by

A protective hero on WIP Wednesday

 

This is from my next Lyon’s Den story, Thrown to the Lyon.
***

Ben had given up on finding Seward the night before, after trawling through a dozen awful dives. He woke the following morning determined to track the man down. He had a couple of other engagements for the day, but making Mrs. Kent safe was his priority.

Perhaps the next step was to find Seward’s friends. One of them, Tiberius Hastings, who had once been betrothed to Ben’s sister, was now in a private asylum, after attempting to drown Lauren for breaking off the betrothal. But the man ran with a pack of other dissolute fools.

There was no point in looking for any of them before noon, so in the interim, Ben would meet with his secretary and also call at the Lion’s Den to look in on Mrs. Kent.

They would not let him up onto Mrs. Dove Lyon’s floor, but they showed him to one of the little sitting rooms on the floor above the gaming den, and a few minutes later, Mrs. Dove Lyons joined him, accompanied by the little boy and his soldier doll.

“I have not yet been able to talk to Seward,” he admitted, once they had exchanged greetings.

“I was wondering whether if it would be possible to find the man who gave Stephen the apple,” Mrs. Kent commented. “He was on his way to market, and the apples in his baskets were of exceptional size. Surely there cannot be many apple sellers with apples that are so large?”

It was worth a try. If it could be shown that Seward was lying about the theft, then his entire case collapsed. “When we say exceptionally large,” he said, “what size are we talking?”

The shape she made with her hands was about five inches around. “I thought I might go to the market and look for him myself,” she said. “I would recognise him, you see.”

“Not without escort,” Ben objected. “We need a reputable witness handy whenever you go out, Mrs. Kent, in case Seward tries something else.”

Mrs. Kent accepted his argument without demur, and when they left the Lyon’s Den some thirty minutes later, Mrs. Kent was on Ben’s arm, and a couple of Mrs. Dove Lyon’s wolves (as she called her doormen-come-bodyguards) paced behind them.

Stephen had been left behind in the kitchen, where the cook and the maids had promised to keep him entertained.

Covent Garden market was not far away, but it was crowded, and they had almost completed the circuit of the area before Mrs. Kent pulled her hand away and hurried up to a man who was loading empty baskets into a cart.

“Sir,” she said. “Sir, was it not you whom I met yesterday morning, on the Strand?”

He turned, a cheerful fellow in his middle age, with a girth that hinted at the pleasures he enjoyed at table, and twinkling blue eyes. “It is the lady who helped me pick up my apples. How do you do, ma’am? How is your sweet little boy? Did he enjoy his apple pie?”

Ben gave a sigh of relief. The man could not have been a better witness.

And when Ben and Mrs. Kent explained the situation to him, so he proved to be. He insisted on heading to the magistrate’s court without further ado, and swearing a statement. “My brother, here, and my son shall say the same. I’ll leave them here with the stall, but they can make a statement if needed. And I daresay your constables can find a dozen other people—or more—who were on The Strand near Charing Cross, and who saw the whole thing.”

He had another thought. “Furthermore, if you have the apple, it proves it, for I am the only person within carting distance of London who grows Peasgood Nonsuch, and if she was not given it by me, then there’s nowhere else she could have got it. Show me the apple, man, and let’s be finished with this.”

Mrs. Kent leaned heavily on his arm, as if she was dizzy with relief. “The officers at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court have taken the apple as evidence,” she said. “You will be able to see it when we get there.” The dastardly Seward would be foiled, and she would be free to return to her home.

At Bow Street, a different clerk was on the desk, and when Ben gave his name and title, he was quick to fetch Officer Fairlie. Fairlie was delighted to meet the apple seller—his name was Bert Grummidge. “I’ll take your statement, Mr. Grummidge, if you will just step this way, and yes, the apple will be in the property lockup.”

But it wasn’t. No one could explain what had become of it, but eventually one of the younger constables discovered an apple core in a rubbish bin. It was twice the size of a normal apple, and Grummidge declared it to be a Peasgood Nonesuch, even though not much of it was left and even what was was brown and gnawed.

“That’s good enough for me,” Fairlie told Ben and Mrs. Kent, but I will put the information to the magistrate to see if he requires further information.” He glowered. “And I shall find out who has been eating our evidence. If you can just be patient until I send word to the earl, Mrs. Kent.”

Ben took Mrs. Kent back to the Lyon’s Den. “I beg you to stay with Mrs. Dove Lyon for a few more days, Mrs. Kent,” he said. “Just until I have done what I can to spike Seward’s guns.”

He frowned as another thought struck him. “I will make sure to sort things out before the end of the week. Mrs. Dove Lyon is having another of her masked balls, and you will not want to be in residence at that time.”

After that, he carried Bert off to the nearest tavern for a well-deserved drink.

by

Tea with the donors

This is a piece of description from The Blossoming of the Wallflower. The Venetian Breakfast is a significant event in the past for Caroline Warfield’s character, Belinda Westcott. Her Wallflower story is coming out in December.

I’ve made it an event in my story, too, and what will happen next will focus my hero’s mind on romance.

***

He returned upstairs to his valet, who was on his mettle, since Uncle Jacob and Dar were going to the Duchess of Haverford’s Venetian breakfast, and the valet had never before prepared his employer for an event with such an august hostess. Dar shared the valet’s excitement, not for the same reason. Miss Parkham-Smith was also invited.

But would she attend after her upsetting morning? He wanted to rush next door and check, but then he would be late for the breakfast, and what if she was going after all? She would be, he was sure. Miss Parkham-Smith was no wilting violet. 

It was a benefit event, with the price of the tickets going to help one of the duchess’s many charities, but Dar had been told to take a full bill-fold, for there would be raffles and contest to separate the guests from more of their money in order to support the cause.

Miss Parkham-Smith would not miss the opportunity to help others, he was sure.

Haverford House was outside of London up river, a twenty-minute carriage ride from Mayfair if the roads were quiet and in good repair. The second was true, but the first—half of polite London seemed to be on the road that afternoon. It was a good forty minutes before they turned into the great courtyard formed by the main house and its wings, but Miss Parkham-Smith’s carriage had been within sight for most of the journey, so Dar was able to be patient.

Indeed, the ladies were descending from their carriage when Dar and Uncle Jacob arrived, and by mutual consent, they hurried to offer their arms, Dar to Miss Parkham-Smith and Uncle Jacob to Mrs. Olsen.

Several footmen hurried from Miss Parkham-Smith’s carriage down the steps to the mansion’s basement, carrying large baskets. 

“Many of us have contributed to the meal,” Miss Parkham-Smith explained. “My cook has made several bowls of salmagundy. They are packed in ice in the baskets, together with jugs of salad dressing.”

They were ushered up the steps to the grand entrance and then straight through the spectacular entry hall, with its domed ceiling five storeys above, its sweeping staircases, and more priceless artwork than Dar had ever seen collected in one place before.

They went with a stream of other guests down one side of the staircase and through double doors into another more homely hall, this one with ceilings no more than sixteen feet high and sized not much larger than half the ground floor of Dar’s townhouse. 

A bank of french doors stood open to a terrace, and beyond that was a magnificently manicured garden that stretched down to the river.

Dar remembered reading that the Duke of Haverford had a pied a terre in London for nights when Parliament sat late or he lingered with his latest mistress, but that the duchess and her son, the Marquess of Aldridge, were prone to using the river, timing their travel to take advantage of the tides to sweep down to London or up river to their magnificent home.

They were both there to welcome guests, standing at the top of steps down into the garden. On the lawn at the base of the steps, several marquees made a bright splash, and men and gaily clad women strolled to and fro in the cheerful sunlight or under the shade of the trees that lined a walk down to the river.

Miss Packham-Smith sighed with pleasure. “What a beautiful garden!”

They were close enough for the duchess to hear her, and she beamed. The Marquess of Aldridge also looked pleased. “My mother redesigned the gardens when she married my father,” he said. The duchess explained, “They were in the formal French style, and much neglected, so that many of the plants were overgrown and others had died.”

“You have done a wonderful job,” Miss Parkham-Smith said. “Everything I can see from here is in perfect balance and harmony.”

“You must explore them all,” the duchess insisted. “I am so glad you have come, Miss Packham-Smith. I trust you and your companions enjoy yourself.”

Uncle Jacob said that his old legs would not carry him to every corner of the garden, and Mrs. Olsen felt that there could be no objection to Miss Parkham-Smith walking unchaperoned with Dar, given that it was in the middle of the afternoon and there were so many people. “Lord Finchwater and I will sit on that bench in the shade,” she proposed, “and gossip about all the people.”

Uncle Jacob said that was a perfect recipe for his enjoyment of the afternoon and they left Dar and Miss Parkham-Smith to their explorations.

She was entrancing in her enthusiasm, Dar decided. In fact, she was altogether entrancing. The garden was laid out in rooms, with hedges, shrubs, stone walls, pergolas and other features used to divide one small garden area from another. They walked all the way down one meandering path to the wall between the garden and the river, along the wall past the river gate, up the central path, which was equally rambling, and back to the lawn. 

There was still a great deal to explore, but the first of the raffles had just been announced, and Dar and Merrilyn—somewhere in the last hour they had moved to first-name terms—joined the queue to sign up for an enormous basket of fruit that they would have to give away if they won it, for no one could eat so much before it began to spoil.

By the time they were done, footmen were beginning to circulate with trays of drink, and tables of food had been set out in the marquees.

by

A gardener’s nightmare in WIP Wednesday

Another extract from The Blossoming of the Wallflower, for publication in July.

***

Dar was beginning to question the competence of his gardener.

When he first arrived home, he put in the order for more vegetables of all kinds—he was not quite certain what his reptiles might prefer, coming as they did from the Far East.

The gardener had responded by insisting that the shade of the trees next door would prevent him from fulfilling the order. So Dar had suggested cutting back the trees to allow more sunlight into the garden.

The garden worried out loud about the anger of “her next door”, which was when Dar committed the error of assuming that the man he had seen coming and going from the house was the owner, asked permission, and arranged for the trees to be pruned, under the supervision of the gardener.

He hadn’t watched, and he hadn’t checked the results. Not until after Miss Parkham-Smith visited to acquaint him with his mistake. Then he had walked the length of the garden to see what the men had done, and had been forced to agree with her. The trees had been crudely hacked back in a sloping line from the wall between the properties. Far more than necessary. Far more than the gentle trim he thought necessary.

Remorse and embarrassment kept him nervous around Miss Parkham-Smith and made him brusque with his gardener.

In the days after the pruning, the gardener reported planting out rows of lettuces, cabbages, carrots, turnips, and other vegetables from his seed frames. So far, so good. But when he asked for progress, he was informed that an invasion of what the gardener called ‘nasty little critters’ had eaten all of the tender young seedlings.

Dar told the man to replant. The same thing kept happening. The gardener swore none of his usual traps were working. The gastropods and larval insects feasting on the young seedlings were also turning their attention to the more mature plants, so that the gardener was subjected to bitter complaints from the kitchen, and Dar to equally bitter apologies when a rather large specimen of larvae—stewed and buttered—made its way onto his dinner plate as part of a dish of stewed cabbage, apple, and onion.

Everyone in the household had an opinion of what might deter the creeping and slithering menaces. The gardener, at his wits end, tried them all. Dried and crushed eggshells. Wilted wormwood, mint, and tansy. Dishes of beer. The tiny monsters kept munching.

One recipe was to creep down to the garden in the early dawn to catch the villains at their work. Apparently, snails and slugs were like the aristocracy—out dancing all night and then gliding back into their dark refuges to sleep away the daylight hours.

Dar was awake early one morning. He had had yet another unsatisfying encounter with Miss Parkham-Smith the evening before, and yet another dream of her which would have been entirely satisfying, had he not woken, hard and yearning, before it was fully consummated.

Since he saw no likelihood that he would sleep again, he decided to get up, dress, and embark on his own gastropod hunt. The sun was far enough up for good visibility, but the air would still be cool and moist.

He had always enjoyed this time of the morning, especially on a gorgeous day as this one promised to be. The constant busy roar of London was muted in this short interlude when the roads were empty of the home-going carriages of the ton and had not yet seen the first of the carts and drays that would soon pour into London to service the markets and warehouses.

He spent a few minutes peering into his terrariums, though the glass was misted and he could see little. The fountains would be ready soon, but in the meantime, the servant he had hired to look after the reptiles was misting the water dragons enclosure four times a day.

They, at least, had enjoyed a few slugs with their chopped lettuce.

He was smiling at the thought as he stepped through the gate and into the vegetable garden. He did not at first focus on the figure bent over the lettuces in the far corner, but something teased at the corner of his mind. Surely that was not his gardener? The shape was all wrong. Too tall. Too slender.

Whoever it was had not noticed his arrival. Whoever it was? Dar knew perfect well, at some level too primitive for him to deny. Every stealthy step of his approach only confirmed that instinctual knowledge. What was Miss Parkham-Smith doing in his garden?

by

Cornwall and Cornish in Hold Me Fast

The story I’ve just sent to the publisher is at least partially set in Cornwall, so I needed to do some research to make sure I did justice to the county. Tin has been mined in Cornwall for four thousand years, right to the end of the twentieth century. Other metals, too. By the mid-nineteenth century, overseas competition made the Cornish mines less profitable, and so many miners and their families emigrated that the Cornish have a saying. “A mine is a hole in the ground with a Cornishman at the bottom”.

In my research I discovered that Cornish (Kernewek) is one of those languages that has been brought back from extinction in the past fifty years. It is still classified as critically endangered. In the sixteenth century, many people in Cornwall spoke only Kernewek, and objected strongly to the English Book of Common Prayer becoming the sole legal form of worship in England.

The so-called Prayer Book Rebellion was harshly put down. The language declined in the next two centuries, for several reasons, but at least in part because the local gentry adopted English so that they would not be considered disloyal and rebellious.

By the end of the eighteenth century, very few people (and perhaps no young people) spoke Kernewek.

Names are a different matter. Both first names and surnames are passed down through the generations. My hero and heroine have Cornish first names, as do several of the other Cornish characters.

As to the bogs and mires that play an important part in the story, Bodmin Moor has numerous peat deposits, as well as spectacular granite outcrops. Blanket bogs are peatlands that cover crests, slopes, flats, and hollows of a gently undulating terrain. Valley mires are areas of water-logged deep peat in valley bottoms or channels.

Good advice to walkers is to test the depth of any wet or shaky ground before you step on it.

I hope readers who live in Cornwall will enjoy what they recognise and forgive any errors.

by

First Kiss from Hold Me Fast on WIP Wednesday

I’ve just sent Hold Me Fast off to Dragonblade. Here’s a foretaste–Jowan’s and Tamsyn’s first kiss. (And before you ask, those are traditional names in Cornwall.)

Her smile faded. “Jowan, why are you upset? Do you not wish to be my friend?”

Exasperated all over again, he snapped back, “I wish to be your husband and your lover.”

Tamsyn gaped at him. “You do? Still?”

He couldn’t believe she said that. “What did you think I was about? I’ve been courting you for months!”

“But you have never even tried to kiss me,” she replied.

It was the mystified tone that shredded the last of his self-control. If it was a kiss she wanted, then a kiss is what she would have. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him, but all his indignation eased as his lips touched hers, and he gentled the kiss, his lips firm but tender.

She opened beneath him, her tongue darting out to taste him, and his hands left her shoulders and pulled her closer. Her arms went around his waist and she plastered her body to his, and an endless moment passed as their tongues explored one another and so did their hands.

It wasn’t until he felt her hands pulling his shirt from his trousers that he remembered they were standing on a lookout above the village, where anyone could see them. Reluctantly, his lips attempting to cling, he pulled back.

“The village,” he panted.

“Oh! I forgot.” Tamsyn cast a glance in that direction, and Jowan’s ego celebrated the fact that his kiss had made her unaware of their surroundings.

“I was waiting to be invited,” he told her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The kiss. You said I never even tried to kiss you, but I was waiting to be invited. Tamsyn, you couldn’t control what has happened to you over the years, and you didn’t need another male forcing their desires on you. If that gave you the impression I had stopped wanting you to be my wife, then I am sorry. But I am not sorry you were upset I didn’t kiss you.” Jowan was, in fact, decidedly smug about that last fact, and about how enthusiastically she had responded when he did kiss her.

by

Spotlight on Knight of Chaos

Knight of Chaos:

The Knights of the Anarchy (Book Two)

By Sherry Ewing

Sir Theobald Norwood finds himself embroiled in a mission of loyalty and love as he stands by Empress Matilda in her pursuit of the throne. As he and her army head to Winchester, he stumbles upon a mysterious woman named Mistress Ingrid Seymour, hiding in the woods with her own quest in mind. What starts as a test of her worthiness quickly transforms into a profound connection.

As they join forces on the battlefield, Theobald and Ingrid face not only the challenges of war but also the enemies lurking in the shadows. Ingrid’s identity is called into question, shaking the very foundation of her existence, while Theobald grapples with his own emotions. Amidst confusion, they must find a way to let love blossom and unite their hearts.

But with forces working against them, will Theobald and Ingrid be torn apart by the unpredictable tides of fate? Can they overcome their differences and trust one another, or will the mounting chaos consume their chances at happiness?

Join them on a captivating journey as their destinies intertwine, promises are tested, and a love that could defy the odds hangs in the balance.

Buy Links or Read for #FREE in Kindle Unlimited: https://amzn.to/3wKF754

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3wKF754

AU: https://amzn.to/3TwusUE

BR: https://amzn.to/4c9aN4k

CA: https://amzn.to/3Ivgz2A

DE: https://amzn.to/3VaXbzf

ES: https://amzn.to/48Pki5A

FR: https://amzn.to/3Tp02U1

IN: https://amzn.to/3IuzB9m

IT: https://amzn.to/43cv7Og

 

 

NL: https://amzn.to/3v1Rk4Q

UK: https://amzn.to/3TsAPrK

Learn more on Sherry Ewing’s website at: https://www.sherryewing.com/books/knight-of-chaos/

First Kiss Scene:

Oswin gave a short bow and left leaving an awkward silence in his dwelling. ’Twas clear Oswin wished to claim the lady whereas Theobald had the same notion. But she told Oswin that her heart may have been claimed and this was a promising sign giving Theobald hope. When he gave Ingrid his full attention, he noticed her steadying herself whilst leaning on their table. A basket sat upon it and he lifted the linen covering over the wicker hamper. The remains of a meal were inside. He flicked the fabric closed and noticed a small book. Apparently, Oswin was not the only one who had visited Ingrid this day.

“You have had company,” he complained bitterly.

“But not the company I desired. At least until now,” she answered with a bright smile.

He went to Ingrid, placing his hand at her waist. She stepped closer, reaching up to wind her own hand around his neck. Her fingers massaged his neck. He pulled her closer.

“Who else besides Oswin has been visiting you this day?” he asked as morbid curiosity ran amuck inside his head.

“Must we talk about them? They are your friends and now mine, I suppose.”

“Friends?”

“Aye. They have no hold over me beyond friendship. They only came to see to how I fared. Can I assume you were also concerned, and this is what took you away from the battlefield?” Her voice held a silky tone that went straight to his pounding heart. “Also… did I not see flowers being thrust into your brother’s hands when you thought you were interrupting something that to me was of no import? I assume they were for me.” Her hazel eyes twinkled mischievously.

The flowers! He had forgotten all about them when jealousy had overtaken him seeing Oswin on bended knee. Theobald tried to turn to fetch them, but she held firm. “I should retrieve them from my brother. I thought you might like them.”

“I love them, but please wait to fetch them later…” Pressure from her hand had him bending forward until his lips were but inches from her own.

“Are you certain you wish for this, Ingrid?” God help him if she suddenly changed his mind.

“Aye. Now kiss me, Theobald, and give me what I have been missing my entire life.”

’Twas as though the heavens shined down upon them at her words. He brushed his lips over hers giving her small kisses and allowing her the last chance to change her mind before things went any further. But far from pulling away, she pulled him closer until their chests rose as one. The breaths mingled together until Theobald could stand this sweet torture no longer.

His lips overtook hers in a hungry possession. His tongue swept into her mouth to dance with her own until he lost all common sense. His heart beat fiercely, consumed by the sensations of finally holding this woman against his body. A soft moan escaped her, and Theobald held back one of his own. As much as he wished to stay with Ingrid and finish what they started, he was still needed to fight for their cause.

“Theo…” She whispered his name as if her soul was reaching out to his own. It was almost enough to cause him to change his mind about returning to the battlefield. Almost…

Reluctantly, he pulled back from her. Desire sparkled in her eyes like the brightest star in the sky. “Ingrid, we cannot continue what we have started just now,” he said, placing a quick kiss upon her forehead.

“But I thought…”

“’Tis not that I do not wish for this to continue but I am needed,” he began and at her quizzical look he continued, “to return to the fighting, my dear.”

“Oh… aye… of course, the battle. How silly of me to forget,” she said turning her back to him.

He came and turned her around. He placed his forehead against her own whilst her hands wrapped around his waist. “I will also not dishonor you by taking what has begun between us too far without the blessings of a priest. We have time to continue to get to know one another to ensure we might wish to wed,” he proclaimed, coming to the conclusion that she would take him for her husband when the time was right.

“Are you declaring your intentions, Sir Theobald?” she asked with what appeared like hope filling her eyes.

“When the time is right,” he repeated. Placing a soft kiss upon her lips as though sealing his vow, he turned to leave. “Reynard will be outside if you have need of anything.”

“Theobald,” she called out after he opened the flap of the tent.

He peered over his shoulder. “Aye?”

“Be safe,” she said, giving him an encouraging smile.

He nodded and left. His brief reprieve from the battle over, he would thrust himself back into the fighting as though to finish this once and for all—with the hopes of gaining lands and monies in return for his valor. Only then could he court the fair Ingrid as she so deserved.

Meet Sherry Ewing

Sherry Ewing picked up her first historical romance when she was a teenager and has been hooked ever since. An award-winning and bestselling author, she writes historical and time travel romances to awaken the soul one heart at a time. When not writing, she can be found in the San Francisco Bay Area at her day job as an Information Technology Specialist. You can learn more about Sherry and her books on her website where a new adventure awaits you on every page at https://www.SherryEwing.com.

 

Social Media Links:

 

You can learn more about Sherry and her published work at these social media outlets:

Website & Books: https://www.SherryEwing.com

Bluestocking Belles: http://www.bluestockingbelles.net/

Dragonblade Publishing: https://www.dragonbladepublishing.com/team/sherry-ewing/

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amzn.to/33xwYhE

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sherry-ewing

Facebook: https://www.Facebook.com/SherryEwingAuthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/goodreadscomsherry_ewing

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sherry.ewing

Pinterest: http://www.Pinterest.com/SherryLEwing

Tumblr: https://www.sherryewing.tumblr.com/

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@sherryewingauthor

Twitter: https://www.Twitter.com/Sherry_Ewing

YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/SherryEwingauthor

 

Sign Me Up!

Newsletter: http://bit.ly/2vGrqQM

Street Team: https://www.facebook.com/groups/799623313455472/

Facebook Official Fan page: https://www.facebook.com/groups/356905935241836/

by

A little mouse of a heroine in WIP Wednesday

Thrown to the Lyon is beginning to gel in my mind.

***

Dorcas Kent hoisted the heavy bag of linens and embroidery thread a little higher on her shoulder. Short as she was, it was hard to keep the bag from brushing the ground, which would be bad enough on any day, but worse when three days of heavy rain had turned the streets into a swamp of mud, dirty water, and other far more noxious substances.

She had walked to the drapery warehouse as soon as the sun had peeped through the clouds. Even if she had had the coins to spare, she was unwilling to risk the table linens she had embroidered in the filthy interior of a hackney. Mr. McMillan would dock the price of damaged linens from her wages and would, moreover, refuse to pay for any work she had done on them. Mr. McMillan was the man who employed her to apply family crests, monograms, or whatever motif buyers desired onto the household linens he supplied.

That was also why she was walking home, keeping one wary eye on the gathering clouds.

She carried two weeks or more of work and therefore a month’s rent, and food on the table for at least part of that month. The loss of even a set of table napkins could leave her destitute. Scraping the bag in the mud would be a disaster. Rain before she reached her room would be a disaster.

So, she readjusted the handle for the umpteenth time and trudged on.

Disaster came looking for her just as she rested for a moment against a stone water trough set a little back from the footpath. She had her back against the trough and the precious bag clasped to her belly as she looked idly at the passersby and wished that she did not have so far to walk.

People must have rushed out to enjoy the brief sunshine, for both road and footpath were crowded. One lady caught her eye. She was clad in deep black, and a veil fell from her bonnet to cover her veil. Dorcas found herself wondering about the widow. Did the heavy mourning represent the truth or a social lie?

Dorcas had worn black for Michael, and then again for Noah. Not, however, quite like the lady she observed. She smiled at the very idea. It was like comparing a sparrow and a peacock—her in her hastily dyed everyday gowns and the clearly wealthy lady who was picking her way cautiously around a puddle in her expensive and fashionable sails and velvets.

The lady was just walking past Dorcas when someone dashed out from the shadows and pushed her, so that she stumbled into the street, right into the path of an approaching carriage.

Dorcas was barely aware of the assailant running away and was not conscious at all of casting her bag down and hurling herself after the lady. She didn’t think, but grabbed a double handful of the lady’s redincote and swung her around, just before the horses, snorting and stamping, reached their position.

For one horrid moment, she lost her own balance as the carriage raced towards her. Then hard hands grabbed her, pulling her to safety. And the lady in black, too, she noticed as a tall strong man with hard eyes set her on her feet, and another did the same for the widow. The carriage had driven on by, the driver hurling imprecations over his shoulder.

“How can I ever repay you?” The widow held her hands out to Dorcas. “You saved me from serious injury, at the very least. Titan, did you see who pushed me?”

“No, Mrs. Dove Lyon,” said the man who had caught the lady. “I’ve sent a man after him, but he was fast on his feet.”

“And you, Miss?” Mrs. Dove Lyon asked Dorcas.

“Mrs.,” Dorcas commented. “And no, all I saw was his back as he gave you a shove.”

“Mrs…?” Mrs. Dove Lyon asked.

It was at that moment that Dorcas remembered her bag. “Kent,” she replied absentminded as she looked for the bag. Her heart quailed when she saw it lying on the edge of a puddle. “My linens!” she moaned.

Sure enough, when she picked up the bag, she could see that one corner was completely saturated in muddy water.

by

Music and supper with the ton

An excerpt post, but not for tea. The excerpt is from Hold Me Fast.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, and I shall buy you a drink before dinner,” Bran said.

Jowan would prefer the drink without the dinner. He was doing his best to remain positive, but the word “No” kept echoing in his mind and, somehow, in his gut, too.

Still, Bran wasn’t about to let him stew in his own misery. Besides, Jowan could not turn up drunk to the musicale. He owed it to his people to make a good impression on these Londoners, especially those who were going to decide whether or not the new mine went ahead.

They had brought evening wear with them—Jowan had Bran to thank for that, too. He had insisted they should be prepared for all eventualities. They had both been outfitted by a Plymouth tailor and were—or so the man had assured them—elegant enough for London society.

Certainly, Bran looked good in his, and Jowan could have been his twin but for one inch more in height and hair that was a lighter shade of brown. They had both chosen black for breeches and coat. Jowan had a green waistcoat embroidered in copper and Bran’s was blue with silver embroidery. The clocking on their stockings matched the embroidery, as did the buckles on their black shoes. A pin on their white cravats added another spot of colour—green for Jowan and blue for Bran.

From what he’d seen on his way around London, Jowan wondered if many of the gentlemen would fill their garments to as much advantage. He and Bran both lived active lives, turning their hands to anything needed on the estate’s farms, in the mines or in the fishing fleet.

Perhaps London ladies preferred the weedy creatures he’d passed on Oxford Street. What did Tamsyn prefer now? And there he was again, thinking of her.

“Shall we take a hackney, Bran?”

“Will we get dirtier catching one of those flea and stink traps, or walking?” Bran wondered.

They walked.

The Winshire mansion was in one of the older squares of Mayfair. The largest building of any in the vicinity, it was lit from basement to attics, and so many carriages were attempting to access the front steps that the traffic was queued as far as the eye could see down streets in every direction.

They bypassed the carriages and joined a second instance of traffic congestion on the footpath, as guests waited to ascend the steps of the house. This queue was short and swiftly moving. They soon reached the front door, where they showed their invitations to a footman. The entry hall was large enough to swallow the drawing room at Inneford House. The stairs rose up through the house, lit by a great chandelier, but Jowan could just make out a ceiling lantern high above. The house was twice as high as Inneford House, too.

They ascended the stairs step by step in the queue to the reception line on what in any less elegant house would have been the landing. If one could call a space as large as four tenant cottages a landing.

At last, it was their turn to be greeted by their hostess. The butler took their invitations and announced them to the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The ducal couple were perhaps in their sixties but still vigorous. Jowan could see traces of Drew in the duke—or the other way around, he supposed. The duchess greeted them both with a smile. “You are Drew’s guests,” she said. “Go on into the drawing room, Sir Jowan, Mr. Hughes. Drew is waiting for you there.”

The drawing room carried on the theme of the house. Jowan had seen assembly halls that were smaller, though to think of assembly halls in the same context as this richly appointed and elegant room seemed like a form of blasphemy.

“I’m feeling like a country mouse,” whispered Bran.

“You are,” Jowan pointed out, keeping his own voice low, “and so am I.”

by

Where I’m at with 2024, nearly one third of the way in.

Here we are one third of the way through 2004. So far, January and March’s publications have been published. I just learned this week that The Sincerest Flattery has been pushed back to May, but it is on pre-order, as is The Blossoming of the Wallflower, for July. Not Inviting the Wild, yet, but it is with the publisher for editing.

The two August publications are both written. Hold Me Fast is out for beta reading, and I’m editing the novelette for Hot Duke Summer. I don’t yet have a cover for Thrown to the Lyon. I’ve started writing it and The Trials of Benedict.

I’ve a few other stories that need to be put between covers when I get a minute to think about them. News about those as they come to hand.

by

Mysteries to solve in WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from Hold Me Fast, which should be finished this week. (I’m editing, but I also have to write the very end. The villain is dead, but the story isn’t over until my couple are happily married.) In the following excerpt, Jowan has been turned away at the house where Tamsyn lives, and decides to hire an investigator.

“There is another matter,” Bran said, with a nod of encouragement to Jowan.

Wakefield raised an eyebrow.

Jowan wasn’t sure where to start. “The singer, Tammie Lind. I need to know… That is, could you find out…” What? If she was a prisoner? It sounded ridiculous to his own ears, and he could only imagine what Wakefield would think of it.

“The lady is actually Tamsyn Roskilly, the daughter of our father’s housekeeper,” Bran explained. “She left Cornwall when she was sixteen, promising to keep in touch. She failed to write, even to her mother. When her mother died, shortly after our father, we informed her through the Earl of Coombe, her patron.”

Wakefield, who had been toying with his pen looked up at that, his focus sharpening.

“We received no reply even to that,” Bran continued. “When we called on the Earl of Coombe, we were denied entry. It is possible that the lady has brushed the dust of her homeland from her feet and wants nothing to do with anything from her past. My brother fears that letters from home might have been kept from here, or that she is being suborned in some way, or both.”

“Bran puts it very well,” Jowan agreed. “We will leave her alone, if that is her choice. But we owe her a rescue if she needs one.

“The Earl of Coombe has a dark reputation,” Wakefield told them. “I can tell you that without any investigation at all. How much it is still deserved, I do not yet know. When he was last in England, he was infamous for his parties and his liaisons, and known in certain circles for dissolute behaviour beyond that normally expected of a young British aristocrat. I have not followed his activities on the continent, but I know who might have done so. I can ask. Also, I have another client who has asked me to investigate his current activities. I can report on what I find to you, if you wish.”

“If you would,” Jowan said.

“As to Miss Roskilly, or Miss Lind as she is now known, I should be able to find out what you want to know. You might not like any answers I find for you, however. Coombe was well known for his ability to corrupt innocence, and I cannot imagine that any young woman in his power would escape his attentions.”

Jowan shut his eyes against the roaring in his ears. His sweet Tamsyn in the hands of a villain! He didn’t want to imagine it but was beseiged by a kaleidoscope of scenes of her calling for help while a malign presence assailed her.

“Jowan?” Bran’s voice anchored him back in the presence and allowed him to catch his breath.

“Find out, Wakefield. It is better to know the worst rather than be haunted by speculation.”