Book series

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Spotlight on Snowy and the Seven Doves

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

Excerpt

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.

 

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Tea with Margaret

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.

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Family disapproval in WIP Wednesday

They talked for a few minutes more, and when Spen mentioned that he was showing Cordelia around the house, John asked if he could come.

“I am tired of seeing the same rooms over and over,” he said. “I won’t be able to come down once the guests arrive, even if the marquess is not expected home until later in the week.”

That was a curious thing to say. Did John mean he was not allowed from his rooms? Perhaps the marquess was an overprotective father, but nothing in the little Spen had said about him fitted that conclusion. Indeed, Cordelia had the impression that Lord Deerhaven was harsh and demanding.

Eventually, no doubt, her curiosity about the man would be satisfied. She shivered again at the thought. “He will not be happy about us,” Spen had said. “But what can he do? I shall reach my majority in five months, and if we have to wait, then that’s what we’ll do.”

As they retreated back down the stairs and out into the public rooms of the house, Cordelia put the marquess out of her mind and asked John about his schooling, and what activities he liked best. They arrived back on the floor where she and Spen had started, and turned away from the guest wing to go in through a door and across what looked like a drawing room. “One of the parlours,” Spen said, dismissively. The other side of the room had a long row of doors. Spen opened one near the middle. “These fold back to join the two rooms together,” he explained, as he led the way into yet another drawing room.

John was explaining the relative roles of heavy and light cavalry—it was his ambition to be a dragoon officer. He stopped on the threshhold. “Are you going to show Miss Milton the picture gallery, Spen?” he asked.

“I thought we’d start there,” Spenhurst said. “I wanted to show her the portrait of Mama.”

The enthusiasm had drained from John’s eyes.

“Wait for us here,” Spen suggested, but John braced his shoulders and followed them through the door.

This room had two doors on the opposite wall, and Spen opened the one on the left. It led to a long gallery, with statues between narrow windows on one side, and portraits all the way along the wall on the other.

It was very like the room in Cordelia’s dream and to her eyes, the unsmiling people in the paintings looked as unhappy with her presence as she anticipated. Do not be foolish, she scolded herself. You are an invited guest. Lady Deerhaven was welcoming and John is a delight.

John was eyeing the portraits with less enthusiasm than Cordelia felt—even with apprehension. If Spen noticed, he showed no sign of it. He led them two thirds of the way along the room, and stopped before a little portrait that was squeezed between two large ones. “Mama,” he said.

The countess had a kind face, Cordelia decided. She was portrayed seated on a stone bench, with a garden behind her, and a boy leaning against her knee. Cordelia didn’t need to ask whether he was Spen or John. Cordelia knew the shape and colour of the lady’s eyes, because she looked into their likeness whenever she was with Spen and dreamt of them when she and Spen were apart.

The little boy was dressed as a gentleman of the previous century, in breeches almost the colour of his eyes, and a matching coat over a pale brown waistcoat. His shirt had a wide lace trimmed collar, with a narrow dark blue ribbon around the v-shaped neckline under the collar and tied in a bow at the bottom.

“How old were you when this was painted?” she asked him.

“Six,” he said. “Perhaps six and a half.”

Cordelia moved closer, putting a hand on the frame as she examined the painting. “She died when you were ten,” she commented, remembering what he had said. She looked away from the painting in time to see a frown exchanged between John and Spen.

“We lost her when I was ten and John was three,” Spen confirmed.

A panel in the wall a few yards away swung open, and a woman in a maid’s gown, cap and apron poked her head out. “Master John!” she said in a loud whisper. “His lordship is coming. Quickly!”

Spen tensed and cast a glance down the gallery towards the door in the far end. “The marquess is home?” he questioned. The maid nodded.

John was already at the panel door. He stopped to look back at Spen. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No,” Spen said. “Get back to your room before he sees you. I’ll come once we’ve seen him and let you know what happened.”

John climbed through the panel and it closed. “Do not be afraid, Cordelia,” Spen said. “He will probably shout, but I will not let him hurt you.”

Cordelia’s alarm was climbing. “Spen?” Her questions were tumbling over themselves, jamming up in her brain. Why did the maid come to fetch John? Would he be in trouble for being out of his chambers? Certainly, he had looked frightened, and then as determined as a knight errant when he offered to stay.

Why did John think she might be afraid. Why would the marquess shout? Would he try to hurt Cordelia, a guest in his house? Did he know she was his guest? How could Spen stop his own father if the man was intent on violence?

She lifted her chin. Did Spen think she was a frail damsel who fainted at a harsh word? She wasn’t.

At that moment, the door at the far end of the gallery was flung open so violently that it crashed against the wall and a bulky shape loomed in the doorway.

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Tea with Margaret and Pauline

Lady Charmain looked none the worse for her awful experience, though her friend Miss Turner hovered over her as if she might collapse at any moment. Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, was acquainted with the two of them. Lady Charmain she knew very well. Eleanor had been friends with her mother. Miss Turner was more of an unknown. She had not impressed at first meeting several years ago, but had remained with her step-brother after her mother and sister were exiled for crimes against him and his wife. From all accounts, Miss Turner had not put a foot wrong since. Eleanor believed in second chances and would give the woman the benefit of the doubt.

She knew about the other woman in the room, too, though they had not met. Miss Trent was a personal guard, hired from Moriarty Protection to defend Lady Charmain after several attacks on her betrothed. Unusual to have a woman in that role, but how clever. Miss Trent could follow Lady Charmain into places no man could or should go.

“The men have gone downstairs to interview the scoundrel who slandered Lady Charmain,” reported Sophia, wife to Winshire’s eldest son and therefore Eleanor’s daughter-in-law. “They will join us in time to share a pot of tea, Aunt Eleanor. Jamie will have coffee, of course.”

Eleanor was not going to discuss the nasty scene in the ballroom that had led to the incarceration of the man Sophia rightly called ‘the scoundrel’. She knew just the topic to introduce to lighten the mood. “How are plans for the wedding, Margaret, my dear? Have you chosen your gown? I am so looking forward to witnessing the occasion.”

(This scene wasn’t in Snowy and the Seven Doves, out on August 10th. Instead, we follow Snowy down into the cellars. “First, they visited the Duke of Winshire, where Margaret and Pauline were scooped up by Lady Sutton and taken upstairs to visit with the duchess. Miss Trent followed behind the ladies, as silent and inconspicuous as a shadow.” After the scene in the cellars, “Snowy and the duke joined the ladies. They were discussing the wedding; apparently, the duke and duchess would be in attendance. Snowy wondered if the invitation had originated with the duchess, but since Margaret seemed happy, he said nothing. They then went for their drive in the Park. It was almost anticlimactic that nothing happened.” Not that this was the end. Indeed, 20% of the book and the worst attack of all remained to be told.)

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Disaster on WIP Wednesday

In the novel I am writing at the moment, my hero has been locked in a tower for weeks. To see him, his beloved has climbed a ladder he wove of horsehair. But alas, his father has returned to the estate unexpectedly.

For the second time in minutes, the door burst open. This time, his father filled the doorway, lifting his head to sniff the air. “You have had a woman in here,” he noted.

Cordelia must be about half way down. A little more time, and she would be able to escape. Provided the old tyrant hadn’t thought to post people at the bottom.

Spen shrugged. “A tavern girl. A man has needs.” Inside, he winced at comparing the glory of his afternoon to a meaningless transactional encounter.

The marquess stepped into the room and gestured to the footman who followed him. “Search the room. Find the girl.”

“Do you intend to deprive me of all comforts?” Spen asked his father, to prolong the conversation and keep his father’s attention from the window.

“I intend to do everything necessary to bend you to my will, you ungrateful scoundrel,” the marquess replied. “Where is your brother?”

“How would I know?” Spen asked. “He was here when I was locked up. Got send home with a broken arm. Has he gone back to school? Home to Benthorpe?” He couldn’t help the scorn that coloured his voice

He braced himself as his father swung a hand back for a blow, but one of the servants shouted. “There are ropes my lord. I think it’s a ladder.”

“Haul it up and look, man,” the marquess scolded.

“I cannot, my lord. Someone is on it.”

The marquess strode to the window, his eyes narrowed. “Coming up or going down? But why? Ah! I see.” He grabbed the loose bar and pulled it out, then managed to get his head through the gap to look down the tower wall.

Spen managed two paces towards the marquess before men grabbed him and dragged him backwards again. 

“It’s a boy,” the marquess was saying, sounding bewildered, then chortling, “No, a girl dressed as a boy.” He pulled his head back and glee in his eyes as he said, “and I think I know her name.” He held out his hand. “Someone. Pass me a knife.”

“No!” Spen shouted as he struggled, but the two men holding him didn’t let go. “No, my lord. Don’t do it!”

The marquess managed to get one arm and his head out the window. Spen could see him sawing back and forth as he countinued to speak. “Did you think I would not hear that Milton has interfered with justice for that trespasser who was spying for your little slut?”

He snorted. “The magistrate has the nerve to tell me I cannot have him hanged or transported for his villainy, and that my imprisonment of the man was punishment enough. My illegal imprisonment! Can you believe it? Who does the magistrate think he is dealing with? Ah.” A shriek from below, short and sharp, coincided with the marquess’s sigh of satisfaction. 

He moved to the second rope, and Spen imagined Cordelia clinging to the rungs as the ladder,  collapsed with one of its uprights gone, twisted and turned. “Don’t,” he moaned.

“What do I find when I stopped at the village inn today,” the marquis went on, “but the magistrate with Milton’s solicitor, and both of them demand to know what I have done with Milton’s daughter. Of course, I did not know what they were talking about. Now, of course, I do.”

He pulled back again, to grin at Spen. “Three quarters cut through. Let us leave the bitch’s destiny to fate, shall we? If the rope holds, she spins for a while until I feel like sending someone to retrieve her. If the rope breaks, she dies.”

Another scream came as he finished speaking. The marquess looked out of the window again. “Oops,” he said. His grin was wider as he turned back into the room. “Well, my son. It seems that your impediment to the marriage that I wish is no longer a problem.”

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Introductions in WIP Wednesday

 

This is an unused scene from Crossing the Lyon, my contribution to Night of Lyons. I had to write 7,000 words before I found the start of the story, so I thought I’d share some of the words I took out. My heroine has knocked on the door of the hero seeking shelter against the stormy night.

Ursula thought about the Beaumont brothers as she draped her wet clothing over a laundry rack that hung from the ceiling near the stove. They knew she was a woman; she was certain of it. She had seen the realisation dawn on first the one, and then the other.

There. That was the last item. At least, apart from the bandages, everything she wore was made originally for a man. She was not hanging a female’s unmentionables in a gentleman’s kitchen.

She should go out and face them. She quailed at the thought, but took courage from Mr Roy Beaumont’s recognition of her dilemma and the consideration that came up with the scullery as a solution.

She was alone in a house with three men she did not know. On the other hand, she was warm and dry.

No one knew where she was. If she disappeared, her employers might notice when she did not turn up for work, but only Nora would miss her and make an attempt to find her. And Nora was three hour’s ride away, in London, and not expecting to see Ursula again for another five days.

On the other hand, the brothers Beaumont did not look or behave like monsters. Those who worked for them thought well of them, and in a small community, it was hard to hide misbehaviour of the sort she feared.

In any case, unless she wanted to go back out into the storm, she had to trust them, at least to a degree. However, before she left the kitchen, she took a knife from a rack and hid it in the folds of her robe. Her preferred clothing kept her safe from most who employed a handyman-gardener, since few actually looked at her and saw her.

Most, but not all. She had been forced to defend herself several times, though she wondered if she would have fought so hard if any of them had actually asked instead of merely attempting to take.

After all, ruined was ruined. She worked for a living. She dressed as a man and did manual labour. Her father had killed himself rather than face his own failures. Her sister worked as a seamstress, which in the eyes of many meant she must be a harlot, as many seamstresses were, poor things, their wages being so low.

Still, virtue—and, to be honest, pride—had kept her and Nora from taking the expected path of those who were ruined. So far. Though tonight, she was so cold, that she might do anything asked of her just to keep from being turned back outside into the rain.

Ursula put her hand on the door to the parlour, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The Beaumont brothers confirmed her belief they knew she was a woman by standing as she entered the room.

“Come and sit by the fire,” Mr Roy Beaumont invited, waving to a chair between the two the brothers were occupying.

She did as he suggested, taking heart that he offered her a chair of her own. She could feel the heat of the fire on her face and on the hands she stretched towards the flames, but still the cold racked her core, and she shivered.

“Would you like a brandy to help warm you?” Mr Roy asked.

“Just a little one,” Mr Ban Beaumont warned his brother, then turned his gaze to Ursa. “Unless you are used to brandy, Miss Ursa? A little is a good idea, but too much may leave you with a sore head in the morning.”

She was right. They had realised she was female. No point in dissembling. “Ursula,” she volunteered. “My name is Ursula Kingsmead. And yes, I will try a little brandy.” Anything to feel warm again.

Mr Roy crossed the room to a tray with decanters and glasses, and Mr Ban took a rug from the back of a sofa by the window and brought it to her. “Tuck this around you, Miss Kingsmead. Or is it Mrs? Or Lady?”

“Miss,” Ursula admitted. She and Nora had still been in the schoolroom when her father died and the creditors had seized everything. Since then, they had had offers, but not for marriage.

She wrapped herself in the blanket, and accepted the brandy. The brothers stood until she remembered the manners she had been taught so long ago. “Please. Won’t you sit down?” she said.

Mr Roy was correct. The brandy spread its warmth down her throat and into her chest. The blanket Mr Ban had provided also helped. She sat huddled in the blanket, sipping from her glass, and staring into the flames. Bit by bit, the shudders stopped as she began to warm.

The brothers made no effort to engage her in conversation, instead, they spoke to one another, casual conversation about what each had been doing during the day. Mr Roy had been out on one of the tenant farms, helping a horse that was foaling. He owned the horse, apparently, and had high hopes for the foal. “She is as beautiful as her mother, Roy, and if she is as fast, we’ll have twice the chance to breed the stallion we need.”

Mr Ban had been to London for a meeting about some sort of a container that would revolutionise—Mr Ban’s words—food preservation.

“I said I would have to consult with my partner,” Mr Ban concluded.

“Does it taste any good?” Mr Roy asked. “Will there be a market for it?”

“Military,” Mr Ban said. “The army will leap at it. Navy, too. Preserved food on a long march or a longer voyage? It will taste better than dried meat and beans, I should imagine.”

“Good point. We should try some, Ban. But if it is in the least edible, I say we invest.”

Investment. Horse breeding. Farming. Mr Beaumont senior may have lost most of the family’s money, but apparently the brothers were making it back again. Ursula wished she could have done as well. It had been all she and Nora could manage just to keep body and soul together.

At least Nora had a safe place to live with her employer. The dressmaker valued Nora’s skills, but her protectiveness towards Ursula’s sister also suggested an affection to which the woman would never admit.

Ursula, on the other hand, had come back from her Sunday visit to her sister to find the shack in which she had been living had burned to the ground while she was out, and with it everything Ursula owned that wasn’t on her back.

Thank goodness she had worn her man’s disguise for the trip to and from London, for if she had gone to work these past two days dressed as a woman, she would already have been fired.

Her sigh attracted the attention of the brothers.

“Are you back with us, Miss Kingsmead?” asked Mr Roy.

“Are you hungry, Miss Kingsmead?” Mr Ban said, at the same moment.

She looked from one to the other. “I do not wish to be an imposition,” she said, even as her stomach growled.

Mr Roy grinned, and got to his feet. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He left the room.

“It is no trouble, Miss Kingsmead,” Mr Ban assured her. “Our cook always leaves plenty for us for supper, and my brother and I have eaten. You will not object to eating in here? I could light a fire in the dining room…”

Ursula was not sure that she could force herself to leave the warmth of her cocoon of blankets. “I have no objection,” she said, faintly.

Mr Ban smiled, and put another log on the fire.

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Tea with Mrs Clifford

The innkeeper could not be more apologetic. There had been a misunderstanding. He had not been expecting Her Grace until the next day. The letter requiring a private parlour to be set aside for her comfort for an hour in the afternoon specifically said Thursday. He was terribly sorry.

Eleanor listened as her major domo conceded that they were a day early, but demanded the private parlour anyway.

“But I cannot turn out the lady currently using it,” the innkeeper protested. “She is elderly, and not too well.”

The major domo was of the view that his great lady’s convenience superseded the needs of anyone else, so it was time for Eleanor to intervene.

“If your guest would be kind enough to share the parlour for an hour, I shall do very well,” she said. “And if not, you might perhaps have a bedchamber I could use?”

The innkeeper looked even more worried, and no wonder. Eleanor’s impetuous decision to bring her plans forward a day had landed her in this town on the day some sporting event was about to take place. Her major domo was not prepared to discuss the nature of the match, so Eleanor assumed it was boxing or something equally unfit for the gentle sensibilities of ladies.

Fortunately for the poor innkeeper’s peace of mind, the lady in the parlour proved willling to share, and Eleanor spent a pleasant hour with her feet up, a nice hot cup of tea, some delightful ginger biscuits, and the company of Mrs Clifford, the original occupant of the parlour.

Eleanor knew who Mrs Clifford was, of course, but did not embarrass the lady by mentioning it. And she was a lady, by her behaviour. Indeed, as mistress to the recently deceased Marquess of Raithby, she had been more faithful to the gentleman over thirty or more years than the marquess’s wife. Kinder to his children, too.

Eleanor said none of that, but simply talked about the purpose of her trip. “My foster daughter’s confinement is fast approaching, and I completed the last of the obligations that kept me in London, so I wished to wait not a moment more. I must beg your pardon for intruding on your peace. It is entirely my fault for leaving early.”

Mrs Clifford raised a hand in demurral. “It is my pleasure to have your company, Your Grace.” She paused, then confided, “I am also travelling to see a beloved relative. My sister’s child. She lives in the village where I spent my childhood, and I wish to see it and her one more time before…” She trailed off, but Eleanor could finish the sentence in her own mind. It was clear that Mrs Clifford was very ill.

“Do you have far to go?” Eleanor asked, and discovered that the other lady was going all the way to the Wirral Peninsula in Cheshire.

“I am travelling a day and resting a day,” she assured Eleanor. “I shall see Rosabel one more time, and I shall be happy.”

Eleanor’s maid popped her head around the corner of the door to let Eleanor know the carriage was ready. Eleanor stood, and could not resist saying, “I hope the rest of your journey goes well, Mrs Clifford. And may I express my sincere condolences on your loss? Raithby was a great man.”

Mrs Clifford’s raised her eyebrows but smiled. “He was, Your Grace. He was.”

Mrs Clifford is a secondary character–and a scandal–in Grasp the Thorn, published tomorrow.

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Exploring officers

Lion’s command includes a group of exploring officers, whose job it was to collect information about enemy movements. They would have denied being spies. Spying was considered underhanded and dishonourable, and simply not the way that a British gentleman acted. Indeed, while several government officials are known to have run spy networks both within Britain and overseas, Britain didn’t have an official department for spies until the 20th century.

In real life, as opposed to books, Exploring officers in Wellington’s army worked for the Intelligence Branch of the Quartermaster General’s office. They operated on their own or with one or two local guides. Their task was to collect first-hand tactical intelligence by riding to enemy positions, observing and noting movements and making sketch maps of uncharted land. It was a dangerous job and they had to be fit, good horsemen, and ready to escape at any moment. They wore their uniforms at all times (at least in theory), because they were officers, not spies.

The famous exploring officer Lieutenant Colquoun Grant was captured by the French while in uniform, and treated as an officer. Grant gave his parole, which basically meant he agreed to not try to escape. However, he discovered that the French general whose prisoner he was had written a letter that said  ‘His Excellency thinks that he should be watched and brought to the notice of the police’.

In other words, the French consider Grant a spy, to be dealt with by the police and not the army. Grant decided that the French had broken their agreement so his parole no longer counted, and he escaped.

Another job of the Intelligence Branch was intercepting letters, such as those sent from French generals to their officers.

They also collected information from networks of local spies. In my books, I have my exploring officers joined by a Greek spy and his niece, who claim to working with the British because the British are the enemies of the Turks.

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Villains on WIP Wednesday

A candle either side of the ornate mirror on the study wall lit Richard’s face and upper body without relieving the gloom behind him. The black of his evening wear merged with the darkness, leaving the planes of his face and the folds of his white cravat to swim against the shadows.

“It cannot be him,” he told his reflection. “He’s dead. He died nearly two decades ago. A boy of that age? A soft spoiled brat like that? And a pretty one? He could never have survived.”

The dark eyes of the reflection stared back. He thought he saw an ironic twitch of the eyebrow.

“Curse Matt. He was meant to kill the little horror and throw the body somewhere it would be found.”

Richard scowled and the reflection scowled back. The plan should have succeeded. It had worked once. And with a body to grieve over, Madeline would have recovered. Richard could have charmed her into believing in him again. Instead, she insisted that the boy was still alive.

“She was meant to be mine.” He nodded his head once, decisively, and his reflection nodded back, agreeing with him. He had seen the pretty girl first, begun to court her. Then she met cursed Edward. The man with everything. His uncle’s favorite. The golden boy.

Tonight’s imposter looked just like Edward. “It cannot be the boy. He’s a by-blow; that must be it. Perfect Edward’s base born brat.”

How he would like to tell Madeline that Edward had been diddling someone else. His teeth flashed white in the candle light at the thought of her likely reaction. His own pain, though, was greater. He had won her for such a short time, and then lost her. She blamed him for the boy’s disappearance, and in the end, he had to put her away where she could do no harm.

It wasn’t fair. Matt Deffew had ruined everything. The boy had ruined everything by biting his abductor’s hand, wriggling from his grasp, and running away to die anonymously in the mean streets.

Matt was dead and could not pay for his mistake. The boy, too, was dead. He must be. And Madeline, to his everlasting sorrow. There was no one alive to punish.

The reflection raised an eyebrow. Of course. It was right. He must take his revenge on the imposter.

The passage is from Snowy and the Seven Doves.