arranged marriage

by

Spotlight on The Sincerest Flattery<\i>

Can an arranged marriage become a love match? Or will lies and misunderstandings tear Percy and Lia apart?

When Percival Lord Thornstead heads to the far north of England to meet the bride his father has arranged for him to marry, bad weather, the ague and a crooked valet disrupt his travel plans. Turned away at the door of the manor, he takes a job minding sheep to stay close.

Lady Aurelia Byrne sneaks away from the house dressed as a kitchen maid. She is angry at being told she must marry someone she has never met. She’d rather marry the shepherd she meets in the fields than the London fop her father has chosen for her.

Percy guesses who Lia is and is charmed. Lia discovers who Percy is and falls in love. If not for Lia’s overbearing mother all would be perfect.

Then Percy’s father intervenes to carry Lia off to London to make her debut with Percy’s sister. She is having the time of her life when her mother makes public accusations that call her reputation into question. A hasty marriage restores her to favor. Deep in the throes of love, the young couple are blissfully happy, and have fashionable London at their feet.

Until a former mistress of Percy’s comes seeking a boon that takes him away from Lia’s side, and old rumors about Lia’s mother are revived, causing Lia to be shunned by the highest sticklers.

Their marriage will be tested to breaking point.

(The Sincerest Flattery is inspired by The Goose Girl)

 

by

Tea with Nathaniel and Louise

Eleanor, The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society’s 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, Her Grace was delighted to receive a wedding invitation to Nathaniel, Marquess of St. John, son of the Duke and Duchess of Stirling, to Miss Louise Hartfield, daughter of Captain and Mrs. Hartfield of Bloomsbury. She had not been able to avoid feeling for the poor boy, devastated when Elinor, his fiancé, called off the wedding a day before the ceremony. The following day Elinor hastily married Percival, Duke of Mountjoy, a man decades older than herself, on her father’s orders, the duchess was told. But that didn’t ease Nathaniel’s pain. Overnight, his almost bride and father-in-law removed themselves from London to rusticate in Ludlow. They left the poor boy alone to face the insult, the innuendo, the scandal.

Now, five years later, Her Grace is thrilled and excited to welcome Nathaniel and his wife, Louise, to tea. They have just returned from their bridal tour on the continent.

“Would you care for more tea?” Eleanor asked Louise, who extended her cup. Eleanor then turned to Nathaniel. “And you, sir?”

“You can warm mine.” Nathaniel smiled brightly and lifted his cup.

“I understand you both weren’t expected to return for another four months. I suppose you’ve returned for the wedding.” Her Grace poured hot water into Nathaniel’s teacup.

“Yes,” Louise said. “We could not miss the marriage of Richard, Nathaniel’s cousin. But that is another story.” She took a sip of tea.

“We’ll have to discuss that another time.” Eleanor warmed her cup and turned to Nathaniel. “I still find it difficult to believe that you have married.” She turned to Louise. “No slight intended.”

“None taken, Your Grace. I would have said very much the same thing.” Louise gazed at her husband over the rim of her teacup.

For a moment, Eleanor thought she was intruding on a very private moment. She purposefully coughed, hoping to bring the newlyweds back into her tearoom.

Louise, a smart woman, put down her cup and glanced at the duchess. “It appears both Nathaniel and I had similar feelings about marriage. He was a die-hard bachelor, and I was very determined to die a spinster. Our marriage is all Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s fault.”

“That’s interesting. Which one of you hired her to find you a match?” Her Grace dropped a cube of sugar into her tea and stirred her cup without the spoon hitting the side of the cup.

“I hired her.” Nathaniel drank the last drop of tea.

Eleanor raised her aristocratic eyebrow. “Really? And here I thought you were the devoted bachelor.”

“I was. I didn’t hire her to find me a wife. Besides, you were well aware of how I felt about marriage. I cannot count how many times you invited me here for tea.” Nathaniel put down the empty teacup and held the duchess’s gaze. “You let me talk it all out. And for that, I am in your debt.” Nathaniel took Louise’s hand.

Her Grace leaned forward. “Nathaniel, all I did was listen, in confidence. Nothing more. If you found that beneficial, then I am happy.” She straightened up. “As a matter of fact, I am happy for both of you. But what I want to know is, why did you hire Mrs. Dove-Lyon if it wasn’t to find you a wife?”

“I got caught up in a friendly debate and found myself in a crazy wager to prove my point about love and society’s expectations and demands,” Nathaniel said.

“I did hear rumors about a wager and several challenges. I would like to hear more about them.” Her Grace folded her hands and waited for Nathaniel to proceed.

Dear Friend, read all the details of Nathaniel’s wager in the following excerpt.

An Excerpt from The Lyon’s Gambit

In a world bound by rules, love becomes the ultimate gambit.

“This story was a unique one- different classes, a wager, and more than one villain. A Marquess, a seamstress, and the challenge to move beyond the rules that hem them in. I enjoyed Louise Hartfield, Nathaniel, Marquess of St. John, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon and their adventures. I highly recommend!”

~  Geraldine Kelly,  Goodreads, 5 Stars

In the glittering world of London, where society dictates everything, Nathaniel, Marquess of St. John, learned the hard way that playing by those rules doesn’t always guarantee a happy ending. Jilted by a woman chosen for him by his father, Nathaniel swore off marriage and embraced the life of a steadfast bachelor.

Louise Hartfield is a talented seamstress who disdains the ton’s rigid expectations. Trapped by her mother’s antiquated insistence that, as the elder daughter, she must wed before her younger sister, Louise scoffs at the idea of conforming to such a preposterous rule.

When Nathaniel and his friends bet on whether love can transcend class, they turn to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, whose Lyon’s Den hosts their daring experiment. As Nathaniel and Louise navigate society’s expectations, they find themselves drawn together in a quest for true love. Will they defy tradition or succumb to its demands? In this high-stakes gamble for love, who will emerge victorious?

Buy Link: Kindle Unlimited

Chapter One

The Lyon’s Den, London
London 1819

The Lyon’s Den was a haven of opulence and excitement, a place where fortunes shifted like the tides of the Thames and where the city’s elite gathered to flirt with chance and sometimes, in its shadowed corners, engage in secret rendezvous. Inside, the chandeliers bathed the main room in a warm, golden glow, and the delicate clinking of crystal drinking glasses mixed with the low hum of conversation. It was a world of daring wagers, whispered secrets, and dreams born on the turn of a card.

Amidst the velvet-draped tables and the rich aroma of aged brandy, Nathaniel, Marquess St. John, stood amid the decadence, a reluctant figure caught in the whirlwind of society’s expectations. Skilled in matters of strategy, business, and diplomacy, he clutched his glass, his thoughts drifting far from the table game before him.

With the stakes high, Nathaniel was here to gamble, but not at these games. He had always been a master of control, his every move calculated, his determination unwavering. But tonight. He took a deep draught of the fine brandy, the signature burn making its way down his throat. Tonight, he hoped he was up to his mission.

“Lord St. John, it’s a pleasure to see you here this evening.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon greeted him, her voice warm with surprise. “I have to admit, I wasn’t certain it was you. I even doubted my steward when he notified me you were here. I had to see for myself.”

“Ah, Mr. Boyet. How is he?” Nathaniel remembered the man clearly. Boyet made certain he didn’t get into any trouble, but that was years ago, before he left to serve his country.

“He is very well.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked him over. “You haven’t changed. You look just as I remember you.”

Absently stroking his chin, he smiled as he greeted the proprietor of the Lyon’s Den. As always, she made a striking entrance. Of moderate height and with a slender figure, she radiated a silent strength that commanded attention. Her eyes gleamed with knowledge and confidence and spoke volumes about the experiences she had faced over the years. She effortlessly transitioned between the roles of a shrewd businesswoman and a woman with heartfelt compassion.

Nathaniel knew her better than most. Colonel Lyon, her deceased husband, was a distant relation of his, a third cousin twice removed.

His smile set the woman to laughing. “To what do I owe this delightful surprise?” He sipped her excellent brandy. “You don’t usually venture out of your private salon.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you’re not enthusiastic about gambling, though, I do not ever remember a time when you did enjoy the gambling floor. I suspect you’re here for another reason. Come, bring along your brandy, and join me where we won’t be interrupted.”

Before he could respond, she headed for the door, and he followed her toward what he expected was her private salon.

He stepped into a room filled with plush, vibrant-colored fabrics—deep burgundies, regal purples, and shades of gold. The furniture, upholstered with the finest silk, had not changed since his last visit.

Other furnishings were strategically placed—a Louis XVI writing desk, a Queen Anne side table, and a beautifully carved Chippendale armchair. Each piece told a story of refined taste.

A collection of well-worn leather-bound books on the writing desk suggested that Mrs. Dove-Lyon enjoyed literature as much as the scandal sheets that were neatly stacked next to the tomes. A framed painting of her beloved husband, Colonel Sandstrom T. Lyons, hung above the marble fireplace.

Tasteful artwork graced the walls, along with a collection of pastels, as well as pen and ink drawings, all by local artists. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s signature floral arrangement of fresh flowers—white roses, red tulips, and variegated green ivy— of which she handpicked and arranged daily, graced a small table and gave the room a faint, soothing fragrance.

It was a room anyone in elite society would find comfortable. He appreciated the decor, but he preferred a more casual atmosphere.

A pang hit Nathaniel unexpectedly. He used to call on her at least twice a month, but after his return from Waterloo and steadily assuming more and more of his aging father’s responsibilities, his visits had become less frequent. How time had gotten away from him.

She sat in a high-back armchair and gestured for him to take the seat beside her. “What is all this, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? You’ve always called me Bessie. I thought we were on better terms than that.”

He lowered his head and tried to hide his smile as he took the offered seat. If anything, Mrs. Dov—Bessie always spoke her mind. Society rules be damned. “I must confess, Bessie, gambling is not my preferred pastime. I work too hard for my money to let it slip through my fingers.”

“That is not a secret, at least not to me. Although, I’ve watched your cousin Richard take your mare, Amber Blaze, through her paces on several racecourses and wager quite handsomely. He handles the temperamental mare well. For a moment, I thought you might be here to make a wager on the success of her race in the Regent’s Derby. But no. You are not a gambling man. But you do make me wonder. You do not need to come here to drink. Your cellar is almost as fine as mine.” That made her chuckle. “And you did not ask for me.”

He took a fortifying sip of brandy.

She took a quick breath and placed her hand over her heart, then leaned toward him. “Tell me, Nathaniel, are you here for help finding a wife?”

“Absolutely not.” He nearly spit out the brandy. “I would come here and gamble before I approached you for a match, not that you wouldn’t make an excellent match. Marriage is not something I’m eager to pursue. Although it would greatly please my father.”

He had come close enough to marriage once before. He slammed his mind shut at the thought of that debacle. He gulped down the rest of his brandy and placed the empty glass on the small table next to him. “I’m here because, while I do not gamble, I find myself involved in a wager and need your assistance.”

Bessie studied him and said nothing for three, perhaps four heartbeats.

“After declaring you’re not a betting man. You have my undivided attention.” She poured three fingers of brandy into his glass and warmed her tea with a splash of hot water.

“May I discuss a hypothetical situation?” He had planned and rehashed how to propose what he wanted to do and still he was unnerved.

“Of course.” She rewarded him with a dimpled smile. “Hypothetical discussions often lead to the most interesting insights.”

“Excellent.” Nathaniel eagerly moved forward in his chair, ignoring her purr. “How might two people bridge the gap and promote a greater understanding of each other if they came from different social backgrounds?”

“A fascinating topic, indeed. You surprise me, Nathaniel. This is far from why I thought you came here.” Bessie leaned back. “To bridge such a gap, one would require a setting that encourages interaction between the people on an equal footing, where status and titles are set aside. Does that sound the least bit familiar?” She gestured around her room.

“Precisely.” He nodded, pleased she was agreeable. “Here at the Lyon’s Den, you created the perfect surroundings, but your establishment is limited to your elite invited guests and those whose marital fate has been placed in your hands. Outside these walls, nothing like it exists.” He scooted to the edge of his seat. “Now, imagine a scenario where people from different social backgrounds can easily interact with each other without the constraints of title, holdings, or position.

“I believe it is quite possible, so much so that in discussing the idea with others, I’ve been challenged to prove that my idea is achievable. I’ve been charged to bring a variety of people together under the premise of a social experiment.”

“An experiment, you say?” Bessie raised an elegant eyebrow. “What sort of experiment?”

“Ah, that’s the intriguing part.” Nathaniel’s eyes twinkled, and one corner of his mouth curled slightly upward, giving him a mischievous expression. “Participants would interact without the burden of their social identities. Their true characters would come to the forefront, unhindered by titles, expectations, or rules. The experiment would be declared a success if the interactions resulted in the participants connecting.”

“It sounds both daring and enlightening.” She raised her teacup and studied Nathaniel over the rim. “But would society truly embrace such an experiment? The lines between the classes run deep.”

“Society’s expectations often restrict the potential for genuine connections.” He looked off at nothing in particular and gave his response a great deal of thought. “Yet, imagine if such an experiment were orchestrated with the utmost discretion, ensuring that participants engage willingly and authentically.”

“A delicate balance indeed.” She nodded.

If he read Bessie correctly, she was open to the idea. “To ensure success, participants must be carefully selected, and the environment must be conducive to shedding the trappings of their usual roles. The participants must be themselves. You, of all people, are aware of the essence of this hypothetical experiment. Imagine if participants had different social backgrounds, each person with their unique strengths and weaknesses.”

“And what would be the ultimate goal of this experiment? You could never divest the ton of their rules and prejudices.” Bessie leaned in toward him, eager for his answer.

“To demonstrate that shared experiences, values, and aspirations can be common across all strata of society. An opportunity for true understanding and, perhaps, even for connections to flourish into lasting friendships.”

“Are you looking for lasting friendships?” Bessie sat back and stirred her tea.

“I have more than enough lasting friendships and do not need any others.”

She put her spoon down, took a sip of tea, and replaced the cup on its saucer.

“You paint a compelling picture, Nathaniel.” A knowing expression lit her face. “But executing such a venture would require immense finesse and discretion.”

“Finesse, discretion, and perhaps a skilled orchestrator behind the scenes.”

“A maestro of sorts,” Bessie titled her head and studied him carefully, “guiding the experiment toward its outcome?”

“Indeed, a maestro with a vested interest in the harmony of the results.”

“You mentioned you needed my help with a wager.” Bessie brought the subject back to her expertise.

“I’ve mentioned that I discussed this social experiment with my friends.”

Three days earlier, in a dimly lit private drawing room, Nathaniel lounged comfortably in his favorite armchair at St. John Abbey, his home in Manchester Square, surrounded by three of his closest friends. The room bore the unmistakable mark of a man whose interests ran deeper than what appeared to be on the surface. Bookshelves lined with well-loved volumes hinted at a mind constantly in pursuit of knowledge, a trait that set him apart from his peers and would do him well as the next Duke of Stirling.

The evening progressed with his friends Archibald Hargrave, Charles Waverly, and his cousin Richard St. John.

Archibald Earl of Wainwright, a close confidant of Nathaniel, was a charming man who tended to blend into the background in social situations. A man of medium build and with a genial way about him, he had neatly groomed sandy brown hair and hazel eyes that reflected a quiet intelligence. Though appearing ordinary, his strength was in his unwavering loyalty and keen sense of humor, which often served as a relief during challenging times and made him an indispensable companion.

Charles Viscount Breton, another steadfast friend in Nathaniel’s circle, embodied a reserved yet reliable presence. He, too, was of average height with a solid, unremarkable build. His dark, neatly combed hair framed a face with a strong jawline and kind brown eyes. A keen supporter of Archibald, Charles was like a younger brother who followed his elder brother’s lead, in this case Archibald. He possessed a calm and collected demeanor that complemented the more spirited personalities of Nathaniel and Richard.

A twist of fate had made Nathaniel and Richard fast friends. Nathaniel was the Marquess of St. John, while his cousin Richard St. John, was the son of Baron Ashbourne. The similarity in their title and surname, however, was not the only source of confusion; their physical resemblance was equally striking. Their strong athletic physiques hinted at men who played hard, and their dark hair, styled in a similar fashion, only accentuated the uncanny likeness that marked their faces. Yet, amidst the likenesses, even up to their intellects a keen observer might see a subtle difference in the coloring of their eyes. Nathaniel’s eyes were a striking blue, while Richard’s tended toward a captivating shade of green. Despite this slight difference, both men were an amalgam of aristocratic refinement and charismatic charm. And their similarities didn’t change as they grew older. It appeared the older they became, the more they looked alike.

Here, Nathaniel and his friends, all men of the ton, gathered around a well-polished table, glasses of brandy in hand, in an atmosphere charged with anticipation.

“Richard,” Nathaniel’s eyes sparkled, and an unrestrained grin spread across his face. He didn’t try to hide his enthusiasm. “This social experiment is not merely a whim. It’s a vision, a vision of a society where genuine connections are nurtured, unburdened by society’s expectations.” He turned from Richard and sought out the others. “Archibald. Charles. You both understand.”

“Nathaniel, we’ve heard your arguments before,” Archibald said as he rolled his eyes. “You’re proposing something quite radical. You’re asking society to cast aside centuries of tradition.”

“Indeed,” Charles nodded his agreement. “It’s a lofty idea. But do you honestly believe it can work? Connections transcending class and station?”

Nathaniel’s attention shifted to Charles, recognizing how he supported Archibald. Rarely did he make a statement, much less a decision, without mimicking his friend.

“I do, with every fiber of my being.” He searched Charles’ face, then Richard’s. “There are places right here in London”—his brows nearly collided with his ever-deepening furrow—“where it exists and is accepted.” How could his friends be so blind?

“Accepted by a few, but not by the majority. You may be able to lose your social status for an evening, possibly even a weekend, but not much longer.” Archibald swirled the brandy in his glass as he stared at it. “I would be careful, my friend. Your ‘society’ responsibilities will catch up with you sooner or later.” He took a deliberate gulp of brandy, his unwavering gaze locked onto Nathaniel. He knew at once that his friend didn’t agree with him.

“Do you not see?” Nathaniel persisted, unwilling to give up. “We’re on the cusp of a new era, gentlemen. New industries are being developed. Cities are bursting with people from the farmland looking for work. They are accumulating wealth, some exceeding those with old money and even moving into positions of power. The rigid constraints of the old world will not stand much longer. It’s time to challenge the status quo to prove that the rules are antiquated and obsolete.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, unwilling to give it up. What will it take?” Archibald chuckled, his expression softening as he grew more serious. “I assume there is no deterring you.”

“No. There is not.” Nathaniel was certain his idea would work. It had to.

A sudden brightness gleamed in Archibald’s eyes. Delighted with himself, he slapped his hands on his thighs. “Very well. How about this—we’ll place a wager on your experiment’s success. We’ll each put in one thousand pounds, a significant sum, mind you.”

“Yes, a wager indeed. I’m always up for a wager,” Charles said as he turned toward Archibald. “But how will we know if the experiment has succeeded or failed?”

The room was quiet for several moments.

“There will have to be a judge. Who would know anything about such an experiment?” Richard took a sip of his brandy.

“I know,” Charles nearly came out of his chair. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon shall be the ultimate judge of your experiment’s success. Her Lyon’s Den is the only establishment I know of that comes close to what Nathaniel proposes. If she deems the experiment a success, the winnings are yours, Nathaniel. If not, you’ll part with quite a hefty sum of blunt.”

The others stared at Charles, stunned at his very perceptive and workable suggestion.

Nathaniel’s heart raced as the weight of the wager sank in. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s discerning judgment carried immense importance, as did the considerable sum each of them was willing to stake.

“If, by some unlikely chance, you don’t emerge victorious,” Richard leaned in toward his cousin, a devilish glint in his eye, “I’ll kindly accept your Amber Blaze in place of your coin. You know the mare’s always had a soft spot for me, far more than you. I swear there are times I believe she thinks I am you.” He paused, a sly smile curling on his lips.

“That is not unusual. Even the Prince Regent has problems telling us apart.” Nathaniel shook his head.

“And speaking of amusing mix-ups earlier today at Tatterstalls, once again, Lord Templeton thought I was you. He was engrossed in betting on some trivial affair and referred to me as Nathaniel. Close call, I’d say. He was wagering on something as absurd as the number of oysters one could devour in fifteen minutes. I was tempted, I confess, but even with my penchant for daring wagers, I couldn’t take that particular challenge. At least not in your name.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “I thank you for your kind consideration.” He gave his attention to the others. “Very well. I will ask Mrs. Dove-Lyon for her assistance. It seems you three doubt we can exist without these restrictive rules, but I have every faith in the experiment’s success. And when Mrs. Dove-Lyon declares the outcome, mark my words. genuine connections will indeed be made. They will defy the odds.” Or so he desperately hoped.

Richard raised his glass in salute. “To Nathaniel and his grand experiment—may it reveal the truth, whatever that may be.”

“To Nathaniel.” Archibald and Charles joined in Richard’s toast.

Now, he sat in a comfortable wingback chair in Bessie’s salon, a half-filled glass of brandy in his hand.

“I suppose I should be pleased that my reputation has brought you to me.” Bessie’s smile was like a flicker of candlelight, mysterious and subtle.

Nathaniel realized that he had no idea what was going on in her head. He let out a breath. He would find out soon enough.

“I do find your experiment intriguing,” she said, a spark of interest in her voice.

“You alone will decide whether the experiment has been successful or not. And, of course, you will get a part of the wager for your efforts.” He noticed her eyebrows arch ever so slightly, a subtle sign of her growing interest.

“Experiment sounds so…scientific. I’d rather call it a social challenge. You don’t want to scare people away.”

“You have a good point.” Was Bessie really going to help him? “Very well, social challenge it is.”

“I will decide on each of the challenges and how they will be judged. The goal of each one will be to create interaction and connections among different people.” Bessie held his gaze as if she were a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

Well-played, Bessie. He nodded. “Of course. I’m sure your challenges will be quite fitting for what we want to prove.” Of all the people he knew, Bessie was the only one who was up to snuff for this project.

“And you will be the primary subject.” The woman didn’t try to hide her smile.

A painful expression flashed across his face. He should get up and walk out, call off the entire project.

“I have no intention of making any connection.”

“All the more reason why you are the perfect candidate. It’s no challenge if the subject is willing. You just said it yourself. You have no intention of making any connections. No, Nathaniel. You are the perfect person who can play this part. Keep in mind that you don’t have to marry the person; just make a good, solid connection. The more I think about it, the more I see that you are the only person for this. With a bonus for me if you ‘connect’ with a woman. Your father’s gratitude.”

He gulped down the rest of his brandy. When the challenge was completed, he would explain to the woman, should he connect with one, that this was an experiment, a game, nothing more. Surely, she would understand.

“Very well,” he said. “I will be the subject.” He took a deep breath, satisfied with himself that he had the answer to that problem.

“Good. Once the contract is signed between you and me, it is final.” As final as the tone in her voice, he suspected. Nathaniel had heard her hard-earned, no-nonsense business voice many times and had nothing but respect for it.

“The contract is binding on both our parts. Neither of us can change the terms or back out without forfeiting the full amount of the wager, so think hard before you agree. Three thousand pounds is a hefty sum for you to lose.”

“I don’t plan to lose. For me, it is not about the money.”

“If you insist.” She went to her desk, wrote her instructions on a note, and tugged on the bell pull for assistance.

The steward stepped into the room. “Yes, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“Mr. Boyet, have a footman bring this to Mr. Hughes at Chancery Lane. Have him wait for a response.”

Boyet nodded and left as quietly as he entered.

Bessie went to the cellarette and poured her guest another brandy.

“We can wait here while the document is drawn. It shouldn’t take long. I have the modiste coming at teatime. We will need to be finished by then.” She handed Nathaniel the brandy. “Now, let us discuss my fee.”

by

A protective hero on WIP Wednesday

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Escaping the family on WIP Wednesday

Lia went upstairs, the name Percy had called her running through her mind. My golden girl. She knew, of course, that Aurelia meant the golden one, but nobody had ever before suggested that the name was appropriate for her. Her mother had made the name distasteful by the way she said it, as if her disappointment with her daughter began with her name. But she didn’t mind Lance saying it, and Percy’s interpretation almost reconciled her entirely.

As she passed the second floor, she stopped to find out where her mother was, adopting the simple but effective tactic of asking the maids. Mama was no longer with the duke, but she and Father had retreated into their rooms. Since they could not be depended on to stay there, Lia hurried up to the third floor to ask after Miss Walton, who was resting and comfortable, or so said Miss Hatfield when she came to the door in answer to Lia’s knock.

“Do you or Miss Walton need anything,” Lia asked? “My mother has put me in charge of seeing to your comfort, so please let me know what I can provide to help you.” Remembering Percy’s twist on her mother’s words made her smile again. To think she had been afraid that marriage would just be a move from one prison to another!

Before she returned to the main stairs, Pansy arrived. “His lordship suggested we left the house by the servants’ stairs, my lady. He’s a right one, is Lord Thornstead, isn’t he, my lady? He and Lord Lancelot will be waiting by the kitchen door.”

They were, too, armed with enough umbrellas and rain capes to go around. “Let’s check the sheep,” Percy suggested. “I have a familial interest in the lambs that were born while I was in charge.”

Lia didn’t mind where they walked. When her mother was in residence, the air inside the house was harder to breathe and the knowledge that her mother might send for her at any moment weighed her down. Stepping outside allowed the weight to roll off her back, and she was able to take a full breath for the first time since Mama and Father returned from Berwick yesterday evening.

“We will not stay out for too long,” she decreed, against her own wishes. She must remember that the gentlemen were not long out of their sickbeds. “I will not be responsible for you becoming sick again. What would His Grace say?”

“Something sarcastic,” Lance suggested. “Seriously, though, if we choose to walk out in the cold and become ill again, His Grace will blame us. You are not responsible for what other people do, Lia.”

“I am apparently responsible for every misstep my brothers make,” Lia retorted.

Percy took her hand. “They cannot blame you when you are married to me and gone,” he pointed out.

Even through the gloves, his touch set off what she was beginning to think of as “the Percy effect.” Every time he touched her, she felt strange. Restless. Tingly. When he placed his bare hands around her bare hands in the library, and especially when he kissed them, she had had the mad urge to kiss his, or perhaps to kiss his cheek. Or more.

She had seen people around the estate kissing. By accident, such as when she came round a corner and a footman and maid leapt apart and tried to pretend they were working. Or when she entered the stable without warning and surprised a groom and a dairy maid in a passionate embrace.

At the party that celebrated the end of shearing, too. She was never allowed to stay past dark, but even before dark, drink dissolved inhibitions and propriety, and several couples were less hidden in the shadows than they thought.

Kissing had something to do with making babies. Mama became distressed and angry when she asked about it, and even Miss Walton refused to discuss the matter, saying any questions would be better addressed to her future husband.

Lia had been frustrated by the answer, but now she thought it was wise. She would ask Percy at the first opportunity, and she knew he would not laugh at her ignorance, but would give her a proper answer. She could trust Percy.

 

This one is from The Sincerest Flattery. The picture isn’t quite appropriate, but the period is correct.

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Nasty families on WIP Wednesday

I do write nice parents. Honest. Spen’s father, in Weave Me a Rope, isn’t one of them.

Chatter proved to be nearly as gentle a nurse as Spen’s housekeeper. He set Spen’s broken arm, bound up his cracked ribs, and provided poultices for the bruises. Spen had tried to defend himself from the earl, but the men the earl had brought with him held Spen’s arms, and Spen had been handicapped by being chained in one place.

He seemed to recall that his own head guard intervened to stop the beating, but perhaps that was just a dream. Certainly, he had no memory of being carried from the room, and he had not seen either peer again since. Chatter told him they had left, but the little lady remained.

He spent more than a week of very uncomfortable days. On the third day, he insisted on the binding being removed from around his ribs. A good deep breath hurt, but was not the stabbing pain Chatter warned him to watch for.

“You’ll do, my lord,” Chatter had assured him.

Spen certainly hoped so, because he still felt like one enormous bruise, quite apart from the sharp pain of his arm and ribs. But filling his lungs helped his general malaise. For the rest, it was just a matter of time.

The footman who served him was a little more forthcoming about what had happened after Spen was knocked unconscious. He confirmed Chatter had rescued Spen, intervening when it became clear the earl was not going to stop just because Spen was unconscious.

“Lord Deerhaven was right peeved with Lord Yarverton,” he confided. “Said he’d gone too far. Lord Yarverton stormed off. Lord Deerhaven went this afternoon, when he knew you hadn’t taken an infection, my lord.”

“Did they beat Lady Daphne?” Spen asked, and was relieved to hear the lady was unharmed, but locked in a suite of rooms just a little farther along the passage. “What is the name of this place?” he asked the footman. “Where are we?” But the guard on duty growled and the footman had paled and stopped talking.

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Arranged marriage on WIP Wednesday

An arranged marriage is a fairly common historical romance trope, and one I’ve used before. Apart from The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle, I haven’t attempted the challenge of turning an arranged marriage with a very young couple into a love match. Most couples of mine who find themselves in that situation are immediately separated and have to find their way back to one another again. Could I write a naive but reckless young woman and her somewhat more experienced but equally young husband, and make it fun for modern audiences? Challenge accepted. Here’s my hero of The Sincerest Flattery, a story inspired by the Goose Girl.

“Ride on ahead, Lance,” Percy begged. “Let them know I have been delayed.” At least, that is what he intended to say, though his stuffed up nose and raw throat garbled the words.

His brother apparently understood, for he shook his head. “I shouldn’t leave you, Percy. I won’t leave you, at least until after I’ve spoken with the physician.”

“Can’t keep a lady waiting,” Percy insisted, but he might have saved himself the trouble. Lance might be nearly five years his junior, and mostly content to go along with his old brother’s plans and schemes, but when he dug his toes in, there was no moving him.

A knock on the door. Perhaps it was the physician? It was the innkeeper’s wife, with a tray. “Some chicken soup for the young lord,” she offered.

Percy didn’t want food, but Lance said the innkeeper’s wife insisted that he would recover more quickly if he kept up his strength. So he succumbed to having his pillows plumped so that he could sit up, at least enough to have the tray put on the bed.

But his head hurt to much to lift it, and the spoon felt as if it was made of granite and ten times the size. In the end, Lance fed him, a spoonful at a time, until he covered his mouth after the sixth spoonful. “Enough. Let me lie down, Tris. There’s a good chap.”

The innkeeper’s wife, who was hovering, asked, “Did you understand him, my lord?”

“He has had enough, and wants to lie back down,” Lance explained. “I daresay your head hurts, old chap.” He had picked up the tray and handed it the woman, and was supporting Percy with one arm, while rearranging the pillows with the other. “You should let me stay and nurse you, Percy.”

Percy shook his head, a slow and tiny movement from side to side, so as not to burst his pounding head right open.

Another knock on the door, and this time it was the physician. Lance hustled the innkeeper’s wife away and fetched Martin while the doctor did his examination. That was a relief. If he had brought Martin to listen to instructions for Percy’s care, then Lance intended to follow his brother’s instructions.

The brothers were on their way to meet the girl to whom Percy was betrothed. It would be rude to keep Lady Aurelia waiting, and Percy could already tell—was unsurprised to hear the physician telling his brother—that he would be a week or more in bed with this wretched cold.

This ague, rather, which is what the doctor called it. It didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did except for the wretched head, the throat, the blocked nose, the cough that seemed to twist his ribs inside his chest and tear his muscles.

The doctor droned on, and Percy heard bits and pieces in between bouts of coughing and musings about Lady Aurelia. Her miniature was pretty. His father had met her and said she was a comely chit. She had never had a Season, but then she was only seventeen, just a few months younger than Percy’s sister Gwen.

Their parents had signed the marriage agreements. The wedding was to be in six months. No one seemed to think it necessary for the two principals to the marriage to actually meet before the betrothal was announced, which would be before Lady Aurelia arrived in town with her parents for the Season.

And once the betrothal was announced, of course, the wedding must follow, or there would be scandal.

When Percy came up with the scheme to ride north and introduce himself to the lady and her family, the duke his father did not object. All he said was, “Comport yourself like a Versey, Thornstead. And take young Lance with you.”

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Family on WIP Wednesday

I am rather enjoying my hero’s father in The Sincerest Flattery. Here’s a sample.

“I believe our children are in here,” Lord Byrne was saying, as he walked in the door. A step behind him was His Grace, the Duke of Dellborough.

Both young men shot to their feet, and bowed. “Your Grace,” they chorused.

“Here are mine,” His Grace said to Lord Byrne. “Yours appears to be missing. What have you done with your betrothed, Thornstead?”

“You missed her by a few minutes, Your Grace. Her mother sent for her.”

“I shall have her fetched,” Byrne announced, and disappeared back out the door.

His Grace approached his sons. “So. You are both here. Thornstead, you are back on your feet, if not quite as hale and hearty as a fond parent might hope. Lancelot, you have also been ill, from the look of you. Sicker than Thornstead, one might even guess.”

Lance blushed and Percy felt a stab of guilt. “Did my letter not reach you, Your Grace? I wrote to let you know what happened at the inn, and that I was better.”

The ducal eyebrows lifted halfway. A sardonic remark was on its way. “Your letter was—I shall not say appreciated, Thornstead. One struggles to summon appreciation for a letter that explains one’s eldest son and heir has been robbed and left for dead by a villain one selected oneself to be that young man’s most trusted servant.” His Grace their father held it as an important tenet that a gentleman never showed emotion, but apparently even His Grace made exceptions, for cold anger edged every word.

“I survived, sir,” Percy pointed out. “Thanks largely to the innkeeper’s wife.”

“Yes,” the duke drawled, “and you will no doubt be gratified to know that that part of your message pleased me. Especially since the previous mail had brought me no fewer three other messages that left me in doubt about that agreeable fact.”

“I wrote as soon as I could, sir,” Percy protested.

“Yes, my boy. And I am glad you did. The gratifying news that you were alive was, of course, a relief to a father’s heart. I could have wished for slightly more detail before I set off up the Great North Road at a pace not consistent with my dignity nor, I fear, my age. ”

Percy, processing that remark, was touched to think his father had set off north at high speed.

“I am, however, pleased to see you, young Lancelot, since my three letters all mentioned Thornstead, and ignored the existence, or at least the presence, of my second son. And Thornstead’s letter was sparse on the details important to a father, saying only, ‘I am now heading off to join Lance’. But one was left to wonder, joining Lance where? And why were my sons, who left together, in two different places?”

At that point, Lord Byrne reappeared, escorting Lady Byrne and Aurrie. Aurrie looked unhappy. No. Subdued was a better word. As if some vital part of her had been extinguished. Lord and Lady Byrne fussed over the duke, who thanked them politely for their letters. Apparently, they had both arrived on the same day, one calling His Grace north as soon as possibly, for his son Thornstead was seriously ill, and the doctor feared for his life, followed by one that assured the duke that Thornstead was on the mend.

That accounted for two of the duke’s three letters, but Percy realised that they must have left His Grace with the wrong impression.

“Sir,” he said, when there was a pause in Lady Byrne’s assurances that they had been delighted to look after the young lord. “Lord and Lady Byrne did not realise that their patient was actually Lance, and not me. Lance was sick when he arrived, you see, and they found my signet ring and assumed he was me.”

“Thornstead, you have no ambition to become a novelist, one hopes,” His Grace replied. “I would not mention it, except that you seem to be beginning the story in the middle.”

He bowed to the two ladies. “Perhaps, if Lady Byrne and Lady Aurelia would permit, we might be seated to hear what happened in its proper order?”

Aurrie flushed a bright red at the subtle rebuke. Lady Byrne, whose responsibility it was to make guests feel welcome and comfortable, did not even notice she had been reminded of her duties. “Of course, dear duke. Do be seated, please. I haven’t heard this story myself. I wondered why Lord Lancelot was pretending to be his brother, but Lord Byrne said it was all a mistake and I was not to be concerned. It seemed very peculiar.” She frowned. “It was very peculiar. Do you not think so, duke?”

“We shall hear what Thornstead and Lancelot have to say, shall we?” His Grace replied.

Lord Byrne comment, “I have sent for tea and my daughter has ordered a room made up for you, Dellborough. Ah, yes, and here is the tea.”

“I shall pour for us all and the maid shall pass the tea around,” Lady Byrne announced. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”

His Grace, who would have preferred a wine, inclined his head in polite appreciation and asked for a cup with tea only, no additions. His sons, who were familiar with his smallest gesture, picked up his impatience from the tap of one middle finger on his thigh, but he said nothing as the lady continued chattering as she poured the tea.

He spoke, however, as soon as Lancelot was served and the maid withdrew.

“Now, if you please, Thornstead, and in order.”

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Backlist Spotlight on A Baron for Becky

A fallen woman, she dreams of landing on her feet. Unexpected news brings a chance at a new life, but past wounds may destroy her and the man she loves

Becky is the envy of the courtesans of the demi-monde — the indulged mistress of the wealthy and charismatic Marquis of Aldridge. But she dreams of a normal life; one in which her daughter can have a future that does not depend on beauty, sex, and the whims of a man.

Finding herself with child, she hesitates to tell Aldridge. Will he cast her off, send her away, or keep her and condemn another child to this uncertain shadow world?

The devil-may-care face Hugh shows to the world hides a desperate sorrow; a sorrow he tries to drown with drink and riotous living. His years at war haunt him, but even more, he doesn’t want to think about the illness that robbed him of the ability to father a son. When he dies, his barony will die with him. His title will fall into abeyance, and his estate will be scooped up by the Crown.

When Aldridge surprises them both with a daring proposition, they do not expect love to be part of the bargain.

Excerpt from A Baron for Becky

Buy A Baron for Becky

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Happenstance in WIP Wednesday

Chance and coincidence play a larger part in real life that we like to admit. And also, of course, in fiction. This segment introduces the heroine in Hook Lyon and Sinker, my little mermaid reinterpretation. Chance has just come to her rescue, though it might not feel like it at the time.

If the kitten had not lost his ball behind the sofa, Lady Laureline Barclay might even now be moving inexorably towards her wedding day.

She was behind the sofa on her hands and knees when her brother and her betrothed entered the room. She stayed there when she realised they were talking about Tiber’s wish to postpone the long-expected event yet again.

“Not if you want Laurel’s dowry, you won’t,” her brother told him. “If she is not married before she turns twenty-five it all goes to a home for indigent gentlewomen. Our father changed the conditions the first time you put off the wedding, when Laurel was nineteen.”

Laurel frowned. She had not been aware of that. She would be twenty-five in a matter of months.

Tiber was surprised, too. He let loose a word that Laurel hadn’t heard before. “But you are joking, Ben, surely. Or making it up to force my hand.”

“Tiber,” said Benjamin, “you are my best friend, but you are a careless ass. Do you mean to tell me that you still haven’t read the marriage agreement? Even after agreeing—and then changing—five wedding dates? Six, now.”

That fetched a deep sigh from Tiber. “For good reason, Ben,” he insisted. “The first time, at least.” His voice brightened. “But you are earl now,” he reminded her brother. “Just change the agreements.”

“Can’t do it,” Ben disclosed. “The money for her dowry is in a trust, and I’m not a trustee. Besides, the trustees are bound by the terms my father set. Anyway, I’m not sure I would if I could. You have messed the poor girl about. Father was right to be suspicious of your motives. And don’t suggest I give her a dowry. My money is all tied up in property.”

That set Tiber off into another string of what Laurel was certain were expletives, accompanied by the sound of boots walking back and forth.

“If you don’t want my sister,” Benjamin added, “just break the betrothal, or ask her to do so. She needs to be married by the time she is twenty-five. I’m sure I could find someone to take her off my hands. She might be old for a bride, but she is comely enough. And she has a whopping dowry.”

The footsteps ceased.

“I esteem her dowry,” Tiber admitted. “I even quite like the lady. She is pretty enough. A bit too strong-minded for my tastes, though. I think she will make the devil of a wife. But I have promised to marry her, and so I will. I don’t dislike the idea of marriage so much that I would leave her to dwindle into a spinster, for I doubt anyone else will have her at this late stage. And at least her dowry will allow me to set up another mistress.”

Laurel was over her first shock, and was in a tearing fury. She bounced to her feet and declared. “However, I shall not have you, Captain Lord Tiberius Seward. Consider our betrothal at an end. Benjamin, I shall find my own husband, thank you very much. One to my taste and not to yours.”

Both Tiber and Benjamin tried to change her mind. Tiber promised to be faithful, looking so doubtful about the idea that Laurel laughed.

“You can barely bring yourself to say the word, Tiber. Do not make me and yourself look ridiculous. You know as well as I do that our marriage would be miserable. I would indeed make you a devil of a wife, and you would make me a devil of a husband. Count your blessings, Tiber. Being jilted by me is certainly one of them.”

After Tiber left, Benjamin told Laurel she would be sorry when she realised what she had done, for Laurel had loved Lord Tiberius since she was seventeen. Laurel replied thatshe had been foolishly infatuated with Tiber when she was seventeen, but had lost her respect and even her affection for him over the interceding years. “You must know, Benjamin, that I have been convinced for some time that going ahead with this marriage would be a mistake. We do not suit, Tiber and I.”

Mama, when she was told, said she entered into Laurel’s feelings, but Laurel was foolish to think that Lord Tiberius would be faithful, for men were not. And besides, what would everyone say if she broke the betrothal? “Every one will think there is something wrong with you. You will be sorry when everyone jeers and calls you an old maid,” she said.

The gossips already thought there was something wrong with her. She had been betrothed for five years and the wedding had been postponed five times already. “People can call me what they wish,” Laurel replied. “I will not wed Tiber.” Mama had an attack of the vapours and retired.

Laurel remained adamant. Marry Tiber she would not. She retreated to her bedroom to think of a plan, but only after begging a couple of sardines from the cook to feed to the kitten as a reward.

 

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Meet my “Little Mermaid with a Twist” in WIP Wednesday

Angelico Warrington made his painful way from the parlour of his employer down the stairs to the main hall of the Lyon’s Den, where he was nearly due to play another set with the other musicians. His progress was slow, but with a crutch on each side to take part of the weight off his damaged feet, Angel did make progress.

That was an improvement over those excruciating months after his friends rescued him from the French camp. They had insisted on sending him to London to see the best doctors, but he remembered little of the journey from Spain, and not a great deal of successive failed treatments. Except for the pain. He remembered the pain.

He had been working for Mrs Dove Lyons for a calendar month, completing the trial period she had offered him at the behest of her chief guard. Her wolves, she called them. Titan, their leader had served with some of same officers as Angel, but at different times. Still, at the request of one of his friends, he had put in a word with Mrs Dove Lyons, who had declared herself willing to employ Angel for a month. And after that, she said, they would see.

He had not doubted his ability to prove himself. Angel had always been a capable musician, though he had been a better singer. Once. Before he screamed his throat raw over and over during the month he had been in the hands of the French.

He had been a good dancer, too, once.

No point in repining. He could have been killed when the explosives he’d been setting under a bridge went off early and trapped his feet under piles of rock and his head under the water. He could have died at the hands of the French who rescued him, imprisoned him, and tortured him to find out what he knew about the movements and plans of the British army.

He could have passed away after his friends got him out, since by then the wounds in both feet were infected. Or he could have lost his feet altogether. The surgeons had been keen to cut off the poor mangled objects that remained after his captors had repeatedly rebroken the bones, over and over.

Instead, he was alive, free, and mostly recovered. He was even mobile, sort of. And he now had a permanent job. Mrs Dove Lyons had pronounced herself satisfied with his performances in the post month. She had offered him a contract and an increase in his wages. He could possibly move from the fourth floor room he shared with one of the other musicians, if he could find a cheap enough place on the ground floor somewhere.

He was smiling as he reached the intermediate landing and executed the manouver that allowed him to change directions, but one foot came down more heavily than he intended, and he shut his eyes against the pain that stabbed up from every poorly set bone in the dismal appendage.

As he did so, a warm fragrant body collided with him, and he lurched off balance into the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony, now from both feet as his crutches clattered to the floor.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” said a melodious voice even as a firm hand grasped his upper arm on one side to support him.

“Take a moment, Nereus. My lady, would you fetch my friend’s crutches?” It was Titan, the head wolf. Not that his true name was Titan, any more than Angel’s was Nereus. But Mrs Dove Lyon gave each of her workers a name—a stage name as it were. From Midsummer Dream, most of them, but not Angel. For him, their employer had strayed into Greek mythology. Nereus was the shape-changing god of the sea and particularly of its fish. Titan must have told the lady what Angel had done when he joined the Allied cause in Spain.

Titan’s was the firm hand, but not the melodious voice. Angel had to see who that was.

He managed to open his eyes, but the lady was wearing a bonnet with a thick veil. A pale blue rather than black, as was the fashionable gown that highlighted rather than disguising her figure. So not a widow. Wonderful. He had fallen in front of one of the customers.

“I truly do apologise Mr Nereus,” she insisted, as she handed Angel each crutch and he tucked them under his arms. “I was speaking to Mr Titan over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going. I do hope I have not hurt you. Well. I mean, I can see that I hurt you, but not worse, I mean.”

“Nothing that won’t pass, my lady,” Angel assured her. “As long as I keep my weight off my feet, they will be better soon.” Or as good as they ever were, which was the best that could be expected.

“Mrs Dove Lyons is expecting you, Lady Laureline,” Titan told the lady, and she smiled at Angel. “If you are sure you are unharmed, Mr Nereus,” she said, and continued on up the stairs.

Titan stopped to say “Stay there and I’ll help you down when I’ve seen the lady to Mrs Dove Lyons. He hurried after the lady.

Angel stayed leaning against the wall, it and his crutches doing most of the job of supporting him. He ignored the pain—it was a familiar companion. The thoughts that seethed in his mind took all of his attention. That was Lady Laurel.

Laurel Barclay. The girl he had once adored from afar. The girl he had saved from the sea when the ship they were on sank off the coast of Portugal. Eight years ago, that had been, in 1808. She had returned to her world and he had joined the British army.

Why on earth was Lady Laurel, virtuous sister of an earl, and flower of the English ballrooms, visiting the proprietor of a gambling den? Even such a gambling den as this, popular as it was with men and women alike, was not the place for an unmarried daughter of an aristocratic family.

A thought crossed his mind, but that couldn’t be her errand. Mrs Dove Lyon was a matchmaker for the misfits and the desperate. Laurel is betrothed. And if she does not like Lord Tiberius Seward9, and who could blame her, she can just choose another.

Titan caught him by surprise. “Nereus. You waited. Do we need to call a doctor?”

A fair comment. Usually, Angel refused help. “The lady,” Angel said. “I knew her once, a long time ago. I was curious about why she was here.”

Titan raised a brow. “Her business with Mrs Dove Lyon is her own. When did you have an opportunity to meet Lady Laureline? I thought you had only been in England for eighteen months.”

“It was long ago,” Angel said. “We were both on the same ship coming from Italy.” For part of the trip, anyway. Angel had been taken from his Sicilian home by pirates, and was on his way to the Tunisian slave blocks when the pirate vessel encountered a British naval patrol and came off the worst.

“The commodore was Lady Laureline’s uncle—Lord Somerford’s brother. I can’t say that we met, exactly. She was well chaperoned, and I was working with the crew. Then, off Portugal, a storm struck the fleet. It was scattered and our ship was blown onto rocks and foundered.” Angel shrugged. “Lady Laureline was the first person I rescued.”

“Which means,” Titan observed, “that you went back into the sea. More than once if I was to guess. How many people did you rescue, exactly?”

Angel shrugged again. He had no idea. Just the memory of aching heavy muscles as he forced himself through the waves again and again.