Chaos Come AGain

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Spotlight on Chaos Come Again

Hurrah! Chaos Come Again, the first novel in Lion’s Zoo, is out in the wild! Released 20 June.

Here’s an excerpt to whet your appetite.

Their lovemaking that night had an edge of feverish desperation, but by morning Lion had woken in a more philosophical frame of mind. “Perhaps the earl did me a favour,” he said, when she asked him how he was. She had woken in his arms, as she had every night since Gretna Green.

“How so?” she asked.

“He would never have let me go into the army had I been named his heir when I was a boy.” His smile was grim. “Or he would have asked for me to be given the most dangerous assignments so I was removed from the way of those with purer blood. Either way, the career I have had is my own.”

He rolled her, then, so she lay flat on the bed with him above her, his legs stretched between hers, his weight held on his elbows. “But I have cheated you, Dorothea. You thought yourself safe from marriage to a nobleman, and now look!”

“You are still my Lionel, and I am your Dorothea,” she reminded him. “For your sake, I will make the best of it.” She had puzzled it out for herself last night, while Lion was pacing the room, despairing over the loss of his military career. Indeed, he had lost more than her, since the earl’s heir she had inadvertently married was the man she wanted to be with for the rest of her life, whereas he would have to leave the army when his grandfather died.

Not before, he had insisted last night.

“But won’t the earl want us to stay now that he has named you his heir?” she had said.

The corners of his mouth had quirked in a wicked smile. “He has no say in where I go and what I do. I do not need his money, and nor does he have influence that will remove me from my post.”

So they were still bound for Portugal, and Dorothea was glad of it; glad of a year or two to become accustomed to marriage before they had to face the duties neither of them wanted.

Lion kissed her nose. “Are you tired of travelling? Would you like a few days rest before we leave for Portugal?”

“You are anxious to get back,” Dorothea said.

He kissed her again, a soft brush of his lips to the top of her head. “I am asking what you want,” he pointed out.

Whatever you want. But he would not accept that answer. “I would be delighted to leave Father behind, and to start our real life together.”

“Good,” said Lion. “Enough talking. All I want from you in the next half hour, wife of mine, are moans, the word more, and perhaps my name.”

And he made it so.

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Tea with a Fox

Every third Monday when she was at Haverford House, the Duchess of Haverford was at home to her unmarried godsons and their friends. Not all of them at once, of course. Sometimes only one or two felt the need to make the trek from London out to Chelsea to pay their respects to their godmother. Sometimes as many as a score all arrived in twos or threes over the two hours that she presided over the teapot.

Today, a merry group of officers on leave from Portugal had decided to visit her before returning to Portugal and their regiments. The summer campaign would begin in June. To hear them talk about the battles to come, one would think they headed off to a picnic or a fox hunt. How many of them would return whole? How many would not return at all? The long war with France had chewed up so many of the young men she knew; had swallowed some and spat the others out broken and forever changed.

She smiled and chatted, even laughed at their tales and their jokes. Eleanor was very skilled at keeping her sorrow hidden behind a pleasant visage and polite conversation.

One of the merriest officers in the group was a guest of two of the others. Major James Foxton, a handsome fellow with a full head of red hair, full of stories and sharp-witted remarks. Fox, his friends called him. Eleanor knew his great aunt, Patricia Strathford-Bowles–counted her as a friend, though Lady Patricia had been a woman in her late thirties when Eleanor was a young wife, struggling to keep her sense of self in a near intolerable marriage.

They had never spoken of it, she and Patricia. But Eleanor always went home from a meeting with her friend with the strength to endure for another day. Those years were long past. She had moved beyond endurance to finding her own power. Perhaps she could exercise it on behalf of her friend’s great nephew? Yet there was something about him that made her uneasy–an unkind bite to his words, a sneer in his stories. She needed to know the young man better in order to see her way. She also knew, from Patricia’s letters, that he was a disappointment to his mother and his elder brother, who was now viscount in their father’s place. Yet Patricia had never said why.

“Major Foxton,” she said. “Come and sit by me, please, and let me pour you another tea while you tell me about yourself.”

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In-laws on WIP Wednesday

[From Chaos Come Again, which just squeaks in, it is not yet published, but won’t be a work-in-progress by this time next week]

The Earl of Ruthford and Lady Patricia both hugged Dorothea when she and Lion said their farewells. They had come as far as the foyer, but would not go out to the carriage.

“Look after my boy,” the earl begged, when Lion hurried outside to make sure all was ready. “Despite the way I treated him, he’s made himself into the finest man I know, but he has scars, Dorothea. He has scars—some I put there myself. He will be a great earl with you beside him.”

“I know nothing about being a countess,” Dorothea protested.

“You know how to love him,” said the earl. “That is the best thing an earl—any man—can have. A woman who loves him and believes in him. He will step into my shoes sooner than he would like, but I am not worried for him. Not now that he has you.”

She kissed the old man’s cheek with tears in her eyes.

She turned to Lady Patricia. Aunt Patricia. The old lady had asked Dorothea to address her in more intimate terms yesterday afternoon, as they went through the still room putting together a medicine chest for Dorothea to take with her.

Aunt Patricia enfolded Dorothea in her arms. “You are a dear girl, Dorothea. Be certain I will look after Persham Abbey for you until you come home to be its mistress.”

“I don’t wish to take over from you, Aunt Patricia,” Dorothea objected, honestly. In fact, she was terrified at the prospect.

“I am more than ready to hand over the reins, my dear,” Aunt Patricia insisted. “I am so pleased Lion married you. You are good for Lion and you will be good for the family and our people. Come home while I am still fit to help you make your place here, if you can. You have made a good start, Dorothea. Never doubt it.”

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Partings on WIP Wednesday

A small excerpt from Chaos Come Again, out in three weeks.

Dorothea was clearly going to have to get used to Lion going away at a moment’s notice. The meeting with his exploring officers as soon as they arrived back in camp, the interruption in the night to deal with a drunken brawl, and with breakfast, a message from Wellington, asking for Lion’s presence at headquarters immediately.

“Of course, I do not mind,” she replied mendaciously to his worried enquiry. “I knew you had to lead your part of the army. I will be here when you have time for me, and find things to do when you do not. You need not worry about me, Lion. I married an officer with responsibilities, and I do not mean to be a burden to you.”

Which was all very well, but now he had ridden out of camp, with Bear, Fox and a platoon of troopers, she had no idea what to do with herself. Both Emily and Amelia viewed officers’ wives as useless ornamentation, and Dorothea had no intention of being that.

But wait. How was this different to what I am trained for? Manage the house and its servants. Ensure that meals palatable to her husband were put on the table in a timely fashion. Look after the welfare of those who answered to her husband as servants or tenants, and more widely the welfare of the poor of the parish.

If she had married in England, she would not have hesitated to call the cook and the housekeeper to her and learn all about the house, and to question them and the local vicar about the estate and the surrounding area.

Who would be the equivalent in her current situation? Major Cassiday, perhaps. He was in disgrace after getting into a fight with Roderick Westinghouse, and had been left behind. He might be able to advise her. She wondered if the troops had a chaplain. He, too, could be helpful.

She would start, however, with Michael’s mistress, if only because she shared a house with the woman. Bianca was a little stand-offish. Asking for her help and advice might attract scorn. On the other hand, she might appreciate it. It might break the ice between them.

Certainly, making friends with Bianca and asking her advice was a better idea than sitting here on the bench outside the farmhouse, staring at the road down which Lion had disappeared, and feeling sorry for herself.

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Tea with Aldridge and a letter from a concerned aunt

The Duchess of Haverford looked up from the letter she was reading. “Aldridge, dear, have you ever met Ruthford’s grandson?”

Aldridge lowered his newspaper to attend to his mother’s question. “Matthew Strathford-Bowes? Tragic, what happened to him. Or one of the Foxton brothers?”

“The other grandson, Aldridge,” the duchess clarified. “Lionel O’Toole.”

“O’Toole,” Aldridge repeated, frowning as he considered. “Ah yes. The illegitimate grandson. Part-Indian, or so I understand. Though one would think Irish, with a surname like that.”

“His mother was the daughter of an Irish soldier who married a Bengali lady,” the duchess explained. “I remember when the poor little boy arrived here from India. Ruthford acknowledged him, had him educated, and bought him a commission in the cavalry.”

“Ah, yes. He serves with the younger Foxton,” Aldridge commented. “I know the older one, Viscount Westberry. Fellow doesn’t think much of his brother, but likes his cousin. Says it’s a pity the man is illegitimate.”

Her Grace waved the letter. “Not illegitimate apparently. The letter is from Ruthford’s sister, Lady Patricia. Apparently, Ruthford concealed a marriage certificate. Lionel is the only son and rightful heir of Ruthford’s eldest son.”

Aldridge whistled. “That will ruffle a few feathers in the Committee for Priviliges. I imaging O’Toole is none too pleased, either.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Mind you, I’d love to know what the mothers of marriageable maidens will make of it. The heir to an earldom. Healthy, wealthy, and with all his teeth. And a war hero besides!”

“They are too late,” the duchess said, waving the letter again. “Lionel is married. Quite suddenly apparently, and under some unusual circumstances involving an heiress on the run from Roderick Westinghouse.”

“Hernware’s brother? I don’t blame her for running away.”

“Neither does Lady Patricia, but she is concerned about what the Westinghouses might say,” said Her Grace.

Aldridge grinned. “What does Lady Patricia want us to do about it, Mama?”

The duchess gave her son a fond smile. “You are correct, my dear. Lady Patricia would like the ton to know the truth about her grand-nephew and his new wife and their romance. The ton does love a love story.”

“The truth, Mama? Or a favourable version of it?”

She shook her head at him. “You are a cynic, Aldridge. But you will help me, will you not?”

Lionel O’Toole is the hero of Chaos Come Again.

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Cover reveal for Lion’s Zoo

Coming up in June and July are the first two books in my series about exploring officers (we’d call them spies) from the Peninsular Wars, finding their feet and their lifetime love as civilians. Two more will follow this year

Lion’s Zoo

Once they were wounded children, each helpless against the adults who controlled their lives. Later, they became exploring officers with Wellington’s army, under Colonel Lionel O’Toole, known as Lion.

Famed for their varied skills and their intrepid courage, they were renowned for carrying out missions where others had failed.

Now Napoleon has fallen, they all have a new mission. Each must use his own unique abilities to carve a niche for himself in civilian life.

Lion, their wartime colonel, will use his influence as Earl of Ruthford to help, but he wants more for them. He hopes they will, like him, find a love that enriches their lives.

The first book, Chaos Come Again, tells the story of the colonel who gave the cadre of exploring officers their name. It takes the reader on a journey to Portugal and into the wickedness of a jealous heart.

It is based on the play Othello, by Shakespeare. But, of course, I give it a happy ending. I promise.

Book two, Grasp the Thorn, is a rewrite of a book I published several years ago under the name House of Thorns. My hero is known as Bear, and he’s a Regency house developer, buying up old estates, doing them up, and selling them to the newly rich. His bachelor life is disrupted when a lovely woman comes to steal the roses from the cottage he has just purchased.

Book three, One Hour of Freedom, started as part of a Superheroines project that got snarled in everyone’s other commitments. My heroine is called Electra. Her trust in the uncle who trained her as an assassin destroyed her relationship with Matthias Moriarty, or Bull, as he was known to the Zoo. Now, four years later, he is a Supervisor with the Thames River Police, and she has been sent to kill him. It will be out in September.

All of the books are gothic in tone, but Book four is the darkest. The Darkness Within tells the story of Max, who is haunted by all the people he has killed, and particularly the first. When he is sent to rescue a former comrade from a religious cult, he manages to fit in, like the Chameleon they used to call him. The peace of the community almost seduces him. But the secrets it hides are even darker than Max’s own. I’m hoping to have this one ready for December.

Chaos Come Again

Tormented by his past and by vile rumours, will this Regency Othello allow a liar he trusts to destroy the love between himself and his wife?

Grasp the Thorn

When secrets, self-doubts, and old feuds threaten to destroy their budding relationship, can they grasp the thorn of scandal to gather the rose of love?

 

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Trust and doubt on WIP Wednesday

In this passage from Chaos Come Again, my hero does not feel worthy of his wife’s love, so begins to wonder if he has it.

Lion and Fox rode ahead of the column of troopers, driven mostly by Lion’s eagerness to return to Dorothea. According to Fox, Dorothea had been keeping herself busy in his absence. Fox was inclined to be annoyed that she had employed a couple of the camp followers to cook for them and do their laundry. Lion wished he had thought of it. Amelia was wife to a major now, and should not still be doing the work of a servant.

“She has been wandering all over the camp, making a nuisance of herself with the families,” Fox told him. “You’ll have to have a word with her, Lion.”

Lion would reserve judgement until he had talked to his wife. Which would be within the hour, for that odd shaped rock ahead marked the turn to their camp.

He resisted the urge to spur his horse on. It was too early. “I’ll talk to her,” he told Fox. And listen, too. Fox had an odd kick in his gallop when it came to socialising between the classes.

Fox fell silent for a while, and they’d passed Almeida and had the camp within sight when he rode up beside Lion again. “Dorothea and Cassiday have been getting on well,” he commented. “Nothing for you to worry about, Lion, I’m sure. Even if she has spent more time with our good major than she has with you.”

Lion repressed a sigh. Fox had been making remarks like this ever since he arrived back in Portugal. It was just Fox’s way, but Lion was finding it annoying. “I know I have nothing to worry about,” Lion told him. “My wife loves me, and I trust her.”

“Oh, good,” Fox said. “I am sure you are right to do so.”

Lion shook off a slight disquiet to wave to the camp’s sentries, who had been watching them approach. “Welcome back, Colonel,” said one of them.

“Thank you,” Lion said. “Glad to see you’re alert.”

“Always, sir,” the other man assured him. “Are we on the move, then?”

“Soon, trooper,” Lion assured him. “Soon.”

Within a week, or so Wellington intended. They were ready, rested, and well supplied. “Next year,” he predicted, “our winter quarters will be in Spain, or even France!”

Both soldiers grinned at that. “France, I say, sir,” the first one said.

Lion returned the grin and sent his horse forward again. The farmhouse was just behind the second line of sentries, on the edge of the camp. Lion dismounted outside and tossed his reins to Blythe, who had been trailing Lion and Fox, and had caught up when the two men paused to talk to the sentries.

Fox was close behind him as he opened the door, walking in to hear Michael say, “I hope you can persuade Lion to forgive me, Dorothea. I know I should have handled it better.”

It was the three of them: Dorothea, Michael and Amelia. At least she is not alone with Michael, Lion thought, and then was ashamed he had let Fox’s nonsense influence him.

Amelia saw them first and stood, with an exclamation of delight. “Major Foxton! And Colonel O’Toole, too. Dorothea, your husband is here.”

Dorothea already knew. She had turned towards him, beaming, her hands held out. He took them and pulled her towards him, kissing her in a passionate claiming that was, he acknowledged in his innermost heart, at least in part a demonstration—telling Michael and anyone else who needed to know that Dorothea was his. You are being ridiculous, Lion. The woman loves you.

Perhaps when he had her in his arms, joined to her in the most intimate of ways, his disquiet would settle. “Come,” he said. He led her to their bedchamber and shut the door.

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Intimacy on WIP Wednesday

This is from Chaos Come Again

She bumped her head into his shoulder, in a surplus of affection, and he winced.

“What has happened?” Dorothea asked.

“A slight strain in my shoulder, dearest. Nothing to worry about,” he replied, dropping a kiss on her hair. “I will just have my bath, shall I?”

But while Abigail was dressing Dorothea’s hair, she heard Blythe say, “You’ve bruised your shoulder, Colonel. You should get my lady to rub some of her liniment into that. Going to be a whopping bruise.”

Dorothea put up a hand to tell Abigail to stay where she was and tiptoed to the dressing room door, so she could see what her husband was trying to hide from her. A livid bruise about the size of a fist coloured his shoulder.

“I shall get my liniment,” she said.

Lion looked over his shoulder. “It is nothing to worry about,” he repeated. He submitted to her ministrations, all the while protesting that he hardly felt it at all. “It looks worse than it is.” Which wasn’t true, for when she asked him to windmill his arm, he was unable to do a full circle.

“You will need to rest it,” she scolded him.

He put his other hand on the nape of her neck and encouraged her ear close to his mouth. “You’ll have to be on top, then, my love.”

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Compromised in WIP Wednesday

 

The compromise is a standard historical romance trope. And, of course, they then fall in love, because this is a romance. So it is in Chaos Come Again, my June release.

Dorothea screwed up her courage. “You said ‘betrothed’,” she said.

Colonel O’Toole shrugged. “I know I should have asked properly before announcing it,” he said, “but your former companion’s intrusion, followed by that of Lady Blaine, rather forced the issue.”

Dorothea did not know what to say. He had intended to ask her before Mrs Austin burst in?

He misunderstood her silence, because he rushed into speech. “If you do not like the idea, I will understand.” It was the first time she had seen him discomposed. “I know I am much older than you, and I should also tell you that I am not legitimate. My father was the eldest son of the Earl of Ruthford, but he was not married to my mother, who was the daughter of an Irish soldier and his Indian wife. So I am not actually even English.”

Her own remembered rejections told her he was trying to discourage her, but she recognised the pain of old hurts in his eyes and they emboldened her to say, “I am a merchant’s daughter, tainted with trade. One of my grandfathers was a farmer and the other a shopkeeper. My father started as a millworker, and is a coarse man, unfit for polite company. I am not pretty—too short, too plump, and ordinary in every way. If I marry without my father’s approval, I will not even have a dowry to make me attractive. I will be twenty-one in three months—which is old for an unmarried woman. You cannot possibly want to be burdened with me. No one else ever has.”

His gaze heated. “I don’t care about your ancestors or your dowry,” he countered. “I have money enough to keep us both in comfort. You are very pretty, at least to me. I prefer brown hair and dark eyes, and a complexion with a little colour in it to the pale wraiths that are fashionable.” His eyes dropped lower, to her breasts, and then he met her eyes again. “You are not plump, you are delightfully curved.” He chuckled. “I will allow that you are short, Dorothea. May I call you Dorothea?”

He reached out a hand to her, and she accepted it, though his touch scrambled her wits and it took her a moment to order her thoughts enough to say, “I do not care about your ancestors, either,” she admitted. “And you are just the right age. Did you really think of marriage before Lady Blaine came?”

“Yes. Almost from the first.”

There was nothing but sincerity in every line of his face.

“I am no prize, Dorothea,” he warned. “I was reluctant to ask. I hoped to find a solution that would not burden you with me.”

“It would not be a burden, but a privilege,” she protested.

“I am a military man, and must go back to war as soon as I have seen my grandfather.”

“I would not mind living in a tent and travelling with the army. Not if I can be with you.”

“Ah, Dorothea,” he said, and he lifted her hand to place a kiss within the palm. “Is that a yes, then? You will marry me?”

“If you truly want me,” she agreed.

He kissed her palm again. “Then eat your meal before it gets cold, my love. We have a long way to go and must be on our way soon.”

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News and journalism in Regency England

Researching for one of my works in progress, I came across an article by journalist, author, and academic Brian Cathcart about the arrival of the official despatches from Waterloo.

He points out that no one in London on 18th June 1815 knew that the great battle had taken place, let alone who had won. The news was slow to arrive, too. The battle was on a Sunday, and it wasn’t until late on Wednesday that Wellington’s messenger, Major Henry Percy, arrived in London, with a French eagle sticking out of each window of his yellow post chaise. Escorted by a delirious crowd, he brought the report to Cabinet, who were dining in Grosvenor Square. After they’d read it and made an announcement to the crowd, Percy continued on, with an even larger crowd and followed by most of the Cabinet, to the house of the banking family where the Prince Regent was dining that night. In the words of the hostess, Mrs Boehm:

The first quadrille was in the act cf forming and the Prince was walking up to the dais on which his seat was placed, when I saw every one without the slightest sense of decorum rushing to the windows, which had been left wide open because of the excessive sultriness of the weather. The music ceased and the dance was stopped; for we heard nothing but the vociferous shouts of an enormous mob, who had just entered the Square and were running by the side of a post-chaise and four, out of whose windows were hanging three nasty French eagles. In a second the door of the carriage was flung open and, without waiting for the steps to be let down, out sprang Henry Percy – such a dusty figure! – with a flag in each hand, pushing aside everyone who happened to be in his way, darting up stairs, into the ball-room, stepping hastily up to the Regent, dropping on one knee, laying the flags at his feet, and pronouncing the words ‘Victory, Sir! Victory!’

In another article, Cathcart makes the point that not a single war correspondent was in Brussels to cover the battle, and explains why. Journalism as we know it had not yet been born, though London had many many papers. Indeed, the news they printed came from reports from ordinary civilians who happened to know something, official reports printed verbatim, or articles lifted from other papers.