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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.

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The Barbary Pirates and coastal villages

The Italian places attacked by pirates between 1516 and 1798. Naturally, people tended to move inland, and to steep places that were harder to attack. Think of that next time you see an Italian village on a steep hill.

In my new release, Hook, Lyon and Sinker, the hero’s life is completely changed by Barbary pirates.

The Barbary states were a collection of North Africa states along what was known as the Barbary Coast. Through until the early 19th century, these states sponsored three kinds of economic activity that other nations eventually ended by force: slave-taking, abduction for ransom, and a protection racket.

The ships that operated out of their ports attacked ships of other nations sailing in the Mediterranean and out into the North Atlantic and also conducted raids into coastal areas in the Mediterranean, the west coast of North Africa, and what is now Europe.

They took goods, but also people who would either become slaves or–if they had wealthy relatives–be offered for ransom. Some of the slaves were offered for redemption, and various charities were set up in Europe and the United States to collect money to buy these captives out of slavery.

Muslims being forbidden to enslave (or even rob) other Muslims, the corsairs attacked any underprotected European or American ship that strayed into their path, thus combining the religious duty of harrying the infidel with the economic pleasure of making a profit.

Except when those ships came under the third kind of activity. The protection racket was an agreement that their ships would not attack ships showing the flag of a nation or merchant who had paid tribute to stop such attacks.

It was not until France took over Algiers in 1830 that the last of the barbary pirates ceased operating out of those ports.

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Another new beginning in WIP Wednesday

This is the first scene in The Blossoming of the Wallflower.

Spring was when the social life of the London upper classes upped its pace from a few insipid entertainments to the full gallop of the Season. Merrilyn Parkham-Smith, in other words, suddenly had to make room for engagements she would have paid to refuse, and to be (at least publicly) polite to the cruel diamonds and sarcastic rakes who had made her first three seasons miserable.

Not that they annoyed her as much as they used to. Not since she and her friends had formed the Nemisis Collective, and devoted themselves to the principles of artistic revenge. The last two seasons had, she supposed, been tolerable.

But spring was also the time when her garden burst into life. Since Merrilyn loved her garden above all things, every minute that she had to spend doing something boring instead of gardening was pure torture.

In the summer and autumn, when much of the Polite World made their exodus to the country, she could spend all day in her garden, if it pleased her to do so. It usually did. Winter was for reading (nurserymen’s catalogues, but also fiction, biology, poetry, and much more). Summer and autumn were for gardening. And spring was to be endured, with moments in her garden as her reward for doing her duty.

She was stealing one such moment this fine June morning. Her liriodendren tulipipefera—the tulip tree she had planted with her grandmother when she was eight years old—had finally produced buds, and when she had checked that end of the garden several days ago, the first of the bracts that enclosed the flowers had begun to open.

By now, perhaps she would find twenty or more fragrant flowers! Pretty six-petalled cups in yellow or green with a stripe of orange at the base and a coronet of stamens around a cone of pistils. How she wished her grandmother was here to see these first flowers!

Merrilyn had three gates—and four gardens—to walk through to reach the tulip tree near the wall that sheltered the compost heap and other garden utilities at the far end.

Grandmama had designed the garden when she first came to this house as a young bride. One in a terrace of townhouses, it and its companions were distinguished from others in the area by the size of the gardens, or rather the length—the width being constrained by the width of each house.

The area closest to the house, which Merrilyn quickly traversed, was designed for viewing from the terrace or from inside the house. The plants had been chosen to fill the space year round with colour, texture, shape, and pleasing scents.

Beyond the first gate was the vegetable garden, designed like a French potager with flowers, herbs and vegetables mixed, and berry cages around the walls.

Then came a modest orchard, with a dozen trees that kept the household supplied with fruit from spring until autumn. Through the third gate, and Merrilyn was in her favourite part of the garden, which she had, as a child, dubbed ‘the Forest’. Grandmama had created a little fairyland of trees, shrubs and forest wildflowers.

Merrilyn left the straight path that led on to the utility area and took one of the forest paths that wandered between the trees. At the far end of this path on the edge of a little glade was her tulip tree.

She had taken no more than half a dozen paces down the path before she saw the carnage. Freshly cut branches covered the walkway and clogged the undergrowth—what was left of it. Horror rose as she saw the mess someone had made of the growth along the wall—trees and shrubs her grandmother had planted. Someone had cut them down to just above wall height. Sliced them off at an angle, right through the trunks, and left the evidence on the ground.

Her liriodendren! She hurriedly retraced her steps to the main path and rushed to the end of the forest section, turning into the path next to the dividing wall with the utility area. It was really no more than a space, three feet wide, kept trimmed to allow access to the wall, but it was clear no longer, since the felled part of the tulip tree had dropped into the space and reached almost to the central path.

She put out a hand to the top of her tree, which only a few days ago had been a brave twenty-five feet above her head. The desecration had happened long enough ago that the leaves were wilting, the buds that had given her such joy were limp and shrivelled.

Tears rose to her eyes. Who had done such a dreadful thing? And why?

 

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Spotlight on Hook, Lyon and Sinker

Hook, Lyon and Sinker

When Lady Laureline Barker asks Mrs. Dove Lyons to find her a husband, she does not expect one of her choices to be the man she admired years ago, when she was still a schoolgirl—the man who rescued her from drowning. He is also a war hero, famed for trading his own freedom and health for the safety of others.

Laurel is committed to a contest, with the winner taking her and her dowry. Can she back out? And will he still want her if she does?

Angelico Warrington doesn’t expect Laurel to remember him. Even if she does, why should she favor him over other suitors? She is the respected sister to an earl, the only flaw on her reputation that she refused to marry a jerk who has been putting off the wedding date for five years.

Angel is a musician in a gambling den, unable to walk without crutches, and with no place in the Society to which Laurel belongs.

This apparently ill-assorted couple are a perfect match, but history must repeat itself and secrets be revealed before they can win their happy ending.

Preorder price only 99c. Published this coming Wednesday. https://www.amazon.com/Hook-Lyon-Sinker-Lyons-Den-ebook/dp/B0CSF79RMD

Excerpt:

One of Titan’s men came to tell Carter and Angel that the first contest was about to start. While they had been talking, some of the servants had rolled out a large square piece of furniture. Angel couldn’t imagine its purpose until he approached closely enough to see that it was an open-topped box about ten feet across. It was lined with something that must be impervious to liquid, for the box was full of water almost to the top. A score or more toy ships sailed on the surface.

“Gentlemen,” said Titan, “if you will take your places, please.” He directed Angel to one side of the box, and Carter to the opposite side. Angel picked up the sling he found waiting for him. The bowl full of smooth blue stones told him what the game comprised before Titan explained.

Carter’s stones were red, Angel noticed. Half a dozen gentlemen took their places along the remaining sides of the tank, and two of Mrs. Dove Lyons men stood flanking each of the players.

Other gentlemen crowded in behind the spotters, though several of Titan’s wolves kept them back from behind Carter and Angel.

Then Titan said, “Go,” and Angel picked up his sling, fitted a stone, and hurled it at a ship. It was harder than it appeared. For one thing, it took considerable force to sink a ship. For another, any lesser hit sent the target careening across the water, rocking the other ships and setting them sailing in unexpected directions. All that movement started waves, which complicated matters still further.

The watchers roared when a lucky shot from Angel sank an already-damaged ship, and again a few moments later, presumably for Carter, though Angel was not about to take his eye from his current target.

As he continued to launch stones, someone came to fill the bowl. Was he getting better? He had the impression he was sinking ships more rapidly, but perhaps it was just that time had slowed as he slung stone after stone, not pausing to see the effect, but moving on the next.

Every now and again, though, another stone hit a ship he was aiming for just before or after his own. If the ship sank, the spotters yelled out the name of the man who was responsible. Twice, there was a dispute, but Angel didn’t allow that to distract him, either.

Then Titan shouted, “Time! Put down your slings, gentlemen.”

Angel replaced his sling on the side of the box and looked across the water to Carter, who nodded and smiled. Angel had no idea whether he or Carter had won. He returned the nod and the smile. Carter was a decent man.

Angel’s eyes drifted up to the ladies’ gallery, where Laurel stood, watching the first of the contests that would decide her fate. Carter was a decent man, but he wanted a mother for his daughters.

Laurel deserved more. She deserved a man who adored her.

 

 

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A cunning plan on WIP Wednesday

 

My hero abducts my heroine in Hold Me Fast. The image above belongs to one of the stories that inspired mine.

It was time, then. Jowan mounted his horse. “Wish me luck, Bran.”

“Always,” Bran replied from the back of his own steed, extending his hand. Jowan shook it and Bran rode off, away from the main ride.

After a nod for the boy on lookout, Jowan nudged his horse into a swift walk. So far, so good. Coombe kept coming. Jowan kept his head down so that the hat would shade his face. The conspirators had calculated that Coombe would not give Jowan a second look, given he was on a side ride and not likely, at his current pace, to reach the main ride before all of Coombe’s retinue had passed.

Good. Coombe was beyond the intersection of the two rides. Jowan gave the horse the signal for a trot, then a canter. One. Two. Three. By the time he counted to fifteen, he was pulling the horse up alongside Tamsyn, clasping her around the waist, and lifting her to sit on his pommel. The clever lady had already kicked her feet free of the stirrup, and so the transfer took a count of two, but that was enough time for one of Coombe’s men to react, forcing his horse foreward to block Jowan’s escape.

The horse Drew had provided for the rescue shouldered the other horse away out of the way and bounded away, reaching a gallop within a second. Ten strides and they were through the gate. They slowed and turned left, continuing to reduce speed. Drew had assured Jowan that the horse would be able to stop within ten yards of the gate, and so two of Jowan’s accomplices waited at that point.

The horse was still moving, if slowly, when Jowan let Tamsyn down into Drew’s arms. By the time he had dismounted himself, Tamsyn had abandoned her riding cape to Prue Wakefield and was donning the hat Prue gave her—a stylish flat hat that tied on with a scarf and hid part of Tamsyn’s face.

Jowan tossed Tamsyn up into the saddle of one of the two horses that a boy was holding, and himself mounted the other. Meanwhile, Prue had put on Tamsyn’s cape and Drew tossed her up on the horse Jowan had abandoned, and was mounting behind her.

“Thank you both,” Jowan called to them as they rode off along Park Lane. Jowan led Tamsyn in the opposite direction. They had organised several more decoys, and would fire off one of them as soon as they reached the corner of Cullross and Park. Drew’s horse would go one way along Park, and the near identical horse that was standing at wait would go the other. They’d repeat the ploy at three more corners, until sixteen chestnut geldings spread out across London, all around 16 hands high and all bearing a rider in a black coat and top hat, with a passenger sitting on the front of his saddle. All those decoys had to do was stay out of reach of Coombe and his men, but even if they were caught, they all had good reason to be out on the roads on such a day.

Meanwhile, Jowan must trust them to know their work, for his part of the plan was to turn off into a street away from the shell game of the multiplying horses, where a hackney waited that would take them west to Bran and the travelling carriage.

“We will go to Southall tonight,” he told the woman in his arms. “It’s two hours, so we will not need to change the horses.”

“They are lovely horses,” Tamsyn said, her voice distant as if she was thinking of something else. “We will send these beauties home to their owner,” he told her. “We turn here, and there, up ahead, is our transport for the next step. It’s not the final, though. The hack will take us to the last vehicle of the day.”

Tamsyn giggled. “It is like the children’s game. Stop the music, and if there is not a horse to plop down on, you lose.”

She willingly allowed him to help her down from her horse and see her into the hack.

So far, so good.

 

 

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The Talons of a Lyon is free from 11th to 15th March

I’m at the readers’ club on Facebook from March 11th to March 15th, posting several times a day, and talking about my A Twist Upon a Regency Tale series, fairy and folk tales, and other topics that may come up. Come and ask your questions or have your say. I’d love to see you. Book of the week is The Talons of a Lyon, and it will be free for the week. If I can figure out the technology, there’ll be a live chat about the book towards the end of the week.

It’s a public group, and has a Dragonblade author every week. Do join us.

Collect the free book here: https://books2read.com/TToaL

Find the group here:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/274839866984258

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Meeting the Matchmaker on WIP Wednesday

Here’s a short excerpt from the book that’s out on 20th March, Hook, Lyon, and Sinker

Mrs. Dove Lyon was not as Laurel had imagined her. Laurel had expected someone garishly painted and indiscreetly clad in gaudy colors. After all, she ran a gambling establishment which also offered other entertainments of the most scandalous kind.

The person who joined Laurel was clothed all in black and veiled. Her garb would not have looked out of place on the most dignified of Society’s fashionable matrons, and was far less revealing than many gowns worn by such august ladies. Her language and carriage too, as she invited Laurel to sit and asked her preference for beverage, were those of a lady.

The knowledge comforted Laurel. Perhaps this desperate scheme might work after all.

Once Laurel had her tea, Mrs. Dove Lyon came directly to the point, without any polite evasions. “Why have you asked to see me, my lady? Do you wish for me to find you a husband?”

Blunt and to the point. Also surprising, for Laurel had agreed to Benjamin’s request that the broken betrothal should not be made public just yet. Laurel thought he wanted to give Tiber time to talk Laurel into reversing her decision, as she had last time, but she had agreed anyway. It suited her to keep the gossips at bay for a week or so.

Her hostess must have guessed at her thoughts, because she said, “Lord Tiberius Hastings was here last night, and he is indiscreet when in his cups. Most of the gentlemen present will now be spreading the news that you have jilted him. Mind you, his loose tongue will work to your advantage, for he was bemoaning his own stupidity in putting off the wedding once again. And, making it clear that his chief regret was losing your dowry.”

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Tea with her husband and a problem

“Surely there is something we can do, James,” said Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire to her husband. “It is outrageous that young Laurel must marry within a matter of weeks or lose her inheritance from her father.”

James shook his head. “Her father has been dead for years, Eleanor. If she was going to object, she should have done so before now. The fact that she has said nothing, and taken no action to challenge the will, means that the courts are unlikely to even listen to her at this late stage. And certainly not before the deadline of her twenty-fifth birthday.”

Eleanor sighed, impatiently. “She says she did not know about the provision, and indeed, how should she? Girls are not encouraged to attend the reading of a will, and apparently neither of her older brothers saw fit to enlighten her. Her youngest brother, who inherited when the older two died, was overseas with the army. He assumed that Laurel knew. Her fiance of the time should have known, but I gather he had not bothered to read the marriage settlements. Whether he really intended to marry her or not, I have no idea, but he has certainly lost his opportunity now.”

James frowned. “Is she certain, dearest? Would she not be better to marry the man she knows than to make herself and her dowry the subject of a contest in a gaming hall?”

Eleanor’s sigh was heartfelt. “So I suggested to her,” she said. “But Laurel says that she would rather be penniless and dependent on her brother for the rest of her life than to exchange another word with that snake, by which I take it she meant her former betrothed.”

“You might remember, Eleanor, that Mrs Dove Lyon’s has had great success as a matchmaker. Perhaps she will manage another of her love matches for your young friend Laurel.”

Eleanor managed a still deeper sigh. “If there is nothing we can do about the will, I suppose we must leave it to that woman. But James, if Laurel is not happy with the outcome of the contests, I am determined that we shall offer her a refuge.”

“Of course, dearest,” said her lovely husband.

***

Find out what happens to Laurel in, Hook, Lyon, and Sinker, currently available at the preorder price of 99c, and published on 20th March. It is part of the Lyon’s Den series, and also a reinterpretation of The Little Mermaid, in the spirit of my A Twist Upon a Regency Tale series.

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Tea with Mrs Grant

“Your grace, I am grateful you are taking the time to see me today” The new bride seated across the table, Mrs. Grant, blushed furiously. “Lady Wallenford sends her deepest regrets that she could not join you today.”

Lady Wallenford had requested this opportunity to meet and to introduce one of her protégés, Mrs. Myra Grant. Before her marriage, Mrs. Grant had been a teacher at the charity home sponsored by Lady Wallenford and two other peeresses, and was the perfect person to answer any questions the duchess might have.

“As she explained to me in her note this morning. I think it is commendable of any mother to consider the health of the children more important than socializing. I do hope the twins recover soon from their fever.”

“As do I.”

“Though this is not really a social call, I’m given to understand.”

“Oh.” The young lady—she was indeed both young and a lady—turned a deeper shade of red.

Eleanor patted her hand. “I’m teasing you. I know you are here to seek my sponsorship of the children’s home. I’m told that Lady Wallenford resided and worked there, and that you took her place after her marriage.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“As a widow with a child to care for and no family, that must have been a great blessing.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Eleanor suppressed a chuckle. Instinct told her that Mrs. Grant was a very good sort of girl who’d had to overcome great obstacles. She had a deep admiration for women like that, as well as a deep curiosity to know more.

She was asking the wrong sorts of questions.

“I want to know more about the children’s home, Mrs. Grant, but first, tell me more about yourself. Where did you grow up, what happened to your baby’s father, and how did you land at the children’s home?”

Mrs. Grant cast her gaze upon the teacup held in now trembling hands and then sighed. “I am blessed in my marriage to Mr. Grant. He knows the truth, all of it, as do all of our lady sponsors and I daresay their husbands, as well. Lady Wallenford assures me the truth will not discourage your patronage.”

Eleanor refilled the younger woman’s cup. “To be lucky in love is no small thing, my dear. What came before such luck, well, it is a tale as old as time, is it not? But do tell me the story of this romance with Mr. Grant. I heard that it might not have taken place except that this was a Leap Year.”

Mrs. Grant smiled and then laughed. “Very well, your grace. Once upon a time, in a small village in Sussex…”

A Leap Into Love

Can a gentleman be too charming? The ladies of Upper Upton think so.

And it’s almost Leap Day, when a man who refuses a lady’s proposal of marriage must offer a forfeit.

When the single ladies of the village conspire to teach their charmer a lesson that might bankrupt him, the town’s loveliest young widow steps up to warn him.

His secrets and hers make them a perfect match—and she’s the lady he wants. But she won’t accept his proposal, not even to rescue him.

As Leap Day approaches, the clock is ticking. Can he convince her in time to say yes to his offer and take a leap into love?

 

An Excerpt for A Leap Into Love

They stepped out of the inn yard and onto the road. Arthur settled himself on his shoulder and snuffled his neck.

He should offer the lady his arm, but she’d put some distance between them, walking in the other wheel rut. “And so what is the verdict on the worsted?”

She bit her lip. “The worsted.” She sighed and squinted at Wills who was ranging far ahead. “We shall buy some of it. Depending upon your price, of course. Mrs. McClintock will be along tomorrow to examine it and talk to you. But in truth…” She stopped, bit down on her lip again and raised her eyes to him. “There is a plot, Mr. Grant. I feel honor-bound to tell you. You must…” Her gaze skittered along the bushes hedging the lane as if someone lurked there eavesdropping. “You must leave town on twenty-nine February. There is a plot.”

Twenty-nine February. “A plot.”

“Yes.”

Twenty-nine February was Leap Day.

The fog lifted. He’d heard of the tradition but never seen it practiced: on Leap Day a lass could propose marriage to a lad. Miss Gurnwood wanted Mrs. Smith to propose to her brother. The stringy young vicar needed a wife. And what had that to do with a plot against himself?

“They mean to conspire, all the unmarried ladies in town. They mean to ask you to marry them.”

He swallowed a chuckle. He’d drawn ladies to his handsome self since he’d begun sprouting whiskers. It was good to know he still had the knack. “And why would they do that?”

Her chest rose with a quick breath. “Why? You’re a widower, they say, and in need of a mother for your children.”

“Is that all?”

She pressed her lips together. “A man who is…well-spoken, reasonably young, and well-established is rare in a village like this.”

“And braw and handsome.”

“Yes, and a…a…well, I must say it: a man friendly with all the ladies. They mean to take you to task. They mean to ask you to marry them, and when you say no, they mean to ask as a forfeit the silk and muslin cloth you purchased at auction today.”

Artie squirmed and looked to his mother, sensing her disquiet.

He patted the plump bottom, and the babe settled. “If I say no. And of course I’ll have to since I’m not some eastern potentate setting up a harem. It’s a diabolical plan. Not too far ahead, Wills,” he called.

“So you see, you must leave.”

“I’m not one to run from trouble, Mrs. Smith.”

Not any kind of trouble. As an officer of the 42nd Foot, he’d fought every skirmish he came across with nary a scratch. It had been an act of charity, taking food to a sick family in Lisbon, that had felled him with a dire case of the mumps and sent him home on half pay.

In the distance Will swung his lantern, well out of earshot.

And Wills was more proof that Alexander Grant didn’t run, not even if the problem was not his own.

He’d set his mind to what was right, so he might as well go ahead with it, and directly too. She’d not go away thinking he was anything but dead serious.

He touched her arm.

“Mrs. Smith, there is another way to thwart them.”

Meet Alina K. Field

USA Today Bestselling and Award-winning author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but prefers the much happier world of romance fiction. Though her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California where she shares a midcentury home with her husband and her spunky, blonde, rescued terrier.

She is the author of several Regency romances, including the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring. She is hard at work on her next series of Regency romances, but loves to hear from readers!

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