Book series

by

Deathbed promises on WIP Wednesday


I wrote this preface to Within the Heart last week. I’ve moved on. It’s not going to be in the final book. But it is still part of the work in progress, so I thought I’d share it with you.

The rain drummed on the roof above the tiny attic room, making it hard for Ruth to hear her brother’s thready voice. She leant closer to the bed, which was just a thin mattress on the floor, not even the mean bed that she had in the maid’s quarters where she should be, except that the butler had permitted her into this part of the attic to nurse her sick brother.

“Promise me, Ruth,” Ricky said. “Promise me you’ll go to London in my place. The streets are paved with gold in London, so they say. You’ll be rich, just like I always promised.”

Ruth clung to Ricky’s hand. “You’ll get better,” she said. “You’ll get better, and we’ll go together. That’s what we planned, Ricky. I can’t do it on my own.”

“You can,” Ricky said. “You have to. I’ll be in heaven watching you, Ruth. I’ll watch you every step of the way.”

“No, Ricky.”

“Yes. You can do it, twin. Do it for me.”

That wee bit of conversation had exhausted him. He fell back on his pillow and lapsed back into sleep.

The doctor wouldn’t come for a scullion, said the butler, but he sent for Mrs. Brown, the wise woman. She examined Ricky and said it was the ague. She suggested a mustard plaster, and Ruth made it with her own hands and applied it. But it didn’t help, and nor did the ginger tea that Ruth had to pay for with a few coins from the twin’s meager store.

Mrs. Brown came again and shook her head. “Prepare yourself for the worst, girl,” she advised Ruth, but how could Ruth prepare oneself for the loss of the only person that was hers in the whole world?

Ricky woke again a few more times, and in one of his lucid periods, he asked Ruth to read the letter. She was carrying it in her apron pocket, for it was too precious to leave with her possessions or his.

Ricky had made a posset for a London gentleman who was staying in the house, and the gentleman had been so impressed that he had offered Ricky a job. Ricky had asked for a letter to show the gentleman’s cook, and the gentleman had laughed and given it to him.

It had one sentence, the one Ricky had built his dream on. “Give this boy a job.” Then the man’s signature. That was all.

“See, Ricky,” said Ruth. “I cannot go. They’re expecting a boy.”

“Pretend to be me,” said Ricky. “Promise, Ruth.”

And in the end, Ruth promised.

by

My September sales books

This month, I have my usual monthly sale, plus my quarterly sale of one series. You’re welcome!

Monthly sale

My September sale books are A Most Excellent Adventure (a novella in The Golden Redepennings series), the novel The Realm of Silence (book 3 in The Golden Redepennings series), and Paradise Triptych (a collection of two novellas and a memoir in The Return of the Mountain King).

A Most Excellent Adventure https://books2read.com/u/4DrxLO

The Realm of Silence https://books2read.com/TheRealmofSilence

Paradise Triptych https://books2read.com/Triptych

Quarterly sale

For two weeks in September, I have the series The Return of the Mountain King on sale, plus all the novellas for secondary characters who appear in the series.

The four novels are usually $4.49: the first novel is reduced to $0.99 and the other three to half price.

  1. To Wed a Proper Lady  https://books2read.com/CMK-ProperLady
  2. To Mend the Broken Hearted https://books2read.com/Broken-Hearted
  3. To Claim the Long-Lost Lover https://books2read.com/CMK-Claim
  4. To Tame a Wild Rake https://books2read.com/CMK-ToTame

The six other books are Paradise Triptych, which is two novellas and a memoir reduced from $2.49 to $1.49, and five other stand alone novellas, each reduced from $1.49 to $0.99.

by

The Assassination of Spencer Perceval

The novel I’ve recently sent to the publisher is set against the background of civil unrest in 1812, and the assassination of Spencer Perceval, the only Prime Minister of England ever to have been killed while in public office. Here’s what I wrote in the Author’s Note about those circumstances.

The assassination of Spencer Perceval is an historical fact. He is the sole British prime minister ever to have been assassinated. He was killed at about 5.15pm on May 11th 1812 by a Liverpool merchant with a grievance against the government.

Perceval’s determination to continue the war against Napoleon had led to harsh measures that added to the poverty and unrest already besetting the country, but that wasn’t what upset Bellingham. He blamed the government for his financial losses over a business deal gone sour in Russia. The Russians took the side of merchants who had Bellingham arrested over a debt owed by a business associate. The British ambassador refused to intervene, as the point at issue was a civil debt. Bellingham refused any compromise, and made such a nuisance of himself that the Russians imprisoned him, and it was not until 1809 that he returned to England, determined to seek compensation for his imprisonment and financial losses.

After spending more than a year petitioning every level of government, Bellingham apparently decided that he had only one recourse. By killing Perceval, he believed he would have a chance to put his case to a judge, and be vindicated at last.

It is true, as I show in the novel, that there was widespread rejoicing on the part of hungry workers when Perceval was killed, and widespread grief amongst his friends and colleagues. The ruling classes initially feared that Perceval’s assassination was part of a revolution, or might cause one, and the government responded by calling out the Foot Guards, mounted troops, the City militia, and the local watches.

It is also true that his trial was held a few days after the shooting, on Friday 15th May. His execution followed on the following Monday. A week after Perceval died, Bellingham was hanged. While justice delayed is justice denied, justice rushed so fast that the accused has no time to prepare a case must also be flawed.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Andro Linklater, author of the book “Why Spencer Perceval Had to Die.” It was from this book that I learned many of the details that form the background of the story. I am particularly indebted to Linklater for pointing out that Bellingham suddenly found a source of income in the weeks immediately prior to the assassination. He paid his rent, purchased two guns and ammunition to go with them, bought new clothing, and took his landlady and her child out sightseeing.

Linklater’s theory is that powerful merchants on both sides of the Atlantic resented Perceval’s continued fight against the slave trade. He makes a good case for his choice as Bellingham’s paymaster, and perhaps he is correct. Read the book and see what you think.

For my purposes, I chose another historical character, General Isaac Gascoyne, who apparently knew the identity of the victim without being told, claimed not to recognize Bellingham though he had met him several times, and changed his testimony several times.

All the other members of my conspiracy and their opposition are fictional.

by

Books on sale August 1st to August 31st

Jude’s August sale books are Lost in the Tale (a collection of Regency novellas), the novel One Hour in Freedom (book 3 in the Lion’s Zoo series), and Melting Matilda (a novella aligned with The Return of the Mountain King).

Lost in the Tale https://books2read.com/LostintheTale

One Hour in Freedom https://books2read.com/LionZooOHiF

Melting Matilda https://books2read.com/MeltingMatilda

by

A different approach to parenting on WIP Wednesday

I’m expecting Twisted Magic back from the editor within the month, so it is on my mind. In the following excerpt, my heroine is hiding from pursuers in a forest that is home to the fae. And she is comparing their way of living with that of people outside of the forests.

Sephie felt as if she was free for the first time in her life. Free from the expectations—and disappointment—of others. Free from responsibilities. Free from all the restrictions that built prickly hedges of “thou shalt nots” around well-born ladies.

The fae did not live like that. Like other humans, they all had different gifts, both magical and mundane, but they did not rank them, making one more important than another. A person with a gift for magical weaving was not less nor more important than a person with a gift for weaving without magic, and a person who could cause a tree to grow a branch broad enough for a house floor was not less nor more important than a person who could teach mathematics to the children and any adult with an interest, or throw a perfectly proportioned pot.

The only expectations, as far as Sephie could discover, were to find what one was good at and do it well, to treat one another kindly, and to cherish and protect the children.

She spoke to Taz about it one morning. The fae had not yet arrived and they had the rooms to themselves. “I did not know families could be like this. Is it only the fae? But Lord and Lady Baradine love their adopted children just as fiercely and completely. Did you know love like this when you were a child?”

Taz shook his head. “From my mother, perhaps. Before she died. I was only eight, and I cannot be certain what I remember and what I merely wish to have been the case. Especially since, for years, I couldn’t bear to think about her at all.”

He fell silence, staring into nothing, and she took his hand as a gesture of sympathy. He turned hers over and placed a kiss in it. “What about you, Sephie? Did your mother love you the way these fae folk love their children?”

No. Not in Sephie’s memory. But perhaps, as Taz said, she was too young to know. “I am like you. I would like to think so. But I have few memories of her. Just a person in clothes that rustled, jewelry that glittered in the candlelight and a cloud of perfume. I think my nursemaid used to take me to see her when she was dressing for dinner. She would kiss my cheek when she saw me. If she was in a very good mood, she would hug me and rain kisses all over my face. And then she would tell the nursemaid to take me away.”

She sighed, the memory so distant that it seemed a dream. “Fae mothers see their children more than once a day, I think. Like you, I was eight when she left. She was running away with a lover, and died when her carriage went over a cliff.”

by

Books on sale July 1st to July 31st

Jude’s July sale books are If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales (a collection of Regency novellas), Revealed in Mist, and Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby (a novella in The Golden Redepennings).

If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales https://books2read.com/IfMistletoeCouldTellTales

Revealed in Mist https://books2read.com/RevealedinMist

Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby https://books2read.com/LordCalnesChristmasRuby

by

Misconceptions on WIP Wednesday

A short excerpt from The Forbidden Door, my most urgent current project. Isolde has just escaped a kidnapping attempt, in which Fletch was injured.

***

Isolde continued to impress. She didn’t react to Arthur’s suspicious hostility, and nor did she show any outward concern over the news that she had been the target of the attack on the carriage. Though as to that, Fletch had warned her about the strangers in the village days ago—had it really been over a week ago? She had been the focus of their attention then, so it was no surprise to him that the attack had been on her account. But kidnapping? That implied she had a value to the conspirators that Tolliver was hunting.

Unless Arthur’s joke was, in fact, true. Could it be that one of the conspirators or another man entirely wanted Isolde in the most elemental of senses? Stranger things had happened, and Fletch had to admit that Isolde was a highly attractive woman. “Can you think of any admirers who might go this far, Isolde?”

She shook her head. “No one admires me,” she argued. “My own first husband didn’t admire me. His friends disliked me so much they called me the Ice Queen. You can barely stand me, and you only married me because… Why did you marry me? Surely you could have asked me questions without tying yourself to me for life? It was just that you wanted a mother for Margaret, was it not? And I was offering?”

There were so many misconceptions in that sentence that Fletch was lost for words for a moment. It didn’t help that his headache had been building for the whole of the hour he had been sitting in his chair, and had now stepped up from the drummers in the head stage to miners with mattocks carving chunks out of his skull.

Arthur, however, had no hesitation in providing a correction. “Mrs. Fletching, I believe you are laboring under several misapprehensions. First, the crowd around Mr. Parker called you the Ice Queen as a compliment. They saw you as capable, intelligent, virtuous, and untouchable, so of course they pretended to mock you to your face, while behind your back they feared and desired you. They admired you enormously, as did Mr. Parker himself. He felt himself unworthy of you. In that, as far as I can ascertain, he was correct.”

Isolde was shaking her head in disbelief, but Arthur had not finished. “Second, Fletch, is having the same difficulty, though since he is not a waste of space like most of the men who partied with Parker, he does not mock you in order to mask his admiration.”

Thank goodness Arthur thought better of adding the third point, which was that Fletch had not, in fact, intended to tie himself to Isolde for life. Arthur was correct, however, that Fletch was rethinking that position.

“It was not just for Margaret,” Fletch grumbled. It was the most he was prepared to admit.

Isolde stared at him, her jaw dropping. “Truly?” she asked.

Whether she was referring to him or to Arthur and his gaggle, Fletch could not be certain, but he answered as if it was the latter. “Certainly. Nearly all of Parker’s circle admired you, apart from Richardson, who was set in his adverse opinion of you, and one or two others. I cannot think of any of them, though, who has the intelligence and tenacity for this kind of pursuit. Was there no one else? A neighbor perhaps? Someone you met at church? A friend’s husband or brother?”

Isolde frowned, but shook her head. “No, no one. No one I can think of. If it truly is someone who knows me, and I suppose it must be if it is an admirer, I have never noticed that he thought of me in that way.”

Fletch could believe that. Isolde was remarkably unaware of her own attractions.

by

Scarred by war, but looking for love – Lion’s Zoo sale, on now.

Get the whole series while it is on sale, with the first book free and books 2 to 4 half price.

Buy on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C15BGCH8

Other retailers: https://judeknightauthor.com/lions-zoo/

 

“I am no prize, Dorothea,” he warned. “I was reluctant to ask. I am a military man, and must go back to war as soon as I have seen my grandfather.”

“I would not mind living in a tent and travelling with the army. Not if I can be with you.”

Chaos Come Again * Free from June 12th to June 29th https://books2read.com/CCAgain

 

“Hugh… You don’t understand. I don’t deserve…”

“You deserve every good thing, and have been left to carry your burdens alone for too long. Let me help, Rosa.

Grasp the Thorn * Half price from June 12th to June 29th https://books2read.com/LZGtT

 

“You were perfect for me. Whatever anyone thought. And there never was, never has been, anyone except you.”

“I have never stopped loving you, Ellie.”

One Hour in Freedom * Half price from June 12th to June 29th https://books2read.com/LionZooOHiF

 

To save her, he must lose her, for if he draws on his hard-won skills as a sniper and assassin, she will recoil from the darkness of his soul.

The Darkness Within * Half price from June 12th to June 29th https://books2read.com/LionsZooTDW

by

Spotlight on Unexpected Magic

Unexpected Magic is the first book in the series, Many Kinds of Magic. It is set in the Regency era of another universe—one in which magic is real and has never faded out of the world. And that changes the history of the United Kingdom and the time of the Napoleonic wars in ways both subtle and obvious. For some relevant touch points regarding the historical changes, see the author notes.

***

Jasper Thornton was just a child when his mage-gift first surfaced—a powerful gift that delighted his relatives and won him recognition as heir to the Duke of Findlater.

Twenty years on, he is still failing to live up to that early promise, his power still strong, but erratic and unfocused. Now the despair of his family and of the London College of Mages, he has been reduced to running errands for the duke and the Crown.

Cordelia Nettleford is the ordinary daughter of a couple with only sufficient magic to cling onto the fringes of the peerage. Her parents’ hopes and dreams are fully invested in their only son, her younger brother.

Everything changes when Delia wakes up one morning to find that a dragon has hatched out of a hen’s egg and eaten most of the flock. The following explosion of magical manifestations centered on Nettleford Manor includes the birth of a unicorn.  Delia is selected as the unicorn’s maiden.

Sent to bring the unicorn and its maiden to London, Jasper discovers that Delia has one of the rarest gifts of all—and England’s enemies want her and her effect on others.

Falling in love with a lady set aside as the unicorn’s maiden is almost as futile as his unstable mage-gift, but he can’t seem to help himself. He is enchanted by her calm competence, her sense of duty, and her intelligence. He will just have to adore the lady from a distance and do everything he can to protect her.

Until direct danger to Delia sets Jasper’s gift free—and once he has rescued her, he will never allow them to be parted again, whatever the College of Mages and the royal family might say. Or Delia, herself.

 

 

Excerpt from Unexpected Magic

Jasper Thornton, nephew of the Duke of Findlater—and his probable heir if an unreliable magical gift ever amounted to anything—had one of those annoying premonitions that told him nothing. Something was happening. Something that would, at some undisclosed time in the future, have an unknown impact on him.

That was it. No specifics.

Could it be the war with France? On the continent, the battle mage Napoleon continued to conquer territory after territory, and everyone knew he had his eye on Great Britain. There were even rumors that the man was a dragon lord, or that he had a dragon lord in his court—and if that were true, Britain was doomed.

Everyone Jasper knew was desperately hoping it was just French propaganda and would come to nothing, as the rumors several years ago about a Welsh dragon lord had also come to nothing. It was probably untrue. Dragon lords were vanishingly rare, though the Welsh did have a very powerful mage who had taken the name Emrys, after the dragon lord the English called Merlin.

In fact, the only reason there was more than one in the entire world was that they lived for hundreds of years. None of the six currently alive was a European, and the one in Ethiopia, the youngest of the six, had already passed his first century mark.

If it were not for the war, Jasper would visit one of them. Perhaps they had lived long enough to know someone like him, with a powerful gift and no control. But here in Europe, the war dominated everything, although in Findlater’s London mansion, life went on as usual. Jasper had been begging to be allowed to go and fight. Even if his magic was unpredictable and near useless, he could still swing a sword and shoot a gun.

But the duke refused permission, so here Jasper remained, useless gift and all.

He had still been in the nursery when he first worked magic—usually the sign of a strong gift. However, it had never amounted to much. His ability to work a spell changed more frequently than the English weather. His tutors used to complain that he was lazy, undisciplined, just not trying. The duke ordered them to whip him, and that made it worse.

Thank goodness for Mr. Fellowes, the tutor who stayed. The tutor who realized that Jasper was trying as hard as he could to follow magical rules and practices that just didn’t fit his type of magic.

“It is not that Master Thornton does not know the spells, your grace,” Mr. Fellowes had told the duke. “I have observed him closely. His words, his actions, his tone of voice—he does everything precisely as he has been taught, and the results are—at best—unpredictable. Your grace, the young master is strongly thaumadiversus, as those who tested him in childhood discovered. But he has a type of magic that does not work by any rules we have yet discovered. For example, a weather spell for a gentle rain might, in Master Thornton’s hands, give us a day of sunny weather or a thunderstorm, and we can have no idea which.”

The duke had grumbled that such a gift was more like a curse, and Jasper was inclined to agree with him. But Mr. Fellowes was confident there must be patterns and rules to be discovered, even with unexpected magic like Jasper’s. “With further study and practice, my boy,” he had said, “I am hopeful you will learn to control your magic.”

Ten years later, Jasper was still trying.

He could reliably manage to start a fire now. He could levitate long enough to walk over a puddle dry shod, provided it was not too wide. He could cast a truth spell, at least well enough to know whether someone was being honest with him. Though sometimes even that backfired, and the person he was questioning wanted to share their sins all the way back to the cradle.

Still, these were skills most mages acquired in the first year after their magic initially manifested, after which they focused on their particular strengths. Jasper did not appear to have any particular strengths. Or, on different days, for unpredictable periods of time and with frequently undesirable results, he was good at a whole range of different gifts.

Weather working. Invisibility. Levitation. Elemental mastery. Magical beast handling. Scrying. Precognition. Translocation (of objects, sounds, and even himself—though he had given up on shifting living things when pieces of a pigeon he tried to translocate ended up in three different places. He could only be grateful it hadn’t happened the time he translocated himself.) You name it, Jasper could do it. Sometimes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by

Kidnapping on WIP Wednesday

In Unexpected Magic, due for publication on June 16th, my heroine is saved by being kidnapped by a dragon. Is it out of the boiling kettle into the fire? Or something else?

***

Delia had no idea how much time had passed before she surfaced into consciousness. It was long enough for her to be somewhere else—somewhere she did not recognize. She was lying on her side on a grassy slope, looking down from a height across a body of water to the steep side of a mountain.

She moved cautiously, lifting herself up on her elbow. Every part of her ached, though she could see no visible wounds, and her limbs moved without increasing the pain. A glance told her that the lake, or perhaps river, had mountains on both sides, and that the gentle slope beneath her dropped away suddenly a dozen paces from her hands.

As she looked around, she realized she was not alone. The other occupant had been unseen behind her until she turned her head. He took up the full width of the slope and most of the length, and even so, his forelegs draped over the edge of the drop, as did his tail.

He—she could not have said why she thought the dragon was male, but she could not think of him by any other pronoun—gazed at her with large, calm, yellow-brown eyes. Perhaps she was still in shock, for she did not feel afraid. The dragon could have eaten her in one gulp, but he had not done so. Not yet, in any case. Indeed, if one looked at the situation dispassionately, he had saved her from the Welsh mage.

“Thank you for saving me,” she said.

The dragon inclined his head, as if acknowledging her comment. He was rather beautiful—a deep emerald-green, shading to mint-green on his belly and throat. His wings, folded now against his sides, were the deep green of his body but laced with gold, and the spine ridge that ran from the tip of his tail to the horns behind his ears was also gold.

As to his shape, he was everything she had ever imagined a dragon could be. On first sight, she had compared him to the chicken-house dragon, but up close and now that she was calm, she could see how wrong she had been. It was like comparing a pigeon hatchling to an adult peacock, or a rat to a thoroughbred horse. The same number of limbs, ears, eyes, and so on, but on one functional and on the other, elegance personified.

“Where are we?” she asked him, sitting up and looking around.

The dragon stood and walked away, heading along the ledge and around a corner. With no other viable option, Delia followed him, but stopped at the threshold of a cave whose entrance was so high that the dragon had gone ahead of her into the gloom, crouching and moving forward with his head down and his body nearly touching the ground.

A sudden burst of flame in the interior had her leaping backward. She looked longingly around at the landscape, but could see no signs of habitation, no hint of a possible rescue. If she ran, the dragon could catch her in moments.

He saved me from the mage, she repeated to herself, and stepped resolutely into the cave.

After several steps, it opened out into a great vaulted cavern. The dragon had lit a fire in the middle, and by its flickering light, Delia could see several smaller caves around the perimeter of the spacious central area.

It was cooler here underground, but the fire was not necessary. Except to see by, she supposed. But those tawny eyes had slitted pupils, like a cat’s. Did the dragon need light to see by?

She could not afford to be soothed by the sudden notion that he had lit the fire for her convenience. The dragon was a dangerous beast. He had already killed at least one person in front of her eyes—for she did not see how the man who had been holding her could have survived, and the mage might well have died from being thrown against the wall. Furthermore, the dragon had brought her here for an unknown purpose.

But he seemed mild enough at present. He lifted a forearm, claws outstretched—it took her a moment to realize he was pointing to one of the caves, for his paw, with its outstretched claws, looked nothing like a pointing hand.

But he waited patiently, his eyes moving back and forth from her to the cave in the direction of his gesture.

Once she guessed what he wanted and obeyed, she found the cave had been set up with an untidy bed of bracken covered unevenly with a blanket. “Who lives here?”

She did not realize she had spoken out loud until the dragon made a noise that sounded more like a gurgle than a roar, and she looked at him to find that he was gesturing to her.

“I live here?” she asked. “You set this up for me?”

The dragon nodded.