The Return of the Mountain King

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Tea with Lady Sutton

“Gracious me,” said Sophia, with an indignant glare at the letter in her lap. “How presumptuous. How impertinent!”

The Duchess of Haverford raised a questioning eyebrow, but her goddaughter was still scowling at the offensive missive and didn’t see.

Eleanor had enjoyed having Sophia and her little daughter to visit while Sophia’s husband, Lord Sutton, was off on some business for his father. Lady Mary Elizabeth was a darling delight; Eleanor would miss her when Sutton arrived to collect them in the morning.

Sophia had folded the letter in half and was tapping it against the arm of her chair, her brows knit in thought.

“Is it something you can tell me about, my dear?” the duchess asked.

Sophia looked up and smiled. “I beg your pardon, Aunt Eleanor. I was so annoyed by this piece of pernicious mischief that I quite forgot where I was. Yes, I would like to tell you about it, if I may.”

“Perhaps another cup of tea?” Eleanor suggested.

Sophia agreed with thanks, and scanned the letter again while Eleanor poured.

“It is from a woman in Fenwick on Sea in Suffolk,” she explained.

“The village where the ship your brother and sister were on took shelter from that dreadful storm,” Eleanor commented.

Sophia nodded, and gave the letter another thunderous frown.

“But Hythe and Felicity found another ship to take them to Belgium, you said,” Eleanor prompted. “What has this woman to say about them that has you so cross?”

“Not them. I mentioned, I think, that Felicity’s maid, Theo, remained in Fenwick. She had been terribly sea sick, and neither Hythe nor Felicity wished to risk her. I am to send a carriage for her as soon as we are back in Gloucestershire.” She smiled. “A slow one. Poor Theo has never travelled well.”

“I remember you left her behind at Hollystone Hall when you raced to London to marry Sutton before his grandfather died,” Eleanor noted.

Another quick smile as Sophia nodded, and then the frown returned. “This woman writes about Theo. Just listen!

‘The designing hussy made her move on the poor curate when the children he has taken in had a mild attack of the ague. Under the guise of nursing them, she took up residence in the village. They say that Mr Somerville also became ill, but since that female would not allow responsible members of the village to see him, we must decide whether this is true, or whether she had no desire for others to interfere in her nefarious attempt to force the man into a proposal by setting up housekeeping with him.’

I must post to Fenwick, and defend our poor dear Theo. James will simply have to take us to Gloucestershire by way of the coast of Suffolk! Rather the long way around, but darling Mary Elizabeth is a good traveller, thank goodness.”

“The curate, you say?” Eleanor asked. “Your sister Felicity mentioned she thought the pair were forming an attachment. Apparently she was right.”

“Yes,” Sophia replied. “And Felicity mentioned this…” she waved the letter… “Mrs Fullerton, too. Apparently the besom has been causing trouble in the parish. Felicity suggested Mr Somerville might be needing another position sooner, rather than later.”

Her smile broadened. “I am looking forward to meeting the man who has prompted my shy, perfectly-behaved maid to such scandal!”

A Dream Come True: By Jude Knight

The tempest that batters Barnaby Somerville’s village is the latest but not the least of his challenges.

Vicar to a remote parish, he stretches his tiny stipend to adopt his orphaned niece and nephew and his time to offer medical care as well as spiritual. A wife is a dream he cannot afford.

But the storm sweeps into his life a surprising temptation—a charming young woman who lavishes her gentle care upon his wards—and him.

God knows, he will forever be richer for having known her, even if he must let her go.

Storm & Shelter: A Bluestocking Belles Collection With Friends

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles’ project page. 

Only 99c while on preorder. Published April 13th.

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Book blurbs in WIP Wednesday

My work in progress is making great progress! I’ve finished taking in the copy edits from the lovely Reina, given it a final proof, and made some changes to the cover. (It now says The Return of the Mountain King as the series title, for one thing.)

I’ve also rewritten the blurb, and that’s my excerpt for today. Next step, finalise the layout files and put them up in the retailers! Launch date is only a fortnight away.

Ruth Winderfield is miserable in London’s ballrooms, where her family’s wealth and questions over her birth make her a target for the unscrupulous and a pariah to the high-sticklers. Trained as a healer, she is happiest in a sickroom. When a smallpox epidemic traps her at the remote manor of a reclusive lord, the last thing she expects is to find her heart’s desire.

Valentine, Earl of Ashbury, was carried home from war three years ago, unconscious, a broken man. He woke to find his family in ruins, his faithless wife and treacherous brother dead, his family’s two girl children exiled to school. He becomes a near recluse while he spends his days trying to restore the estate, or at least prevent further crumbling.

When an impertinent, bossy female turns up with several sick children, including the two girls, he reluctantly gives them shelter. Unable to stand by and watch the suffering, he begins to help with the nursing, while he falls irrevocably for both girls and the lovely Ruth.

The epidemic over, Ruth and Val part ways, each reluctant to share how they feel without a sign from the other. Ruth returns to her family and the ton. Val begins to build a new life centred on his girls. But danger to Ruth is a clarion call Val cannot ignore. If they can stop the villains determined to destroy them, perhaps the hermit and the healer can mend one another’s hearts.

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Spotlight on To Mend the Broken-Hearted

Novel 2 in the Mountain King series is on preorder, and will be published on 23 March, in just 16 days. My copy editor calls it ‘a wonderful, emotional, engaging read’. Two of the beta readers said it is the best yet. I can’t wait to find out what you think! If you’re on my ARC team, expect an email in the next four days letting you know it’s ready. If you’re not, you can preorder To Mend the Broken Hearted here.

To Mend the Broken-Hearted

Ruth Winderfield is miserable in London’s ballrooms, where the wealth of her family and the question over her birth make her a target for the unscrupulous and a pariah to the high-sticklers. Trained as a healer, she is happiest in a sickroom. When she’s caught up in a smallpox epidemic and finds herself quarantined at the remote manor of a reclusive lord, the last thing she expects is to find her heart’s desire. A pity he does not feel the same.

Valentine, Earl of Ashbury, hasn’t seen his daughter—if she is his daughter—in three years. She and her cousin, his niece, remind him of his faithless wife and treacherous brother, whose deaths three years ago will never set him free. Val spends his days trying to restore the estate, or at least prevent further crumbling. When an impertinent bossy female turns up with several sick children, including the girls he is responsible for, he reluctantly gives them shelter. Even more reluctantly, he helps with the nursing. The sooner they leave again the better, even if Ruth has wormed her way into his heart. She is better off without him.

Danger to Ruth brings him out of seclusion, and into a future he had not been able to imagine.

And here is an early meeting between them

Something out of place alerted the sentinel in Ruth’s brain developed when she and Zyba had been in the guard squads assigned by her father to escort caravans through bandit country in the mountains and deserts of her homeland. Simpler days, those, with the enemies hidden behind rocks rather than smiles and lies.

There it was again. A metallic scrape. Silently, she uncurled from her chair, reaching through the slit in her skirt for the dagger in the sheath strapped to her thigh. Against the grey of the night, a blacker shape climbed onto the window sill, pausing there to whisper. “Lady Ruth?”

Assassins do not usually announce themselves. She could probably acquit the intruder of malicious intent, which meant he was more in danger from the illness than she and her charges where from him.

“Go away,” she told him. “This room is in quarantine. We have four cases of smallpox.”

The man moved, coming fully into the room so she could see hints of detail in the far reaches of the candle light. He was tall, with broad shoulders. A determined chin caught the light as he pulled something from his pocket and sat on a chair by the window. The light also glinted off a head of close-cut fair hair. Lord Ashbury.

“I am aware. Four patients, one of them my responsibility. One exhausted doctor. You need help.” As he spoke, he lifted one bare foot after the other, rolling a stocking on each and then tucking the long elegant foot into a soft indoor shoe taken from his pocket. He was deft with his single hand.

“I don’t need more patients,” Ruth objected, less forcefully than she might if he had not moved closer so that the light touched half of his face, making the rest seem darker by contrast. Dark eyes glinted in the shadows cast by firmly arched brows. His gaze was intent on hers.

“I have had the smallpox, my lady, and I am not leaving, so you might as well make use of me. I’m no doctor, but I can follow instructions. You need sleep if you’re to avoid illness yourself.”

Her tired brain caught up with the comment about his responsibility. “You cannot think to nurse the girls.”

“What prevents me?” Ashbury demanded. “My amputation? I have one more hand than you can muster on your own. Their modesty? You and the maids can manage their bathing and other personal matters. I can free you up to look after them in that way by lifting and carrying for you. My dignity? I work my own fields, my lady. I am not too exalted to fetch and carry for the woman who intends to save my niece’s life.”

Ruth turned, then, and looked straight at him, and he moved so the lamp shone directly on his face. “You are not qualified,” she told him.

Ashbury shrugged. “True. I daresay half the world is better qualified than I. But I have done some battlefield nursing and I am here.”

“You cannot stay. I am an unmarried woman. You are a man.” A ridiculous statement. Here, isolated from the foolish scandal-loving world of the ton, who was to know? Besides, she would never put something as ephemeral as ‘reputation’ ahead of the needs of her patients.

He took another meaning from her objection, spreading his remaining hand to show it empty, and saying gravely. “I will do you no harm. I give you my word.”

Of course, he wouldn’t. Even if he were so inclined, he would not get close enough to try. Something of her thought must have shown in her face, because one corner of his mouth kicked up.

“I suppose you are a warrior after the fashion of that fierce maiden you have guarding the quarantine. You are three-times safe then, my lady, with my honour backed by your prowess and reinforced by the knowledge that any missteps on my part will anger your champions.”

Her spurt of irritation was prompted by Lord Ashbury’s amusement, not by the unexpected physical effect of his desert anchorite’s face lightened by that flash of humour. “I was more concerned about the impact on our lives if it is known we’ve been effectively unchaperoned for perhaps several weeks.”

He raised his brows at that and the amusement disappeared. “My servants are discreet and yours would die for you. Besides, you have your maid with you at all times, do you not? And I have my—” he hesitated over a word; “my charges,” he finished.

His niece and his daughter, Ruth thought, wondering what story explained his reluctance to say the words. No matter. He was determined. He was also right; she needed someone else to share the nursing, and now she had a volunteer. Her attraction to him was undoubtedly amplified by her tiredness. She would ignore it, and it would go away.

At the realisation she could finally hand her watch over to someone else, her exhaustion crashed in on her, and it was all she could do to draw herself together and say, “Come. I will show you what you need to do, and explain what to watch for.”

 

 

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Internal dialogue on WIP Wednesday

It’s nice to give a character a friend to talk to, so readers can find out what they’re thinking. But now and again, we need to peek inside their heads. In today’s post, I’m including some thoughts that my character Aldridge would never share with anyone else. If you have an excerpt with internal dialogue that you’d like share, please feel free to add it to the comments.

Aldridge let himself into the Duke’s Study. The duke’s desk, a massive object of carved oak, stood in the bay window, its back to the view out over the pleasure gardens that descended from the house to the river. 

Aldridge had thought of taking it over; of moving it so it was at right angles to the windows so that he could enjoy the view while he was working.

He would certainly enjoy the extra space. His own cadet desk, tucked away in a corner near the door, was a quarter of the size. And, as each secretary in turn had pointed out, his father would never return to this room or even to London, and Aldridge was duke in all but name, rank, and title.

It was a final step he wasn’t willing to take until he had to. He would adopt his father’s desk when he took his father’s title. Refusing the first was, he knew, a symptom of his reluctance to assume the second. If the doctors were to be trusted, he’d be the Duke of Haverford within the next twelve months, and probably sooner rather than later. 

None of his secretaries or clerks understood. They thought he was lucky. But then, they and the rest of the population of England thought he was the Merry Marquis; envied him his wealth, his position, the hordes of women keen on an illicit relationship, even the maidens panting for a chance to be his duchess.

The reasons people wanted him had nothing to do with him. He could be a donkey on two legs, and they’d still praise him. The woman would still pant to bed him. The men would still court his favour. And if it was bad now, how much worse would it be when he was duke?

He was a title and a position, not a man. Even those who knew him best couldn’t see past the marquis, the heir. Just a clever automaton, smartly dressed, with a repertoire of motions and words to fool people into thinking he was a real person. On days like today, when he had given the one lady he wanted to attract yet another reason to despise him, when he’d been unable even to protect a boy who apparently bore his blood, he wondered if they were right.

He gave a short laugh. How the rest of the world would mock and marvel to know he was feeling sorry for himself. 

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Investigations and shenanigans in WIP Wednesdays

I like a bit of mystery and detection with my romance — a spice of danger somewhat more serious than who kissed whom in the garden. If you do, too, then join my hero and his half-brother as they visit a brothel in search of a missing boy. (And if you have a piece you’d like to share, please pop it in the comments.)

Wakefield took the lead, pointing. “That girl and that one, and one room with a large bed,” he ordered. Aldridge nodded in agreement. Wakefield had contacts among the women who earned their living in the world’s oldest trade; presumably he’d recognised the ones he’d chosen.

The two selected approached, their smiles professional and meaningless. One was dressed in skimpy Grecian robes with her brunette curls dressed high and bound with gold cord—Artemis, from the little toy bow and arrow she carried in one hand. The other wore her fair hair down, flowing over her upper body. A bright scarf was her only covering other than her hair, cinched at the waist by a circlet of flowers that echoed the one on her head. Gauzy wings hinted that she was, perhaps, intended to be a fairy.

“Artemis,” the greeter confirmed with a wave, and, “Ariel,” with a second. “Something to drink or eat, my lords?”

“Perhaps later,” Aldridge said. He slipped an arm around the blonde fairy and sniffed at her flowers. Silk, but he ignored that detail. “Come on, sweet thing. Show me to a bed.”

“The India room,” the greeter decided. Wakefield offered the brunette a raised hand. “Shall we, your divinity?”

She giggled as she placed her hand in his, and raised her nose in the air, slanting a glance to the others in the room to ensure they noticed. Aldridge allowed the woman he was holding to lead the way down a passage.

They stopped at the fourth room on the right, where a partly opened door gave entrance to a brightly decorated room with richly embroidered silken wall hangings and what looked like copies of Hindu template painting in a frieze around the walls. The main feature of the room was a circular bed at least 10 feet across.

Aldridge gave Ariel a gentle push on her bottom to propel her further into the room so that he could disengage, then put out a hand to catch her wrist as she reached for her belt. “Don’t disrobe,” he said, as Wakefield escorted Artemis inside and turned to shut and secure the door.

The fairy attempted to rub herself against Aldridge as he held her away from him by the wrist. “How may I please you, my lord?” she asked.

“Information, Sukie, and an alibi,” Wakefield said, drawing the attention of both women. Their poise slipped as they narrowed their eyes at him. He had been examining the walls, and now led them all to the corner of the bedchamber nearest to the window.

With his back to the room, Wakefield removed the glasses whose tinted lenses disguised the colour of his eyes and ejected the pads that puffed out his cheeks into his hand.

“Gor blimey!” The goddess’s refined accent devolved into broad slum in her surprise. She lowered her voice at Wakefield’s urgent gesture. “Sukie, it’s Shadow.”

The fairy looked from the enquiry agent to Aldridge and back again. “You’re never here for a poke,” she decided. “Him, maybe, but not you. Your missus would feed you your bollocks.”

Wakefield laughed softly, and whispered back, “True, Bets. Ladies, may I make known to you the Marquis of Aldridge, my half-brother. Aldridge, Saucy Sukie and Bouncing Bets are old friends.”

Aldridge bowed as if being introduced to a couple of dowagers, and the two prostitutes giggled and flushed like debutantes.

“You’re right, Bets,” Wakefield agreed, “We’re here to take back… Well. Before I get to that, how do you like working here? Are conditions good?”

Bets screwed up her face in disgust. “Good? Like hell. Never been any place worse. Can’t leave the house without a bully-boy tagging along. Can’t make any money till we’ve paid for our costumes, and our food, and our anything. Twelve Johns a night or we get fined, unless the John pays double for more than forty minutes, and ain’t nobody going to pay twelve times as much for a whole night.”

Sukie added, “And that’s not the worst, Shadow. La Reine, she sells everything and anything. Doesn’t care if it damages the merchandise. One of the girls got beaten so bad she couldn’t come back to work again, and then she just disappeared. Gone back to her mother, La Reine said. Bullshit, I say.” She shuddered.

“Even kids,” Bets agreed. “I don’t hold with that. I wouldn’t have signed on if I’d known about that.”

“We’re here to rescue a boy,” Wakefield said. Aldridge shot him an alarmed glance, but presumably his brother thought these women could be trusted.

At that moment, someone tried the door handle, and then there was a knock.

“This room is occupied,” Aldridge called out, allowing some of his anger to colour his voice.

“Drinks!” came the reply, “Complements of the House.”

Wakefield nodded at Sukie, but Aldridge said, “Wait.” He pulled the scarf off her shoulder leaving her upper half bare, and tipped her floral coronet sideways. “Here.” He drew a heavy bag of coins from his belt. “Tell them we want the next three hours, and no interruptions.”

Sukie carried out her commission, barely opening the door, handing over a bag and opening the tray.

“The money is not going to help much,” Wakefield whispered to Aldridge. “If they’re not already watching through the walls, they’ll be on their way.”

“Then we’d better be on ours,” Aldridge whispered back, though he was kicking himself for forgetting that they were probably being observed. Disrobing Sukie just so she could answer the door might already be counting against them.

With the door bolted again, all four of them retreated to the corner by the window, where Wakefield and Aldridge laid out their reasons for being there and what they hoped to achieve.

“If we help you find the boy, will you take us with you?” Bets asked, and Sukie nodded.

“It’s going to be dangerous,” Wakefield warned. “I can’t give you any guarantee that we’ll get out safely.”

Sukie snorted. “For certain sure, we’re not getting out safely if we stay.”

“Then we’ll take you,” Aldridge decided. “Whether we find the boy or not.”

He crossed to the tray of drinks and reached for one of them. “I wouldn’t,” Wakefield warned.

Aldridge pulled back his hand as if scalded. “Drugged?”

“A drink given to you free in Wharton’s brothel? What do you think?”

Aldridge shuddered and followed the others from the room.

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Gossip and scandal on WIP Wednesday

 

Yes, I know I’ve said it again. But Regency romance set in high society does lend itself to the kind of ruthless gossip-mongering that today finds its expression through mean girls at high school and in the darker corners of social media. This week, I’m sharing an episode that shows how scandal can be wielded by a villain (or, in this case, two villains and a villainess). It’s from To Mend a Proper Lady. If you have an excerpt to share, please put it in the comments.

Because they were not socialising, Ruth didn’t notice people acting in a peculiar fashion until Rosemary pointed it out to her. “I wonder what the problem is,” she commented, as they rode home one morning from an early outing to Hyde Park. “Three times today, people coming towards us turned aside onto a different path. I didn’t say anything yesterday, when we took our niece and nephews to play in the square, but Mrs Wilmington collected her children and left, and so did two nursemaids with their charges.”

“You think they were avoiding us?” That had been the norm for a few months during the worst of last year’s feud with the Duke of Haverford, when he was challenging their legitimacy in a complaint to the Committee for Privileges. But their father’s evidence had swung the Committee their way, and most people in Society accepted them now.

Rosemary frowned. “I thought they might be avoiding Zahara’s children, but she and the little ones are not with us today.”

After that, Ruth watched, and soon concluded something was going on. No one was overtly rude, but a very few people directly approached them, and a number went to some lengths to avoid a casual meeting. Either that, or most of the people they came across while out walking were afflicted with a sudden need to cross the street or leave when the Winderfield family came into sight.

Or, more specifically, when Ruth appeared. Her brothers mentioned conversations that left no doubt that they were being treated as normal, and Sophia and Rosemary both had encounters with friends when Ruth was not with them.

It came to a head in Brown’s Emporium, where the ladies of the family had taken Zahara to purchase English cotton and lace, and perhaps an English porcelain tea set. Ruth had grown bored with discussing the relative merits of shawls, and had wandered over to some rolls of heavy fabric that might do for curtaining.

The others where within earshot, so she heard when a lady address Sophia. “Lady Sutton! I had no idea you were in London.”

“Lady Ashbury.”

The name captured Ruth’s attention, and she turned to watch. From the tip of her fashionable hat to her dainty leather-shod feet, the lady was an exquisite doll; the epitome of the English fashionable beauty, fair-haired, pale-skinned and blue-eyed. So this was Val’s sister-in-law?

Ruth stepped closer. The illusion of youth evaporated under closer examinations. Fine lines in the corners of the eyes, around the mouth, spoke of temper and a sour disposition, and those clear eyes were hard as she accepted an introduction to Rosemary and Zahara with a condescending nod.

Sophia turned to hold out her hand to Ruth, beckoning her closer. “And this is my sister Lady Ruth,” she said. “Ruth, Lady Ashbury is related to…”

In one sweep of her eyes, Lady Ashbury had examined Ruth from head to toe, sniffed, and turned her back. “Lady Sutton, I advise you to distance yourself from this female.” She pitched her voice to be heard throughout the cavernous building. “She may have hoped to keep secret her dalliance with my monstrous brother-in-law, but the people near his lands were rightfully scandalised, and have taken steps to ensure the truth is known.”

Sophia, bless her, showed no reaction to the accusation beyond raised eyebrows, and spoke so that the riveted onlookers could hear her reply. “Have you been spreading lying gossip again, Lady Ashbury? My sister was fully chaperoned at all times while nursing your daughter through smallpox. She has the full support of His Grace my father-in-law and all of her family and friends.”

She then turned to the rest of their party. “Ladies, let us come back another time. I find the company here today… malodorous, and I owe you an apology for condescending to make the introduction.”

Ruth was swept along in Sophia’s wake, but looked back as they exited the warehouse. Lady Ashbury remained where they’d left her, staring after them with narrowed eyes. Several of the other customers were already converging on her. This was not over.

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Secondary romances

 

Do you enjoy romances with a second courting couple? Perhaps they are the couple for the next book in the series. Or perhaps they are a foil and contrast to the main protagonists. Sometimes, as in the excerpt that follows, the secondary couple have their romance arc over the whole series. Feel free to share an excerpt with your secondary courting couple. Here are the Duchess of Haverford and the Duke of Wellbridge, meeting alone in the third novel in the four novel series Children of the Mountain King: The Return.

James followed Eleanor across a small entrance hall to a cosy little parlour, where a fire burned in the hearth and a tray with a tea set waited on a small table between two chairs. Eleanor took the seat closest to the tea pot and waved her hand to the other. “Be seated, dear friend. Would you care for tea?”

Tea was not what he hungered for. For ten years after Mahzad’s death, he had thought himself beyond desire, but Eleanor brought it roaring back the first time he saw her on his return to England. Getting to know her again had only increased his longing; she was even lovelier, both within and without, than when they had first met long ago, before James was forced into exile and Eleanor was made to marry Haverford.

He kept his feelings to himself. If he told her his hopes, and if she shared them, he didn’t trust himself to be alone with her like this without besmirching his honour and insulting hers.

Eleanor was a married woman and virtuous, even if her husband was a monster. Even if the old devil was rotting from within and locked away for his own good and to protect the duchy. He accepted the offered seat and the cup of tea; asked after the duchess’s children and caught her up to date with his own; exchanged comments on the war news and the state of the harvest.

“James,” she said at last, “I proposed this meeting for a reason.”

“To see me, I hope. Since Parliament went into recess and we both left London, I have missed our weekly visits to that little bookshop you frequent.”

Eleanor smiled, and James fancied that he saw her heart in her eyes for a moment, and it leapt to match his. But her smile faded and her lashes veiled her eyes. “That, too, my dear friend. I have missed you, too. But there is another matter I need to bring to your attention.”

She grimaced and gave her head a couple of impatient shakes. “It seems I am always muddying our time together with gossip and scandal. I am so sorry, James.”

“One day, I hope we will be able to meet without subterfuge, and for no reason but our pleasure,” James said. The last word was a mistake. He might be old, but at the word ‘pleasure’ his body was reminding him urgently that he was not dead yet.

Eleanor seemed unaffected, focused on whatever bad news she had to give him. “You are aware, I am sure, of the history of your niece Sarah’s ward?”

“Her daughter?” James queried. Of course Eleanor knew. She was a confidante of his sister-in-law.

“Indeed. What you may not know—what I have just found out—is that Society is making that assumption and spreading the story.”

James shook his head. “I assumed the gossips and busybodies would reach that conclusion, but without proof or confirmation, and with the family firmly behind her, the rumours will die.”

“True, if that was all. But James, you may not know—Sarah may not know—that her little girl’s father is back in England and, if my sources are accurate, seeking a bride.”

James stiffened. “The coward has returned?”

“As to that,” Eleanor said, “Grace always suspected that Sutton and Winshire had something to do with his disappearance, and it is whispered that his father bought him out of the navy, where he had worked his way up to being a surgeon, after being press ganged.”

“And your sources are connecting Sarah and her child with this man?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Not yet. The two rumours are separate. But if the two of them meet, people may make connections. Especially if the child resembles her father.” She shrugged, even that small elegant movement unusually casual for the duchess. “It is all very manageable, James, but you needed to know.”

“I appreciate it, Eleanor.” He sighed. “English Society is more of a snake pit that the court of the Shah of Shahs or the Ottoman Sultan Khan. Tell me, what is going on between my niece Charlotte and your son Aldridge?”

Eleanor’s answer was hasty, but her eyes slid away from his. “Nothing. There can be nothing between Charlotte and Aldridge.

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Unusual skills on WIP Wednesday

What sets your hero or heroine apart from the ordinary? Share an excerpt in the comments! Here’s an excerpt from To Mend a Proper Lady, which is due to be published the month after next. My hero is admiring the skill of his beloved and her best friend.

“Join me,” Ruth suggested. “A little sword work will soon loosen your muscles.”

Val hoped he was successful in hiding the anguish twisting his gut, but he didn’t attempt to speak; just held up the arm that ended at the wrist.

“That?” Ruth waved away his maiming as if it was a trivial detail. “You can hold a sword in the other hand, can you not?”

Nettled, he followed her into the room. She had had it cleared of furniture, apart from a table against one wall. On it, a number of edged weapons lay—foils, sabres, swords both curiously curved and straight, and daggers of various lengths.

Val was torn between admiration for their quality and nausea at the thought of displaying his incompetence. “I have never fought with my left hand,” he commented.

Ruth was picking weapons up and then putting them down again. “We are not going to fight.” She handed him a large sword. “Here, this looks to be about your size. The weapons act as a weight to force your muscles to work harder. And, of course, the practice steps I use are useful in an actual fight, training the body to particular movements. Like the exercises that we teach our horses. They ensure the fitness of the horse and rider, but also can be used in battle.”

Bemused, Val took the sabre and performed a couple of practice swipes. It felt heavy and ungainly, and he missed his former skill with a deep ache.

Zyba entered the room. Dressed like her friend, she held one of the curving swords in one hand and a long dagger in the other. A slight widening of the eyes was her only reaction to Val’s presence. She inclined her head in a graceful greeting. “Princess, Lord Ashbury.”

“Val is joining us today, Zyba. Val, why not stand in front of me so you can copy what I do.”

Val was slow, that first day. The two women took him through a series of movements of body and sword that left his muscles trembling, and then suggested he rest. He watched, awed, as they moved into a sequence as fluid as a dance, one facing the other, on opposite sides of the room as they continued to honour the quarantine.

They started slow, but the graceful movements of feet and arms sped up gradually, until they were moving with blinding speed, each swing of a weapon enough to eviscerate anyone unfortunate enough to be in reach.

They took it in turns to call out, at frequent intervals, a single word he didn’t know, but whose meaning he guessed at something like ‘swap’ or ‘change’. “Caly,” the one whose turn it was would shout, tossing both sword and dagger in the air and snatching them back again, but with the opposite hands. The game seemed to be for the other dancer—for it was a dance, though without music, fluid and beautiful—to react so quickly that the two sets of weapons rose and fell in unison.

Val could not tell whether his deepest yearning was for the skill they showed, the hand whose loss had robbed him of his own skill, or Ruth, whose movements mesmerised him. Sore though he would be once his muscles caught up with the strain he’d put them under, he would be here tomorrow, too, if they allowed him. Even if his reasons for that were as confused as his desires.

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Rivals to the love interest on WIP Wednesday

One common barrier to happiness in romance–although often a spur to the developing interest between the main couple–is another love interest, whether former, would-be, or prospective. In this week’s post, I’m inviting you to share in the comments an excerpt from your work in progress about rivals to the love of one of your protagonists. Mine is from To Claim the Long-Lost Lover, and my heroine is on the hunt for a husband.

After four days at the house party, Sadie was fighting the urge to order her carriage and escape. Lola had not arrived, instead sending a message to say that something had come up concerning the school and she would be there as soon as she could.

Some of the more disreputable house guests had taken Lola’s absence to mean Sadie would be susceptible to their charms, which was more than a little insulting. One had even told Sadie that he was pleased to see her without her twin, since Lola was a bluestocking and a prude, and out to spoil a man’s fun.

As if Sadie, without Lola, would not have the brains to see that Parkswick was all glitter and no substance! In their first year as debutantes, Society had dubbed her the Diamond and Lola the Saint. They seemed to think Sadie’s fashionable colouring and figure were the sum total of her being, and being beautiful must necessarily mean being stupid. Lola’s preference for a quieter social life and her dedication to educational causes meant, in their eyes, she was some kind of a religious fanatic, determined to spoil their fun.

Parkswick’s fun, in this case, fetched him sore toes from Sadie’s riding boot. When the fool chose to take that as clumsiness, she decided that threatening him with her cousin would provoke less gossip, if a lower degree of personal satisfaction, than a sound punch to his mating equipment. Drew’s marksmanship had become legendary in his first months in England, when he had shot the buttons off an opponent’s jacket in a duel, then repeated the feat at Manton’s with a succession of volunteers.

She hadn’t, in fact, told her cousin. Drew presented as an affable easy-going young man, slow to take offence and always ready with a joke to diffuse a tense situation. But scratch that surface, and the warrior lurked beneath. As her escort, Drew would take any threat to her seriously, and she wasn’t convinced that Parkswick deserved to be thrashed or worse.

Besides, on their way to the house party, she had asked him to give her space to get to know the three men she had been considering from her husband short list, and she hated to have to admit that was a mistake. Still, if the rakes and scoundrels couldn’t take a hint from her ever colder demeanour, she might have to ask Drew to have a quiet word.

Sadie sighed. Her husband list was shrinking, too. Out of three candidates at this party, two had disqualified themselves already. Drew had found out that Lord Hurley was an inveterate gambler and needed a wealthy wife to fund his habit. Sadie had no objection to a man marrying her for her dowry, but not if he was likely to wager it away and leave her and Eliza penniless.

Lord Colyford had seemed promising. He wanted a wife to mother his little girls and provide a son or two. Since Sadie wanted a father for her daughter and more children, it would be an even bargain. He was pleasant to talk to, treated her as if her opinions had value, and showed no signs of descending into sentiment. This was to be a practical marriage, with respect and affection, surely, but Sarah had done with love. The twinge when she thought of Nate was a scarred-over wound, mostly sound but subject to the occasional phantom pain. So she had been telling herself, trying not to build anything on the visit her sister had told her about, or his expressed desire to explain himself.

Perhaps next week I’ll share the excerpt in which Lord Colyford shows himself in his true colours.

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Gossip on WIP Wednesday

Drawn and engraved by Robert Cruikshank 

The gossip trope that often appears in Regency novels has been given a wider audience by screening of Brigerton. As one of the perpetrators of The Teatime Tattler, it’s one I’m fond of. You can do a lot with gossip, and–of course–it’s not just specific to the Regency!

So this week, I’m sharing an excerpt in which my hero of To Claim the Long-Lost Lover goes seeking gossip about his beloved. I’d love you to share an excerpt from your work in progress where you use gossip to further the plot.

Nate found that Sarah’s interest in finally choosing a husband had caught the attention of the bored young men who inhabited the clubs, moved in packs to entertainments in both high and low society, and whiled away their hours by wagering, gossiping, and competing within their set: corinthians, dandies, young blades.

“The Winderfield Diamond?” said one rakish gentleman, when Nate managed to bring her name into a conversation over brandy. “Nothing there. She looks lovely, I’ll grant you, but not safe. Even before those terrifying cousins arrived, a man’d risk his future offspring getting too close. Seems very sweet, right up until she freezes you into an ice block.”

“And her sister!” His friend shuddered. “Cut you into little strips with her tongue, that one.”

“Anyway,” Rake One commented, “she’s looking for a groom. Don’t know why this season, when she’s turned down more proposals than any other female on the Marriage Mart. Truth to tell, I only chanced my arm because of that. I usually leave the virgins alone, but I thought she’d decided on spinsterhood.”

“Anyone would have,” his friend commiserated. “Did myself.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t like men.”

“Then why is she getting married?” the first rake asked.

They considered the perplexing conundrum of a woman who did not find their advances appealing while Nate thought about how satisfying it would be to punch them.

Someone sitting nearby interrupted their silence. “Bit of a honey pot all around. Looks, money, connections. A man could do worse. And if she doesn’t warm up in bed, that’s what mistresses are for.”

“Good luck with that,” another opined. “She’s already turned away don’t-know-how-many fortune hunters. The war office should hire her mother and her aunt. Their intelligence gathering is impeccable.”

The topic drifted and circled, but kept coming back to what gossip had gleaned about Sarah’s intentions and expectations. Nate didn’t have to say a word. He sat and sipped his brandy, and before an hour had passed, he had a list of eight men that, the company agreed, the Winderfield Diamond was considering.

Other conversations added two more, and rounded out a picture of a settled man with interests beyond fashion, gambling, and sports. Of the seven landowners, four were peers and three untitled gentlemen. The three younger sons all had independent incomes from their own successful enterprises, one as a Member of Parliament in Commons, one an architect, and one a barrister. Nine of the ten preferred country to London living. Four were widowers, two with children.

One factor they had in common was that all had a name as philanthropists, in some measure. That was another thing Nate had learned about the Winderfield family in general and Sarah and her twin in particular; they not only supported good causes, they actively worked in charitable ventures as diverse as barefoot schools, orphanages, and support for military widows and their children.

Most of the useless fribbles who gossiped in his hearing were contemptuous of such efforts. “Not going to be able to make silk out of that kind of sow’s ear.” The young viscount expressing that opinion was only saying what his fellows thought. “They’re born in the gutter and they belong there. Don’t have the brains for anything else, and will rob you soon as look at you.”