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Tea with Lady Ransome

The young Lady Ransome would do very well indeed, Eleanor thought. She had taken a social liability–the terrible burn scars from the fire that had nearly taken her life when she was a child–and turned it into an intriguing asset.

The half mask that covered one side of her face from the mouth up could have been merely a reminder that, under it, she was disfigured. Indeed, if Eleanor’s information was correct, she had until recently worn plain white masks that had precisely that effect.

However, she had taken to matching her masks to her gowns, with startling effect. Painted in matching or complementary colours and trimmed with ribbons, jewels, and lace, her masked no longer looked like one side of a skull. Instead, they were glamorous accessories that drew attention, not so much to the mask, as to the lady herself. The side of her face that showed was not traditionally pretty, but it was beautiful. Full of character and charm. Her figure was more lush than currently fashionable, but fashion was foolish at best. Her generous curves, audaciously enhanced the gowns she wore, suited her and clearly pleased her husband, if one could judge from his stern eye on the gentlemen who now flocked to compliment her.

She also had excellent manners, neither too forward nor too reserved. During their half hour visit, their conversation had been wide ranging, and she had shown herself well able to hold her own in the group of young ladies Eleanor had gathered to meet her.

“Another cup, Lady Ransome?” Eleanor asked.

“No thank you, your grace,” the younger woman replied. “It has been very pleasant, but it is time for me to take my leave. Thank you so much for inviting me here today.” She cast a smile around the group, who chorused their farewells.

“I am leaving, too, Aunt Eleanor,” said Sarah, Lady Lechton, one of Eleanor’s goddaughters and niece to Eleanor’s husband. “I shall walk you out, Lady Ransome, and ask you a million questions about this salve you mentioned. I am certain my husband shall be interested.”

Eleanor was delighted. Lady Ransome needed friends in Society, and Sarah had the contacts to make sure she found them.

***

In Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, which will be out early next year, I have a scene in which Eleanor, now the Duchess of Winshire, throws her social weight behind my heroine, Arial, Viscountess Ransome. I imagine the following scene from that story came before the afternoon tea I envisage above.

Then the Duchess of Winshire, one of society’s most influential matrons, cast the weight of her reputation on their side. She had one of her stepsons escort her to the Ransomes’ theatre box, where she reminded Peter that she had known his mother. She further claimed to have kissed Arial when she was a baby. She took a seat next to Arial, in full view of the rest of the theatre, chatting for several minutes. When she stood to leave, she said, “You are doing the right thing, my dear Lady Ransome. Facing down these ridiculous calumnies is your best option. It is unpleasant, I know, and takes courage, but I and my friends have seen that you have plenty of courage and are of good character, besides.”

She held out her hand to Peter. “You have found yourself a treasure, Lord Ransome. Young ladies who are beautiful on the outside are common enough in Society. Young ladies who are brave, wise, and honorable are much rarer—and my friend Cordelia Deerhaven assures me your wife is all three.”

Peter bowed and mimed a kiss above the back of the duchess’s hand. “I am fully sensible of how fortunate I am, Your Grace. My wife is a delight to my eyes as well as a true friend and partner.”

“Good answer,” the duchess replied. “Come along, Drew. Your father will wonder what is keeping us.”

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Spotlight on A Duke at the Door

Who’s afraid of the wild duke?

Alwyn Ap Lewin, Duke of Llewellyn, swears he’ll never shift into his lion Shape for as long as he lives. He spent decades as a captive in a traveling menagerie, and he won’t risk being caged again. But the longer he denies his other half, the more his health declines, and the farther he hides himself away. The denizens of Lowell Close live in fear and suspicion of the mysterious duke—except for lady apothecary Tabitha Barrington.

After traveling the Continent for years, Tabitha is struggling to settle in Lowell Close and the prince regent’s insistence she care for the sullen duke only adds to the tension. By treating him as she would anyone else—and not as though he needs special attention—Tabitha begins to gain the duke’s very reluctant interest. And the more Alwyn sees both Tabitha’s gifts for helping everyone in the village as well as her kind and courageous heart, the more he realizes that he has something to live for after all.

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An excerpt from A DUKE AT THE DOOR

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Note: The word versipellian relates to versipellis, which is Latin for ‘two skins’; it is how the Shapeshifters refer to themselves.

***

Lady apothecary Miss Tabitha Barrington sets out to search for healing herbs in the park of her new home, Lowell Hall. Who knows what else she might find…

Once she and Timothy settled in the cottage, Tabitha sent His Grace several notes via eager footmen, of which Lowell had an inordinate amount. She hesitated to knock upon the ducal door, as humble as it was, but if the part of the park she now wandered brought her near to Llewellyn’s sanctuary, then what of it? She had yet to investigate this particular grove—who knew what she would find?

Today, she found a duke.

A rustle in the shrubbery alerted Tabitha to his presence, and the rising sun cast just enough light through the trees to reveal Llewellyn’s shadow. “Your Grace.” Would she curtsy in the middle of a wood? No, she would not. “Good morning.”

His husky voice rumbled from the perimeter. “You ought not to wander without thought to what lurks on this land.”

That would be you, she thought. Lurking. “It is a paradox.” She set down her trug and took stock of the place. “For even though the beings here are dangerous to humans, this may be the safest place on earth. Or one of them. I do not know if this is typical of versipellian culture, to bring together a variety of species to live as one…” She trailed off at the sight of—was that—oh! Digitalis! She slid her shears out of a pocket and reached to stroke the bell of the nearest plant.

“Do not!” the duke very nearly shouted, his vocal cords not equal to the strain.

Tabitha snipped off a stalk of the foxglove before laying it in the trug. “It is only somewhat poisonous.”

“Under prolonged contact, it is more than somewhat.”

“I am taking only one. Two.” She hummed in consideration. “Three at the most.”

“You ought to wear gloves.” His eyesight was all it was vaunted to be if he could tell in this low light.

“They interfere with my perception.”

“Of what.” Another rustle, this time from her right side. Goodness, he was fast.

“The health of the plant, the state of the soil…” She balked at admitting the fanciful notion that she could feel effectiveness or otherwise from what she touched and chose two more blooms.

A rumble of disagreement issued from between the leaves. “Gloves made of lambskin would suit.”

“The porousness of kid would defeat the purpose.” Tabitha set one last stalk into her trug.

“A trowel, then, for the love of Palu.” His Grace moved fully into the glade, dressed this morning like a common laborer, in a formless coat and a muslin shirt hanging outside his trousers.

“A blunt instrument?”

“You may gauge the plant by eye and then touch the soil.”

“Why should I uproot it, if it is not useful?”

“You may return it to its place! With the trowel!”

Tabitha could not stop herself: she smiled at him. How masculine he sounded in that moment, how like a man, exasperated at what he surely thought was feminine obstreperousness. He looked incredulous and irritated and…alive. She’d pat him on the cheek if she didn’t think he’d snarl or run off. Or…or bite her. Instead, she asked, “Who is Palu?” and turned away; he appeared to be discomfited by prolonged observance.

“A Welsh cat of legend, a goddess attached to my homeplace who protects those in her care from danger. What are you going to do with that plant?”

She would ask Timothy if he knew anything about Welsh mythological cats. “It is, of course, helpful for congested hearts. But an Italian apothecary showed me that the merest pinch in chamomile tea is a gentle purgative.”

“I cannot believe even the smallest amount of poison is safe.”

“Neither did I, until I witnessed how effective it was.”

“Witnessed.”

“Yes. Saw the results of its efficacy.”

“Tried it yourself, I wager.” This was delivered in a tone that had a lightness to it, perhaps of laughter?

“I cannot ask anyone to ingest something I would not.” Tabitha was staunch in this viewpoint. “It was enough work earning the trust of others thanks to perceptions of the weakness of my gender.”

“Others.” His voice came from the opposite side of the grove. His nimbleness was truly astonishing. How swift would he be at full strength? “Men.”

“Men, yes. And certain women. Some ladies preferred my counsel to that of a male physician, but many more would hear my advice and then allow a man to negate it. It was a waste of everyone’s time, mine and theirs.”

“The healing goddesses of the Celts are fierce. One does not call upon them for aid unless one is willing to be transformed utterly.” The duke had moved again, swifter than thought, and stepped farther into the light. “Ceridwen is one such, and we felines also call upon the Egyptian pantheon, and thus, Sekhmet.”

“How fascinating. So many gods and goddesses to invoke.”

“Gods and goddesses, indifferent to my dilemma—” He cut himself off, visibly appalled at what he had almost admitted.

She would lose him if she pursued that line of thought. “The wolves follow the Romans, whom my brother Timothy says borrowed their pantheon and the terms for the pack hierarchy from the Greeks.”

“Stole them, more like. Although, in truth, many on this island descend from ancient Rome. The wolves will do anything to hold sway.”

“And by the Duke of Lowell doing so, many are safe under his aegis.”

“As you and your brother are safe.” The duke canted his head, assessing her. “You do not strike me as one who seeks safety.”

“Who does not seek safety?”

“One who casually imbibes poison,” he mumbled.

Meet Susanna Allen

Susanna’s latest series, The Shapeshifters of the Beau Monde, also includes A Wolf in Duke’s Clothing, first in the series and A Most Unusual Duke, the beloved middle child.

Writing as Susan Conley, she is the author of two contemporary novels with Irish interest: Drama Queen and The Fidelity Project, both published by Headline UK; That Magic Mischief, a contemporary paranormal romance originally published by Crimson Romance, relaunched with Ally Press in September 2021.

Her memoir, Many Brave Fools: A Story of Addiction, Dysfunction, Codependency… and Horses is published by Trafalgar Square Books and recounts the growth and insights she acquired after having taken up horse riding as an adult, post-divorce.

She was born in New Jersey and is currently resident in Ireland.

Susanna Tweets and Instas and TikToks @SusannaAWriter, Facebooks at https://www.facebook.com/SusannaAWriter, and maintains a presence on BookBub and Goodreads. Follow her, if you are so inclined!

 

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The horror of Georgian-era asylums

In the eighteenth and nineteenth century, asylums for those afflicted with mental illness existed to keep the inmates in custody. Some of them were huge affairs, run by charitable foundations, such as Bethlem Hospital in London, popularly known as Bedlam. Others, such as the one I invented for my story Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, were private establishments run for profit, often by someone who  had set himself up as a doctor with few, if any, qualifications.

Few of them were nice places, and none of them offered any effective treatments. The keepers were guards—untrained in anything except confining those who did not want to be there. Patients were often restrained. Treatments were barbaric: being bled, purged, blistered, beaten.

The system was ripe for abuse, and it was abused. Those with mental illness were undoubtedly not helped by being in such surroundings, but asylums also held those who were not insane. Even into the 20th century, deaf people and people with severe physical disabilities were committed to asylums because they could not talk.

Children and women were admitted to asylums on the word of the male head of their family—husband, father, brother, or even, in some cases, a male friend of a woman or of a child’s mother.

Epilepsy was reason enough to be committed until the 1950s.  Depression after the loss of a loved one. Abusive language. Being over religious. Even being overtired! Or, for that matter, for no reason at all except that a person’s continued freedom was inconvenient to someone.

In one case, a man confined his wife after she objected to her niece, with whom her husband was having an affair, being named as mistress of the household. Her incarceration came to an end when she managed to persuade a boy working in the garden of the house next door to take a message—and her shoe (to identify her)—to friends who rescued her and hired a lawyer to defend her.

In Snowy and the Seven Blossoms, another book in the same series, I envisage a private asylum that was truly a place of security and sanctuary, thanks to the physician in charge. Perhaps such places existed. If so, they were certainly greatly outnumbered by barbaric institutions that hurt rather than healed.

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Reluctant heroes on WIP Wednesday

The Writer is an automaton built in the 1770s using 6,000 moving parts by Pierre Jaquet-Droz, his son Henri-Louis, and Jean-Frédéric Leschot. Some regard it as the world’s first programmable computer. In Perchance to Dream, my hero makes automata.

I’m trying my hand at an enemies to lovers trope in the next book in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. In Perchance to Dream, my hero had shut himself away in the country. He lives in a tower, guarded by his faithful servants, the Thornes. Guess the fairy tale! Here’s John’s first scene.

Ravenham, Cumbria, May 1825

“Another letter from that Miss Turner, Captain,” Thorne reported.

“Throw it in the fire,” John commanded. Thorne didn’t comment, but put the letter into his pocket, no doubt to store it with the others.

He didn’t need to read it to know it would be another request for cuttings from the roses that rambled everywhere at Rosewood Towers. At least, he assumed that all five letters were on the same topic. Not that he’d read them, but Arial, Lady Stancroft, whose letters he did read, had said that was what Miss Turner wanted.

Or claimed to want. Arial was one of only three females in the world that John trusted. Arial, wife of his dearest friend, Peter Ransome, Earl of Stancroft. Cordelia, wife of his half-brother, the Marquess of Deerhaven. Thorne’s wife, Maggie Thorne. Presumably, the world held other good females, whom John had not encountered. Pansy Turner was not one of them. John remembered her from his time in London, eight years ago, and wouldn’t trust her an inch. Arial, who was kind and good, might think the harpy would travel all the way to Cumbria for a bunch of rose cuttings. John was sure the Turner female had other motives, to do with her being single and him lacking a wife.

“If that’s all, Thorne,” John hinted.

“No, sir. I came to remind you that you promised to take Miss Jane fishing this afternoon.”

He had, too. He cast a wistful glance at the pieces of automaton scattered across his work table. “Tell Mrs Thorne I will collect her in ten minutes,” he said. “I had better change into something old.”

Not that he had anything new. He had last bought clothes in 1818, not long before he married Jane’s mother. But Mrs Thorne would growl if he went fishing in anything that was still presentable enough for visitors. Not that he ever had visitors.

Jane was waiting impatiently when he arrived at the other tower. “Papa, I thought you had forgotten me,” she scolded.

“Hush, Miss Jane,” said Mrs Thorne, throwing him a worried glance. “Your Papa would never forget you.”

That hurt on two counts. First, that Mrs Thorne could think he would be cross with his darling girl for challenging him. Second, that the only reason he was here, as the Thornes well knew, was his standing order to remind him of any promise to his daughter. When the melancholoy was bad, he forgot everything.

“I am sorry I am late, darling girl. Shall we go and catch some fishies?”

She gifted him with a sweet smile, took his offered hand, and for a moment, his world righted.

The world held four good females, he amended, and the best of them all was Jane, who was only seven. She was something of a tyrant, but she had a good heart.

They passed the rambling manor house and walked through the wild overgrown garden to the trout stream. Jane described the fish she was going to catch, speculated on when her wiggly tooth might fall out, spelled for him the words she had learned that morning, and described the new dress Mrs Thorne was making for her, which was the same colour as the roses.

The roses reminded him of Miss Turner. Five letters! The woman was determined. He hoped the latest would be the end of it.

 

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Tea with an assassin (retired)

Mrs Moriarty, Prue Wakefield’s guest, was not Irish, as her name suggested. Mediterranean, if Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire,  had to make a guess. Perhaps Greek, with that classical nose and heavy eyebrows.

They had enjoyed a cup of tea each and some of Fournier’s lovely little cakes, but Eleanor still did not know why Prudence had asked for the meeting, though the conversation had been pleasant. Mrs Moriarty was not only a beautiful woman, but a very intelligent one, able to hold her own in a wide-ranging conversation.

She also had the same alert way of moving through her surroundings that Eleanor had seen before, in those who worked in the shadows. It came as no surprise when Prue said, “Mrs Moriarty’s husband was one of Lord Ruthford’s exploratory officers, and Mrs Moriarty also worked with him from time to time.”

“I was an assassin,” Mrs Moriarty said, the words all the more startling in her soft voice. Perfect English diction. She had learned the language well, and probably as a child. “Was. I do not like taking life, your grace,” she added.

Eleanor was seldom lost for words, but what did one say to such a statement? I am so glad? That is nice, dear?

“Lord Ruthford and the Moriartys have set up a new agency. Mrs Moriarty will head it, as the gentlemen are both occupied, Ruthford as an earl and Moriarty as a Senior Supervisor with the Thames River Police.”

This, Eleanor assumed, was the business end of the meeting. “Does the agency need something from me?” she asked. “I will need to know its purpose.”

Mrs Moriarty gave a pleased nod. “Prue told me that your grace is an unusual woman. You are correct. Moriarty Protection would like your endorsement. We seek to offer, as the name implies, discreet guard services for those in need of protection. Our guards will be experts in all kinds of weapons and in unarmed combat, and will have the highest level of screening to ensure they cannot be bought. Our women guards, as well as the men. They will be well enough spoken and educated to join a household in any guise, as servants, guests, friends, even family members.”

“Women guards?” Eleanor asked, intrigued by that one fact. She could see the benefit! “Unexpected, and able to follow a woman they are protecting into places a man cannot go,” she said.

That fetched another approving nod from Mrs Moriarty. “Precisely,” she said.

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Spotlight on The Lyon’s Share

The Lyon’s Share

She’d spend every last penny to marry again for security, comfort—or even friendship.

He’d win her wager, possess her, keep her for himself—even if he’d never win her love.

Adriana, Lady Benton, has many regrets—and one hope. To wed a good man to gain a life to which she is entitled. One free of sorrow, penury and ridicule. Appealing to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, Adriana hopes to attract one man who may appreciate her assets. But never need her love.

Colonel Sidney Wolf, once hailed as the ruthless ‘Hound of the Horse Guards’, vows to end Adriana’s hardships. He’s home from the wars and faces the daunting task of filling his father’s role as the Earl of Middlethorpe. Believing only Adriana will do as his helpmate, he strikes a deal with Dove-Lyon that brings him the one woman he admires. The one woman he tells himself he can live with—and never touch.

But the nearness of his funny, charming, beautiful bride drives him mad. Knowing she will never love other than her first husband, can he keep his hands—and his heart to himself?

And if he doesn’t, can she ever forgive him?

Buy Link:   https://amzn.to/3bc6ri3

Excerpt

(Their wedding night in London.)

All rights reserved. Copyright Cerise DeLand 2022.

That night in the upstairs hall, she squeezed his hand and thanked him once more for the peace and comfort of their wedding day. With a tender smile borne of hours in companionship walking the appointments of the house, meeting the remaining staff and sharing the light supper, Sidney told her to sleep well. “I have two surprises for you tomorrow. You’ll need your rest.”

Tumbling though her ran a wild impulse to kiss his cheek. “Marvelous! I do love surprises. What are they?”

He shook his head. “They are not for the telling!”

She chuckled. “Shall I arise early? Dawn? Noon? Are we here at home? And what do I wear?”

“Take your leisure at it all. I will adjust to you, my dear.”

She liked how he slipped into the small endearments that made them seem like a normal couple who were meant for more than the mere illusion of intimacy.

“Wonderful. I will be up at dawn!”

He stood before her, his brown-black eyes flashing in the light of candles in the sconces—but he stepped back. “Good night then.”

She smiled and quickly turned away to thrust open her door. She closed it swiftly and fell back against it. Before her was her sitting room and bedroom. Beyond was her dressing room and boudoir. All hers, more than she’d ever expected to acquire or enjoy. All were so well appointed, but even at that, as Sidney had told her, they were furnished in fashions decades old.

“Change them all,” he’d encouraged her hours earlier on his tour. “Whatever you like. The rooms were last done when my mother was alive and much is frayed and dusty. Cost is not a matter of concern. You need not rush as we shall not entertain here for months.”

“I will begin by choosing fabrics. Planning other elements. When do you think we will return?”

“I have so much to do at the estate that I doubt we will come back until spring. Does that suit you?”

A question of whether her little house would be sold soon flashed through her. She would have to come to town to pay Dove-Lyon. “It does.”

“Good. I want you to be comfortable and happy.” He had caught her sudden reticence. “Something concerns you. What is it?”

“The house in West Drayton. I hope it will be sold by spring.” The sooner I pay Mrs. Dove-Lyon the remainder of her fee, the better.

“It’s charming. I’m sure it will sell soon.”

His assurance soothed her worry and so, for a countless time, she thanked him for his largesse. Scrimping was what she did well. Practice had made perfect. With little, she had kept her tiny house clean and bright. With copper pots she scrubbed and numerous shawls and coverlets she knit, she’d dressed up the kitchen and the small parlor. She’d changed Paul’s lap blanket every day. A new color to keep him appraised of the day of the week. A little reminder that today was a new day, another day that he lived. Little had he cared, but she had. She had. Because to give in to his brown study was to follow him into the hole he preferred and she dare not give up on herself, lest they both die of despair.

She inhaled. That was yesterday. Gone, now. And in the place of that, my girl, you have this. This time. This redemption. This man.

This house.

And his generosity.

In studied deliberation, she gazed upon the heavy sky blue damask draperies, the Alençon lace curtains beneath, the fine mahogany deal tables, the plush settees and Axminster carpet. They were all accommodations that he had so sweetly given her, and even agreed to all her stipulations, too. She clutched her arms as, like an avalanche, she felt the freefall of all the deprivations she had not given him. She was happy, very much so—and he, virile man that he was, had so many reasons not to be.

She was selfish, unable to be a proper wife.

He went to his bedchamber alone. A bridegroom. Gallant, determined, daring. A leader of men. A legend in his own time. A man robust, hearty and…alive.

In that moment of self-criticism when she knew what she owed him, what he should have and what she had forbidden him to have of her, she ached to be his good and willing wife.

She went to bed alone. It was what she had planned.

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Poison and other google searches for murderous authors

When I needed a commonly available poison that would put my Snow White into a death-like state, the internet came to my rescue, telling me that even small doses of hemlock caused paralysis. Even today, the treatment for hemlock poisoning is artificial support for breathing and heart until the paralysis wears off.

So then I had to find out about what we in my youth called mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and (as it turned out) the Georgian era called expired-air ventilation (EAV). Medical history reports the use in 1732, when a surgeon at Alloa, Scotland, successfully used mouth-to-mouth to resuscitate a miner who was, to all appearances, dead.

There are other intriguing references going back over millennia that might have been mouth-to-mouth, but certainly, the practice became better known in the 18th century after the Alloa surgeon wrote his account.

The first humane society to promote artificial respiration was established in Amsterdam in the middle of the century, and was followed by others, first promoting EAV, and later the use of inflating bellows. Mouth-to-mouth, however, continued to be something any bystander could do.

So there it was. All I had to do was make apple pies my Snow White character’s favourite treat, and Bob’s your uncle [1].

Snowy ate the hemlock-laced apple pie and dropped down apparently dead. His Princess Charming gave him the kiss of life. It’s a classic!

Bob’s your uncle, for those not familiar with British slang, mean’s “job’s done” and is used at the end of a simple list of actions.

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Friends on WIP Wednesday

Whether it is fellow wallflowers, the other men at the club, old schoolfriends, or comrades in arms, the group of friends with whom our protagonists discuss–or refuse to discuss–their love life is rightfully a staple of historical romance. Here’s an excerpt from my current WIP.

By the time Arial arrived, with Regina in tow, Aunt Aurelia was up. Margaret had not expected to see her, since she normally breakfasted in bed and she was still sulking about Mr White. However, her maid must have mentioned that Margaret’s friend was expected, and so the four of them sat down for a polite cup of tea.

As Margaret poured the tea, Regina said, “I trust your cold is improved.”

Aunt Aurelia had the grace to look a little shame-faced. “I am perfectly well today, thank you.”

Margaret could not resist a small poke of revenge. “Her Grace was pleased to meet Mr White. She invited him to call on her.” She passed her aunt a cup of tea, made the way she preferred it.

Aunt Aurelia sniffed. “The Duchess of Winshire raised her husband’s base-born daughters and married a Persian. One must respect her position and her breeding, of course, but not necessarily her judgement.”

A glance at Arial and Regina showed they were trying not to laugh. Margaret gave Arial her cup.

Margaret could argue that the Duke of Winshire was as English as Aunt Aurelia, but it would be of no use. Her great aunt’s views on the class system and the superiority of the English nobility were rigid and lofty, as she proved with her next remark.

“Mr White is not of our kind. Add to that, one suspects, from his appearance, that he is an irregular connection of the house of Snowden, and I am disappointed in Margaret for lowering herself to encourage him. As I told her, Lady Stancroft, it will not do her any good with her worthy suitors to be seen in that man’s company.”

As Margaret served Regina, she decided it was time to assert herself. “Thank you, Aunt Aurelia. You have made your opinion perfectly clear.  However, if any of my suitors were worthy of my attention, they would not be offended by my doing a favour for the man who saved my life.”

“Which he would not have had to do, Margaret, if you had not been in a place you should never have gone. But there. I do not know why I bother. You were a rebellious child and a foolish girl. You have become a stubborn woman. I am going to my rooms. Good day, Lady Stanbrook, Mrs Ashby.” She clattered her cup back into her saucer and flounced out of the room.

She was getting worse. Her criticisms and complaints had never been made in front of guests before. Margaret was going to have to retire her to the country and hire a companion.

“I apologise for that scene,” she said to her friends. She managed to keep her voice level, though her hand trembled as she lifted her cup.

“No apology needed,” Regina assured her. “You behaved with dignity, Margaret.”

“We are not responsible for the misbehaviour our relatives,” Arial agreed. “Do not worry about it, Margaret.”

Regina frowned. “Is it common for her to speak to you like that in front of guests? Or is it just that she knows we can be trusted?”

Regina voiced Margaret’s own concerns. “She has been becoming more querulous. I think it is time for her to retire. I hate to hurt her feelings, but such scolds in front of the wrong audience could…” She trailed off, quailing at the thought of such public embarrassment

“She could damage your reputation with a misplaced word,” Arial agreed. “People will believe she has cause for her comments.”

Margaret nodded. After a moment’s silence, she said, “I do not suppose that is why you called.”

Regina grinned at Margaret over her own cup. “We were both very impressed by your Mr White. He is…” she appeared to be searching the ceiling for a word.”

“Delectable,” Arial offered. “You have been holding out on us, Margaret. You told us that he was stern and borderline rude. You did not tell us that he was almost as beautiful as Peter.”

To Arial, no one was as handsome as her husband, and she had a point. Margaret had become accustomed to his appearance since she met him two years ago, but considered dispassionately, he was breath-taking.

“Mr White is certainly easy on the eyes,” she conceded. At the least.

“That is all you have to say?” Regina asked. “Margaret, darling, we watched you dance with him. Twice. You cannot tell me you are not attracted to him, and he to you. He could hardly take his eyes off you all night.

Really?

“She is blushing,” Arial told Regina.

“It is not like that,” Margaret insisted. “Yes, he is an attractive man, especially when he is not acting like a bear with a sore paw, but he is not interested in me in that way, and if he was, I could not possibly consider him as a suitor.”

Regina raised an eyebrow. “Because he is from the slums and perhaps base-born?” she asked.

“Those things matter, Regina,” Arial said. “You know they do, even if we all agree they shouldn’t. Margaret needs to think of her future children.”

“I have no idea where Mr White is truly from or what his intentions are in confronting the Snowdens,” Margaret told them. “That is why I cannot see him as anything more than a temporary escort. I cannot trust a man who keeps secrets from me. Not that he owes me an explanation. I am merely returning favour for favour.”

Arial sipped her tea while she considered that remark. “He is still delectable,” she said, decisively. “If nothing else, he makes a very attractive accessory to a lady in a ball gown.”

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Tea with Kitty

“It is always lovely to see you, Kitty dear,” said the Duchess of Haverford as she sipped her tea, “but I did not realise that you had come to town with Chirbury and your sister.” It was more of an opening than a statement. Kitty’s sister Anne, another of her goddaughters and wife to her nephew, the Earl of Chirbury, had visited just two days ago, to see whether Kitty had come to the duchess for help. “She has taken flight with our gamekeeper and his son, Aunt Eleanor, after hearing two people plot to kill him. We hoped she might come to you.”

Well, here she was. It remained to be seen what for.

“I did not, Aunt Eleanor. Indeed, I came to London hoping to find them, but they have already left for Longford Court.”

Eleanor inclined her head.

“I need your help, Aunt Eleanor. Or, rather, Lucas Mogg needs your help. You remember him? He  helped to save Dan last year from the man who wanted to take him.”

Yes, Eleanor well remembered the attempt on the son of young Jules’ Redepenning, and Mr Mogg’s role in it. “A good man,” she agreed. “A pity he is not of your class, my dear, for I know you have a tendre for him.” Although Eleanor supposed it was too late for such considerations, if they had been travelling together. She hoped they had not been travelling together.

“We have been travelling together,” said Kitty.

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In The Flavour of Our Deeds, which I am currently writing, Kitty and Luke, with Luke’s son Paul, are on their way to London, having failed to find Kitty’s sister Anne and her husband at their Essex estate. Once in London, they will seek help from the Duchess of Haverford and her son Aldridge.

 

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Backlist spotlight on The Realm of Silence

The Realm of Silence

(Book 3 in the Golden Redepennings series)

Rescue her daughter, destroy her dragons, defeat his demons, go back to his lonely life. How hard can it be?

“I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved…  the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave.” George Eliot

When Susan Cunningham’s daughter disappears from school, her pleasant life as a fashionable, dashing, and respectable widow is shattered. Amy is reported to be chasing a French spy up the Great North Road, and when Susan sets out in pursuit she is forced to accept help from the last person she wants: her childhood friend and adult nemesis, Gil Rutledge.

Gil Rutledge has loved Susan since she was ten and he a boy of twelve. He is determined to oblige her by rescuing her daughter. And if close proximity allows them to rekindle their old friendship, even better. He has no right to ask for more.

Gil and Susan must overcome danger, mystery, ghosts from the past, and their own pride before their journey is complete.

Buy links

https://books2read.com/TheRealmofSilence: https://books2read.com/TheRealmofSilence

Excerpt

Four years had passed since he last crossed verbal swords with Susan Cunningham, and she looked no older. Did the infernal woman have the secret of an elixir of youth? She had been widowed long enough to be out of her blacks, and back into the blues she favoured: some concoction that was probably the height of fashion and that both hid and enhanced her not insubstantial charms.

As always, she was perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, and perfectly behaved. And he undoubtedly looked every bit as if he had been travelling for weeks, apart from the brief stopover in Derby with his sister.

She was breathing quickly, fear for her child flushing her face. To one who knew her, and who watched her closely, she held her composure by a thread.

The crowd of onlookers leaned forward to catch his reply. “Is there somewhere we can discuss your business in private, Mrs Cunningham?”

That fetched a considering nod. “Miss Foster, may I present Colonel—no, Lord Rutledge? He and I grew up on neighbouring estates. Lord Rutledge, Miss Foster’s niece Patrice is, we presume, with my daughter.” She indicated the child shifting nervously from one foot to another nearby, with Miss Foster firmly gripping her shoulder. “Patrice’s sister Clementine. But shall we seek privacy for our discussion?”

Until this moment, Gil had wondered if he was setting up a false trail. After all, he was not certain he’d seen Amy in Stamford. Why would The Goddess be hunting for her in Cambridge if she was a day’s hard ride away? But the girl had been dressed like the child Clementine, and was of the right age and appearance. Besides, if he were wrong he’d make it up by devoting himself to helping with the search. The interview in Essex with his reluctant sister-in-law would need to wait until The Goddess’s child was safe.

He gave Moffat the signal to deal with their mounts and the packhorse, and followed Mrs Cunningham into the inn. Susan, he said silently, though underneath that silence earlier names sounded in his head. Joan. Athene. Boadicea. Just as her father had named his sons for battle-tried kings and emperors who led successful armies, he had given his daughter the names of female warriors: a saint, a Goddess, and a queen. The ten-year-old girl who followed the boys at their games demanded and won a more common name, but to his mind it had never suited her as well as those bestowed upon her before God, at her baptism.

He expected her to demand answers as soon as they were private, but she had never behaved like the other women he knew. She stood, seemingly at ease, one golden brow arched, and waited for him to speak. She took his breath away. She always had.

“How long have the two girls been missing?” Saturday, the ostler said, which would fit. But it seemed unlikely such a devoted mother would have so long delayed the search.

“Saturday,” Susan confirmed, “though the school found out only today, and told me when I arrived unexpectedly.” She seemed to think that required further explanation. “I was journeying back to London from Michael’s estate in the north, and diverted on a whim to visit Amy.

The girl could have been Amy, then. “What would she be doing in Stamford?”

“Stamford! I can imagine no reason why she and Patrice might go to Stamford, or how? I have been asking about carriages, but… Wait. You saw her in Stamford?”

“Yesterday morning. I did not see her clearly. She was dressed like Miss Clementine here. One of those bonnets. Black half boots. A skirt and coat thing. Both blue. Wool, I think.”

“A pelisse, yes. In bishop’s blue over a lighter coloured skirt. The Fellowes’ Academy requires all its students to dress the same. And her companion would also have been wearing the uniform.”

“She was with a boy. Or, at least, someone dressed as a boy. Thin face. Dark hair from what I could see under the cap. Tall for a girl, if it was a girl. Taller than Miss Cunningham by perhaps five inches. Their governess, or whoever it was, ordered them into the post chaise and they took off on the North Road.”

“Governess.” Susan’s brows drew together as she thought about that.

“It must have been someone else,” Miss Foster proclaimed.