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Celebrating To Tame the Wild Rake week 3

 

Third contest over. Congratulations to Heather, our winner for week three.

Week three contest.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Third week prize is:

Grand prize for the full six weeks

Each entry also gets you a place in the draw for the Grand Prize, to be drawn in six weeks.

  • A $50 gift voucher, provided I can organise for it to be purchased in your country of origin
  • A print copy of To Wed a Proper Lady
  • A personal card signed by me and sent from New Zealand
  • A made to order story — the winner gives me a recipe (one character, a plot trope, and an object). I write the story and the winner gets an ecopy three months before I do anything else with it, and their name in the dedication once I publish.

This week’s discount is 99c for To Mend the Broken Hearted

Runs from 7th September to 15th September

Available at this price from Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08VHWS1SD/

or from my SELZ bookshop: https://judeknight.selz.com/item/to-mend-the-broken-hearted

This week’s giveaway at my SELZ bookshop is If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales.

Runs from 7th September to 22nd September. Pick up from my bookshop: https://judeknight.selz.com/item/if-mistletoe-could-tell-tales

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 19

 

Aldridge put down his cup. “Wales is not best pleased with His Grace at the moment. A matter of a loss at cards.”

Eleanor and her elder son grinned at one another, and her younger son perked up, looking from one to the other.

“Should one be grieved by the loss of a fosterling,” Eleanor mused, “and take one’s sorrows to, let us say, a Royal princess who might be depended on to scold her brother for the behaviour of one of his favourites…” Eleanor stopped at that. Jonathan did not need the entire picture painted for him. He gazed at her, his eyes wide with awe.

“His Grace will not dare make a fuss. If His Royal Highness finds out that the very man he sent to save him from the offended citizens left a cuckoo chick in the nest of an esteemed leader of the community…”

“Precisely,” Aldridge agreed. “Mama, you are brilliant, as always.”

The duchess stood, leaving her cup on the table, and both boys. “Let us, then, go up to the nursery, and make sure all is well with your new baby sister.”

***

Haverford Castle, Kent, November 1812

Haverford had not even hinted at coming to her rooms since Jonathan had brought Frances to join her nursery—the little girl a greater gift than her son could ever know. The scandal of the child’s existence was a secret Haverford needed to keep from his royal cousins, and she had been able to use her knowledge of that secret to secure her wards’ future under Haverford’s reluctant and anonymous protection, and to ensure her continued freedom from his intimate attentions.

It had been an unpleasant negotiation, determined on her part and rancorous on his—not that he much wanted his aging wife, but he resented having his will forced. In return for his agreement, she had promised to continue as his political hostess, and to maintain the myth of a perfect Society marriage.

Why was she spoiling a perfectly good afternoon thinking about His Grace? She came up here to explore quite different memories.

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Backstory in WIP Wednesday

I write a joined-up Regency world; one in which the families in the Upper Ten Thousand are related in a complex network of kinships, friendships, and other associations. People from different books and even different series went to school together, or use the services of the same private enquiry agent or the same bookshop of restaurant. They attend one another’s wedding and stand as godparents for one another’s children. I didn’t set out to do that, but it is just the way I think. One of my cross-series families is the Haverfords, particularly the Duchess of Haverford and her eldest son, the Marquis of Aldridge. Since Aldridge’s HEA is being published this month, more than six years after he first appeared on the published page, I’m publishing some of the Haverford backstories on a website for the purpose. https://haverfordhouse.judeknightauthor.com/ Go check it out. I’ve also written some descriptions of the houses the family owns, and I’m publishing extracts from all the books that Aldridge appears in. Here’s one of the backstory pieces:

The Haverford family have long believed that their ancestors were once kings in their part of Kent. This may be true, but if so, it was in the dim past before the Saxons. Possibly before even the Romans. Certainly the family were powerful in the region from early times. Baron Chillingham is now the least of the ducal titles, but the earliest holder of that title was descended from Richard of Caen, one of the knights who crossed the Channel with William the Bastard. Richard, or so family historians believe, married the daughter of the man whose lands he had been granted, thus beginning the family practice of making politically astute marriages. A later marriage brought a marquisate into the family. The Scottish Marquis of Aldridge came south with King James VI of Scotland, when that monarch inherited the crown of England. His only child, a daughter, inherited the title. When she was wooed and one by the current Baron Chillingham, her eldest son inherited both titles. (If you have wondered why Aldridge is a marquis and not a marquess, it is because the Haverfords do not hold with changing a perfectly acceptable Scottish word that has been in their family for generations just because the French use the same spelling.) The Aldridges continued the astute political maneuvering so typical of their family, staying in favour with the Stuarts sufficiently to be rewarded with a ducal title on the Restoration of Charles II, but without annoying the Parliamentarians enough to have their castle at Margate levelled or their palace in London confiscated. Now the Haverfords, they continued to enjoy royal favour, with some very deft footwork when James II gave way to William of Orange. The Duke of Haverford shown on the family tree here has continued several family traditions. He is a canny politician, a determined custodian of every treasure ever accumulated by the family, a profligate womaniser, and a terrible husband and father. The Duchess of Haverford is a Grande Dame of Society, a renowned political hostess, and godmother to half the younger generation of the ton. She is also connected by blood or by marriage to a huge number of noble and gentle families.
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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 18

It was much as Eleanor already suspected, though the villain in the piece was neither of her sons. Lord Jonathan Grenford, arriving in Fickleton Wells to inspect and pay for the offspring of a horse pairing that he coveted, found that the whole town, except for the owner of the horse, gave him a cold shoulder, and no one would tell him or his groom why.

Only on the last night of his stay did he hear the story. He came back to his hotel room to find a woman waiting for him. “A gentlewoman, Mama, but with a ring on her finger, and quite old — maybe 30. I thought… well, never mind that.”

Aldridge gave a snort of laughter, either at Jon’s perspective on the woman’s age or at his assumption about her purpose.

Jon ignored him. “Anyway, I soon realised I was wrong, for there on the bed was a little girl, fast asleep. The woman said she belonged to Haverford, and I could take her. I argued, Mama, but I could see for myself she was one of us, and that was the problem. The woman’s husband had accepted Frances when she was born, but as she grew, she looked more and more like her father.”

“He resented being cuckolded, I suppose,” Eleanor said, “Men do, my sons, and I trust you will remember it.”

Both boys flushed, the younger one nodding, the older inclining his head in acknowledgement, the glitter in his eyes hinting he did not at all appreciate the gentle rebuke.

“He took his frustrations out on Mrs Meecham, which she surely didn’t deserve after all this time when I daresay he has sins of his own, and on little Frances too, which was entirely unfair. Mrs Meecham said that if Frances remained as a reminder, the Meechams could never repair their marriage, and that she feared one day he would go too far and seriously hurt or even kill the baby. So, I brought her home. Can we keep her, Mama?”

Eleanor looked at Aldridge, considering.

“She is not mine, if that is what you are thinking, Mama,” her eldest son told her. “She might have been, I must admit, but she was born fifteen months after I was last in Fickleton Wells. I’d been in Scotland for six months when Mrs Meecham strayed outside of her pastures again.”

Six months after the scandal, His Grace the duke had travelled back to Somerset, to pay damages to the gentlemen of Fickleton Wells who claimed that their females had been debauched. He had greatly resented being made a message-boy by the Prince of Wales, and had been angry with his son and the females he had shamed for their indiscretions and beyond furious at the cuckolded gentlemen of the town for imposing on his ducal magnificence with their indignation. The mystery of Frances’s patrimony was solved.

“She is so sweet, Mama, and has been through so much. She needs tenderness and love. Don’t tell me I must give her to foster parents or an orphan asylum. I know His Grace will not be pleased, but…”

Eleanor smiled. “The problem with Fickleton Wells, Jon, as I’m sure Aldridge is aware, is that it is a Royal estate. Wales was mightily annoyed at what he saw as an offence against his dignity. He insisted on Haverford making all right.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He clearly thought this presaged a refusal.

Aldridge was seven years more sophisticated and had been more devious from his cradle. His eyes lit again with that wicked glint of amusement. Eleanor nodded to him. “Yes, Aldridge, precisely.”

 

 

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Celebrating To Tame the Wild Rake week two

Second contest over. Congratulations to Andrea, our winner for week two.

See the new post for the week three contest, discount and giveaway.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Second week prize is:

Grand prize for the full six weeks

Each entry also gets you a place in the draw for the Grand Prize, to be drawn in six weeks.

  • A $50 gift voucher, provided I can organise for it to be purchased in your country of origin
  • A print copy of To Wed a Proper Lady
  • A personal card signed by me and sent from New Zealand
  • A made to order story — the winner gives me a recipe (one character, a plot trope, and an object). I write the story and the winner gets an ecopy three months before I do anything else with it, and their name in the dedication once I publish.

This week’s discount is 99c for To Wed a Proper Lady

Runs from 31 August to 7th September

Available at this price from Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0841CJ7TQ/

or from my SELZ bookshop: https://judeknight.selz.com/item/to-wed-a-proper-lady-the-bluestocking-and-the-barbarian

This week’s giveaway at my SELZ bookshop is Hearts in the Land of Ferns.

Runs from 24 August to 6th September. Pick up from my bookshop: https://judeknight.selz.com/item/hearts-in-the-land-of-ferns

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Spotlight on A Spy for Minerva

 

The Rakes and the Crown, book 2

After watching her parents die in a vicious carriage accident, Lady Minerva Hatfield knew that her life would change forever. She had trained since childhood to be a spy in the illustrious spy network, the Rakes of the Crown. But, with the Order on her heels, she has to hide — in plain sight — to save her life.

Lord Jacob Spencer, the Earl of Blackridge, has no clue that he has a spy living in his home. That is, until, his best friend married Lady Juliana Hatfield. Then out of the woodwork, literally, came Minerva — the identical twin sister of his friend’s new wife.

Will Jacob and Minerva’s past come between them? Will the Order agent succeed in killing her? And, will love conquer all?

Order now at: https://books2read.com/u/4DRJNr (Amazon link available 24 August)

Excerpt

Prologue

Lady Minerva Hatfield, the younger daughter of the Earl of Dumbrey, was sitting opposite her parents in the family carriage. They were bound for the coastal county of Kent where their boat to France was waiting for them just off of Dover. She had been to the coast many times with her parents, but due to the conflict on the continent, she was not allowed to go on missions with them. She always stayed with her Uncle Basil for the several days that her parents were gone. This time, though, she was on her maiden mission with her father to gain information for the Crown.

To say she was excited was a true understatement. She was anxious, nervous, and fidgety beyond belief. She would put to work all she had been taught over the years. To say her education was slightly different from most girls (or even young men), was again, quite an understatement. Minerva and her twin sister Juliana grew up knowing their father was part of a spy ring for the Crown known as the Rakes. Normally, the title of “Rake” was passed from father to son, but in her father’s instance, it was father to daughter since there was no son.

Crack!

The sound woke Minerva from her daydreams. The sudden feeling of being weightless went through her as the carriage was overturned and threw its occupants around like rag dolls. Minerva could hear screams, but she was unsure whether they were her own or not. When the carriage finally came to a halt, the screams had faded, and all was eerily silent.

Minerva lay dazed, afraid to open her eyes. She wondered why her father hadn’t gotten up to make sure everyone was unharmed. The thought echoed through her mind. Maybe she should open her eyes, rub off the pain, and do what her father should be doing.

When she opened her eyes, the full scope of what had happened assaulted all of her senses. Her mother lay under her father, her neck cocked at an unnatural angle, her eyes sightlessly staring at her. Her father had the same look in his unseeing eyes. It took her a moment to realize what had happened to him. A large shard of glass from the carriage’s window had embedded itself in the back of his head.

She was alone. The horses were either dead, injured, or had run away. The driver was nowhere to be seen—this is, if he was even alive. She would have to be strong and find a way to make it back to London, to her sister. . .

Meet Jessica Clements

Jessica Clements writes historical romances set during the US Civil War and the Regency Eras. When she’s not writing she is playing with her son, composing music, playing in a band, and working her day job.

One of the many things she and her son love to do is travel to new historical places. They have been to: Custer’s Battlefield, Saint Augustine, Savannah, and a couple of smaller battlefields in Alabama. They hope to be able to add to their list soon.

Website – https://www.jessicaanneclements.com/

Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/JessicaAClementsNavarro/

Twitter – https://twitter.com/jclementsauthor

BookBub – https://www.bookbub.com/authors/jessica-clements

Facebook Reader Group – https://www.facebook.com/groups/2497384330578831

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Philanthropy and charitable causes in Regency England

In the Regency, supporting charitable causes was a social obligation. For a start, it was a religious obligation, and parishes were one of the mechanisms through which people supported those in need. Owners of land and buildings were subject to a poor rate tax, collected and administered by the parishes. This funded the workhouses and other support to the poor of the parish. Your local minister would also present causes from the pulpit, or during visits to parishioners, and ask for support.

The involvement of the church was a legacy of medieval times, when institutionalised giving meant giving to the church, since the church ran the orphanages, hospitals, homes or other support for elderly pensioners, the medieval equivalent of soup kitchens, and so on and so on.

The dissolution of the monasteries removed the vast array of religious orders through which these many services to the poor were delivered. Nonetheless, the new Church of England did its best to pick up the strands, and certainly continued to collect tithes, donations and bequests.

Whereas Catholic doctrine had focused on the act of giving itself and the role it played in securing the donor’s immortal soul, Protestant teaching focussed far more on what was actually achieved with donations. This meant a new focus on understanding the actual issues of the day and trying to address their underlying causes. [Rhodri Davies, https://www.cafonline.org/about-us/blog-home/giving-thought/the-role-of-giving/the-history-of-civic-philanthropy-in-the-uk-what-can-we-learn ]

From the Middle Ages to the middle of the eighteenth century, church and state struggled ‘for control of the substantial financial resources involved in the act of giving’ [Sherwin, David, ‘The Great Charity Debate in Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa’, Journal of Church and State, 2000]

Slowly, the emphasis moved from supporting the church’s charitable ventures to supporting philanthropic ventures set up by a non-church organisation such as a guild, or by a group of interested people. And, while men fronted many of the organisation, an army of women made them work.

By the Regency era, the role of private philanthropic associations was firmly established. The characters in my books and those of the Bluestocking Belles who are actively involved in fund raising for good causes are firmly rooted in history. And The Ladies’ Society for the Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans, which we invented for the Bluestocking Belles collection Frost Fair (and which some of our characters mock as The Society for Brats) would not be out of the ordinary in an age that gave us The Female Friendly Society for the Relief of Poor, Infirm, Aged Widows and Single Women of Good Character Who Have Seen Better Days.

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Relatives on WIP Wednesday

I do like writing about relationships within families. One can tell a lot about a character by looking at how they cope with the family they came from. This week’s WIP Wednesday is about relatives, and my excerpt is from the novella I’m writing for the next Bluestocking Belles’ box set.

Martin kept his scold till Doro had exclaimed her relief and left in their carriage, which Martin insisted on having prepared for her. Then Chloe had to listen to a long lecture on irresponsible behaviour, putting herself in danger, disobeying the head of her family whose responsibility it was to protect her, and (for good measure) keeping inappropriate pets.

She found it easy to promise to attend no more reform meetings. The one speaker she had heard had been disappointing, and while the riot had been an adventure, she did not need Martin to point out that she was lucky Lord Robin had been concerned enough to look for her. Indeed, his general and vague description of the harms that may have befallen her were nothing to the gruesome horrors she had imagined on her own.

He was still seething when they met for dinner, when Aunt Swithin distracted Martin’s attention by lamenting that she had missed the meeting. “I was so looking forward to it, dear Martin,” she told him, blissfully oblivious to his shocked horror, “but I suffered an upset to my digestion, so I told the girls to go ahead without me. Did you have an interesting time, Chloe?”

Chloe managed not to laugh, though after one glance at Martin’s face she had to keep her eyes on her plate. “I only heard the one speaker, Aunt Swithin. Mr Thomas, whose articles you liked so much when I read them to you. I’m afraid he writes much better than he speaks. After that the meeting broke up and Doro and I came home.”

Another swift glance at Martin almost overcame her gravity.

“Aunt Swithin? Are you telling me you approve of these revolutionaries? I cannot believe it. What would Uncle say?”

“Not revolutionaries, dear,” Aunt Swithin insisted. “I would never support revolution. Those poor dear children in France! But reform, yes. The government is trying to bully the people instead of listening, and it is not nice, dear. Nobody likes a bully.”

Martin opened his mouth and then closed it again. Chloe waited for him to scold Aunt Swithin as he had her, but instead, he changed the subject. “Chloe is expecting a gentleman caller tomorrow, Aunt Swithin. Lord Robert Finchley escorted Chloe home from the meeting, and asked to call again.”

“Finchley,” Aunt Swithin said, and then repeated it. “Finchley. Ah, yes. The Marquess of Pevenwood’s third son.” Aunt Swithin had taken her responsibilities as the female educator of a young viscount to include a devotion to memorising Debretts. She was also, even under the harsh rule of her husband, addicted to the gossip news sheets, entering into a conspiracy with Cook to read them in the kitchen when Uncle Swithin was out spreading gloom and virtue around the neighbourhood. She showed the fruits of that research in her next remark. “The one they call Lord Cuckoo, because everyone knows the Duke of Haverford laid him Pevenwood’s nest. A soldier, is he not? Does he wear a uniform? A man looks so delightful in a uniform. Does Lord Cuckoo have money, though, Chloe? One cannot imagine that Pevenwood left him any, under the circumstances.”

Poor Lord Robin. Chloe could do nothing about his tragic origins, but she could speak up for his to some degree. “Lord Robin—he prefers to be called Lord Robin, not Lord Robert,” and definitely not Lord Cuckoo, which sounded like a cruel schoolboy joke. “Lord Robin has left the army. I do not know what he plans for his future, nor do I know how much money he has. It is surely none of my business, Aunt Swithin.”

“Only if you wish to marry him, my dove. Money does not buy happiness, it is true. But one is able to be miserable in some degree of comfort. I always wished that Swithin had more money.”

“Aunt Swithin,” Martin protested. “Uncle Swithin was a very—” his pause for thought was telling. “Upright man,” he concluded.

“He never wore a uniform though,” Aunt Swithin complained. “I do love a man in a uniform.”

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 17

Chapter Eight

Haverford Castle, East Kent, November 1812

Eleanor was pleased to spend a few hours on her own. Haverford, having recovered his senses, was making up for lost time at some scandalous house party. Aldridge was in London, though he had not shared his reasons. Eleanor’s wards had accompanied her to Kent, but they had gone to stay with friends for a few days, even Frances, who at nearly fifteen was old enough to begin venturing into polite company in the more relaxed environment of the country.

She smiled at the escritoire that travelled from home to home with her. Hidden in its depths were the first booties she had ever knitted. And reknitted, multiple times, until she got it right. Matilda had worn them, and then Jessica.

Frances, though, was already out of infancy when she joined the Haverford household. There was never any doubt Eleanor would keep her, of course. She could not deny Jonathan and Aldridge; and besides, she fell in love with the little girl at first sight.

Haverford Castle, East Kent July 1806

The Duchess of Haverford examined her two sons as they waited for her to pour them a cup of tea each. To an outsider, they would seem totally at ease — Aldridge relaxed on the sofa, an amused twist to his lips and his cynical eyes fond as he teased his brother about the horse the boy had bought on a jaunt into Somerset; Jon laughing as he defended his purchase, suggesting warmly that the marquis’s eye for a filly blinded him to the virtues of a colt.

To their fond Mama, they appeared worried. Eleanor saw strain around the younger man’s eyes, and quick darting glances at her and then at his brother when Jon thought she wasn’t watching. Aldridge had that almost imperceptible air of being ready to leap to Jon’s defence in an instant; a watchfulness, a vague tension.

Aldridge’s cup was prepared as he liked it, and he came to fetch it from her hands, thanking her with a smile.

She would let them raise the subject, if that was their plan, but she did not intend to let them leave this room without knowing about the new addition to her nursery: a nervous withdrawn little girl of three or four years old. “If she was a bumptious little lordling and not a poor trembling mouse,” Nanny said, “she could be one of my lads come again. Same shaped face and eyes. Same colour hair with the curls that won’t brush out. Their lordships have your eyes, Your Grace, and this wee sprite doesn’t, but I’ll tell you who has eyes just that colour: so close to green as never so.” Not that Nanny did tell the duchess. She did not need to. Those eyes were more familiar to Eleanor than her own.

She handed a cup to the younger son of the man with those eyes.

The child came from Somerset. Jon had brought her home in his curricle, leaving his groom to ride Jon’s horse and manage the colt. On finding out about the little girl, and learning that Jon had deposited her in the nursery and then gone straight out to search town for his older brother, Eleanor had been tempted to question the groom.

However, she wanted Jon to tell her the story.  Or Aldridge, perhaps. It was more likely to be his story than Jon’s, given the age of the child. Jon was only 19. Furthermore, it was in Somerset that a certain outrageous scandal blew up five years ago, resulting in the exile of the sons of two dukes: Aldridge to a remote Haverford estate in northern Scotland, and his accomplice overseas.

Nanny didn’t think the little girl was old enough to be a souvenir of Aldridge’s visit to the Somerset town, but her size might be a result of neglect. She had been half-starved, poor little mite. The bruises might be from falls or other childhood accidents. Nanny suspected beatings, which made Eleanor feel ill to think about.

She sat back with her own cup, and took a sip. As if it were a signal, Jon gave Aldridge another of those darting glances and spoke.

“Mama, I expect you’ve heard about Frances.”

Ah. Good. She was to be told the story. “Is that her name, Jon? Nanny didn’t know it, and little Frances isn’t talking.”

Jon nodded, and smiled. There was a sweetness to the boy that the elder never had, perhaps because he was a ducal heir from the moment of his birth. “She is a little shy, Mama.” His smile vanished and he frowned. “She has been badly used, and for no fault of her own. I could not leave her there, Mama. You must see that.”

Eleanor arched one brow, amusement colouring her voice as she answered. “If you tell me her story, my son, we will find out.”

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Spotlight on Lord Maxwell’s Quest

Lord Maxwell Trent has never remained in one place for long. His fascination for history and quest for antiquities has taken him from Pompeii to Greece to Egypt, and now the search of an ancient sword has brought him to London—and back into Miss Rosemary Fairview’s orbit.

Miss Fairview has always valued her independence. Raised by travel-mad parents and fascinated by her mother’s archaeological journals, she knew that she’d never be content to settle into the dull life of running a household. When word of the lost sword brings Rosemary to London, she finds herself in pursuit of the same relic as her nemesis, Lord Maxwell Trent.

They know it’s impossible the sword once belonged to The Maid of Orléans. But that one sliver of hope, the what-if, propels them on the quest to discover the truth.

Danger stalks them from Mayfair’s drawing rooms to the maze of London’s rookeries. Can they work together to find the sword—and to survive? And will they realize that perhaps they shouldn’t have been competitors at all, but something more?

BUY LINKS:

Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B099DFFLSC/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_taft_p1_i0

iBooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1576524055

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/lord-maxwell-s-quest

BN/Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lord-maxwells-quest-jane-charles/1139848358?ean=2940162258087

EXCERPT:

Partnering with Rosemary was an awful idea, and if he wouldn’t be distracted by worrying about her safety, Max would never have agreed to the proposition.

“You are going to be difficult, aren’t you?” she demanded as the hackney took them from Mayfair and into Whitechapel. The streets were busy tonight, which he found surprising given it wasn’t during the Season.

“I was more concerned with you being so,” he retorted.

“Yes, well, I have a plan to go about locating the sword.”

“As do I,” he informed her.

“How do you know that mine isn’t better?”

“How do you know that mine isn’t?” he countered.

“Oh, this is impossible.” She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window.

This might be the most difficult challenge he’d ever taken on. Not searching for the sword but working with a stubborn woman until it was located.

They said nothing further until the hackney pulled before the address of Madame LaFante.

After helping Rosemary onto the pavement, Max paid the driver then gathered their belongings and prayed it didn’t take them too long to find the sword.

Rosemary had marched ahead and rapped on the door. It was soon opened by a footman. “I’d like to see Madame LeFante,” she announced. “Lady Victoria Westbrook has sent me.”

“Us,” Max added as he stopped behind her.

The footman looked them over, then opened the door wider so that they could come inside.

“Would you please give her this?” Rosemary handed over the note to the footman, which he took, then disappeared down a corridor.

“I’d assumed bawdy houses were darker, or gauche,” Rosemary whispered.

“I’m certain she’s redecorated,” Max decided. Though, it could have been this bright then, not that anyone would have noticed after the sun set, the lamps lit, and rooms filled with men seeking intimacy for a short time. “We need to discuss this wisely and rationally.”

“I’m being very rational, and my plan is sound and sensible.”

“Why are you so confident?” he demanded.

“Because the women at Westbrook House helped me. They know the rookeries, and many were raised within and provided me with locations where someone might attempt to fence such an item or where I might overhear information, such as the tavern we’d both visited.”

He’d assumed she’d gone to her chamber and mapped out the best route to track the antiquity. Instead, she had questioned those familiar with the rookeries.

“I obtained my information from a better authority,” he informed her.

“Why do you always think you are right about everything? I find the women I spoke with highly informative and trust in their judgement.”

“Lady Victoria was correct.”

They turned to find an older woman, long after her prime, wrinkled, but still lovely and sharp.

“Her missive warned of the two of you bickering.”

“Yes, well, I apologize. It is not the best impression to leave,” Rosemary murmured.

Madame LeFante simply laughed.

“I hope you have two chambers that we might use for a short time. I don’t believe even a week will be necessary,” Rosemary explained.

“Two? No, I only have one.”

“Oh, that will never do,” Rosemary insisted.

“I’m afraid it must,” she insisted. “Come along. I’ll show you up.”

“We can’t share a chamber,” Max hissed. He’d thought having his own bed to sleep in would bring him at least some peace while undertaking this search with Rosemary.

This would be worse than that night in Jerusalem. He’d barely slept and was all too aware that she slumbered in his bed. Yes, Rosemary aggravated him to no end, but that didn’t change the fact that he found her desirable. So often he’d wanted to kiss her, simply so she’d cease arguing with him. At least, that was the excuse he made to himself, knowing it was a lie since there were several occasions when he’d wanted to kiss her, and not all of them were when they argued, such as when her eyes sparkled when she held an antiquity or she showed her enthusiasm during an excavation.

Blast! There was hardly ever a time that he didn’t want to kiss her for one reason or another, but he never would, for the same reason he’d not crawled into the bed in Jerusalem. She was an innocent miss no matter how worldly in her travels.

However, he’d never admit such to her, even if she were the one holding a knife to his throat because she’d never let him forget the admission.

“We aren’t even married,” Rosemary quickly objected.

“I recognize a married couple when I hear one.” Madame LeFante laughed again. “Besides, Lady Victoria introduced you as Mr. and Mrs. Milton Smythe, and that is who you are as long as you are here.”

Bloody hell.

MEET JANE CHARLES

USA Today bestselling author Jane Charles is a prolific writer of over fifty historical and contemporary romance novels. Her love of research lends authenticity to her Regency romances, and her experience directing theatre productions helps her craft beautiful, touching stories that tug at the heartstrings. Jane is an upbeat and positive author dedicated to giving her characters happy-ever-afters and leaving the readers satisfied at the end of an emotional journey. Lifelong Cubs fan, world traveler and mother of three amazing children, Jane lives in Central Illinois with her husband, two dogs and a cat. She is currently writing her next book and planning her dream trip to England. Be sure to join Jane in her private reader group Romance & Rosé:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/romanceandrose

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