A Twist Upon a Regency Tale

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

Memories on WIP Wednesday

It’s almost my last chance to post a work-in-progress excerpt from The Lyon, the Lady, and a Fine Pair of Boots. This bit is told from the point of view of the hero, who is valet to a retired officer with bad memories. Click on the link for the blurb and buy links. The book is on preorder, and will be published on June 3rd.

***

Jake Flynn eased his employer out of the hackney. Captain Harraway was rocky on his feet, but still more or less mobile, with Jake propping him on one side and guiding him. Jake fumbled in his pocket for money to pay the jarvey. He’d managed to sequester a few coins from the captain’s purse before the man could lose the lot, which he usually did.

Tonight was like almost every other night in the months since the captain had recovered from his injuries enough to stagger to the nearest gaming hell. He drank, he gambled, he lost.

Mind you, he normally didn’t drink quite so much. Tonight, he had been celebrating, and his friend Podger had been buying, for the envelope with Captain Podger’s name on it had been handed over, and Podger was endearingly grateful.

It was potentially a problem, because—though Podger had promised to keep the identity of his savior secret—the man was loquacious when in his cups. Jake was worried about what Waterford might do when he discovered Captain Harraway was the reason all his blackmail materials—and therefore his sources of income—had disappeared overnight.

Not that the captain was concerned. When Jake had suggested finding a way to return the envelopes anonymously, he had been told he was worrying about nothing. “What, after all, can he do, Jake? If he makes a fuss, he shall be outing himself as a blackmailer, and if he tries to have us arrested, we’ll just deny we were ever there.”

I doubt it will be that easy, Jake thought. Waterford will find a way to take revenge, I’m certain of it. The captain’s problem was that he thought like a decent man. Waterford didn’t, and neither did Jake, come to that. Which was just as well, because it would help him protect his employer.

“Come on, captain. Time for beddie-byes,” he encouraged, as Captain Harraway wobbled uncertainly on one step after the other, leaning heavily on Jake one minute and lurching against the wall the next.

At least the captain had not been losing tonight, and at least, however drunk he might be, he never forgot his promise to Jake, that he’d only lose what he had with him, and only cash. No wagering his possessions. No writing promissory notes. A decent man, that was Jake’s captain.

Thanks to that promise, they still had food in the pantry and the month’s rent, which was due at the end of the week. Though perhaps that was not a good thing. If they lost their place to live, the captain might finally consent to leave London. Jake had ridden out to Ealing to have a look at the place the captain had inherited. It was a fine mansion no more than two hours from London, and the nice bit of land with it made a tidy income.

Some pretty scenery, too. The captain had enjoyed painting at one time, to hear him tell it, and certainly some of the drawings he made when they were out on reconnaissance made their way into reports and from there into battle plans. There were even a couple French spies who owed their capture to sketches by the captain that had been circulated among the officers attached to arrest orders.

A pity he ignored all suggestions to take up painting again.

“We should move to your estate,” Jake said, and not for the first time. He’d not intended the captain to hear, but the man’s ears were sharp.

“Too many memories and not enough,” he said. “Leave it, Flynn.”

When his employer called him “Flynn”, Jake knew better than to argue.

by

Spotlight on The Night Dancers

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GFY9FDMJ

Certain that the Marquess of Teign is behind her cousin’s disappearance, investigator Melody Blackmore enters his mansion disguised as a man. Tasked with discovering how Teign’s sons are leaving their tower prison or having food and other items brought in, she soon realizes that the sons are also the marquess’s victims. As her interest in the eldest of the brothers grows, she joins them all in a campaign to bring Teign down.

Allan Sheppard, the Earl of Kemble, is the eldest of Teign’s ten sons. He is weighed down by his frequent failures to protect his brothers from Teign’s beatings and abuse, but determined to keep them as safe as he can until his youngest brother is no longer under Teign’s guardianship.

All they must to do is fool the most recent investigator sent to find out their secrets. But Mel Black is not like the others, and Allan finds that an alliance with her gives the brothers the chance to not only survive, but to thrive.

However, Teign will stop at nothing to punish his sons for escaping him. Only Allan’s and Melody’s growing commitment to one another keeps them steadfast as they uncover evidence of evil beyond imagining.

by

Deception on WIP Wednesday

I’ve just sent The Night Dancers back to the editor. One final proofread, and its done. Here’s a snippet to be going on with. Mel, dressed as a man, had infiltrated the tower from which her employers’ sons have apparently been escaping at will:

***

The evening meal was delivered at seven o’clock—merely bread and water, as the previous investigators had told her. But, as they had also said, the brothers produced wine from somewhere. The pot of soup, too. It had been simmering on the stove all afternoon, but disappeared when the bell rang to announce the arrival of the bread, leaving nothing behind but its enticing smell.

It was magic, two of the agents had claimed. It was collusion with the servants, another hypothesized. The fourth had been too badly beaten to express an opinion, and it would only have been an opinion, for none of the investigators had discovered any evidence.

The marquess had found no wine nor any food when he had had the tower searched after each investigator reported. Indeed, many of the items she had seen in the bedchambers had apparently disappeared between when the other investigators saw them, and when the searches were made.

Magic was unlikely, in Mel’s opinion. She’d certainly never seen objects appear and disappear in a way that defied nature. The tower must have hiding places that the marquess knew nothing about, and if it had hiding places, it might also have hidden ways in and out.

Though if that is the case, why do the marquess’s sons stay? Why do they not just leave? Almost all of them are of age.

Mel accepted a glass of the wine, but made certain to spill it discreetly, for the other investigators must have been drugged somehow, no matter how they denied it. The soup was served from a common pot, so should be safe enough.

Mel returned to her room after dinner, and drank sparingly from the water she had brought with her. She then sat in the chair by the room’s little fireplace, for her intention was to remain awake and thoroughly search at least the public rooms once the brothers had all gone to bed.

Although I am feeling remarkably sleepy. That was her last conscious thought.

When she woke up, her head ached and her thoughts moved sluggishly, as if through a fog. Light was filtering in around the edges of her drapes, and she could hear the muffled hum of conversation.

She forced herself to sit up, hoping it would help. Pain stabbed at her temples, and the room seemed to reel around her for a dizzying moment, but then stabilized. In the dim light, she could see this was not the room at her sister’s house where she lived between assignments.

Oh yes. The tower. The marquess’s sons. They must have managed to drug her, despite her precautions! Well, then. From now on, she’d eat only what she had managed to bring with her in the hidden compartment of her bag, and drink only water.

She pulled back the curtain nearest the bed. From the light, it was early morning. What were the brothers doing out of bed?

Mel wasn’t at all certain she could walk across the room, so she crawled, and opened the door just a crack. Not enough to see, but enough that the voices from below floated up to her ears.

“Ought you to check on Black?” That was Lord Kemble.

“I won’t disturb him. I gave him enough of the drug to knock him out for the night, but he could be stirring about now.” That was Lord Baldwin—the one with medical text books and herbals on his bookshelf. “If we leave him alone, he might sleep as late as we do.”

“Then let’s all go to bed,” Kemble said. “A good night’s work, brothers.”

A night’s work doing what?

by

Courtship trials on WIP Wednesday

The girls’ chaperone is determined to thwart a courtship in A Gift to the Heart. Three extra ladies on a walk to Hyde Park might deter all but the most determined of suitors. But Bane has an idea.

Ahead of them, Bane and the other two Marple sisters had stopped by a woman wearing a large basket on her back and carrying a tray. Cilla’s sister looked around as Drake and his two ladies approached, and grinned at Cilla, who raised her eyebrows in question.

Miss Livy pointed at the ducks, who were hastening toward the vendor and her customers. Ah! Drake understood what had excited them. Clearly, they knew what the vendor was selling, and what happened after that. “My brother is buying bread to feed to the ducks, ladies. Would you enjoy feeding the ducks?”

“I would love to feed the ducks,” Miss Ruby declared.

Bane heard, and declared, “I have purchased enough for everyone who wishes.”

A cunning fellow, Drake’s brother. In less time than it took to tell, Miss Ruby was tearing small chunks off a loaf of bread and dropping them as she walked toward the Serpentine, a trail of ducks processing behind her. Her sisters, with a loaf each, had hurried ahead, and were feeding those birds who had not joined the exodus.

Bane was carrying three more loaves under one arm and had offered the other to Miss Livy. They followed the Marple sisters and the ducks, but at a slower pace.

“Do you wish to feed the ducks?” Drake asked Cilla, hoping she didn’t, for Bane had bought them time to actually talk, and the bread would not last forever—or even for very long, given that every waterfowl in sight had converged on the three young ladies and quite a few blackbirds and sparrows were darting under the beaks of ducks, chasing crumbs that were too small for the larger birds.

“What I would like is for us to talk, Mr. Sanderson,” Cilla said. “My aunt likes you as a person, but does not approve of you as a suitor. I will make up my own mind, however. And I want to know more about you before I do.” She blushed prettily. “That is, if you are courting me. Do I need to apologize for speaking so openly?”

“You do not owe me an apology,” Drake told her. “Straight talking saves a lot of misunderstanding, and I’m pleased you have spoken so honestly to me. Yes, I am a suitor. Like you, I need to know more but I very much like what I have seen of you so far. Will Lady Marple’s opposition cause problems? For you or for us? Or is it your father’s approval that is most important?”

She tipped her head on one side and regarded him with a steady blue gaze. “My approval is most important. If you gain that, Mr. Sanderson, I shall deal with my father and my aunt.”

 

 

by

Spotlight on The Secret Word

What does the tale of “Rumplestiltskin” look like set during the Regency, and written without magic?

My answer is The Secret Word, which – once I started writing it – took on a life of its own. This book is published on September 6th.

The Secret Word

(Book 10 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale)

When Christopher Satterthwaite rescues Clementine Wright from would-be kidnappers, he is offered an opportunity he can’t refuse. Clemmie’s father, a wealthy coal magnate, has been looking for a husband for his only child. Someone with aristocratic bloodlines and no family—someone who can give him the blue-blooded heir he craves, without the interference of noble relatives.

Chris figures he and Clemmie can work together to keep Wright from controlling their every move. As their partnership develops, they fall in love. Wright doesn’t stand a chance against them. Or does he?

And what about the other men who are showing an interest in the child who is soon on the way? Chris’s reprobate grandfather is hanging around like a bad smell, and clearly has a scheme in mind. Chris’s more respectable relatives have not disowned him after all, and are eager to show the as yet unborn child with every advantage—because they regret not helping Chris as a child? Or for purposes of their own?

And then there is Ramping Billy O’Hara, the most sinister of them all, and Chris’s patron.

Some are villains. Some are on the side of the couple and their child. Only time will tell which is which.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FM8R25VP

 

by

Oubliettes – places for being forgotten

An oubliette, as mentioned in my latest novel, The Night Dancers, is a bottle dungeon—that is, a hole in the ground, with no exit or entry except through the hole at the top. The name is French, and comes from the word oublier, to forget. It is a particularly nasty place to imprison people. The man who finished up in the oubliette deserved it.

by

Little tame creatures


“How did they allow them to keep rats as pets?” asked my editor at the end of my epilogue, when my nine-year-old boy cousins were racing indoors after a fortnight away, to check on their pet rats. “Were they even domesticated at this time?”

Well, yes. They were. And nine-year-old boys love rats as pets at least in part because it upsets the maids and bothers the adult female cousins. Not my boys’ mothers, of course, who are made of sterner stuff.

Rats as domestic pets might have been familiar in Europe as early as the seventeenth century, and this was certainly  the case in Japan. We have excellent documentation for domesticated rats in England in the early nineteenth century. In fact, the ancestor of many of today’s pets might have been raised by Jimmy Shaw or Jack Black. (This might not have been his legal name, but it is the name under which he was interviewed by Henry Mayhew. The interview the two men was published in a book titled London Labour and the London Poor.)

Jack and Jimmy were ratcatchers. He suppled live rats to the rat pits, a popular blood sport that didn’t end until 1912. Another lucrative income source for him was breeding from rats that had different coloured coats. He told Mayhew ‘I have ’em fawn and white, black and white, black white and red. People come from all parts of London to see them rats. They got very tame and you could do anythink with them.’  He sold them as pets or curiosities, mainly to young ladies. Jimmy Shaw was even more interested in the odd rats. If today’s pets are not descended from those kept by one of these two men, they no doubt originated in a similar way.

Laboratory rats appear to have been used in research from at least 1828, and probably were also saved from the rat pits or bred from such animals. The Albino rat often used in laboratories or as pets is also known to have been around for a while. There was apparently a wild colony of Albino rats in Bath in 1828.

 

by

Backlist Spotlight on Thrown to the Lyon

My latest release, The Lyon’s Dilemma, is the sequel to Thrown to the Lyon. The Duke of Kempbury, who is something of an antagonist in this story, is the hero in the next.

Thrown to the Lyon

When Dorcas Anderson saves Mrs. Dove-Lyon from being crushed by a passing dray it sets up a chain a series of events she could not have imagined. The grateful lady insists on presenting to her rescuer a tinder box containing three tokens. Each can be exchanged for a favor from The Black Widow of Whitehall herself.

She needs the first sooner than she expected, when her dead husband’s twin, brother to a powerful duke, has her and her four-year-old son arrested for theft.

When Mrs. Dove-Lyon asks him to help rescue a wrongfully arrested widow, Ben, the Earl of Somerford, is glad to aid Mrs. Anderson, whom he knew and respected when he was with the army in the Peninsula.

Dorcas uses the second token to enlist Mrs. Dove-Lyon in catching Ben’s attention, little knowing that Ben is already wondering if Dorcas is just the wife he needs.

Ben is too slow to declare his interest. Dorcas’s brothers-in-law threaten, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon may have the answer: Another marriage, this time to a man powerful enough to stand against a possibly malevolent duke.

The plan is set. A game of cards will decide the groom. Can Dorcas use the third token to change the odds? Anything can happen when a lady is thrown to a Lyon.

https://www.amazon.com/Thrown-Lyon-Lyons-Connected-World-ebook/dp/B0DGMYS3W9/

by

A brief history of umbrellas

Umbrellas were used in China as early as 3,500 BC, and waterproofed with a combination of wax and lacquer by 3,000 BC. They came to Europe through ancient trade routes, but were considered appropriate only for women. In England, they were still considered a female accessory as late as 1790, but a man called Jonas Hanway ignored popular ideas of suitability, and used an umbrella for decades. By the early 19th century, men and women both used umbrellas. The folding umbrella, though, would not appear until the 1850s. Which are some of the things I discovered when I went down the research rabbit hole while writing A Gift to the Heart (coming in November 2025).