WIP Wednesdays

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Introducing a villain (or two) on WIP Wednesday

“Good day, Lord Hardwicke,” called Rose across the garden wall. The elderly neighbour had been rolled out in his bath chair and parked on the terrace, just across the wall from the herb pots she had on the terrace of her brother’s townhouse.

The gardens near the house were narrow, and shaded by neighbouring trees. Pauline’s roses were further down the garden and got the sun most of the days, and Rose had a patch for her herbs down there, too. The terrace was out of the shade of the trees and caught the full afternoon sun. The plants that needed most of her care flourished here within a few steps of the house.

Lord Hardwicke, not so much. He looked more and more frail each time she saw him. “Miss Ransome,” he called. “A pleasant day for a spot of gardening.”

At least, that was what she understood him to say. His speech had recovered a lot—it had been almost gone altogether after the apoplexy he had suffered a couple of months ago. It was still garbled and hard to understand.

“I am cutting back the peppermint before it runs to flower, Lord Hardwicke,” she explained.

In answer to a garbled question, she agreed, “Yes, I will use it in tinctures at the hospital, to bring down fevers.”

In their conversations before his apoplexy, she had learned he had a personal interest in military hospitals. His grandson was a soldier, currently stationed in Ireland with one of the Highland regiments, and Lord Hardwicke worried about him.

Poor Lord Hardwicke. He had been lonely before his apoplexy and things were worse now. Before, he had few visitors and went out seldom. Now, he went nowhere, and the trickle of visitors had dried up to nothing, perhaps because they were turned away at the door, as Rose had been in the early days after the apoplexy, when she had become worried at his continued absence from his garden.

However, since his body failed, his wife had begun to entertain frequently. She had guests now. Rose could hear the tinkle of tea cups and the buzz of conversation, drifting through the windows that were open in the heat of the day.

That was probably why the poor old man was out on the Terrace. Lady Hardwicke would not want her guests to see him. That was another thing that had changed since Lord Hardwicke was struck down. Lord and Lady Hardwicke used to stay home together, she busying herself with redecorating the house, he with his books and his garden.

Before, Lady Hardwicke was all sweet words and flattery. “Yes, my lord. You are so clever, my lord. It must be as you say, my lord.” Not after. Rose had heard her talking to her poor husband. She obviously had not seen Rose, who was kneeling down to weed the pots, for Lady Hardwicke did not measure her words.

“You useless lump of meat. Why could you not have died in your fit? I’d be a rich widow. Well. The doctor says the next one could kill you, so we live in hope, Phillip and I. I can’t wait for the day I can dance on your grave. Perhaps I won’t wait. Phillip says it would be a kindness to hold a pillow over your face.”

“Na i’ ma will.” Lord Hardwicke forced out the words, and Lady Hardwicke slapped the poor old man’s face.

Phillip, Rose had discovered through the medium of the network of servants in the surrounding houses, was Phillip Wolfendale, Lord Hardwicke’s valet. Rose had seen him. His hair was white, though he was at least ten younger than Lady Hardwicke, in years at least. Rose put his age in the mid-twenties.

His skin was pale, too, and his eyes were a startling pale blue. He had seen her peering over the wall, though Lady Hardwicke never noticed. Seen her and challenged her, for he had come close to the wall and stared into her eyes.

“The Ransome bastard, isn’t it? Mind your own business, Lady Rosalind Ransome. There is nothing to interest you on this side of the wall, and people who interfere are liable to come to bad ends.”

Rose still felt a shiver of fear when she remembered the look he gave her.

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Inauspicious first meeting on WIP Wednesday

They came from the shadows, half a dozen men in layers of dirty rags, with knives or broken planks in their hands and hunger in their eyes.

Reuben, their footman, moved in front of Rose, who was a step ahead of Pauline. Harris, the groom, passed the sisters to join Reuben. He muttered, for their ears only, “Get back, my ladies, and if you see an opportunity, run.”

Rose would have stepped up beside him, ready to fight, but Pauline grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “We have to help them,” she objected.

Pauline did not agree. “The biggest help we can be is to stay out of their way, and escape when we have the chance. They can make his own escape if they do not have to worry about us.”

She did not say, but Rose knew, that it was Rose’s fault they were on London’s streets in this unsavoury area after dark. But how could she have left the hospital earlier? Private Brown had asked for her. He was not expected to survive the night. Rose could do little but hold his hand, but that helped, or so Mr. Parslow, the superintendent, believed.

So Rose sent home the carriage her brother had sent for her, and her maid. She could not see any reason why they should sit up all night. Which had brought them here, in the early hours of the morning, facing murder or worse for the sake of the clothes they stood up in and whatever price she and Pauline might fetch in the brothels, for neither of them was foolish enough to carry valuables with them on an errand into this part of town.

Harris had a two-barrel pistol, which was making the footpads think twice.

“Is it worth being shot?” Reuben was arguing, persuasively. “Harris is a good shot, so at least two of you will not survive. Just let us go our way and no one needs to be hurt.”

“I am sorry, Pauline. I never meant for this.”

Pauline squeezed Rose’s hand. “You did not ask me to bring the carriage back to get you, and you did not arrange for the carriage axle to collapse.” Which it had done five streets from the hospital and only three from the broader streets patrolled by the watch.

The footpads’ leader had a counter offer. “How ’bout you gie us all the morts’ glimmers and you can go your way?”

Glimmers, Rose guessed, must be jewelry. “I am not wearing any jewelry,” she told Pauline. “Are you?”

“No, and I do not have money with me, either.”

I would rather die rather than be sold into a brothel, Rose decided. She put her hand into the pocket she wore under her gown, a slit in the side seam giving discrete access. At least Private Brown would not be disappointed when she did not return tomorrow. He had breathed his last some fifteen minutes before Pauline arrived with the carriage.

She unfolded the object she retrieved from the pocket, extracting the blade from the bone handle to give her a small but perfectly serviceable dagger. “I have this,” she announced. “If I kill my sister and myself, will the clothing you can retrieve from our bodies be enough to compensate for this area being overrun with Red Breasts for the next few weeks, until they find every last one of you? For we will be missed, and my brother knows where we went.”

The footpads went into a huddle, most of them still keeping an eye on their annoyingly uncooperative prey.

“I’m not sure you should have done that,” said Pauline, and Harris, the groom, groaned. “Not a good idea, Lady Rose.”

In the next moment, Rose found out why, as the footpads’ leader shouted, “Take the skirts alive, especially the mouthy one!” Four of them hurled themselves towards poor Reuben and Harris, and two began skirting around the fight that ensued to grab Rose and Pauline.

Rose had no time to spare a glance for the servants, though she heard a shot. She was determined not to be taken. The man who attacked her jerked back, screaming imprecations, his hand spraying blood. The second man took advantage of Rose’s distraction to seize Pauline, who hit him with her umbrella. He grasped the umbrella and ripped it from her hands, then stumbled backwards.

Rose took a moment to realise that a large someone in dark clothes and a cape had dragged the man away from Pauline and swung him head first into a wall. A meaty hand landing on her shoulder was her only warning that the assailant she had cut had gone back on the attack. Before she even had time to struggle, the caped man had punched him hard enough to hurl him backwards.

One of the other footpads shouted, “It’s the Wolf!” In moments, three of them were running. The two that had attacked Rose and Pauline lay where the caped man had put them. One of the servants’ attackers was also down, presumably shot, but so was Harris. Reuben was picking himself up from the ground. As far as Rose could see in the poor light, he was unharmed.

She hurried to Harris, kneeling to feel for his pulse. As she did, he groaned. Thank goodness! He was alive. “Harris, can you hear me?” she asked.

“Lady Rosalind.” He caught back a yelp as he rolled to get his legs under him. “Reuben, lad, a hand,” he begged.

As she got up from her knees, Rose caught back her objection to him moving. She could not examine him in the dark, and they needed to get off these streets as quickly as possible.

Harris said out loud what she had been thinking. “We need to get the ladies out of here before they come back to get their men.”

The footpads! She had forgotten them. She took two steps towards the one who had been punched, and who was now groaning. The man they called the Wolf stopped her. “Stay back! If he can he will use you as a shield, and your servants suffering will be for nothing.”

Oh dear. “But they have been hurt,” she pointed out. “I do not like to just leave them.”

“We will leave them to their own kind,” Pauline decided. “We cannot risk Harris and Reuben for the sake of men who would have killed us or sold us without a second thought. Come along, Rose.”

“You are right,” Rose agreed, falling obediently into step with her sister. Reuben came behind, one arm around Harris to support him. The Wolf ranged around them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, and sometimes walking beside them for a few paces.

In the moonlight, filtered as it was through London’s fog, she could not see more of him than she had from the beginning. A large man, broad and tall. Dark clothes covered by a thigh-length cape. Try as she might, she could not see his face, even when he turned his face towards her to deliver a disparaging remark. He had an arsenal of them.

“This is no place for ladies of your kind.”

“What would your family do if you were killed or worse?”

“You put your servants at risk. Did you think of that before you planned your little jaunt?”

All said in the accents of a gentleman and in a pleasant voice that sounded as if he might sing tenor.

Watch out for Inviting the Wolf, due to Dragonblade Publishing at the end of this month. It is inspired by Little Red Riding Hood. (With a Jude Knight twist or two)

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Nasty families on WIP Wednesday

I do write nice parents. Honest. Spen’s father, in Weave Me a Rope, isn’t one of them.

Chatter proved to be nearly as gentle a nurse as Spen’s housekeeper. He set Spen’s broken arm, bound up his cracked ribs, and provided poultices for the bruises. Spen had tried to defend himself from the earl, but the men the earl had brought with him held Spen’s arms, and Spen had been handicapped by being chained in one place.

He seemed to recall that his own head guard intervened to stop the beating, but perhaps that was just a dream. Certainly, he had no memory of being carried from the room, and he had not seen either peer again since. Chatter told him they had left, but the little lady remained.

He spent more than a week of very uncomfortable days. On the third day, he insisted on the binding being removed from around his ribs. A good deep breath hurt, but was not the stabbing pain Chatter warned him to watch for.

“You’ll do, my lord,” Chatter had assured him.

Spen certainly hoped so, because he still felt like one enormous bruise, quite apart from the sharp pain of his arm and ribs. But filling his lungs helped his general malaise. For the rest, it was just a matter of time.

The footman who served him was a little more forthcoming about what had happened after Spen was knocked unconscious. He confirmed Chatter had rescued Spen, intervening when it became clear the earl was not going to stop just because Spen was unconscious.

“Lord Deerhaven was right peeved with Lord Yarverton,” he confided. “Said he’d gone too far. Lord Yarverton stormed off. Lord Deerhaven went this afternoon, when he knew you hadn’t taken an infection, my lord.”

“Did they beat Lady Daphne?” Spen asked, and was relieved to hear the lady was unharmed, but locked in a suite of rooms just a little farther along the passage. “What is the name of this place?” he asked the footman. “Where are we?” But the guard on duty growled and the footman had paled and stopped talking.

Cults in history
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Cults in history

Let’s define the term cult. I’m using it to mean a relatively small group led by a charismatic and self-appointed leader.

Some of them grow, develop, transcend the need for the single leader, and become religions. Some of them make no particular impact on society as a whole and fall quietly apart when the leader dies. Some explode spectacularly when their beliefs lead them to break laws. My cult is based on historical precedent.

As to the reactions of my cult members to the corruption of their leaders, that, too, is based on historical precedent. Those who have been forced to see that their cult beliefs are untrue will, according to their natures and the reactions of those closest to them, go down fighting, adopt the beliefs of their invaders or rescuers, give up all beliefs and become determined cynics, or choose to die.

Whatever support is offered, whatever the evidence that they have been lied to, ultimately, each person makes their own choice about how to respond.

My cult might appear extreme on the surface, but a brief examination of cults in history will show cults with far more bizarre beliefs—and practices—than those adopted in Famberwold’s “Heaven.”

Were there cults in Regency England? I’m sure there were, just as there were in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century England. By the definition above, we could include the Quakers (mid-17th century) and the Shakers (mid-18th century), both of which sects went on to become religious sects within Christianity.

In 1837, not many years after this book is set, John Humphrey Noyes wrote to a friend, “In a holy community,” he wrote to a friend, “there is no more reason why sexual intercourse shall be restrained by law than why eating and drinking should be, and there is as little occasion for shame in the one case as in the other.” This was in the United States, and he went on to found a religion that included, among its beliefs, that John Humphrey was perfect and without sin.

And the rest of the nineteenth and the twentieth century produced many other cults, some even more bizarre.

We cannot expect to know how many charismatic leaders preached in their own backyards, developed a small group of followers, and were never heard of beyond their neighbourhoods.

As for violent or abusive cults, I cannot point you to solid evidence. Lots of gossip and even court cases, but at this distance, we don’t know how much was lies by critics for political gain—or neighbours for straightforward social or financial gain, for revenge or out of mass hysteria.

The Hellfire Club of the 18th century also doesn’t quite qualify. Their quasi-religious ceremonies (if they really happened) were theatre, not something the men involved really believed. The Cult of Reason (the Marquis de Sade was a proponent) and the Cult of the Supreme Being (Robespierre’s personal favourite) in post-Revolution France certainly had true believers, but they, too, don’t quite qualify, because even their believers knew they were manufactured religions.

The Marquis de Sade certainly taught a cult of the body, a veneration of the physical, and the sexual as channels of transcendence, and may well have been an influence on a young Famberwold.

None of these are as compelling as actual court, newspaper or survivor accounts and I cannot point you to any. However, absence of evidence is not necessarily evidence of absence. We know that violent or abusive cults in modern times have only come to light when someone in their ranks speaks out, often after many years of abuse.

And that is in recent times. We are talking about early nineteenth century England, before the birth of the investigative journalist, at a time when the Government feared revolution and had the power to quash reports, and when any survivor who spoke of what they had been through was likely to face social exclusion.

So why not? My cult is possible.

I choose to believe that my cult is depressingly likely, but that its downfall is equally likely. And in that, this is a hopeful story. If such evil exists, it will ultimately overreach, as evil inevitably does. And then, if those who value goodness band together, evil can be overcome. The darkness will end. The sun will rise again. And in the morning, life—and love—will be worth having.

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Family on WIP Wednesday

I am rather enjoying my hero’s father in The Sincerest Flattery. Here’s a sample.

“I believe our children are in here,” Lord Byrne was saying, as he walked in the door. A step behind him was His Grace, the Duke of Dellborough.

Both young men shot to their feet, and bowed. “Your Grace,” they chorused.

“Here are mine,” His Grace said to Lord Byrne. “Yours appears to be missing. What have you done with your betrothed, Thornstead?”

“You missed her by a few minutes, Your Grace. Her mother sent for her.”

“I shall have her fetched,” Byrne announced, and disappeared back out the door.

His Grace approached his sons. “So. You are both here. Thornstead, you are back on your feet, if not quite as hale and hearty as a fond parent might hope. Lancelot, you have also been ill, from the look of you. Sicker than Thornstead, one might even guess.”

Lance blushed and Percy felt a stab of guilt. “Did my letter not reach you, Your Grace? I wrote to let you know what happened at the inn, and that I was better.”

The ducal eyebrows lifted halfway. A sardonic remark was on its way. “Your letter was—I shall not say appreciated, Thornstead. One struggles to summon appreciation for a letter that explains one’s eldest son and heir has been robbed and left for dead by a villain one selected oneself to be that young man’s most trusted servant.” His Grace their father held it as an important tenet that a gentleman never showed emotion, but apparently even His Grace made exceptions, for cold anger edged every word.

“I survived, sir,” Percy pointed out. “Thanks largely to the innkeeper’s wife.”

“Yes,” the duke drawled, “and you will no doubt be gratified to know that that part of your message pleased me. Especially since the previous mail had brought me no fewer three other messages that left me in doubt about that agreeable fact.”

“I wrote as soon as I could, sir,” Percy protested.

“Yes, my boy. And I am glad you did. The gratifying news that you were alive was, of course, a relief to a father’s heart. I could have wished for slightly more detail before I set off up the Great North Road at a pace not consistent with my dignity nor, I fear, my age. ”

Percy, processing that remark, was touched to think his father had set off north at high speed.

“I am, however, pleased to see you, young Lancelot, since my three letters all mentioned Thornstead, and ignored the existence, or at least the presence, of my second son. And Thornstead’s letter was sparse on the details important to a father, saying only, ‘I am now heading off to join Lance’. But one was left to wonder, joining Lance where? And why were my sons, who left together, in two different places?”

At that point, Lord Byrne reappeared, escorting Lady Byrne and Aurrie. Aurrie looked unhappy. No. Subdued was a better word. As if some vital part of her had been extinguished. Lord and Lady Byrne fussed over the duke, who thanked them politely for their letters. Apparently, they had both arrived on the same day, one calling His Grace north as soon as possibly, for his son Thornstead was seriously ill, and the doctor feared for his life, followed by one that assured the duke that Thornstead was on the mend.

That accounted for two of the duke’s three letters, but Percy realised that they must have left His Grace with the wrong impression.

“Sir,” he said, when there was a pause in Lady Byrne’s assurances that they had been delighted to look after the young lord. “Lord and Lady Byrne did not realise that their patient was actually Lance, and not me. Lance was sick when he arrived, you see, and they found my signet ring and assumed he was me.”

“Thornstead, you have no ambition to become a novelist, one hopes,” His Grace replied. “I would not mention it, except that you seem to be beginning the story in the middle.”

He bowed to the two ladies. “Perhaps, if Lady Byrne and Lady Aurelia would permit, we might be seated to hear what happened in its proper order?”

Aurrie flushed a bright red at the subtle rebuke. Lady Byrne, whose responsibility it was to make guests feel welcome and comfortable, did not even notice she had been reminded of her duties. “Of course, dear duke. Do be seated, please. I haven’t heard this story myself. I wondered why Lord Lancelot was pretending to be his brother, but Lord Byrne said it was all a mistake and I was not to be concerned. It seemed very peculiar.” She frowned. “It was very peculiar. Do you not think so, duke?”

“We shall hear what Thornstead and Lancelot have to say, shall we?” His Grace replied.

Lord Byrne comment, “I have sent for tea and my daughter has ordered a room made up for you, Dellborough. Ah, yes, and here is the tea.”

“I shall pour for us all and the maid shall pass the tea around,” Lady Byrne announced. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”

His Grace, who would have preferred a wine, inclined his head in polite appreciation and asked for a cup with tea only, no additions. His sons, who were familiar with his smallest gesture, picked up his impatience from the tap of one middle finger on his thigh, but he said nothing as the lady continued chattering as she poured the tea.

He spoke, however, as soon as Lancelot was served and the maid withdrew.

“Now, if you please, Thornstead, and in order.”

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First kiss (or at least the preamble) on WIP Wednesday

The Darkness Within will be ready for beta readers tomorrow or the next day. Meanwhile, here is a excerpt.

His hands were stroking her, but instead of being soothed she found herself crying, great noisy gusts of tears. He lifted her in his arms and she found herself sitting on his lap, weeping into his shoulder. He murmured to her, over and over, variations of, “I will keep you safe, Serenity. I will never let him touch you.”

Slowly, the comfort of being held, and by this man, seeped into her and her tears dried. Perhaps he had given her some of his strength and courage. It came to her that she desired him, and that they were alone together. Her wedding would not happen. She was old and scarred. Perhaps no man would ever want her as wife.

Indeed, who knew what the future would hold? If they succeeded in bringing down Famberwold, would the village continue? Famberworld had always told them that his brother protected them from an outside world that hated virtue. Surely, he was wrong, for he was not a man of virtue. And, certainly, Max did not hate virtue. Far from it.

Whatever happened, Max would be gone. He had come to find Reuben, he had told them. Now he was staying to see them safe, and when Famberwold and his brother could no longer harm them, no doubt he would go, too.

She shifted on his shoulder so that she could see his face. I wonder if you would kiss me, Max? If I asked?

The soft expression he was wearing changed. Astonishment. Alarm. Desire? Oh dear. Did I say that out loud?

“Kiss you?” Max asked

I did say it aloud! She could feel her cheeks heat, and she hid her face in his shoulder, taking comfort from the fact he did not push her away. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I know I am too old, and ugly too, with my smallpox scars. Please forget I said anything. Besides, I am sure that a man such as you is popular with the wives of your village. I expect they are far lovelier than I, and they know how to kiss besides, so are able to please you.”

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face so that she was looking at him. “You are not ugly to me, Serenity. Those minor blemishes cannot disguise the beauty of your eyes and your figure, the loveliness of your hair. Though it is your character that draws me to you most of all. Your kindness to a stranger. Your patience with the children. The intelligence that had you seeing through the lies Famberwold told, and the loyalty that had you wanting to believe him. The courage that has you helping me, even though coming here was the last thing you wanted to do.”

His mention of courage had her stiffening her spine. “Then, if your wives would not object, would you kiss me, please? I want to know what it is like with a man I desire. Famberwold has given me several kisses since I became Chosen, and they were horrid, but I have seen kisses that…” She could not think of how to explain what she had seen—two people absorbed in one another, taking and giving in equal measure, separating only to kiss again, their smiles speaking of secrets and delights.

“I have no wives,” Max admitted, “and I am certain your kiss would please me, but Serenity, I am not worthy. I have a dark past. I have done terrible things. I will be leaving here as soon as I know you and the children are safe.”

Serenity stamped her foot, but took courage, because his words pushed her away, but his arms still held her. This fact kept her voice calm as she continued to plead. “I am not asking you to stay. I am asking for a kiss. Just one, Max. Please?”

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Blurbs and trigger warnings on WIP Wednesday

Folks, for this WIP Wednesday, I want to trial a blurb.  I’ve tried to embed a trigger warning (not the note at the end–that’s just a courtesy to people who like ballgowns). Let me know if you think it works. The thing is, I deal with some pretty nasty stuff, but off stage and mostly by implication. Have I gone too far?

The Darkness Within

To save her, he must lose her

Ever since he escaped his childhood abuser, Max has killed for a living — first as a sniper and assassin in the war against Napoleon, and later ridding the world of those whose power on those around them allowed them to commit evil without fear of punishment.

The dead burden what is left of his soul, and he wants to retire, and kill no more. When a search for a missing comrade takes him into a religious community, he feels he has found a home for the first time in his life.

But there are cracks in the innocent surface the village shows its visitors. Max discovers hints at what lies beneath even as he falls for Serenity, who has recently been appointed Goddess-Elect, the designated virgin to take her place as three-month wife of the community’s leader, the Incarnate One.

The secrets of the community put Serenity and others in dreadful danger. To save her, he must lose her, for if he draws on his hard-won skills to stop the abuse he discovers, she will recoil from the darkness of his soul.

Note: This book is largely set within a cult, so is not a typical Regency.

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He Who Dares, Wins on WIP Wednesday

In honour of sending Hook, Lyon, and Sinker out for beta reading, here’s another snippet. My hero and Mrs. Dove Lyons chief guard are in Hyde Park, watching Lady Laureline from afar.

Your birth is the equal of hers,” Titan argued. “You have money enough for a wife, too—you only work because you want to. As to your legs, they won’t matter to someone who cares about you.”

Angel shook his head. Titan was wrong on all counts. Except, perhaps, the money. He had won some exceptional prizes while at war, though they were all invested and he wouldn’t see any return from them until the first one paid out—though the date for that was fast approaching. And he’d inherited his mother’s share of the Sicilian vineyards, which thrived under the stewardship of his cousins, but he’d written to ask them to keep the money in Sicily while he decided what to do with the rest of his life.

At the moment, the job stood between him and destitution, which would be uncomfortable, even if short lived.

As to family, his Sicilian family wasn’t good enough for the Warringtons, so why would it be good enough for Somerville? Angel certainly didn’t regard his father’s family as his own. They had cut their son off without regret when he married Angel’s mother.

Which left his feet. He could not be as sanguine as Titan about Laurel’s opinion of the poor mangled messes he carried around beneath his ankles. Or that of any other woman, for that matter.

“Perhaps,” was all he said.

“She’s out to purchase a husband,” Titan commented. “You are a fool if you don’t try to win her.”

Angel had been trying to ignore his friend, but that remark about a husband riveted his attention. Yes, she had been visiting Mrs. Dove Lyons, but Angel had convinced himself that she must have been on some errand other than the obvious. “Purchase a husband? Why?” He waved his hand towards the path along which Laurel and her escort were currently approaching. “I mean, look at her. She is beautiful, charming, clever…”

His eyes fixed on her, he ran out of words.

“Mrs. Dove Lyons does not share her clients’ secrets,” Titan told him. “But I have been told to meet Lady Laureline at the ladies’ door the evening after next and take her to a room from which she can view three possible husbands. After that, I have a contest to arrange, with the prize for wager on the outcome being the hand of the lady in marriage.”

Angel had trouble getting out the words through the anguish that filled his chest. “What sort of a contest?”

Laurel and her brother were nearly level with them. Laurel caught his eye, smiled at him, and lifted a hand in greeting. He bowed and Lord Somerton touched his hat, as did Titus. Then they were past, out onto the London streets on their way home. She glanced back over her shoulder, and Angel waved again. He watched her ride away down the street, his heart warmed by her smile.

“She recognized you,” Titus observed.

“From yesterday,” Angel insisted. “She knows me only as Nereus, the lame musician.”

“Let me ask Mrs. Dove Lyons to include you in the possibles,” Titus said. “If she says no, you will be no worse off.”

Angel couldn’t answer. He had too many thoughts clamoring for room on his tongue. He fixed his crutches under his armpits, and began propelling himself toward Whitehall and the Lyon’s Den. Titan kept pace, but didn’t speak, for which Angel was grateful.

After several minutes, he had his ideas in a row, but still he didn’t speak them out loud. Instead, he found himself arguing with himself.

Mrs. Dove Lyons has no reason to agree. Her reputation won’t be enhanced by such a match. I can’t pay her—not at the moment, anyway. Her guests will object if I am included among them. But, as Titus said, if she refused him, he would no worse off.

Laurel will demand I am removed from the running. Again, if that happened, he would have lost nothing.

I cannot compete against able-bodied men in a game of strength or speed. Probably not skill either. I’ll just make a laughing stock of myself. But even in the last month, Angel had seen that most of the wagers at the Lyon’s Den involved foolish things. Insect races. Contests to eat or drink some disgusting substance or far too much. Card tricks. And if he did look a fool, what of it? Was Laurel not worth the risk?

Better not to try than to try and fail. That was a gloomy thought too far, even in his current mood. His father’s motto had been nothing venture, nothing win, and Angelo had tried to live up to it all his life.

Before he could think again, he found himself saying, “Yes, Titan. Please ask Mrs. Dove Lyons if I might be a contender. If you think it would help, tell her how I know—how I knew, Lady Laureline.”

The gambling den’s chief wolf grinned and clapped Angel on the shoulder, hard enough that he had to brace himself against a fall.

“There speaks The Mer-king,” he said.

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Reaction to crisis on WIP Wednesday

While Cordelia watched, helpless to prevent it, the two footmen grabbed Spen by the arms and dragged him backwards, easily ignoring his struggles.

Oh Spen. She would cry later. The remaining footmen were moving on her, and she would not put it past them to drag her, too. Perhaps her uncle could do something to help the man she loved. “Gracie,” she said to her maid, “let Aunt Eliza know we are leaving. I want you and her downstairs at the front door with our belongings as quickly as you can make it.”

She fixed one of the footmen with a stare she had seen the Duchess of Haverford use on a gentleman who was in his cups and making a nuisance of himself. “You will go with my maid to carry our bags. You may need someone else to help.” She applied the look to his companion. “You will conduct me to my coachman and other servants so I can order them to have my father’s carriage brought around.”

For a moment, she thought they would be difficult, but they must have concluded her instructions fitted within the commands of their marquess, for they nodded and obeyed.

She had to get Aunt Eliza out of here before that horrid man did something nastier still.

Oh, Spen.

No. She could not let herself break down. That evil monster could not hurt Spen too much. Her beloved was his heir. And in a few short months, Spen would be twenty-one. No wonder he had warned her they might have to marry in defiance of the marquess! She wished they had known the man had misunderstood who Spen planned to marry.

Again,  fear and grief threatened to overwhelm her. Again, she thrust them away.

She could break down after she had safely removed her people from this house.

***

I’m currently going through the wonderful Cynthia’s developmental edits on Weave Me a Rope. It is getting closer! Meanwhile, here’s another excerpt.

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Plot devices on WIP Wednesday

How did my goose girl equivalent come to be looking after sheep in the grounds of the castle of his betrothed? Amnesia seemed unlikely. And the goose girl trope of the thieving maid stealing her identity didn’t make sense to me, in a Regency context. (Though I’ve found a use for it.) So I have influenza, a snowstorm or avalanche, and a young man who doesn’t like fuss. This is how The Sincerest Flattery begins. (Don’t you love the cover?)

“Ride on ahead, Tris,” Percy begged. “Let them know I have been delayed.” At least, that is what he intended to say, though his stuffed up nose and raw throat garbled the words.

His brother apparently understood, for he shook his head. “I shouldn’t leave you, Percy. I won’t leave you, at least until after I’ve spoken with the physician.”

“Can’t keep a lady waiting,” Percy insisted, but he might have saved himself the trouble. Tris might be ten months his junior, and mostly content to go along with his old brother’s plans and schemes, but when he dug his toes in, there was no moving him.

A knock on the door. Perhaps it was the physician? It was the innkeeper’s wife, with a tray. “Some chicken soup for the young lord,” she offered.

Percy didn’t want food, but Tris insisted that he would recover more quickly if he kept up his strength. So he succumbed to having his pillows plumped so that he could sit up, at least enough to have the tray put on the bed.

But his head hurt to much to lift it, and the spoon felt as if it was made of steel and ten times the size. In the end, Tris fed him, a spoonful at a time, until he covered his mouth after the sixth spoonful. “Enough. Let me lie down, Tris. There’s a good chap.”

The innkeeper’s wife, who was hovering, asked, “Did you understand him, my lord?”

“He has had enough, and wants to lie back down,” Tris explained. “I daresay your head hurts, old chap.” He had picked up the tray and handed it the woman, and was supporting Percy with one arm, while rearranging the pillows with the other. “You should let me stay and nurse you, Percy.”

Percy shook his head, a slow and tiny movement from side to side, so as not to burst his pounding head right open.

“Are you twins, my lord?” the innkeeper’s wife asked, as people often did. They were not identical, but they looked very alike. It was an impertinent question, but Tris lacked the arrogance to give her rebuke any of the other Verseys would have offered. It was one of the things they all loved about Tris.

“We are not,” he said.

Another knock on the door, and this time it was the physician. Tris hustled the innkeeper’s wife away and fetched Martin while the doctor did his examination. That was a relief. If he had brought Martin to listen to instructions for Percy’s care, then Tris intended to follow his brother’s instructions.

This was a journey to meet the girl to whom Percy was betrothed. It would be rude to keep Lady Aurelia waiting, and Percy could already tell—was unsurprised to hear the physician telling his brother—that he would be a week or more in bed with this wretched cold.

This ague, rather, which is what the doctor called it. It didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did except for the wretched head, the throat, the blocked nose, the cough that seemed to twist his ribs inside his chest and tear his muscles.

The doctor droned on, and Percy heard bits and pieces in between bouts of coughing and musings about Lady Aurelia. Her miniature was pretty. His father had met her and said she was a comely chit. She had never had a Season, but then she was only seventeen, just a few months younger than Tris.

Their parents had signed the marriage agreements. The wedding was to be in six months. No one seemed to think it necessary for the two principals to the marriage to actually meet before they gathered in the church to be made man and wife.

Still, when Percy came up with the scheme to ride north and introduce himself to the lady and her family, the duke his father did not object. All he said was, “Comport yourself like a Versey, xxxtitlexxx. And take young Tris with you.”

Of course, that didn’t prevent his father from organising their travel, complete with a train of carriages branded with the crests of the Duke of Dellborough and full of servants. Percy and Tris abandoned them on the first day out from home. So here they were, travelling on horseback with just Martin to attend them, a couple of days behind the letter announcing their visit and at least four days ahead of the carriages with the rest of their servants and luggage.

The doctor had apparently finished, and was turning back to Percy. “Rest, Lord xxx. That’s the best—the only possibly medicine. I have left instructions for various ways to soothe your symptoms, but sleep is what you need more than anything.”

He left, taking the innkeeper’s wife with him. Tris took Percy’s hand and looked into his eyes, worried. “I do not want to leave you,” he said.

Percy squeezed Tris’s hand. “Lady Aurelia,” he said, though it sounded more like “Laay Aweia.”

Tris sighed. “Yes, I know.”

“I will look after Lord xxxtitlexxx,” Martin assured Tris.

Still Tris stayed, supervising the administration of the potion the doctor had ordered, which contained something in it that soothed the throat and sent Percy into the prescribed sleep. Next time he surfaced, Tris wasn’t there, which was a good thing, but Percy could not remember why. It was a woman who spooned stuff down his throat—chicken soup and some more of the potion. He thought she washed his face, too, but he was sinking back into sleep, his last thought as he succumbed, “The innkeeper’s wife!” Yes. That was who she was.

***

Aurrie was the first to see the man as he came up the drive, hunched over his horse’s neck. It was a beautiful piece of bloodstock. That was her first impression, her eyes drawn to the horse ahead of the gentleman.

He was a gentleman, as witnessed by the greatcoat he wore against the cold bearing five capes and the top hat that he retained on his head despite his collapsed position. Was he hurt? She cut across the lawn while the horse followed the curve of the drive, and reached the arch to the stableyard just before the rider.

He had managed to draw himself up. His face was hectic with fever and his eyes looked through her without seeing her.

“Sir,” she called out, and for a moment his eyes focused on hers. “Lady Aurelia,” he said, clearly. “Profound apologies…” And then his eyes rolled back and he slumped again, this time so fully that the top hat finally fell.

NOTE: I don’t appear to have referenced Percy’s heir by title in the books where he has been mentioned, so I’ll have to think of one for the heir to the Dellborough dukedom. My first drafts can be fairly messy