Book series

by

The virgin hero on WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from The Flavour of Our Deeds (Book 5 in The Golden Redepennings). My hero has been resisting the heroine for six years. She is a lady born, daughter and sister of an earl, wealthy and beautiful, with the world at her feet. He is base born, a commoner, a working man, too old for her, and in danger. She has finally got him to concede that he loves her, and wants to marry her. Some time. When the danger is over. In this scene, she demands that he thinks again.

In the next moment she was in his arms, and he was kissing her. “You will be the death of me, stubborn female,” he muttered against her lips, before covering her mouth again, one hand on her lower back pressing her against him, the other gently cradling the back of her head as he ravaged her with his lips and his tongue. This time, he was the one to draw back. “We have to stop.” His body belied his words. He was flushed and trembling, and the thin layers of their robes had not in the least disguised his arousal.

“Must we?” Kitty wondered, “If we are to marry within the week?” She had a theoretical knowledge of what came next. His kisses left her eager to put theory into practice.

She thought he would deny them both because she was young and innocent, and he would be taking advantage of her. What he said instead was unexpected.

“I am a bastard, Kitty. Got by my father on the pretty daughter of his gamekeeper. My only memory of my mother—or memories, because I think it happened many times—is of her crying after one of his visits.”

Kitty didn’t see the relevance. “You are not your father, Luke. And I am not your mother.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I made a promise to my grandfather, Kitty. When he lay dying, he begged me not to be like my father—careless with women and ruled by my pri— my lust.”

Still not relevant, Kitty thought, but Luke hadn’t finished.

“I promised that I would wait until marriage to experience physical intimacy with a woman, and would be faithful to my wedding vows once I’d made them. I swore it on the family bible.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Wait. Did that mean he had never...?

Luke was looking into some mental landscape—the past perhaps? “I’ve never found it hard to keep that promise, because I have seen so much misery arising from the behaviour my grandfather decried. My mother, and so many other woman. Even the ones who were eager risked being left broken hearted. Or they gave themselves to a man who died before he could put a ring on their finger, and his good intentions didn’t protect them or their baby from the consequences.”

He was right, of course. Kitty had seen it herself. Indeed, if not for Anne’s masquerade as a widow, she would have lived it, at least by association.

“Then along came you, Kitty. I have always struggled to resist you, and with each kiss it becomes harder and harder.” He chuckled suddenly, and his voice dropped to a low growl that vibrated in the places that ached for him most. “In more ways than one.” She caught the salacious reference, and her face heated. She licked her lips, which had gone suddenly dry.

Luke gulped and looked away. “Help me keep my promise, Kitty,” he begged.

Botheration. An appeal to her honour. “Yes, of course.” She turned her back on him to straighten the robe he had brushed aside during their kiss, drawing it closed high up her chest and belting it firmly. “Thank you for explaining.”

Luke had tidied himself while she was rearranging her robe. He offered her another brandy, but she refused. “If I must be good, another would be a bad idea,” she said. She returned to her chair, more determined than ever. “Luke, will you marry me and take me to Cumberland with you?” A special license was sounding more and more appealing.

Luke sat, too, smiling at her. “Are you going to argue with me for the rest of our lives together, heart of my heart?” His tone was one of enquiry rather than criticism.

“Only when you are wrong,” she retorted, then amended the statement. “No, for sometimes I might be wrong, but believe myself to be right, as when I saw no reason why you should not bed me, tonight. When you explained, I changed my mind. I would hope, Luke, that we can disagree in a civilized manner, discuss things, and reach agreement.”

“I beg you not to speak of bedding, my love,” he groaned.

“A special license?” she suggested, hopefully.

“A common license. In the morning, I shall speak with Rede, and with Uncle Baldwin about waiting a few days longer. Now go to bed, Kitty. You have won.”

Kitty widened her eyes. “I have won? That is not reaching agreement, Luke.”

“I misspoke. We have both won. You are correct that it is not my right to decide to keep you from my life in order to protect you from a threat that might not even exist. But Kitty, if you are in immediate peril and we do not have time for a discussion, I want your promise that you will obey me in that moment. We can talk it over when we are safe.”

That was fair, and quite a large concession. “I promise, Luke, unless you are the one in danger and I can do something to save you.”

Luke heaved a sigh. “I imagine that we will have many more vigorous discussions in our future, my love.”

Kitty blew him a kiss as she made her way to the door. “But imagine the fun we will have making up!” she told him, then slipped out the door, closing it behind her, delighted with her exit line.

by

Tea at Gunter’s with Kitty

Another excerpt post. This one is from The Flavour of Our Deeds, novel 5 of the Golden Redepennings. Kitty has taken refuge with her godmother, the Duchess of Haverford, and they are out for the afternoon.

Afterwards, Her Grace ordered the open carriage to stop at Gunter’s for ices, sending a footman in to make the order, and eating the delicious confections in the carriage.

It was a sunny afternoon, and many other people had had the same idea. All four ladies were hailed by friends and acquaintances, many of whom came to chat for a time. Not all of them were welcome.

One of younger ladies who persisted in regarding Kitty as a rival to be brought low asked Kitty, “Is it true that your brother’s gamekeeper has been arrested for murder?”

Kitty opened her eyes as widely as she could. “Goodness, Miss Fairburn, who is spreading such a story?”

Miss Fairburn blushed. “I heard it somewhere.” She looked up and past Kitty’s shoulder. “I wondered if it was true.”

Kitty frowned, and shook her head slightly. “It does not sound likely,” she said. “I wonder which gamekeeper, and who he might be supposed to have murdered? And why?”

Lady Juliana Meredith leaned closer. “I heard that you were at the house when the man was arrested, and that the constable tried to arrest you, Lady Catherine.”

Kitty answered that perfectly true statement with a burst of laughter. The Duchess of Haverford broke from her conversation with a couple of matrons to say, “I can assure you that no constables have attempted to arrest a lady staying in my house, Lady Juliana.” She finished with a harrumphing sound that indicated her opinion of any constable foolish enough to try.

One could depend upon Miss Fairburn and her cronies to repeat juicy gossip, and to add speculation to make it more inflammatory. One could hope that the disapproval of the duchess might help to button their lips.

When Aunt Eleanor turned away again, Miss Fairburn changed the subject. “Such a pretty dress, Lady Catherine. Are you hoping to bring back the sleeve style from last Season?” She batted her eyelashes at the rest of the group as if hoping for applause.

Kitty chuckled again. “I am happy to leave the pursuit of fashion to you young ladies, Miss Fairburn. This is a gown from last Season. For some reason, I barely wore it, though I like it very much.” She lifted one arm. “The sleeves are particularly pretty, do you not think?”

“You were very polite to her,” Jessica said, after the group made their farewells and excuses, and moved away. “I wanted to scratch her eyes out, and she wasn’t even addressing her nasty comments to me!”

Kitty smiled again. “My niece’s nanny, Hannah, always said, A soft answer turneth away wrath. In my experience, a soft answer drives one’s would-be persecutors wild with rage. Their barbs have failed to pierce my armour, and yet, I have said nothing to which they can take offence.”

Jessica chuckled. “I shall remember that.” Jessica knew all about barbs from the likes of Miss Fairburn. She and her sisters Matilda and Frances had been raised and luxury and given every advantage, but in the eyes of Society’s high sticklers, nothing could wipe out the stain of their birth. They were all three daughters of the Duke of Haverford by different mistresses.

“Lady Catherine! Lady Catherine!” The voice, a man’s tenor blemished by a shrill nasal whine, could come from only one man. Kitty turned to look, suppressing the inevitable sigh.

Sure enough, Hardwicke-Chalmers came rushing through the crowd, oblivious to the child he nearly stepped on and the waiter whose tray of ices nearly flew up into his face. The waiter performed an aerobatic masterpiece of a maneuver, and continued on his way as Hardwicke-Chalmers skidded to a stop beside the landau and looked up into Kitty’s face with a delighted smile, sure of his welcome.

“You need to tell your brother to dismiss his butler, Lady Catherine. They told me at your house you were not in town.,” he said.

Her Grace answered the man while Kitty was still gasping at his impertinence. “I daresay, Mr Hardwicke-Chalmers, that they said she was not at home. And no more she is. Lady Catherine is my guest at Haverford House.”

Hardwicke-Chalmers gaped at the duchess as if surprised to find her there, then blinked hard and gulped. “That would be it, Your Grace,” he agreed.

He then turned to Kitty and asked what entertainments she was attending, as he wished to reserve as many dances as she would grant him, and if she was planning on taking in a musicale, he wished to claim the great honour of sitting beside her.

Kitty could scarcely believe the affrontery of the man, ignoring the existence of the duchess’s two wards and even the duchess herself. “I must defer to Her Grace,” she said, pointedly, who has been kind enough to chaperone me, along with her wards, Miss Grenford and Miss Jessica Grenford. The choice of invitations is entirely over to Her Grace.”

Hardwicke-Chalmers looked at the two Grenford girls, at the duchess, and then back at Kitty. “Awkward,” he said. “I will have to think about this.”

With that remark, he walked away. Even for Hardwicke-Chalmers, that was extraordinarily bad manners.

“Have you known Mr Hardly-Charming for long?” Jessica asked. The nickname fitted perfectly. Kitty giggled at the apposite mangling of the oaf’s name even as she answered.

“He has been pursuing me all Season. He seems to think that I am too old to be selective. What is awkward? And what does he have to think about?”

“Us,” Matilda provided. “If you are chaperoned by our guardian, he can hardly dance with you and refuse to dance with us.”

Kitty was quick to say, “Surely not. Would he say such a thing in front of you if that is what he meant?” Yes, she answered her own question. He is that crass and dense.

“A foolish and conceited young man, with little justification for either” the duchess said. “I believe him to have sufficient native wit if he cared to apply it, but instead, he depends on his mother to do it for him.”

Kitty was surprised, for the Duchess of Haverford seldom spoke ill of anyone.

“Have a care, dear Kitty,” Her Grace added. “Honoria Hardwicke-Chalmers’ sense of ethics is bound up with her own self-importance. If she has set her sights on your dowry to drag her family out of River Tick, she will not hesitate to be underhanded in her methods.”

“I will not give him the opportunity to stage a compromise,” Kitty promised, adding, “and I would not, in any case, marry a man who tried to force my consent, even if it meant giving up Society. Living without invitations is much preferable to living with a tyrant and a liar.”

She would have caught back the last sentence had she thought them through before she spoke them. The Duke of Haverford was both tyrant and liar, as well as erratic and a rakehell.

However, the duchess merely commented, “Very wise, my dear, but best avoid the need to make such a choice.

by

Descriptions on WIP Wednesday

When I write, I want you to see what I see in my mind’s eye, without belabouring the point. In my fourth novel for the A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, I’ve been describing the nursery to which my heroine and her charge are consigned.

The nursery at the Paris townhouse was ruthlessly clean and sparsely furnished with a random collection of unmatched items. Against one wall were two beds, made with fresh sheets, sported a continental style of comforter each. Between the windows stood a table with two chairs. The wall opposite the beds had fitted shelves, which stood empty. A circular rug, the colours faded except where someone had darned a couple of worn places, covered the centre of the wooden floor. And that was all, apart from Pauline’s and Jane’s bags, which a footman had deposited just inside the door.

No pictures or ornaments softened the room, which held no toys or books to read.

“It is not very nice, is it?” Jane murmured to Pauline.

The footman shut the door as he left, and she heard the tumblers of the lock fall as he locked it. Pauline felt the strain go out of her shoulders. She had been afraid they might be separated straight away, or that one of the maids might be assigned to stay with them. She was determined to escape tonight, and to take Jane with her.

by

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, in WIP Wednesday

In Perchance to Dream, I have nearly 17,000 words in the bucket, and have just written a scene where John is listening to his daughter in the garden and thinking about his recent visitor, with whom he has been exchanging letters.

Jane’s writing and reading was going ahead by leaps and bounds, and she also showed a flair for numbers. I suppose I shall have to employ a governess sooner or later. His mind’s eye pictured Pansy, bending over her work on that last afternoon. She would make a wonderful governess. John rejected the thought, shoving it away with something akin to horror. Even if the lady was looking for employment, which she wasn’t, he could never have her living under his roof.

Witness his frequent thoughts of that visit, of the growing desire that made him both anxious for her present and eager to avoid it, of how he struggled with lust that last afternoon as he viewed her lovely rear, neatly outlined in her woollen gown.

She is a friend, and has become a good one over the past few months. That was all it could be.

His inner self asked, snidely, So is that why you are hovering by the window instead of getting on with your work?

He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was waiting for Thorne to come back from the nearest Royal Mail stop, some five miles away by road. He’d been sent to post a letter and to collect any mail that might have been waiting.

You had a letter only a week ago, he scolded himself. She had written that she was travelling to Essex. He hoped Peter’s children were recovering. He hoped she found treasures in her new rose blooms.

His own letter carried an invitation. He was nearly ready to install the Carlisle clock tower scenes, and would be travelling up there within the fortnight. Yesterday, the town council had sent him the date for the opening ceremony. The Thornes and Jane would travel up for it, of course.

He should not hope for it. It is a long way for Pansy to come. On the other hand, it was in July, when the ton were abandoning the stinky hole that London became in the summer, and she did, after all, have a sister to visit in Galloway, only a day’s journey from Carlisle.

Against that, it was high summer, and she would be desperate to get back to her garden after the long months in London.

The clop of hooves had him crossing the room to look out at the carriage way. Thorne was home.

John drew away from the window before Thorne could see him, and busied himself tidying his work desk, and then his tray of parts. Doubtless, Thorne and his wife had figured out how besotted John had become. It was hard to keep such a secret from a man who had been his batman since he first took up his commission. John could, however, at least pretend to be indifferent.

It was a very long half hour before Thorne knocked on the door and entered.

 

by

Backlist spotlight on Unkept Promises

(Book 4 in The Golden Redepennings series)

Logline: She wants to negotiate a comfortable marriage; he wants her in his bed

“… oaths and anchors equally will drag: naught else abides on fickle earth but unkept promises of joy.” Herman Melville

Naval captain Jules Redepenning has spent his adult life away from England, and at war. He rarely thinks of the bride he married for her own protection, and if he does, he remembers the child he left after their wedding seven years ago. He doesn’t expect to find her in his Cape Town home, a woman grown and a lovely one, too.

Mia Redepenning sails to Cape Town to nurse her husband’s dying mistress and adopt his children. She hopes to negotiate a comfortable married life with the man while she’s there. Falling in love is not on her to-do list.

Before they can do more than glimpse a possible future together, their duties force them apart. At home in England, Mia must fight for the safety of Jules’s children. Imprisoned in France, Jules must battle for his self-respect and his life.

Only by vanquishing their foes can they start to make their dreams come true.

Buy links

Books2Read: books2read.com/Unkept-Promises

Excerpt

Jules made his way home in the early hours of the morning, a little drunk and a lot annoyed at a waste of an entire evening. “Good of you to come out on the first night of your leave, Redepenning,” said the admiral when he was finally able to say his goodbyes. Not that his note demanding Jules’s presence at his table had offered the choice of refusal.

The evening had comprised interminable discussion of the same points over and over—points on which Jules had given his opinion in his reports from Madagascar and the final one delivered this afternoon. They needed to oust the enemy from the two ports still in French hands, since the enemy used those bases to attack British shipping.

Most of the captains favoured a frontal assault. Jules, Fleming, and a couple of the other captains held the minority view, suggesting the British support the young king of the Merinas, who was in the process of conquering the whole island. The admiral was playing his cards close to his chest, but had dismissed them all with a promise to let them know what he would be recommending to the Admiralty.

No-one had said anything new, and Jules’s evening would have been better spent with his daughters and Kirana. Or even having the overdue confrontation with his inconvenient wife.

She had better not be in his bed. If she was, he’d pack her off to her own, as he should have done with Maureen when the little baggage met him there one night, naked between his sheets, after a very similar evening. Instead, tired, frustrated, and lonely, his willpower blunted by alcohol, he had accepted what she had to offer. If she was pregnant with his child, it must have been that night, for the next time—the only other time—he’d worn a pig skin, as he always did with anyone except Kirana. Kirana, who had been too sick to give him the comfort of her body for a long time.

He had been so depressed by the sheer emptiness of copulating with Maureen that he’d sworn off any repeat engagements, though Maureen had not believed he was serious, and he’d left for Mauritius and Madagascar before she could put it to the test.

He’d kept to his resolution, too, much to Gerta van Klief’s surprise. The widow had been quite put out when he explained he intended to honour his marriage from this point on.

Which, when Jules came to think about it, he could do while still enjoying the delectable package that might be waiting in his bed. She was, after all, his wife. For a moment, he let himself imagine unwrapping the unexpected gift that was, after all, his. No. They needed to get a few things sorted, first. A ship could only have one captain, and he was it. And he decided who was on his crew and where they went.

His key opened the front door, and he locked and bolted it by the light of the shuttered lamp left waiting for him in the entrance hall. He let himself into his bed chamber. His bed was empty; the sheets crisp and neat over the mattress. He did not feel disappointed. He would not feel disappointed.

But before he could think and put a brake on the action, he crossed the room to the connecting door leading to the one requisitioned by his wife, and turned the handle. It wouldn’t budge. She’d locked the door against him!

His indignation expressed itself in a raised fist, ready to pound on the door and demand entrance, until his sense of humour caught up. So much for planning to turn her out of his bed. What a hypocrite he was being, desiring the damnable woman even while he was suspicious of her motives and annoyed about her existence.

He turned towards the bed. He’d be sleeping in it alone, apparently.

by

What I’ve been up to and what is coming.

I’ve just completely revised my Works in Progress page, with a list of the books I plan to publish between now and January 2024. There are fifteen. (At least. In the last six months, I’ve written 270,000 words of the 700,000 word total I’ll need to reach the target, and I have until the end of October 2023 to write the last of the remaining 430,000, so I should be able to squeeze in another book or two.)  Take a look and let me know what you think. Is there something you’re waiting for that isn’t on there? Is there anything you’re particularly anxious to see?

I’m currently writing Perchance to Dream and The Flavours of Our Deeds, revising Snowy and the Seven Blossoms and Zara’s Locket, and thinking about The Talons of the Lyon and the Bluestocking Belles ‘Box set for 2023. Perchance and Snowy belong to A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, the same series as the beautiful cover above, Lady Beast’s Bridegroom.  See the new A Twist Upon a Regency Tale page for the titles, covers, and blurbs of all four books. The Flavours of Our Deeds is the next book in The Golden Redepennings series. And Zara’s Locket will be in the Belles’ 2022 Holiday box set.

by

Tea with Kitty

“It is always lovely to see you, Kitty dear,” said the Duchess of Haverford as she sipped her tea, “but I did not realise that you had come to town with Chirbury and your sister.” It was more of an opening than a statement. Kitty’s sister Anne, another of her goddaughters and wife to her nephew, the Earl of Chirbury, had visited just two days ago, to see whether Kitty had come to the duchess for help. “She has taken flight with our gamekeeper and his son, Aunt Eleanor, after hearing two people plot to kill him. We hoped she might come to you.”

Well, here she was. It remained to be seen what for.

“I did not, Aunt Eleanor. Indeed, I came to London hoping to find them, but they have already left for Longford Court.”

Eleanor inclined her head.

“I need your help, Aunt Eleanor. Or, rather, Lucas Mogg needs your help. You remember him? He  helped to save Dan last year from the man who wanted to take him.”

Yes, Eleanor well remembered the attempt on the son of young Jules’ Redepenning, and Mr Mogg’s role in it. “A good man,” she agreed. “A pity he is not of your class, my dear, for I know you have a tendre for him.” Although Eleanor supposed it was too late for such considerations, if they had been travelling together. She hoped they had not been travelling together.

“We have been travelling together,” said Kitty.

***

In The Flavour of Our Deeds, which I am currently writing, Kitty and Luke, with Luke’s son Paul, are on their way to London, having failed to find Kitty’s sister Anne and her husband at their Essex estate. Once in London, they will seek help from the Duchess of Haverford and her son Aldridge.

 

by

Backlist spotlight on The Realm of Silence

The Realm of Silence

(Book 3 in the Golden Redepennings series)

Rescue her daughter, destroy her dragons, defeat his demons, go back to his lonely life. How hard can it be?

“I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved…  the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave.” George Eliot

When Susan Cunningham’s daughter disappears from school, her pleasant life as a fashionable, dashing, and respectable widow is shattered. Amy is reported to be chasing a French spy up the Great North Road, and when Susan sets out in pursuit she is forced to accept help from the last person she wants: her childhood friend and adult nemesis, Gil Rutledge.

Gil Rutledge has loved Susan since she was ten and he a boy of twelve. He is determined to oblige her by rescuing her daughter. And if close proximity allows them to rekindle their old friendship, even better. He has no right to ask for more.

Gil and Susan must overcome danger, mystery, ghosts from the past, and their own pride before their journey is complete.

Buy links

https://books2read.com/TheRealmofSilence: https://books2read.com/TheRealmofSilence

Excerpt

Four years had passed since he 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 weeks, apart from the brief stopover in Derby with his sister.

She was breathing quickly, fear for her child flushing her face. To one who knew her, and who watched her closely, she held her composure by a thread.

The crowd of onlookers leaned forward to catch his reply. “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 shifting nervously from one foot to another 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. The interview in Essex with his reluctant sister-in-law would need to wait until The Goddess’s child was safe.

He gave Moffat the signal to deal with their mounts and the packhorse, and followed Mrs Cunningham into the inn. Susan, he said silently, though underneath that silence earlier names sounded in his head. Joan. Athene. Boadicea. Just as her father had named his sons for battle-tried kings and emperors who led successful armies, he had given his daughter the names of female 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 as well as those bestowed upon her before God, at her baptism.

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.

“How long have the two girls been missing?” Saturday, the ostler said, which would fit. But it seemed unlikely such a devoted mother would have so long delayed the search.

“Saturday,” Susan confirmed, “though the school found out only today, and told me when I arrived unexpectedly.” She seemed to think that required further explanation. “I was journeying back to London from Michael’s estate in the north, and diverted on a whim to visit Amy.

The girl could have been Amy, then. “What would she be doing in Stamford?”

“Stamford! I can imagine no reason why she and Patrice might go to Stamford, or how? I have been asking about carriages, but… Wait. You saw her in Stamford?”

“Yesterday morning. I did not see her clearly. She was dressed like Miss Clementine here. One of those bonnets. Black half boots. A skirt and coat thing. Both blue. Wool, I think.”

“A pelisse, yes. In bishop’s blue over a lighter coloured skirt. The Fellowes’ Academy requires all its students to dress the same. And her companion would also have been wearing the uniform.”

“She was with a boy. Or, at least, someone dressed as a boy. Thin face. Dark hair from what I could see under the cap. Tall for a girl, if it was a girl. Taller than Miss Cunningham by perhaps five inches. Their governess, or whoever it was, ordered them into the post chaise and they took off on the North Road.”

“Governess.” Susan’s brows drew together as she thought about that.

“It must have been someone else,” Miss Foster proclaimed.

by

Forbidden love in WIP Wednesday

“Bullseye!” crowed Paul. “That’s all five, Dad!”

“You can barely count the third one,” grouched Luke Mogg. “It was right on the line.” The boy was better by far than Luke had been at twelve. Not just with a bow, but with knife, pistol, and bare-handed. Even now, Paul could hold his own against most grown men. Once he had his adult growth and strength, perhaps Luke would be able to relax a little.

“Let’s try for five more,” he suggested.

Paul put five more arrows into the turf in front of him, and Luke held up one hand while fixing his eyes on his watch. The exercise was not just about accuracy, but speed. Paul could count only those arrows that hit the target within sixty seconds.

As his hand came down and the first arrow flew, he heard the sound of someone running. “Stop, Paul. Someone is coming down the path.”

A moment later, Lady Kitty burst into the clearing. Her face lit up when she saw him, and she didn’t slow, but continued running until she was standing before him.

As always, Luke’s heart ached at the sight of her. Lady Catherine Stocke, sister to his employer’s wife, as far out of his reach as a star, and as tempting as a siren. Especially since he knew she thought herself in love with him.

The Earl of Chirbury, his employer, would dismiss him if he knew Luke loved her in return, and kill him if Luke ever hinted that he had once stolen a kiss. A mistake. His birth and his age made him an unfit groom for a lady such as her, even if he was free. As it was, his self-imposed mission barred him from any personal happiness until he had seen Paul safe at last. He should regret the kiss, but he could not.

How far had she run? She was trying to talk, but was heaving for breath. He made out the words, “Warn you.”

He cast a glance the way she had come and nodded to Paul, who nodded and nocked another arrow.

“Take your time, my lady,” Luke advised. “Do you want a drink? Here, come and sit down.” He offered his arm, and she let him support her to the bench by his front door, while Paul stood sentry over the path.

She shut her eyes and took several deep breaths, then opened them again. “I came to warn you, Luke. I heard two men planning your murder. Yours and Paul’s.”

Luke cast another anxious glance at the path.

“Tomorrow night,” she assured him. “They are coming for you tomorrow night.”

“You had better tell me the whole story in order.” He thought about it. “Me and Paul.”

(From The Flavour of Our Deeds, which is currently up to 9,000 words, so about an eighth of the way through.)

by

Tea with a worried mother

This excerpt is from Revealed in Mist.

Prue hesitated in the street outside her next destination. Callers needed to present their card at the gate, be escorted to the front door and delivered to the butler, then wait to be announced. On most days of the week, uninvited guests below a certain rank in society would have difficulty making it past the first obstacle, but on Thursday afternoons, the Duchess of Haverford was ‘at home’ to petitioners.

Past encounters had always been initiated by Her Grace. A scented note would arrive by footman, and Prue would obey the summons and receive the duchess’s commission. Though she was always gracious, never, by word or deed, had Her Grace indicated that she and Prue had any closer relationship than employer and agent.

The entrance and public rooms of Haverford House were designed to impress lesser mortals with the greatness of the family—and their own lesser status. Prue was ushered to a room just off the lofty entrance hall. Small by Haverford standards, this waiting area nonetheless dwarfed the people waiting to see the duchess.

Two women, one middle-aged and the other a copy some twenty years younger, nervously perched on two of the ladder-backed chairs lining one wall. Next to them, but several chairs along, a lean young man with an anxious frown pretended to read some papers, shuffling them frequently, peering over the tops of his spectacles at the door to the next room. Two men strolled slowly along the wall, examining the large paintings and conversing in low whispers. A lone woman walked back and forth before the small window, hushing the baby fretting on her shoulder.

Prue took a seat and prepared for a wait. She would not tremble. She had nothing to fear. Both Tolliver and David said so, and Aldridge, too. But how she wished the waiting was over.

It seemed a long time but was only a few minutes, before a servant hurried in and approached her.

“Miss Virtue? Her Grace will see you now.”

Prue gave the other occupants an apologetic nod and followed the servant.

The duchess received her in a pretty parlour, somehow cosy despite its grand scale. Prue curtseyed to her and the woman with her. Were all petitioners waved to a seat on an elegant sofa facing Her Grace? Addressed as ‘my dear’? Asked if they should care for a cup of tea?

“Miss Virtue takes her tea black, with a slice of lemon,” the duchess told her companion. Or was the woman her secretary?

“Miss Virtue, my companion, Miss Grant. Miss Grant, Miss Virtue has been of great service to me and to those I love. I am always at home to her.”

Was Miss Grant one of the army of relatives for whom Her Grace had found employment, or perhaps one of the dozens of noble godchildren she sponsored? The young woman did not have the look of either Aldridge or his brother, nor of their parents. Prue murmured a greeting.

“I was not expecting you, Miss Virtue, was I? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Your Grace. I just… I have some questions, Ma’am.”

“You should have sent a note, my dear. I will always take time to see you. I was happy to give a good report of you to my friend Lady Georgiana, of course.” As she spoke, the duchess took the tea cup from Miss Grant and passed it to her.

“Your Grace, I would like to speak with you alone, if I may. I beg your pardon, Miss Grant. I do not mean to be discourteous.”

The duchess stopped her own cup partway to her lips and put it carefully back into the saucer, examining Prue’s face carefully.

When she spoke, it was to Miss Grant. “Celia, my dear, will you let those waiting know that I will be delayed by…” she consulted her lapel watch, “…thirty-five minutes, but I will see them all today? Perhaps you could arrange refreshments for them? Return on the half hour, please. That is all the time I can spare, Miss Virtue. If you need longer, I will ask you to wait or return another day.”

Prue shook her head. “The time will be ample, Ma’am. Thank you.”

As Miss Grant left the room, Prue was silent, collecting her thoughts. The duchess waited.

“You knew about Antonia. You have known all along.” Prue shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.

The duchess inclined her head, her face showing nothing but calm. “Since shortly after her birth.”

Prue did not know how to ask the questions that crowded her mind, but the duchess had exhausted her noble patience, which was, after all, on a schedule. “What is it you wish to know, Miss Virtue? Why I said nothing?” Her voice softened, and her eyes were compassionate. “I read your sister’s letter, and thought to write back and offer you and the child a place with me. I did not think a home filled with such… such judgement could be happy for either of you. But family is best, if it can be contrived. And there was Aldridge. I was unsure how things had been left between you. He seemed to feel a genuine fondness; I thought he might… He has more charm than is helpful in such situations, and I did not want my granddaughter raised… Well. That is not to the point now.”

She took a deep breath. So she was not as calm as she seemed, either. “I sent someone I trust to check whether you needed my intervention, and found you had left the letter writer to live with another sister. A more hospitable environment, my agent thought.”

Prue knew who the duchess’s trusted messenger was. “Tolliver.”

Her Grace nodded. “Yes. Thomas and I have an equal commitment to protecting and championing those to whom the Grenfords owe a duty.”

“You and I have met since, Your Grace.”

“Your secrets are yours to keep or share, Miss Virtue. I have often wished to ask after your daughter, but I did not wish to intrude. My son’s carelessness changed your life in ways for which I can never compensate. The Grenfords have responsibilities here, but no rights.”

Prue felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I knew about the three girls: the young ladies you are raising. I thought you might… I feared you would take Antonia. Aldridge told me you would not, and so did David and Tolliver.”

The duchess leaned forward to pat Prue’s hand. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry you were worried. Matilda, Jessica, and Frances had no one else, and at the time we found them I did not understand that a quieter life in a less prominent household would have served them better. Frances was the last I took into my own home, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now Thomas and I do better by those we find. But there, done is done, and the girls and I love one another dearly.”

She had kept Prue’s hand in hers, and she now gave it a comforting squeeze. “I can assure you, Miss Virtue, I have never taken a child from a mother, or from relatives who cared. The future those little girls faced,” she shuddered at the thought, “was unutterably grim.”

She sat back, and picked up her abandoned cup to take a sip. “You say Aldridge reassured you. He knows about his daughter, then?”

“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Prue found herself telling the duchess about the attack in Tidbury End. “I would like to talk to the Dowager Lady Selby, but she has not been at home,” she finished. “Surely she would be concerned at the plight of her grandchildren?”

Her Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, her lip curling. “Not from what I know of her, my dear. But have young Wakefield escort you to my ball on Thursday. I shall arrange for you to have a private interview with Lady Selby.”

A discreet knock at the door warned the duchess their time was nearly up. The Duchess of Haverford stood and walked Prue to the door, and Prue found herself enfolded in a tight embrace. “I shall continue to rely upon you for your professional services from time to time, my dear, and will be pleased to say a good word if ever it can help you. You will let me know if there is anything else I can do,” she commanded. “Should the opportunity arise, I would dearly love to meet your daughter, entirely at your discretion.” She turned her head away, but not before Prue had seen the glistening eyes.

Prue curtseyed. “My association with you has always been to my benefit, Your Grace; I am certain such acquaintance with the House of Haverford can only be to Antonia’s advantage.”