WIP Wednesdays

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The Rival on WIP Wednesday

In romances, some of the tension often comes from a would-be or imagined or actual rival for the affections of the main characters. This week, I’m inviting author who wishes to share an excerpt about a rival. Mine is from Paradise At Last, and James has no idea.

The usual chattering flock of maidens hovered in his vicinity, trying to attract his attention. In the thirty-three months since he ascended to his title, he’d lost count of the number of ladies who happened to swoon or trip or collapse just as he passed close enough to catch them. Sometimes, he fantasised about speeding up in time to let them crash to the floor behind him. So far, he had resisted the temptation.

At least the marriageable females could be defeated by icy civility. Not so the bored matrons and dashing widows looking for less respectable liaisons. They found it incredible that a widower who was also a wealthy duke might survive without someone to warm his bed, and therefore assumed he was extremely discrete, which made an affair with him even more to be desired.

He was not looking for a mistress. It was the truth, whether they believed it or not. As a young man, he had been unusual among his wild friends in needing an emotional connection before he could consider physical intimacy. Since experiencing the heights of bliss and the joys of partnership with Mahzad, his beloved wife, he had even less interest in mindless coupling.

Nor did he need a wife. He had his heir; his eldest son who wife was carrying their second child. In all the years since Mahzad’s death, he had considered joining his life with only one other. With Eleanor, whom he had lost once again.

Mrs Turner was approaching, a predatory gleam in her eye. James was pretty sure it was her who had groped his bottom when they stood side by side in the reception line. She stopped when greeted by a friend, and James took the opportunity to step sideways behind a group who were earnestly discussing, of all things, the most fashionable colour to use for evening turbans.

“Avoiding an ambush, Duke?” He knew that amused contralto, and turned to smile at the speaker as she slipped a hand onto his elbow.

“Mrs Kellwood. How are you this evening?” The widow had become a friend in the past few months—a safe lady to spend time with at events such as this. She had, initially, suggested a more intimate relationship, but had readily accepted his refusal.

“I survive, my dear, but would be the better for a stroll on the terrace, if you would be kind enough to oblige me.”

James offered his arm, wondering if she was about to overstep the boundaries of friendship, but she made no attempt to press close or to lean on his arm. Still, he stiffened when she admitted, “I have an ulterior motive, Duke. I will tell you all about it when we are out of the crowd.”

But all she was after was a listening ear. “My son is insisting I invest in this mining venture, Duke, and — I don’t know. I can see nothing wrong with it, but I just have a feeling…” She shrugged. “Am I being foolish? Do you know anything about diamond mining in the Cape Colony?

James’s guilt at having ascribed to her, even briefly, the marital or lustful motives of so many other females had him offering to read the prospectus and ask a few quiet questions among his contacts.

“But you are so busy!” she exclaimed. “I do not like to bother.”

“It is no bother,” he assured her. “Send it over.”

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Animal companions on WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt from Lord Cuckoo Comes Home could also be called “courting with monkey”. It’s from my next novella for the Bluestocking Belles. If you have an animal companion in one of your stories, please add an excerpt in the comments.

Chloe took his hand and allowed him to aid her balance as she climbed up to the seat. “I hope you don’t mind, Lord Dom. I had to leave Rosario at home this morning while I was at Lady Seahaven’s writing thank-you letters, since the schoolroom party were not home to entertain her. Aunt Swithin promised to take her out and let her play in the garden, but she forgot, so the poor beast was shut in her cage from the time I left until I got home.”

Lord Dom went around to his side of the curricle, took his own seat, and held out his hand for Rosario to shake, distracting the monkey from her focus on the boy with the horses. “You are very welcome, Sister Rosario.” He grinned at Chloe. “She adds a certain air of adventure to our outings, do you not think?”

Chloe blushed at the sly reference to Rosario’s escapades. Earlier in the week, she had climbed a tree in Tower Gardens and refused to come down until Lord Dom had borrowed a ladder from the gardeners’ shed, whereupon she had climbed down the other side of the tree. If Emma and Merry had not cornered her, she would have been up another before Chloe could have reached her.

Two days ago, she had stolen an ice from a passing waiter, tasted it, then thrown it with unerring accuracy at the back of the waiter’s retreating head. Lord Dom had soothed the man’s irritation with a large gratuity.

Then there was the concert, where Rosario conceived a passion for the brooch on the hat of the dowager in the next row, and reached out to snatch it when Chloe became lost in the music. Had it not been for Lord Dom’s quick action—the monkey’s hand was within an inch of the target when he jerked her back by her leash—the ensuing apologies for Rosario’s complaints would have been for a much worse offence.

“I will keep tight hold of her today,” Chloe promised.

“Or I will,” Lord Dom agreed. His smile warmed away her embarrassment. “She does not mean to cause mischief, I know. We will endeavor to keep her out of trouble, you and I.”

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Fortune hunters and other reasons for marriage on WIP Wednesday

In the following excerpt, the hero of my secret project is meeting with his solicitor, who is proposing a marriage of convenience with a wealthy woman. It’s a common trope in romance, and of course, they will fall in love. Do you have an excerpt where the couple marry for reasons other than that they are in love? Please share it in the comments.

His solicitor leaned forward a little, his eyes intent on Peter. “Another of my clients has commissioned me to find her a husband, Lord Ransome. Her need is urgent and imperative.”

An obvious reason for haste occurred. “Pregnant, is she? I’ve no wish to make someone else’s son my heir, Richards.”

“No, my lord. My client is a lady and a maiden. I am authorised to explain her reasons, but only if you agree to consider the marriage. The lady does not wish her identity to be known or her circumstances to be discussed except with the candidates for her hand.”

Peter’s brows twitched upwards. “Candidates? I am not the only person to whom you are putting this proposition?”

“The lady commissioned me to select candidates and send them to her for interview, my lord. She will make the final decision.” He nodded, firmly. “After all, she will live with the results.”

“She, and her chosen groom,” Peter pointed out. “I wish the lady well, Richards, but I am not minded to sell myself in such a way.”

Richards set his jaw, examining the blotter on his desk as if it contained some secret he could interpret if he stared for long enough. “You will forgive me, my lord, if I point out that your other choices are untenable. You have cut your outgoings to the bone, and yet you will still not have sufficient money to pay the mortgages when they fall due, let alone the other more pressing debts.”

Peter protested, “You advised me not to let staff go nor to begin selling off everything that is not entailed!”

Richards nodded. “I advised you not to frighten your creditors by behaving as if you were insolvent. You and I needed time to come to terms with what might be done. But, my lord, you are insolvent. I must change my advice. If you will not consider an advantageous marriage, then you must make haste to sell whatever you can.”

“It won’t be enough!”

“No, my lord.” Richards sat back in his seat, his hands in front of him on the desk, keeping his gaze steady.

“I daresay I could find an heiress on my own.” He had a little time, surely? The mortgages were not due until next quarter day, and Richards could continue to put his creditors off a little longer.

The solicitor tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, my lord. A wealthy merchant’s daughter, perhaps.”

Peter sighed. “You think I am cutting off my nose to spite my face. Very well, Richards. I will consider your lady. Tell me why I should agree to be one of the supplicants for her favour.” He wrinkled his nose at the thought of being interviewed by the would-be bride, like a footman or a groom anxious to win a position.

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Where does the story start–WIP Wednesday

Sometimes, the start comes first. Sometimes, I write my way towards it. Sometimes, I have to go back and tack one on when the book is nearly done. How about you? Do you have a work-in-progress beginning to share? My excerpt is from the story I’m putting in next week’s newsletter. It’s called The Abduction of Lydia Fernhill, and is not exactly a romance.  (If you don’t get my newsletter, subscribe now for this and other exclusive stories.

In the village of Pluffington-on-Memmerbeck, the old folks still remember Lydia Fernhill’s wedding. How could they forget when the little ones still beg for the story? There they are, all wide eyed, when night draws in and the fire sinks low, and bedtime beckons. “Please, Granny (or Gaffer, as the case may be), tell us the story of the stolen bride?”

And Granny (or, as it might be, Gaffer) will tell what they witnessed with their own eyes, though how much the story was shaped by each onlooker, and how much it has grown with time, who can tell?

Certainly, it differs from house to house. So much so that Peggy Whitlow has not spoken to Maggie Cutler in ten years since they came to hair-pulling and scratching when they were only nine over whether the white rider was an angel or the elf king. And many a promising pugilist has got his start in a dusty lane defending the honour of Miss Lydia from the accusation that she planned the whole thing.

Still, every child in the village knows the essence of the tale. The bride, plain, pale-faced and drooping. The groom with his face set like stone. The bride’s uncle chivvying them up the aisle. Then the north transept doors crashing open (some say exploding, but if so, someone did a good job of repair, for there they are today for any child to see, ancient oak, worn by time).

The storytellers agree on the troop of riders. Did they trot or gallop or merely walk in through the great doors?

They were beautiful, all make that clear, and the man (or angel or devil or elf-king) at their head was the loveliest of all. Dressed in white, crowned in gold, with long flowing locks. Jewels glittering from rings and brooches and even the cuffs of his boots. A long cloak (or perhaps wings) streaming behind him.

The old folks are in unison again on the bride’s reaction. “She came alive,” says Granny Smithers. “Straightened. Smiled with such joy that she looked beautiful for the first time in her life, poor lady.”

The rider, without stopping, stretched out his hand and Miss Lydia reached up and took it, put her foot on his in the stirrup, and was riding into the south transept before the groom had picked up his dropped jaw.

Some say he stood there, frozen. Some that he tried to drag her down and was shouldered aside by the following riders. However it might have been, the southern doors opened as mysteriously as those to the north, and closed behind the riders. “With a loud bang, and open they would not, not for all the trying in the world.”

Somehow, all the doors of the church had been closed and jammed. By the time someone had thought to put Gaffer Parslow, who at the time had been a skinny lad of ten, out the vestry window, so he could run around and remove the branch that had been shoved through the handles of the nearest doors, the riders were long gone.

Which proves, say some, that the invaders were human. Surely supernatural beings would have used magic, not branches. Others scoff, and point to the fact that Miss Lydia Fernhill had disappeared without a trace, never to be seen again. But whether to heaven or hell or to the land of Fairie, none of them can tell.

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Courtship on WIP Wednesday

This week, I’m thinking about courtship. The project I’m working on at the moment (I’m not quite ready to talk about it, but watch this space) doesn’t have the common sort of courtship, but for this week’s post, I’m happy to see anything you want to share in the comments. Courtship before marriage. Courtship after marriage. Charming, funny, serious, inept–whatever you like.

Here’s a bit from my secret project.

The first candidate disqualified himself within ten minutes of being shown into the little parlour off the entrance hall that Arial was using for these interviews.

The hint of condescension in his manner grated from the first. He won no points with his answer to her question about what he wanted from this marriage—her money to put into the businesses his father had mismanaged, so that he could sell them as going concerns and live a life of leisure like a gentleman should.

He topped his dismal performance by announcing that he would need to renegotiate some terms of her proposed marriage settlement, because woman were not clever enough to keep control over their own money, and was astounded and not a little annoyed when Arial thanked him for his time and told him she did not think they would suit.

The second was courteous and charming. His father, an earl, had shot himself after losing everything in a speculation, and he sought marriage to an heiress as a way of relieving his older brother of responsibility of providing for him and his three younger sisters. “Buck can bring the estates back to solvency if he has only himself to worry about,” he explained.

That wasn’t quite what Arial was hoping for when she asked what he wanted from marrying her, but at least his answer was not entirely self-serving. She continued the interview. He would do, she thought. He had no complaint about the financial arrangements she was insisting upon. His comment on her continuing to manage her business and investment interests was that he couldn’t understand why she wanted to, but he had no intention of interfering with her life.

That was slightly disconcerting—surely a husband and wife should interfere at least a little with one another’s life? She had hoped for someone who would be in some sense, at least, a partner; perhaps a friend.

Which brought her to the vexed question of children. Or, to be more precise (though only in her own mind) to the consummation of the marriage.

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Older heroes and heroines on WIP Wednesday

Do you enjoy stories with older characters as the main protagonists? If you’ve written one, please share an excerpt in the comments. I’m currently writing the last book in the Paradise Tryptych: the happy ever after for my Duchess of Haverford and the man she loves. It starts something like this.

Eleanor was tired of wearing black; tired of dresses with minimal trim and accessories that repeated the dismal colour. She hated the unspoken rules that restricted the types of activity a widow might enjoy. She missed her friends and her usual social round. She despised the hypocrisy that expected her to make an outward show of mourning a cruel despot who had never shown her a particle of affection or consideration, and who would have consumed every vestige of her will and destroyed all of her happiness if she had not found ways to manage him.

Above all, she was bored, bored, bored. No. That was not her predominant emotion. She would be honest with herself though she dissembled to the rest of the world. The feeling that currently ruled her life was grief, but not for Haverford.

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Brothers on WIP Wednesday

Or sisters. Sisters would be fine. Share an excerpt that features a brother or sister or similar age cousin to your hero or heroine. I’m just finishing my beta draft for the next Bluestocking Belles box set, and I have a rather lovely brother. Awkward, much? Yes, quite a bit. But he means well. In the excerpt below, he decides a family connection will do a better job of presenting his sister than he can.

Chloe changed the subject. “I am visiting Lady Seahaven and the Bigglesworth sisters tomorrow morning. Aunt Swithin, will you come with me? I can go with my maid, if you prefer.”

Martin surprised her. “I will escort you, Chloe. I wish to pay my respects to Lady Seahaven, and I should visit our sisters.”

“They will be thrilled, Martin.” Mama had given her second husband, the Earl of Seahaven, two daughters, Emma and Merry. They had remained with the Earl of Seahaven when Mama died, and Uncle Swithin insisted on Chloe being returned to her brother’s household.

Chloe had kept in touch in the intervening years, but Martin had only met his half-sisters after Uncle Swithin’s death.

“Lady Dorothy was telling me about their ball, Chloe, and I had an idea. What do you think of us asking Lady Seahaven to include you as one of her protégées?”

“She has been very kind about including me in when she and her step-daughters make visits,” Chloe observed. Lady Seahaven and the Bigglesworth sisters had started with some personal connections and a few recommendations from relatives, and had brokered them into introductions to most of York Society.

“Precisely,” Martin agreed. “They know many more people than we do, and their ball will be much better attended than any entertainment I could put on for you. But I would not wish you to be neglected in such a big crowd of sisters.”

Aunt Swithin cackled. “Only three sisters that count, Martin. Lady Seahaven is giving the ball for the Seahaven Diamonds, and quite right, too. Next to them, no one will notice that our Chloe, nor any other female, either.”

“Aunt Swithin,” Martin protested, “Chloe would make a fine match for any gentleman of discernment.”

“Josepha and the twins can only marry one man apiece,” Chloe pointed out, though privately she agreed with Aunt Swithin’s assessment. Short and dumpy as she was, she suffered by comparison to the four Bigglesworth sisters who were her age and older, but the three younger girls would have been reigning beauties even in a London Season.

They had been dubbed the Seahaven Diamonds after their first public appearance in York, and the sooner they selected from among their swarming suitors, the better all the other marriageable ladies in York would like it.

“Besides, Aunt Swithin, it isn’t just about the ball. If Lady Seahaven agrees to sponsor me, hostesses who are inviting the Seahavens will include me in their invitations. I will have many more opportunities to meet eligible gentlemen.” And much good it might do me, for I shall still be unfashionably plump, two years past twenty, and far too opinionated for most gentlemen.

Martin nodded. “That is what I thought. I shall ask Lady Seahaven, then, shall I? I will, of course, offer her the money I planned to spend on a party of some kind. Do you think that would be the right thing to do?”

Chloe nodded. “Absolutely.”

After dinner, he showed Chloe some books and trinkets he had brought for the little girls, including some for Lady Seahaven’s little Jane, who was only three. “If I am giving gifts to our sisters, I can’t leave the baby out,” he said.

Sometimes, Chloe was quite hopeful that, out from under Uncle Swithin’s shadow, Martin was becoming almost human.

When they saw her the next day, Lady Seahaven was delighted to take Chloe under her wing, “Though it seems silly for me to be your sponsor, Miss Tavistock, when you and I are the same age. At the very least, you must call me Patience, as your step-sisters do. When they are not calling me ‘Mama’ to tease me.”

She objected when Martin offered to help finance the ball, “and any other expenses you incurr by allowing Chloe to join you.”

“But, Lord Tavistock, your sister is part of the family. I cannot think it proper to charge you a fee.”

“The fact is, Lady Seahaven, that I am at a standstill,” Martin explained. “Patience and I were tutored at home, as you know, and our guardian was not a warm man. Nor were those social connections he did maintain at the right social level for a viscount’s sister. Aunt Swithin is as much out of here depth as I am, and besides, grows more peculiar by the day.” As Patience could see for herself, since Aunt Swithin had barely said good morning to her hostess before announcing that she would go and find Bess, who did not have cotton wool between her ears.

Martin leaned forward in his seat, gifting Patience with a winning smile. “If you will treat Chloe as one of your own flock, I am persuaded she will fare much better than my aunt and I could have managed on our own. I would not think of putting a monetary value on the advantage to Chloe of your sponsorship, compared to the poor launch I would have made of it. You are doing me an enormous favour, and all I can say is thank you. But I have budgeted for a season for Chloe, and it is only fair that the money I was going to spend doing a poor job should be given to you to help you do a far better one.”

Chloe was impressed by the speech, and so was Doro, who commented, “That is reasonable, Patience. Lord Tavistock’s money added to ours will allow us to make more of an impression than either of us could manage on our own.”

That settled, Martin was carried off to the schoolroom by an ecstatic pair of schoolgirls. At twelve and ten, and used to a house full of women, Emma and Merry were awed and fascinated by their adult brother.

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Rescues, Fights, and Other Action Scenes

Action scenes make reading interesting, as long as they make sense. I tend to act things out to see if they would work, which must be hilarious to any invisible bystanders. This week’s excerpt is from the novella I have to have done within the next week. My hero notices a woman being accosted and realises that it is someone he knows. If you have an action scene to share, please pop it in the comments.

He broke into a run. He would intervene to help any woman, but he’d seen that redingote before. Some primitive part of him had no doubt of the identification. Mine! it growled, and when one of the insolent tormenters dared to put a hand on Miss Tavistock’s arm, grinning at his companions, Dom had to fight back a red fog of rage.

Fighting eight men might feed the possessive beast, and he was confident they’d all walk away bleeding. But he couldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t overwhelm him in the end, and then what would happen to Miss Tavistock?

He nudged one of the men out of his way and stepped into the circle, already talking, waving the pin he’d just pulled from his cravat. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I did not think it would take me so long. I found it, though.” He waved the pin with one hand and knocked the offensive hand from Miss Tavistock’s arm with the other, making it look purely incidental to taking her hand inside his elbow.

“When I suggested you stroll ahead, my dear lady, I did not intend you to take the shortcut to your brother’s home. Though I suppose we must hurry. Lord Tavistock will be sending out the servants to find you, and he may never let me escort you again if he finds I allowed you to step ahead of me.”

Several of the men stepped backward when he called Miss Tavistock ‘lady’, which is why he had done it. They fell further back when he mentioned Lord Tavistock. Dom could deal with the rest. Grooms, by the look of them. He raised a single brow as he pretended to notice them for the first time?

“Do you know these persons, my lady?” he asked, allowing his voice to drip doubt as thick as treacle.

“No, Lord Finchley, I do not,” Chloe replied. “I was just declaring my disinterest in any acquaintance.” Clever girl. Dropping his first name to give him a spurious title had several more of the grooms slinking back into their mews.

Dom allowed the other eyebrow to drift upwards as he fixed the ringleader with a glare. “You made a mistake,” he told the man. “Don’t compound it.”

But there’s alway at least one idiot. The man took a swing at him, just as one of the other grooms exclaimed, “Here, that’s Cap’n Cuckoo. Leave ’im be, Ted. That’s Do-or-Die Cuckoo, that is!”

The warning came too late for the idiot, whose blow had missed its target when Dom swayed to one side. The fist came in handy for tugging said idiot away from a collision with Miss Tolliver, which would have been a piece of impertinence too far.

Idiot stumbled a few feet away, propelled by the force of his missed swing, and then roared as he caught himself and turned back towards his tormentor. Oh dear. A bull-brain. The man who had recognised Dom was shouting further warnings at Idiot, who ignored him.

“Would you be kind enough to step to the side of the lane?” Dom murmured to Miss Tavistock, who further showed her intelligence by immediate compliance. She was out of the way just in time. Bull Idiot charged, both fist swinging. Again, Dom shifted out of the way, but this time, he stuck out a booted foot, so Bull Idiot hurtled into the dust of the alley.

He rose again, still roaring. In Dom’s peripheral vision, a few of the remaining bystanders clenched their fists and hunched forward. Those on one side halted at a few words from Miss Tavistock. On the other by the groom who’d called Dom by his old army nickname interposed himself between the would-be assailants and the battle.

Dom was, for a few moments, too busy to pay any more attention to those who were watching, as he allowed Bull Idiot a glancing blow so Dom could get close enough to finish the fight. A kick to the family jewels, a fist to the chin as Bull Idiot bent in half, the side of the hand to the back of the neck as he went down.

Dom stepped over the groaning man and offered his arm to Miss Tavistock. “Shall we continue our walk, my lady?”

 

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Backstory in WIP Wednesday

I write a joined-up Regency world; one in which the families in the Upper Ten Thousand are related in a complex network of kinships, friendships, and other associations. People from different books and even different series went to school together, or use the services of the same private enquiry agent or the same bookshop of restaurant. They attend one another’s wedding and stand as godparents for one another’s children. I didn’t set out to do that, but it is just the way I think. One of my cross-series families is the Haverfords, particularly the Duchess of Haverford and her eldest son, the Marquis of Aldridge. Since Aldridge’s HEA is being published this month, more than six years after he first appeared on the published page, I’m publishing some of the Haverford backstories on a website for the purpose. https://haverfordhouse.judeknightauthor.com/ Go check it out. I’ve also written some descriptions of the houses the family owns, and I’m publishing extracts from all the books that Aldridge appears in. Here’s one of the backstory pieces:

The Haverford family have long believed that their ancestors were once kings in their part of Kent. This may be true, but if so, it was in the dim past before the Saxons. Possibly before even the Romans. Certainly the family were powerful in the region from early times. Baron Chillingham is now the least of the ducal titles, but the earliest holder of that title was descended from Richard of Caen, one of the knights who crossed the Channel with William the Bastard. Richard, or so family historians believe, married the daughter of the man whose lands he had been granted, thus beginning the family practice of making politically astute marriages. A later marriage brought a marquisate into the family. The Scottish Marquis of Aldridge came south with King James VI of Scotland, when that monarch inherited the crown of England. His only child, a daughter, inherited the title. When she was wooed and one by the current Baron Chillingham, her eldest son inherited both titles. (If you have wondered why Aldridge is a marquis and not a marquess, it is because the Haverfords do not hold with changing a perfectly acceptable Scottish word that has been in their family for generations just because the French use the same spelling.) The Aldridges continued the astute political maneuvering so typical of their family, staying in favour with the Stuarts sufficiently to be rewarded with a ducal title on the Restoration of Charles II, but without annoying the Parliamentarians enough to have their castle at Margate levelled or their palace in London confiscated. Now the Haverfords, they continued to enjoy royal favour, with some very deft footwork when James II gave way to William of Orange. The Duke of Haverford shown on the family tree here has continued several family traditions. He is a canny politician, a determined custodian of every treasure ever accumulated by the family, a profligate womaniser, and a terrible husband and father. The Duchess of Haverford is a Grande Dame of Society, a renowned political hostess, and godmother to half the younger generation of the ton. She is also connected by blood or by marriage to a huge number of noble and gentle families.
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Relatives on WIP Wednesday

I do like writing about relationships within families. One can tell a lot about a character by looking at how they cope with the family they came from. This week’s WIP Wednesday is about relatives, and my excerpt is from the novella I’m writing for the next Bluestocking Belles’ box set.

Martin kept his scold till Doro had exclaimed her relief and left in their carriage, which Martin insisted on having prepared for her. Then Chloe had to listen to a long lecture on irresponsible behaviour, putting herself in danger, disobeying the head of her family whose responsibility it was to protect her, and (for good measure) keeping inappropriate pets.

She found it easy to promise to attend no more reform meetings. The one speaker she had heard had been disappointing, and while the riot had been an adventure, she did not need Martin to point out that she was lucky Lord Robin had been concerned enough to look for her. Indeed, his general and vague description of the harms that may have befallen her were nothing to the gruesome horrors she had imagined on her own.

He was still seething when they met for dinner, when Aunt Swithin distracted Martin’s attention by lamenting that she had missed the meeting. “I was so looking forward to it, dear Martin,” she told him, blissfully oblivious to his shocked horror, “but I suffered an upset to my digestion, so I told the girls to go ahead without me. Did you have an interesting time, Chloe?”

Chloe managed not to laugh, though after one glance at Martin’s face she had to keep her eyes on her plate. “I only heard the one speaker, Aunt Swithin. Mr Thomas, whose articles you liked so much when I read them to you. I’m afraid he writes much better than he speaks. After that the meeting broke up and Doro and I came home.”

Another swift glance at Martin almost overcame her gravity.

“Aunt Swithin? Are you telling me you approve of these revolutionaries? I cannot believe it. What would Uncle say?”

“Not revolutionaries, dear,” Aunt Swithin insisted. “I would never support revolution. Those poor dear children in France! But reform, yes. The government is trying to bully the people instead of listening, and it is not nice, dear. Nobody likes a bully.”

Martin opened his mouth and then closed it again. Chloe waited for him to scold Aunt Swithin as he had her, but instead, he changed the subject. “Chloe is expecting a gentleman caller tomorrow, Aunt Swithin. Lord Robert Finchley escorted Chloe home from the meeting, and asked to call again.”

“Finchley,” Aunt Swithin said, and then repeated it. “Finchley. Ah, yes. The Marquess of Pevenwood’s third son.” Aunt Swithin had taken her responsibilities as the female educator of a young viscount to include a devotion to memorising Debretts. She was also, even under the harsh rule of her husband, addicted to the gossip news sheets, entering into a conspiracy with Cook to read them in the kitchen when Uncle Swithin was out spreading gloom and virtue around the neighbourhood. She showed the fruits of that research in her next remark. “The one they call Lord Cuckoo, because everyone knows the Duke of Haverford laid him Pevenwood’s nest. A soldier, is he not? Does he wear a uniform? A man looks so delightful in a uniform. Does Lord Cuckoo have money, though, Chloe? One cannot imagine that Pevenwood left him any, under the circumstances.”

Poor Lord Robin. Chloe could do nothing about his tragic origins, but she could speak up for his to some degree. “Lord Robin—he prefers to be called Lord Robin, not Lord Robert,” and definitely not Lord Cuckoo, which sounded like a cruel schoolboy joke. “Lord Robin has left the army. I do not know what he plans for his future, nor do I know how much money he has. It is surely none of my business, Aunt Swithin.”

“Only if you wish to marry him, my dove. Money does not buy happiness, it is true. But one is able to be miserable in some degree of comfort. I always wished that Swithin had more money.”

“Aunt Swithin,” Martin protested. “Uncle Swithin was a very—” his pause for thought was telling. “Upright man,” he concluded.

“He never wore a uniform though,” Aunt Swithin complained. “I do love a man in a uniform.”