WIP Wednesdays

by

Courtship questions on WIP Wednesday

“Merrick danced with you again last night,” Peter observed at breakfast. “Twice, and one of them the supper dance.”

“Yes,” Rose said. “He asked me at the ball a few days ago. And last night he asked if he might take me driving this afternoon.”

“Did he, indeed?” asked Peter. “Is he courting you, Rose?”

Rose pondered that. He had certainly been attentive. He had not danced with Vivienne at all, and he had not danced with anyone twice. Indeed, he seemed to go out of his way to pick ladies who were not usually invited to dance. Debutantes who were young, shy, and spotty. Companions long past their last prayers and sinking into oblivion. Several wives who were faithful to their husbands but fond of dancing.

It had crossed Rose’s mind to wonder whether she was another of his charity cases, but she was beginning to hope that was not the case. No one else had been begged for four dances between the two balls. No one else was asked for a waltz, or for the privilege of escorting her into supper. He had directed the smoldering heat in his eyes in her direction and in her direction only. And now he had asked her to come for a drive.

She had not allowed herself to think as far ahead as courtship, however. “Usually, the men who pay me attention are trying to curry favor with Viv,” she told Peter.

“Lord Merrick has no interest in me,” Viv said.

“Lord Merrick has eyes for no one except Rose,” Arial observed.

“The question is,” said Peter, “how does Rose feel about Lord Merrick?”

Rose could feel her cheeks heating. “The question is a little beforehand, is it not? Lord Merrick has not asked to court me.”

Arial gave a quick shake of her head. “I disagree, Rose. If you think you might be developing an affection for Lord Merrick, then yes, wait and see what happens. If you are sure he is not someone you could tie yourself to for the rest of your life, now is the time to gently discourage him.”

“He’s rather old,” Viv observed.

“Thank you,” Peter said, dryly. He, Rose knew, would be thirty-seven years of age on his next birthday.

Viv refused to be squelched. “You are twice as old as I am, Peter, and Rose is only a year older than me.”

“It is a sizeable age gap,” Arial agreed, “but Rose is mature for her age.”

It is rather annoying to be talked about instead of to. “I am here, you know,” she pointed out.

Arial turned the tables on her rather neatly. “Do you mind the age gap, Rose? Would you like Lord Merrick to court you?”

She thought about the question and the man. Lord Merrick, with his haunted eyes, with his warrior’s face and figure, that looked as if all excess flesh had worn away, leaving only muscle and skin stretched over the bone. With the innate kindness that led him to offer dances to the overlooked and to agonize over the plight of an old man he had no reason to like.

“I do not see why he would,” she said. “What do I have to offer a man like him? As Viv says, he is a man grown, in the prime of his life. He has traveled the world and has had experiences I cannot imagine. Even if he finds me attractive…” She thought about the heat she had seen in his eyes and had to acknowledge, if only to herself, that he was attracted to her. “It does not mean he plans to act on his attraction.”

“He had better not,” Peter growled. “Not unless he has offered for you. Not unless you have his ring on your finger.”

“What do you want?” Arial asked, with gentle insistence.

I want Lord Merrick, Rose realized. “I would like to go driving with Lord Merrick, and see what happens after that. He has said he intends to return to Scotland, soon. If he does, then at least I will have had an enjoyable drive, and a pleasant partner for several dances.”

If he did not intend anything more than a flirtation to while away his time in London, he would leave Rose with a bruised heart, but so be it. She would not discourage him now and precipitate the loss she fully expected to suffer but would build a few memories to keep her company in the coming years. One waltz, one conversation, one drive at a time. Perhaps, if she was very fortunate, one kiss?

by

Earning a bride on WIP Wednesday

Painting by Joseph Appleyard -1947

I’m having fun with the trials my heroine’s father has set up. In The Trials of Aleric, my hero is one of seven men competing to win the hand of a considerable heiress, and a place at her side as consort when she ascends to the title of Lady of Claddach. One of the trials is to co-ordinate and supervise the yearly fete. Here’s my hero, whose job it has been to supervise the contests. One of the other suitors has changed the schedule without telling anyone, and Alaric must persuade the chief judge to change it back:

One hiccup followed another all morning. Alaric and Luke found themselves solving problems in every corner. Howard, who was managing the parish stalls and those raising money for other charitable purposes, complained that several visiting merchants had taken over more than their allocated space, squeezing into the space taken by the charities.

Meadowsweet, who was meant to be managing the merchants, instead wilted under their complaints and abuse, and the pair of them came looking for help.

Alaric borrowed a measuring stick from the estate carpenter and he and Luke went and remeasured each disputed space. The encroaching stall holders grumbled, but Luke glared at them and Alaric joked with them until the stalls were in their correct position.

A farmer bringing his prize rams into the animal pens managed to lose one between his cart and the pens. While he was searching for it, it found itself in a pen with another farmer’s ewes, and had covered two of them before the two owners chanced upon the activity.

The ram’s owner cried theft and the ewes’ owner cried assault.

“How did he get in the pen?” demanded the ram’s owner? “This blaggard opened the gate, that’s how!”

“He can’t keep track of his own ram, and now he accuses me of letting it into my ewes? Why would I want lambs from that old wreck?” The ewes’ owner enquired, plaintively.

“Old wreck? I’ll have you know that’s the finest ram on Claddach. The old blaggard is too mean to pay my fee, and that’s a fact. Why else would he bring ewes in heat to the fete?”

It took Alaric and Luke a while to calm the pair down and the incident wasn’t done until the ram had been dragged out of the pen and herded to its proper place. Neither Alaric nor Luke felt qualified to handle any repercussions from the stolen mating, so they told the men to put their dispute to one side in front of foreigners from the mainland, and, if they must, bring it up with Claddach’s steward after the fete.

The morning flew by, and Alaric was yearning for a pie, an ale, and a rest when the stable clock struck twelve. He was meeting Bea in half an hour. In fact, if he was to wash and tidy before he met Lady Stowell, he had better hurry.

He arrived still damp but clean, and Bea was already waiting for him in the courtyard. She didn’t make any more sense of it than Alaric, but at least they would both be thinking of it. And watching out for a tapestry or a painting with water in it.

“How are preparations going?” Bea asked, so Alaric told her about the ram. She immediately named the two farmers. “Those two are always trying steal a march on one another,” she explained. They will curse and call names and insist that they are going to see the magistrate, but next week they’ll be at it again. The advantage goes back and forth, and they entertain the entire island.”

Alaric laughed. “I wish I’d known that. Luke and I thought we might have a murder on our hands. How Luke will laugh when I tell him. And you, Bea? I suppose you have been as busy as we are, preparing for the guests tonight.”

Bea’s mother, Alaric had noticed, spent most of her time with the ladies her own age, and otherwise in retreat in her room. It was Bea who hurried from housekeeper to cook to butler to keep the castle running, and organising the dinner and the ball appeared to have largely fallen onto Bea, though she had some help from her aunt—her father’s sister, Lady Joan. Not her mother’s sister, who was Viscount Beverley’s mother.

“You seem to be doing it all yourself,” he observed.

“Reina and Christina have been a great help,” she assured him naming her two friends from the town. “So have Sarah and Ellie.” She chuckled. “And today we persuaded Dorrie and Lucy, my cousins, that it would be fun to make garlands to hang in the ballroom. The other girls are all there now, either making garlands or arranging flowers. Look, Alaric, I think that is the Stowell carriage now.”

Alaric could see it, just coming up the hill from the outer wall.

They had been strolling away from the carriageway along the wall, but they turned back to the gatehouse and hastened their steps so that they could go through the arch into the inner courtyard before the carriage arrived.

They were in place before the footman opened the door and put down the steps.

“Good day, Lady Stowell,” Bea greeted the lady. She was a little plump woman richly dressed in a silk afternoon gown, fussy with flounces. She wore a spencer despite the warmth of the day, and her face glowed with the heat, but she had not removed her bonnet, which, Alaric thought, must weigh a ton, given all the decoration that covered it.

“Who is that? Ah, it is Lady Beatrice. Good day, Lady Beatrice. I have come to have lunch with your dear mother. Are you here to take me to her? How sweet of you, dear.”

“Lady Stowell, may I present Alaric Redhaven? He is a guest in the castle, and is helping to organise the fete.”

Lady Stowell fixed Alaric with a shrewd eye. “One of the suitors, are you? Who is your father, boy?”

Alaric bowed. “The Earl of Elsmouth, ma’am.”

“You  must be the scapegrace who was sent to Brazil because of a fight with his brother. Over a woman, wasn’t it? One hopes you have learned your lesson if you are competing for the hand of our Lady Beatrice. So odd of Lord Claddach. A competition! But I suppose, since you refused to go to let your mother and aunt present you, Lady Beatrice, you need to find a husband somehow.”

by

Hero to the rescue in WIP Wednesday

I’m getting A Most Excellent Adventure prepared for publication. Here’s a sample:

Paul Baldwin had not spent as long as expected in the collieries of the Nettlebridge Valley. The enterprises were well enough, but the price they put on their shares was beyond what Paul was prepared to pay. The tramways and canals that had made a difference in getting the East Somerset coal to market had not reached the valley, and coal was still transported by horse and cart. Or, sometimes, in hard economic times, carts pulled by teams of men, women and children.

In fact, even if the investment had made economic sense, Paul would have turned away from it. He might now be a wealthy baron, but he had been raised as a gamekeeper’s son and had seen plenty of rural poverty and the human misery that it caused. He wanted no part in profiting from the desperate need of others.

His next meetings were tomorrow, in Wells. At this rate, he’d be there in time for a noontide snack and a relaxed look around the town. Meanwhile, he and the horse he’d hired at Shepton Mallet were in no hurry.

The weather was pleasant and the countryside pretty. The traffic was fairly light, too, though a cluster of horses around a gig in front of him drew his attention. Odd. Four riders had approached the vehicle from behind and stopped it. It was now turning towards Paul.

He narrowed his eyes to sharpen his vision. They were the same horses that had passed him ten minutes ago, on the other side of Cranston, and one of the riders was waving what looked suspiciously like a gun.

Paul urged his horse onto the grass, where its hooves would make less noise, and nudged it into a fast walk as he unlatched the leather cover of his saddle holster. His pistol was handier, but the rifle would be more accurate at a distance. He would get only two shots, but by then he’d be close enough to use the smaller weapon.

The woman at the reins of the gig was saying something that drew the attention of all the riders. The girl beside her had her head buried in the woman’s shoulder, so no one was watching Paul’s approach.

Yes. It is a gun. Paul halted the horse, sent up a quick prayer that the beast was not gun shy, raised the rifle to his shoulder, sighted on the gunman’s hand, and fired. His horse, thank all the powers of heaven, had stayed rock steady under him, which was more than could be said for the gig’s mule, broke free from the man holding it and took off at a gallop, shying away from the road to bounce the gig across the pasture beside the road.

Which at least removed the two in the gig from the firing line. His shot had hit its mark, too. Either the gun or the hand. The man who had been threatening the pair was bent over his hand and more or less out of the game.

However, Paul had also lost the advantage of stealth, for the other three had turned to see him.  Two more guns had appeared. The man who had been holding the mule fired at Paul. Paul shot at his hand, too, but the man shifted at the last minute and the bullet must have hit him somewhere, for he gave a cry and slumped over in his saddle. Paul shoved his rifle back into its holster, drew his pistol, and nudged his horse into action.

He felt the impact just after the third gun fired. His left arm, and in the fleshy part of the muscle. It could be ignored for the moment. He shot again, this time taking the hat off the woman who had shot at him. He couldn’t quite bring himself to cause bodily harm to a female.

She had no such compunction, and was reloading her weapon, but the third man spoke sharply to her and their wounded companions. He collected the reins of the second man, and the woman and the first man followed him across the fields, the first man stopping to shake his uninjured fist in Paul’s direction before they disappeared out of sight behind a small cluster of trees.

Paul turned to look for their victims. The gig had come to a halt on the other side of the pasture. Halfway between him and the vehicle, the girl was bent over a huddled form on the ground. Paul sent his horse into a walk, and the girl looked up as he approached. The woman lay still and pale, and tears streamed down the girl’s face.

by

Danger and determination on WIP Wednesday

This is from The Blossoming of the Wallflower, which I wrote The End to an hour ago.

Merrilyn recovered consciousness slowly. Her sense that something was wrong first focused on her aching head, then she became aware that the room about her was not her own, then the assault in the garden returned to her memory, and she was suddenly awake.

She sat up and paused for a moment while her head stopped reeling, then looked around. She was chained by the ankle to the iron frame of a bed in a room that had a bedside table, a washstand, and nothing else. No other furniture. No paintings on the wall. No drapes.

The room was dingy with age. Dirt, too, though it showed signs of recent inexpert cleaning. What had she been taken for? Some of the more lurid possibilities from the scandal rags and gothic novels sent panic surging.

She swallowed it down. Panic would not help. She returned to her catalogue of the room’s contents, hoping to find something she might use as a weapon.

The washstand held a bowl and a jug of water. Either might work to hit someone with, though the jug would be better, since it had a handle. On the bedside table was something covered by a napkin. She lifted it to find a glass of drink and a plate of food—all items that could be picked up with the fingers. No utensils.

That was it. But she had not checked in the cupboards. The chain was long enough that she could get to the floor on either side of the bed. She opened the cupboard under the bedside table first. It was empty. While she was there, she looked under the bed. Nothing but dust.

Rather than clamber over the bed, she went around it, lifting the chain to clear the bed end. The washstand held a chamber pot, thank goodness. She had an immediate and urgent need for it, and it would also be another weapon if required.

After she was comfortable again, she resumed her seat on the bed—for lack of any other—and thought about her options. One of the heroes in a gothic novel she had read had picked the locks on his shackles and on his cell door with a pair of hairpins that the heroine managed to send to him tied with ribbon around the neck of a rat she had befriend.

There had been an entire page given to the scene in which he tempted the rat close enough to be caught using scraps from the stale bread that was his only solid food. The whole concept had been ridiculous, but Merrilyn was willing to try anything.

She pulled out a couple of the pins with which she had fastened her night-time plait in a coronet around her head, and set to work. Each time she felt something within the lock move, her heart lifted. And fell again a moment later. After a long frustrating time—in which the sunbeam from the window had discernably moved across the floor—she had to conclude that either the use of hairpins to unlock shackles and cell doors was as mythical as tame rats who obediently carried keys to neighbouring cells, or the skill required a knack she simply didn’t posses.

The pins had just been returned to her hair when she heard a noise from the door. The handle was moving. She reached out for the jug, which was now only half full. It was the weapon most readily to hand, but rather cumbersome.

She relaxed as soon as the man entered the room and spoke. He was masked, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Ah. You are awake. Good. I have brought more food. You do not need to be afraid. I will not hurt you, and you will be returned home as soon as your trustees have paid the ransom.”

Silly man. Did he think she would not recognise her own father? She gave him a curt nod, and was grimly satisfied when he collected the contents of her chamberpot, rinsed it out with the water in the bowl, and then left with the bucket before saying, “I shall be back shortly with a cup of tea. You would like a cup of tea, would you not, Mer— Miss Parkham-Smith?”

Silly, silly man. She gave him another curt nod.

After he had returned with a tea tray and left again, she sat back against the pillows to consider this latest development. Given that he had served her himself, it seemed likely that he had no henchmen lurking around the corners. If she could once get out of the shackle, surely she would be able to sneak out of the house without attracting his attention?

She examined the shackle again. It did not fit tightly on the ankle. Might it be possible to force her foot through it, and gain her release that way? She removed her shoes and tried, but could not get the heel through.

The chain was the next possibility. She examined every link, but all were solid, with no sign of any weakness.

The foot it would have to be, then. She removed the relevant stocking and the top of her foot and her ankle. Even with her foot pointed to be as straight as it could be, the heel was still an obstruction, but not as much of a one as before.

by

Dreams on WIP Wednesday

“What is it about Mrs. Dove Lyon’s masked balls,” Dorcas asked the upstairs girls who had gathered in the kitchen for breakfast before going home to their rooms to sleep, “that makes the Earl of Somerford think I should be gone from here before the next one.”

The girls looked at one another and laughed. “Lord Somerford is rather stiff about what is appropriate for ladies,” one of them offered.

“Not that we know him personally,” said another. “He is not a patron of our services.”

Scarlett Brown explained, “Some of us met his sister when she was using Mrs. Dove Lyon’s services as a matchmaker. She told us all about him.”

“Lord Somerford’s sister came to Mrs. Dove Lyon for a husband?” Dorcas was fascinated. The girls had told her stories about the women who paid for Mrs. Dove Lyon to match them to a gentleman, but she was somehow startled that an earl’s sister would be one of them.

They took it in turns to tell Dorcas about Lady Laureline and her long betrothal, which she ended when the man tried to put the wedding off for the fifth time. “Then she found out she must marry by the time she was twenty-five. Lord Somerford tried to talk her out of it, but she objected.”

When she visited the Lion’s Den she bumped into a lame violinist, who turned out to be an old acquaintance and the heir to an earl. He won a series of contests and they were soon married. And happily, by all accounts.

“All of Mrs. Dove Lyon’s matches are good ones,” one of the girls said, somewhat wistfully.

“Lord Somerford bought drinks for the whole house to celebrate the birth of their baby, his nephew,” Scarlett commented. “And I heard him tell someone that Angel—that is, Lord Findlater, is now able to walk with only a pair of walking sticks, and not crutches.”

“But he was not happy about his sister using Mrs. Dove Lyon, for all that it turned out so well,” another concluded.

“The Mystere Masque happens once a year,” Scarlett, returning to the point. “It is to celebrate Mrs. Dove Lyon’s birthday, and the tickets are very sought after, and very expensive. Anything might happen on the night, and usually does. But nothing that a person does not want. Our lady’s wolves make sure of that.”

“It is a grand night out for all of us,” said another. “Even though we are working, we all wear masks and consumes and we can pretend to be whoever we want to be.” She giggled. “Last year, I was a Prussian princess in exile.”

“Every year, Mrs. Dove Lyon gives away golden tickets. No one knows how she chooses who will get them, but everyone who gets them has a wonderful time, and some find love.” Scarlett sighed.

The sigh was repeated around the table. “It is a magical night.”

The Mystere Masque sounded wonderful. Dorcas hoped she would be allowed to see it. That was, if she was still here. Which she would not be, if Lord Somerford had his way. “Does Lord Somerford go?” she asked.

The girls did not know. Only those who dealt with the tickets would know—perhaps only Mrs. Dove Lyon herself. “Probably not,” Scarlett thought. “He sits and he watches. He nurses a drink or two all night and plays a friendly game of cards or two with friends, but he does not know how to enjoy himself, that one. What would he do at the Masque?”

The event caught Dorcas’s imagination. When the girls showed her their costumes, she could not help but imagine herself in one. As she embroidered the last of the current pile of linens, her mind was designing a costume for herself.

She had never been to—had never even seen such an event. She had been too young even for village assemblies before Michael met her in the village street. He’d run away with her after just three weeks of stolen meetings—how wicked she had been! But to be fair to her seventeen year old self, Michael had been seven years older, so should have had the wisdom that she lacked.

She had attended two assemblies with him as his wife, wonderful affairs to her young eyes, but even then she understood that the venues and even the gowns were the best that could be managed in a hostile country in the middle of a war, even behind English lines, as they were.

And the impromptu dances she and Noah had enjoyed during their marriage would have horrified her clergyman uncle and his wife, who had raised her.

Stephen jerked her out of her reverie, asking for help with a castle he was building, for the highest tower would not stay up.

Still, when she was settled back in her chair again, her needle flew all the faster for thoughts of a stunning costume that would fascinate and capture Lord Somerford.

There. She had put her yearnings into concrete thoughts. Very silly thoughts. If she was not well enough born, as a gentleman’s niece, for a duke’s third son, she was far more unsuitable, as a sergeant’s widow, for an earl.

The only role available for such as her in Lord Somerford’s life was not one she could possibly accept. For Stephen’s sake, if for no other reason. Scarlett would say it did not hurt to dream, but Dorcas thought Scarlett was wrong.

The kinds of dream that Dorcas was tempted to have about Lord Somerford would far too readily lead her into more temptation than she could resist. Then she would either be rejected or accepted. She didn’t know which would be worse.

No. Temptation was not something to be encouraged. Except perhaps for that one single night.

And there. She had knotted off the last thread and woven it back into the pattern until it disappeared from view entirely. She had better see whether Cook would mind watching Stephen while she took this lot to her employer.

by

A protective hero on WIP Wednesday

 

This is from my next Lyon’s Den story, Thrown to the Lyon.
***

Ben had given up on finding Seward the night before, after trawling through a dozen awful dives. He woke the following morning determined to track the man down. He had a couple of other engagements for the day, but making Mrs. Kent safe was his priority.

Perhaps the next step was to find Seward’s friends. One of them, Tiberius Hastings, who had once been betrothed to Ben’s sister, was now in a private asylum, after attempting to drown Lauren for breaking off the betrothal. But the man ran with a pack of other dissolute fools.

There was no point in looking for any of them before noon, so in the interim, Ben would meet with his secretary and also call at the Lion’s Den to look in on Mrs. Kent.

They would not let him up onto Mrs. Dove Lyon’s floor, but they showed him to one of the little sitting rooms on the floor above the gaming den, and a few minutes later, Mrs. Dove Lyons joined him, accompanied by the little boy and his soldier doll.

“I have not yet been able to talk to Seward,” he admitted, once they had exchanged greetings.

“I was wondering whether if it would be possible to find the man who gave Stephen the apple,” Mrs. Kent commented. “He was on his way to market, and the apples in his baskets were of exceptional size. Surely there cannot be many apple sellers with apples that are so large?”

It was worth a try. If it could be shown that Seward was lying about the theft, then his entire case collapsed. “When we say exceptionally large,” he said, “what size are we talking?”

The shape she made with her hands was about five inches around. “I thought I might go to the market and look for him myself,” she said. “I would recognise him, you see.”

“Not without escort,” Ben objected. “We need a reputable witness handy whenever you go out, Mrs. Kent, in case Seward tries something else.”

Mrs. Kent accepted his argument without demur, and when they left the Lyon’s Den some thirty minutes later, Mrs. Kent was on Ben’s arm, and a couple of Mrs. Dove Lyon’s wolves (as she called her doormen-come-bodyguards) paced behind them.

Stephen had been left behind in the kitchen, where the cook and the maids had promised to keep him entertained.

Covent Garden market was not far away, but it was crowded, and they had almost completed the circuit of the area before Mrs. Kent pulled her hand away and hurried up to a man who was loading empty baskets into a cart.

“Sir,” she said. “Sir, was it not you whom I met yesterday morning, on the Strand?”

He turned, a cheerful fellow in his middle age, with a girth that hinted at the pleasures he enjoyed at table, and twinkling blue eyes. “It is the lady who helped me pick up my apples. How do you do, ma’am? How is your sweet little boy? Did he enjoy his apple pie?”

Ben gave a sigh of relief. The man could not have been a better witness.

And when Ben and Mrs. Kent explained the situation to him, so he proved to be. He insisted on heading to the magistrate’s court without further ado, and swearing a statement. “My brother, here, and my son shall say the same. I’ll leave them here with the stall, but they can make a statement if needed. And I daresay your constables can find a dozen other people—or more—who were on The Strand near Charing Cross, and who saw the whole thing.”

He had another thought. “Furthermore, if you have the apple, it proves it, for I am the only person within carting distance of London who grows Peasgood Nonsuch, and if she was not given it by me, then there’s nowhere else she could have got it. Show me the apple, man, and let’s be finished with this.”

Mrs. Kent leaned heavily on his arm, as if she was dizzy with relief. “The officers at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court have taken the apple as evidence,” she said. “You will be able to see it when we get there.” The dastardly Seward would be foiled, and she would be free to return to her home.

At Bow Street, a different clerk was on the desk, and when Ben gave his name and title, he was quick to fetch Officer Fairlie. Fairlie was delighted to meet the apple seller—his name was Bert Grummidge. “I’ll take your statement, Mr. Grummidge, if you will just step this way, and yes, the apple will be in the property lockup.”

But it wasn’t. No one could explain what had become of it, but eventually one of the younger constables discovered an apple core in a rubbish bin. It was twice the size of a normal apple, and Grummidge declared it to be a Peasgood Nonesuch, even though not much of it was left and even what was was brown and gnawed.

“That’s good enough for me,” Fairlie told Ben and Mrs. Kent, but I will put the information to the magistrate to see if he requires further information.” He glowered. “And I shall find out who has been eating our evidence. If you can just be patient until I send word to the earl, Mrs. Kent.”

Ben took Mrs. Kent back to the Lyon’s Den. “I beg you to stay with Mrs. Dove Lyon for a few more days, Mrs. Kent,” he said. “Just until I have done what I can to spike Seward’s guns.”

He frowned as another thought struck him. “I will make sure to sort things out before the end of the week. Mrs. Dove Lyon is having another of her masked balls, and you will not want to be in residence at that time.”

After that, he carried Bert off to the nearest tavern for a well-deserved drink.

by

A gardener’s nightmare in WIP Wednesday

Another extract from The Blossoming of the Wallflower, for publication in July.

***

Dar was beginning to question the competence of his gardener.

When he first arrived home, he put in the order for more vegetables of all kinds—he was not quite certain what his reptiles might prefer, coming as they did from the Far East.

The gardener had responded by insisting that the shade of the trees next door would prevent him from fulfilling the order. So Dar had suggested cutting back the trees to allow more sunlight into the garden.

The garden worried out loud about the anger of “her next door”, which was when Dar committed the error of assuming that the man he had seen coming and going from the house was the owner, asked permission, and arranged for the trees to be pruned, under the supervision of the gardener.

He hadn’t watched, and he hadn’t checked the results. Not until after Miss Parkham-Smith visited to acquaint him with his mistake. Then he had walked the length of the garden to see what the men had done, and had been forced to agree with her. The trees had been crudely hacked back in a sloping line from the wall between the properties. Far more than necessary. Far more than the gentle trim he thought necessary.

Remorse and embarrassment kept him nervous around Miss Parkham-Smith and made him brusque with his gardener.

In the days after the pruning, the gardener reported planting out rows of lettuces, cabbages, carrots, turnips, and other vegetables from his seed frames. So far, so good. But when he asked for progress, he was informed that an invasion of what the gardener called ‘nasty little critters’ had eaten all of the tender young seedlings.

Dar told the man to replant. The same thing kept happening. The gardener swore none of his usual traps were working. The gastropods and larval insects feasting on the young seedlings were also turning their attention to the more mature plants, so that the gardener was subjected to bitter complaints from the kitchen, and Dar to equally bitter apologies when a rather large specimen of larvae—stewed and buttered—made its way onto his dinner plate as part of a dish of stewed cabbage, apple, and onion.

Everyone in the household had an opinion of what might deter the creeping and slithering menaces. The gardener, at his wits end, tried them all. Dried and crushed eggshells. Wilted wormwood, mint, and tansy. Dishes of beer. The tiny monsters kept munching.

One recipe was to creep down to the garden in the early dawn to catch the villains at their work. Apparently, snails and slugs were like the aristocracy—out dancing all night and then gliding back into their dark refuges to sleep away the daylight hours.

Dar was awake early one morning. He had had yet another unsatisfying encounter with Miss Parkham-Smith the evening before, and yet another dream of her which would have been entirely satisfying, had he not woken, hard and yearning, before it was fully consummated.

Since he saw no likelihood that he would sleep again, he decided to get up, dress, and embark on his own gastropod hunt. The sun was far enough up for good visibility, but the air would still be cool and moist.

He had always enjoyed this time of the morning, especially on a gorgeous day as this one promised to be. The constant busy roar of London was muted in this short interlude when the roads were empty of the home-going carriages of the ton and had not yet seen the first of the carts and drays that would soon pour into London to service the markets and warehouses.

He spent a few minutes peering into his terrariums, though the glass was misted and he could see little. The fountains would be ready soon, but in the meantime, the servant he had hired to look after the reptiles was misting the water dragons enclosure four times a day.

They, at least, had enjoyed a few slugs with their chopped lettuce.

He was smiling at the thought as he stepped through the gate and into the vegetable garden. He did not at first focus on the figure bent over the lettuces in the far corner, but something teased at the corner of his mind. Surely that was not his gardener? The shape was all wrong. Too tall. Too slender.

Whoever it was had not noticed his arrival. Whoever it was? Dar knew perfect well, at some level too primitive for him to deny. Every stealthy step of his approach only confirmed that instinctual knowledge. What was Miss Parkham-Smith doing in his garden?

by

Mysteries to solve in WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from Hold Me Fast, which should be finished this week. (I’m editing, but I also have to write the very end. The villain is dead, but the story isn’t over until my couple are happily married.) In the following excerpt, Jowan has been turned away at the house where Tamsyn lives, and decides to hire an investigator.

“There is another matter,” Bran said, with a nod of encouragement to Jowan.

Wakefield raised an eyebrow.

Jowan wasn’t sure where to start. “The singer, Tammie Lind. I need to know… That is, could you find out…” What? If she was a prisoner? It sounded ridiculous to his own ears, and he could only imagine what Wakefield would think of it.

“The lady is actually Tamsyn Roskilly, the daughter of our father’s housekeeper,” Bran explained. “She left Cornwall when she was sixteen, promising to keep in touch. She failed to write, even to her mother. When her mother died, shortly after our father, we informed her through the Earl of Coombe, her patron.”

Wakefield, who had been toying with his pen looked up at that, his focus sharpening.

“We received no reply even to that,” Bran continued. “When we called on the Earl of Coombe, we were denied entry. It is possible that the lady has brushed the dust of her homeland from her feet and wants nothing to do with anything from her past. My brother fears that letters from home might have been kept from here, or that she is being suborned in some way, or both.”

“Bran puts it very well,” Jowan agreed. “We will leave her alone, if that is her choice. But we owe her a rescue if she needs one.

“The Earl of Coombe has a dark reputation,” Wakefield told them. “I can tell you that without any investigation at all. How much it is still deserved, I do not yet know. When he was last in England, he was infamous for his parties and his liaisons, and known in certain circles for dissolute behaviour beyond that normally expected of a young British aristocrat. I have not followed his activities on the continent, but I know who might have done so. I can ask. Also, I have another client who has asked me to investigate his current activities. I can report on what I find to you, if you wish.”

“If you would,” Jowan said.

“As to Miss Roskilly, or Miss Lind as she is now known, I should be able to find out what you want to know. You might not like any answers I find for you, however. Coombe was well known for his ability to corrupt innocence, and I cannot imagine that any young woman in his power would escape his attentions.”

Jowan shut his eyes against the roaring in his ears. His sweet Tamsyn in the hands of a villain! He didn’t want to imagine it but was beseiged by a kaleidoscope of scenes of her calling for help while a malign presence assailed her.

“Jowan?” Bran’s voice anchored him back in the presence and allowed him to catch his breath.

“Find out, Wakefield. It is better to know the worst rather than be haunted by speculation.”

by

Another new beginning in WIP Wednesday

This is the first scene in The Blossoming of the Wallflower.

Spring was when the social life of the London upper classes upped its pace from a few insipid entertainments to the full gallop of the Season. Merrilyn Parkham-Smith, in other words, suddenly had to make room for engagements she would have paid to refuse, and to be (at least publicly) polite to the cruel diamonds and sarcastic rakes who had made her first three seasons miserable.

Not that they annoyed her as much as they used to. Not since she and her friends had formed the Nemisis Collective, and devoted themselves to the principles of artistic revenge. The last two seasons had, she supposed, been tolerable.

But spring was also the time when her garden burst into life. Since Merrilyn loved her garden above all things, every minute that she had to spend doing something boring instead of gardening was pure torture.

In the summer and autumn, when much of the Polite World made their exodus to the country, she could spend all day in her garden, if it pleased her to do so. It usually did. Winter was for reading (nurserymen’s catalogues, but also fiction, biology, poetry, and much more). Summer and autumn were for gardening. And spring was to be endured, with moments in her garden as her reward for doing her duty.

She was stealing one such moment this fine June morning. Her liriodendren tulipipefera—the tulip tree she had planted with her grandmother when she was eight years old—had finally produced buds, and when she had checked that end of the garden several days ago, the first of the bracts that enclosed the flowers had begun to open.

By now, perhaps she would find twenty or more fragrant flowers! Pretty six-petalled cups in yellow or green with a stripe of orange at the base and a coronet of stamens around a cone of pistils. How she wished her grandmother was here to see these first flowers!

Merrilyn had three gates—and four gardens—to walk through to reach the tulip tree near the wall that sheltered the compost heap and other garden utilities at the far end.

Grandmama had designed the garden when she first came to this house as a young bride. One in a terrace of townhouses, it and its companions were distinguished from others in the area by the size of the gardens, or rather the length—the width being constrained by the width of each house.

The area closest to the house, which Merrilyn quickly traversed, was designed for viewing from the terrace or from inside the house. The plants had been chosen to fill the space year round with colour, texture, shape, and pleasing scents.

Beyond the first gate was the vegetable garden, designed like a French potager with flowers, herbs and vegetables mixed, and berry cages around the walls.

Then came a modest orchard, with a dozen trees that kept the household supplied with fruit from spring until autumn. Through the third gate, and Merrilyn was in her favourite part of the garden, which she had, as a child, dubbed ‘the Forest’. Grandmama had created a little fairyland of trees, shrubs and forest wildflowers.

Merrilyn left the straight path that led on to the utility area and took one of the forest paths that wandered between the trees. At the far end of this path on the edge of a little glade was her tulip tree.

She had taken no more than half a dozen paces down the path before she saw the carnage. Freshly cut branches covered the walkway and clogged the undergrowth—what was left of it. Horror rose as she saw the mess someone had made of the growth along the wall—trees and shrubs her grandmother had planted. Someone had cut them down to just above wall height. Sliced them off at an angle, right through the trunks, and left the evidence on the ground.

Her liriodendren! She hurriedly retraced her steps to the main path and rushed to the end of the forest section, turning into the path next to the dividing wall with the utility area. It was really no more than a space, three feet wide, kept trimmed to allow access to the wall, but it was clear no longer, since the felled part of the tulip tree had dropped into the space and reached almost to the central path.

She put out a hand to the top of her tree, which only a few days ago had been a brave twenty-five feet above her head. The desecration had happened long enough ago that the leaves were wilting, the buds that had given her such joy were limp and shrivelled.

Tears rose to her eyes. Who had done such a dreadful thing? And why?

 

by

Spotlight on Hook, Lyon and Sinker

Hook, Lyon and Sinker

When Lady Laureline Barker asks Mrs. Dove Lyons to find her a husband, she does not expect one of her choices to be the man she admired years ago, when she was still a schoolgirl—the man who rescued her from drowning. He is also a war hero, famed for trading his own freedom and health for the safety of others.

Laurel is committed to a contest, with the winner taking her and her dowry. Can she back out? And will he still want her if she does?

Angelico Warrington doesn’t expect Laurel to remember him. Even if she does, why should she favor him over other suitors? She is the respected sister to an earl, the only flaw on her reputation that she refused to marry a jerk who has been putting off the wedding date for five years.

Angel is a musician in a gambling den, unable to walk without crutches, and with no place in the Society to which Laurel belongs.

This apparently ill-assorted couple are a perfect match, but history must repeat itself and secrets be revealed before they can win their happy ending.

Preorder price only 99c. Published this coming Wednesday. https://www.amazon.com/Hook-Lyon-Sinker-Lyons-Den-ebook/dp/B0CSF79RMD

Excerpt:

One of Titan’s men came to tell Carter and Angel that the first contest was about to start. While they had been talking, some of the servants had rolled out a large square piece of furniture. Angel couldn’t imagine its purpose until he approached closely enough to see that it was an open-topped box about ten feet across. It was lined with something that must be impervious to liquid, for the box was full of water almost to the top. A score or more toy ships sailed on the surface.

“Gentlemen,” said Titan, “if you will take your places, please.” He directed Angel to one side of the box, and Carter to the opposite side. Angel picked up the sling he found waiting for him. The bowl full of smooth blue stones told him what the game comprised before Titan explained.

Carter’s stones were red, Angel noticed. Half a dozen gentlemen took their places along the remaining sides of the tank, and two of Mrs. Dove Lyons men stood flanking each of the players.

Other gentlemen crowded in behind the spotters, though several of Titan’s wolves kept them back from behind Carter and Angel.

Then Titan said, “Go,” and Angel picked up his sling, fitted a stone, and hurled it at a ship. It was harder than it appeared. For one thing, it took considerable force to sink a ship. For another, any lesser hit sent the target careening across the water, rocking the other ships and setting them sailing in unexpected directions. All that movement started waves, which complicated matters still further.

The watchers roared when a lucky shot from Angel sank an already-damaged ship, and again a few moments later, presumably for Carter, though Angel was not about to take his eye from his current target.

As he continued to launch stones, someone came to fill the bowl. Was he getting better? He had the impression he was sinking ships more rapidly, but perhaps it was just that time had slowed as he slung stone after stone, not pausing to see the effect, but moving on the next.

Every now and again, though, another stone hit a ship he was aiming for just before or after his own. If the ship sank, the spotters yelled out the name of the man who was responsible. Twice, there was a dispute, but Angel didn’t allow that to distract him, either.

Then Titan shouted, “Time! Put down your slings, gentlemen.”

Angel replaced his sling on the side of the box and looked across the water to Carter, who nodded and smiled. Angel had no idea whether he or Carter had won. He returned the nod and the smile. Carter was a decent man.

Angel’s eyes drifted up to the ladies’ gallery, where Laurel stood, watching the first of the contests that would decide her fate. Carter was a decent man, but he wanted a mother for his daughters.

Laurel deserved more. She deserved a man who adored her.