WIP Wednesdays

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Toil and trouble on WIP Wednesday

I’m adding to my Maggie’s Wheelbarrow, and turning it into a Christmas story, for the Bluestocking Belles Christmas Collection. Here’s one of the new additions.

***

The hope of soon being reunited with Will, or at least reaching his mother, had kept Maggie moving along the winding roads from Portsmouth to the first village of Ashton. When that proved to be the wrong place, she changed her strategy. Winter was coming. Even now, the heat was gone from the long evenings as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. If she had to find lodgings for herself and the children during the winter, then she must make more than the few coins she had picked up on her way north.

Having made the decision between one village and the next, she put it into practice at the first opportunity, asking at both inns and the three major houses if there was any work available.

One of the inns took her on to clean rooms and empty slop pails. For one week, she told them. After that, she said, she must be off once more on her search. With Eva on her back and Billy tagging behind, she managed the heavy work with ease, and a week later set off the next Ashton with several more shillings in her purse and a warmer coat for each child to keep them comfortable in the sometimes cold wind.

The second Ashton was as disappointing as the first, but Maggie got two night’s work at the inn, and on the strength of that was offered temporary work at the great house, where they needed extra servants during a house party. At first, she thought she’d have to turn the job down, though the wages were excellent. But another woman overheard her telling the hiring steward about her children.

“I reckon they could stay with me Ma,” she said. “She’s looking after me own young uns, while I earn a few coins, so two more wouldn’t matter to her none, and she could do with the pennies.” The woman introduced herself as Frannie, and offered to take her to visit her mother immediately.

“If she could put you up for at night,” said the steward, “I shall add two shillings a day to the wages, for where I could find you a bed, I do not know. Mind you, you’ll have to be at your post by five in the morning, and will not be home until after the guests have had their dinner.”

Frannie’s mother proved to be a kind woman whom Eva took to straight away, and the other children were twins of Billy’s age, so Maggie went off to work the following morning with a light heart. If she saw out the week of the house party, she would earn the princely sum of twelve shillings! Two shillings of that would go Frannie’s mother, but ten shillings would feed her little family for weeks, if she was careful.

It was hard work and long hours, but in some ways, it was also a holiday. No walking for hours with Eva on her back and the wheelbarrow before her. No need to find dry spaces through the day to feed the children or to change a wet clout. And she enjoyed the walks with Frannie in the pre-dawn quiet and the velvet dark of the late evening.

After the first three days of the house party, the servants settled into a routine—those who belonged to the house, the temporary hires, and servants of guests all learning what they could expect from one another. Hearing how some of the guests behaved toward the servants, Maggie was pleased to be working where she didn’t see them.

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Making enemies on WIP Wednesday

I’ll write the last scene of The Night Dancers before the end of the weekend, and have it out to beta readers before the following weekend. So here’s another excerpt, to celebrate. My hero and his brother have escaped their evil father, and are now looking for allies in their battle to stay free. To that end, they have been invited to dinner by the Duke and Duchess of Dellborough, where they will have the opportunity to put their case.

First, they heard the shouting from outside of the room, coming closer. Then the doors burst open and people scrambled into the room. First, two burly men in Teign livery, holding the Dellborough butler between them, his back facing the room as he protested, “My lord, their graces are at dinner. My lord, you cannot burst in this way.”

The men were holding the poor man by his arms so that his feet couldn’t reach the ground, and after them came several Dellborough and Teign footmen, shoving and pushing at one another.

Finally, the instigators of this riot—Teign himself, with Farnham at his elbow—strode into the room, Teign’s voice thundering, “I shall see Dellborough now, and those scoundrelly sons of mine. Dellborough, how dare you harbor these traitors!”

The Duke of Dellborough had risen to his feet. “Good evening, Lord Teign.” He looked down the long table to where his wife sat at the end. “My dear, are we harbouring traitors?”

The duchess remained seated, regarding Teign with the expression of a householder who has found a cockroach in the flour bin. “Lord Teign,” she said. “What is the meaning of this unseemly and violent invasion of our home?”

The marquess glared at her, looked around at the luminaries gathered at the table, and made a visible effort to rein in his temper. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he snapped, with a perfunctory nod in place of a bow. “I had to see your husband, to tell him not to support my sons in their rebellion. I shall just be taking them with me, and leave you to get on with your dinner.”

“Lord Kemble?” said the duchess. “Do you wish to go with your father?”

“I do not,” Allan replied, managing to keep his voice calm, despite the anger and grief he always felt in his father’s presence.

“And what of you other brothers?” said the duchess, managing to speak over Teign’s angry retort.

All seven Sheppard brothers replied. Where it was, a “no”, an “I do not”, or “not likely”, their answers amounted to the same.

“You have your answer, Lord Teign,” said her grace. “If you wish to pursue any complaint you have against my husband, please have your secretary arrange an appointment with Dellborough’s secretary.”

Teign sneered. “What kind of a man are you, Dellborough? Letting a female speak for you?”

The duke chuckled. “A wise and happy one,” he replied, and exchanged a warm glance with his duchess. What an inspiration! Thirty years or more, and their love for one another was palpable.

“A man who bows to a woman is no man at all,” Teign announced. He added, “A woman should know her place—silent, obedient, and in a man’s bed. If she forgets it, she should be beaten.”

Good work, you old sinner. You have now alienated all the great ladies Dellborough and his wife had invited to dinner and most of the men.

Dellborough lifted an eyebrow at his wife, and she commented, “An interesting if primitive view. Tell me? How has it contributed to your domestic and marital happiness?”

The duke smirked.

Teign’s sneer deepened, and he turned on his footmen. “Seize my sons, you fools. Have you forgotten what we came for?” Allan clenched his fist and prepared to leap to his feet.

“The marksmen in the minstrels’ gallery will shoot anyone who attempts to carry out that order,” Dellborough drawled. “Up to and including Lord Teign.”

Startled, Allan looked up. Sure enough, from the shadowy depths of the minstrel’s gallery, several rifle barrels pointed at Teign’s footmen, who were backing away despite the imprecations of their master.

Dellborough picked up his wine glass and leaned back in his seat. “My dear guests, I apologize in advance for the spilling of blood, but better to execute these invaders cleanly than to allow brawling in my duchess’s dining room. Teign, your language, sir! Please do remember that ladies are present.” His drawl edged into insolence.

From a lifetime of observing the marquess, Allan could tell he was on the pointing of losing his temper. Could he pushed over?

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Magic, mystery or mayhem on WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from The Night Dancers, which I will finish before the end of this month. Finish to beta draft, that is. It is due for publication in December. My heroine has been sent to join the marquess’s sons in their tower prison, and ordered to discover their secrets.

***

The evening meal arrived at seven o’clock—merely bread and water, as the previous investigators had told her. But as they had said, the brothers produced wine from somewhere, and even a pot of soup.

By magic, two of the agents had claimed. Through collusion with the servants, another hypothesized. The fourth had been too badly beaten to express an opinion, and it would only have been an opinion, for none of the investigators had discovered any evidence.

The marquess had found no wine nor any food when he had had the tower searched after each investigator reported. Indeed, many of the items she had seen in the bedchambers had apparently disappeared between when the other investigators saw them, and when the searches were made.

Magic was unlikely, in Mel’s opinion. She’d certainly never seen objects appear and disappear in a way that defied nature. The tower must have hiding places that the marquess knew nothing about, and if it had hiding places, it might also have hidden ways in and out.

Though if that is the case, why do the marquess’s sons stay? Why do they not just run away?

Mel accepted a glass of the wine, but made certain to spill it discreetly, for the other investigators must have been drugged somehow, no matter how they denied it. The soup was served from a common pot, so should be safe enough.

Mel returned to her room after dinner, and drank sparingly from the water she had brought with her. She then sat in the chair by the room’s little fireplace, for her intention was to remain awake and thoroughly search at least the public rooms once the brothers had all gone to bed.

Although I am feeling remarkably sleepy. That was her last conscious thought.

When she woke up, her head ached and her thoughts moved sluggishly, as if through a fog. Light was filtering in around the edges of her drapes, and she could hear the muffle hum of conversation.

She forced herself to sit up, hoping it would help. Pain stabbed at her temples, and the room seemed to reel around her for a dizzying moment, but then stabilized. In the dim light, she could see this was not the room at her sister’s house, where she lived between assignments.

Oh yes. The tower. The marquess’s sons. They must have managed to drug her, despite her precautions! Well, then. From now on, she’d eat only what she had managed to bring with her in the hidden compartment of her bag, and drink only water.

She pulled back the curtain nearest the bed. From the light, it was early morning. What were the brothers doing out of bed?

Mel wasn’t at all certain she could walk across the room, so she crawled, and opened the door just a crack. Not enough to see, but enough that the voices from below floated up to her ears.

“Ought you to check on Black?” That was Lord Kemble.

“I won’t disturb him. I gave him enough of the drug to knock him out for the night, but he could be stirring about now.” That was Lord Baldwin—the one with medical text books and herbals on his bookshelf. “If we leave him alone, he might sleep as late as we do.”

“Then let’s all go to bed,” Kemble said. “A good night’s work, brothers.”

A night’s work doing what?

Footsteps on the stairs to the second level had her closing the door quickly. Presumably, the Sheppard brothers were all heading to bed. Let them. Then Mel would be able to examine the tower’s public spaces. Meanwhile, her head was spinning. She had better not lie down lest she went back to sleep. But surely it would not hurt to sit down again for a while?

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Family reunion on WIP Wednesday

I’m expecting The Secret Word back from the editor this week. Looking forward to it! Here’s an excerpt.

***

Chris waited anxiously in the private room at Miss Clemens’ Book Emporium and Tea Rooms. He was about to meet cousins from both sides of the family, and he was far from certain of the reception he was about to get.

Clem squeezed his hands and he smiled at her. He wasn’t at all certain he would be facing this if not for her. She gave him strength.

She had done so at Aunt Fern’s ball. Both his mother’s brother, the Earl of Crosby, and his father’s cousin, the Earl of Halton, were there. Later, he found that the public repudiation had been organised by Aunt Fern. But whether they meant it or not was the question.

Both reacted with the same disdain when Chris was presented to them.

Lord Halton said, “Reginald Satterthwaite’s son? I have no wish to meet anyone associated with that scoundrel.”

And Lord Crosby looked Chris up and down and declared, “No, thank you, Lady Fernvale. With all due respect, I see no reason to acknowledge this person.”

Chris wanted the floor to open up and swallow him, and then Clem had slipped her hand into his, and all was right with his world. He had not had their approbation before, and had not felt the need of it. He did not need it now.

Nonetheless, as the minutes ticked by, he acknowledged to himself his deep yearning for a family. He would have Clem, of course. Somehow. With or without Wright’s blessing. But, for as long as he could remember, he had longed for brothers and sisters or—failing them—cousins. Perhaps, if this meeting went well, his children with Clem might grow up knowing their cousins.

The first to arrive was Lord Crosby’s son, a tall man with that gaunt stretched look of a youth who was still growing—one who ate like a horse and put on no weight. “Are you the son of Reggie Satterthwaite, who ruined my father’s sister Christabel and ran off with her to Gretna Green?” he asked. “I am Michael Thurgood, Lord Crosby’s son and your mother’s nephew.”

He held out a hand to be shaken, so Chris figured his somewhat hostile first question could safely be ignored. “Clem,” he said, figuring a female—and a non-family member at that—might help to keep the conversation civil, “May I present my cousin Michael Thurgood? Thurgood, Miss Wright has done me the honor of accepting my suit. I have yet to convince her father.”

“Miss Wright.” Michael Thurgood’s nod was perfectly polite, but his attention remained on Chris.”

“Is it true, what Lady Fernvale said? That your grandfather abandoned you in the streets after your father died?” he demanded. “Father says he would have taken you in if you had come to him.”

Chris was about to protest that his nine-year old self had had no idea where the Earl of Halton lived, and no expectation of being welcomed, in any case. But they were interrupted by another arrival. A second man, this one around Chris’s age, so perhaps five or six years older than Thurgood.

Chris would have known him for a Satterthwaite even if he had not been expecting him. He look more like Reggie, Chris’s father, than Chris did, though his hair and complexion were fairer and his chin was firm and determined where Reginald Satterthwaite’s was weak. He wore the flashy uniform of a horse guard,

“If you’re Satterthwaite, so am I,” he growled. “Hello, Thurgood.”

Thurgood nodded. “Satterthwaite.” He gained a bit of respect from Chris when he then turned to Clem. “Miss Wright, may I make known to you Captain Satterthwaite of His Majesty’s 27th Regiment of Horse, and Satterthwaite, this is our cousin Christopher Satterthwaite and his betrothed, Miss Clementine Wright.”

As with Thurgood, Satterthwaite greeted Clem politely, but then turned his attention back to Chris.

“Is it true you did not go overseas with your grandfather? My father wants to know why you didn’t come to us. We would not have turned you away.”

“You did,” Chris said, dryly. “Or at least your grandfather had me and my grandfather thrown out of the house, and when my grandfather sent me on my own, the butler would not let me in.”

“You were nine or ten,” the guard’s officer said.

“I was nine.”

“You went back out into the road, and then what?”

“I ran back to where my grandfather had been, but he was gone. I called out for him. I asked other people if they had seen him. Then I ran down the street he’d left by. But I never found him.”

“I saw you,” Satterthwaite said. “I was watching from the schoolroom. You turned at the corner. Do you remember? You shook your fist at the house.”

“I did,” Chris said.  He had forgotten that detail until this moment. “I was angry with my grandfather and with yours.”

“It is you,” Satterthwaite said. “Chris, isn’t it? Chris, I’m Harry.

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Family troubles on WIP Wednesday

I’ve just heard that The Secret Word will be back from the editor soon, so I thought I’d give you an excerpt.

***

“Yer young fella’s gaffer came by to threaten me today. Me! At my work! Happen I’ll lurn him that Bertram Wright ain’t to be pushed round by a useless blot of an upper crust snot rag. Says that scoundrel of a grandson is already betrothed!” Father was furious. His careful speech, much like that of the class he aspired for his grandson to join, had been slowly and thoroughly learned. It was very seldom that he slipped back into the words and accent of his youth.

Another sign of his anger was the way he was pacing, to and fro across the parlor rug.

Fortunately, Clem had already heard from Chris the probable topic that had so upset her father. “Our Mr. Satterthwaite was angry with his grandfather when we met this afternoon, Father. Apparently, the man turned up in Chr— Mr. Satterthwaite’s office this morning, demanding that Mr. Satterthwaite stop courting me as the older Mr. Satterthwaite had already signed a marriage agreement for Chris. Of course, Mr. Satterthwaite told him where he could put his plans.”

That stopped Father’s furious pacing. “He did? Yes, I suppose he did. Though the man is his grandfather.”

“The man abandoned our Mr. Satterthwaite sixteen years ago, when he was a child. To turn up now and dare suggest Chris owes him anything? Chris told him in no uncertain terms that whom he marries or does not marry is not the business of Mr. Satterthwaite senior, and he wants nothing to do with the man.”

“Is that right?” Father had taken up station in front of the fireplace, rocking back and forth, his hands in his pockets, and a smile on his face. His temper was gone as if it had never been.

“When are you seeing ‘Chris’. Tonight, is it?”

Father had not missed her slip of the tongue, then. It was too late to unsay it. She could do nothing more than hope he wouldn’t find a way to turn it to her disadvantage. Hers and Chris’s.

Honestly, why did the pair of them have to be cursed with such conniving selfish vicious old men?

“Yes, Father. He is escorting me to the Sutton ball.”

“Sutton as in the Earl of Sutton? That’s the Duke of Winshire’s heir.”

At her nod, he whistled. “Sutton, eh? You are flying high, Clementine, my girl. When Satterthwaite arrives, tell him I want to talk to you both before you go out.”

Clem could do nothing but agree, and wait with as much patience as she could muster for Chris to arrive.

Hours later—it seemed much longer—evening rolled around and with it came Chris, looking incredibly desirable in his black evening coat and silver-grey breeches and stockings, this time teamed with another waistcoat—this one in a dark blue silk brocade.

He must have chosen it to co-ordinate with her gown, which he had asked about during their afternoon drive. It was silver grey embroidered in dark blue, and was one of two new gowns she had had made. Father had reluctantly agreed to pay for a single new ball gown, but Clem had taken a leaf from Chris’s book and gone off Bond Street. The modiste was so reasonably priced compared to the Bond Street shop that Clem was able to purchase two.

“Father had a visit from your grandfather,” Clem told Chris.

“The vile old villain,” said Chris. “I should have expected it. What did he want?”

“Do you know? Father never said. I just assumed it was that you couldn’t marry me. I told him about Mr. Satterthwaite’s visit to you, and how you dealt with it. He cheered up, then. He wants to talk to us before he goes out, Chris, but he didn’t say what about.”

“We are about to find out, then,” Chris said, “for here he comes.”

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Old acquaintance in WIP Wednesday

I’ve just received the preorder link for The Lyon’s Dilemma. It’ll be published at the end of next month, so I’m celebrating with a work-in-progress excerpt.

***

Felix arrived at Viscount Stillwater’s country manor in time to change for dinner, or so said his hostess. In fact, from the looks on the faces of the guests waiting in the parlor, dinner had been held back to allow him time to wash and change.

He looked around the room. Knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater were attempting to find husbands for their two daughters, he had expected the flock of maidens who looked as if they had only recently learned to walk creditably with their skirts down. He would not find his duchess among them.

Despite his dislike of social events, he could not avoid them all, and Mrs. Stillwater was a notable hostess. He recognized many of the guests, and knew which were married and which were widows with roving eyes. No duchesses there, either.

“You will be able to recognize your prospective wife,” Mrs. Dove Lyon had insisted. “Mrs. Beverley will be one of the maturer young ladies—she will be thirty years of age at her next birthday. She was widowed seven years ago and has been living a quiet life with her daughter. Her husband left few funds, and she has been supporting herself. I shall let her tell you the details.”

There were three possibilities. Perhaps four, but the fourth lady was turned away from him, so he was only judging by her back. As Mrs. Stillwater gave the signal to go in to dinner, she turned around, and Kempbury knew her immediately.

No! It can’t be.

It was, though, and if he had had any doubts at all, they would have been put to rest when she saw him, paled, thenflushed bright red, and turned determinedly away.

Somehow, he managed to offer his arm to his hostess, lead her into dinner, and even carry on something of a conversation with her. All the while his mind was reeling and his heart was a pit of despair. Adaline Fairbanks.

Surely, Mrs. Dove Lyon did not think to match him with that lying jade. She had said “Mrs. Beverley,” but that was not reassuring. In a decade, Adaline might well have married, had a child, and been widowed.

He needed to find out, so he did something he usually found too difficult to contemplate. He engaged his hostess in conversation, asking about each of the guests with whom he was not personally acquainted.

He retained enough self-possession to ask about both men and women, but he doubted that small amount of camouflage fooled Mrs. Stillwater for a moment. She was much more informative about the ladies than the gentlemen.

One by one, her mini-biographies eliminated each of the ladies he’d marked as possibles. One was married. One betrothed. One was a devoted social butterfly committed to life in London, which would not suit Felix. Besides, she had turned down every proposal she had received in her eight years on the Marriage Market. “She has a private fortune,” said Mrs. Stillwater. “She declares she has no intention of marrying.” She shook her head at the thought.

“Then we come to Mrs. Beverley, who is a widow, Kempbury. She is attending with her daughter, who must be ten years old, or close to it. Our governess says she is a delightful child. That’s Mrs. Beverley sitting between Baron Thornwick and Mr. Thompson. I understand she has been a widow for seven years, and that she runs a business, which is very enterprising of her. I do not know much more about her. I sent her an invitation at the request of a friend, but have found her to be a very pleasant guest.”

Mrs. Beverley. Adaline Fairchild. One and the same person. Did she really have a child of ten? If so, the child must have been a baby when they were betrothed, so that had been something else she had hidden from him all those years ago.

There was no point in him being here, but it was too late now. He would not insult John Stillwater, his charming wife, and the viscount his father by cutting his attendance short. Still, he would write to Mrs. Dove Lyon tonight and tell her that Mrs. Beverley was not a possibility.

***

The Lyon’s Dilemma

Felix Seward, Duke of Kempbury, does not want to be at a house party. Any house party, particularly one attended by her. Adaline Beverley. His nemesis. His Achilles heel. The one woman put on God’s earth to lure him from his duty. But Kempbury’s purpose is strong. Nothing she can offer will tempt him from his chosen path.

 

 

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Yet another beginning on WIP Wednesday

I’ve made a start on the last Dragonblade novel for this year. The Night Dancers is due to the publisher on 31 August. Guess the inspiring folk tale!

***

Melody Blackmore knew within minutes of entering the marquess’s study that the rumours were true. He was a terrible man. Had the investigation he wanted undertaken been the real reason she was here, she would have found some excuse and left again.

Although, from what he was saying, it was already too late. “You will move in immediately. You have one week to complete your investigation. At the end of that time, if you have not discovered my sons’ secret, my men will take you out, beat you, and hand you over to the navy press gang.”

This was a further escalation. Of the previous four investigators, the first had been dismissed, the second dismissed with a buffet or two from footmen, and third and fourth beaten each more heavily.

She would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Two weeks. We shall write it into this contract.” She handed it to the bullying lord. “You will see that my daily charge is five guineas, plus expenses. Since you expect me to live in, you will be responsible for my keep for the fortnight. And, of course, we have yet to discuss my success fee.”

He stood and leaned on the desk, looming over her as she sat facing him. “You are not in a position to dictate terms, Mr. Black.”

“And yet you need my skills, Lord Teign,” Mel pointed out, maintaining her calm facade. “My success rate is second to none. And you have discarded so many investigators so violently that word has gone out in the fraternity. It is me, or no one.”

The argument got through to him. With a visible effort, he subdued his rage and sat down. “You are an arrogant young man,” he accused.

Mel had been lying about her identity since she first donned men’s clothes to undertake her first investigation. Without a blink, she accepted the accusation and replied, “My arrogance is justified. Within a fortnight, my lord, you shall have an answer. If we come to terms. Otherwise, I shall leave, shooting my way out if necessary.”

The last statement got his full attention. “Shooting? Damn it, man. I am a marquess. You’d not get out of here alive.”

“My reluctance to shoot you, my lord, is less than my reluctance to be beaten and pressed. And if you are dead, you shall not be able to deny whatever story I tell.”

Given the reception she was likely to get from the sailors when they discovered she was a woman, she would rather die trying to escape the marquess’s house, than die miserably in a ship’s hold after the sailors made a plaything of her.

If those were her choices, she’d be certain to send him down to hell before she breathed her last. But with two bad choices before her, she’d try for a third way.

“We do not, however, need to be at odds, my lord. You wish to find out how your sons are managing to remain fit and well without adequate food, and going through dancing slippers without any way of leaving their tower. I wish to survive this engagement and be paid for it, so I am highly motivated to discover their secret. That is my only interest, Lord Teign.”

“You are remarkably calm,” Lord Teign commented, frowning. He pulled the contract toward him and began to read it. Mel expressed her relief in a single long respiration. In. Out. Relax but remain alert. Remember your purpose.

Having made up his mind to accept her terms, Lord Teign spent little time reading the contract, and indeed, it was simple enough. He did not haggle over the two week term, the daily payment, the bonus for success, not any of the other terms, but simply read the contract through and signed both copies.

Within twenty minutes, her copy in her pocket, the butler was leading her to what he called “the young lords’ tower” through a maze of passages—servants’ passages, which might have been a deliberate affront.

The butler had searched her bag and her person, missing the false bottom in the bag and most of the weapons she had about her person. He had found the decoy gun she had in her pocket, but not the real one worn in a harness in the small of her back under her coat. Nor did he find the gunpowder and bullets in the heels of her boots.

On the whole, Mel was not dissatisfied. Nor was she discouraged by the butler’s pompous recitation, as she accompanied him through the house, about the impregnability of the tower—its thick walls, barred windows, and single door, which was both locked and guarded.

After all, ten spoilt lordlings could come and go as they pleased, evading the tower’s defences, their father’s servants, and the surveillance of four men who specialised in solving the problems of the haute ton, and uncovering their secrets. If they could do it, so could Mel.

All she had to do was discover their secret, and meanwhile carry out her real mission.

They turned a corner and began traversing a long hall with windows on both sides that looked out over roofs on one side and on the other, down into a stableyard. Two-thirds of the way to the other end, bars blocked their passage. Two sets of bars, in fact, each containing a gate.

The butler unlocked the first gate, then handed the key to one of the two footmen who had been escorting them through the house. The footman stayed outside and locked the gate. The same process saw Mel and the butler on their own at the end of the hall, with two locked gates behind them. Clever. The young lords would not be able to escape even if they overwhelmed whoever came into their chambers.

Mel’s respect for them went up a notch. Perhaps they were not so contemptible after all. It didn’t matter. They were not her main purpose her.

Next came a locked door, which let into an antechamber. The butler handed Mel his lamp and said, “Ring the bell and wait here for Lord Kemble,” He then shut her in. She heard the key turn in the lock.

Bell. There it was, a large handbell, on a table against the side wall of the chamber. There was another door opposite the one she’d entered by, and another table on the fourth wall of the room. And that was all. Just bare stone walls and a wooden floor, a plain ceiling, the two tables, the two doors, and the bell.

Very well, then. Time to meet the sons of the Marquess of Teigh. Mel put down her bag on the floor and the lamp on the table. What would they say when she told them why she was there? Not the whole of it, of course. Just their part of it. There was one sure way to find out. She picked up the bell and rang it.

 

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Unwanted Suitors in WIP Wednesday

Here’s a passage from my story in the Bluestocking Belles With Friends collection Love’s Perilous Road.

Apparently, Captain Grant could not bring himself to believe that Felicity meant the firm ‘no’ with which she had greeted his proposals in Paris in 1815 and again in 1816, and the proposal that followed in London. He showed every sign that he was going to try a fourth during this house party. What a nuisance the man was!

He must have shared his intentions with Penelope Somerville, for he was assigned to take Felicity in to dinner two nights in a row, and when they travelled into the village to patronize the local shops, Penelope sent Felicity to ride in a curricle driven by Captain Grant.

He also followed her around, partnering her in every two-person activity if she had not been quick enough to find another partner, joining any group she was in, sitting next to her at tea, and constantly speaking to and about her as if they were an established couple.

She managed to deflect any attempts on his part to turn the conversation in a personal direction, and truly, if it came to the point, she would simply refuse him again. But it was exhausting.

Also annoying, for she had had no opportunity to make another visit to the schoolhouse, and Justin had not tried to see her. Robin, too, was playing least in sight, so she could not even recruit him to either carry a message to Justin or run interference with Captain Grant so she could be her own messenger.

“Penelope,” Felicity said to her hostess after breakfast on the third morning of the house party, “Please stop pairing me with Captain Grant. I do not wish him to think I might be amenable to his courtship.”

“But darling,” Penelope replied, “Captain Grant has done me the courtesy of discussing his intentions towards you, and they are everything honorable. He is a gentleman of means, and while his father’s family is nothing to speak of, his mother’s people are mostly highly connected. Most highly indeed.”

“Captain Grant has already proposed several times, Penelope. I have refused and will continue to do so.”

Penelope could not understand it. “But Felicity, you cannot have thought. He is most eligible, I assure you, and so elegant in his manner. I cannot see any objection. Indeed, I am certain the Earl of Hythe and your sister Sophia would be most distressed if I failed to urge you to reconsider.”

Penelope was quite out, there. Hythe disliked Grant, though he had declined to discuss why, which left Felicity with the impression it was to do with the secret work Hythe sometimes did under cover of his diplomatic positions. And Grant was not popular with Sophia, either.

“I have nothing personal against the man, Felicity,” Sophia had said. “But I cannot warm to him. And His Grace has warned both me and James against becoming too familiar with Captain Grant, so I daresay he knows something to the man’s discredit.” His Grace was the Duke of Winshire, father to Sophia’s husband James, the Earl of Sutton.

Even if Felicity had been partial to Captain Grant, she must have questioned her inclination once she discovered he had come to the attention, and not in a good way, of her brother and her sister’s father-in-law, both of whom were active in His Majesty’s service.

She could not tell Penelope any of that. It was probably some sort of top secret, and she did not have details, in any case.

“Neither my brother nor my sister would want me to marry where I felt no affection, Penelope. Indeed, and I know I can rely upon your discretion—I cannot like the man. No doubt a fault in me, but there it is. I am certain you would not wish me to pursue an acquaintance with a person I dislike, for you are so very fond of Sir Peter, and he of you.”

Penelope frowned, wrinkling her nose as if she might be about to cry. “Oh dear. Are you certain? Only, he seemed so certain you were merely showing maidenly reserve, and that his persistence would win you.” She sighed. “I did think it romantic he would try and try again.”

I find it disturbing. “I am certain. And truly, Penelope? Maidenly reserve? You have known me since I was eleven!”

Penelope giggled like the girl she had been when she first became friends with Sophia. “I suppose you are right, darling. You have always been very confident.”

by

Deceit in a good cause on WIP Wednesday

Here’s the opening of my story for the August release Dukes All Night Long. It’s called With a Valet in a Wardrobe at Midnight.

***

“Tell me again why I am helping you do this, Garry” grumbled the Earl of Wolverton, as they rode up the carriage way to the home of the Earl of Congleton.

“Because I am the little brother you never had,” Gareth Viscount Versey cheerfully. “I say, Wolf. I’ve just had a thought. If this lady and I find we will suit, you and I might become brothers in truth.”

Wolf, as most of his friends called him, clapped a large hand over his face and sighed. “Doomed. I am doomed, I tell you. I should have drowned you when they gave you to me the day you started school.”

As a new pupil at Haddow, Garry had been assigned to Wolf—who was in his second to last year—to fetch his firewood, run his errands, and clean his boots, in return for Wolf’s protection and mentoring. They had hit it off, despite the six year age gap.

“And what if the Earl of Congleton finds out that my valet is the Duke of Dellborough’s grandson, and turfs us both out on our ear? And I lose Sabina?”

Garry shook his head. “No chance of that. The Earl wants the match between you and Lady Sabina as much as he apparently wants the one between me and Lady Jenna. Besides, Wolf, I’m not planning to be seen by the Earl or by his daughters. That’s why I’m pretending to be your valet.”

“I still don’t get it,” Wolf grumbled. “Surely you do not expect to actually meet Lady Jenna, let alone fall in love with her.”

Garry did not expect to fall in love at all, let alone in the week they would be here. Wolf had love on his mind, for he was head over heels for Lady Sabina, and his purpose in making this trip was to propose to his beloved, whom he had been courting for the entire Season. Garry’s purpose was quite different. “The idea is not to meet her but to watch how she interacts with her family, and how she behaves when only the servants are around. Wolf, you know how hard it is for people like us to find out what young ladies are really like. They are always acting. I want to know if I can like her, respect her.”

“Desire her,” Wolf offered.

“That, too, since I plan to be a faithful husband. Mama says love will come, if Lady Jenna and I are suited, and if we both enter the marriage determined to treat the other with affection and respect.” He shrugged. “I hope she is right, but once I meet the girl formally, I have lost all chance to figure out if I can even tolerate her.”

“What is the rush to get you married, infant?” Wolf asked. “You said the duke has ordered it, but you are only nineteen. Can you not tell him you want to wait?”

Was Wolf serious? He had met that force of nature currently wearing the coronet of Dellborough. What made him think anyone could argue with the man? “His Grace has decided his days are numbered.” Which was probably true, but not something the duke’s grandson wanted to think about. “He wants to see his great grandson before he dies.” If at all possible, His Grace had said, but a wish from the duke was a command.

Garry shrugged. “He has passed his eightieth year, Wolf. He is an old man.”

The indomitable and mighty duke of Garry’s childhood was a shrunken, hunched shadow of himself. He walked slowly, using a cane for stability. His speech was slower now, as if he needed more time to craft the still elegant, coherent, and frequently sardonic sentences that even yet moved the House of Lords and even royalty.

No, Garry could not tell the grandfather he loved and worshipped in equal measure that he wanted to wait. Not that he was being forced. Both Pater and Mama had said Garry could refuse the match and they would support him—which perhaps he would do if the girl was impossible.

But otherwise, Garry was marrying Lady Jenna Elliot, and doing so soon, so they could begin the great grandson project without delay.

Ah. Here was the house, coming into view around the curve of the drive. Another few minutes, and they would arrive, and then no more joking around with Wolf. Garry had to disappear into the persona of a valet.

Let the play begin.

by

Dukes don’t wait on WIP Wednesday

The Lyon’s Dilemma, my next Lyon’s Den Connected World book, has just gone back to the publisher after I went through the developmental edits. Have I mentioned that I love Cynthia, my editor? The Lyon’s Dilemma gives the Duke of Kempbury the happy ending the poor man needs. You may remember him from Thrown to the Lyon.

Dukes don’t wait. Dukes keep other people waiting, but they are never left kicking their heels in the absence of the person on whom they have condescended to call—after making an appointment, mind you.

Felix Seward, the Duke of Kempbury, was tempted to get up and leave, but coming here once was hard enough. Leaving and then returning was unthinkable. And nothing else he had tried had worked.

He sat on the uncomfortable chair to which he had been directed. It was at least, a private parlor, but he could not forget that the establishment was a gambling den, and one in which light-heeled ladies—or prostitutes, if one wished to avoid polite euphemisms—prosecuted their trade.

Felix had been here once before, and he had been at a disadvantage that time, too.

That previous time, it had been his own fault. Mrs. Dove Lyon, the proprietress of this gambling den, had been rightly protective of her guest, and rightly reluctant to allow him to see her.

He had been operating on false information—believing what he had been told about his half-brother’s widow by his other half-brother and step-mother. He should have known they were lying—he should have investigated for himself.

It had all turned out well. The widow had married nine months ago, becoming the Countess of Somerford. Felix saw the Somerfords often—her, her doting husband, and their delightful son Stephen, who was the son of her first husband, and therefore, his nephew and currently, his heir.

Indirectly, Dorcas Somerford and her son had sent him here. Stephen Seward was a delightful boy, and made him long for a son of his own. Dorcas and Ben had that rarest of things, a happy marriage, and Felix wanted one, too.

Which was why he had come to the Lyon’s Den, after weeks—no, months—of indecision. Mrs. Dove Lyon was a highly successful matchmaker. Dorcas and Ben had married as a result of her machinations, and Felix knew of at least twenty other marriages that, from his observations, were credits to her work.

The truth of the matter was he needed a matchmaker. Felix had had no success in finding a wife. A duchess? That would have been easy. Almost any woman in the ton would be delighted to take on the role. But wife? Felix didn’t know how to out a lady’s true character. Nor did he know how to make himself agreeable to a lady in a way that would lead her to look on him with favor. Him. Felix the man, rather than Kempbury, the duke. In his mind’s eye, he could see them, the women who slavered over him when he was forced to make an appearance at a social event. As they looked up to him with adoring eyes, they did not see the man at all. For them, he was simply his title, the words obscuring him entirely—words that were capitalized, perhaps in gilded letters and possibly shedding gold dust: The Duke. Gilded title or not, Felix wanted to be simply a man to his wife, if to nobody else.