Author: judeknight

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Introducing a villain (or two) on WIP Wednesday

“Good day, Lord Hardwicke,” called Rose across the garden wall. The elderly neighbour had been rolled out in his bath chair and parked on the terrace, just across the wall from the herb pots she had on the terrace of her brother’s townhouse.

The gardens near the house were narrow, and shaded by neighbouring trees. Pauline’s roses were further down the garden and got the sun most of the days, and Rose had a patch for her herbs down there, too. The terrace was out of the shade of the trees and caught the full afternoon sun. The plants that needed most of her care flourished here within a few steps of the house.

Lord Hardwicke, not so much. He looked more and more frail each time she saw him. “Miss Ransome,” he called. “A pleasant day for a spot of gardening.”

At least, that was what she understood him to say. His speech had recovered a lot—it had been almost gone altogether after the apoplexy he had suffered a couple of months ago. It was still garbled and hard to understand.

“I am cutting back the peppermint before it runs to flower, Lord Hardwicke,” she explained.

In answer to a garbled question, she agreed, “Yes, I will use it in tinctures at the hospital, to bring down fevers.”

In their conversations before his apoplexy, she had learned he had a personal interest in military hospitals. His grandson was a soldier, currently stationed in Ireland with one of the Highland regiments, and Lord Hardwicke worried about him.

Poor Lord Hardwicke. He had been lonely before his apoplexy and things were worse now. Before, he had few visitors and went out seldom. Now, he went nowhere, and the trickle of visitors had dried up to nothing, perhaps because they were turned away at the door, as Rose had been in the early days after the apoplexy, when she had become worried at his continued absence from his garden.

However, since his body failed, his wife had begun to entertain frequently. She had guests now. Rose could hear the tinkle of tea cups and the buzz of conversation, drifting through the windows that were open in the heat of the day.

That was probably why the poor old man was out on the Terrace. Lady Hardwicke would not want her guests to see him. That was another thing that had changed since Lord Hardwicke was struck down. Lord and Lady Hardwicke used to stay home together, she busying herself with redecorating the house, he with his books and his garden.

Before, Lady Hardwicke was all sweet words and flattery. “Yes, my lord. You are so clever, my lord. It must be as you say, my lord.” Not after. Rose had heard her talking to her poor husband. She obviously had not seen Rose, who was kneeling down to weed the pots, for Lady Hardwicke did not measure her words.

“You useless lump of meat. Why could you not have died in your fit? I’d be a rich widow. Well. The doctor says the next one could kill you, so we live in hope, Phillip and I. I can’t wait for the day I can dance on your grave. Perhaps I won’t wait. Phillip says it would be a kindness to hold a pillow over your face.”

“Na i’ ma will.” Lord Hardwicke forced out the words, and Lady Hardwicke slapped the poor old man’s face.

Phillip, Rose had discovered through the medium of the network of servants in the surrounding houses, was Phillip Wolfendale, Lord Hardwicke’s valet. Rose had seen him. His hair was white, though he was at least ten younger than Lady Hardwicke, in years at least. Rose put his age in the mid-twenties.

His skin was pale, too, and his eyes were a startling pale blue. He had seen her peering over the wall, though Lady Hardwicke never noticed. Seen her and challenged her, for he had come close to the wall and stared into her eyes.

“The Ransome bastard, isn’t it? Mind your own business, Lady Rosalind Ransome. There is nothing to interest you on this side of the wall, and people who interfere are liable to come to bad ends.”

Rose still felt a shiver of fear when she remembered the look he gave her.

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Tea with Cordelia

The Duchess of Haverford had formed the habit of holding an afternoon tea early in the Season for the current year’s debutantes. It gave the girls an opportunity to meet one another away from the endless manoeuvring of the marriage mart and out from under the thumbs of their mothers and chaperones, who were having tea in another room down the hall.

It also allowed Eleanor, the duchess, to discover likely protégés and possible problems. Every year-group of debutantes had them. The girls who had the potential to join the ranks of the ladies whose work for diverse charities contributed so much to the wellbeing of the country their husbands governed. The girls whose sole focus was themselves, and who would tear others down in order to promote their own interests.

Eleanor circled the room, attempted to speak to each girl in turn. “Let me see,” she said to the latest, a very pretty young little lady with light brown curls. “You are Miss Cordelia Milton, are you not.”

The lady lifted her chin proudly and somewhat defensively. “I am, Your Grace. I am the daughter of Josiah Milton.”

Eleanor nodded. No shrinking violet this one. “I am acquainted with Mr Milton. We serve on some of the same committees.” Mr Milton was a self-made man, rising from humble beginning to become one of the richest men in the United Kingdom. Miss Milton was his only child.

Miss Milton’s face lit up with a lovely smile. “My father has mentioned you, Your Grace. He has nothing but praise for your influence as a trustee of the orphanages he also supports. Also the asylum for women.”

A safe haven for wayward women, facing the consequences of the lifestyle many had not adopted out of choice. The world they lived in was not kind to women who had children out of wedlock, no matter how they arrived at that unhappy state.

“Do you also have an interest in such causes, Miss Milton?” Eleanor asked.

The girl nodded with another of her delightful smiles. “My father says that we have been blessed with more than our share of riches, and that we ought to share what we can in a way that will do the most good.”

An excellent attitude, and one that was rare among the aristocracy. Mr Milton clearly intended his daughter educated to marry into the upper sort. She certainly had had the education, and was ladylike in appearance and manners. No one would sniff, either, at her dowry or her beauty.

But whether the young men currently on the market could get over the young lady’s working class connections was another matter. Perhaps someone from the gentry would be less likely to look down on Miss Miller for her antecedents.

Eleanor resolved to do what she could to smooth the girl’s path.

***

Cordelia is falls in love with the son and heir of a marquess, and their road to happiness is marred by the snobbishness that Eleanor derides.

 

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Two preorders for your reading pleasure

Have you heard about these two preorders? Both are part of multi-author series, and both are coming out later this year.

The Blossoming of the Wallflower

Book 21 in The Revenge of the Wallflowers

As a gardener, Merrilyn Parkham-Smythe, was happy to be called a wallflower. Wallflowers were tenacious, long blooming, colourful and reliable plants, easy to care for as long as they had a fair share of sun. Like them, Merrilyn had no objection to providing providing background to the showier and more troublesome ladies of Society. She did object to being slighted and bullied by those highly praised blooms and their male counterparts.

The gentleman next door, for example. He had killed an entire herbacious border, pruned all the flowers off her magnolia tree, refused to see her when she called, and failed to reply to her letters of complaint. He richly deserved what he had coming. Didn’t he?

Justin Falconbridge hadn’t meant to offend the lady next door. He supposed he should have known that treating his carriageway with lime and sulfur to kill the weeds might affect the plants next door, but they would grow again, wouldn’t they? And wasn’t he entitled to cut off the flowers that dropped onto said carriage way and made it slipperly underfoot?

It was a pity she only spoke to him to abuse him, because he could think of a better use for those perfectly shaped lips than to hurl abuse at him. Since he couldn’t be in her presence without thoughts that were inappropriate in the presence of an innocent lady, he had to ignore her. Sooner or later, she would give up and leave him alone. Which is what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

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This one is out in July. You can preorder it from most major retailers: Books2read https://books2read.com/TBotW

If you’d like to see the other books in the series, check here. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CKHNCQ6T

The Widow’s Christmas Rogue

Book 30 in The Wicked Widow’s League

Jessica Lady Colyton has no intention of being a wicked widow and has no time for rogues.  No time for men, in fact. Her father and her brothers were rogues enough for a lifetime, and her deceased husband was a scoundrel of quite a different type. However, she has joined the Wicked Widow’s League, and is grateful for their help to get her back on her feet after her husband’s will proves to be just one more blow from a controlling and manipulative man.

They have even organised for her to have a week’s holiday in the country. She blesses them right up until she finds a naked rogue in her bed.

Benjamin Lord Somerford is no rogue, unlike the father and brother whose deaths brought him a title and a barrow load of responsibilities that give him little time to play. He refuses an invitation to his sister’s Christmas house party because he has no time for the beauties she has undoubtedly invited to tempt him into matrimony.

When he wakes up in a strange bed, naked and tied down, he has no idea how he came to be there and wants no part whatever plot is underway. Thankfully, the lady who finds him is of the same mind. When a snowstorm prevents them from leaving, they must work together not just to survive but to avoid scandal.

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This one will be a treat for next Christmas. Again, you can preorder from most major retailers: Books2read https://books2read.com/u/m26zvd

If you’d like to see the other books in the series, check here. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BFJ29XQ2

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Inauspicious first meeting on WIP Wednesday

They came from the shadows, half a dozen men in layers of dirty rags, with knives or broken planks in their hands and hunger in their eyes.

Reuben, their footman, moved in front of Rose, who was a step ahead of Pauline. Harris, the groom, passed the sisters to join Reuben. He muttered, for their ears only, “Get back, my ladies, and if you see an opportunity, run.”

Rose would have stepped up beside him, ready to fight, but Pauline grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “We have to help them,” she objected.

Pauline did not agree. “The biggest help we can be is to stay out of their way, and escape when we have the chance. They can make his own escape if they do not have to worry about us.”

She did not say, but Rose knew, that it was Rose’s fault they were on London’s streets in this unsavoury area after dark. But how could she have left the hospital earlier? Private Brown had asked for her. He was not expected to survive the night. Rose could do little but hold his hand, but that helped, or so Mr. Parslow, the superintendent, believed.

So Rose sent home the carriage her brother had sent for her, and her maid. She could not see any reason why they should sit up all night. Which had brought them here, in the early hours of the morning, facing murder or worse for the sake of the clothes they stood up in and whatever price she and Pauline might fetch in the brothels, for neither of them was foolish enough to carry valuables with them on an errand into this part of town.

Harris had a two-barrel pistol, which was making the footpads think twice.

“Is it worth being shot?” Reuben was arguing, persuasively. “Harris is a good shot, so at least two of you will not survive. Just let us go our way and no one needs to be hurt.”

“I am sorry, Pauline. I never meant for this.”

Pauline squeezed Rose’s hand. “You did not ask me to bring the carriage back to get you, and you did not arrange for the carriage axle to collapse.” Which it had done five streets from the hospital and only three from the broader streets patrolled by the watch.

The footpads’ leader had a counter offer. “How ’bout you gie us all the morts’ glimmers and you can go your way?”

Glimmers, Rose guessed, must be jewelry. “I am not wearing any jewelry,” she told Pauline. “Are you?”

“No, and I do not have money with me, either.”

I would rather die rather than be sold into a brothel, Rose decided. She put her hand into the pocket she wore under her gown, a slit in the side seam giving discrete access. At least Private Brown would not be disappointed when she did not return tomorrow. He had breathed his last some fifteen minutes before Pauline arrived with the carriage.

She unfolded the object she retrieved from the pocket, extracting the blade from the bone handle to give her a small but perfectly serviceable dagger. “I have this,” she announced. “If I kill my sister and myself, will the clothing you can retrieve from our bodies be enough to compensate for this area being overrun with Red Breasts for the next few weeks, until they find every last one of you? For we will be missed, and my brother knows where we went.”

The footpads went into a huddle, most of them still keeping an eye on their annoyingly uncooperative prey.

“I’m not sure you should have done that,” said Pauline, and Harris, the groom, groaned. “Not a good idea, Lady Rose.”

In the next moment, Rose found out why, as the footpads’ leader shouted, “Take the skirts alive, especially the mouthy one!” Four of them hurled themselves towards poor Reuben and Harris, and two began skirting around the fight that ensued to grab Rose and Pauline.

Rose had no time to spare a glance for the servants, though she heard a shot. She was determined not to be taken. The man who attacked her jerked back, screaming imprecations, his hand spraying blood. The second man took advantage of Rose’s distraction to seize Pauline, who hit him with her umbrella. He grasped the umbrella and ripped it from her hands, then stumbled backwards.

Rose took a moment to realise that a large someone in dark clothes and a cape had dragged the man away from Pauline and swung him head first into a wall. A meaty hand landing on her shoulder was her only warning that the assailant she had cut had gone back on the attack. Before she even had time to struggle, the caped man had punched him hard enough to hurl him backwards.

One of the other footpads shouted, “It’s the Wolf!” In moments, three of them were running. The two that had attacked Rose and Pauline lay where the caped man had put them. One of the servants’ attackers was also down, presumably shot, but so was Harris. Reuben was picking himself up from the ground. As far as Rose could see in the poor light, he was unharmed.

She hurried to Harris, kneeling to feel for his pulse. As she did, he groaned. Thank goodness! He was alive. “Harris, can you hear me?” she asked.

“Lady Rosalind.” He caught back a yelp as he rolled to get his legs under him. “Reuben, lad, a hand,” he begged.

As she got up from her knees, Rose caught back her objection to him moving. She could not examine him in the dark, and they needed to get off these streets as quickly as possible.

Harris said out loud what she had been thinking. “We need to get the ladies out of here before they come back to get their men.”

The footpads! She had forgotten them. She took two steps towards the one who had been punched, and who was now groaning. The man they called the Wolf stopped her. “Stay back! If he can he will use you as a shield, and your servants suffering will be for nothing.”

Oh dear. “But they have been hurt,” she pointed out. “I do not like to just leave them.”

“We will leave them to their own kind,” Pauline decided. “We cannot risk Harris and Reuben for the sake of men who would have killed us or sold us without a second thought. Come along, Rose.”

“You are right,” Rose agreed, falling obediently into step with her sister. Reuben came behind, one arm around Harris to support him. The Wolf ranged around them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, and sometimes walking beside them for a few paces.

In the moonlight, filtered as it was through London’s fog, she could not see more of him than she had from the beginning. A large man, broad and tall. Dark clothes covered by a thigh-length cape. Try as she might, she could not see his face, even when he turned his face towards her to deliver a disparaging remark. He had an arsenal of them.

“This is no place for ladies of your kind.”

“What would your family do if you were killed or worse?”

“You put your servants at risk. Did you think of that before you planned your little jaunt?”

All said in the accents of a gentleman and in a pleasant voice that sounded as if he might sing tenor.

Watch out for Inviting the Wolf, due to Dragonblade Publishing at the end of this month. It is inspired by Little Red Riding Hood. (With a Jude Knight twist or two)

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Tea with a would-be rescuer

November 1793

“Is it dangerous?” Eleanor asked her husband’s unacknowledged brother.

They had been friends for close to a decade, since he first rescued a drunken Haverford from footpads one evening, and dragged him home to Haverford House.

He had said, in exasperation, “I do not know why I bother. He never changes. I should have left him in the gutter to rot.”

She had replied, “I wish…” and then had caught the rest of the words back. They were not true, in any case. She wished her husband at the other end of the country. She wished him on a five year diplomatic mission to Asia. But she did not wish him dead. She had not descended to that level.

Tolliver had somehow understood all of that without her saying it, and after that often kept her informed about her husband’s activities. He had taught her how to use this information to manage the distance that she needed to keep from Haverford in order to stay sane.

She was mother to the duke’s two sons, his official hostess, the chatelaine of his houses, an asset to him in his political campaigning, but other than that, he largely left her alone. She owed much of that to Tolliver.

He was testing her gratitude now. Bad enough that he risked his own life in missions into the horror that France had become now that the Committee for Public Safety was sending dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people to the guillotine.

But he wanted to take David. The boy she had taken into her house and into her heart was twenty, barely a man. She would fear for him every day he was over the channel. He was eager to go, and Eleanor had no power to stop him.

“Is it dangerous?” Tolliver asked. “I will not lie to you, Eleanor. It is. We take every precaution, but there is always danger. I can promise you that I will watch over David. He is my nephew, after all.”

That was true. Tolliver, the base-born brother of Haverford, and David, Haverford’s base-born son. “He is very young…” she began, but David answered her from the doorway.

“Not so young. I am a man, Your Grace.” He stepped cautiously into the little parlour, as if he expected Haverford to emerge from a corner to berate him. Haverford had got it into his head that David was a danger to Aldridge, his eldest legitimate son. It was ridiculous, but Haverford had made the claim and would not back down.

Still, he had come to Haverford House at her request, bless the boy.

“The duke is away in Brighton with the Prince of Wales,” Eleanor assured him. “Yes, David, I know you are a man. I hope you will forgive me for worrying about you.”

“I shall be as careful as I can, Your Grace,” David assured her. “But this has to be done, and I am able to help do it. Wish me well, Your Grace, and let me go with your blessing.”

“You have my blessing, David, and I shall pray for you every day until you return to England,” said Eleanor.

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A retrospective on 2023

I’m taking a look back at 2023. It was my first year of publishing with Dragonblade Publishing, and the year of my first Bookbub Featured Deal. Those two factors and my massive publishing push where the great hurrahs of the year. Lots of small satisfactions, too. Some amazing reviews, some wonderful people met along the way, a few outstanding moments with friends. 2023 had its problems and its worries. I lost six weeks of writing in the last third of the year to a family bereavement followed by an illness, and the sales of certain well-reviewed books were less than inspiring. I do wonder what a writer needs to do today to get noticed. As in any industry, there are many people out there selling the one exclusive sure to work answer. How does one find out who has the snake oil and who the golden ticket?

All in all, a mixed year. Now what will 2024 bring? I’ll have a go at a partial answer to that question next Sunday!

2023 was the year I published at least one book a month. It took a bit of doing, but I made it! Of course, the first six were written before the year started. On the other hand, the first four for this year were written in 2023, plus another for a bit later in the year if I do the box set I have in mind.

24 January 2022 The Golden Redepennings: Books 1 to 4

16 February 2023 Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, book 1 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale

22 March 2023 The Husband Gamble

29 March 2023 The Flavour of Our Deeds, book 5 in The Golden Redepennings

28 April 2023 The Talons of a Lyon, a book in the Lyon’s Den Connected World

11th May 2023 One Perfect Dance, book 2 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale

20th June 2023 Chaos Come Again, book 1 in Lion’s Zoo

11th July 2023 Grasp the Thorn (House of Thorns revised and republished), book 2 in Lion’s Zoo

8th August 2023 Snowy and the Seven Doves, book 3 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale

26th August 2023 Crossing the Lyon, a short story in the multi-author book Night of Lyons

7th September 2023 Perchance to Dream, book 4 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale 

10th October 2023 Love in its Season a novella in the Bluestocking Belles 2023 box set Under the Harvest Moon

15th November 2023 One Hour of Freedom, book 3 in Lion’s Zoo

26th December 2023 Christmastide Kisses, a Bluestocking Belles with friends collection

29th December 2023 The Darkness Within, book 4 in Lion’s Zoo

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1792 in England

The book I am about to send off to the publishers is set in 1792–a bit out of my usual era.

Most of my books are set in the Regency, broadly speaking. Technically, the Regency ran from February 1811, when the Prince of Wales was named Regent for his father the King, to January 1820, when the King died and Prince George inherited the Crown.

In common practice, the term is used to mean a longer period, from somewhere around 1795 until the start of the reign of Queen Victoria, in June 1837.

So The Sincerest Flattery isn’t covered by even the longest definition.

It was three years after the storming of the Bastille, but at the time of the story, the King of France, his wife, and his children were still alive, and not yet in prison. The French National Assembly, set up in 1789,were still debating the shape of government, with those who support some form of constitutional monarchy unable to find common ground with one another, let alone those who want a republic. This impasse ended in August 1792, after the events in my story, with the arrest of the king for treason. In January 1793, he was tried and executed.

After the king’s execution, declarations of war poured into France from various European powers and the United Kingdom (who at the time would not have thanked you for considering them European–the more things change, the more they remain the same). From then until the end of the Napoleonic era, France was at war for all but a couple of short respites.

In June 1793, the extremists took over. They ordered more aristocrats to the guillotine. The Reign of Terror had begun. It looms large in historical fiction and historical romance, but lasted around a year.

Political instability continued the Directorate was formed in 1795, their power supported by the army which was now led by a young general named Napoleon Bonaparte.

In 1792, the fashionable Englishwoman was not yet wearing what we think of as Regency fashion. Nor was she wearing the huge ornate gowns and towering wigs fashionable at time her mother made her debut. Instead, waists were still on the natural waistline–though by 1795 they had crept up to the Empire line (so-called because it was favoured by Josephine Bonaparte, and therefore by the women of the French court). They wouldn’t head back towards the waist again for another twenty-five years.

She wasn’t powdering her hair, though, or wearing a wig. Hair powder had already become unpopular with the most fashionable before the British government put a tax on it.

 

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Escaping the family on WIP Wednesday

Lia went upstairs, the name Percy had called her running through her mind. My golden girl. She knew, of course, that Aurelia meant the golden one, but nobody had ever before suggested that the name was appropriate for her. Her mother had made the name distasteful by the way she said it, as if her disappointment with her daughter began with her name. But she didn’t mind Lance saying it, and Percy’s interpretation almost reconciled her entirely.

As she passed the second floor, she stopped to find out where her mother was, adopting the simple but effective tactic of asking the maids. Mama was no longer with the duke, but she and Father had retreated into their rooms. Since they could not be depended on to stay there, Lia hurried up to the third floor to ask after Miss Walton, who was resting and comfortable, or so said Miss Hatfield when she came to the door in answer to Lia’s knock.

“Do you or Miss Walton need anything,” Lia asked? “My mother has put me in charge of seeing to your comfort, so please let me know what I can provide to help you.” Remembering Percy’s twist on her mother’s words made her smile again. To think she had been afraid that marriage would just be a move from one prison to another!

Before she returned to the main stairs, Pansy arrived. “His lordship suggested we left the house by the servants’ stairs, my lady. He’s a right one, is Lord Thornstead, isn’t he, my lady? He and Lord Lancelot will be waiting by the kitchen door.”

They were, too, armed with enough umbrellas and rain capes to go around. “Let’s check the sheep,” Percy suggested. “I have a familial interest in the lambs that were born while I was in charge.”

Lia didn’t mind where they walked. When her mother was in residence, the air inside the house was harder to breathe and the knowledge that her mother might send for her at any moment weighed her down. Stepping outside allowed the weight to roll off her back, and she was able to take a full breath for the first time since Mama and Father returned from Berwick yesterday evening.

“We will not stay out for too long,” she decreed, against her own wishes. She must remember that the gentlemen were not long out of their sickbeds. “I will not be responsible for you becoming sick again. What would His Grace say?”

“Something sarcastic,” Lance suggested. “Seriously, though, if we choose to walk out in the cold and become ill again, His Grace will blame us. You are not responsible for what other people do, Lia.”

“I am apparently responsible for every misstep my brothers make,” Lia retorted.

Percy took her hand. “They cannot blame you when you are married to me and gone,” he pointed out.

Even through the gloves, his touch set off what she was beginning to think of as “the Percy effect.” Every time he touched her, she felt strange. Restless. Tingly. When he placed his bare hands around her bare hands in the library, and especially when he kissed them, she had had the mad urge to kiss his, or perhaps to kiss his cheek. Or more.

She had seen people around the estate kissing. By accident, such as when she came round a corner and a footman and maid leapt apart and tried to pretend they were working. Or when she entered the stable without warning and surprised a groom and a dairy maid in a passionate embrace.

At the party that celebrated the end of shearing, too. She was never allowed to stay past dark, but even before dark, drink dissolved inhibitions and propriety, and several couples were less hidden in the shadows than they thought.

Kissing had something to do with making babies. Mama became distressed and angry when she asked about it, and even Miss Walton refused to discuss the matter, saying any questions would be better addressed to her future husband.

Lia had been frustrated by the answer, but now she thought it was wise. She would ask Percy at the first opportunity, and she knew he would not laugh at her ignorance, but would give her a proper answer. She could trust Percy.

 

This one is from The Sincerest Flattery. The picture isn’t quite appropriate, but the period is correct.

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Tea with Lia and Percy

They met in the little park opposite the confectioners, The Pot and Pineapple. The Duchess of Haverford had brought her two sons, as promised. The Marquis of Aldridge, a boy of eleven, bowed in proper form and followed that with a brilliant smile.

He has his father’s–our father’s–charm in full measure, Lia thought. He looked like His Grace, too. Fair hair, hazel eyes, a figure that was still lean young boy but that bid fair to be as tall and well formed as his–as their father’s one day.

The duchess presented her younger son Lord Jonathan, a sturdy toddler who would look like his brother and father when he grew, and a youth of about her age with dark curls but the same hazel eyes. “And this is David, Lady Aurelia,” Her Grace said, when she introduced him. “Half-brother to my sons and to you.”

Lia had, she supposed, been fortunate to take after her mother, with her dark brown hair, but where the grey eyes came from, she did not know. Her father also had dark hair, and fair locks might have raised more than a few eyebrows.

The young marquess must have been thinking along the same lines. “I expected you to look like him,” he said. “We all do, except that David has black hair.”

“Lady Aurelia looks like her mother did at that age,” said the duchess, “or so I have been told.”

“Mama says that I cannot acknowledge you as my sister,” Aldridge announced. “Which is stupid, because everyone knows. But we can be friends, can we not?”

“Of course, we can,” Lia agreed.

“Good,” Aldridge agreed. “For your husband and I shall be dukes one day, and it is hard to have friends when you are going to be a duke, Lady Aurelia, Lord Thornstead.” He sighed, his eyes far too world-weary for an eleven year old. “Everyone wants something from a duke’s heir.”

“Friends then,” said Percy, holding out his hand. “I am Percy and my wife prefers family to call her Lia.”

The smile flashed again, even more brilliant. “Percy and Lia,” Aldridge repeated.

“Jonathan wants cake,” announced the toddler. Which, since The Pot and Pineapple was just across the road, Lord Jonathan was able to have. In fact, they all enjoyed some of the confections from the famous shop, and had a comfortable coze in the park.

Percy’s close relationship with his brothers and sisters had made Lia–not jealous, exactly, for they had welcomed her into their warm arms. Wistful was the right word. Her own family was broken–her mother and the man she had always thought to be her father at constant war, her brothers taught to regard her with suspicion and scorn. Now, perhaps, she had a family of her own. Brothers who wanted to be friends. It was a good day.

***

(Percy and Lia are hero and heroine of The Sincerest Flattery, coming in April 2024.)