Monday for Tea

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Tea with Delia

Delia Fitzwallace watched the sumptuous traveling carriage, accompanied by liveried footmen and outriders and festooned with a ducal crest, pull up to Seascape, her brother’s elegant manor. She stood in one of the landward windows. Hurrying to the hall she informed Clifford, Jeffrey’s butler, that she would receive her guest in the Shoreward Room. “And tea outside, please.” The room opened onto a terrace that commanded spectacular views of the Bristol Channel as it opened to the sea.

Delia peered into a massive mirror, one with an ornate bronze frame that her father had brought from India on one of his voyages. Her gown, lavender silk from the Graham warehouses softened by touches of grey lace, didn’t particularly flatter her coloring, but it was attractive enough and perfectly appropriate for the end stages of mourning. Still, her nerves were frayed. The visitor was expected, but Delia had not quite recovered from the surprise that shook her when word came that the duchess would call.

What is the woman doing in Bristol?

Approaching footsteps paused by the door and Delia heard hushed conversation taking place, the duchess no doubt requesting courtesy to her entourage. The door opened on silent hinges and Clifford intoned, “The Duchess of Winshire.”

Delia dropped to a deep curtsey. “Your Grace, how kind of you to call.”

“A condolence call is simple courtesy my dear, and mine, I’m afraid, is tardy. Unless I’m mistaken, your formal mourning is almost over.” Her Grace took Delia’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “How are you bearing up?”

“Well, Your Grace. You are so kind to check in on me,” Delia said.

“Lady Fitzwallace, your Vincent called me ‘Aunt Eleanor.’ Can’t you do the same?”

Delia couldn’t resist the woman’s genuine warmth. “It would be an honor. Could you call me Delia as well? Shall we visit on the terrace?”

“I would be disappointed if we didn’t. Seascape is famous for its panoramic views,” The duchess said linking arms and letting Delia lead her out.

Soon enough tea arrived and they sipped while her visitor exclaimed over the view of shipping in the channel and the hills of Wales across the way. This house is a wonder!”

“It is indeed. My brother likes to use this room to entertain Graham Shipping business partners. It never fails to impress,” Delia said.

“Why, then, do you plan to leave?” Aunt Eleanor raise an enquiring eyebrow.

It was almost an ambush. How on earth did she know? Vincent, Delia’s late husband, always said the Duchess of Haverford—now Winshire—was a witch or at very least that she had the sight.

“As magnificent as this place is, it is a museum and not a home for children,” Delia replied.

“Does it not have a nursery?” The duchess appeared puzzled.

“Of course! But they aren’t able to roam freely. The house is meant to impress, not to entertain busy boys and a curious girl. There is no real garden, and, perched as it is on a cliff, it isn’t safe to let them wander on their own. As beautiful as it is, it just isn’t a comfortable family home.”

“What happened to your townhouse in London?” the duchess asked. Delia paused to formulate a diplomatic reply, and the duchess eyed her shrewdly. “Let me guess. It belongs to Awbury.”

The Duke of Awbury was Delia’s father-in-law. Vincent, Delia’s late husband, and been Awbury’s fourth son. She bit her lip and nodded. “He… That is, he has been quite generous about urging us to stay there but—”

“On his terms and under his watchful eye, am I correct?”

Delia nodded. “The truth is, I long for a place of my own. I have the funds. My personal fortune is substantial, and I plan to get what I want.” She raised a stubborn chin. Let the woman make of that what she wished.

If the duchess wondered how Delia’s fortune had been protected from that scapegrace Lord Vincent Fitzwallace, she was too polite to ask. She could probably guess that a shrewd merchant like Peter Graham would protect his daughter’s funds in the marriage settlements. Her next words surprised Delia. Surprised and pleased.

“Good for you, my dear!” she said. “I applaud your decision. Where do you plan to go?”

“I have an agent looking for a place. Somewhere quiet. In the country, where children are free to ramble. With flowers. I particularly want flowers,” Delia sighed. “A cottage of my own, is it too much to ask?”

“I may know of one. It isn’t a thatched cottage, mind. It is a dower house on a large estate—solid, substantial, and I’ve been given to understand, surrounded by flowers. The last I heard they were looking to rent it not sell it.”

Delia’s heart sped up. It sounded ideal, but rent? “I suppose renting first might be wise. It would give me a chance to find my way.”

“It would indeed.” The duchess pulled a small notebook and pencil from her reticule. “Contact this man,” she said. “Eli Benson. He is the land steward for the Earl of Clarion.”

Delia stared at the name. “I will write to him today. Where is this house located?”

“On the coaching road from Nottingham to Shrewsbury. It is called Ashmead.”

Soon enough the time for a polite condolence call passed the Aunt Eleanor took her leave. Delia glanced at the name and the man’s direction and sat down to write.

About The Upright Son

Book 4 of The Ashmead Heirs

A notorious will left David, the very proper Earl of Clarion, with a crippled estate and dependents. He’s the one left to pick up the pieces while caring for others—his children, his tenants, and the people of Ashmead. He cares for England, too. Now that the estate has been put to right, he is free to pursue his political ambitions. His family even encourages him to host a house party. But loneliness weighs him down. Then he meets his new neighbor.

Her uninhibited behavior shocks him. Why can’t he get her out of his mind?

Happily widowed Lady Delia Fitzwallace revels in her newly rented cottage, surrounded by flowers and the wonder of nature, thrilled to free her three rambunctious children from the city of Bristol and let them enjoy the countryside to the fullest. If only she can avoid offending her very proper neighbor, the earl, when their children keep pulling her into scrapes.

She has none of the qualities he needs in a countess. Is she exactly what he needs as a man?

Released 28 June: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B4FCXDX2/

An excerpt

“Stop it, Percy! You’re roiling up the water and chasing away the frogs,” Alf said.

Delia reached for Percy. She managed to grab one arm when Penny piped up. “There are riders coming, Mama.”

Delia glanced back over her shoulder to see a man and a boy approach. She and the children rented the Clarion dower house. In the four months since they took up residence, she had never seen the earl, having been told he preferred London, particularly when Parliament was in session. The rider’s haughty expression, distinguished bearing, and thick auburn hair left her in little doubt that she saw him now.

Caught at her least dignified, embarrassment distracted her. She wasn’t prepared when Percival yanked on her arm and overturned her balance. Flail her arms though she did, she could do nothing to prevent her tumble into the water.

“Hogswallop!” she grumbled and immediately prayed the earl didn’t hear her. She rose, striving for as much grace as she could muster, with weeds clinging to her sodden gown and a squirming toddler pulling on her arm.

Man and boy pulled to a stop. “Good afternoon,” she chirped before they could speak.

Clarion—for it must be he—blinked. The boy looked up at his father as if to ask how to behave.

“I don’t believe I know you,” the earl said, staring at her muddy hems.

“Do you know everyone?” she asked intrigued. She stepped up onto the bank and pulled Percy with her.

“Everyone who would freely do whatever it is you’re doing on the Clarion estate.” He waved a hand as if to encompass the entire scene. “May I ask your identity and your purpose here?”

“Of course. We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Lady Delia Fitzwallace. We have the privilege of renting the Clarion dower house. We have a five-year lease.” She wasn’t sure why she added that last, except perhaps a fear this stern man might turn them out.

He appeared startled by her title, and Delia suspected he may have taken her for a tavern trollop of some sort, though the children might have given him a clue if he cared to consider it. As it was, she had failed to use her proper form of address as Lady Vincent Fitzwallace, stubbornly refusing to go by her late husband’s name.

He didn’t dismount. “I am Clarion,” he pronounced with a slight inclination of his head. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He didn’t look pleased. Delia gave a proper curtsy, somewhat hindered by the state of her gown.

Does one introduce children by name to an earl? She couldn’t remember and rather thought not. “Children, make your obeisance to the earl, if you please.” They did. Alf and Penny had fine manners under normal circumstances. They managed. Even Percy produced a damp and rather dramatic bow. He returned to staring gape mouthed at the horses.

Clarion cleared his throat. “This is my son, Viscount Ashmead.”

The unsmiling boy, his expression uncannily like his father’s, inclined his head with all the hauteur of a prince of the realm. He looked to be Alf’s age, and yet he had the mien of an old man.

The silence stretched until Delia broke it. “As to what we are about, we are hunting frogs’ eggs. We thought to observe the transition from egg to tadpole to frog.”

“It is a scientific endeavor,” Alf added.

That broke through the little viscount’s stern expression. He gazed at Alf with interest.

The earl’s silence unleashed an imp in Delia. She made her eyes wide with faux innocence. “Oh dear. I hope the harvesting of frogs’ eggs isn’t some sort of poaching. I would hate to run afoul of the law so soon in our tenancy.”

“Of course, it isn’t!” the earl snapped. “The Clarion estate can spare a few frogs. I— I’ll leave you to it.” He moved his reins as if to turn, but thought better of it and looked back at her. “Do you generally allow your children to run free across the estate?” he asked.

“Do they appear to be unsupervised?” she retorted. Given her appearance she wouldn’t have blamed him if he said yes, but she was prepared to defend her mothering if she needed to.

His bewildered expression rewarded her. “Of course not,” he said.

“They have been instructed to stay clear of the main house. Their greater temptations are your stables and vicinity, but they have accepted the need to respect that area as well. They know not to touch the property of others. They know better than to ramble through plowed fields or growing crops. They—”

“Enough! I take your point. Good day, madam.” With an inclination of his head, he and his son turned, and Delia’s children watched them ride away.

“He’s not a happy man,” Penny said.

Understatement, that. One of her father’s dictates gave Delia a twinge of regret. He always said, “You never have a second chance to make a good first impression.”

You’ll never live this one down, Delia, and more’s the pity. For all his stern reserve the earl was an attractive man, and one who appeared to care for his son. She admired that in a man.

With a sigh she locked this regret away with the others she’d endured. She refused to let life’s disappointments weigh her down.

“Alf, there! I see an egg mass,” Penny crowed behind her. And so she had. Delia turned to share her children’s delight.

She put her stern landlord out of her thoughts.

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Tea with a prospective mistress

In this excerpt post from A Baron for Becky, Her Grace is looking out for her son. Poor Becky.

The Duchess of Haverford had been visiting friends in Cirencester and was on her way to call on a goddaughter in Bath. “You will remember Polly, Anne, dear. She married the Viscount Sudding. And she has been delivered of a son, which is such a relief for the family. Three daughters, you know, and the cousin a very odd man. One would not want him to inherit. And she is still young, so there may be more.”

The thought clearly reminded her of her own offspring. “Rede, I had such a comfortable coze with Aldridge today.” Aldridge was seated on the floor at her feet, and she patted his cheek lovingly. “I had no idea you were here, darling. So pleased. I thought you and your friend, Lord Overton, had gone off to a party somewhere.”

“Overton returned home, Mama,” Aldridge told her. They had separated in London two months ago, after Overton read Aldridge a lecture on his drinking, refusing to ‘follow him to perdition.’  Overton headed back north to his estate, his wife, and his stepdaughters, and Aldridge rambled from house party to house party. “His wife is in expectation of a happy event.”

“How lovely! Lord Overton was at school with Aldridge, my dears. You remember, Rede. Such a nice boy. Injured in the war, you know, then came home to inherit the barony.”

She patted her son’s cheek again. “He has settled down nicely since he wed. Aldridge quite misses him, do you not, my love?”

“He is staid and boring.”

“And a new baby,” the Duchess continued, taking no notice. “How lovely.”

Aldridge shifted from under his mother’s hand, and got to his feet. “Perhaps Mrs Darling would play for us. Would you be so kind?”

Rose nodded, taking the message from the abrupt change of subject. His Lordship’s friend was not a topic to be discussed in front of a mistress, however expensive.

Her Grace watched her son thoughtfully as he arranged music for Rose, then turned pages for her. “You play beautifully, my dear,” she said, when Rose returned to her seat.

“Simple things, Your Grace,” Rose said. “I fear anything difficult is beyond me.”

“You do well, my dear, to know your limits and stay within them,” the duchess replied, her grave look giving the words another layer of meaning.

By the time dinner was called, Rose knew where Aldridge came by his conversational dexterity. The duchess swooped, with butterfly ease, from family to family, throughout the ton, and up and down society. Her Grace, it seemed, knew everybody in England, was related to half of them, and was godmother to the other half.

The addition of a duchess to the table did not change the informality with which they dined, and the conversation ranged freely around the table. Her Grace had news of Lady Chirbury’s sister, Kitty, who had been staying with her in London. “Dear Kitty; she is meant to be refreshing her winter wardrobe, but she and Mia will be spending their pin money on music and books, I dare say.” And she had spent half an hour with the nursery party. “Your Sarah is such a pretty child, Mrs Darling. And lovely manners.”

After dinner, the ladies withdrew to the great parlour, leaving the two men to the port.

“I am travelling in the morning, so will go up to bed,” the duchess announced. “Mrs Darling, perhaps you would give me a few moments of your time?”

“Be nice, aunt,” warned Lady Chirbury, making Rose even more nervous. The duchess gave an enigmatic smile and led the way upstairs.

“Leave us, dear,” she said to the maid who was standing ready by the bed. “I shall ring when I want you.” She took a chair by the fire and waved Rose to the other.

“Do not look so nervous, Mrs Darling. I do not intend to bite you.”

Rose blushed scarlet. Aldridge had promised to bite her, and had explained exactly where. No. She must not think of that. She sat, as commanded.

“Mrs Darling, you were raised gentry, were you not?”

Rose nodded, cautiously. Where was the duchess going with this?

“The manners, the speech, the accomplishments—they can all be taught, of course. But one who has learned them from the cradle…” Her Grace waved a hand as if to flick away counterfeits.

“The usual story, I imagine? Seduction or rape? And no father to defend your honour?”

“My father…” Rose swallowed hard to remove the lump that closed her throat at the memories. “My father was a librarian. He took the part of his employer.”

“Ah.” Her Grace nodded. “And the employer was the cause of your downfall. Or his son, perhaps?”

“His son,” Rose confirmed. His sons, in fact, but she would not say that.

“And Sarah was the…?”

“No, Your Grace. Sarah… came later.”

“Mr. Darling?”

“There was no Mr. Darling,” Rose admitted.

The maid must have added a fresh log to the fire just before they arrived. The top was still uncharred, but flames licked up from the bed of hot embers. A twig that jutted from one side suddenly flared, turned black, and shrivelled. The bottom of the log began to glow red.

The duchess spoke again, startling Rose out of her flame-induced trance.

“What do you want for your daughter, Mrs Darling?”

“A better life,” Rose said immediately, suddenly fierce. “A chance to be respectable. A life that does not depend on the whims of a man.”

“The first two may be achievable,” the duchess said, dryly. “The third is highly unlikely for any woman of any station. You expect my son to help you to these goals, I take it.”

Rose was suddenly tired of polite circling. “I was saving so that I could leave this life, start again in another place under another name. But my last protector cheated me and stole from me.

“I do what I must, Your Grace. Should I have killed myself when I was disgraced? I had no skills anyone wanted to buy. I could play the piano, a little; sew, but others were faster and better; paint, but indifferently; parse a Latin sentence, but of what use was that in my circumstances? Should I have starved in the gutter where they threw me?

“Well, I was not given that choice. Those who took me from the gutter knew precisely what I had that others would pay for. As soon as I could, I began selling it for myself, and I. Will. Not. Be. Ashamed.”

Her vehemence did not ruffle the duchess’s calm. “We all do what we must, my dear. I am not judging you. Men have the power in this world, and women of the gentry are raised to depend on them for our survival. But you must know that Aldridge cannot offer marriage to a woman with your history.”

The mere thought startled a laugh out of Rose. Marriage had never crossed Aldridge’s mind. Of that she was certain. “His Lordship has offered me a two-year contract as his mistress,” she said, “with very favourable terms. If I accept, and if I save carefully, I will never need to take a protector again.”

“Two years!” The duchess arched a delicate eyebrow. “Aldridge seldom keeps a mistress beyond six months. He must be utterly besotted.”

“He has no thought of marriage,” Rose found herself reassuring the duchess. “And neither do I. I like him, but do not love him, and I think only love could make marriage tolerable.”

It was only partly true. She could easily fall in love with Aldridge… was, perhaps, beginning to do so already. That way, she knew, led to heartache, for the duchess was right. Aldridge would never offer her marriage, or even permanence.

The duchess nodded, decisively. “You are wise. I think you will be good for him, Mrs Darling—which is a ridiculous name. May I call you ‘Rose’?” Her Grace’s smile was a wonderful thing, another feature her son had inherited.

“Would you…” Rose had never imagined having such a conversation, but there was something about this woman. Nothing shocked her, and she listened. “Would you call me Becky? It is my real name.”

“Becky, then. Becky, as long as you remember that you will never be accepted as a fit mate for the future Duke of Haverford—which is a great shame, for you seem to be a fine young woman, but we must live in the world as it is—you and I shall be friends, and I shall support you and little Sarah to find the new life you seek when Aldridge is finished with you. He needs someone like you. He is not happy, poor boy.”

That squashed the nascent hope that the duchess’s sponsorship might mean she could avoid accepting Aldridge’s protection. Still, it was a good offer. Becky accepted the duchess’s outstretched hands. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will do my best to make him happy.”

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Tea with Sophia and Felicity

“I worry about him,” said Felicity Wentworth. “He has a list, Aunt Eleanor.”

“Is that a bad thing?” the Duchess of Winshire asked. “Your brother is, after all, choosing a suitable countess as well as a wife. A list of appropriate qualities seems like a good idea.”

Sophia, Countess of Sutton and sister to both Felicity and Hythe, snorted. “It is a bad thing when the women Hythe thinks he wants would bore him witless in a week and make him miserable in a month,” she said.

“Oh dear.” Eleanor could see how that might be a problem.

“Hythe needs someone lively who will tempt him to see the fun in life,” Felicity declared.

“Hythe needs someone who will be his friend as well as loving him with all her heart,” Sophia corrected.

Eleanor sighed. “He is a grown man, and I have learned that it is a bad idea to try to interfere when our loved ones are determined on their course.”

Sophia’s eyes twinkled. “Unless they ask for our advice.”

“Sophia,” Felicity demanded. “What have you done?”

“Only suggested to Hythe that he should attend one of Lady Osbourne’s party and look over the wallflowers,” Sophia said, airily. She spoiled her air of innocence with a giggle. “I may also have suggested to Lady Osbourne that she might invite him to the same party as Amaryllis Fernhill, and make sure they can spend time together.”

Felicity’s mouth dropped open.

The duchess asked, “Amaryllis Fernhill, my dear Sophia? The one who…?”

Sophia nodded. “Yes, that Amaryllis Fernhill. The one who was supposedly stolen by the Faerie.”

Felicity was grinning. “The one Hythe was not able to take his eyes off all Season.”

“She is a perfectly nice young woman, Aunt Eleanor,” Sophia insisted. “Whatever happened, I am sure she is not actually ruined whatever the ton might think.”

The duchess had recovered her equanimity. “Well then, my dear girls. If Hythe chooses Miss Fernhill for his bride, it will be our job to make her acceptable to the ton. We cannot have any silly scandal marring the career of a diplomat of his skill.”

His sisters nodded. “Quite right, Aunt Eleanor,” Sophia said. “I knew we could count on you.”

The Husband Gamble is my contribution to The Wedding Wager, which you can find more about on my book page. Its out in September, so I’ll share more about Amaryllis and the Earl of Hythe in the coming couple of months.

 

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Tea with a nephew

This week’s excerpt is Eleanor’s first appearance in print, in the novel Farewell to Kindness.

The sun was setting on Saturday evening, and Rede was beside himself with frustration, before the Duchess of Haverford’s coach was finally seen tooling up the road to the castle.

He was waiting when she entered the front door, and she greeted him with pleasure. “Rede, darling. What a lovely surprise. Have you been waiting for me long?

“Such a circus in Deal. The electors were inclined to listen to the merchants, and the merchants did not favour Haverford’s man. Not at all.

“So I had to visit every shop in the town and buy something. The carriage, I can assure you, is laden. But Haverford believes that it may have done the trick.

“Just as well, dear, for I have enough Christmas presents for every one of my godchildren for the next three years. And some of them are not of the best quality, I can assure you.”

She was talking as she ascended the stairs, giving her cloak to a maid as she passed, her bonnet to a footman, and her reticule to another maid.

“You want something, I expect. Well, you shall tell me all about it at dinner. I left most of the food I purchased at the orphanage in Margate, but I kept a pineapple for dessert. Such fun, my dear, have you tried one?”

“No, dear aunt,” he managed to say, sliding his comment in as she paused to give her gloves to yet another maid. Or it may have been the first maid again.

“Well, today you shall. Join me in the dining room in—shall we say one hour?” And she sailed away towards her apartments, leaving him, as always, feeling as if he had been assaulted by a friendly and affectionate hurricane.

Over dinner, he laid all honestly before her. Well, perhaps not all. The lovely widow, betrayed by George, the three sisters, the little daughter. No need to mention that he’d played fast and loose himself with the lady’s virtue. Just that he needed to rehabilitate her. Just that he wanted to marry her and she had refused.

“She has refused you, Rede?” Her Grace was surprised. “But you are handsome, wealthy and charming. And rich. What does she object to?”

Rede hadn’t been able to work it out, either. “I know she cares for me, Aunt Eleanor. But she keeps saying no. The first time—to be honest, the first time I made a disaster of it. I told her… I gave her the impression that I only wanted her for a wife because she was too virtuous to be my mistress.”

Her Grace gave a peal of laughter. “Oh Rede, you didn’t.”

“I’m afraid I did. But the second time I assured her that I wanted her for my Countess.”

“And you told her that you loved her,” the Duchess stated.

“No. Not exactly. I told her I wanted to keep her safe. I told her I wanted to protect her.”

“I see. And I suppose you think if you bring her into society, she will consent to marry you?”

“I don’t know, aunt. I only know that she deserves a better life than stuck in a worker’s cottage in the back of nowhere working as a teacher so she can one day give her sister a decent life. If she won’t have me… Well, she has been to see a lawyer about a small inheritance she has coming. I thought perhaps I could make it a bit bigger. Without her knowing.”

“You do love her,” said the Duchess, with great satisfaction.

“Yes, but… Yes.” There were no buts. He loved her. At least he hadn’t told her so. He had no taste for laying his heart on the floor for her to walk on.

“You need to tell her so.” The Duchess echoed and denied his thinking, all in one short sentence. “She is probably afraid that you are marrying her out of a misplaced sense of duty. You are far too responsible, Rede.”

“No, she couldn’t think that. Could she?”

“Who knows? Well, I will do it. I cannot have my niece-in-law having her babies in scandal. I take it there is the possibility of a baby? You would not be feeling so guilty otherwise.”

Rede was without a response for a long moment, finally huffing a laugh. “Aunt Eleanor, a hundred years ago you would have burnt as a witch,” he told her.

by

Tea with Lady Clairmont

Serafina Montague, Countess of Clairmont accepted the cup of tea handed to her by the duchess’s companion, and smiled her thanks. While Her Grace was preparing the tea for the four of them, she kept up a light patter of social conversation, and Seffie responded in kind. She might not know London society, but at her estate and in the nearby villages, she was the grand lady, and it was her job to put people at ease.

All the time, she was wondering how to ask for the information she wanted. She was sure the duchess would know. Her Grace reportedly knew everyone who was anyone. But would she tell Seffie the same thing as Lord and Lady Barrington, the only people Seffie knew in the whole of London? “You should not even know that such events exist, Lady Clairmont. Or such men. Nothing good can come of giving you the address. Wait at Clairmont House. Better yet, go home to Clairhaven. No doubt the earl will return when he is ready.”

She brooded over her tea, while her face grew stiff from holding a pleasant expression. She had waited long enough. She wanted to see her husband, and if she had to follow him to a notorious house party, then she would do so. If the duchess would tell her were to go.

When everyone was served, the duchess gave her the cue she needed. “I understand your husband has returned to England, Lady Clairmont. You must be pleased.”

“I have not yet seen my husband, Your Grace,” she said. “I hope I will be pleased once we have met.” She took a deep breath. “I would like your help with that, if you would be so kind.”

The duchess raised interrogatory eyebrows. “In what way?” she asked.

“I need to know the address of a man called Seddon. All I know about him is that he is holding a house party. My husband is at that house party. I plan to go and talk to him.”

The eyebrows lifted still further. “Seddon is not an uncommon name,” she commented, her tone bland.

“I have been told that this Mr Seddon’s house parties are…” she paused, trying to find the right word.

Her Grace completed the sentence for her. “Notorious? If that is the Mr Seddon you are looking for, Lady Clairmont, you must be very careful.”

“I will be careful, but I am not going to wait any longer for Clairmont to find it convenient to remember that I exist.” The sympathy in the duchess’s eyes drew the truth from her. “I have been exchanging letters with Clairmont for twelve years, Your Grace. On paper he seems to be a man I like, but the stories about him do not give me confidence that I will ever have a true marriage. I will, however, have a child, if I can. And for that, I must meet the man. And…” she trailed off, waving a hand to signify the more intimate things she would have to do in order for a child to be a possibility.

The duchess nodded. “Very well. I think I know who can tell me whether the Mr Seddon I am thinking of is currently having one of his house parties, and perhaps even whether Lord Clairmont is in attendance. We shall talk further about how to make sure you are safe at such a house party once I have the information you need.”

Seffie sat back in her chair and took another sip of her tea. She did not yet feel triumph. But she had taken another step towards it.

The Truant Lord Clairmont

Lady Clairmont goes to a scandalous house party to retrieve her truant husband after his return to England from a nine-year absence. What she discovers is unexpected.

A short story in Sunflower Season

SUNFLOWER SEASON is a charity collection featuring stories (some never-been-published and some old favorites) by over 70 — that’s right — SEVENTY of your favorite Historical Romance authors. ALL royalties will be donated to humanitarian relief in Ukraine. This set will be released on June 7, 2022 and will only be available for a limited time. Preorder now and enjoy a summer of historical romance!

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Tea with music

What the musicians at an event were given for refreshments varied by country, Jack had found. In Austria and in some parts of Italy, they were treated as honoured guests, welcome to eat the same supper as their audience, and even to mingle if they so desired. In other places, they might be served lukewarm tea or a light ale with, if they were lucky a slice of bread. At times, they even needed to forage for themselves, or bring their own meal and a flask of something.

Tonight’s soiree in Paris was proving to be exceptional, much to Jack’s surprise. When he was hired to perform, he expected to be ignored most of the evening. Tonight’s hostesses were a pair of English duchesses. The English, he had discovered in Vienna, tended to regard musicians as hired help, and his growing reputation as a composer made no difference to that assessment.

He thought the audience would be more focused on conversation than on music, and that he’d need the brioche in the bag he had tucked into his music satchel. He was wrong on both counts.

He had been introduced by the elder of the two duchesses, Her Grace of Winshire, who had instructed everyone to sit and listen. Which they did. They were both attentive and appreciative, and the first hour and a half flew by.

Then, when the younger duchess, a daughter-in-law of the Duchess of Winshire, announced supper, the elder led a team of servants over with supper for the orchestra, and carried Jack off to a table for two, where a tempting array of food was laid out for his selection.

He ordered ale from the waiting servant, since he never drank anything stronger when he was performing. The duchess’s preferences must already be known, for someone brought her a service of tea.

“You must be wondering why I have taken you to one side like this, John Sutton,” Her Grace said, after the ale was served and the servants retreated.

If the lady had been twenty years younger, Jack would have assumed a seduction attempt, but as it was, all he could do was incline his head in agreement.

“You are John Sutton, known as Jack, the musical second son of Baron Allbury.” She stated it as a fact. Jack could not have answered anyway. His mouth was open as he wondered how she knew.

“It is my job, Jack. May I call you Jack?” He nodded, and she continued, “I have been a duchess since I was in my teens. Knowing the peerage and all their connections is part of my obligation to my position. I was not personally acquainted with your father, but I knew your mother, a little, and a cousin of hers told me about your split from the baron, and its cause. In my opinion, having heard your music, the world would be a poorer place if you had obeyed Lord Allbury.”

Jack’s lips twitched into a smile, but he sobered, thinking of his father.

“The former Lord Allbury, that is. I am sorry for your loss, Jack. Father and brother. That is a hard blow.”

Jack rather liked this duchess. He’d known other English ladies who would be congratulating him on inheriting a barony. Not that he wanted it. Her Grace, though, started with condolences. “Thank you,” he said.

“Will you be going home?”  she asked, then gave a short laugh. “Your eyes say ‘not the old besom’s’ business’, and you are quite right.”

The twinkle in her eyes soothed his irritation and he answered her. “I have not made up my mind, Your Grace.”

“Going home is not committing yourself to accepting the burdens of the title, Jack. Why not go and have a look. Perhaps a last goodbye. Perhaps not.” She rose. “Now. I shall let you have the rest of your supper in peace.”

Jack Sutton is the hero of Mary Lancaster’s Concerto”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication. Price goes up to $5.99 after 23 May.

 

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Tea with Iris and Ivy

The two girls paused in the doorway. They were as alike as two peas in a pod, and the expression on both faces said, why has this duchess asked to see us?

“Come on in, ladies,” Eleanor said. “Please, take a seat. Which of you is Iris and which Ivy?”

They were both beauties. If their stepmama managed a Season in York for them, they would be a huge success, even with little dowry. And Lady Seahaven would give them that chance, if Eleanor’s information proved to be accurate.

“I am Iris,” said the girl whose cream-coloured gown was trimmed with purple ribbons. The other, in a dress nearly identical except for the green ribbons replied at the same moment. “I am Ivy.”

“I should say Lady Iris and Lady Ivy, should I not?” Eleanor asked.

The sisters looked at one another.

Eleanor spoke before they could decide what to say. “I had the pleasure of meeting up with your sister, Lady Dorothea, last week, when I asked to meet the cook of the delightful cakes I enjoyed with my tea. Speaking of which, how do you take your tea? Milk? Cream? Sugar?”

Another of those looks, full of the kind of communication known only to twins. Iris spoke for them both, asking for tea with a small quantity of cream and a half spoon of sugar.

Eleanor continued speaking as she prepared the cups. “Hearing that the lovely miniatures of the landscape had been painted by a pair of Bigglesworth twins, I remembered that Henry Seahaven had twin daughters. By his third wife, was it not?”

Iris nodded. “Did you know our mother, Your Grace? We do not remember her.”

“I am sorry, Iris. I did not have that pleasure. I knew your father. He came to London to vote his seat in Parliament, and we were occasionally at the same entertainments, but your mother married here in the north and stayed here through most of her marriage. You appear to have inherited her artistic talent, young ladies.”

The girls blushed, duplicate roses blooming on their cheeks.

“Tell me about yourselves,” Eleanor invited.

Shyly at first, but with increasing confidence, they spoke of their lives in a little cottage in a village near Harrogate, where they sold their artwork to tourists such as Eleanor, who had come to take the waters.

It was clear that they had no thought of a Season or of romance. Their attention was all on helping their family. What charming and well-behaved young ladies these Bigglesworth girls were! Eleanor determined to help them if she could. Perhaps, if the opportunity she had heard about came through, Eleanor could put the word in the ear of a few hostesses to ensure that the girls had plenty of invititations?

Iris and Ivy Bigglesworth are the heroines of Elizabeth Ellen Carter’s  “The Four to One Fancy”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.

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Tea with Harriett

Harriett Staunton offered Eleanor another cup of tea. When the young lady had offered her resignation to the committee for the Foundation for the Education and Enrichment of the Lives of Ladies of Talent, she had explained merely that she intended to move to York.

Eleanor invited her to stay on after the meeting. A girl with Harriett’s questionable birth faced many challenges on the marriage market, and those challenges were magnified in London. Eleanor would help, if she could. But she needed to understand what motivated Harriett.

“Why York, Miss Staunton? Are you escaping your family or London Society?”

Perhaps Harriett picked up Eleanor’s genuine concern, for she did not take offence. “Perhaps a little of both, Your Grace. I have been educated as a lady, but my birth in the merchant classes means that I would not be accepted at the upper levels of London society if I was even invited to any of the events here.”

She took a deep breath and continued, “And the irregular nature of my birth means that the merchant classes also reject me.” A shadow of pain passed through her eyes. Eleanor, who knew more than most how less honourable men think, wondered at the insults the poor girl might have suffered from those who thought their birth on the right side of the blanket entitled them to look down on those less fortunate.

“So you do hope for a husband,” Eleanor concluded. “And, very sensibly, you think that a Season in York is likely to give you the opportunity to meet men who are not so fixed on status and on impressing other people.”

“In a nutshell,” Harriett agreed.

“I wish you every success, Harriett,” Eleanor said. “How can I be of assistance? Are you planning to stay with friends?”

“You are very kind, Your Grace. I have rented a townhouse, and will be living with trusted staff members, including my companion. But I very much appreciate your good wishes.”

“I shall write to a few of my friends and ask them to make sure you are on their invitation list, my dear. Please write to me and let me know how you get on.”

Harriett agreed, and they spoke for a while about places in York that Eleanor had visited and that Harriett might enjoy.

When the guest had left, Eleanor called for her writing desk and set quill to paper. She knew just the person who might take Harriett’s quest to heart.

“Dear Lady Beaumont…”

Harriett Staunton is the heroine of “I’ll Always Be Yours”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.

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Tea with Major Kellborn

Major Augustus Kellborn was uncomfortable in Eleanor’s little sitting room. Not that his stern compelling face showed any emotion at all. Nor did his posture betray him. He sat straight and still, his dark eyes alert.

Nonetheless, his very tension betrayed a desire to be elsewhere. Anywhere else, perhaps.

The dog took his cue from his master, sitting to attention at Kellborn’s feet, watching every movement of Eleanor’s hands as she poured a cup of tea to Major Kellborn’s specifications. She gave it to the waiting maid to carry to the guest. Thankfully, Hattie was not nervous around dogs.

Sir Sancho, as the small beast was named, had not been invited, though he had been at Major Kellborn’s heel when Eleanor met him, visiting some his former command in the hospital for returned soldiers that was one of Eleanor’s charitable interests.

“I knew your mother, Kellborn,” she had told him. And invited him to afternoon tea.

The brindled terrier had arrived today three minutes after Kellborn, prompting the gentleman’s first display of emotion—alarm, quickly subdued, and a slight flush of embarrassment. “I apologise, Your Grace. I will return him to my carriage to wait.”

Eleanor examined the beast, who sat staring adoringly up at Kellborn. Clearly, the brindled terrier could not countenance a separation. “He is welcome to stay, major. He appears to understand proper deportment in a lady’s parlour.”

To draw the major out, she asked about the origins of the animal. Slowly, he relaxed, and even smiled a time or two as he told her about some of Sir Sancho’s adventures since he had insisted on adopting Kellborn. Eleanor imagined her guest had been an exemplary officer.

“What are your plans now that you have left the army, if I may enquire?” Eleanor asked, after a while.

“I have inherited Whitlaw Grange, an estate in Cumberland,” Kellborn explained. “I am told it is a fine manor, though I’ve not yet seen it. I will be heading north later in the week.”

Eleanor nodded with approval. “Wise to arrive before the winter sets in.”

“That is what I thought.” His brow creased momentarily with the first indecision he had shown. “From the books, it seems well run, though my relative has been gone for over a year.”

“No children, I take it?” Eleanor asked.

“Never married.”

Eleanor thought about Cumberland—parts of it were very remote, and all of it was too far from London for easy travel. Would Major Kellborn appreciate advice? Perhaps not, but he could always ignore it. “Marriage is not for everyone, I know, but if you do plan to seek a wife, you might consider looking in the north. York, perhaps, or even Edinburgh. Someone who won’t be intimidated by the weather, and who prefers country living.”

His eyes crinkled and his lips curved in a smile. “Excellent advice, Your Grace. I have not thought that far ahead, but I know sense when I hear it.

Gus Kellborn is the hero of “Lady Twisden’s Picture Perfect Match”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.

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Tea with Lord Cuckoo

Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, had called into Haverford House to have tea with her son, the new Duke of Haverford and her daughter-in-law Charlotte–or Cherry, as the whole family had taken to calling her (at least in private).

“Anthony will be joining us shortly,” Cherry assured her, after they had greeted one another, commented on the weather, and shared the most pressing of the family news. “He had a meeting.”

Even as she spoke, the Duke entered the room, another young man trailing in his wake. Haverford greeted his wife with a kiss on the cheek and gave another to Eleanor. “You are looking well, Mama. Marriage to His Grace of Winshire clearly suits you.”

It certainly did. Eleanor could not help a smug smile.

“But allow me to present my guest,” Haverford continued. “Lord Diomedes Finchley, Your Graces. Lord Dom is heading to York later this week, and has been kind enough to offer to carry out a commission for me while he is there. Dom, these wonderful ladies are my mother, the Duchess of Winshire, and my darling wife, the Duchess of Haverford.”

Lord Dom bowed, flushing a little as he looked at Eleanor. She knew what was troubling him and hastened to put him at ease. “Dom, how pleased I am to meet you. May I call you Dom? We are, after all, in some sort related, since you are half-brother to my sons and to my wards.”

He flushed still more. “Your husband did not acknowledge the connection, Your Grace,” he pointed out.

“My deceased husband did many things he should not, and left undone many things that were his duty, Dom. We do not need to perpetuate his errors.”

“Please sit down,” Cherry suggested. “Will you have tea? I know Anthony would prefer coffee.”

The young man sat, looking very uncomfortable at first. But Eleanor and Cherry exerted themselves to make him feel welcome, and soon they were talking about the charitable foundation the duchesses supported that found work and offered medical care to returned soldiers and sailors. Dom, who had been a captain in the Hussars during the recent wars, was very interested and offered to make a donation.

“And what is at York?” Eleanor asked, after a while. “If my question is not intrusive.”

“Not at all,” Dom told her. “My mother’s brother apparently died while I was overseas with the army. The solicitor’s letter has only just reached me. I have apparently inherited his estate, which is not far from York. I’m off to see whether it is a place I can make into my home. And I have promised Haverford to look into how people are feeling about the reform movement, while I am up there.”

“The York Season will be in full swing in a month or so,” Cherry commented. “I know my brother used to attend from time to time, mostly for the races, which are in early May.”

“I do not know if I will be there that long,” Dom said. “It depends how I find the estate.”

“Keep it in mind,” Eleanor advised. “Every single young man in possession of an estate, should be on the lookout for a wife.” She smiled again, thinking of her own recent remarriage. “And love. Love, I have discovered, is the best of all reasons to wed.”

Dom Finchley, alias Lord Cuckoo, is the hero of my “Lord Cuckoo Comes Home”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.