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Spotlight on “I’ll Always Be Yours” in Desperate Daughters

I’ll Always Be Yours: By Ella Quinn

All her life Miss Harriett Staunton believed she was the natural daughter of an earl. In the merchant society in which she was raised, that only garnered improper proposals. Knowing she would never wed, she moved to York, far away from her London family.

Lord Sextus Trevor needs to wed. Unbeknownst to him, his father has arranged a marriage. But before he is even told about the betrothal, he’s whisked off to York, where he meets Harriett Staunton and must find a way to defy his father.

And 8 other great stories.

Excerpt

Sextus resisted the urge to draw Miss Staunton closer as they strolled The Walk. Thus far, it appeared Serena Beaumont could not have chosen a better lady for him. Miss Staunton had all the qualifications of a diplomat’s wife. What he needed to know now is if they had or could develop the type of passion and meeting of the minds that would make a happy marriage. They had to want the same things out of life in order for their future to succeed.

“I believe Lady Beaumont mentioned you enjoy charity work. In what types of charities are you involved?”

Miss Staunton focused her bright green eyes on him. “Helping children. I have only been in York for a few months, but I have learned what the most basic needs are. Yet, I believe there needs to be a better plan when it comes to the future of children who do not have families or have families who cannot provide for their futures.”

That sounded like what his married sisters were doing. “What do you see as the failings?”

“Putting them in the lowest forms of employment or apprenticeships and not ensuring the children are treated properly. We had one boy of only six years return with serious burns from being forced to clean chimneys that had not been sufficiently cooled. That is unacceptable.”

It sounded like the master should be arrested or taken to court. But he knew how hard that would be and the funds it would take. “I agree. What will you do?”

Her brows furrowed, and she stared ahead of her. Sextus missed having her looking at him. “I have asked my solicitor to look into it.”

If only he could help. Then it occurred to him he might be able to. “If you would like, I can write to my brother who is a barrister. He might be able to be of assistance.”

In a flash her expressive gaze was his again, and she was smiling. “Oh, would you? That would be wonderful!”

He didn’t want her to think he had solved all her problems. Nonus might not be able to help at all. Still… “All I can do is ask. It is his decision to make.”

The joy in her face dimmed. Sextus’s letter would have to be persuasive. “Yes, of course. I understand. Thank you for offering to contact him.”

“That, Miss Staunton, would be my pleasure.” He smiled down at her.

Thankfully her lovely lips tilted up again. “Thank you again.

Now, how to approach his next query? “What do you dream about for your future?”

She glanced away toward the ducks in the river then back to him. “I have not allowed myself to consider it overmuch. I do not expect to wed.” Pain of some sort clouded her eyes and the sparkle faded. “My aunt attempted to bring me out among the merchant society in London. I was not accepted.”

There was no surprise there. The French term bourgeois had come to represent the narrow-minded attitudes of merchants to natural children and the women who birthed them. Their loss was possibly his gain. “They are not the only society in England or even the world.”

Miss Staunton heaved a sigh. “I know, but they are the people I was brought up around.”

She was as lady-like as any female he’d known in the ton. “But not educated as.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It is a conundrum I have never understood. Why educate me as a lady?”

Why, indeed. There was a mystery here Sextus would enjoy delving into if he had the time. And time was a problem. Despite all the actions his family had taken, the duke was bound to find out he was in the country. “May I say that I am very glad you are a lady?”

She flashed him a quick glance from beneath her lush dark lashes. It was an innocent look, but more than enough for his body to respond to her allure. A beautiful pink painted her cheeks. “Thank you.”

Sextus had never lacked for female company. Nevertheless, he was always extremely discreet. But none of his paramours had infused him with an immediate desire to take her somewhere and discover if she would respond to him the way he was responding to her. He wished he had time for a longer courtship, but needs must. “What if you had an opportunity to marry and have children, a family?”

Her white teeth bit down on her plump bottom lip. “I have not allowed myself to wish. It would be too painful.”

Her tone was sad and full of longing. Was it too soon to raise her expectations? He gave himself an inner shake. They had only just met today. He had at least a week or two to change her mind. “After your experience, I understand.”

“Look. There is a girl selling bread. Shall we feed the ducks?”

Miss Staunton was very good at changing the subject. Another talent that a diplomat’s wife required. “That sounds like a lovely idea.”

See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.

Desperate Daughters is on preorder for publication on 17 May. Order now to get the preorder price of 99c

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The artist Turner and Lady Twisden from Desperate Daughters.

Author Alina K. Field joins us today to discuss some of the research for Lady Twisden’s Picture Perfect Match, her contribution to the new Bluestocking Belles collection with friends, Desperate Daughters.

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Having fulfilled her duties to her late husband, her stepson, and the family estate, our heroine, Lady Honoria Twisden has removed herself to York where she plans to become reacquainted with her niece, Lady Seahaven, live independently, and most importantly finish a painting!

I am not by any means skilled in drawing or painting, and writing a heroine whose passion is painting was a challenge for me! So I gave Honoria a fascination with someone I knew a bit about, one of the most famous artists of the period, J.M.W. Turner. Information about Turner abounds on the internet, and I had seen one of his paintings up close, in real life, the Battle of Trafalgar, at the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. Turner’s landscapes and paintings of the sea are distinctive and dramatic. One would never expect the practical, dutiful Honoria to have such romantic taste in art!

As it happens, Turner spent a great deal of time at Farnley Hall near Otley in Yorkshire, the home of one of his patrons, Walter Fawkes.

Having learned about Turner and his visits to Farnley Hall from her stepson’s art tutor, Honoria stops there on her journey to York for a chance to see some of Turner’s sketches and paintings.

My hero has seen some of Turner’s watercolors at the National Gallery and finds them not to his taste—too emotional, too dramatic. He much prefers portraits and paintings of dogs or horses—George Stubbs for example, or at the very most, restful landscapes:

Excerpt

“When I viewed Turner’s work in London, I didn’t…well, I’m a literalist, I suppose. When one is outlining a plan of assault, precision is helpful. I’ve always been drawn to portraits, or paintings of horses.” He laughed. “Or dogs. Yes, forgive me. I enjoy George Stubbs’s work. And I like restful landscapes.”

“Restful landscapes before battle.”

He took her hand and his gaze slid to the canvas. “Yes. I’ve seen enough scarred, tumultuous landscapes after the fighting.”

“Oh. Augustus, I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me—”

“No.” He set a finger to her lips. “What I’m trying to say is that Turner’s work with his play on light and shade, and yours, are steeped in, well, feelings. Your Minster is marvelous, gothic, and haunting. Are you working on the sky?”

Marvelous. Did he truly mean that?

“The sky?” he prompted.

“The sky. Yes. One would like a beautiful blue, but this is closer to the true one as it is now.”

“They say the strange skies and cold weather might be due to a volcanic eruption in Java two years ago.”

“Yes,” she said. “I read of that. It’s such a big world.” She would never see Java, but she’d like to go as far as France, and in her wildest dreams, Italy.

Honoria is referring to the 1815 volcanic eruption at Mount Tambora, an historical event that had a world-wide effect on weather and agriculture, and also the paintings of J.M.W. Turner!

Have you seen Turner’s work? What do you prefer—romantic and emotional, or precisely drawn images? Or perhaps something modern and completely open to interpretation?

About Lady Twisden’s Picture Perfect Match:

After years of putting up with her late husband’s rowdy friends, Honoria, Lady Twisden, has escaped to York where she can paint (even if badly), investigate antiquities, and enjoy freedom.

Then her stepson appears with a long-lost relation in tow.

Promised York’s marriage mart and the hospitality of his cousin’s doddering stepmother, Major August Kellborn is shocked to find that his fetching hostess is the one woman who stirs his heart.

Where to find it: Lady Twisden’s Picture Perfect Match is one of nine novellas included in the Bluestocking Belles & Friends collection, Desperate Daughters, to be released on May 17, 2022.

About Desperate Daughters: Love against the Odds

The Earl of Seahaven desperately wanted a son and heir but died leaving nine daughters and a fifth wife. Cruelly turned out by the new earl, they live hand-to-mouth in a small cottage. The young dowager Countess’s one regret is that she cannot give Seahaven’s dear girls a chance at happiness. When a cousin offers the use of her townhouse in York during the season, the Countess rallies her stepdaughters. They will pool their resources so that the youngest marriageable daughters might make successful matches, thereby saving them all. So start their adventures in York, amid a whirl of balls, lectures, and al fresco picnics. Is it possible each of them might find love by the time the York horse races bring the season to a close?

Available for Pre-order: https://books2read.com/u/bMwL17 for $0.99. The price goes up after the book’s May 17, 2022, launch day.

About the Author:

USA Today bestselling author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature but prefers the happier world of romance fiction. Her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., but after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California where she shares a midcentury home with a gold-eyed terrier and only occasionally misses snow.

Website: https://alinakfield.com/

 

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Male and female persepectives on WIP Wednesday

In this week’s excerpt, my heroine’s son has been sent down from Cambridge for fighting, after a classmate shared some old gossip that insulted Regina. Her brother, the boy’s guardian, has received a letter from the chancellor and comes to growl, but changes his mind when he hears what provoked the fight.

William opened his mouth and then shut it again, finally saying, “Oh.” He then, the cad, turned to Regina and said, “I thought you were going to tell him?”

Regina glared. “We had that discussion three weeks ago, William. Did you expect me to tell him by letter? If Matthew Deffew had not seen fit to share his scurrilous version of the story with his son, we would have been having this discussion when I next visited Cambridge, and Geoffrey would not have an injured hand.”

“Hmm,” William said. “Broke your hand, did you?” He raised an eyebrow and attempted to remain stern, but a smile twitched the corners of his lips. “Broke young Deffew’s jaw with it, I gather. Must have been a good blow!”

“William!” Regina would never understand men. “I thought you agreed with me that this was not the way to quell gossip.”

William had the grace to look sheepish. “Yes, I suppose. But you have to admit that our boy was provoked.” Then he compounded his crime by adding, “Pity we can’t do the same for the little rat’s lying father.”

Regina threw her hands up in the air. “Men! Thinking that a fight solves anything. I am going up to get changed for an afternoon drive with a friend.”

“Anyone we know?” William asked.

Regina wanted to keep her escort’s identity from her menfolk. Which was silly. It was not as if Elijah was courting her. And even if he was, William and Geoffrey had no reason to object. And even if they did… What a ridiculous train of thought. “Elijah Ashby.”

“The travel writer that you and Father used to correspond with?” Geoffrey asked. He turned to William. “I have read all of his books, Unc… um…” He blushed over his own hesitation and then rushed on. “His and Lord Arthur Versey’s, that is.”

In a moment, the two men were exchanging views on the adventures recorded in Elijah’s books. Perfect amity was restored. Regina rolled her eyes and went up to change.

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Tea with Lord Cuckoo

Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, had called into Haverford House to have tea with her son, the new Duke of Haverford and her daughter-in-law Charlotte–or Cherry, as the whole family had taken to calling her (at least in private).

“Anthony will be joining us shortly,” Cherry assured her, after they had greeted one another, commented on the weather, and shared the most pressing of the family news. “He had a meeting.”

Even as she spoke, the Duke entered the room, another young man trailing in his wake. Haverford greeted his wife with a kiss on the cheek and gave another to Eleanor. “You are looking well, Mama. Marriage to His Grace of Winshire clearly suits you.”

It certainly did. Eleanor could not help a smug smile.

“But allow me to present my guest,” Haverford continued. “Lord Diomedes Finchley, Your Graces. Lord Dom is heading to York later this week, and has been kind enough to offer to carry out a commission for me while he is there. Dom, these wonderful ladies are my mother, the Duchess of Winshire, and my darling wife, the Duchess of Haverford.”

Lord Dom bowed, flushing a little as he looked at Eleanor. She knew what was troubling him and hastened to put him at ease. “Dom, how pleased I am to meet you. May I call you Dom? We are, after all, in some sort related, since you are half-brother to my sons and to my wards.”

He flushed still more. “Your husband did not acknowledge the connection, Your Grace,” he pointed out.

“My deceased husband did many things he should not, and left undone many things that were his duty, Dom. We do not need to perpetuate his errors.”

“Please sit down,” Cherry suggested. “Will you have tea? I know Anthony would prefer coffee.”

The young man sat, looking very uncomfortable at first. But Eleanor and Cherry exerted themselves to make him feel welcome, and soon they were talking about the charitable foundation the duchesses supported that found work and offered medical care to returned soldiers and sailors. Dom, who had been a captain in the Hussars during the recent wars, was very interested and offered to make a donation.

“And what is at York?” Eleanor asked, after a while. “If my question is not intrusive.”

“Not at all,” Dom told her. “My mother’s brother apparently died while I was overseas with the army. The solicitor’s letter has only just reached me. I have apparently inherited his estate, which is not far from York. I’m off to see whether it is a place I can make into my home. And I have promised Haverford to look into how people are feeling about the reform movement, while I am up there.”

“The York Season will be in full swing in a month or so,” Cherry commented. “I know my brother used to attend from time to time, mostly for the races, which are in early May.”

“I do not know if I will be there that long,” Dom said. “It depends how I find the estate.”

“Keep it in mind,” Eleanor advised. “Every single young man in possession of an estate, should be on the lookout for a wife.” She smiled again, thinking of her own recent remarriage. “And love. Love, I have discovered, is the best of all reasons to wed.”

Dom Finchley, alias Lord Cuckoo, is the hero of my “Lord Cuckoo Comes Home”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.

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Spotlight on “The Four to One Fancy” in Desperate Daughters

The Four-to-One Fancy: By Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Fate has given twins Ivy and Iris Bigglesworth a season in York. They vow to marry only brothers so the sisters will never be apart. But what are the odds of finding and falling in love with  two eligible brothers? However, there are potential substitutes. Hearts race when they meet two handsome cousins who are betting their future on a risky racing venture. Soon the twins learn there are more than fortunes to be lost on a four-to-one fancy.

And 8 other great stories.

Excerpt

Silence fell between them for good long minutes before Ivy asked. “What kind of gentleman would you like to marry?”

Iris considered the question a moment before shrugging a shoulder.

“He must be kind. I’d like him to be handsome. Most of all, he must love family because I would want you to visit me often.”

“That worries me as much as not finding husbands,” Ivy confessed. “What if we do? We would marry and be apart for the first time in our lives.”

The notion caused Iris to stop. She turned to her sister.

“I… I can’t imagine not seeing you every day,” she said.

They remained there on the pavement, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Do you think there may be brothers in attendance?”

“There might,” said Iris, tilting her head. “We would need to see an invitation list to be sure. Why do you ask?”

Ivy raised her chin in firm resolve. “It is the only way forward. By marrying brothers, we would be sure to see each other more often than if we married anyone else. We have to marry brothers. It is the only way.”

The twins found the stationers. They sought out the most colorful paper in stock and tallied it up. It was slightly more than they could afford.

While the clerk looked at them expectantly, Iris and Ivy exchanged a glance. Each knew what the other was thinking—they had a few coppers they’d intended to spend on new paint brushes. If they reused the ones they brought with them, they could afford it.

Ivy pushed the paint brushes aside on the counter and handed over the coins for the paper.

Now the basket was exceedingly heavy. Each twin took the handle, carrying the load between them. It was awkward, but it was the only way it could be done.

Iris returned to her contemplation.

Brothers.

Yes! That was the only solution. She and Ivy would simply have to find brothers to marry.

See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.

Desperate Daughters is on preorder for publication on 17 May. Order now to get the preorder price of 99c

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Scandalous gossip on WIP Wednesday

In today’s excerpt, my heroine’s step-son gets into a fight at university, and is sent down.

In the drawing room, Geoffrey prowled while the tea makings were brought in. When the maids had left the room, Regina patted the seat beside the couch.

“Come and sit down, my darling.”

Geoffrey straightened. “I would prefer to stand, Mother.”

Regina inclined her head. “As you wish.”

“The short story is that I was sent down for fighting. I – Ah – broke someone’s jaw. That’s why I have no money. I gave it all to pay for the doctor and for the nurse who was going to look after him while he recovers.” Geoffrey swallowed, and shuffled from one foot to the other.

Regina waited. Let him tell his story in his own words, and then ask questions.

After a moment or two, Geoffrey took a deep breath and continued. “The Chancellor said that was part of my punishment for resorting to brute violence instead of using my brain. He told me to go home until my hand healed, and to talk to you about what Richard Deffew said.” He sat down like a puppet with its strings cut, flopping any old how into a chair.

“Richard Deffew?” Regina commented. “That would be the gentleman whose jaw you broke, I take it.” Mr David Deffew had mentioned having a nephew at Cambridge.

Geoffrey nodded. “Although he is no gentleman, Mother. I did not mean to hurt him so hard, although he deserved it.”

Regina remembered the threats David Deffew made when he tried to coerce her into an elopement all those years ago. She had a good idea of what he might have said to spark Geoffrey’s temper. Her boy was generally easy-going and slow to anger, but his wrath burned hot when it did erupt. She took a deep breath. Best to know what was said, before she at last told Geoffrey the truth of his origins.

“What exactly did Deffew say?”

Geoffrey blushed. “I won’t repeat his foul words, Mother. But in essence, he said you are my mother in truth, and you were married off to Father — Gideon Paddimore — because you were ruined beyond recovery, and he was your father’s…” He hesitated, looking for a word. “Your father’s intimate friend.” His blush burned deeper.

Regina raised her eyebrows. She had expected Gideon’s reputation to be called into question, but not her own. “I had just turned fifteen when you were born,” she pointed out. “Rather young to be steeped in sin.”

“Yes,” Geoffrey said, but the relief in his tone indicated that the accusation had bothered him. “I knew he was lying, especially when he said Uncle William must be my father because I look so much like him.”

Regina’s eyebrows shot up further. “That would have made him a very precocious twelve-year-old,” she said. “To set the record straight, Geoffrey, I did not give birth to you, and William is not your father.” She paused, wondering how to broach the truth.

Geoffrey gave her an opening. “Do you know, Mother? Who my real mother and father were, I mean. Only, I do look like Uncle William.”

Regina took a deep breath. Gideon, I wish you were here. “You know that we always told you that your father took you into his arms, his heart, and his life when you were a few hours old.” She held out a hand that trembled rather more than she wished.

Geoffrey took it. “Yes, and you did the same when I was two years old and you married Father.”

“I did,” Regina agreed, and continued with what she needed to say. “Gideon was there that day because, when the mother who gave birth to you died shortly afterwards, the midwife sent for her lover.”

Geoffrey’s hand gripped hers and his eyes burned. “My father.”

Regina nodded. “Your father. Gideon was with him when he got the message. Your father was married, Geoffrey. He could not take you home, he refused to put you into an asylum, and he was reluctant to leave you to paid care. But Gideon had already, as he told you, taken you into his heart. He claimed you as his ward, and from that moment on, you were his son and everything but blood.”

Geoffrey’s focus was on the man who had given him up rather than the one who had taken him in. “Did my real father want nothing more to do with me?” he asked, a tremble in his voice.

“He visited you often, my darling, until the day he died when you were only two years old.” Regina had given Geoffrey a handful of clues, but he still didn’t put them together.

“Father told you all of this.” It was a statement, not a question.

Regina nodded again. “Certainly. Once we had agreed to marry.”

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Tea with Doro

The Hampton Hotel, Harrogate

September, 1815

Doro Bigglesworth was rather startled when her employer, Horace Crowley, stopped by her office. Office may be too grand a word. Doro managed the kitchen and catering service bookkeeping from a windowless room no bigger than a linen closet.

“A guest wishes to see me?” Doro asked.

“Aye. One of the posh guests in the Grand Duchess Suite.” Crowley started to laugh. “Full fancy duchess she is with an entourage. She must think we’re all upper folk here. She called you Lady Dorothea. It was all I could do not to laugh! You best go see what the grand dame wants. Try to act a posh lady when you do.” He left chuckling.

Doro’s heart sank. She kept her title to herself here. Socially prominent guests would be horrified at an earl’s daughter working for wages. Worse, Crowley and the other staff would treat her as an oddity. She’d lose their comradery or, worse, find herself unemployed.

A young woman, wearing a plain but well-made afternoon dress, opened the door to Doro’s knock.

“I’m, ah, Dorothea Bigglesworth. Someone wishes to see me?” she asked, hoping it was a mistake.

“Thank you for coming, my lady. Her Grace will be pleased.” Before Doro could think, deny, or react, the woman showed her into a sitting room, and she was confronted by one of the most powerful women in Britain. The Duchess of Haverford smiled across at her.

The duchess appeared much as she had six years before when they had met at a house party. She had the inherent dignity of a duchess and the profound beauty of a woman whose character and bone structure combined to allow her to age well. Their encounter had been brief, and Doro couldn’t imagine what this august person might want with her.

“It is you, Dorothea! I was certain I recognized you working in the dining room this morning, but I feared my memory might be faulty.”

Doro sighed. Most people saw what they expected to see and would have seen only a hotel employee. Her Grace was sharper than most.

“Please come and sit with me for a while. I suspect you have a story to tell, and I’d like to hear it.” The duchess glanced at her companion, who bowed out and promised tea. Doro doubted she would be there long enough for it to come up from the kitchens, but she sat across from Her Grace as requested.

“This hotel is charming, but it must be fine indeed if it can manage to include an earl’s daughter among its employees,” the duchess said, sympathy and curiosity radiating from her expression in equal measure.

“They don’t know about my status, Your Grace. My employer didn’t believe the message. He assumed you were mistaken, and I would prefer to keep it that way,” Doro said. “I know what I’m doing isn’t the done thing, but I want neither pity nor scorn, and most people—”

“I am not most people, and I have no doubt you have your reasons. Dare I ask you to share them with me?” the older woman asked.

Tea appeared miraculously from somewhere in the suite, along with some rather lovely biscuits. If Doro hadn’t been so distressed, she might have asked the source and the recipe.

“I’m not the dragon many call me, Dorothea. If you are in distress, perhaps I could help.”

The sympathy, the tea, and some magic all the duchess’s own, soon had Doro spilling out her heart. The entire haut ton must know about her father’s death, his lack of an heir, his five wives in succession, and his overabundance of daughters. The rest, too embarrassing to bandy about, had been less well known. She explained about the lack of provision in her father’s will, her distant cousin’s rapid seizing of her childhood home, and his vile wife’s treatment of Patience, her stepmother and good friend.

“All of you? Living in a tiny cottage in Starbrook?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Patience has a toddler and two half-grown stepdaughters to raise. Most of my sisters live there still, but we have all tried to fend for ourselves, and, where possible, send her money to help with expenses.” Doro leaned forward urgently. “Please know that I don’t mind it. I board here, freeing board and space. I rather like working. It gives me pride, and I love Patience. We’re all doing what we can.”

“You never wished for a come-out? Marriage? A home of your own?” The duchess asked.

“Once. Mourning followed by poverty made a Season impossible. That time has passed, however, and I am content.” She was. Doro sincerely meant it. Mostly. Except walking out with Mr. Clarke on her half days had allowed hope to creep in to her lonely heart. She saw no reason to share that bit of information.

The Duchess of Haverford appeared skeptical but was too generous to voice her doubts. She put down her teacup. “Thank you for sharing your situation. I’m not sure what I can do to help you or your stepmother, but know that I will keep you all in mind should an idea occur.” She raised a brow as a thought occurred. “Lady Patience is the cousin of Lady Rose St Aubyn is she not?”

Doro agreed that was true, but could see no way it mattered. The duchess brushed it aside.

“I regret I may have complicated your life, Dorothea. What will you tell your employer?”

Doro grinned. “I’ll tell him you discovered that The Hampton’s famous current buns were my doing and you wanted my recipe. I’ll tell him I refused. We can’t have Hampton’s treasures bandied about.”

The duchess laughed gleefully. “I admire your backbone, Dorothea Bigglesworth. You are a woman of strength and courage.”

Doro returned to her little cupboard with a song in her heart. The office may not be much, but it was her domain and she, Doro Bigglesworth, was a woman of strength.

Doro Bigglesworth is the heroine of Caroline Warfield’s  “Lady Dorothea’s Curate”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.

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Spotlight on “The Butler and the Bluestocking” in Desperate Daughters

The Butler and the Bluestocking: By Rue Allyn

The last thing Bess expects to find at their borrowed townhouse in York is a stranger claiming to be a butler. She has every reason to disbelieve him, but her family is in desperate need, so she squelches common sense and offers him a job on the spot. Pray heaven, she won’t regret her decision.

On arriving in York to visit his godmother, the honorable Malcolm K. Marr did not expect to find her house locked and empty. Nor did he expect to have to break in to the house to find shelter. Least of all did he expect to be awakened at mid-day after the break in to find a woman with the bearing of an Egyptian goddess demanding to know what he was doing in her house.

And 8 other great stories.

Excerpt

“Unhand her, you cur.”

Bess ceased her struggles.

Mrs. Crewe had arrived, and from the clatter of footsteps, she had the watch with her. 

“Of course.” He set Bess away from him, but his gaze never left her face.

Bess shifted to take in the entire scene. Yes, there stood Mrs. Crewe, a fire poker in her raised hand. Behind her framed in the doorway, stood two watchmen, one just arriving behind and to the right of the other.

“Cor Bill, who’s the toff?” queried the newest arrival. “And who’s the lady toff with him?”

“I dunno, Jim. He could be the butler for all I know. When Mrs. St. Aubyn sent word she was leaving, she said nothing about if her servants would stay or not.”

The remarks drew her attention and the stranger’s.

Bess managed to stifle into a snicker the irresistible urge to laugh.

The stranger’s tawny eyes gleamed, and all his teeth showed.

No doubt about it. Those strong white teeth prove he is smiling.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” demanded Mrs. Crewe.

The stranger looked a question at Bess.

Bess turned to her housekeeper and the curious faces of the watchmen behind her. “Mrs. Crewe, I believe we’ve had a misunderstanding. Would you be so kind as to show the watchmen out?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Crewe. Here are vails for their trouble.” The supposed butler stepped forward, coins in hand to give to the housekeeper, who gave the stranger a narrow-eyed look. 

“Are you certain, my lady?”

Bess nodded. “Quite.”

The stranger, his hand still outstretched, looked back over his shoulder at her, that smile doing very odd things to her stomach.

“There is no danger here.” Bess assured her housekeeper and the watch. Why she now believed the stranger represented no hazard to her or her family, she could not have said. The important thing was to get the watch out of the house before anything else could happen.

“Hmpfh,” uttered Mrs. Crewe. In taking the coins, she was forced to lower the poker, but she did not release it. “I’ll be back instantly, my lady.” With that she turned and ushered the watchmen before her toward the front of the house.

“I think you’d best explain yourself, Mr. . . .” She wondered what concoction of bouncers the man might create to explain his presence here. One thing she knew for certain, he was no butler.

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Random bits of knowledge on WIP Wednesday

One of the things I love about writing historical romances is the research. Not just the big important stuff, but the odd bits of knowledge that I come across or look up for a particular story. Do you have an example in one of your books? I’d love you to share in the comments. Mine is the opening to my next story for newsletter subscribers. My newsletter is going out next week, and the story is called The Easter Bonnet.

“Come on, Millie. Put that away and join us,” Sadie tempted.

Millie shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “I have to finish this.” She held up the bonnet she was trimming.

“You can do it in the morning,” Sadie insisted. “We’re going to drop into the pub for a tot of gin and a bit of a chin wag.”

“I have to deliver it on my way home,” Millie countered. “Madam said the lady is leaving for the country in the morning, and wants to take it with her.”

“Madam should do it herself then.”

Madam was with child, but Millie had been told that in confidence. “I don’t mind,” she told Sarah. “It is going to be very pretty when it is finished.”

Sadie stared at her for a moment then shrugged. “Another time, then.” She whirled around and in moments the door shut behind her and Millie was alone.

She finished attaching the edging. The bonnet was formed in twisted straw, edged in a ribbon that apparently matched Lady Paula Temple’s favourite walking dress. Lady Paula planned to wear them both to Easter services in her home village, for the delight—to hear the lady tell the tale—of the entire community.

Millie picked out another length of ribbon of the same colour but much wider, and began to pleat and pin it around the base of the bonnet, so that the straw would not catch in the lady’s coiffure. Coiffure. Millie said the word out loud, shaping it with lips and tongue. Coiffure was what the upper classes called their hair dos. It must be nice to be a wealthy beauty with an indulgent father and a whole battalion of suitors.

A further length of ribbon, this one in a slightly darker shade. It would go over the join between brim and bonnet, then be gathered into a rosette on each side where it met the base. Two more lengths from the same roll would form the ties to hold the bonnet on.

Quick but careful stitches soon had those in place.

Millie had made herself a bonnet in a similar design, though of much cheaper materials and in different colours. Madam would not object to Millie copying the design, as long as there was no chance of a customer recognising the copy.

Millie snorted. Fat chance of that. The customers who could afford Madam’s creations did not see such lowly beings as a milliner’s assistant.

The silk flowers came next. Pink moss roses, symbolizing perfect happiness and also the confession of love. Daisies for innocence. Blue cornflowers for hope. Myrtle for good luck. Lady Paula had specified these particular flowers. Millie wondered what message she was trying to send and to whom. But perhaps Lady Paula just liked the colours.

Millie secured a single rose, three daisies, and two cornflowers inside the brim, where they would draw attention to Lady Paula’s eyes. The rest would form—soon did form, thanks to Millie’s clever needle—a cascade over the other side, covering the join between brim and crown.

There. Done. Millie set the bonnet back on the hat block and stood back. She walked all the way around where it sat on the table. Yes. It would do.

Her own version of the hat was trimmed with violets. Innocence, modesty, remembrance. The violets were the least damaged of all the silk flowers being sold at half-price, because they had been damaged by an accident with a bucket of water. She had parted with a hard-earned a sprig of myrtle at full price, because good luck was worth it.