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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

by

Tea with a pair of distinguished authors

The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society expectations. Unlike many of her peers who cling to rigid social positions, she possesses the ability to discern a person’s true worth beyond their title or wealth. Growing up, she was undoubtedly a spirited child, characterized by her openness to embrace people from all walks of life.

Recently, the Duchess found herself drawn to the vibrant atmosphere of a London circulating library. It was there that she had the pleasure of attending an event featuring two distinguished literary figures: Lady Alicia Hartley, celebrated for her captivating prose in “The Lost Dowry,” and J. C. Melrose, whose poignant narrative, “In My Brother’s Shadow,” left a lasting impression on the audience.

The reading, a blend of eloquence and emotion, stirred the Duchess’s admiration for both authors. Impelled by her genuine appreciation for their literary talents, she extended a gracious invitation to join her today for tea, a gesture reflective of her innate inclination to forge connections beyond the confines of societal conventions.

Lady Alicia, with her pen dipped in the ink of romance, wove a tale of love and passion, but with a distinctive twist: her heroines were not damsels in distress awaiting rescue, but formidable figures in their own right, possessing agency and independence rarely seen in the literary landscape of the time.

C. Melrose’s narratives ventured into the realms of war and adventure, where heroes were forged amidst the crucible of conflict and adversity with protagonists, imbued with courage and fortitude, navigated treacherous terrains and faced formidable foes, embodying the timeless virtues of honor and resilience.

“More tea?” Eleanor asked with the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” Alicia smiled brightly and lifted her cup.

“Justin,” Eleanor said as she warmed Alicia’s cup, “you’ve teased me long enough. I still find it difficult to believe that Alicia didn’t know you were a male. I mean, when your work was compared to hers, she assumed you were a woman using initials to hide her identity.”

“He did use initials to veil his identity.” Alicia put down her teacup and placed her hand on the arm of Justin’s chair. “It resulted in a significant misunderstanding that nearly extinguished the spark of attraction between us before it had a chance to ignite.”

Eleanor could see why Alicia is hailed as an exceptional romantic author. The eloquence and emotion in her prose attested to her mastery of the craft.

“I fell in love with her when she bowled me over fleeing my uncle’s office.” Justin’s glaze shifted between his wife and Eleanor. “A scathing review had been published and singled out my book in comparison.”

“Justin was my anchor when I needed one.” Alicia pulled her gaze away from her husband and focused on Eleanor.

“Though I must admit, the brink of disaster was partly of my own making.”

Eleanor, intrigued, placed her teacup on its saucer. “Of your making?”

“Indeed.” Justin’s smile carried a hint of mischief. “You, my dear Alicia, made it quite a challenge. Your incessant harping about J.C. Melrose hardly helped matters.”

Eleanor’s brows creased, puzzled. “What does J.C. Melrose have to do with any of this?”

Justin hesitated for a moment, exchanging a knowing glance with Alicia. “J.C. stands for Justin Caulfield. Melrose was my mother’s maiden name. My editor chose the pen name to avoid any undue influence from my uncle, Isaac Caulfield—”

“The Isaac Caulfield of Caulfield Publishing?” Eleanor’s mouth was agape, her surprise palpable.

“Yes, indeed. Isaac is my uncle,” Justin confirmed. “He actually published my debut story without my knowledge. For me, all that mattered was writing the stories about the men I served with and the situations we were in. It was an opportunity to…” Justin paused.

“Justin’s honored those with whom he served. He had a driving need to tell their story in his way.” Alicia’s eyes shimmered with pride as she looked at her husband.

Eleanor, touched by the revelation, couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Justin’s predicament. “Would you care for something stronger than tea?”

“You are most kind, but no thank you. The success of my first book left me with little choice but to continue using my pen name.”

“Are you either of you writing any new stories? I read a story that reminded me of Lady Alicia’s writing, but it was penned by Ruth A. Casie.” Regretfully, military war stories were not her cup of tea.

“You must be speaking of The Lady and the Flame. When Justin came to do a reading where I live, Sommer-by-the-Sea, I told him the story of Margret’s Miracle. We were touring Sommer Castle at the time. There were two other people who listened to folk tale. Miss Casie contacted me about the story. In the end, I suggested she write the story. She did quite a good job of if.

“Other than that, we haven’t written in some time.” Eleanor focused on Justin. “Uncle Isacc retired and passed the company to us.”

Justin glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. it’s time for us to bid you farewell.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you found each other. Your story is a breathtaking adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

“Eleanor.” Alicia left her husband’s side and embraced Eleanor. “Thank you for your invitation. We have a long journey ahead of us to Sommer-by-the-Sea.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “I wish you both safe travels. The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one, the transformative power of understanding, respect, and collaboration.” She hugged Alicia. “Please, you must visit me again.”

The Lady and Her Quill

Lady Alicia Hartley’s head kept telling her to stop loving him, but her heart couldn’t let him go.

“It’s very easy to get involved with [the] character’s feelings in this historical romance.  Both are right and wrong, and when they realize that’s when the excitement and adventure really starts.” [Petula, Goodreads, 5 Stars]

Renowned author Lady Alicia Hartley has lost her muse after a bad review. She blames it all on the author JC Melrose. A chance encounter with a handsome, witty Justin Caulfield has her heart racing, and her muse seemingly back. Is he her savior or her worst nightmare?

The recently retired Captain Justin Caulfield is facing his own demons. As gifted author JC Melrose, his stories honor men who died at the hand of one man. His only focus is to avenge their deaths, that is, until he meets and falls in love with Lady Alicia.

The two authors take on a writing challenge based on a story of stolen gold taken from the newspaper headlines all to determine the better writer. While researching the story, Lady Alicia is captured by the thieves’ ringleader. Can Lady Alicia turn this mystery into an award-winning story? Can Justin save his real-life heroine? Can they both overcome their own challenges for a happily ever after?

Buy Link: Kindle Unlimited

An Excerpt from The Lady and Her Quill

A visit to Lady Alicia’s London publisher brings her unpleasant news.

“Lady Alicia.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “You’re early. What a pleasant surprise. Please, be seated.”

“I apologize for my early arrival, but I am eager to speak with you.”

“Are you here alone?” He came to her side and glanced out the door.

“Yes.” She winced at the trace of defiance in her voice. Another social blunder. Beatrice warned her London propriety was different from that at home in Sommer-by-the-Sea. It amazed her that a different world existed three hundred miles south of the village.

A chaperone.

The idea made her teeth itch. Today, Beatrice was otherwise engaged and in truth, Alicia’s patience ran thin waiting for her.

She stepped inside. The office was cramped not because it was small, but because it was in disarray. Everywhere she looked, there were books and papers. Dark walnut bookcases stuffed with unorderly books lined the left side of the room. Light filtered through bedraggled curtains on the large windows to her right. Several stacks of papers filled Mr. Caulfield’s desk, which was positioned in front of the window. Similar bookshelves were on either side of the fireplace on the far wall – but were hidden behind a pile of papers on a second desk across from Caulfield’s. The clutter of papers and books rendered that desk unusable. A modest fire burned in the grate to take off the chill.

She was surprised the entire place didn’t go up in flames.

She stepped with care around crates that littered the floor, removed the London Gazette laying on the chair, and settled into the seat.

“My sister was unavailable to join us. She and her husband are preparing the family for a trip north to join our parents for the village’s Harvest Festival. I wanted to speak to you before we left.”

Had he heard her? She followed his stare. He was focused on the Gazette in her hand. She glanced at his desk, the chair next to her, but there was no place to put it.

“I’m leaving with the family for Sommer-by-the-Sea. I look forward to reading at Mrs. Miller’s Circulating Library. I wanted to thank you for seeing that my books were delivered.”

“You’re most welcome. I’m sure reading small segments of your story will encourage people to either borrow or buy your book. I am glad you’re here. I wanted to speak to you today on another subject. I too, will be leaving London.” He reached for the Gazette. “Here. Let me have the newspaper, if you please.”

Alicia took a quick look at the headline: Missing Walmer Castle Chest Found – Empty?

She glanced at Caulfield’s extended hand. She was about to give the newspaper to him when she spotted a corner of the paper was turned down, exposing the book review page. She opened the paper and stopped.

One review was circled: The Lost Dowry.

She read the article out loud.

“This is the fifth little story by Lady Alicia Hartley. While her other stories held promise, this book does not reach the standards the author established in her previous publications. Perhaps the author’s muse has gone astray. The characters and conflicts in The Lost Dowry had potential but only the heroine, who is quite good, shines. It is unfortunate that the others appear to have lost their way. They are forced, mechanical, and obstruct the story. In a word, they are disappointing. In this story…”

Skipping the summary of the plot, she went to the final paragraph.

“She should read J. C. Melrose’s In My Brother’s Shadow or any of the other eight stories in that series. There is an author who evokes a man’s emotion, albeit the author could use some assistance with the female point of view. Can you imagine if these authors combined their skills? They would lay out a plot with characters that would keep you reading until the last page or the last flicker of your candle.”

The newspaper trembled in her hand. She went back to the beginning of the article to find the name of the reviewer. Anonymous.

The coward.

Her eyes focused on the review. The small quakes and quivers of the paper she held attested to the state of her nerves.

“How did an appraisal of my story turn into a review for…” Her words clipped, her tone chilly, she spoke with as reasonable a voice as she could manage and scanned the article. “J. C. Melrose?”

She lowered the paper. Mr. Caulfield’s lips moved as the empty feeling in her stomach built into a furious storm. She wasn’t aware of anything he said, until his words filtered through at last.

“Lady Hartley, are you listening? Reviews like this are…not unusual. Keep in mind, you can’t please every reader. I’m glad to publish your little stories.”

“Little stories.” Her heart galloped like a horse in the steeple chase. Her hand touched her pendant. Remain calm.

But soothing herself was getting more difficult by the moment. Even rubbing her stone didn’t help now.

People were buying her novels, all of them. Alicia thrust the offensive paper at him.

“Perhaps we should give the readers some time. We plan to publish your next story in the summer. I want to speak to you about my plans for the company. I’ve bought a new press—”

“The plan was for my new story to be published in February. Now you want a delay? Or do you mean to cancel our agreement?”

His face closed, as if guarding a secret. Her heart sank. He accepted this review. He may be tolerating her tirade, but he agreed with Anonymous.

Unable to remain calm a moment longer, she shot him a penetrating glare as she rose, her parcel in hand.

“Not at all.” He sprang to his feet, his chair scraping the floor behind him. “Being an author is not easy, Lady Alicia. I warned you before we began you would be at the mercy of the reading public, a capricious lot. I knew you were persistent and had promise.” He studied her over the rim of his glasses. “I believe you still do, but with the new press I have plans to—”

But.

How often had she heard that insignificant word in front of every variation of the word no, a weapon men used to deny a woman her due?

“This is one review.” Alicia paced the small space in front of his desk. “Caulfield Publishing has published five of my,” she turned and faced him, “‘little stories’ to your financial advantage.”

He gave her a sheepish glance.

“Before I let you read this…” She paused and held up her parcel. “I’ll give your suggestion to delay publishing more thought, then send you my decision.”

As disappointment and despair dimmed her enthusiasm, she questioned what happened to yesterday’s excitement and celebration. The Lost Dowry was in the circulating library. Congratulatory notes from friends were piled on the salver on the foyer table.

And there was the letter.

She couldn’t believe her good fortune when she read William Lane’s message, although Elkington believed it. She had never seen her brother-in-law so excited. He took out the sherry and they all toasted the occasion. But now…her dream was dissolving in front of her eyes.

How could one awful review ruin everything? Mr. Lane would not want to read her manuscript now, and Mr. Caulfield questioned publishing her next story. Remaining calm was out of the question.

Her secret was out. She had done a good job and convinced herself and everyone else Lady Alicia Hartley was an author.

Everyone but one reviewer. Her breath came in small bursts. She stared at the Gazette on his desk and wanted to tear it to pieces.

“Lady Alicia, please sit down. We’ll discuss this and come to a decision that is satisfactory to us both.”

She glanced at the man, remained motionless, and held her words behind her teeth, not trusting herself to speak. Afraid she’d say something she would regret, Alicia turned and marched to the door with as much dignity as possible.

“My ‘little stories,’ as you like to refer to them, are all the rage.”

She grabbed the latch and hoped he didn’t observe her trembling hand or her watery eyes. At the moment, her single thought was to escape.

“Please, come sit and we can discuss our course of action without any—”

“Womanly emotions?” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“No, not at all. I’ve been trying to tell you about some changes.”

“Another time, perhaps. My family is traveling north, and I mustn’t delay.” By all that was holy, she needed to get away from the man.

“I understand. My regards to your sister and brother-in-law.” He called to her as she pulled open the door and collided into a solid obstacle. Startled and thrown off balance, Alicia lost her grip on her parcel and sent the bundle tumbling to the floor.

Strong hands grasped her shoulders to steady her. Alicia’s head snapped up. She stared into concerned gray, silver-streaked eyes. She took a deep breath and was surprised by the scent of lavender and citrus.

“I… I… forgive me, sir.” She lowered her gaze to the gloved hand on her right shoulder and back to his penetrating stare. “Release me, please. I assure you I have recovered.”

The man’s concerned expression vanished, replaced with a humorous glint. He removed his hands and stepped away.

His great coat flowed around him as he bent and retrieved her parcel from the floor. Her shoulders felt the ghost of his strong yet gentle grasp. As he stood, she looked away eager to leave.

“There is nothing to forgive.” He bent his head toward her and handed her the bundle. “I, too, would want to make a fast escape from Mr. Caulfield.”

“Thank you,” she said without any humor, pulling the parcel close.

“My pleasure, I assure you.” The gentleman tipped the brim of his hat.

Alicia turned and rushed down the stairs.