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Angelico Warrington made his painful way from the parlour of his employer down the stairs to the main hall of the Lyon’s Den, where he was nearly due to play another set with the other musicians. His progress was slow, but with a crutch on each side to take part of the weight off his damaged feet, Angel did make progress.
That was an improvement over those excruciating months after his friends rescued him from the French camp. They had insisted on sending him to London to see the best doctors, but he remembered little of the journey from Spain, and not a great deal of successive failed treatments. Except for the pain. He remembered the pain.
He had been working for Mrs Dove Lyons for a calendar month, completing the trial period she had offered him at the behest of her chief guard. Her wolves, she called them. Titan, their leader had served with some of same officers as Angel, but at different times. Still, at the request of one of his friends, he had put in a word with Mrs Dove Lyons, who had declared herself willing to employ Angel for a month. And after that, she said, they would see.
He had not doubted his ability to prove himself. Angel had always been a capable musician, though he had been a better singer. Once. Before he screamed his throat raw over and over during the month he had been in the hands of the French.
He had been a good dancer, too, once.
No point in repining. He could have been killed when the explosives he’d been setting under a bridge went off early and trapped his feet under piles of rock and his head under the water. He could have died at the hands of the French who rescued him, imprisoned him, and tortured him to find out what he knew about the movements and plans of the British army.
He could have passed away after his friends got him out, since by then the wounds in both feet were infected. Or he could have lost his feet altogether. The surgeons had been keen to cut off the poor mangled objects that remained after his captors had repeatedly rebroken the bones, over and over.
Instead, he was alive, free, and mostly recovered. He was even mobile, sort of. And he now had a permanent job. Mrs Dove Lyons had pronounced herself satisfied with his performances in the post month. She had offered him a contract and an increase in his wages. He could possibly move from the fourth floor room he shared with one of the other musicians, if he could find a cheap enough place on the ground floor somewhere.
He was smiling as he reached the intermediate landing and executed the manouver that allowed him to change directions, but one foot came down more heavily than he intended, and he shut his eyes against the pain that stabbed up from every poorly set bone in the dismal appendage.
As he did so, a warm fragrant body collided with him, and he lurched off balance into the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony, now from both feet as his crutches clattered to the floor.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” said a melodious voice even as a firm hand grasped his upper arm on one side to support him.
“Take a moment, Nereus. My lady, would you fetch my friend’s crutches?” It was Titan, the head wolf. Not that his true name was Titan, any more than Angel’s was Nereus. But Mrs Dove Lyon gave each of her workers a name—a stage name as it were. From Midsummer Dream, most of them, but not Angel. For him, their employer had strayed into Greek mythology. Nereus was the shape-changing god of the sea and particularly of its fish. Titan must have told the lady what Angel had done when he joined the Allied cause in Spain.
Titan’s was the firm hand, but not the melodious voice. Angel had to see who that was.
He managed to open his eyes, but the lady was wearing a bonnet with a thick veil. A pale blue rather than black, as was the fashionable gown that highlighted rather than disguising her figure. So not a widow. Wonderful. He had fallen in front of one of the customers.
“I truly do apologise Mr Nereus,” she insisted, as she handed Angel each crutch and he tucked them under his arms. “I was speaking to Mr Titan over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going. I do hope I have not hurt you. Well. I mean, I can see that I hurt you, but not worse, I mean.”
“Nothing that won’t pass, my lady,” Angel assured her. “As long as I keep my weight off my feet, they will be better soon.” Or as good as they ever were, which was the best that could be expected.
“Mrs Dove Lyons is expecting you, Lady Laureline,” Titan told the lady, and she smiled at Angel. “If you are sure you are unharmed, Mr Nereus,” she said, and continued on up the stairs.
Titan stopped to say “Stay there and I’ll help you down when I’ve seen the lady to Mrs Dove Lyons. He hurried after the lady.
Angel stayed leaning against the wall, it and his crutches doing most of the job of supporting him. He ignored the pain—it was a familiar companion. The thoughts that seethed in his mind took all of his attention. That was Lady Laurel.
Laurel Barclay. The girl he had once adored from afar. The girl he had saved from the sea when the ship they were on sank off the coast of Portugal. Eight years ago, that had been, in 1808. She had returned to her world and he had joined the British army.
Why on earth was Lady Laurel, virtuous sister of an earl, and flower of the English ballrooms, visiting the proprietor of a gambling den? Even such a gambling den as this, popular as it was with men and women alike, was not the place for an unmarried daughter of an aristocratic family.
A thought crossed his mind, but that couldn’t be her errand. Mrs Dove Lyon was a matchmaker for the misfits and the desperate. Laurel is betrothed. And if she does not like Lord Tiberius Seward9, and who could blame her, she can just choose another.
Titan caught him by surprise. “Nereus. You waited. Do we need to call a doctor?”
A fair comment. Usually, Angel refused help. “The lady,” Angel said. “I knew her once, a long time ago. I was curious about why she was here.”
Titan raised a brow. “Her business with Mrs Dove Lyon is her own. When did you have an opportunity to meet Lady Laureline? I thought you had only been in England for eighteen months.”
“It was long ago,” Angel said. “We were both on the same ship coming from Italy.” For part of the trip, anyway. Angel had been taken from his Sicilian home by pirates, and was on his way to the Tunisian slave blocks when the pirate vessel encountered a British naval patrol and came off the worst.
“The commodore was Lady Laureline’s uncle—Lord Somerford’s brother. I can’t say that we met, exactly. She was well chaperoned, and I was working with the crew. Then, off Portugal, a storm struck the fleet. It was scattered and our ship was blown onto rocks and foundered.” Angel shrugged. “Lady Laureline was the first person I rescued.”
“Which means,” Titan observed, “that you went back into the sea. More than once if I was to guess. How many people did you rescue, exactly?”
Angel shrugged again. He had no idea. Just the memory of aching heavy muscles as he forced himself through the waves again and again.
Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire always greeted the Duchess of Kingston with warmth and courtesy. More so than if she had actually liked the woman, for Eleanor held that courtesy and kindness was a duty that one owed to oneself, however unworthy the recipient.
Today, she was struggling to maintain her facade. “And so you see, duchess,” said the other lady, “that scoundrel has kept my poor daughter-in-law’s baby from her out of sheer spite. My son’s baby, too, as the world knows, though she was born during my daughter-in-law’s unfortunate first marriage. Heaven alone knows how he treats the dear little girl.”
“Very well, or so I understand from Cordelia Deerhaven,” Eleanor replied. “Cordelia says that John Forsythe is besotted with his daughter.”
“But duchess,” Kingston’s duchess complained, “of course, Lady Deerhaven would make that claim. But the little girl is not Forsythe’s so why should he treat her well? And how do we know that he does?”
“I am sure you do not intend to imply that Cordelia lies, duchess,” Eleanor said. Mendacious of her, for she was certain that her guest meant to imply that very thing. “She is, after all, a lady of excellent reputation.” Unlike the other duchess’s daughter-in-law, who had abandoned little Jane years ago to run off with the married lover who had got her with child before she trapped poor John Forsythe into marriage. whom she had since married. Neither of them had shown any interest in the child until the last few weeks.
“Cordelia and her husband visit Cumbria frequently, and she has mentioned many times over the years how much Captain Forsythe loves Jane. I do not know, duchess, how often you have visited…?” That was even more of a lie. Eleanor knew perfectly well that the Kingstons had never visited; had never even written to enquire about the good health and wellbeing of the little girl who was John Forsythe’s in every way except blood.
The Duchess of Kingston stood, her mouth puckered as if she had sucked on the lemon, and her nose in the air. “I can see you have made up your mind to support that reprobate Forsythe. I see no point in prolonging this conversation. Rest assured that my husband and I will do everything we can to support our son and his wife in his efforts to bring our granddaughter back where she belongs.”
Eleanor stood, as well. “I can assure you, your grace, that even if I was not an intimate friend of the family, I and my family would still be doing everything we can to ensure that a happy little girl is not ripped away from the place where she belongs by people who have not shown any interest in her for her entire life to date. My butler will show you out.”
***
The ton refused to support Lord and Lady Tenby and Tenby’s ducal parents in their demands to have Jane Forsythe handed over. Their legal challenge failed in the courts, for part of the settlement of the divorce Lady Tenby had demanded had been absolution from any responsibility for or interest in her daughter. The Tenby’s therefore kidnapped the child, inadvertently taking with them Pauline Turner, who loved both the child and John Forsythe.
This story and what happened next is told in Perchance to Dream, out on September 7th.
Scarred by life, they have abandoned dreams of romance. Until love’s kiss awakens them.
Life is richer than he expected.
John Forsythe abandons London for the furthest reaches of England after a series of betrayals leave him with the shame of a very public divorce, a poor opinion of Society ladies and a heart armored against love. Protected from intruders by his servants, the Thornes, he spends his days with his daughter and in a workshop where he makes clockwork automata.
Life is better than she deserves.
Pauline Turner has reformed in the years since she joined in her mother’s attempts to destroy her step-brother. Eschewing social position and forgetting dreams of marriage and her own home, she is content with space to breed roses and her status as a favorite sister and aunt.
A kiss awakens them…
When a storm forces Pauline to defy John’s ban on visitors, she and John each strike a chord in the other. Though they awaken to the possibility of love, they each have their own lives.
… but the trials that follow tear them apart
When his ex-wife’s husband steals John’s beloved daughter, Pauline steps in to steal her back. The journey that follows takes them across the sea to Paris and into the depths of their hearts.
A Twist Upon a Regency Tale
Lady Beast’s Bridegroom
One Perfect Dance
Snowy and the Seven Doves
Perchance to Dream
Her Grace of Winshire was waiting when her husband the duke arrived home. “Tea, James?” she asked, not wanting to fall on him with questions as soon as he walked in the door.
“Yes, my love, if you will,” His Grace replied. “He is alive, Eleanor. Our son-in-law says he will recover.”
Eleanor let out the breath she had not known she was holding. “I am so pleased. I have been quite impressed with that young man. It was, I assume, the false Lord Snowden.”
“It was, but the villain will not trouble the true Lord Snowden again,” her husband assured her, as he accepted the tea she had poured for him. He told her the whole story, from the villain’s disguise to the scene when the man was finally cornered.
“I cannot find it in myself to feel anything for that horrid man,” Eleanor declared. “Well, James, I suppose the wedding will be postponed?”
“Not at all. Snowden is insisting that it goes ahead tomorrow, as planned. We will be there, my dear.”
Eleanor nodded. “We will, of course.”
***
This was a scene that never appeared in Snowy and the Seven Doves
It’s London’s hottest ticket!
The Lyon’s Den, London’s most notorious gambling hell, is having a Mystère Masque in honor of the proprietress’ birthday. It’s a night of gambling, dancing, and most of all, of sexy and forbidden romance. While London’s ton shuns the ball, it’s secretly the hottest ticket in town.
The event is an exclusive invitation-only gala except for a few invitations that are mysteriously delivered to certain homes. Called Invocation Mystère, no one knows how or why the invitations arrive, only that they do – and everyone wants one.
It’s a night to remember at the great Mystère Masque at the notorious Lyon’s Den where anything goes!
Authors in this collection include:
Chasity Bowlin
Ruth A. Casie
Lynne Connolly
Sofie Darling
Sandra Sookoo
C.H. Admirand
Sara Adrien
Belle Ami
Abigail Bridges
Jenna Jaxon
Rachel Ann Smith
Aurrora St. James
https://books2read.com/CtLinNoL
Excerpt ffrom Crossing the Lyon
Mrs. Dove Lyons removed a sheet of paper from the envelope, perused it, then put it down. She took the lid off the hat box and removed two wrapped items. She unwrapped and placed them side by side on the desk before her.
“I have not had a classical education,” Lenora told her, “but I have been informed that such masks and the costumes appropriate to them would attract—attention of a kind my sister and I do not wish to encourage.”
Ban should think so! He had had a classical education, and immediately recognized the symbolism of the masks. Venus and Cupid, as the Romans called them. Or Aphrodite and Eros, in the Greek Pantheon. The masks were an invitation to rape.
Mrs. Dove Lyons understood, too. Even though her face was hidden by the veil, Ban could sense her outrage, feel it pouring off her. “This was not my work, Miss Kingsmead, Miss Ursula. I was promised that the person in question intended to do you a good turn. This…” her gesture towards the desk encompassed both masks and the letter… “This is unacceptable.”
“Who is this person?” Lenora demanded.
Her question was met by a considering silence. “No,” the widow said, after a long moment. “I am not prepared to disclose my acquaintance’s identity at this moment.” She held up a hand when all four of them opened their mouths to respond. Such was the lady’s presence that they all stayed silent.
“In due time. You have my word,” she said. She folded her hands on the desk. “Leave the masks with me. I shall provide replacements so that you can come to the party without any fear.”
Eleanor invited her visitor to sit. “Cordelia, my dear, I am so glad you could come to visit. Have you heard any news?”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” said the Marchioness of Deerhaven, “I have had a letter from Paris. They have found her!”
Eleanor felt faint with relief. Ever since Deerhaven’s little niece had been abducted, she had been worrying about the child. Yes, the woman who stole her was the child’s own natural mother, but a more self-centred female Eleanor had never met, and her second husband was no better.
“I am so glad,” she said. “Have they managed to retrieve her? When will they be home?”
The marchioness leaned forward. “Let me tell you the whole story,” she said.
Cordelia was left behind when her husband went to Paris to look for his brother and his niece. Read all about what happened in Paris in Perchance to Dream, published 7 September 2023.
I get them into these situations and then I have to get them out. Fortunately, the plot elves usually come up with something. This is from Weave Me a Rope, which I’m currently writing.
The second day after a beating was always worse than the first. The insulating effect of shock was gone, the bruises were at their maximum, and the stinging cuts were still so raw that the least and lightest of covers caused agony.
Spen lay on his stomach and endured. The housekeeper visited again, and Fielder popped his head in a couple of times, bringing food and drink and taking away the chamber pot. He remained sullen, but was at least no longer actively hostile.
Just after the second meal of the day, Spenhurst heard voices outside of the locked door.
“His lordship said no visitors,” Fielder growled.
Spen strained to hear the response. It was John. Spen recognised his voice but couldn’t hear the words.
“No visitors,” Fielder repeated.
John’s voice again, Fielder gave the same response, and then silence.
So. Spen was to deprived of his brother’s company. Probably as well. If the marquess caught the John anywhere near Spen, it would go badly for the boy. John stayed safe by staying out of the way of the man who was too proud to admit that his wife’s second son was not his get, but too volatile to be trusted not to kill the unwanted cuckoo in his nest if John was anywhere near when the marquess lost his temper.
John, though, hadn’t given up. Spen’s dinner came with a note folded inside the table napkin. It was written on both sides and crossed to keep it small. Spen hid it until Fielder had taken away the tray, then puzzled it out by the light of the candle.
Spen, they won’t let me in to see you. Can you come to the window tomorrow morning at half after six by the stable clock? I will be in the oak tree on the other side of the courtyard. Lady Deerhaven is still taking her meals in her room, but her maid says it is only a bruise to her face. The marquess is leaving again tomorrow. The schoolroom maid heard him order the coach for 10 o’clock. I told Fielder that, and asked to see you tomorrow, but he said his orders were to keep you there and not let anyone in. Your loving brother, John.
Spen hobbled to the window, but it was too dark to see the clock in the little tower on top of the stables. No matter. Dawn at this time of the year was before six. If he watched for the light, he would be up in time to see John.
That wasn’t hard. He was in too much pain to sleep much at all, and up and restlessly pacing as soon as the sky lightened enough for him to move around the room without bumping into walls or furniture. The little tower room had become a dumping ground for elderly chairs and sofas, all overstuffed and sagging.
John should have waited until the marquess had left. He shouldn’t be climbing the tree at all—though it was a good choice. It was as tall as the tower, and on the far side of the tower from the house, so someone in the tree was likely to go unobserved.
He studied the tree as the sun rose. The growth was at its lushest, with young green leaves and catkins covering and concealing the branches, but Spen knew how strong those branches were, particularly on this side, where the gardeners kept them trimmed so no one could enter the tower from the tree—or, for that matter, escape by the tree from the tower.
Not that the bars on the windows made either possible. The marquess was nothing if not thorough. Spen could open the window, however, and he did.
Spen’s spirits rose. If John was careful, he might be able to get within perhaps ten yards of the tower, and he’d be impossible to see from the ground, should anyone be out and about this early in the morning. It was an easy climb, too. John shouldn’t be attempting it with only one useable arm, but Spen didn’t doubt his agility and balance.
The wait was interminable. Spen crossed the room twice to another window from which he could see the stable, and each time the longer hand had crept only a few minutes. No more. John would arrive, or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, Spen would worry about him for the rest of the day.
Despite his watching, he didn’t see John arrive at the tree. The boy’s head suddenly popped into sight, surrounded by leaves.
He was at the same level as Spen, but a few yards away. His intense determined look softened into a grin. “Spen! You’re here! You’re able to move around. The housekeeper said you would be up and about by now, but I was worried.”
“I’m well,” Spen lied. “Nothing for you to worry about, John.”
“Good. What does he want you to do, Spen? The servants say he is keeping you locked up until you sign something, but they don’t know what.”
Spen never knew how much the servants told John, and how much John picked up from the conversations of others because he was good at moving around the huge old house as silently as a ghost. Certainly, though, John was usually way ahead of Spen at hearing any news. “What happened to Miss Miller, John? The housekeeper said she got away safely, but I was concerned the marquess might send someone after her.”
John shook his head. “He didn’t. Not that I have heard. I don’t think she went far, though. Just to the inn at Crossings. The stable boy saw her horses at the inn when he took two of ours to be shod.”
“She is off our land at least. But she must go back to London, John. To her father. He’ll be able to protect her.” Spen hoped. The marquess had a long reach though, as Spen and John both had cause to know. Their mother had died at the hands of highwaymen, or so the world believed. But the marquess had told her sons that he had sent the villains after her and her lover, when Lady Deerhaven had attempted to escape her miserable marriage.
“What does the marquess want you to sign?” John insisted.
“A marriage contract. Between me and Lady xxx. I’m not going to do it. I am marrying Cordelia Milton, even if I have to wait until his lordship is dead. But the more I refuse the more danger there is to her. Go and see if she is at the inn, John. If it is, tell her to go home to her father and stay safe. Tell her I love her and I will come for her as soon as I can.”
“He will make your life miserable,” John warned. He frowned. “We need a rope. If you had a rope, you could lower it and I could send up anything you need.”
Spen looked over his shoulder at the room. No ropes lying around, and if he started ripping up the sheets or the bedcovers, his keeper would notice. “Maybe I could take the fabric off the backs of the chairs,” he mused. “I don’t know if I could get enough pieces to reach the ground, though. It must be close to fifty feet.”
“How many chairs?” John wondered.
“Half a dozen, and three sofas.” The tower room had clearly been used as a dumping ground for broken or tired furniture. As well as the seating and the bed, it held two chests of drawers, a desk, a couple of tables and a wardrobe with only three legs.
John had a furious frown, a sign he was thinking. “Horsehair,” he said.
Spen frowned. “Horsehair?” But then it dawned on him. A couple of years ago, a stable master on one of the estates had taught the pair of them to make bridles from horsehair rope, having first made the rope. “The chairs will be stuffed with horsehair,” he realised. It could work. It could actually work, and it would at least give him something to do.
“I have to go,” John said. “I need to be back in my room before the maid comes. I’ll try to get to Crossings today, Spen. See you here tomorrow?”
Will Snowy be able to prove his identity, claim his birthright and make Margaret his viscountess before his stepfather succeeds in eliminating him forever?
The child found beaten and half dead in an alley has grown to a man. Seven soiled doves rescued him and raised him in their brothel. Now he must rise above his origins to hunt down the enemy who tried to kill him.
When she found herself in the wrong place at the right time, Lady Margaret Charmain’s life was saved by the man she knows as Snowy White. So when his self-titled aunt asks Margaret to help him make his way into the ton, she agrees to help, not knowing he intends to use the opportunity to confront his wicked stepfather.
Margaret upends Snowy’s negative conceptions about Polite Society, especially as her associates and friends come to his aid and to help him reclaim his stolen title from Viscount Snowden. Before long, he realizes his destiny includes her as his wife; after all, she wakened him to his true self with her kiss.
But the fraudulent Lord Snowden will stop at nothing to hide his misdeeds, even murder.
Published 10 August. Purchase now: https://amzn.to/3TIM5in
Snowy had to admit that the countess sounded as if she knew her herbs. Besides, Jasmine could do with the help. She was the oldest of the seven soiled doves who had pooled their resources to start the House of Blossoms. (“Soiled doves” was one of the politer terms the gentlemen visitors used for the women who serviced them.) Jasmine had been having unpleasant cramps during her woman’s inconvenience for as long as Snowy could remember, and they had become worse in the past three years. He hoped Lady Charmain’s remedy would give her some relief.
Like Poppy and Lily, Jasmine no longer accommodated the gentlemen visitors. Her piano playing, though, was a favorite entertainment for those who were waiting for the girl of their choice, recovering from a bout of mattress thrashing, or just spending an evening out.
A surprising number of gentlemen came to the House of Blossoms merely to play cards, listen to the music, enjoy Poppy’s cooking, and talk. Lily, who had been one of the most sought-after courtesans of her generation, taught the girls that listening to their clients with every sign of fascination was an even more important skill than those they exercised upstairs.
Other residents of the house were also troubled each month by the same complaint, if not as badly. If the poultice proved successful, it would make a difference to them, too.
Snowy relaxed once he saw how Lady Charmain addressed Poppy. He knew she was polite to Lily, but Lily had a presence about her that demanded respect. Even the most drunken and arrogant of lordings spoke respectfully to Lily’s face, whatever they might say behind her back.
Poppy was a different matter. She had no such air of command, though she certainly demanded perfection from the girls who worked in the kitchen. She still spoke with more than a trace of the accent of the county from which she hailed. And she was a cook—a lesser being in the eyes of the likes of the countess.
But Poppy had a kind heart and a happy outlook on life. Of the seven women who had raised Snowy, she was the one he had gone to with a scraped knee or hurt feelings. She had always had an encouraging word, a hug or a kiss, and something delicious to eat. So even though Snowy was protective of all the original Blossoms, Poppy had a special place in his heart.
Lady Charmain had greeted her with courtesy. The countess was now paying serious attention to Poppy’s questions and answering them politely. She even laughed when Poppy made a joke. Perhaps, she was not that bad, after all.
Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, invited Margaret, Countess Charmain to stay on after the meeting. Eleanor did not know Lady Charmain well, and was keen to remedy the lack. She already knew that the lady was an unusual young lady.
It was not that she had inherited an earldom in her own right. That was simply an accidental combination of the historical wording of the earldom’s founding documents and the lack of a male heir in the current generation.
Nor was it that, young as she was, she ran her estates and investments with confidence, efficiency and flair — better, in fact, than most men of her age. Eleanor took it for granted that a lady was just as capable as a gentleman with the same training and education, and that women in their early twenties were often more sensible than their male counterparts.
One point of interest was that the countess was a skilled herbalist. Two of the young people in Eleanor’s new family by marriage ran a clinic on the outskirts of a London slum, and both Ruth, her husband’s daughter, and Nate, her husband’s nephew-in-law, spoke highly of Lady Charmain’s knowledge and her empathy for those she treated.
The other was that the lady had — or so gossip suggested — turned down every proposal she had received through the last two seasons. Did she intend to remain single? Or was she disappointed with the crop of husbands currently on offer. Eleanor hoped to find out. She would be happy to put Lady Charmain in the way of meeting young men with more interests than the cut of a coat or the conformation of a horse.
As it happened, Lady Charmain spoke before Eleanor could introduce the topic of her possible spouse. “Your Grace, I am glad you asked me to stay on today. I have something to ask you. I have accepted your invitation to your annual debut ball. I wonder if I might bring a gentleman as my escort?”
“Of course, my dear,” said Eleanor, wondering who it might be. Gossip linked Lady Charmain’s name with that of Lord Snowden, who was more than twice her age, and with his son, who was nothing but a cub, still wet behind the ears.
Lady Charmain blushed, which was interesting. “The fact of the matter is, that he is not in Society, Your Grace. You should know that, while his behaviour is that of a gentleman, his birth is… In fact, I do not know what his birth is, but he works, Your Grace.”
“I have no problem with that,” Eleanor said, amused. “People must eat, after all. Indeed, I have more respect for a gentleman who earns his own living than one who is idle while living on credit.”
Lady Charmain looked as if she wanted to say more. She bit her lip as she thought about it.
Eleanor was even more amused. Clearly, there was a tale to be told. “Go on, Lady Charmain. I am hard to shock, I assure you.”
“He is the book keeper in a br– in a house of ill repute,” Lady Charmain blurted, then blushed a fiery red and covered her lips with the fingertips of both hands.
A sentence guaranteed to set off alarm bells! But Lady Charmain was a grown woman, and not one of Eleanor’s family or protegees. Best to proceed cautiously. “And what is this gentleman to you, may I ask?”
“I owe him a favour,” Lady Charmain explained. “He saved my life, you see. He has asked to escort me to several Society functions, which seems a small return on so great a service.” She heaved a sigh. “Let me tell you the whole. It is, after all, what I came here to do, since I could not think it right to possibly cause a stir without warning you.”
***
This scene relates my coming release, Snowy and the Seven Doves. (Out next Thursday) Here’s the flashback to Snowy’s rescue of Margaret.
She is walking through a narrow alley in the dusk, her mind still on the patient, a badly beaten woman, whom she had visited in a tumble-down building in the stews.
Without warning, men appear out of the darkness. Her footman goes down before either of them can react, felled by a cosh to the head. She shrinks back against a wall, and they gather around her, hooting and laughing, enjoying her fear. She understands little of their thieves cant, but she is not a fool. She knows what they have in mind.
She stands over the footman’s unconscious body, jabbing at her attackers with her umbrella, vowing to inflict as much pain as possible before they take her.
Suddenly, another man is there. An incredibly handsome man, with close-cropped dark hair and the build of a Greek god. Two of her five attackers go down under his assault, out of the fight.
She fights the other three at his side until they flee. He turns to her, and she looks into his grey eyes and prepares to thank him. He speaks first.
“What the hell is a lady like you doing here? This is not Mayfair, princess. You cannot walk around the slums as if you own them.” A well-educated voice. The tones of a gentleman of her own class. An indignant reply is on the tip of her tongue, but before she can say a word, her mind disappears down a spiral of darkness.