Guest authors

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Tea with Will and Henry

A sober young woman whose firm chin and intelligent blue eyes marked her as a twig of the remarkable Grenford family tree led William Landrum, the Earl of Chadbourn, through French doors in Her Grace’s sitting room and out into a sunny garden filled with the hum of bees and the scent of roses.  He followed her down a stone path, around towering lilac bushes, into a sheltered bower paved in flagstones and bordered with flowers in lush profusion

He had known Eleanor Winshire since boyhood, and had come to count her a friend in spite of the difference in their ages. Her immediate response to his request for an interview pleased him. That she invited him so early in the day, hours before her formal calling hours, gratified him even more.

“The Earl of Chadbourn, Your Grace,” the young woman announced, bowing out.  The earl hesitated. She wasn’t alone. A tall gentleman with silver hair and the upright bearing of an officer, but dressed in impeccable civilian clothing, chatted happily with the duchess, sobering when the earl interrupted their tête-à-tête.

The topic that weighed on his mind involved family secrets and deeply personal worries. He didn’t know Brigadier-General Lord Henry Redepenning well, not as he knew the duchess. Will hesitated.

“Will! I’m delighted you could join us. Come and try some of the cook’s berry tarts. He has outdone himself.”

The Haverford chef enjoyed renown for good reasons. Will sat and helped himself. “Thank you for responding so quickly Eleanor.”

“Of course! Don’t hesitate due to Henry’s presence—you know Brigadier-General Redepenning; I know you do. He can be trusted with absolute discretion. I presume you wish advice about Charles.” She glanced pointedly at the black band on his sleeve.

Charles Wheatly, the Duke of Murnane, and, what is more to the point, Will’s nephew endured the loss of his only son six months past, casting him into a hell of grief and despair.  Will looked over at the general, and seeing only sympathy, came to a decision.  He brushed crumbs from his waistcoat.

“It’s killing me, Eleanor. We lost Jonny, and for the first month I thought we were going to lose Charles too.  My Catherine goes about pretending she has regained her spirits, but I know she worries for him still.”

“Charles always struck me as a sensible sort,” Lord Henry commented. “But any man may turn to the bottle after the sort of loss he endured.”

Eleanor nodded. “But Charles has never been the sort for dissipation. “

Will shrugged. “He’s tried every form of dissipation he could, except laudanum. He hates the vile stuff. None of them lasted. I’m not certain how much he eats or sleeps.”

“Has he gone out home to Eversham? He hasn’t been seen in town,” the duchess asked.

“Briefly. Fred has the place well in hand, however, and he doesn’t feel needed.” Will glanced at the general and plunged ahead. “They settled the matter of Jonny’s paternity, thank God, and all is well between them, but I think the sight of Fred’s and Clare’s growing brood running about the place depressed him.”

“Happy memories can wound as deeply as bad ones when one is being strangled by grief,” General Redepenning suggested.

“I suspect spending much time with those two didn’t help either. At least I assume Fred is still besotted with the beautiful woman he married,” Eleanor murmured. “That can’t help in Charles’s situation.” Thankfully she didn’t directly mention the duke’s dreadful estranged wife.

Will nodded morosely. “He is back in London, haunting my house, his own, and Sudbury’s like a wraith, saying little, refusing all invitations, and pacing the drawing room. He throws my children into miseries whenever he comes. He’s lost, Eleanor, just lost.”

The duchess glanced at her friend the general. “Henry and I were discussing it before you came. He can’t be allowed to wallow in grief until it makes him ill, you know that.”

“But what am I to do?” Will snapped. “I’m at my wit’s end.”

“He needs work. He allowed his career to languish these few years while he attended to Jonny. He needs work, and England needs his talent.

“I thought of encouraging him to find a position in the foreign office, but I don’t see that haunting Whitehall will be an improvement over my drawing room.”

Eleanor smiled at him. “Perhaps not, but he would be out from underfoot.”

“Getting away from places that bring his son to mind might help,” General Redepenning put in.

“Precisely!” the duchess replied. “What he needs is a mission, preferably something overseas.”

Will brightened. “That might do the trick, but what?”

“Why don’t you speak to your friend the Duke of Sudbury. He keeps an oar in for all his party is out of power. He’ll know of something.”

“He might at that,” Will said. “I feel better.” He sat back to enjoy the duchess’s excellent tea.

“One other thing,” Eleanor said, this time more sternly. “He needs to deal with his marriage mess. He’ll be lost until he does it. Now that the boy is gone, it’s time. I know you use Sudbury’s network to keep an eye on the woman.  What do you know about her whereabouts.“

Will choked on his tea. “Julia? Yes, well as it happens we heard she sailed for India with some baron she met in Baden.”

The general looked at the duchess, amusement impossible to conceal. “You want to send him on a mission to Madras?” he asked, laughter in his voice.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” she answered primly. “You and Sudbury will think of something Will.”

They passed an hour in pleasanter conversation until the earl rose to depart. Before he could take his leave, Eleanor spoke again. “One other thing, Will. Sudbury’s heir is becoming a byword. Tell the duke I would be delighted to chat about some ideas for that boy as well.”

About the Book: The Unexpected Wife

Children of Empire Book 3

Crushed with grief after the death of his son, Charles Wheatly, Duke of Murnane, throws himself into the new Queen’s service in 1838. When the government sends him on an unofficial fact finding mission to the East India Company’s enclave in Canton, China, he anticipates intrigue, international tensions, and an outlet for his frustration. He isn’t entirely surprised when he also encounters a pair of troublesome young people that need his help. However, the appearance of his estranged wife throws the entire enterprise into conflict. He didn’t expect to face his troubled marriage in such an exotic locale, much less to encounter profound love at last in the person of a determined young woman. Tensions boil over, and his wife’s scheming—and the beginnings of the First Opium War—force him to act to rescue the one he loves and perhaps save himself in the process.

Zambak Hayden seethes with frustration. A woman her age has occupied the throne for over a year, yet the Duke of Sudbury’s line of succession still passes over her—his eldest—to land on a son with neither spine nor character. She follows her brother, the East India Company’s newest and least competent clerk, to protect him and to safeguard the family honor. If she also escapes the gossip and intrigues of London and the marriage mart, so much the better. She has no intention of being forced into some sort of dynastic marriage. She may just refuse to marry at all. When an old family friend arrives she assumes her father sent him. She isn’t about to bend to his dictates nor give up her quest. Her traitorous heart, however, can’t stop yearning for a man she can’t have.

Neither expects the epic historical drama that unfolds around them.

The Unexpected Wife, will be released on July 25.

Here’s a short video about it:

https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7/videos/924791187669849/

About the Author

Traveler, would-be adventurer, former tech writer and library technology professional, Caroline Warfield has now retired to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, and divides her time between writing and seeking adventures with her grandbuddy. In her newest series, Children of Empire, three cousins torn apart by lies find their way home from the far corners of the British Empire, finding love along the way.

She has works published by Soul Mate Publishing and also independently published works. In addition she has participated in five group anthologies, one not yet published.

For more about the series and all of Caroline’s books, look here:

https://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/

 

Spotlight on <i>Seductive Surrender</i>
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Spotlight on Seductive Surrender

Today’s guest on Spotlight on Sunday is USA Today bestselling author Collette Cameron, with the sixth in the Highland Heather Romancing a Scot series.

Settle down and read about Seductive Surrender.

SEDUCTIVE SURRENDER

Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series #6

Dalliances, flirtations, liaisons? Aye. But marriage? Nae. Spies dinna wed

Betrothed four times.

Gwendolyn McClintock has resolutely slammed the door on romance and marriage. Intent on beginning a new life, she sells her beloved familial home in America and totes her orphaned niece and nephew to Scotland’s Highlands. But the grand adventure she promised becomes a tangled muddle when her coach accidentally runs down a powerful laird’s much-too-attractive, far-too-brawny brother.

A covert agent.

A confirmed, carefree rogue, Dugall Ferguson comes perilously close to being trampled beneath horses’ hooves. And the remorseful, deliciously tempting woman responsible for nearly killing him isn’t even aware of the peril awaiting her at her new home. Gwendolyn desperately needs protection, and though he’s on the cusp of realizing his life-long dream, Dugall rashly offers to aid the fiery lass.

Their futures collide.

Forced together in order to oust a would-be killer, irresistible passion erupts between Gwendolyn and Dugall. Dare she trust her traitorous heart one last time, especially to a known rake? How can he choose between his love for Gwendolyn and his desire to be a spy?

Read the sixth installment of the Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series for a suspenseful Scottish historical romance awash with intrigue, seduction, and passion you won’t want to put down.  

EXCERPT

Seductive Surrender

“She should have more care,” Gwendolyn muttered as she trailed her forefinger down his bicep. The flesh bunched in delicious anticipation as she traced his arm. “She told me she needs her position. I still might kick a mud hole in her hind end and stomp it dry.”

“Pardon?” he managed around the grin splitting his face.

“Send her packing for her untoward behavior.”

Daring to draw Gwendolyn indecently nearer, Dugall flattened one palm against the small of her back and cradled her jaw in the other. Feathering a series of short kisses from her delicate ear, across her soft cheek, and to her sweet mouth, he breathed, “Are ye jealous, Gwenny?”

She stiffened, all outraged femininity, then sagged against him, and nodded, her hair brushing his chest.

“Yes.”

“Ye needn’t be, leannan. The only lass I have any interest in kissin’ is in my arms.”

BUY LINK

Amazon: https://books2read.com/SSURcc

https://amazon.com/dp/B07B6S36Q7

Meet the author

A USA Today bestselling, award-winning author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish and Regency historicals featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them.

Blessed with fantastic fans, and a compulsive, over-active, and witty Muse who won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she still lives in Oregon with her mini-dachshunds, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-time.

Admitting to a quirky sense of humor, Collette enjoys inspiring quotes, adores castles and anything cobalt blue, and is a self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic. You’ll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances.

Connect with Collette

Get a FREE Starter Library! Join my VIP Reader Club: http://bit.ly/TheRegencyRose

Website: http://collettecameron.com

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Tea with Rand

Rand Wheatly paused his pacing to study the young woman behind the desk. She looked exactly as he remembered, but she couldn’t be. She had the same composed manner, grey frock, and simple hairstyle.  Her visage hinted at a connection with the Grenford family. This woman, however, was much too young to be the same companion he remembered from fifteen years before. He had been a boy, and this one didn’t appear to be much older than he had been then. No, it was not the same woman. The Duchess of Haverford—not Haverford—Winshire now, he reminded himself—had a penchant for employing needy relatives.

She also had an uncanny ability to interfere in a man’s life at inconvenient times. Rand met the duchess soon after his sister married the Earl of Chadbourn. Even then the duchess knew everyone in the haut ton, every foible, every conflict, every devastating crisis, every damned failure. Like his. Like now.

Her summons had arrived within an hour of the awkward meeting in his brother-in-law’s drawing room in which the earl, the Duke of Sudbury and their cronies blackmailed him into cooperating with the one man he hated most in this world. To rescue his Meggy he would do what they wanted, even accept the company of His Grace the Duke of Murnane, his traitorous cousin Charles. For Meggy he would swallow even that humiliation, but he would not let the bastard coerce him into doing the government’s bidding.

“Mr. Wheatly?” The woman’s voice had an emphatic tone, as if repeating her words to an obstinate child. Or distracted man.

“I beg your pardon, Miss, ah…”

“The duchess will receive you now,” the woman said, opening the door with admirable efficiency. Rand noticed she caught the eye of the regal looking lady seated in a brocade chair. Some silent message passed between them, and the younger woman dipped a curtsey and departed.

“Your Grace.” His tone sounded curt to his own ears when he bowed over her hand. I‘ve lived alone too many years, he thought. On the edge of the frontier in Upper Canada he had little call to practice refined manners, as his sister had reminded him the past few days.

“Randy, how good to see you! Or perhaps I’m meant to call her Rand now.” The silver haired woman beamed at him. In her seventies Eleanor Winshire radiated the same timeless beauty and controlled power she had as a young woman.

“Rand, please, Your Grace,” he murmured taking the seat she indicated.

“When did I see you last?” He had no answer. “I believe it was at Charles’s wedding, was it not?” she asked with deceptive sweetness.

My cousin’s wedding to the woman I loved —or thought I did, fool that I was. She knows full well it was the worst time of my life. He clenched is teeth. “Perhaps. I don’t recall,” he said.

She watched him under her lashes while she poured tea with practiced grace, his laconic reply bringing an amused twinkle to her eyes.  Rand knew better than to let down his defenses. Amusement or not she wanted something, and he doubted it would be to his advantage.

The weather received short attention, his nieces and nephews a bit more. The duchess certainly knew them better than Rand, who had returned to London after an absence of six years, did.

“Have you met Jonny?” she asked.

Jonny. His cousin’s son.  The bride’s obvious pregnancy at the wedding had been the last straw. She had been Charles’s lover even as she still let Rand believe she loved him. She had led him by the nose the entire time.  He left or Canada within days and had not come back. None of that was the boy’s fault. Rand forced the muscles in his face to relax.

“I met him yesterday. One gathers he spends much time in my sister’s nursery with the other children. He and my nephew Toby are great friends. Drew’s as well.”

“Drew? You sister’s mysterious guest, I gather.”

“Drew’s mother is my, ah, friend.” Rand looked over at the empty hearth. He had begun to sweat and wondered at the heat.

“You are to be commended for your fierce protection of the boy and his mother. There is a sister as well, I’ve heard. The abuse of a domestic tyrant is a terrible thing, and you are quite right to intervene. A husband, even a poor excuse for one, complicates things, does it not?”

He expected something very different. Compassion can burden a man as well as condemnation, however, and this lovely woman threatened to weigh him down with it.

“The children’s safety matters, Your Grace,” he said, passion lending fierceness. “And Meggy’s as well. Once I’ve secured that I will go back to Canada. My business requires my attention.”

Her skeptical glance disappeared quickly as she lay down her teacup. “Yes, one gathers you are making the earl even wealthier. Timber, I hear.”

There was little point in confirming what she obviously knew. There has to be more. What does she want?

“In your goal to protect this woman you are lucky to have the assistance of your cousin Charles.” Rand went rigid and fought the urge to leap from his seat. She continued. “He isn’t the shy young man you left. His professional and political rise has been stellar and life—well, life hasn’t been kind to Charles. He has the fortitude, the skills, and the power to protect your Meggy.”

The thought of Charles with Meggy made bile rise in his throat, but she didn’t mean anything inappropriate. At least he hoped not.

The duchess leaned forward into his silence and patted his arm. “You would be wise to accept his help, Rand,” she told him. “Truly. You can trust him.”

Rand didn’t believe it, but he would accept the snake’s help if it meant Meggy’s safety. “I believe he has his own goals,” he said, trying to turn the conversation.

“Yes, someone is corrupting the coinage in our port cities. Sudbury fears some in the military may be involved as well.”

“That isn’t my problem. My cousin and my uncle may jump to Sudbury’s tune, but I don’t. I want Meggy safe; that is all.”

Her eyes bore into him. “You will do your duty, Rand. I know you will; its how you’re made. Perhaps you will get what your heart desires at the same time.”

“Perhaps.” Bloody, damned unlikely.

She leaned forward again; this time authority took the place of compassion. “Follow your heart Randolph Wheatly. Your instincts are right. And trust Charles. He won’t fail you.”  She fell back on small talk after that, and in short order Rand found himself skillfully dismissed.

“Charles? Bloody damned unlikely,” he repeated out loud when he reached the street.

About The Renegade Wife

Reclusive businessman Rand Wheatly finds his solitude disrupted by a desperate woman running with her children from an ugly past. But even his remote cabin in Upper Canada isn’t safe enough. Meggy Blair may have lied to him, but she breached the walls of his betrayed heart. Now she’s on the run again and time is running out for all of them. He will have to return to London and face his demons if he wants to save them.

A Night Owl and The Romance Reviews Top Pick, In D’Tale Crowned Heart of Excellence, and Reader’s Favorite Five Star book.

♥♥♥FREE♥♥♥ with Kindle unlimited or buy it at https://www.amazon.com/Renegade-Wife-Children-Empire-Book-ebook/dp/B01LY7IRT6/

Excerpt From The Renegade Wife

“I met Jonny,” Rand said, accepting a third glass of port.

“I expected you would. He spends much of his time at Chadbourn House.”

“He is a bright boy. You must be proud of him.” Rand gripped his glass. Should I mention his illness? He had no idea how comfortable Charles might be with the subject.

“I am. He endures his illness with courage and grace.”

Rand relaxed somewhat. “I wasn’t sure—that is, Catherine told me. I’m so sorry, Charles. It must be devastating for you, and for Julia.” He meant every word and was distressed to see Charles stiffen.

“I manage. I have no idea about Julia,” Charles said through tight lips.

Rand raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen Julia in two years. She hasn’t seen Jonny in longer. I have no idea how she ‘manages.’” He leaned toward Rand. “Don’t look at me like that, Randolph Wheatly. We separated less than a year after we married. It happens. If you had stayed, you might have delighted in my misfortune.”

Charles glared at Rand, who could think of nothing to say. When the silence became painful, Charles sank back in his chair. “Don’t worry. Though it seems unlikely Jonny will ever be duke, know that he is loved. I love him as if he were my own.”

As to Charles, the Duke of Murnane, watch for his story in May 2018

 

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Tea with Aventis, daughter of Chronos

Her Grace shifts a rose a fraction of an inch in the display on the side table, and steps back to see the effect. The sound of door opening has her turn, to see Barlow, the butler, in the doorway.

“The Lady Aventis,” he announces, and checks the piece of paper in his hand before continuing, “daughter of Cronus, Father of Time.” He steps aside to allow today’s guest into the room.

She is a beautiful young woman in a flowing red and white dress. In one hand, she holds a trident, with the symbol of a red rose. Her beautiful cocoa skin sparkles, and her blue eyes gleams brightly.

Barlow’s usual unruffled air is slightly disturbed by the trident.

Aventis nods slightly, and moves forward. She hands the trident to Barlow, who takes it, looking at it with wonder and curiosity.

The duchess hopes her own discomfort is well hidden, though etiquette bothers her more than the trident. What sort of beverage does one offer to a daughter of the gods? “Would you care for tea?” she asked, “Or can I send for something else?”

“Tea is fine – Earl Grey would do,” says Aventis.” I am happy to make your acquaintance, Duchess. You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. Milk? Sugar?

“Some milk, no sugar” Aventis replies, settling herself on the sofa that Her Grace indicates. “Are you acquainted with my father, Chronos?”

“I am not. I think, perhaps, we come from different parts of what my biographer calls the fiction-o-sphere.” She hands Aventis a cup, and begins to prepare one for herself. “Your father is Cronus, Father of Time, the invitation said, and it was addressed to the Realm of Wyrniverdon. Can you tell me more?”

Aventis nods. “Yes. The Realm Wyrniverdon is a collective — a Magical Force — that guards over the universe — a universe –— that has within her many different worlds. Angels, faeries are part of it, but also star goddesses, and so on. We all work in conjunction to defeat the darkness.”

“Defeating the darkness. That sounds important, essential, even.”

Aventis leans forward, her eyes intent. “But there is an impending evil, of a force so threatening that we have to galvanize our forces — including human beings — to defeat them.”

Her Grace’s hands still. For a moment, her eyes look at some inward thought, and they are bleak when she replies. “I have known evil. I work against it when I can.”

Aventis takes a sip before she continues. “There is one, Racine, who will be instrumental in this fight. She is not only human, but also has mystical origins. Soon, she’ll know part of that story – herstory – and more. There is not much time, but my Sisters are working on that front. Books, those papyrical friends, will help us. They are the Spark. They will also be the key. It will all manifest, and all my Sisters are working on this score.”

Her Grace ponders this, and asks, “Tell me what humans can do to support a fight that is waged by gods and angels?”

Aventis has a small smile as she replies. “We have to come together, and show kindness. We have to show empathy, and compassion. We have to uphold the values of community, the collective. We also have to lift up, and hold dear places of community, the public sphere, such as libraries.”

“In my time, and in my universe, libraries are not public spaces, but it is an interesting idea. I must give that further thought.” Her Grace, a well known supporter of education for the masses, looks into her tea as if the answers float on the surface.

“They will also be key in helping to defeat the darkness,” Aventis assures her. “Technology will be an enemy, and humanity will have to decide – is convenience more important, or holding on to what it means to be human? These decisions will have to be made – if not, further disasters will be looming.”

The duchess shivers, as if she can feel the disasters drawing nearer, and Aventis assures her, “Racine will learn about all these things. She will be up to the task. She doesn’t think she will be, but she will. My Sisters will see to that.”

Her Grace seizes on the new subject. “Tell me more about your sisters, Aventis.”

Aventis is only too happy to oblige. “Angelaes created the community, The Collective. She is also a Guardian Angel, watching over those who are in despair. She created the Realm Wyrniverdon, for those who feel like outsiders, who feel like they don’t belong. She is on a mission to make the world a more welcoming place. She has keen insight, understanding, and intuition, all aspects of being an angel.”

“So the Sisters are angels?”

Aventis shakes her head. “Some are. Some are faeries –  others are selkies. Some are both human and mystical – which is the line that Racine is descended from. Many are part of the Realm Wyrniverdon, and whoever asks for assistance, whoever asks for aid, whoever has a heart that is breaking, the Sisters from the Realm Wyrniverdon are there to help. They are all strong – in one way or another. The Word for them is powerful, and is also the Key to answering the mysteries, the questions of the Universe.”

“Then you are prepared for the fight to come,” Her Grace says.

“I am gravely concerned about what is coming,” Aventis tells her, “But, if we all prepare, there is nothing we can’t handle. I am happy that you will join us in this fight. It gives me hope, in this dark hour.

Racine: The Sisterhood Stories

In a world divided by fear, hate, and prejudice, Racine embarks on a journey to discover who she really is. After a life time of alienation and rejection because of the colour of her skin and her Black heritage, she discovers the ultimate truth of good is wrapped up in the magic of the Story. Stories have the power to change the world, but first, the stories need unlocking.

https://www.amazon.com/Racine-Sisterhood-Stories-Alison-Clarke-ebook/dp/B0719TWJZ9/

Meet AC Clarke

www.twitter.com/mythologist200

https://instagram.com/monetlover200

https://www.facebook.com/Alison-Clarke-749948061789271/

 

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Tea with Parsifal Keazund

The teapot, tea set, and tea service have all been set up in the private sitting room of Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford. All is ready for the mysterious guest. Steampunk? Eleanor wonders what steampunk might be. Steam, she understands, but isn’t punk something to do with tinder?

A light cough alerted the Duchess to Barlow’s entrance.

“Your Grace,” he said. “Lord Keazund is here.”

Lord Keazund entered, dressed all in drab black, tweaking at his cuff. He didn’t look like a lord. He couldn’t have been very old. Sixteen or so, with sun-bleached blond hair and intelligent eyes that harbored a strange sadness in their blue waters.

Her Grace hid her surprise at her visitor’s youth, while wondering whether he had a taste for tea or whether she should send for something else. “Lord Keazund, you are very welcome. Please, come and take a seat.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Parsifal said, sitting down on the divan opposite the Duchess.

“I can offer several varieties of tea, or I can send for a chocolate, if you wish. Indeed, Haverford House can provide most beverages, so do not hesitate to state a preference.”

“Tea will be perfect, thank you,” Parsifal replied with a smile. “I do love a good cup of tea and I’m sure yours will be excellent. I thank you again for the invite, it was most kind, although a bit surprising, as I haven’t been back in England long.”

“I should warn you, perhaps, that your England might not be precisely the same as my England,” Her Grace said, calmly. “The invitations to my Mondays at Home go, rather mysteriously, to what my author calls ‘the fictionsphere’. Do you take milk, my lord? Sugar? Lemon?”

“Milk and sugar, if you please,” said Parsifal. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Not wildly different, I trust. I believe it may be said that certain technologies and political boundaries are rather different, or at least differently advanced, in my ‘my’ England. I’m not altogether unfamiliar with the concept of…how to put it…other-worlds? I have just returned to ‘my’ England from one, after all.”

She passed him a tea made to his specifications. “You have been travelling, then? How I would love to travel. Where have you been, Lord Keazund?”

“Yes…” Parsifal replied. He paused as he sipped his tea and then continued, somewhat hesitantly. “I’ve just returned from an extensive expedition. My uncle—the late Lord Keazund—set out to find a forgotten city in the wastes of Siberia. Tragically, he was lost under the ice. I came back by way of the Siberian Skyrail. That’s the official story, anyway.”

Eleanor Haverford frowned. “The Skyrail? I don’t understand. My condolences on your loss,” she added.

“Thank you, your grace,” Parsifal said. “I’ve had to explain the Skyrail so many times. There was a newspaper story a while back about the Russian airship that crashed in the North Sea…sort of a long balloon that could be steered. The Skyrail is like a cross between an airship and a train…but the trains from ‘my’ England might be a bit different than yours?”

“Trains.” Eleanor considered for a minute, her mind full of long lines of donkeys or carters. Then her face cleared. “Ah, yes. My son Aldridge has mentioned the term. A row of carts pulled by a steam engine. It runs on rails, and they use them in the mines. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” Parsifal said, frowning a little. “Yes…you’ve never ridden one? Never mind. This is excellent tea, your grace!”

“But—you say the official story. Tell me if my curiosity is unwelcome, my lord, but if you can share the unofficial story with an inquisitive lady from another world entirely, I would love to know more.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Parsifal said. “No one in ‘my’ England would believe the truth, and it could cause problems with the Prime Minister…but in reality, the expedition found a…a doorway into another world, I guess. One connected with my own, a place that myth calls the Sea. People and ships sometimes slip through from our normal waters into this other, land-less place. They are lost at Sea. Anyway…it’s a very long story, but I went into that Sea and I came back in a storm…a Weather Caster made it, they can send the weather wherever they like, on the Sea or Land. It’s quite outlandish, I know. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

Eleanor closed her mouth, which had dropped open in a most unladylike manner. “I have never heard of such a thing,” she said. “How fascinating. And how fortunate that you were able to find your way home.”

“Not really,” said Parsifal. He looked out the window and bit his lip. “I left a friend there.”

Meet Parsifal Keazund, from the Weather Casters’ Saga

Parsifal Keazund, recently having inherited the title of lord, has already been through the adventures of books one and two in the Weather Casters’ Saga, and stands on the brink of book three, A Hole in the Air, coming in late February.

A Hole in the Ice (Weather Casters Saga, book One):

A Hole in The Ice is an epic historical fantasy sweeping across time, myth and nineteenth-century Europe. A decadent cast of characters embark on a mysterious journey in pursuit of a mythical lost land said to be inhabited by beautiful but deadly mermaids. As the reader sweeps across the story under the glimmer of chandeliers and falling snow flakes, they are taken on a beautiful adventure to the very limits of the imagination. Each character in this extraordinary tale has their own personal treasure they are hunting and each one will pay a price higher than they ever anticipated.

Amazon link: http://amzn.to/2v2oS1I

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2vgjkkP

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2uL1AL0

A Hole in the Sea (Weather Casters Saga, book Two):

As the chase continues into the extraordinary seascape of a mysterious ocean, where sea monsters reign, deadly mermaids hunt, and pirates skulk, Parsifal learns that staying alive on the high seas is no easy task; especially when being hunted down by the vengeful and determined Lady Vasille. As beautiful, deadly, and driven as ever, Lady Vasille will stop at nothing to retrieve the compass and the power it contains. In this fantastically wrought, nautical fantasy adventure, McCallum J. Morgan transports the reader into a truly magical realm.

Amazon link: http://amzn.to/2uHR4o3

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2tLjbS1

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2uL1AL0

 

Meet McCallum J. Morgan

McCallum J. Morgan is a twenty-two year old author who also dabbles in the dark arts of painting and costuming. His books include the steampunk fantasy, The Weather Casters Saga, and the horror-comedy, Ambulatory Cadavers. He lives and writes in North Idaho, where nature and music inspire madness while he dreams of times long past.

Website: http://mccallumjmorgan.weebly.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mccallumjmorgan

Blog: http://mhablas.blogspot.com/

Publisher: http://www.littlebirdpublishinghouse.com/

Youtube: http://bit.ly/2v2N2cc

Twitter: @McCallumJMorgan

Instagram: @mccallumjmorgan

Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/2vRR1pG

 

by

Tea with the Chathams

“The Earl and Countess of Chatham, Your Grace.”

Having made his announcement, the footman withdrew. Mary slipped her arm through John’s and they entered the drawing room together. John was missing a cabinet meeting for this; he said one did not turn down invitations with Duchesses, and that William wouldn’t even notice if he didn’t turn up anyway. Mary had considered arguing with him on that point, but he so rarely agreed to go into society since his disgrace she had not liked to press the point, and she had to admit she was curious about meeting the Duchess of Haverford.

Their hostess awaited them with a generous smile. John bowed; Mary curtseyed. “Your Grace. Many thanks for your kind interest.”

“Lady Chatham, how kind of you to come and visit me. Lord Chatham, you are very welcome. Please, be seated.”

Mary settled into her chair with some relief; standing for long periods did little good for her lame hip. “We are happy to meet you at last, Your Grace. I have heard so much about you from my friend Lady Macclesfield. I trust you are well, and your family?”

She immediately knew she had blundered, for she had not meant to steer the conversation into dangerous waters so soon, even in the name of politeness. She slanted a look across at John; he was stirring his tea, and seemed not to have noticed. To her relief, the Duchess seemed equally alive to the delicacy. John’s rift with his famous brother, prime minister Pitt, was well known, and Her Grace’s response – delivered after a slight, but barely noticeable, hesitation – was a general one, with no specific mention of brothers, ministerial or otherwise. “My family is well, I thank you. My sons keep robust good health, I thank God.”

Mary breathed a small sigh of relief. She had been afraid the Duchess might bring up politics, particularly John’s recent demotion from the post of First Lord of the Admiralty to a comparatively insignificant post. This still rankled, for it had left him open to criticism, which William had been oddly reluctant to refute. But Lady Macclesfield had been emphatic about Eleanor Haverford’s discretion, and Mary could see her friend had been right in her assessment. She began to relax.

“Do you stay in town for the summer, Lady Chatham?” the Duchess asked.

Before Mary could reply, John cut in. “I suspect we shall stay longer than usual. It will be tiresome, as I have so little business nowadays.”

The Duchess sipped her tea in silence, possibly trying to think of a diplomatic answer. Mary said, a little too brightly, “My husband is being modest. In times of war, being a cabinet minister hardly leaves one time for anything. We can only pray for an honourable peace with France, and then perhaps I will have my husband back.”

John snorted something into his teacup about the French having executed honour on the guillotine some time ago. Mary ignored him. At least he wasn’t thinking about his own obsolescence any more.

Lord Chatham, Courtesy of the Commando Forces Officers’Mess, Royal Marines, Plymouth

“This General Bonaparte appears to be achieving great success,” the Duchess said. “His Grace the duke says he is a commoner of no significance, and that, in any case one Englishman is worth a dozen French. I trust he is correct.”

“He is right about the Englishman,” John replied. “I am not so sure he is right about Bonaparte. The man either has a great deal of luck, or a great deal of talent. If we are truly unlucky, he may have both. If only my brother would allow me to re-join the army, I would…”

He left the sentence unfinished, then drained his tea.

It was all Mary could do to stop herself rolling her eyes at him. The Duchess sent her a compassionate glance and said, “I thank God that those dearest to my heart are too young for battle. Surely this war cannot continue long enough that I must send my Jonathan off to war? Yet other mothers, other wives have their hearts so torn. And the poorest have to shift for themselves and their babies, without a man to stand between them and the world. We send them off to fight and die for King and country, and never give a thought to the families that need them.”

“I for one am pleased Lord Chatham will not be going off to fight,” Mary observed firmly, accepting some more tea. “I understand you are doing your part to assist those wretched women of whom you speak. I have heard about your work, and admire it very much.”

Lady Chatham

Mary had finally lit upon a safe topic. The Duchess’s face brightened at that, and the two women settled down to discussing Eleanor’s latest project to raise donations among the ton of clothes, food, and supplies. Even John unbent enough to make suggestions. offering his friendship with the King and Queen as a way of assisting the Duchess’s schemes to reach the very highest circles. Mary was delighted to see him so forthcoming, for he badly needed to believe in his own worth once again.

It was hard being the brother of the prime minister, harder than anyone else seemed to realise. Mary wondered whether she would ever forgive William for taking John’s closeness and support for granted. She only hoped he would come round before irreparable damage had been inflicted on her proud, but vulnerable, husband.

______

Excerpt

‘I hardly need remind you the convoy to Gibraltar departs in a few days.’

Harriot dropped her mother’s hand. William stepped back as though John had struck him. ‘You cannot intend still to go?’

Lady Chatham, too, was startled. ‘John, you are head of the family. I grant you much of the work to be undertaken can best be done through Mr Johnson and Mr Skirrow, but the estates must be examined, the servants paid, the funeral arranged—’

John felt his breath constrict more and more with every word. He cut in desperately. ‘Parliament has voted for a public funeral. The arrangements for that are already out of my hands.’

‘But who will be Chief Mourner?’

The memory of his brother pushing him aside in the Prince’s Robing Room to take Papa’s hand cut into John’s mind unbidden. ‘William can do it,’ he said, more bitterly than he had intended, and his brother flinched.

Harriot’s hooded blue eyes, so similar to John’s own, turned to her older brother in contempt. ‘William is 19. You cannot expect him to take your place.’

‘I don’t,’ John protested, trying to remain calm. ‘I know I have responsibilities to you, but I am under orders—’

‘General Boyd would have released you from them!’ William finally found his voice. John had not seen so much emotion on his self-possessed brother’s face since their father had fallen ill. ‘Many disasters might befall you in Gibraltar, should Spain join the war. You may never come back. Your first duty now is to your family … to us.’ John said nothing, silenced by William’s uncharacteristic outburst. ‘Papa took the Earldom of Chatham as a gift from a grateful King and a loving populace. For God’s sake, be worthy of it. It is the one thing Papa asks of you.’

Stung, John said unevenly, ‘Papa is dead. He asks nothing of me.’ William’s face drained of colour and John cursed his clumsiness. ‘I only want to make my name.’

‘You are Earl of Chatham! You have the greatest name in England!’

‘No,’ John shouted, giving in at last to his anger and fear. ‘You have received England’s most famous name. All I have inherited are debts.’

His words echoed in silence. Harriot braced her hands on Lady Chatham’s shoulders, her face tense. William’s grey eyes were wide. Suddenly his gaze hardened. ‘How could you be so selfish? But then it has always been that way, has it not? Always late, always unreliable. You never think of how others might feel. I will not allow you to load your troubles onto my shoulders. You cannot abandon us all because you are jealous of me.’

‘I already told you,’ John insisted, white-faced. ‘All I want to do is make Papa proud.’

‘As you correctly observed,’ William hissed, ‘Papa is dead.’

______

Earl of Shadows

Two brothers are locked in a life-long struggle to fulfil their destinies.

John and William are the elder and younger sons of 18th century political giant William Pitt. The father is a man of great principle and a great orator. Twice Prime Minister, he accepts the title Earl of Chatham in recognition of his services to the British nation. But his death on the floor of the House of Lords deals a devastating blow to the family.

Forced to forego his military career, John inherits the title and a debt-ridden estate. William inherits the gilded tongue that will make him the brilliant rising star. John sees the problem looming, but the little brother cannot succeed without the big brother’s support. At the most critical moment John runs away from his responsibilities and his brother. It proves to be a fatal mistake.

Can John ever make amends and find forgiveness? Or will he continue to hold onto a pain that has almost become part of himself? Can he escape the long shadow of destiny?

Earl of Shadows is a meticulously researched and moving account of sibling rivalry in a world of duty and honour at the heart of one of Britain’s most iconic political families. It brilliantly underlines the notion that history is about more than just the winners – that there is another, more human, story to tell.

‘Absorbing, historically accurate portrayal of family conflict, soaring ambition, and redeeming love. An impressive fiction debut by a highly talented author.‘ — Margaret Porter, bestselling author of ‘A Pledge of Better Times‘

Jacqueline Reiter has a PhD in late 18th century British history from Cambridge University. She has been researching the Pitt family for many years, focusing particularly on the life of the 2nd Earl of Chatham, whose nonfiction biography she has also written. She lives in Cambridge with her husband and their two young children, both of whom probably believe Lord Chatham lives in their house.

Buy the book at: –mybook.to/earlofshadows (universal buy link)

Talk to Jacqueline at:

–twitter.com/latelordchatham (twitter)

–facebook.com/latelordchatham (FB)

–thelatelord.com (website)

 

by

Spotlight on The Viscount’s Seduction

Alina K. Field has joined me today, with book two of her series, Sons of the Spy Lord. It’s on sale at 99c from 26 November to 4 December everywhere except Google Play — Links below. The Bastard’s Iberian Bride, book one, is at 99c until 26 November, so get it today.

Revenge and Romance—can she find both with one determined Viscount?

Searching for the Truth

Lady Sirena Hollister has lost her family, her home, and even her fey abilities, but somehow the fairies have handed her an unexpected chance at a Season in London. From her place on the fringes of high society, she resolves to find the truth about her only brother’s vanishing, and settle her family’s score with the wily English Spy Lord, the Earl of Shaldon. Soon enough, her schemes stir up an unknown enemy…and spark danger of a different sort, in the person of the Earl’s handsome heir, Viscount Bakeley.

Seducing the Beauty

The impertinent hoyden Bakeley met years earlier was as wild as her Irish roots, and just as unlucky. And she’s still an Irish traitor’s sister! But Lady Sirena has grown into a beauty whose charm and courage intrigue him. When danger threatens, Bakeley comes to her rescue, risking scandal, the ton’s disapproval, his interfering father’s ire…and his own heart.

Buy Links for The Viscount’s Seduction

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Excerpt: First Kiss

He snatched up her hand. “You look lovely tonight. Stay. Keep me company.”

She tried to pull away but he reached for her other hand.

“Do not do this, sir.”

The anger was giving way to fear, though whether it was real or feigned he couldn’t tell. He drew her closer to the light. Her eyes glowed with that same luminosity he’d noticed at Hackwell’s ball, her lips were plump and inviting, and gold highlights bounced off her dress and her hair. She was a beauty in daylight. By candlelight, she was a goddess, a golden siren. No wonder she’d had to run away from her cousin.

And that thought brought him up. He didn’t ravish women, unless they wanted it. This girl didn’t want it.

Unless he convinced her she did.

He eased in a breath. No. At least, no, not tonight.

“You and I, my lady, we’re looking for the same thing.”

She swallowed hard, her lovely throat jumping. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I? What do you think I’m talking about?”

She pursed her lips. Opened them. “A liaison.”

“An improper one?”

Her brow furrowed. “You’re mocking me now. Let me go.”

“First we should search together.”

“I don’t know what you mean, and we’ll be missed. Both of us gone? Together?” Her eyes became shiny. She’d drummed up some tears. “I’ll be…on the street. I’ll be fortunate if I’m sent back to serve as my cousin’s, my cousin’s—”

“Files, Lady Sirena. Files that say Hollister on them.”

A tear ran unchallenged down her creamy cheek and her mouth dropped. “Oh.”

He swept the tear away with his finger. So soft her skin was, as he dragged the moisture down to her lips and traced a path over them. Her chest rose, her breasts straining the modest bodice of the yellow gown.

He yanked her closer and settled his lips on hers, and a sharp gasp escaped her before she clamped her mouth shut.

“Just one kiss,” he whispered. He nibbled around her locked lips and stroked the line of her jaw until she shivered in his arms and her lips parted, allowing him entry.

He kissed her then, sweeping his tongue against hers, for long minutes, then tasting her skin, following the path of his fingers along her jaw and down to her neck, inciting a sharp gasp and a moan, and more wriggling. He wanted her, and she wanted him, and—

“Stop.” Her hands locked on his shoulders, pushing.

Heart pounding, he froze. He was a gentleman. Even if she had been no lady—which she most definitely was—he would have stopped. No matter how hard his cock screamed for release, as it did now. “Right.” He stepped back and straightened his neck cloth.

Sirena’s heart pounded so wildly she could barely find breath to speak. “The files,” she said finally.

“Yes. He wouldn’t keep them here in so accessible a location.”

Oh, he was lathered, she could tell, almost as much as herself. This was what was meant by seduction—not the graspy, slobbery, forced thing her cousin had attempted. If not for the housekeeper and butler and a strong dose of laudanum…oh, this was very different, and this man a far more powerful lord than her cousin.

She’d be lucky to survive this night with her maidenhead intact. But she wanted that file. She needed to know what happened to Jamie. “His study then? My father had a room like that.”

“Yes. We’ll look there.” He gazed down that bored nose, straightened his neck cloth, though not so much as a hair of the man was out of place, while inside herself, every nerve was dancing a jig. She pressed a hand to her throat and hoped her heart hadn’t pounded her bodice askew.

Meet Alina:

Award winning author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but her true passion is the much happier world of romance fiction. Though her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California and hasn’t looked back. She shares a midcentury home with her husband, her spunky, blonde, rescued terrier, and the blue-eyed cat who conned his way in for dinner one day and decided the food was too good to leave.

She is the author of several Regency romances, including the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring. She is hard at work on her next series of Regency romances, but loves to hear from readers!

 

Visit her at:

http://alinakfield.com/

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by

Tea with Dorothea

Miss Dorothea Horatia Wythe stared at the elaborate invitation in stunned surprise. No matter how many times she read it, the sentiment was still the same:

An invitation to tea.

With the Duchess of Haverford.

The Duchess of Haverford.

Not a relation.

Not a friend of a distant cousin.

Not a person she’d bumped into in the park on accident whilst trying to hide from Lord St. Vincent.

Not a friend of a friend, unless one counted Aunt Harriett who knew simply everyone. Or they her.

No…a duchess. A stranger.

Royalty.

Royalty who wanted to take tea with plain ole Dorothea Wythe—a bluestocking too opinionated to take in society.

Dory didn’t know whether to jump up and down in her stockings or dive beneath the covers and hide for a few years. The entire idea of tea with the Duchess of Haverford was impossible with a view to the absurd.

Did Aunt Harriett have a hand in this? Or worse, Lord St. Vincent?

Dory glanced over at her desk which was littered with page after page of notes from the writing she was translating: coded messages written in the margins of a small bible—one she’d borrowed from Lord St. Vincent. She was nearly finished, which was fortunate for she needed to return the bible before its absence was noted.

The fact that she’d stolen into Lord St. Vincent’s room to borrow it in the first place was telling of her character was it not?

Dory raced to the desk, dipped her quill in ink, and penned her acceptance to tea.

She was far too curious for her own good.

The Umbrella Chronicles is a story in the Never Too Late collection. Every Monday for the next little while, one of my fellow Bluestocking Belles will bring their hero or their heroine along to meet the Duchess of Haverford. I hope you’ll join us to learn more about them and their stories.

Never Too Late has its own page on the Bluestocking Belles website, where you can learn more about each story and find preorder links while they are being added. (It’s 99c while in preorder, so buy now.)

If you’re an Amazon US purchaser, buy it here.

by

Spotlight on The Demon Duke

Today’s guest is Margaret Locke, and her new release The Demon Duke.

Behind every good man is a great secret.

Banished to Yorkshire as a boy for faults his father failed to beat out of him, Damon Blackbourne has no use for English society and had vowed never to return to his family’s estate at Thorne Hill, much less London. However, when his father and brother die in a freak carriage accident, it falls on Damon to take up the mantle of the Malford dukedom and to introduce his sisters to London Society–his worst nightmare come to life.

He never planned on Lady Grace Mattersley. The beautiful debutante stirs him body and soul with her deep chocolate eyes and hesitant smiles. Until she stumbles across his dark secret.

Bookish Grace much prefers solitude and reading to social just-about-anything. Her family may be pressuring her to take on the London Season to find herself a husband, but she has other ideas. Such as writing a novel of her own. But she has no idea how to deal with the Duke of Malford.

Will she betray him to the world? Or will she be his saving Grace?

Amazon ♦ B&N ♦ iBooks ♦ Kobo:

Meet Margaret Locke

As a teen, Margaret pledged to write romances when she was older. Once an adult, however, she figured she ought to be doing grownup things, not penning stories. Thank goodness turning forty cured her of that silly notion.
Now happily ensconced again in the clutches of her first crush (romance novels!), Margaret is never happier than when sharing her passion for a grand Happy Ever After. Because love matters.
Margaret lives in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley in Virginia with her fantastic husband, two fabulous kids, and three fat cats. You can usually find her in front of some sort of screen (electronic or window); she’s come to terms with the fact she’s not an outdoors person.
You can find here here:

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Excerpt

Rexborough Ball, London Early April, 1814

Grace squeezed nearer to the wall, surveying the crowded room from her cramped corner. Bodies moved around each other as everyone jockeyed for position. It was the first grand ball of the Season, a mad crush at the Marquess of Rexborough’s expansive London estate. There was hardly space to dance, though the orchestra played gaily.

If only she could go home. Her sister Emmeline danced by with Lord Everton, a vivacious smile lighting her face. Even Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she carefully executed her steps opposite the handsome Marquess of Emerlin.

Why could Grace not feel the same excitement?

Matilda, standing next to Grace, beamed at her other two daughters, delighting in their successes in snagging eligible men so early in the evening.

“They’re merely dancing, Mother. No need to plan the weddings.”

The dowager duchess sniffed. “At least they’re dancing. You have begged off three invitations so far.”

“Lord Oglesby has two left feet, quite possibly three, if my toes have any say. Lord Featherstone is old enough to be my grandfather. And Lord Emerlin only asked because you wished him to. You know he’s had his sights on Becca for waltzing.”

Her mother aired her face with the elaborate fan in her right hand. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad match. Though he is so much her elder.”

“A marquess and the eventual heir to a dukedom. Not such a bad match, indeed. And ten is not so many years. Many a young lady has married a far older gentleman.”

Matilda Mattersley opened her mouth as if to respond when a commotion started amongst the ball goers. They gave a collective gasp as a man entered the room. He was clad entirely in black—black pantaloons, black coat and waistcoat, even an ebony shirt and cravat. Thick black hair tousled wildly over his forehead. Two young ladies next to Grace tittered.

“He is of fine countenance,” one gushed.

“Who is he?” said the other.

A matron broke in, speaking sharply. “Did you not hear him announced? That’s the Duke of Malford.” She made the sign of the cross. “They say he is a devil. They call him the Demon Duke.”

“Really?” the first girl exclaimed.

The older woman slapped the girl’s knuckles with her fan. “Don’t even think about it, Alice. Come, let us seek some lemonade.”

The girl obediently followed the matron, no doubt her mother, through the mass of people.

“The Demon Duke,” Grace murmured.

The man moved farther into the room. His grin was wicked, but his shoulders tight, his eyes . . . sad. Did he notice how people edged away? How whispers raced across the room? How eyes peeped at him while pretending not to do so?

How could he not?

Sympathy flooded through Grace. “He doesn’t look devilish to me,” she said to her mother. “He looks uncomfortable. Like he wishes he were anywhere else but here.” How she could relate.

Matilda sucked a breath. “However he looks is not your concern. The Duke of Malford is not an option.”

“I do not think you have anything to fear, Mother. A man such as that would never be interested in a mouse such as me.”

A smile leaked through the dowager duchess’s pursed lips. “A mouse, indeed. It’s good to see this mouse knows to stay away from a cat. He looks rather feral.”

He is a panther, sleek and black. With the mien of a lion.

“If you’ll pardon me, Mama, I am in need of the retiring room.”

Grace slipped from the room. With everyone’s attention on the Duke, this was a good time to sneak away to the library, as she’d done at Rexborough balls a time or two before.

She pulled a book from the shelf. Ah yes. Aesop’s fables. She settled in near a window, her thoughts on the man in the ballroom.

Hadn’t Aesop said it was the mouse who saved the lion?

by

Tea with Jake

Jake Cohen followed the footman through the manor house as fast as his leg would carry him, so lost in thought he barely noticed the fine art and sumptuous furnishings. When the invitation had arrived from the Duchess of Haverford, his wife had read it three times to be sure it had come to the right person. What on earth would a duchess want with an innkeeper?

Meg had shrugged. “She’s probably seen you fight.”

“Didn’t see a lot of duchesses in Bear Gardens.” He shrugged it off. In the past months he had already done so many things he thought he never would, and tea with a duchess would not be strangest. He had come from wealth, but of course the duchess had no way of knowing that. Or did she? “Do you want to come with?”

“Lord, no. They wouldn’t let me in the door, assuming I’d fit.” She rested her hands on her swollen belly as though feeling the burden of her sensitive state, though her expression was nothing if not serene. “You go, darling. See what she wants. If she’s looking for a different Jake, pinch some cakes and come home. Don’t let her run off with you, now.”

He smirked, flattered in spite of himself. Meg regularly told him he was the handsomest man ever to walk the earth, and he knew she believed it. The fact no one else seemed to share her opinion didn’t keep him from enjoying it. He was a very fortunate man. He’d kissed her on his way out. “As if she could.”

Now, walking through a house finer than any he’d visited, the question bothered him again. In his thirty-nine years, he’s been a goldsmith, a boxer, and an innkeeper. What would a duchess want with any of them?

She waited in a room that seemed to exist for just such a purpose, sunlight pouring through a huge window with panes of glass so fine and clean he could hardly see them. They had finally replaced their broken windows at the inn, but the filth of the street had immediately dimmed their shine.

The duchess’s smile was pleasantly bemused, as if she hadn’t been certain he would come. “Mister Cohen.”

He bowed. Wasn’t one meant to bow at times like these? “Your Grace.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then emitted a sound not unlike nervous laughter. “Forgive me, Mr. Cohen, I confess I am faintly stunned to meet you in person. The engravings did not do you justice.”

His stomach sank with dread. “Engravings?”

“Quite so. They were completed when you were a little older, I believe. Won’t you join me? You’ve come a long way, you must be exhausted.”

Jake frowned. What had she meant by “when you were a little older”? He’d thought his English was fluent, but he’d never heard that particular turn of phrase. As far as he was aware, there were no engravings of him anywhere. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Are you quite certain you have the right man?”

“Oh, yes. Quite certain. Please, come.”

He took the chair she offered and watching silently as she poured two cups of tea from a beautiful white pot covered all over in painted blue flowers. He had never seen a matching set of china before, let alone tea cups with little handles. They must have been designed for ladies; he could barely hook a fingertip through the delicate loop. He smiled at the lovely absurdity of the design.

“You like the tea cups?”

“I do,” he replied. “The pattern is very distinctive, it looks like some I saw back in Amsterdam. Is it Dutch?”

“Danish,” she supplied. “Royal Copenhagen. It’s all the rage.”

“I have not seen these before.”

“I should think not.” Her cheek quirked as she suppressed a laugh. “They are not yet sold in England, and have only been produced in Denmark since perhaps 1775.”

He choked on his tea.

She gave no indication she noticed, but offered a plate of small iced pastries “Cake?”

He coughed to clear his throat. “Thank you.” The cake was light as a dream and tasted faintly of vanilla and cardamom. The orange-scented black tea complimented it perfectly. If this was a dream, the tea tasted very real. “Did you say these cups were produced in 1775?”

“Not this precise set, no, but I believe that was when the factory was founded. Forgive me, I’ve shocked you. What year is it, where you live?”

He almost laughed. “It is 1679, Your Grace.”

“That would make you…?”

He flushed slightly. “Thirty-nine.”

A secret, knowing smile crept across her face. “Still a young man, for all that. Half your life is still ahead of you.”

Who was this duchess, who drank from cups not yet manufactured and seemed to know the future? “Where am I?”

“You are at Haverford House, and it is 1797.”

He felt light-headed as the blood drained from his face. “Impossible.”

“Quite possible, Mister Cohen. I am resolved to hire only the best tutors for my sons, even if that means procuring them from the previous century.”

He was just about to open his mouth to make his excuses and leave the company of this mad duchess when she produced a set of engravings from the sideboard. She passed them to him with no little reverence.

In the first, he was depicted stripped to the waist, demonstrating his fighting stance before a crowd of gentlemen. He did look older, but he knew he was looking at himself—fortunately for them, no one had a face quite like his. The artist had made him enormously muscular and rakishly handsome, with longer, curling hair and a serious expression. He smiled in spite of himself. It was rather flattering.

His smile faded when he looked at the second engraving. He stood proudly next to a handsome young man, as if showing him off. Their hands were wrapped to fight and they were surrounded by an audience.

“I suspected you might not believe me, so I wanted to show you these…”

“When were these done?” he asked, too quickly.

“The date is on the back. I believe they were part of a series published in 1690.”

“1690,” he repeated to himself, eyes on that second engraving. The young man in the picture looked a bit like Tom Callaghan, but less mad. He was younger, softer, and he had his mother’s smile. Tears sprung to his eyes as he realized who he was looking at. “This is Tommy.”

The duchess grinned. “Tom Henshawe, your son. He made quite an impression in his day. Sired by one legend and raised by another. What could he be but a pugilist? Tom Henshawe was undoubtedly the finest of his generation, but you’re the man who trained him. I want you to teach my son the art of pugilism.”

He blinked. “Assuming this is not some fever dream—“

“It is not.”

“—you would like me to come here, to 1797, to teach your son to fight?”

“Quite so, Mister Cohen. You will be handsomely compensated. I daresay your wages will go a bit further in 1679. The inn still needs some work, does it not?”

He nodded. “It does.”

“There you have it. My driver will collect you for one afternoon once per week and bring you here. Would Monday next suit? Aldridge is already seventeen and he is most anxious to begin.”

Jake ran a hand over his face. A duchess was offering to pay him handsomely to go to the future to teach a future duke to box. “I would be happy to oblige, Your Grace, but are you certain this is what you want? Boxing is not a gentlemanly sport. Would he not be more suited to fencing?”

“Things have changed, Mister Cohen. Pugilism is very popular among young gentlemen, and I am resolved my son shall excel at it.” As he excels at everything else, he heard, even though she didn’t say it aloud. “At any rate, he’s been fencing for years. Say you’ll consider it?” 

“I would be happy to oblige, but I am struggling to believe this is 1797. How is it possible I am here?”

“Never underestimate a mother’s love, Mister Cohen.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I do not. Forgive me for asking, but is there any other way you might prove this is real?”

The duchess nodded to a footman who produced a printed broadsheet unlike any he’d ever seen. He was still learning to read English, but he could make the date out clearly enough. 21 May, 1797. He looked up sharply. “What do you know of my life?”

She sipped her tea. “Perhaps men are not meant to know these things. Suffice to say, you live a long, prosperous life and enjoy a good deal of fame in your later years. As you have seen, Tom becomes a boxer, and your daughter—“

“Daughter?” His heart sped up as he thought of Meg at home, mere weeks away from giving birth.

The duchess smiled. “Your daughter will do many great deeds, and will live an exceptional life. I will say no more.”

It was madness, but he knew in his bones she told the truth. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he wanted to believe it. “Very well. If you are correct and my wife gives birth to a girl, I will return and teach your son to fight.”

“Excellent.” She grinned. “I have taken the liberty of packing some cakes for you to take home to your wife. She’ll want them after the day she’s had.”

He accepted the parcel as he rose to leave, wondering what else this mad duchess knew that he didn’t. “What of Meg? Is she well?”

The duchess smiled her secret smile. “Oh yes, but perhaps you ought to hurry back.”

Jake’s heart hammered all the way back to Southwark—back to his time, if the duchess was to be believed—terrified she knew something about Meg he didn’t. Had something happened while he was away?

The inn was in a flurry of activity when he returned. Clouds of steam billowed from the kitchen and Achille, Judith’s odd Frenchman, hurried past with his arms full of clean linen. He broke into a wide smile as he saw them. “My felicitations. You have a daughter.”

Jake almost dropped the cakes in his shock. He gripped the doorjamb with his free hand to keep from fainting. As he looked at his boots, the room spinning around him, a pristine note was pushed beneath the door. He grabbed it and broke the Dunchess of Haverford’s seal. Inside was only one word: 

Monday?

 

Broken Things

By Jessica Cale

Rival. Sister. Barmaid. Whore.

Meg Henshawe has been a lot of things in her life, and few of them good. As proprietress of The Rose and Crown in Restoration Southwark, she has squandered her life catering to the comfort of workmen and thieves. Famous for her beauty as much as her reputation for rage, Meg has been coveted, abused, and discarded more than once. She is resigned to fighting alone until a passing boxer offers a helping hand.

Jake Cohen needs a job. When an injury forces him out of the ring for good, all he’s left with is a pair of smashed hands and a bad leg. Keeping the peace at The Rose is easy, especially with a boss as beautiful—and wickedly funny—as Meg Henshawe. In her way, she’s as much of an outcast as Jake, and she offers him three things he thought he’d never see again: a home, family, and love.

After Meg’s estranged cousin turns up and seizes the inn, Meg and Jake must work together to protect their jobs and keep The Rose running. The future is uncertain at best, and their pasts won’t stay buried. Faced with one setback after another, they must decide if what they have is worth the fight to keep it. Can broken things ever really be fixed?

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Meet Jessica Cale

Jessica Cale is a historical romance author and journalist based in North Carolina. Originally from Minnesota, she lived in Wales for several years where she earned a BA in History and an MFA in Creative Writing while climbing castles and photographing mines for history magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough) and is enjoying her happily ever after with him in a place where no one understands his accent. She is the editor of Dirty, Sexy History and you can visit her at dirtysexyhistory.com.

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