temporary, Miss Henwood. Until we arrive in England.” By which time, no doubt, he would have tired of her, as he had of all others.
“I see.”
That was it. Neither yes nor no. Mort began laying out plans as if she had already agreed. It was a strategy that had worked for him time out of mind, both in amorous and business negotiations. “If you can get her excellency out of the town, it is probably best if I appear to leave Las Estrellas. For Barcelona, perhaps. That way, they will be looking for a woman and girl, not a family. Tell me where to meet you and when, and I shall be waiting.”
Her frown deepened as she thought.
“I shall get the pair of you away safely, Miss Henwood, and protect you with all my considerable resources until you are in the hands of your friend and her family,” he said. It was a vow, he realized. Was he in his dotage or suffering a second childhood? He was becoming a knight errant!
“You will protect me from everyone except you,” said Miss Henwood, the sarcasm heavy in her voice.
She was being coy. He was far too experienced not to know she found him attractive, and surely she must be in her mid-thirties. She could not be so innocent that she regarded the perfectly natural acts he had in mind as dangerous.
However, it was not in his interests to point out her duplicity
“I shall tell Carlos in the morning that I have a mind to move on,” he said. “Once my people and I are out of Las Estrellas, I’ll send most of them along the road to Barcelona. From there, they can cross the border for Collioure. I’ll write a note for them to deliver to my yacht. My valet and I will circle the country and wait for you—where?”
“Camino del Lobo,” she said. “Bella and I will be there in… six days. Or I will send a messenger.”
He had her! Did she realise she had just agreed to be his lover? To test her, he said, “A kiss. To seal our bargain and as a deposit in your account.”
Miss Henwood sighed, very much as if he was an annoying child who must be tolerated. However, unless the shadows mislead him, she also blushed.
He said nothing, but waited for her to initiate their embrace. She waited, too. Was she playing games with him? That was not what he expected of her, but then women were unaccountable creatures, in many ways.
After a long moment, she said, “Well? Are you going to kiss me?”
“No,” Mort said. “I don’t owe you a kiss. You owe me one. I am waiting for you to kiss me.”
Instead of pouting, frowning, arguing, or laughing at his nonsense and giving him a kiss, Miss Henwood looked worried, but leaned forward and gave him a peck which would have fallen on his cheek if he had not turned his face to allow their lips to meet.
It lasted less than a second, and was over. Miss Henwood looked relieved. “I will say good night then, your grace.”
“Death,” he insisted, “and the toll required was a lover’s kiss. That was not a lover’s kiss, Miss Henwood.”
He almost laughed at her huff of annoyance. “De-Ath, then,” she said, the stubborn woman. “What am I supposed to know of lover’s kisses, De-Ath? I have been a governess since I was seventeen.”
Her irritation had him adjusting his assumptions about her experience. “You have never shared a kiss? No randy fathers or adult sons? No sweethearts on your day off?”
She frowned again. His guess that she was thinking about what to tell him was confirmed when she said. “I suppose, if we are to be intimate, you ought to know. I have never shared a lover’s kiss. I have had lust’s kisses forced on me, but have managed to avoid anything more than rude slobbering and even ruder fumbling.”
Her disgust dripped from the words. Mort was suddenly very pleased that he had demanded she take the lead in this first encounter. She would soften to him all the sooner if he behaved differently to those who had offended her.
What fools those slobberers and fumblers were! He had never forced an unwilling woman, though he had seduced more than a few into willingness. As he would Miss Henwood.