Book series

by

Meet my “Little Mermaid with a Twist” in WIP Wednesday

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.

by

Tea with a doting mother

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.

by

Spotlight on Perchance to Dream

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

Published September 7th. Order now: https://www.amazon.com/Perchance-Dream-Twist-Upon-Regency-ebook/dp/B0C6R78CFH

by

Starting the story on WIP Wednesday

Here’s the start of The Darkness Within, my current WIP.

Max paused in front of the elegant townhouse. What did the Earl of Ruthford want? There was never any question about Max obeying the summons. Even an occasional and remote member of Lion’s Zoo like himself would never ignore a message from their former colonel.

Still, he didn’t want to be here. He’d seen Lion a number of times since returning to England, mostly here in London, but he was never comfortable in the man’s home. Years of training and experience meant he could walk the stately halls of the wealthy and wellborn without displaying his discomfort , but all the same, he’d not breathe easy until he was back in the shadows where he belonged.

Besides, he was retired. If Lion wanted him for his old skills, he would have to disappoint the man.

He set his jaw, and climbed the short flight of steps to rap the knocker. A year ago, he would have found his way inside unnoticed—did, on several occasions. Lion had asked him to train the servants to see those who knew how to remain concealed, and they had proved good pupils.

The butler who opened the door wasn’t Blythe, who was in some sort a former colleague, as Lion’s soldier servant during the war. This one was the sort of superior creature he’d enjoy tweaking in a more cheerful mood, but today he just wanted to get the meeting over with. His facsimile of what the butler would undoubtedly call his betters was perfect. For most of his life, his survival had depended on his ability to imitate others, choosing as his model whomever would best achieve his goals, in this case, an upper class younger son.

The butler did not smile, but he at least gave a small bow, the depth precisely calculated, and marched off towards the rear of the house with Max’s card on a silver platter. In short order, Lion followed the butler back out into the entrance hall, hurrying towards Max with his hand stretched before him in greeting.

“Chameleon! Welcome. Thank you for coming.”

Max shook the extended hand. “I am always happy to see you, Colonel.”

“I’m not in the army any more. Lion will do fine,” the earl insisted, as he always did. “Come on through to my library. Would you like a brandy?” He led the way, still talking. “How have you been keeping, Chameleon?”

The library was a spacious room lined with book shelves, with a large desk in the bay window where the light was best. “Max. I prefer Max.”

Lion knew that. What was the man up to? Lion waved him to a chair by the fireplace; unlit on this warm day in May. Next to the matching chair, a small table held a book and half a glass of brandy. Lion poured another glass from a decanter, and brought it over before reoccupying that seat.

“Not Zebediah, or Zeb?” he asked.

Max raised a brow. The name by which the army had enrolled him. Curiouser and curiouser. “Max.”

“As you wish, Max.” Lion took a sip from his glass. “How have you been keeping?” he asked again.

Social chit chat? Even if Lion really wanted to know, did Max want to tell him? He gave a non-commital answer and returned the conversational serve by asking after Lion’s wife and children. The earl’s eyes lit up but he answered briefly.

“Both well, but Dorrie prefers not to bring the baby up to town in this heat.”

Clearly, Lion was still as besotted with his countess as he’d been nearly a year ago, last time Max’s path had crossed his. “I daresay you are missing them,” he ventured, inviting Lion to stay on that topic rather than Max’s own activities.

Not that he had anything to hide. Indeed, since he’d given up his profession, he’d not found anything to occupy himself. He’d toyed with buying an estate, but he knew nothing about farming and the idea of living in the country made him shudder. His only experiences with country living had been in Spain, Portugal, and France, where the landscape often hid snipers or troops of enemies in ambush.

He’d investigated various business interests to buy, and even invested in a couple—a canal they were building in Wales, a company to produce gas to light the streets of York. Investing his ill-gotten wealth was fun of a sort, but it wasn’t enough to fill his days.

He listened to Lion talk about his family, offering a remark or a question whenever needed to keep the conversation going. He could manage his part with just a small fraction of his mind, while another part catalogued the contents of the room, the available exits, the likely obstacles on each route out of the house. The rest wondered if he would spend the rest of his life living on the edge of a hair, ready for battle and calculating the odds. Even here, in the private home of a man he loved like a brother and for whom he would cheerfully give his life, he could not relax.

“Of course, you are battle-ready,” said that inner part of him that spoke with Sebastian’s voice. Sebastian was eight years dead, and his voice only a memory, but sparring with that memory had become a comfort in all the years alone, skulking behind enemy lines, as uncomfortable with the army he served as with the one he hunted.

“You were at war with the rest of the world when I found you,” Sebastian jeered, “and you were then only ten, as best as we could figure it. One of the many life-lessons I taught you was that letting your guard down exacts a terrible price. You’ll never trust anyone fully, ever again.”

“Enough about me,” Lion said, silencing the old ghost as the rest of Max’s mind came to attention. “You don’t want to talk about you, so let me explain why I asked you to visit. Remember Squirrel?”

Lieutenant Stedham had been dubbed Squirrel for his ability to scavenge whatever was needed by the motley band of exploring officers who served under Colonel O’Toole, now the Earl of Ruthford. With their commander already known as Lion and a Fox, a Bull, and a Bear in the line-up, they all soon gained animal nicknames. Lion’s Pride, one wag dubbed them, but another claimed they were more Zoo than Pride, and the name stuck.

“I remember Squirrel,” Max admitted. Young, eager, and with an optimistic outlook that even five years of a brutal war could not suppress.

“He has gone missing. He has not written to his sister for more than five months, and her most recent letters to him have been returned as undeliverable.”

Max lifted his brows. “You want me to find him?”

“If you are not too busy. It is not like him, Max.”

That was true. Max could see the boy in his mind’s eye, sitting close to the flickering light of yet another campfire in yet another godforsaken hollow of yet another bleak mountain, penning yet another letter to the much older sister who had raised him. He didn’t bother to protest that hunting men was no longer his job, and England not his hunting ground. He would do this for Lion. He would do it for Squirrel, whose cheerful outlook had intrigued as much as annoyed him. Above all, he would do it because a hunt might stave off boredom for the few days or weeks it took, and it was unlikely to involve killing someone. Max didn’t do that anymore.

“What can you tell me, Lion? Where do I start?

by

Tea with the duke

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

 

by

Spotlight on Night of Lyons

Today’s new publication is Night of Lyons, a multi-author collection that includes my story, Crossing the Lyon.

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

Buy links:

https://amzn.to/40PmXce

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.”

by

Tea with a marchioness

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.

by

Scandal and risk on WIP Wednesday

Scandal is part of the stock in trade of a historical romance writer, and particularly the writer of Regency and Victorian novels, whose stories are set against a rigid, if hypocritical, standard of publicly moral behaviour. If my characters didn’t ignore it, or be accused of ignoring it, my stories would be a lot shorter! Here are the hero and heroine of One Hour in Freedom, ignoring social norms. Or are they?

After she was ready for bed, Ellie sat in a chair by the fire, waiting. He had stopped in the hall as Mrs Blythe showed them to their rooms. From the look in his eyes, he had thought about kissing her, but had changed his mind. Why? Were they still estranged? Was she a fool to hope they could be together again? Surely he had the same questions.

After half an hour, she decided that Matthias was not coming. Does he not realise that they needed to talk? They had both been given rooms in the guest wing, and were the only occupants. Furthermore, when they had come up together after the meeting with Max, she had seen which room he had entered.

Well then. She let herself out into the dim hall and counted doors until she reached the one Matthias had been given. Light still shone under the door. Good. That made things easier. She knocked and listened for a response from inside the room.

The door swung open, and Matthias stood in the opening, his neutral expression dropping for a moment to reveal surprise, then delight and lust, before he reimposed control over his features.

He stood to one side. “Ellie. Please come in.” The huskiness of his voice sent her body humming, as did his state of dress—or undress. He had wrapped a towel around his waist to open the door, but—apart from that scrap of fabric—he was naked.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and walked past him into the room.

“Give me a moment,” he demanded. He went behind a dressing screen. He is quite correct. We need to talk. Ellie took a deep breath and attempted to distract herself by cataloguing the contents of the room. A bed. A couple of chairs by the fire, one of which had a half full glass on the little table beside it. She sat in the other chair, and continued her examination.

A clothes press. A side table under the window. Another by the door. Very similar to her own room, so probably a washstand and some pegs for clothes behind the dressing screen.

Where Matthias was presumably armouring himself against her lustful eyes by hiding his glorious chest and strong legs under clothing. But the sight was graven on her eyeballs, and her efforts to think of something else were not working.

He emerged in a pair of trousers, with a shirt worn loose over the top. “Still undress,” he said, “but not quite as scandalous.”

“Not scandalous at all, under the circumstances,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but the household doesn’t know that, do they?” he argued. “Do you want a whisky, Ellie? Lion brings it down from Northumberland. They brew it in the hills there.”

“I have never tried whisky,” Ellie admitted. “Perhaps just a little. As to the scandal of my presence here, or not… that is one of the things I wanted to talk about.”

by

Ingenuity on WIP Wednesday

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?”

by

Tea with the duke

“Mama,” said the Duke of Haverford, strolling into his mother’s private parlour, “I have come to ask a favour.”

”Sit down, Anthony, and let me pour you a cup of tea,” the Duchess of Winshire replied. Since she abandoned widowhood to marry again, she did not see nearly as much of her son as when they lived in the same house. “What can I do to help you?”

Haverford accepted tea, prepared just the way he liked it, and two of the three tiny iced cakes that his mother adored. She had a standing order with Marcel Fournier, the proprietor and chef at Fournier’s Tea Rooms. Haverford thought of suggesting that his darling wife also placed such an order. They really were delicious.

Mama waited patiently until he had eaten the first cake, then raised one eyebrow in question. “It is for Lion, Mama—the Earl of Ruthford. Or, rather, for one of his exploring officers and the man’s wife.”

“Is this to do with that man who calls himself the Kingpin?” Mama asked. “Dorothea, Ruthford’s countess, was telling our ladies about it just a few days ago. Lion and his men think the villian is one of us, Anthony. Dorothea wanted to know the names of men who had suddenly came into money without a known source.”

“It is the same case, Mama. They have reason to believe that Lady Blakeley is involved in some way, and they want to set up a situation in which they can talk to her without the villain knowing. The couple I mentioned? The Kingpin is threatening their child.”

Mama was too polite to snort, but her expression said clearly that she thought the plan misguided. “I am quite prepared to believe that Margaret Blakeley is involved in villainy, but I very much doubt that she is a minion. That woman doesn’t take orders from anyone.”

“Be that as it may, the plan is to give her a titled neighbour who invites her to tea. Something quite normal and casual that neither she nor any of her friends will regard as suspicious. They need a genuine person. Someone who is in Debretts but isn’t well known in London, preferably isn’t in England ,and won’t mind if Lion’s man’s wife pretends to be her.”

“That is easy,” replied Mama. “Eloisa Ormond. My second cousin on my mother’s side. She has not been in England since we were girls. Her father married her off to the Earl of Ormond the year before I married your father, and lived in Scotland until she was widowed ten years ago. She has been travelling ever since. Her last letter was sent from a place called Bali, which is, apparently, in the East Indies.”

“Cousin Eloise,” the duke repeated. “Mama, that is perfect.”