Author: judeknight

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Tea with Joselyn

Joselyn, Lady Maddox, had resisted her cousin’s machinations for years, had helped feed the village through the troubled times when the men were away fighting Napoleon and harvests were poor, and had faced down a gang of smugglers.

“But I have never had afternoon tea with a duchess,” she informed the large raven who sat on the window ledge, watching her flutter from one place to another in her anxious preparations. She aligned the cups on the tea table, plumped the cushions on the couch, moved the plate of delicate cakes a little to the right, dusted a spot on the mantlepiece with her handkerchief, and swapped two of the cushions over for a more pleasing colour combination.

The raven made a derisory remark in Raven. “That is easy for you to say,” Joselyn scolded. “She is Felix’s godmother, bird. And I want her to like me.”

“I am already predisposed to do so, my dear,” said Eleanor Haverford, from the doorway. Behind her, the butler was gesturing helplessly. Her Grace had simply swept ahead of him, and what was a butler to do?

“Your Grace.” Joselyn curtsied, trying hard to ignore the blush she could feel heating her face and her chest. “Please. Come in. May I offer you a seat?”

The duchess took her by the hand, and she rose from her curtsey to be engulfed in a perfumed embrace. “You have made my godson a very happy man, my dear Lady Maddox — or may I call you Joselyn? A cup of tea would be lovely, and I would very much like to meet your raven.”

Jocelyn is the heroine of The Raven’s Lady, a short story in my collection Hand-Turned Tales. Hand-Turned Tales is free as an ebook — click on the name to see what other stories are in the book and to find links for download.

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Research, reviews, and erratum

“Don’t read your reviews” is advice I’ve never been able to follow. I love reading my reviews. Most of them are warming. Even when someone doesn’t like the book, they’ll often say why, which either helps me to improve, or lets me know this wasn’t the book for them (vulgar behaviour, one recent reviewer said, when my heroine succumbed to temptation in the person of her hero; on another story, someone marked the book down because there was no on-page sex — you can’t please all of the people all of the time).

I’m really struggling with the very sensible prohibition against opening a conversation with a reviewer whose review is simply unfair, and based on false ideas about which she proclaims with great authority. Hence, this post, which will allow me to vent without (I hope) making a prat of myself.

I’ve written before about what to do with a bad review. And I’ve written about why book reviews matter.

I haven’t written about what to do when a reviewer claims you’ve not done your research. Mostly, the errors in their reviews are pretty obvious, and I’ve winced, picked myself up off the floor, and moved on. Yes, the Roman Baths at Bath had been discovered by 1805. New baths were built on top of the Roman baths in the 12th century, and the original ruins were discovered in 1790, during excavations for the Great Pump Room. And, yes, craftspeople (both men and women) wore  overalls in the early 19th century, for a given meaning of the term (I’m told there were three garments with that name, but I’ve only found two).

It feels different, somehow, when someone makes a claim other people can’t easily check, and justifies a two-star rating on that basis, even though she acknowledged the strength of the writing and the main characters. Somehow, the compliments and rating combined give greater emphasis to her certainty that I had made up the system of advowsons and benefices that existed at the time of the story, and was not reformed until the second half of the nineteenth century.

Yes, reviewer, my rector villain did collect the tithes, and they were his to do with as he willed. No supervision, except that perhaps the person or organisation who had gifted the advowson might use the threat of its removal to change behaviour.  In my story, said landowner had been absent and careless for years, until death brought a new landowner.

I make mistakes, and I appreciate the kindness of the reader community when they send me a message to say ‘I think you meant volunteers, and not militia’. I try hard to avoid errors. I research everything that occurs to me, and take nothing for granted. It’s the stuff that is so much a part of our life that we can’t imagine being without it that trips us up when we look at the past.

So what can I do? I’m thinking about adding Author Notes at the end of a story, listing the pieces of research I’ve done and some of the sources I’ve used. What do you think? Will it help?

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Horse racing in Georgian England

Writing stories set more than a hundred and fifty years ago, especially stories with characters who have a penny or two, means writing about horses — if only to mention them in passing. Many of my books include journeys, so ‘in passing’ has meant researching carriage and riding horses, including how they were bred and stabled. Along the way, I somehow managed to end up with at least two heroes who were horse breeders: almost the only ‘trade’ a gentleman could engage in without attracting social censure.

This week, I went a step further, when a subscriber-only story for my newsletter turned out to be about the heiress to a racing stud, whose marital fate will be decided by a horse race.

But what kind of horse race in the years just after Waterloo? What were the rules? How long was the course likely to be? Even, as it turned out, what might a villain slip to a horse to prevent it from running, and what symptoms of poisoning would the horse show? (Probably night shade, my vet and author friend Lizzi Tremayne and I decided.)

Here are some of the sources I consulted when writing The Fifth Race, which will be available in the newsletter I send tomorrow.

18th Century foundation of the Jockey Club, and silk colours by owner

Going to the races

Horse racing on the Georgian index

Regina Jeffers on Thoroughbred Horse Racing

Training the 18th century racehorse

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Danger on WIP Wednesday

Nothing like a nice fictional piece of disaster to get our heart racing. The heroine or the hero has to survive to the end of the book, which is comforting to know, but meanwhile we authors can put them through all kinds of trials.

This week, I’m looking for excerpts about danger — physical, emotional, moral, societal: you decide. Mine is physical, and is from the subsriber-only newsletter short story I’m writing at the moment, with the plan of getting a newsletter out this week.

One more race, and Rhi would be free. No horse in all of England could catch Atlanta. By the terms of her agreement with her father, she had merely to win next week, and he would sign the new will and rip up the old one.

Her resentment rose, all the more fierce because she understood that Father acted out of love. He wanted to see her married to protect her, he said. She was too young, too inexperienced, too female to own and run the finest racehorse stud in Great Britain. And Father was dying, fading a little more with each day, which she resented more than all the rest.

Atlanta tossed her head and whickered, sensitive to Rhi’s mood. She took a deep breath, and another, letting the anger drain from her with the air she exhaled, emptying herself of everything but the joy of the horse’s movement, the freedom of the gallop, the love of the wild heath across which they raced for the sheer glory of the speed.

***

Cen watched from the shelter of a copse of trees. The mare lived up to all he’d read about her, and the rider too. He had known Rhiannon Enright would be good, but she had more than lived up to the promise she had shown as a child. Back then, she rode astride — and the gossip in London that had sent him here said she did so still, in the races held once a month for the past four months. Today, she was properly and sedately side-saddle, but the way she raced had nothing proper or sedate about it.

She flowed with the horse, the two moving as one beast, all grace, power, and beauty. The horse was magnificent, but Bucephalus was better.

As if on cue, Bucephalus whickered. Cen had tethered him upwind of the mare, and out of sight, but that meant his stallion was downwind, and would be picking up messages on the breeze. Unlikely that Rhi would hear, but better to play it safe. He’d come to find out if Atlanta was as good as they said; if the heiress was as appealing. Not that he had doubted the latter. She had won his heart when she was a baby just old enough to toddle to the stables and he perhaps a year older, if they’d guessed his age right when they found him. She had been just thirteen and his affection beginning to turn carnal when her father exiled him.

No point in dwelling in the past. The army had given him a new name, new skills, friends and a future, and now he had come full circle to the place where he began, able at last to reach out for the prize he had once believed beyond his reach. He had made up his mind, as if there had been any doubt. He would enter the race, and win her for his bride. Yes, and the stables where once he had been the lowliest of stablehands.

But as Cen stood, taking care to stay behind the undergrowth and to move smoothly and slowly, something caught his eye on the valley floor.

There. Beyond the racing mare. Movement in a hollow screened by bushes. He frowned even as he squinted to refine his focus. Horses; two, no three. And men preparing to mount.

And there! Caught in his peripheral vision, two more horses on a hillock like his own, but on the opposite side of the valley. One of the riders raised his hand in a signal to the men in the hollow, and they mounted, keeping low over their horses’ backs.

A threat to Rhi? Cen made up his mind, whistling the signal that told Bucephalus to pull at the tether and come to him. In the time it took for the horse to trot up the hill, and for Cen to adjust the tack and mount, all five of the stranger riders were ahorse and heading on an interception course for the lone female rider. What was she doing out without a groom?

Rhi had noticed her pursuers, and Atlanta was lengthening her stride, aiming for the gap between the two groups. She had the speed, if she was fresh. But Rhi and Atlanta had been racing the heath for an hour. The other horses were gaining.

Cen and Bucephalus, coming from a different vantage, might be able to put themselves between the chasing men and the woman, if they were fast enough, if she kept on the same tack. At the very least, the rogues might hesitate if they knew he was watching, though men who would assault a woman would not hesitate to dispose of such an inconvenient witness.

Atlanta faltered. Ah. Rhi had seen him. He pointed to the other riders and gestured her to keep coming, and after a moment, she nudged her horse on. But the hesitation had the nearest of her pursuers right on her heels.

The look of mingled panic and determination on Rhi’s face as she approached removed any lingering thought that the scenario might have an innocent explanation. Cen pulled the cudgel he kept in a holster hanging from his saddle, holding it aloft as Rhi passed him, and swinging it down on the shoulder of the man immediately following.

The man behind swung wide as the first rider fell, and kept after Atlanta, but Cen faced two more, and beyond them another, muffled in a greatcoat and scarf, shouting, “It’s only one man. Get rid of him.”

Cen grinned. Only one man and his horse. More than enough, though they were coming at him with guns. At his cue, Bucephalus spun around and caprioled, his hind hooves connecting solidly with one of the attacking horses as Cen ducked a bullet and threw the knife from his sleeve at the rider of the other.

A shout from the direction Rhi had fled caught his attention. A party on horseback, and known to Rhi, apparently, for she continued her wild gallop towards them. And the would-be assailant who had followed her had pulled up, and was looking back for directions.

In moments, the attack was over, the fallen men collected by their companions and the group fleeing back the way they had come. Cen let them go. A sting in his arm hinted that he hadn’t entirely evaded the bullet, but it was no more than a scratch.

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Tea with Susan

“Yes, that should work well.” Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford set the last of the pages she had been reading onto the pile before her, and smiled at her goddaughter. “I like the way you have involved the parents in the running of the school, Susan. I shall have to adopt that idea for my own establishments.”

Susan Cunningham returned the smile as she explained, “Our Scots villagers are theoretically in favour of education, at least for their sons. But they will not support anything that interferes with work on the farm. So it makes sense to organise the school sessions around the demands of the harvest.”

“Yes, and if the leading farmers are the ones who set the timetable, the others will follow their example. Good. Well done, and of course I am happy to be named as a patroness of the school, although you have done all the work, my dear.”

Susan sipped her tea before answering. “A duchess on our letterhead will be much more impressive than a mere Missus, even if I am the widow of a prominent local landlord.”

The duchess laughed. “Yes, by all means use my title to collect donations from your local gentry. But Susan, I wanted to ask about your daughter. How is Amyafter all her adventures?”

“Unscathed,” Susan replied, dryly, then corrected herself. “To be fair, the experience has left her more thoughtful and less impetuous. But she is safe, thanks mostly to Gi- to Lord Rutledge. I do not know what might have happened without him.”

“Your father mentioned that he escorted you on your trip north, but he said little else, except that Amy was found safe and well.”

Susan shuddered. “She is safe and well because she was found, and only just in time.”

The duchess reached for a cucumber sandwich. “And how is Lord Rutledge? I have always thought the pair of you liked one another rather more than you made out.”

Susan sighed. “It is complicated,” she said.

Susan and Gil Rutledge, childhood friends who have been estranged for twenty years, are forced to work together when Susan’s daughter runs away from school. Their story is told in book 3 of The Golden Redepennings, The Realm of Silence (coming in May). Here’s an excerpt.

Dear Lord. All these years she’d held a small bubble of resentment that he’d left London and then England without a note or a message. She should have thrown caution to the wind and written to him before she agreed to marry James.

She snorted at the thought. A fine letter that would have been. “Dear Lieutenant Rutledge, a fine young naval officer has asked me to marry him, and before I give him my answer, I just wish to enquire whether you have any interest in having me instead.”

Regrets and might-have-beens were stupid. She had been happy with James, at least in the beginning, until he proved to lack the gift of fidelity. Even after he made it clear that he would not give up his other women, he did not flaunt them in her face. He was courteous and friendly, respected her abilities and supported her decisions, gave her control of his estate and his income, expected little from her except his nominated allowance and the occasional public appearance. She had been content in her life, if not her marriage, and she had the three most wonderful children in the world.

Accepting Gil’s hand back up into the cabriolet-phaeton, she composed herself for the next stretch of the journey. Knowing he admired her still, at least enough to kiss her, set all of her body singing. She needed to be realistic, and smother the foolish dreams creeping from her memories. She was thirty-seven, and he was a baron. He would need to find a young wife who could give him an heir, and she would need to smile and be glad for him.

A less personal subject than family was needed for the next part of the trip.

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The Realm of Silence – coming in May

I am biting the bullet and committing to publishing The Realm of Silence in May. The book blurb is now up on my book page, and in the next couple of days I’ll set up a preorder through Smashwords for iBooks, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble. Too early for Amazon, but that will come later in the month.

So go take a look (by clicking on the link), and see what you think. Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt and the cover.

Gil was as quick to understand her now as when they ran wild over the lands around Longford. Susan made short work of discovering what Clementine didn’t want her aunt to know, and re-joined Gil by the stables.

“This governess. Was she slightly built, of below average height, and dark haired?” she asked, then, at Gil’s nod, “We need to find out whether a boy hired a post chaise, or possibly a young woman with a French accent. I have no idea whether there is a connection, but apparently the French music teacher is also missing, and she fits that description.”

She had thought he would take over the questioning, but he seemed content to allow her to coax answers out of the stable master, confining himself to looming at her left shoulder.

Looming was unnecessary, however. The stable master remembered the French lady on Saturday morning. “Just the lady on her own, ma’am. She wanted a post chaise for Newcastle, but I told her we didn’t go no further than York. She could get another there, I told her.”

“What of other travellers that same morning? Was there a boy, perhaps around fifteen or sixteen? He may have had a young lady with him of a similar age? Perhaps also travelling to York or Newcastle?”

The stable master was shaking his head when another ostler spoke up. “I saw the boy. With a girl, he was, but I didn’t see her proper. The boy came in and rented the post chaise while the girl waited out the front. It was while you was with that dook’s party, Ben. For York, but they only took ’un as far as Stamford. Joe—he’s the post boy, ma’am—he came back last night.”

The stable master nodded once, a swift jerk of the chin. “Right.”

“We will speak with the post boy,” Gil decreed. But the post boy was out on a job to a nearby town. He would return within the hour, and the stable master would keep him against Susan’s return.

“I will be back in one hour,” she said. “Thank you for your help.” She repeated the thanks to Gil before setting off at a brisk pace for the school. The fear jittered inside, but she quelled it. She had a lead, which was more than she’d had half an hour ago. If the French lady was the music mistress. If the boy was Patrice in disguise. If the two young people the ostler saw were her runaways. The whole trail of ‘ifs’ depended on Gil’s observation. If the girl in Stamford was Amy, the rest fell into place.

This time, she would demand to see Amy’s room and to talk to some of the other girls. She also had questions to ask the head mistress about the French music teacher.

The presence at her elbow impinged on her conscious mind. Gil, still looming, his long stride easily keeping pace with her rapid steps.

She stopped. “Did you want something, Lord Rutledge?”

Grave brown eyes met her glare, dark brows meeting above the straight aristocratic nose in a return glare. “I am helping.” Not an offer or even a request. An obdurate statement. Arrogant male.

Susan fought to keep her irritation from showing. “You have been helpful. Thank you. I can handle it from here.”

Gil lifted one shoulder and dropped it again. “Undoubtedly. Nonetheless…” A second shrug, as expressive as the first. She didn’t have time to argue; not that arguing ever changed Gilbert Rutledge’s mind once it was made up.

He had clearly decided his participation was a foregone conclusion. “What did the Foster chit tell you?”

She would be a fool to refuse him information that might make his help useful. “The Grahame chit,” she corrected. “Clementine Grahame said that her sister and Amy were always whispering together, and would not tell their secrets, so when Amy arrived at their house before breakfast and she and Patrice went up to Patrice’s bedroom, Clementine put her ear to the door to try to hear them or, failing that, spy on what they did next.”

He did not ask the obvious question; just waited for her to continue.

“They talked too low for her to understand. But Patrice left her room dressed as a boy and she and Amy caught Clementine in the hall. They threatened her with retribution if she told anyone what she had seen, and instructed her to tell the aunt they had left for the exhibition together. The rest of Clementine’s story is true, or so she assures me. She followed them here, and actually waited until they left in the post chaise. She then went off to school and pretended the whole thing had not happened.”

Exasperation coloured the last sentence. Susan understood the child’s fear of her unyielding aunt, and her jealousy of the friendship between the two older girls. But if Clementine had spoken earlier, Amy would be safe now.

“Come then, if you must. I am going to the school. You can question the headmistress about the French woman while I talk to Amy’s friends and check her room.” And if Susan weren’t so worried about her daughter, she might be amused at the thought of the coming confrontation between the haughtily disapproving educationalist and the grim uncompromising soldier.

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In praise of anaesthetics

 

I had a small medical procedure under local anaesthetic yesterday; around half an hour lying under a sterile cloth with a hole cut in it so the surgeon could work on the bit of flesh she wanted. We were chatting for much of that time about the difference that anaesthesia makes. Much as I love history, I wouldn’t want to live there. My surgeon said she’d had a similar discussion with the previous patient, this time about geography. Yes; there are places I wouldn’t want to live, too.

For most of history, surgery has been a last, and extremely painful, resort. Opium and alcohol were both used from ancient times, but both had unpleasant side effects and neither entirely blocked the pain. Knocking someone out with a blow to the head ensured they didn’t feel the surgery, but timing was a problem, and the blow could cause its own problems. The same applied to pressing on the carotid artery; the person would pass out, but recover quickly, and repeating the process was dangerous.

Surgeons relied on speed and strong helpers. The first to get the procedure over as quickly as possible, the second to hold the patient still.  In the eighteenth century, the record for the fastest amputation at the thigh was nine seconds, start to finish, including sawing through the bone. Are you impressed yet? Even the average, thirty seconds, was pretty damned fast.

Fanny Burney, the English novelist, describes her mastectomy thus:

When the dreadful steel was plunged into the breast … I needed no injunctions not to restrain my cries. I began a scream that lasted unintermittently during the whole time of the incision … so excruciating was the agony … I then felt the Knife [rack]ling against the breast bone – scraping it.

Ether was the first successful general anaesthesia, and it was first used in 1842. Think about that. Just over 170 years, and before that thousands of years of pain when surgery was the only option to save a life (or possibly two, in the case of caesarean section — more about that another time). Chloroform was introduced in 1847, followed closely by the first person to suffer sudden heart failure under anaesthesia. Both ether and chloroform have since been replaced by much safer agents.

And in 1884, came the first use of local anaesthesia — the nerves blocked by cocaine isolated from the coca plant.

We’ve come a long way since.

For more on the history of anaesthetics, see this timeline: http://www.histansoc.org.uk/timeline.html

 

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Gossip and scandal on WIP Wednesday

Gossip and scandal are the refuge of the bored, and our stories abound in people who have too little to do and too much time to take an interest in the doings of their neighbours, sometimes with malicious intent.

Today, I’m looking for excerpts where gossip, or the consequences of gossip, take centre stage. Mine is from House of Thorns.

Two weeks of mostly fine weather saw the standing part of Thorne Hall made weather tight, and had the local farmers scurrying to salvage what they could of the harvest. Papa seemed slightly better, too, enjoying daily outings in his chair as he lectured Brownlee on herbal lore and the romance poetry of medieval France.

Rosa’s new gown was delivered, and she wore it to Matins on the second fine Sunday with the new bonnet and shawl, feeling a guilty delight at outshining those who had scorned her. With an effort, she reminded herself that she was here to pray, not to show off her fine feathers, and she did penance by praying for the Pelmans and the Benfords.

The two women were waiting outside, talking to the vicar who had ridden over from a neighbouring parish since the rector had gone to stay with relatives for his convalescence. He was a young man, new to the area, and employed to cover the parish for an incumbent who had another living in Lancashire. “The wages of sin, I assure you,” Rosa heard Maud Benford say.

Rosa set her jaw, straightened her back and swept up to them, holding out her hand to the vicar as the other two drew away as if to avoid contamination. “Vicar Watson. I am Mrs Hugh Gavenor My husband and I own and are restoring Thorne Hall. I see you have already met my cousin, Maud, and her friend.

The vicar, with a nervous look at the other two women, tentatively took her hand and bowed slightly. “Mrs Gavenor. Ah… Er…”

Before he could figure out a way not to take sides, or to decide which side to take, a relief force of Rosa’s supporters joined them, introducing themselves and taking over the conversation. Miss Pelman and Mrs Benford withdrew, and the vicar, though not without several sideways glances at Rosa, accepted her presence in the middle of the chattering group.

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Tea with Pierce, Earl of Wainthorpe

Pierce, Earl of Wainthorpe finds himself in a position he never conceived of; in need of the haut ton’s approval. An unrepentant rake and member of the secret Wicked Earls’ Club, he must change his ways, or he’ll never gain guardianship of Bianca Salisbury—the young woman he won at cards. And for reasons, he can’t begin to explain, much less wants to examine closely, assuring her safety has become the most important thing in his life.

Barlow stood just inside the parlor entrance. “The Earl of Wainthorpe, Your Grace.”

Pierce surveyed the elegant room, and the even more elegant Duchess of Haversford. Well, he might as well get on with it. He’d come this far. He bowed over her hand, “Thank you for you invitation, Your Grace.”

“Wainthorpe. I am so pleased you could join me. Please be seated. Will you take tea?”

“Yes, please.” If he must. Pierce flipped his tails out of the way as he sank onto the dainty butter-colored chair. “As I said in my letter, I find myself in need of some direction, and who else, but someone of your pristine reputation to assist me?”

The duchess raised an elegant brow, but remained silent.

“Honestly,” devil it, Pierce felt like an errant school boy, “I wasn’t sure you’d see me. As you well know, I haven’t been the modicum of respectability.”

“I was indeed surprised to receive your letter, Wainthorpe, given your reputation. But I certainly have no interest in placing barriers in the way of a true intent to reform.” She lifted the silver sugar bowl. “Milk? Sugar?”

Don’t suppose he dared ask for coffee instead? No, better not. “Milk and two—er—three lumps, please.” It was about the only way he could abide the beverage.

“And tell me how I can help. And, more to the point. Why I should help.” She passed the cup, and began to prepare her own.

Piece took a sip while sorting while deciding on the best course of action. The duchess seemed a direct sort of person. “I’m determined to win the Chancery Court’s favor. In order to do so, I must have the support of peeresses like yourself.”

“Why?” She stirred her tea, not giving a hint of what she might be thinking.

Yes, definitely blunt and to the point.

Pierce leaned forward, trying to convey the urgency of the matter. “I won a young woman, Bianca Salisbury, in a card game against Lord Fairfax. He must not be permitted to remain her guardian.” He shook his head. “I shudder to think what would have happened to her had someone else won that hand of cards.”

The Duchess of Haverford straightened, and regarded him thoughtfully. “I think I need an explanation, young man. You won a young woman? I must say I agree that Lord Fairfax is a most unsuitable guardian, but are you any better? What do you intend for the girl, Wainthorpe?”

The last was sentence was arid.

This wasn’t going well.

Pierce set aside his teacup and pressed his lips together for a moment.

“Your Grace, she has no one to come to her aid. No one, save I, who cares enough to make sure Fairfax doesn’t use her as collateral again.” He sighed and had one finger inside his cravat to tug the choking cloth loose, before he caught himself. Pierce shook his head. “I freely admit I’ve been a rogue and a scoundrel, but I also have a sense of honor. My only intent is to keep her safe from her blackguard of a cousin.”

“Hmm. She truly has no one else?” Duchess Halversford peered at him, her eyes slightly squinted. “When I received your letter, I asked my son Aldridge about you. And Aldridge gave me the same report.” She pointed a long finger at him. “You are a rapscallion of Aldridge’s own stamp, but at base a man of honor as well.”

“The two are not as incongruous as they might seem, Your Grace.” He glanced out the festooned window. “For her sake, I cannot fail.”

“Very well. I warn you, however, of two things,” the duchess said.

He cocked his head. “Yes?”

“First, we shall not convert all of Society. Some stick to their beliefs. However, I flatter myself that where I lead, others will follow, and you will have my approval and support.”

“And?” Hope flickered brighter.

“Conditionally, which is my second point. I count myself the young lady’s champion, my lord, and will be watching how you conduct yourself with her.”

Relief flooded Pierce. “I expected no less.”

Now all he had to do was convince Bianca she was better off with him.

Earl of Wainthorpe: (Wicked Earls’ Club)

Could you ever love the unrepentant rake who won you in a wager?

He didn’t gamble on losing his heart when he won her at the gaming tables.

Pierce, the Earl of Wainthorpe has finally thwarted his worst enemy. Except he can’t revel in his victory after winning his foe’s ward in a winner-takes-all wager. If Pierce refuses to assume Bianca Salisbury’s guardianship, the fiery-haired beauty with a matching temper may very well find herself sold to the highest bidder.

The shameful secret she guards makes it impossible to love a rogue.

Desperate to escape her blackguard cousin, Bianca Salisbury ventures to London to find a husband or employment. Instead, she’s bartered to a notorious rakehell. She either risks being compromised and accepts The Earl of Wainthorpe’s protection, or flees him and her guardian. But without money and a place to go, she fears she’ll face the same tragic fate as her mother.

Caution: This romance features a sexy, irredeemable scoundrel determined to thumb his nose at the haut ton, a saucy country miss unafraid to speak her mind but terrified of even a hint of scandal, a unlikely aristocratic matchmaker, a trio of busybody sisters you’ll adore, and a very pregnant calico that is convinced humans are only around for her convenience.

PURCHASE THE EARL OF WAINTHORPE FOR $.99 HERE

https://books2read.com/EOWcc

Before the price goes up to $3.99!

Meet Collette Cameron

USA Today Bestselling author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish and Regency historicals featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them.

Blessed with three spectacular children, fantastic fans, and a compulsive, over-active, and witty Muse who won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she lives in Oregon with her mini-dachshunds, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-time.

Admitting to a quirky sense of humor, Collette enjoys inspiring quotes, adores castles and anything cobalt blue, and is a self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic. You’ll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances.

Connect with Collette:

Website: http://collettecameron.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/collettecameronauthor

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Twitter: http://twitter.com/Collette_Author

Amazon Author Page:  http://amazon.com/author/collettecameron.com/

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Newsletter: http://bit.ly/TheRegencyRose  (Get your FREE 3-Book Starter Library!)

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Can we learn from the past?

My current WIP is set during 1816, the year when summer didn’t come to the United Kingdom, bringing failed harvests, disease, starvation, and other ills. After the long economic pressures of war, times were tough, and unskilled labourers of the time must have despaired at their chances of keeping their families housed and fed, or even alive.

But things were about to improve, at least according to a lot of modern economists. They see widening real income inequality from the 14th century, peaking in the 18th century and beginning to improve from around 1814. For the wealthy, things improved as income from real estate rose and the cost of luxury goods dropped. The poor found it harder and harder to meet the rising cost of housing, especially as the prices of staple goods trended upwards and upwards.

For my book The Reign of Silence, I researched revolutionary movements in England during the early part of the 19th century. For a long time, those in power took the threat of bloody revolution very seriously, especially once the French provided a vivid example of the results of allowing a population to experience untrammeled greed long enough to get sick of it.

In the 19th century, and through to the First World War, the balance shifted as labour shortages forced wages up and real estate prices trended down. The trend reversed between the wars, with the incomes of the wealthy once more pulling away from the incomes of the rich. In the period I remember as my childhood, after the Second World War, income inequality was low, but since then it has reached 18th century levels once again.

Think about these figures (latest ones from the Oxfam report recently published):

  • 1700 England-Wales households:
    • Top 1% share 39.3% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 1740 England-Wales households:
    • Top 1% share 43.6% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 1774 US households:
    • Top 1% share 40% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 1929 US households:
    • Top 1% share 44.2% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 2017 global figures
    • Top 1% share 82% of income generated during the year.

Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and 10,000 kilometres of ocean between New Zealand and increasingly desperate people might not be enough.