Author: judeknight

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Meet the villain on WIP Wednesday

Or villainess, of course. I have a fondness for female antagonists. An author has a lot of scope when introducing a villain. We might know straight away that he or she is the bad guy, or it might dawn on us over time, as we watch things go wrong for the hero and heroine.

I’d love to see an excerpt from your work-in-progress showing the antagonist’s first appearance in the book. Mine is from my contemporary novella, Beached. My heroine and her friend are having morning tea at a table on the footpath (sidewalk, you Americans) outside a cafe.

“Nicola Watson! Thought you’d have headed back to the bright lights of Noo York by now.” The speaker grabbed a chair from one of the other tables, and turned it back on to Nikki’s and Becky’s table before straddling it. “Checking out the old home town, eh? Quite a bit bigger than when you were here last.”

Pencil Kenworth. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and a cloth sunhat masked his bald patch, but if she hadn’t seen him at the funeral, she still would have recognised the raspy voice which hadn’t changed since he’d done his best to make her life miserable in high school.

Thank goodness for dear friends, who had turned tables on him. When she’d refused him a date, he’d told the whole school that she’d been abandoned by her mother and didn’t know her father. She’d laughed that off, but only until she heard his outrageous claim that he’d dated her back in Valentine Bay, had sex with her, and then dropped her because she cheated on him with anyone who would pay her fee. That story was around the school before she heard it.

Becky and Dave took the lead in the revenge. Becky came up with some creative storytelling about the origin of Pencil’s nickname, linking it to the size and function of an appendage most male teenagers don’t want to have questioned. Dave, the captain of the first XV rugby team, enlisted his team mates to spread the tale in a whisper there and a snigger here. Since Kenworth was not much liked, people were happy to spread the tale, and soon convinced that he’d lied about Nikki in order to cover his own inability to perform.

By the end of the school year, she almost felt sorry for him, and she was relieved when he did not return the following year. He’d joined his father’s real estate firm, and their paths didn’t cross again. Though she heard that he’d put considerable effort into finding females who would allow him to demonstrate the falsity of the rumours about him.

Thirteen years later, he headed the firm, since his father had retired to focus on his duties as a district councillor, so Nikki was not surprised when he said, “I guess you need to sell the old house before you leave. Put it in my hands, and I’ll get you a good price, for old times sake. Of course, it needs a lot of work, but I’m sure I can find someone in the market for a fixer upper.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Nikki told him, “but I doubt if I will sell.”

“Keeping it for a rental, are you?” Pencil nodded, pursing his lips, his eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Not a bad idea. Paradise Bay is on the move, and the new hotel is going to put it on the map. You’ll need to do some work before it’s fit to live in, even if the rent’s cheap. Here, take my card. We manage property rentals. No need to worry your pretty little head about the place while we’re looking after it. In fact, I have some builders you can use — much cheaper than the Mastertons.”

Becky enquired sweetly, “Cheap like the apartments in Brayden Street?”

Pencil ignored her, continuing to address himself to Nikki. “You just give me a ring, Nicola. Or drop me an email.” He dropped his voice and leant towards her across the back of the chair. “I’m happy to make myself available to you at any time.” He waggled his eyebrows to underline the suggestive nature of the offer.

Thirteen years had not improved the man. It had, however, taught Nikki the futility of arguing with people like him. “I haven’t made a decision, Mr Kenworth. But thank you for the card. Good day to you.”

“Mr Kenworth? No need for such formality between old friends.” Pencil went to pat Nikki’s arm, caught her glare, and changed his mind. “Call me Pencil, like you used to.”

Margaret emerged from the shop with their tea on a tray: a teapot under a knitted cosy, two cups on saucers, a small jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar.

Pencil sneered. “You won’t appeal to the young crowd with that old fashioned stuff, Maggie. You need decent sized mugs and a good barista. Yes, and a coat of paint to brighten the place up. If you’d accept my offer—”

“Thank you, Margaret,” Becky interrupted. “That’s perfect.”

Pencil tapped Margaret on the arm. “You might as well fetch me a cup.”

Nikki decided to be firm. “I am sorry, Pencil. Becky and I were having a private conversation, and we’d like to continue it. Thank you for stopping by.”

Reluctantly, the man accepted his dismissal, cancelled his order for tea, and strolled off down the footpath, hitching the belt that curved under his belly as he went.

“The apartments in Brayden Street?” Nikki prompted as she watched him walk away.

“Pencil’s investment and a builder from xxx. They cut corners from the first. Designed to use minimum materials, used the cheapest materials, breached code when they could get away with it. Within two years they were being sued by purchasers.”

“Serves them right,” Nikki said. “I suppose they walked away with a slap on the wrist with a wet bus ticket.”

Becky shrugged, her focus seemingly on the tea she was pouring, only the grim set of her jaw indicating her irritation. “The builder went bankrupt and started up again under another name. Pencil managed to slither out from under — convinced a judge that his only role was funding the project, and that he was as much a victim as any of the house owners.”

Nikki accepted the cup Becky passed. “Slippery as ever. What is he still doing in Paradise Bay? You’d think somewhere like Auckland or Wellington would offer him more scope. Or over the ditch in Sydney or Brisbane.”

“He spent several years across the Tasman,” Becky confirmed. “The story is he came home because his father needed him. There are other stories, but let’s not waste a perfectly nice day thinking about Pencil Kenworth. Are you really thinking about staying? And what do you plan to do with the house? It isn’t as bad as Pencil says, but it does need work.”

“Dave is sending over the luscious lodger to take a look,” Nikki said. “I’ll have a better idea once I know what needs to be done, and how much it might cost.”

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Bookshop now live

If you take a look at any of the book pages for my published books, you’ll see a new button: ‘Buy from Jude Knight’. That takes you to my book shop, where I plan to have my new releases up a week before anywhere else, to offer discount codes from time to time so you can get my books on special, and to put bonus content, such as deleted scenes and background pieces, into the books (a project I haven’t had time for yet, but it is on the list).

The Realm of Silence is due out on 22 May, but is available from the book shop now. And if you buy any of the books before I add the bonus content, I’ll send you a free update once I get the new version finished.

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Tea with readers

Join Jude Knight, the Duchess of Haverford, and an assortment of Jude’s heroines on FaceBook, to celebrate the opening of Jude’s new bookshop.

We’ll be on Jude Knight’s Regency World during Saturday New Zealand time, which is Friday afternoon and evening US time.

Come with your questions for Jude, the Duchess, or any of Jude’s female characters (the men will have their turn another time). Or comments. Or anything you wish.

We’ll have stories and discussions and games. Would love to see you here.

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Art imitates life

 

Some of you may have noticed that many of my stories feature characters with disabilities. This is a topic close to my heart. I have lived most of my life with chronic illness, and have a brother who is blind, several relatives either permanent or temporary wheelchair users, a son with brain damage and various family members challenged by mental illness of one kind or another.

The idea for the hero in my latest newsletter subscriber story came out of my day job. I’m a consultant for a firm of plain English writers and trainers, and we did a field trip to the laboratory of a new client — a medical research organisation. Their mission is to solve unsolvable medical problems. The first of these, so the founder told us, was non-invasive treatment of strawberry birthmarks. These are disfiguring vascular tumours that mostly go away of their own accord,  but can sometimes grow in places that cause damage and can even threaten the child’s life. The treatment used to be unpleasant, invasive, and costly. And now, thanks to this research group, it is non-invasive and cheap.

Which set me wondering how a Regency family whose child had a strawberry birthmark might have coped. Eric, or Wreck as his family called him, was the result. In my story, he was the third son of an aristocratic family, sent as a baby to a remote estate, and raised by a loving Nanny, with occasional visits from his mother who was horrified by him.

Then the second son died, and Wreck needed to be retrieved in case he might one day succeed to the title. The mother sent him to Italy for surgical treatment. My story begins when he comes home. Subscribe to my newsletter if you want to know what happens next. I’m sending the newsletter out this week.

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Meet the heroine on WIP Wednesday

An elegant establishment for young ladies, by Francis Burney

Last week, we talked about the reader’s first encounter with our hero. This week, let’s spotlight the heroine. Put an excerpt in the comment that shows the first time your heroine appears in the book. Mine is a scene from The Realm of Silence — a scene less than a couple of weeks old, written in response to a request from my editor, who thought my first effort at a first meeting was a bit lame. (She put it far more politely than that.)

Susan Cunningham fumbled for the chair behind her, her legs suddenly too weak to keep her upright.

“Missing?” she repeated, frowning as she tried to make the word mean something else. Anything else. “But where? How?”

Mrs Fellowes, the proprietor and headmistress, took the chair behind the desk, her lips pinched and her nostrils flared. “The school has been much deceived, Mrs Cunningham. The girls clearly planned this escapade very carefully. We could not have discovered their absence any earlier.”

“I don’t understand…” Susan frowned, trying to think through the panic that howled and gibbered in her mind. “How can she be missing?” Slowly, as if working in thick mud, her mind pulled some more facts out of the headmistress’s complaint. “How long has she been gone? Who is she with?”

“We could not have known,” Mrs Fellowes insisted. “The girls sent a note saying they were going to the art exhibition with Miss Foster, Miss Grahame’s aunt, and that Miss Cunningham would stay with her friend for the remainder of the weekend. This is a common occurrence, Mrs Cunningham, and has your approval.”

That was true. Patrice Grahame was Amy’s dearest friend. Wait. The weekend? “This was yesterday?” she asked. Please let it be yesterday. Surely two sixteen-year-old girls could not travel far in one day?

Mrs Fellowes sniffed. “Not Sunday, no. The notes were sent on Saturday morning, Mrs Cunningham, and Miss Grahame and Miss Cunningham have not been seen since.”

She unbent a little, “I was in the process of writing you a letter when you arrived unexpectedly.” A slight edge to that last word. Mrs Fellowes did not approve of parents who arrived during term time, and without warning. But Susan had been passing on her way to London, with only a ten-mile detour between her and her daughter.

Not to the point. Susan reined in her skittering thoughts and pursued the question of why two girls could be absent from Saturday to Monday with no one the wiser.

“Did Miss Foster not report the girls missing?”

“She also received a note, in which the girls said Miss Grahame would be staying at the school with your daughter. I am very disappointed in them, Mrs Cunningham. They are not biddable girls, but I had not thought them liars.” She sniffed again, jerking her chin upward as she did so. “You will wish to speak to Miss Foster. You have her direction, I imagine.”

Susan was ushered firmly to the door before she could formulate a response and did not think to ask what measures had been taken to find the missing girls until she was halfway to Miss Foster’s townhouse. She continued on, as more and more questions crowded her mind. Perhaps Miss Foster knew the answers. If not, she would go back to the school and demand explanations. Later.

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Tea with Gil

 

Her Grace of Haverford eyed the young man in her parlour with some amusement. Not, perhaps, as young as all that. The new Lord Rutledge must be approaching forty years, but he had the type of face that looks mature at twenty and ages changes little thereafter. In his eighties, he would still be a handsome man.

A lifetime of careful observation of those who surrounded any duchess allowed Her Grace to detect his discomfort, though he held himself like the cavalry officer he once was, and his face hinted at the reason for his nickname. Rock Ledge, they called him. The man who never showed emotion. The duchess saw the slight stiffness around his eyes and mouth, the nervous flick of his eyes towards the maid, rapidly schooled to refocus on his hostess, a thumb and forefinger pressed rigidly together. Rutledge clearly expected this experience to be unpleasant.

“Thank you, Milly. You may leave us,” the duchess said to the maid. The girl went obediently, closing the parlour door firmly about her.

Rutledge straightened still further, and his eyes widened.

To business, then, and to put the poor boy out of his misery. “Rutledge, I have called you here today to offer my support.”

He was wary, of course. “Your support, Your Grace?”

He had a reputation as a blunt man, refreshingly blunt, her friend Lord Henry had said. She would not beat around the bush, then. “Your brother was a wicked man, rightly shunned by Society. You are the opposite, I am told by those I trust. Society will not, however, change its mind about the Rutledges. Not without some direction.”

Rutledge blinked rapidly a couple of times, before saying, “Direction from Your Grace must always be successful.”

A most tactful way to express doubt. She allowed her amusement to show in a smile. “I have known one or two failures, my lad. But I do not anticipate difficulty in this case.”

“I am an unworthy cause, Your Grace. I have no wish to shine in Society.”

“You will bury yourself in the country, I have no doubt, and ignore us all. But that will not do for your wife and children.”

He looked down at his hands, which had formed fists before he could prevent them. She watched them slowly relax, waiting for his response, which came after a long moment. “You have been honest with me, Your Grace, and I will return the courtesy. I have no intention of perpetuating the Rutledge line.”

His intentions, if Henry was correct, were not the only ones to be considered. And Henry knew Rutledge nearly as well as he knew Susan, his own daughter.

No need to tell Rutledge that his days as a single man were numbered. “I see. Well then, we shall talk about something else.”

She passed him the cup of coffee she had prepared for him, and he took it with thanks, nearly spilling it at her next comment.

“I believe you have recently spent some time with my goddaughter, Susan Cunningham,” she said.

Gil Rutledge is the hero of The Realm of Silence, available from this site’s bookshop on 15 May, and from all other eretailers on 22 May.

Excerpt

Gil Rutledge sat in the small garden to the side of the Crown and Eagle, and frowned at the spread provided for his breakfast. Grilled trout with white butter sauce, soft-boiled eggs, grilled kidney, sausages, mashed potatoes, bacon, a beef pie, two different kinds of breads (one lightly toasted), bread rolls, a selection of preserves, and a dish of stewed peaches, all cooked to perfection and none of it appealing.

Two days with his sister, Madelina, had left old guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, choking his throat and souring his digestion. And the errand he faced had yet to face did not improve his appetite.

He cut the corner from a slice of toast and loaded it with bits of bacon and a spoonful of egg. He was too old a campaigner to allow loss of appetite to stop him from refuelling. He washed the mouthful down with a sip from his coffee. It was the one part of the breakfast Moffat had not trusted to the inn kitchen. His soldier-servant insisted on preparing it himself, since he knew how Gil like it.

No. Not his soldier-servant. Not anymore. His valet, butler, factotum. Manservant. Yes, his manservant.

Gil raised the cup to the shade of his despised older brother. “This is the worst trick you’ve played on me yet,” he muttered. The viscount’s death had landed the estranged exile with a title he never wanted, a bankrupt estate, a frail frightened sister-in-law and her two little daughtersleft to his guardianship but fled from his home—and an endless snarl of legal and financial problems. And then there were Gil’s mother and his younger sister. His mission in leaving Gloucestershire had been to avoid war with the first and make peace with the second.

With a sigh, he took another sip, and loaded his fork again. The sooner he managed to swallow some of this meal, the sooner he could be on the road.

Beyond the fence that bordered the garden, carriages collected their passengers from the front of the inn. Stamford was on the Great North Road, and a transport hub to half of England, with roads branching off in every direction. As Gil stoically soldiered his way through breakfast, he watched idly, amusing himself by imagining the errands and destinations of the travellers.

Until one glimpsed face made him sit forward with a start. Surely that was Amelia Cunningham, The Goddess’s eldest daughter? No. This girl was older, almost an adult, though still dressed as a schoolgirl.

He frowned, trying to work out how old little Amy must be by now. He had last seen her during his most recent posting to England, before he was sent overseas to Gibraltar then on to the Peninsular wars. At the beginning of 1808. He remembered, because that was when he parted with the best horse a man had ever owned. More than four years ago. The Goddess who held his heart had been a widow these past two years and Amy must be—what? Good Lord. She would be sixteen by now.

He craned his neck, trying to see under the spreading hat that shielded the girl’s face, but she climbed into a yellow post chaise with a companion—a tall stripling boy of about the same age. And the woman who followed them was definitely not The Goddess; not unless she had lost all her curves, shrunk a good six inches, dyed her golden hair black, and traded her fashionable attire for a governess’s dull and shapeless garb.

No. That was not Susan Cunningham. Amy would have a governess, presumably, but the boy was way too old to be Amy’s brother Michael. No. The girl could not have been Amy.

The door closed, the post boy mounted, the chaise headed north, and Gil went back to his breakfast.

Sunday Spotlight on Julie Johnstone’s <i>When a Scot Gives His Heart</i>
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Sunday Spotlight on Julie Johnstone’s When a Scot Gives His Heart

Congratulations to today’s guest, Julie Johnstone, on the release of her seventh book in her Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts series.

When a Scot Gives His Heart

Love touched them. Treachery divided them. One night of passion binds them.

Betrayed by her father, Marsaili Campbell risks her life to recover what he has stolen from her. But when she’s kidnapped and wagered away, she has no one to help her escape other than the very man she’s spent the past three years trying to forget—Highland warrior Callum Grant. She once gave her heart and her innocence to the handsome Scot, only to regret her naive decisions. Still, with more enemies than she can battle alone, she needs an ally, even if she must hide the truth of her circumstances from him.

Laird Callum Grant thrust his clan into war for the love of a woman, only to lose her forever. But when the woman he believed dead appears at his clan’s tourney in dire trouble, there’s no denying Marsaili has been alive all this time. With his clan weakened from the years of raids and battles, however, he cannot afford to do anything that would ruin the betrothal he’s made to secure his clan’s future. Yet he can’t turn away from the woman who once beguiled him body and soul.

As Callum and Marsaili embark on a dangerous journey, each touch, each look, each clash of wills reignites their desire in an all-consuming inferno. But the secret Marsaili keeps and the duty that shackles Callum are threatening to destroy them. That is, unless they can learn that love, once truly given, is unbreakable.

Excerpt

 “Marsaili?” The undeniable concern in Callum’s tone, almost undid Marsaili. “What is it, lass? What’s vexing ye? Are ye afraid? I’ll protect ye, dunnae fash yerself.”

The emotions she’d been holding within her roiled. “Stop!” she barked, his concern shredding the invisible binds that held her together. “I kinnae—” She gulped. “I kinnae take yer kindness. I dunnae—” She shook her head, choking on her words. Gulping again, she continued, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “I dunnae ken what to think or what to do. Or what is truly right. I’m alone, all alone in this. I have to be strong.” She pressed her lips together on saying more, on saying too much.

Suddenly, she was being turned around to face Callum. His hands felt like fire pokers on her skin. Or perhaps it was her? Was she feverish? Her heart pounded a desperate beat, and that same frenzied desperation sent her blood rushing through her veins to roar in her ears. Her stomach felt hollow, and as his gaze pierced her very soul, he said, “Let me help ye. Tell me what ye fear.”

The truth clawed its way up, and she worried she’d not be able to hold it in, so she did the only thing she could. She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Her heart lurched as he stiffened. He was going to push her away! But a growl seemed to come from deep within him, and he delved his hands into her hair to cradle her head and slant his mouth over hers. The kiss tore through every defense she possessed. It was violent in its passion and blissful in the way it seared her from the inside out.

Her hands had been clenched at her sides, but as his tongue slid inside her mouth and his heat consumed her, she could not hold back. She ran her hands up his thick arms to his shoulders and dug her fingers into the muscle there. Their tongues met, swirled, and retreated, as he ravished her mouth and her senses. Every memory she had worked so hard to repress flooded her. Each touch they had shared. Each kiss. The moment they had become one. She whimpered, when his lips found her neck, and then he stilled and jerked away.

Buy Links

Amazon – https://goo.gl/Tw5i7q

B&N – https://goo.gl/kmWw1j

iBooks – https://goo.gl/9CX35L

Kobo – https://goo.gl/WfDhTf

Google Play – https://goo.gl/s1Jy8X

Meet Julie Johnston

As a little girl I loved to create fantasy worlds and then give all my friends roles to play. Of course, I was always the heroine! Books have always been an escape for me and brought me so much pleasure, but it didn’t occur to me that I could possibly be a writer for a living until I was in a career that was not my passion. One day, I decided I wanted to craft stories like the ones I loved, and with a great leap of faith I quit my day job and decided to try to make my dream come true. I discovered my passion, and I have never looked back. I feel incredibly blessed and fortunate that I have been able to make a career out of sharing the stories that are in my head! I write Scottish Medieval Romance, Regency Romance, and I have even written a Paranormal Romance book. And because I have the best readers in the world, I have hit the USA Today bestseller list several times.

You can download my Medieval Romance, Christmas in the Scot’s Arms, to try for FREE. Just visit my website and download your copy from the home page. www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com.

 

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Meet the hero on WIP Wednesday

We set the scene for our book by the way we meet our main characters. Does the reader like them? Have we picked up their lives at an interesting or crucial moment? Are they showing a little of who they really are? Is there a hook that intrigues — perhaps something that tells us the nature of the coming conflict?

Sometimes, I start a story several times, looking for that right place in my characters’ lives to bring them onto the page. Sometimes, I start with a secondary character or even (in one case) one who kicked off the whole sequence of events for the heroine, but was dead before the rest of the story takes place. In today’s excerpt, I introduce the hero of The Realm of Silence, less than a fortnight away from publication on my website shop, and so only just a work-in-progress in the most technical of senses.

Please feel free to drop your own excerpts in the comments (just heroes, please. I’m saving villains and heroines for a later blog.)

Gil Rutledge sat in the small garden to the side of the Crown and Eagle, and frowned at the spread provided for his breakfast. Grilled trout with white butter sauce, soft-boiled eggs, grilled kidney, sausages, mashed potatoes, bacon, a beef pie, two different kinds of breads (one lightly toasted), bread rolls, a selection of preserves, and a dish of stewed peaches, all cooked to perfection and none of it appealing.

Two days with his sister, Madelina, had left old guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, choking his throat and souring his digestion. And the errand he faced had yet to face did not improve his appetite.

He cut the corner from a slice of toast and loaded it with bits of bacon and a spoonful of egg. He was too old a campaigner to allow loss of appetite to stop him from refuelling. He washed the mouthful down with a sip from his coffee. It was the one part of the breakfast Moffat had not trusted to the inn kitchen. His soldier-servant insisted on preparing it himself, since he knew how Gil like it.

No. Not his soldier-servant. Not anymore. His valet, butler, factotum. Manservant. Yes, his manservant.

Gil raised the cup to the shade of his despised older brother. “This is the worst trick you’ve played on me yet,” he muttered. The viscount’s death had landed the estranged exile with a title he never wanted, a bankrupt estate, a frail frightened sister-in-law and her two little daughters—left to his guardianship but fled from his home—and an endless snarl of legal and financial problems. And then there were Gil’s mother and his younger sister. His mission in leaving Gloucestershire had been to avoid war with the first and make peace with the second.

With a sigh, he took another sip, and loaded his fork again. The sooner he managed to swallow some of this meal, the sooner he could be on the road.

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Tea with Ella

 

Susan had allowed Ella to refuse most of the invitations that poured in after the shocking incident at Lady Sutton’s soiree. Everyone wanted to meet the new Lady Renshaw, who had been drugged and assaulted in the midst of a party attended by half the ton. Ella had no desire to meet their avid eyes and turn away their eager intrusive questions, and Alex and Susan agreed. However, “You must appear at some of these,” Susan had said, “so that people know you have nothing of which to be ashamed.”

But Ella was ashamed. She had lied, and intended to keep on lying. Every time someone addressed her as ‘Lady Renshaw’ she had to subdue a flinch. But Alex and his father had come up with the fiction of their marriage to protect her, and she could not, would not shame them by exposing the untruth.

Still, the knowledge she was an imposter made her reluctant to face her hostess today. This was one invitation Susan insisted on her accepting, assuring her that the Duchess of Haverford was a kind woman, and one of the most influential of Society’s great ladies.

She stood as the great lady entered the room. “Lady Renshaw, how kind you are to come to see me,” the duchess said, taking Ella’s hand and directing a kiss in towards the general vicinity of Ella’s cheek. “Now. How can I help you and young Alex? He is, you know, one of my favourite godsons, and everyone will tell you I am godmother to half the ton. Take a seat, my dear, and tell me how you have your tea.”

Ella let the duchess’s warmth and evident affection for Alex washed over her and began to relax.

Excerpt from A Raging Madness

Ella, watching Alex treating a crowd of admiring females to his best imitation of a man pleased with his lot, was surprised when Mrs Fullerton spoke at her elbow. “Silly hens. He is being polite, of course, but I dare say our new Lord Renshaw is hating every minute.”

Ella controlled her surge of irritation. She had no place objecting to Mrs Fullerton’s possessive ‘our’, or her implicit claim to understand Alex. Diplomatically, she replied, “I was surprised at how quickly the news had travelled. He only heard this afternoon.”

“I owe you an apology, Lady Melville. I was very rude when we last met. I was jealous, you see. Alex never looked at me the way he looks at you.” Mrs Fullerton gave a deep sigh. “But one must accept reality. He has eyes only for you, and I was quite horrid. I am ashamed of myself, truly.”

She seemed sincere, her eyes meeting Ella’s, a tentative and apologetic smile just touching the corner of her lips. Ella suppressed the urge to ask how Alex looked at her and gave way to the impulse not to correct Mrs Fullerton’s misconception about Ella’s and Alex’s relationship.

“We all do things we later regret, Mrs Fullerton. Think nothing of it.”

“You are very gracious.” Mrs Fullerton lifted her glass to her lips. “Bother!” Somehow, she had managed to spill quite a large splash of the drink on one shoulder of her gown, a red spreading stain against the pastel green. “Lady Melville, I hate to impose, but could you…”

What could Ella say? She accompanied Mrs Fullerton to the ladies’ retiring room, helped her sponge out the liquid, and waited by the door to the large drawing room while Mrs Fullerton went out to the front hall to retrieve a shawl to cover her shoulders.

She returned with a footman in tow. “Have you tried the punch, Lady Melville? It is strongly spiced but hot and quite pleasant.”

She collected two glasses from the footman’s tray and pushed one into Ella’s hand.

“Drink up, Lady Melville, and then we shall go and rescue Lord Renshaw.”

It was over spiced, but Ella did not wish to be rude. She took a large sip and another.

An instant before the drug in the drink hit her, triumph flared in Mrs Fullerton’s eyes, and Ella knew she had made a mistake. She opened her mouth to shout for Alex, but suddenly the footman had a hand over her mouth and another under her elbow and was hustling, half carrying, her through the door Mrs Fullerton held open.

“I will give you a few minutes to make it look good,” she said and whipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Ella was struggling against the footman and the fog trying to close in on her mind, the dizziness that wanted to consume her. She stamped at his foot, kicked back at his shin, but her soft indoor slippers made no impression. She squirmed, trying to jab her free arm as low as possible, and he twisted away with an oath, his footman’s wig falling from his head to disclose hair nearly as white.

He pushed her from him so that she fell face forward onto a sofa and in an instant was on her, tugging her head back by the hair, straddling her torso. “This will do well enough,” he commented, lifting himself enough to push up her skirt and petticoats.

Ella fought to retain consciousness, the pain of her pulled hair helping to keep her from sinking into the fog. “Scream,” she instructed herself, as her assailant’s free hand fumbled at her buttocks, and she shrieked as loud as she could.

Doors burst open: the one onto the hall and a double set into the drawing room next door, and the room filled with people.

It was her worst nightmare come again: the indrawn breaths of shock, the buzz of excited comments, the avid staring eyes. The last thing Ella heard before she sank into oblivion was the amused drawl of the man on her back. “Oh dear, Lady Melville. It seems we have been caught.”

A Raging Madness is book 2 of The Golden Redepennings. Book 3, The Realm of Silence, will be out this month.

 

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Books to read

One thing about being under the weather is having time to catch up on the TBR pile and in the last month I’ve read a few I’d like to recommend.

The Long Way Home by Jessica Cale: Cale never disappoints. I’ve read books 1, 2, and 4 of the Southwark Saga, and every book is different: different mood, different characters, different emotions in the reader. The Long Way Home is a darling of a book, with a sweet hero and heroine I adored. Jake is still my favourite Cale hero so far, but Alice is my top Cale heroine. Set against a different background than Cale’s other books, The Long Way Home takes the Southwark bargirl into the centre of the corrupt and dissolute French court, beautifully rendered and meticulously researched. As a reader, I trusted Cale would get Alice and Jack safely out, but when I forgot I was reading, I was really worried for them.

The Islands of Chaldea by Diana Wynne Jones, completed by Ursula Jones: I was shocked and dismayed when I heard this great writer had died. Her stories have been enriching my life since my teenage years. I’ve reread my favourites many times, and always eagerly seized on her new releases. But I didn’t expect another one eight years after her death. Thanks to her sister, who pored over the draft looking for the clues that would help her finish the story, I spent one delightful evening following Aileen, her aunt, and other assorted characters on a quest to rescue the son of the High King and reunite the islands. It is a quest story with the typical Wynne Jones down-to-earth fantasy world and quirky, very human, characters. Except for the cat, who is very much a cat. I have no idea where Wynne Jones left off and Jones began. The story is seamless.

Past Crimes, by Ashley Gardner: I’d already bought and read ‘The Necklace Affair’ as a novella, since I love the Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, but I grabbed this when I found out it had two other novellas from two other series by the same author. ‘A Soupcon of Poison’ introduces the characters in the Victorian series The Below Stairs Mysteries, which the author is writing as Jennifer Ashley. The heroine is a chef. The hero is a mysterious figure who moves between upstairs and downstairs, and whose charming ways both intrigue and worry the heroine. When her employer dies after eating a meal she prepared, be prepared for some interesting twists and turns on the way to discovery of the real murderer. “Blood Debts’ is set in Ancient Rome, and follows the ex-gladiator Leonadis as he tries to clear himself of murder, look after others who might be accused, find the real murderer, and protect Cassia, the capable scribe-slave that some unknown benefactor has sent to look after him.

I read a novella a night when I couldn’t sleep, and I’m glad they weren’t longer or I would not have gone back to bed. Excellent stories, well researched and well written.

The Revenge of the Corsairs by Elizabeth Ellen Carter: I’ve been putting off reading this because I knew from the first Corsair book that when I started I’d be hooked. And I was. And I lost two evenings. Captive of the Corsairs saw the rescue of that book’s heroine and her cousin, Laura. In Revenge, we turn our focus to Laura. Traumatised and pregnant, she is not ready to accept the love of Elias, one of her rescuers. A better hero was never penned. He deserved to win the woman he loved, but Carter didn’t make it easy. Laura’s struggles to recover her equilibrium made total sense, but by the time she makes her choice it might be too late. Rabia, the third wife of Laura’s captor and rapist, has lost her own son and wants Laura’s. You can get this from the blurb, but I’ll say no more. I loved this book, and am impatiently waiting for the next in the series.