The Golden Redepennings

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Meet the hero on WIP Wednesday

We set the scene for our book by the way we meet our main characters. Does the reader like them? Have we picked up their lives at an interesting or crucial moment? Are they showing a little of who they really are? Is there a hook that intrigues — perhaps something that tells us the nature of the coming conflict?

Sometimes, I start a story several times, looking for that right place in my characters’ lives to bring them onto the page. Sometimes, I start with a secondary character or even (in one case) one who kicked off the whole sequence of events for the heroine, but was dead before the rest of the story takes place. In today’s excerpt, I introduce the hero of The Realm of Silence, less than a fortnight away from publication on my website shop, and so only just a work-in-progress in the most technical of senses.

Please feel free to drop your own excerpts in the comments (just heroes, please. I’m saving villains and heroines for a later blog.)

Gil Rutledge sat in the small garden to the side of the Crown and Eagle, and frowned at the spread provided for his breakfast. Grilled trout with white butter sauce, soft-boiled eggs, grilled kidney, sausages, mashed potatoes, bacon, a beef pie, two different kinds of breads (one lightly toasted), bread rolls, a selection of preserves, and a dish of stewed peaches, all cooked to perfection and none of it appealing.

Two days with his sister, Madelina, had left old guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, choking his throat and souring his digestion. And the errand he faced had yet to face did not improve his appetite.

He cut the corner from a slice of toast and loaded it with bits of bacon and a spoonful of egg. He was too old a campaigner to allow loss of appetite to stop him from refuelling. He washed the mouthful down with a sip from his coffee. It was the one part of the breakfast Moffat had not trusted to the inn kitchen. His soldier-servant insisted on preparing it himself, since he knew how Gil like it.

No. Not his soldier-servant. Not anymore. His valet, butler, factotum. Manservant. Yes, his manservant.

Gil raised the cup to the shade of his despised older brother. “This is the worst trick you’ve played on me yet,” he muttered. The viscount’s death had landed the estranged exile with a title he never wanted, a bankrupt estate, a frail frightened sister-in-law and her two little daughters—left to his guardianship but fled from his home—and an endless snarl of legal and financial problems. And then there were Gil’s mother and his younger sister. His mission in leaving Gloucestershire had been to avoid war with the first and make peace with the second.

With a sigh, he took another sip, and loaded his fork again. The sooner he managed to swallow some of this meal, the sooner he could be on the road.

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Tea with Ella

 

Susan had allowed Ella to refuse most of the invitations that poured in after the shocking incident at Lady Sutton’s soiree. Everyone wanted to meet the new Lady Renshaw, who had been drugged and assaulted in the midst of a party attended by half the ton. Ella had no desire to meet their avid eyes and turn away their eager intrusive questions, and Alex and Susan agreed. However, “You must appear at some of these,” Susan had said, “so that people know you have nothing of which to be ashamed.”

But Ella was ashamed. She had lied, and intended to keep on lying. Every time someone addressed her as ‘Lady Renshaw’ she had to subdue a flinch. But Alex and his father had come up with the fiction of their marriage to protect her, and she could not, would not shame them by exposing the untruth.

Still, the knowledge she was an imposter made her reluctant to face her hostess today. This was one invitation Susan insisted on her accepting, assuring her that the Duchess of Haverford was a kind woman, and one of the most influential of Society’s great ladies.

She stood as the great lady entered the room. “Lady Renshaw, how kind you are to come to see me,” the duchess said, taking Ella’s hand and directing a kiss in towards the general vicinity of Ella’s cheek. “Now. How can I help you and young Alex? He is, you know, one of my favourite godsons, and everyone will tell you I am godmother to half the ton. Take a seat, my dear, and tell me how you have your tea.”

Ella let the duchess’s warmth and evident affection for Alex washed over her and began to relax.

Excerpt from A Raging Madness

Ella, watching Alex treating a crowd of admiring females to his best imitation of a man pleased with his lot, was surprised when Mrs Fullerton spoke at her elbow. “Silly hens. He is being polite, of course, but I dare say our new Lord Renshaw is hating every minute.”

Ella controlled her surge of irritation. She had no place objecting to Mrs Fullerton’s possessive ‘our’, or her implicit claim to understand Alex. Diplomatically, she replied, “I was surprised at how quickly the news had travelled. He only heard this afternoon.”

“I owe you an apology, Lady Melville. I was very rude when we last met. I was jealous, you see. Alex never looked at me the way he looks at you.” Mrs Fullerton gave a deep sigh. “But one must accept reality. He has eyes only for you, and I was quite horrid. I am ashamed of myself, truly.”

She seemed sincere, her eyes meeting Ella’s, a tentative and apologetic smile just touching the corner of her lips. Ella suppressed the urge to ask how Alex looked at her and gave way to the impulse not to correct Mrs Fullerton’s misconception about Ella’s and Alex’s relationship.

“We all do things we later regret, Mrs Fullerton. Think nothing of it.”

“You are very gracious.” Mrs Fullerton lifted her glass to her lips. “Bother!” Somehow, she had managed to spill quite a large splash of the drink on one shoulder of her gown, a red spreading stain against the pastel green. “Lady Melville, I hate to impose, but could you…”

What could Ella say? She accompanied Mrs Fullerton to the ladies’ retiring room, helped her sponge out the liquid, and waited by the door to the large drawing room while Mrs Fullerton went out to the front hall to retrieve a shawl to cover her shoulders.

She returned with a footman in tow. “Have you tried the punch, Lady Melville? It is strongly spiced but hot and quite pleasant.”

She collected two glasses from the footman’s tray and pushed one into Ella’s hand.

“Drink up, Lady Melville, and then we shall go and rescue Lord Renshaw.”

It was over spiced, but Ella did not wish to be rude. She took a large sip and another.

An instant before the drug in the drink hit her, triumph flared in Mrs Fullerton’s eyes, and Ella knew she had made a mistake. She opened her mouth to shout for Alex, but suddenly the footman had a hand over her mouth and another under her elbow and was hustling, half carrying, her through the door Mrs Fullerton held open.

“I will give you a few minutes to make it look good,” she said and whipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Ella was struggling against the footman and the fog trying to close in on her mind, the dizziness that wanted to consume her. She stamped at his foot, kicked back at his shin, but her soft indoor slippers made no impression. She squirmed, trying to jab her free arm as low as possible, and he twisted away with an oath, his footman’s wig falling from his head to disclose hair nearly as white.

He pushed her from him so that she fell face forward onto a sofa and in an instant was on her, tugging her head back by the hair, straddling her torso. “This will do well enough,” he commented, lifting himself enough to push up her skirt and petticoats.

Ella fought to retain consciousness, the pain of her pulled hair helping to keep her from sinking into the fog. “Scream,” she instructed herself, as her assailant’s free hand fumbled at her buttocks, and she shrieked as loud as she could.

Doors burst open: the one onto the hall and a double set into the drawing room next door, and the room filled with people.

It was her worst nightmare come again: the indrawn breaths of shock, the buzz of excited comments, the avid staring eyes. The last thing Ella heard before she sank into oblivion was the amused drawl of the man on her back. “Oh dear, Lady Melville. It seems we have been caught.”

A Raging Madness is book 2 of The Golden Redepennings. Book 3, The Realm of Silence, will be out this month.

 

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Authors in Bloom, and zucchini fritters

Dianne Venetta_AIB Logo_2015

PROMOTION IS OVER: CONGRATULATIONS TO THE WINNERS

My ebook special edition has been won by ELF. Thank you to all who entered.

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Welcome to my blog. I’m delighted to be an author in bloom, though down here in New Zealand, we’re sliding into Winter while you Northern hemispherites are busy preparing your Spring gardens.

But it is never too early to plan what to do with the harvest, and prizes are don’t have to wait for any particular season. Am I right?

 Zucchinis, courgettes, or as we call them when I fail to pick every day, marrows

There cannot be an easier or more prolific crop on the face of the planet. Plant, feed (they love manure and compost), and — whatever you do — don’t forget. Once they start to produce, you’ll need to pick daily, or one day you’ll come out and find a marrow the size of Africa smothering everything else in the garden.

We usually plant several different types: green torpedoes, yellow torpedoes, and both green and yellow patty-pan shaped. Picked little, they slice into salads. I also liked them fried with a breakfast of eggs and bacon, or cut into small cubes in a salsa. You can grate them for fritters whatever the size, but bigger is faster.

This year’s marvelous discovery was that grated zucchini freezes really well. Most of the liquid drains out of the zucchini while it is defrosting, making even better fritters than the fresh stuff. Yum!

Zucchini fritters — Paleo and auto-immune system friendly

Tips: weigh your zucchini before grating. It’s easier. Get out as much water from the zucchinis as you can. This is really important. If you don’t freeze the grated zucchini, salt it to draw the moisture, then twist it in a cloth. If you have time, leave it overnight in paper towel. Really squeeze the last drop out of it.

1 pound of zucchini, grated and drained (about 2 of medium size)
2 green onions, thinly sliced
/4 cup almond flour (or arrowroot or coconut if nuts are a problem)
1/4 cup of freshly grated parmesan (if you can take dairy)
2 eggs (if you can’t take eggs, try this gelatin substitute)
salt and pepper to taste
1 tsp lemon juice

Put everything in a bowl and mix.

Heat two tablespoons of your choice of cooking oil in a pan and wait for the pan to get super hot. When the oil is shimmering, add spoonfuls of the mixture and fry until golden brown, about two to three minutes each side.

Serve with sour cream and extra green onions. Or with eggs, mushrooms, and homemade hollandaise sauce. Or with spinach and salmon. Or with applesauce. Or any way you like, really. We make up huge bowls of these and use them often.

GIVEAWAY

Comment on this blog post and note in the Rafflecopter that you’ve done so. That’s all you need to do to be in the draw to win your choice of my prizewinner special edition ebooks, and answer the extra questions to be in the draw for an advance reader copy of The Realm of Silence, to be sent early in May.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

GRAND PRIZE

We are giving away a Kindle Fire or Nook (winner’s choice) along with a 2nd prize of $25 gift card to those who participate in the whole hop by visiting each and every spot and leaving a comment or email through the blog post or the giveaway.

Where to find out if you have won.

Winners will be posted on the first and last websites in the hop (Dianne Venetta and BloominThyme). I’ll also post my own winners here.

 

Hop along for more great tips, recipes, and giveaways



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Tea with the Countess of Chirbury and Selby

“My dear Anne,” the Duchess of Haverford said, crossing the room to greet her goddaughter with a kiss, “how lovely to see you. Come. Take a seat, and let us have a comfortable coze.”

While the maids bustled about setting up the tea table, Her Grace asked after each of the children in the burgeoning Chirbury nursery.

Daisy, at eleven, was taking lessons in painting from her Aunt Kitty, in music, writing, arithmetic, and manners from her Aunt Ruth, and in science, particularly the study of nature, from the local curate.

The twins, eldest children of Anne’s marriage to the Earl of Chirbury, had recently celebrated their fourth birthday, and Anne was happy to expound for several minutes on their virtues, escapades, and differing characters.

By the time the last maid left the room, she had moved on to the two youngest children. “Little Lord Joseph is happiest when he is high up, and — after rescuing him from the top of the nursery’s doll house, dresser, and wardrobe, Rede had the happy notion of building him a tower with ladders and stairs so he could climb safely and to his heart’s content. And Baby is a darling — such a sunny nature, and so good. I left the others at Longford Court, since we only came up to London to see Mia safely on her way to Cape Town. But Baby is with me, of course.”

“I long to see her, Anne,” the duchess said. “I was so sorry I was unable to come for her christening.”

Anne smiled. “I was sure you would say so. Rede said that taking a baby when visiting was hardly proper, but she is sleeping in the next room, Aunt Eleanor, and the nurse will bring her through when she wakes.”

If the countess had any lingering doubts about the propriety of visiting with an infant in tow, Her Grace’s delight in the coming treat dispelled them, and several more minutes were taken in discussing and dismissing the ton’s habit of ignoring the occupants of the nursery and schoolroom until they were of age to join in adult pursuits.

“But before Baby wakes,” Anne said at last, “I had a particular goal in visiting today, Aunt Eleanor. How well do you know Rede’s friend Lord Rutledge?”

“Gil Rutledge. He has been to various of my entertainments over the years, and of course he was one of lads who used to visit Haverford Castle in the summer, when Rede brought his friends. I have heard very good reports of his record as a soldier, too.”

Anne nodded. “From Uncle Henry.”

“Among others. What do you wish to know, Anne? And why?”

Anne turned her empty cup on its saucer, and then put it down and looked up at the duchess. “I have hidden his brother’s widow and children from his mother, and he wants to know where they are. I need to decide what to tell him.”

The duchess pursed her lips. “I see. You fear that Lord Rutledge may prove to be a bully and a tyrant like his brother.”

“Yes, or susceptible to his mother’s bullying, for she swears she will have those two dear little girls off poor Chloe.”

“The woman is a horror, and I would not give her a dog to raise, let alone Lady Rutledge’s little daughters. Does Lord Rutledge say why he wants to know the whereabouts of his sister-in-law and nieces?”

Anne nodded. “Yes, and his reason is fair. He is responsible for their welfare, he says, and needs to reassure himself that they have everything they need. Rede says he is to be trusted, and that he would never put them at risk, but will he allow himself to be persuaded by his mother?”

Her Grace was silent for a long moment, considering her answer. At last she said, “I believe not. He has a deep sense of duty and honour, and little affection for the dowager. Indeed, I suspect he considered Henry and Susana, your husband’s aunt and uncle, more his parents than his own. As to his susceptibility to bullying, you do know, do you not, that his nickname is Rock Ledge?”

“So my husband tells me,” Anne said. “Nothing shifts him once he has made up his mind.”

The duchess continued, “If I might advise you, Anne, tell him your concerns and ask him for his word that he will not allow his mother to discover the widow’s whereabouts.”

Gil Rutledge is the hero of The Realm of Silence. His sister-in-law and horrid mother also appear. Click on the title for blurb and preorder links. The Realm of Silence is the third novel in The Golden Redepenning series, and will be released on 22 May.

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Kisses on WIP Wednesday

I write romances, right? So there’s kissing. At least in most of my books there’s kissing, and if there isn’t, they think of it.

This week, I’ve been doing the line edits on The Realm of Silence, so before I move on entirely to the next three stories I’m preparing to write, I want to share a kiss from that novel. Please share yours in the comments. I’d love to read them.

…when he moved her chair back to help her rise, and she stepped to one side almost into his arms, he could not resist wrapping them around her.

He had intended a brief peck on her hair. She lifted her mouth as if she had been waiting for just such a move, and he was lost. She was all that existed. The elusive scent of her saturated his nostrils, her yielding curves filled his arms, and her lips and mouth consumed all of his thoughts as he tenderly explored them.

How long the kiss lasted he had no idea, but when she stiffened and pulled away, he let her go immediately, sense rushing back into his brain and berating it for the most arrant stupidity. She didn’t comment—wouldn’t even meet his eyes—but led the way out of the garden, almost running in her hurry.

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The first meeting on WIP Wednesday

I’m doing the final changes and a line edit on The Realm of Silence before sending it to the copy editor, and I’ve just been working on the first meeting — or, at least, the first meeting in this book. Gil and Susan have known one another since they were children.

So this week, I wanted to share the first meeting in this book, and invite you to share the first meeting of your main characters. Here mine is from Gil’s point-of-view. He has just arrived at an inn in Cambridge to find Susan asking the stable master and an interested crowd whether they have seen her daughter.

Four years since he had last crossed verbal swords with Susan Cunningham, and she looked no older. Did the infernal woman have the secret of an elixir of youth? She had been widowed long enough to be out of her blacks, and back into the blues she favoured: some concoction that was probably the height of fashion and that both hid and enhanced her not insubstantial charms.

As always, she was perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, and perfectly behaved. And he undoubtedly looked every bit as if he had been travelling for four days; two weeks apart from the brief stopover in Derby with Mina.

He opened his mouth to reply, and changed his mind when the watching crowd leaned forward to catch his words. “Is there somewhere we can discuss your business in private, Mrs Cunningham?”

That fetched a considering nod. “Miss Foster, may I present Colonel—no, Lord Rutledge? He and I grew up on neighbouring estates. Lord Rutledge, Miss Foster’s niece Patrice is, we presume, with my daughter.” She indicated the child standing nearby, with Miss Foster firmly gripping her shoulder. “Patrice’s sister Clementine. But shall we seek privacy for our discussion?”

Until this moment, Gil had wondered if he was setting up a false trail. After all, he was not certain he’d seen Amy in Stamford. Why would the goddess be hunting for her in Cambridge if she was a day’s hard ride away? But the girl had been dressed like the child Clementine, and was of the right age and appearance. Besides, if he were wrong he’d make it up by devoting himself to helping with the search. He was in no hurry to arrive at the interview in Essex with his reluctant sister-in-law.

He gave Moffat the nod to deal with their mounts and the packhorse, and followed Mrs Cunningham into the inn. Susan, his mind said, though underneath were earlier names. Joan. Athene. Boadicea. Her father had named his sons for kings and emperors who led successful armies. His daughter, too, was named for warriors: a saint, a goddess, and a queen. The ten-year-old girl who followed the boys at their games demanded and won a more common name, but to his mind it had never suited her the way her baptismal names did.

He expected her to demand answers as soon as they were private, but she had never behaved like the other women he knew. She stood, seemingly at ease, one golden brow arched, and waited for him to speak. She took his breath away. She always had.

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Tea with Lady Sutton

“I hope you mean to explain, Grace,” the Duchess of Haverford said, as she passed her guest a cup of tea. “All sorts of rumours are racing around town. Is it true that Melville’s widow was drugged at your soirée by an enemy of our newest peer? Or is she a madwomen and a laudanum addict, as her relatives claim?”

Grace, the Countess of Sutton, leaned forward and lowered her voice, though only she and her friend were present. “As to that, Eleanor, I must trust our friend the Brigadier General. He claims the lady as his daughter-in-law, secretly married to his son, the new Lord Renshaw, two months ago when she escaped her relatives. The attack was orchestrated by those relatives and carried out by a man Lord Renshaw had fired. With the assistance of that brazen woman Lady Fullerton. I was never more shocked in my life.”

Eleanor raised her brows. Given the activities of Lady Sutton’s father-in-law, husband, and son, this was strong language indeed. She nodded decisively. If Lord Henry Redepenning spoke for the lady, Eleanor’s path was clear.

“We must do what we can to establish Lady Renshaw in Society, then, Grace, and to remove those who would harm her. But first, tell me everything that happened.

Excerpt from A Raging Madness

Once Alex had succeeded in deflecting his admirers, he managed to locate Susan, talking to their father near the exit to the hall. Where was Ella? She had been watching him a short while ago, but he could not now see her anywhere. Had she gone out into the hall or to the terrace at the other end of the room?

He started towards the terrace, but a stir behind him set him turning. People surged through double doors into the next room, his father and Susan among them, and moments later Susan reappeared and gestured him to hurry.

“It’s Ella,” she whispered as he passed her, and he began to push his way through the doors and then the crowd gathered within. His father’s head showed over the crowd, and the buzz of muttering had muted enough for Braxton’s unctuous tones to reach him. “… not the first time, I fear. She was a camp follower, you know. And travelled with Lord Renshaw for weeks under an assumed name, as this gentleman can witness. We shall just take her…”

“You will not.” Lord Henry’s battlefield roar, which had cowed subalterns and offspring alike. “You will keep your filthy hands from my daughter-in-law. And you. Whoever you are. Seize this man and hold him for attempted ravishment of a peeress.”

The buzz had started again. Daughter-in-law? Ravishment? Peeress? Alex pushed harder, and the crowd parted to let him through just as Braxton said, “Daughter-in-law? This is Lady Melville. My sister.”

“Lady Renshaw,” Lord Henry insisted, but Alex barely heard him, his entire world narrowing to Ella, lying supine on a sofa with a shawl thrown over her, and Lord Henry standing protectively between her and Edwin Braxton, with that evil scum-sucker Farnham at his shoulder. Torn between throwing himself on his knees to check on Ella and hurling himself on Farnham to rip his throat out, Alex hovered for a moment, long enough for Lord Henry to say, “Alex, lad. See to your wife. We were in time, thank God, but she appears to have fainted.”

“She has taken laudanum.” Mrs Braxton’s shrill voice battered at Alex’s ears as he knelt beside Ella and took her in his arms. “Again.”

He ignored the bitch. Father would deal with her. “Ella, my love,” he murmured. She opened her eyes, and her pin-point pupils confirmed her sister-in-law’s charge. “The punch.” Her voice was slurred, her face intent. “Mrs Fullerton.”

Above them, Lord Sutton was saying, “What is going on, General? You introduced the female as Lady Melville.”

Ella, trembling, had hidden her face in the hollow of his shoulder. “The punch? Someone check the punch,” he ordered.

“I served no punch. There is foul play, here.” That was Lady Sutton. She nodded at Alex and rearranged the shawl that covered Ella’s torn dress. Torn! Alex wanted to howl. To break something or preferably someone. He forced himself to focus on his poor love, gentling his hand on the hair that tumbled to her shoulders. Susan patted Ella’s shoulder, as Lord Henry continued.

“I had not intended to air the disgraceful behaviour of my daughter’s family by marriage… But if you will have it, Lord Sutton. My son married his lady two months ago, in Cheshire, after rescuing her from her dead husband’s half-brother, who held her against her will, forcibly drugging her to prevent her escape. She could not, of course, travel with Lord Renshaw without the protection of his name, and their attachment was of long standing, their marriage delayed only because she nursed the Dowager Lady Melville until her death.”

Braxton began to speak, but Lord Henry spoke more loudly. “Or until this miscreant prevented her in that kind office. Who knows what this dear child suffered at his hands?”

“I saw the bruises myself, where three of them had held her to force the drug on her,” Alex said. The mood of the room was changing. Heaven knew what Ella would think, or what they could do tomorrow to fix this mess, but they had saved her from Braxton. No one would take a wife from her husband.

“But you presented her to Society as Lady Melville, General,” Sutton insisted.

“She wished to honour her mother-in-law with three months of mourning, as decency demands, but that time was stolen from her by the actions of Braxton here. My son gave it back. That is all.”

“Was it this man?” Lady Sutton’s voice. Alex looked over his shoulder trying not to disturb Ella who had fallen unconscious in his arms. Lady Sutton had a maid with her, who was nodding vigorously and pointing to Farnham. “And that lady there, ma’am,” she declared, pointing to Mrs Fullerton.

“I found two glasses in the hall part filled with spiced punch, Sutton,” Lady Sutton told her husband. “And the maid saw two people force it on Lady Renshaw then drag her ladyship into this room.”

“The four of them arrived together. I saw them.” That was the Suttons’ son.

“Lies!” Mrs Braxton squeaked.

“You are the liars.” Mrs Fullerton turned on her co-conspirators. “You told me she was insane and a whore. I would never have agreed to help you…” She turned pleadingly to Alex. “Alex, I swear I did not know she was your wife.”

This time the excited buzz rose to shouting, and Mrs Fullerton shrank to silence under the condemnation.

“Father, I am taking my wife home.” Alex stood, holding Ella and ignoring the strain on his leg. “I will leave you to deal with her assailant and his accomplices. His name is Farnham, and I dismissed him two months ago for fraud and theft. This, I take it, is his revenge.”

Farnham’s face twisted with rage, and he lunged at Alex, but two men either side held him back.

Susan was at his shoulder then, and Gil Rutledge appeared on the other side to support his elbow and take part of Ella’s weight. “I have ordered the carriage,” Susan said, and the crowd drew back to let them through.

In the carriage, Alex insisted on continuing to hold her. She was lost in the laudanum dreams, stirring restlessly but stilling when he murmured to her. “I have you safe, Ella. I have you safe.”

Even semi-conscious, she trusted him. How would she react when she knew he had broken his word, taken her choices from her, claimed her as wife in front of half the ton?

A Raging Madness is the second novel in The Golden Redepennings series

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Tea with Rick

Lieutenant Rick Redepenning shifted to ease the ache in his leg. The butler had invited him to take a seat, but that would mean the whole rigmarole of rising again when the duchess arrived. He’d stand and avoid at least one embarrassing and painful display.

Not that Her Grace would offer anything but sympathy, but Rick was up to his eye-teeth in sympathy. His sister and her friends had been smothering him with it since this cursed injury beached him ashore, cast up without a ship and with other officers jumping ahead of him in preferment.

“Rick, my dear.” The duchess glided through the doorway, both hands out to greet him. “I am so pleased to see you up on your feet.” Without a glance at the walking stick he propped against the sofa behind him, she grasped his hands and stretched up to kiss the cheek he bent towards her.

“Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace.”

“Not ‘Your Grace’,” the duchess scolded. “Not from my godson, who has called me Aunt Eleanor since he was in skirts. Sit down, dear boy, and tell me what you have been doing since we last met. Let me see. You were still a midshipman, and came with your Admiral and his daughter to one of my balls.” She settled herself on the sofa at right angles to his own, and her eyes did not leave his as he made his awkward descent, finally propping the deuced leg before him like the burden it was.

“Mary Pritchard,” he agreed, the picture of the admiral’s daughter suddenly leaping into his mind. She wouldn’t be grumbling about an injury that would, in time, heal. Not Mary. No, she’d be off after every adventure London could offer, heedless of pain, danger, or propriety.

“Miss Pritchard is in London,” Aunt Eleanor informed him, “living with an aunt, a Lady Bosville. Word is that she will marry her cousin, Viscount Bosville.”

Mary? Marry? Sweet, dauntless little Mary? But she must be in her twenties, now, no longer the little girl with whom he had roamed ports in far flung parts of the Empire. He hoped the viscount was worthy of her. Perhaps he had better make a call on her and see. After all, when he was a midshipman with her father’s fleet, rescuing Miss Mary from had been almost one of his duties!

Rick is turned away from the Bosville residence, but when he flees to the country to escape the smothering of his sister and her friends, who does he find but Mary, running from the unwanted suitor being pressed on her by her aunt. The resulting story is my novella Gingerbread Bride which is the first story in The Golden Redepennings.

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Tea with Susan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by

The Realm of Silence – coming in May

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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