enemies to lovers

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Tea with mother and daughter (and a scheme of blind matchups in the making! )

Theodosia King sat in the elegantly appointed drawing room of the Duchess of Haverford’s residence, her teacup hovering just shy of her lips. The warm fragrance of honeyed tea filled the room, mingling with the scent of freshly cut roses. Her mother, the Marchioness of Kingsley, sat to her right, chatting animatedly with the Duchess about her latest scheme—something Theodosia fervently wished would be forgotten before the next scone was served.

“I do believe, my dear Marchioness, that blind matchups could be the very thing to enliven the next social season,” the Duchess of Haverford declared with a twinkle in her eye. She was a woman who rarely missed an opportunity to create a stir, and her enthusiasm was matched only by the Marchioness’s own.

“Precisely!” Lady Kingsley agreed, nodding with such vigor that her ostrich feather hat threatened to topple. “Imagine the thrill of it! Young people meeting in a carefully orchestrated manner, none the wiser until they’re already smitten. Why, it’s positively Shakespearean!”

Theodosia, who had been eyeing the delicate sugar biscuits with mild interest, set her cup down with a soft clink. “Positively disastrous, more like,” she muttered under her breath, though it was just loud enough for both women to hear. Just ask her. She had been the one to sit through her mother’s “blind matchups.”

The Duchess raised an amused brow. “Oh, come now, Theodosia. Don’t be such a cynic. Blind matchups are an adventure. Your mother is quite the genius. One must embrace the unknown!”

“The unknown is precisely the problem, Your Grace,” Theodosia countered, crossing her arms. “The last time Mother arranged one of these dreadful encounters, Lord Chance nearly drenched our sofa in sweat. Utterly unpleasant. No lady should have to sit through that.”

Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Not all of them were that bad.”

“I beg to differ,” Theodosia replied dryly. “They were all equally bothersome.”

The Duchess laughed. “But that’s the beauty of it, my dear. Blind matchups are a delightful gamble. One might endure a few dullards, but then—who knows? You might stumble upon a gem.”

“Precisely!” Lady Kingsley exclaimed. “We should set up some matchups for Seth.”

“Seth? He would loathe being thrust into such an ordeal,” Theodosia said. On the other hand, perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea?

“Oh, I think Seth could do with a bit of excitement,” the Marchioness mused, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “He’s always so serious, locked away with his books and estate ledgers. A blind matchup might just be the thing for him to live a little.”

Or push him over the edge. Seth King despised anything remotely frivolous. Theodosia smiled. “You might be right, Mother. It’s only right that siblings share in joy and despair, is it not?”

“How delightful!” the Duchess declared, her tone brooking no argument. “The poor boy has been buried under responsibilities for far too long. A bit of romantic intrigue could do wonders, and it just so happens I have a few candidates in mind.”

Theodosia happily picked up her tea again, listening to the Duchess of Haverford and her mother conspire.

Ton beware!

A Little Bit of Hellion

By Tanya Wilde

What’s a lady to do when the man she thought was so utterly wrong turns out to be a hellion so very right?

Lady Theodosia King has had enough. Enough of her mother’s relentless matchmaking, enough of fortune hunters circling like vultures, and enough of the Earl of Saville clinging to her shadow under the guise of righting a wrong. Determined to escape the madness, she decides to pack her bags and retreat to Brighton for the remainder of the season. But she never expected a certain earl to follow her . . .

Field Savage, the Earl of Saville, has made his share of mistakes—none more torturous than his involvement in an infamous heiress list that found its way into White’s betting book, causing chaos in London. Every attempt to correct his errors only seems to worsen them. So, when he learns that the bane of his existence has fled London, he’s determined to let her go—after getting answers to a few burning questions.

Their plans go horribly awry when, shortly after Field catches up with Theodosia, they are set upon by highwaymen and left penniless on the side of the road.

Can they overcome their differences long enough to find help, or will their decisions lead them further down a path of mischief and mayhem? And perhaps even love?

Purchase link: https://www.amazon.com/Little-Bit-Hellion-Regency-Historical-ebook/dp/B0DC1859F1

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tanyawilde/

Except:

Theodosia King, daughter of the late Marquess of Kingsley, stared at the man before her and studied the pearls of sweat that dotted the line of his brow, one drop trickling down the side of his cheek. The man’s nervous laughter as he dabbed his handkerchief along his face reminded her of a timorous actor who forgot his lines in a Shakespearean play.

The Earl of Saville was to blame for this. Her once unperturbed life was in shambles.

Because of him.

And his friends, it must be said, but most of all him. He was the reason her mother had started hosting what she disturbingly called “blind matchups.” Every morning—unless she escaped before her mother seized hold of her—she would be stationed in the blue drawing room while her mother and Aunt Rose, her father’s only sister, selected King-approved suitors from the receiving room, allowing them each fifteen minutes in which the men could display their peacock feathers and do a little social dance in the hope of attracting her interest—chaperoned by her trusted maid, Nancy, of course.

She loathed every second of every matchup.

She resented her mother’s strange mind.

And she hated the Earl of Saville.

Most especially today.

Even if the earl hadn’t been directly responsible for these matchups, he’d still poked at the sorest of the sore spots when he’d claimed, on that horrid heiress list, that she had Satan’s eyes. To make matters even more dreadful, he and his friends had given the whole of White’s good entertainment when they lost the list and it found its way into the betting book of White’s. The result had been predictable. Wagers spilled over the book’s pages, drawing out all sorts of wretched creatures to her drawing room.

All in all, an unpleasant reminder of her place in the world. She hadn’t liked the Earl of Saville to begin with. Not since the first time they had been introduced in her first season, and he’d visibly flinched when their eyes met. The man was arrogant, pompous, and rude. Then there was what he, they believed to be her biggest flaw . . .

Theodosia had thought she’d gotten over the incident from her childhood, but that man had brought everything back to the surface with that one comment. Reminding her—no, taunting her—that she could never escape the judgment of others. What was it that her governess had once said?

Ah, yes.

How unfortunate. With eyes like that, you must be cursed, girl. Best lower your gaze when suitors come calling one day.

Theodosia inwardly scoffed. In truth, she couldn’t quite recall the woman’s exact wording, but it had been something to that effect. Lower her gaze, she’d been advised.

What nonsense. It had never been in Theodosia’s nature to lower her gaze. Instead, she made a point to look a man dead in the eyes—like she had done with the Earl of Saville—and their discomfort be damned.

The result? Nine times out of ten brought about the flustering, sweaty mess before her. Lord Chance. Would that this had been the only count against him.

He’d also been late. How long did it take to walk from one drawing room to another? In his case, an entire cup of tea. That had been the first count against him.

The second point against him had come in the form of kissing the back of her hand upon their greeting. His mouth hovered not one, not two, but three moments too long. Must the man cling to her hand?

“Do you like tea, Lady Theodosia?”

Ah, small chatter. Smallest of the small. Irrelevant. Unnecessary. A waste of her breath. Another mark against.

What sort of question was that anyway? Did she like tea? Would she be drinking tea if she did not like it? Does anyone in England not like tea? She didn’t bother to answer, merely took a sip from her cup in response.

A small but purposeful belch slipped from her lips, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing when his eyes widened. “Oh, my apologies. The gasses in my body oftentimes demand release in the most inconvenient moments.”

He stared at her without blinking.

She tilted her head back, matching his stare.

“You . . . that . . .” He cleared his throat. “Inconvenient gasses should be left for more convenient settings.”

Is that so?

And this was the man Mama selected as a possible match. She loved her mother, but she sometimes wondered if the marchioness had any sense in her head. Her mother ought to have been able to tell with one glance this man would never do. He even wore the colors of a peacock. A green waistcoat adorned with a striking blue tailcoat.

Theodosia considered the man across from her, deciding to conclude this meeting ahead of the fifteen-minute mark. “Do you wish to marry me, my lord?”

Lord Chance sputtered on air. A true feat. “M-Marriage? N-no, I wouldn’t say that. I mean that is too early to speak of such m-matters.”

“Why is it too early to speak of such matters?” Theodosia arched a not-so-subtle brow. “You are calling on me, are you not? If you do not know if you wish to marry me because it’s still too early to decide, may I then help facilitate this decision?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lord Chance.” She set her cup down and leaned forward in her seat. “Would you enjoy a wife who is outspoken, stubborn to the bone, has a temper, hates dancing, loves bickering, and has no problem when it comes to insulting the opposite sex?”

His eyes had turned to saucers that grew with each trait she listed. By the time she said “loves bickering,” the man had already jumped to his feet. “Quite right, quite right. I cannot see myself with such a . . . such an unconventional wife.”

Theodosia dipped her head. A resolute nod meant to encourage him to scamper away. She fell back onto the divan even before he’d cleared the room, shooting him a sweet smile when he glanced over his shoulder before hurrying off. How many more? She’d already entertained five lords today.

Five!

Her mother breezed into the room. “What did you say to that poor man? He rushed out of the house as though the devil was on his heels.”

Theodosia gave her mother a deadpan look. “Perhaps the devil was on his heels.”

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A gardener’s nightmare in WIP Wednesday

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

***

Dar was beginning to question the competence of his gardener.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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 The Creole Duchess

By Rue Allyn

A duke in disguise, a creole miss determined to get her own way, a curse, and two nations at war, is love even possible?

New Orleans Creole, Miss Celestine St. Cyr-Duval refuses to live under the thumb of some man chosen by her parents. Celie will do everything to keep freedom of choice for herself and others. But fate interferes in the form of a duke disguised as British businessman, Caleb Elmond. A relationship with Caleb would find approval with her mother, but both Celie and Caleb have secrets that put them on opposite sides of a great conflict and could destroy them both.

With the Battle of New Orleans looming, can these two strangers from warring countries compromise and protect each other, or will fear and betrayal end both their lives?

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Creole-Duchess-Regency-Strangers-Romance-ebook/dp/B0C5MSBW3T

Other Retailers https://books2read.com/u/49vEL8.

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Spotlight on One Hour in Freedom, published today

Book 3 in Lion’s Zoo

Once they meant everything to one another.

First, in London’s meanest streets and later in Spain facing Napoleon’s army, where betrayal and lies tore them apart. When the machinations of a criminal compel Ellie Nomikos to seek out Dan Moriarty, she doesn’t know what to expect.

With the mysterious King Nemesis circling for the kill, they must learn to trust one another again. Together, can they discover his identity and bring him to justice before he finds and kills the person most precious to them in the world?

The stakes could not be higher. Their love. Their lives. Their daughter.

Buy now: https://books2read.com/LionZooOHiF

Excerpt

The neutral expression Daniel habitually wore dropped for a moment to reveal surprise, then delight and lust, before he reimposed control over his features.

He stood to one side. “Ellie. Please come in.” The huskiness of his voice sent her body humming, as did his state of dress—or undress. He had wrapped a towel around his waist to open the door, but—apart from that scrap of fabric—he was naked.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and walked past him into the room.

“Give me a moment,” he demanded. He went behind a dressing screen. He is quite correct. We need to talk. Ellie took a deep breath and attempted to distract herself from her sudden lust by cataloguing the contents of the room. A bed. A couple of chairs by the fire, one of which had a half full glass on the little table beside it. She sat in the other chair, and continued her examination.

A clothes press. A side table under the window. Another by the door. Very similar to her own room, so probably a washstand and some pegs for clothes behind the dressing screen.

Daniel was there, too, presumably armouring himself against her lustful eyes by hiding his glorious chest and strong legs under clothing. But the sight was engraved on her eyeballs, and her efforts to think of something else were not working.

He emerged in a pair of trousers, with a shirt worn loose over the top. “Still undress,” he said, “but not quite as scandalous.”

“Not scandalous at all, under the circumstances,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but the household doesn’t know that, do they?” he argued. “Do you want a whisky, Ellie? Lion brings it down from Northumberland. They brew it in the hills there. He has his family seat up that way.”

“I have never tried whisky,” Ellie admitted. “Perhaps just a little. As to the scandal of my presence here, or not… that is one of the things I wanted to talk about.”

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Spotlight on It Began with a Kiss

❥•*•☆❥•*•🌹 It Began With A Kiss 🌹•*•❥☆•*•❥

By Sherry Ewing

Sometimes you need to listen when your heart begins to sing…

Aiden of Clan MacLaren, a warrior seeking purpose, finds himself in the service of King Henry II. Tasked with a mission that will shape his destiny, he never expects to cross paths with Lady Iona Ferguson, a woman burdened by her duties as the widow of a powerful clan chieftain. A chieftain who died when Aiden takes over her husband’s castle.

As Aiden takes charge of Iona’s home and seeks justice for her late husband, their lives become intertwined in ways neither could have predicted.

Will their love conquer the boundaries of clan, country, and duty? Or will their differences tear them apart forever?

Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/bxNdWd

Excerpt

She turned her face upward and gave him an enchanting smile and his own face brightened that she did not protest being brought close to his side. They began to walk the battlements until they reached the part of the wall facing most of the moon lit ocean. He nodded his head toward the guards who were nearby. They took the hint and disappeared further along the walkway, leaving him and Iona in privacy.

He took Iona’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I am glad you wished to join me here this eve, Iona,” Aiden stated honestly and with an open heart. “You give me hope for a future together.”

She turned her face upward again to stare at him with those wonderous blue eyes. A man could get lost in such a look. “I am still uncertain if this will work out between us, Aiden,” she whispered.

“Do you fear me?” he asked hoping that this was not the cause of her apprehension.

“Nay, I do not, nor do I fear any man,” she replied, jutting out her chin, “even when ye tied me tae that chair.”

“’Twas a necessity, I assure you, and now highly regretted on my part. Can you forgive me?” Her bravery was to be applauded and was most likely the reason he was drawn to her. A woman who could stand up to him and share her thoughts was appealing to Aiden. He would never be able to stand a wife who cowered down to him for the rest of their lives.

Meet Sherry Ewing

In 2014, I saw my first self-published work, If My Heart Could See You, hit Amazon’s bestseller list at #3 for the eBook three days after the paperback released. I was stunned and have been humbly grateful to my readers who have made all my books hit those wonderful charts. And so it began…

When I’m not writing, I love to read historical and time travel novels (naturally) and am a huge NASCAR fan. As a matter-of-fact, I do some of my best writing listening to the hum of the engines in the background! I love to camp, although I haven’t had the time since I’ve moved back to the city. I also enjoy hiking, the beach, and checking out our National Parks when the opportunity presents itself.

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Mysteries in WIP Wednesday

In my latest made-to-order story, I explore a reunion between a husband and wife who were separated by lies and malice many years earlier. There’s a mystery about the whole thing, and hence the headline for this post. The following scene features the brother and sister who are meeting for the first time.

“Hello,” he called, as he approached.

“Hello,” she responded. He was somewhere near her own age. Or, at least, he was as tall as Lillian. Slender and with dark hair and eyes, he reminded her of someone, though she could not think who. Could he be the company she longed for, perhaps? She held out her hand. “I am Lillian,” she said.

He took her hand and bowed over it. “Thomas,” he introduced himself. “I live over there.” He pointed to a house, or more of a large cottage, beyond the field.

Lillian pointed to the door into her aunt’s garden. “I am staying with my aunt,” she explained. “Am I trespassing, Thomas?”

He waved his arms in an expansive gesture. “I invite you to visit any time you like,” he said. “Have you met Belinda?”

“The horse?” Lillian realised. “She is sweet, is she not? Is she yours?”

“Yes, or my mother’s rather. We have owned her since before I was born. Come on.” He led the way to the horse, who lifted her head to sniff at his pockets.

The pockets proved to contain apples, and Thomas gave one of them to Lillian to feed ot the horse. Belinda accepted the offering with gentle lips and tolerantly carried them in turn around the field, one riding, the other walking. They picked wildflowers and Lillian made them into necklaces and crowns. They hunted for berries in the tangle by the brook.

Thomas suggested that another day, they could fish. He swore the brook had trout, but all Lillian saw were a few darting minnows.

And all the time, they talked, sharing stories, ideas, and opinions. Lillian had never made a friend so easily. Something about Thomas felt familiar, as if she had known him all her life.

But she could not have met him before. He had been coming to this town since he was a babe in arms, he and his mother. He brushed off questions about his father by saying, “We lost him before I was born.”

It wasn’t until later that afternoon, as she sat at the modiste’s watching Aunt Alice be fitted for yet another gown, that Lillian had time to explore the idea hovering at the edges of her mind. It was ridiculous, of course. Surely such a coincidence only happened in stories. But it could be true. Thomas had something of the look of her father, even more if she considered the portrait in the long gallery of Father as a boy. He was also the right age, for she had asked him. He had just turned thirteen, he had told Lillian, and Lillian celebrated her fourteenth birthday six weeks ago.

Two years ago, Lillian had demanded that her father tell her the truth of the scandalous rumours she’d been overhearing for as long as she remembered. She had a living mother, and possibly a living brother or sister. Her mother had been with child when she disappeared shortly after Lillian’s first birthday.

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Enemies to lovers on WIP Wednesday

 

Actually, in One Hour of Freedom, from the Lion’s Zoo series, they were lovers before they were enemies.

She stopped by the window and turned to face him, the brighter lights in the bedchamber illuminating her face.  He traced the changes time had left. In London, when they first met, she had been more child than girl. In Spain, several years later, she was a girl hovering on the edge of womanhood. She was now fully a woman, and more beautiful than ever.

“I need to talk to you, Matthias.”

He sneered. “And you could not visit me in London? No, of course not, for undoubtedly you are involved in something illegal, and you know that in London I have the authority to arrest you.” A slightest exaggeration. His authority was limited to the river and the docks. But she wasn’t to know that.

She had learned to control her temper somewhere in the past four years. She did not react to his needling, but answered calmly, “I am being watched in London. I could not see a tail, but I may have been followed here, to Coventry. I cannot be seen to be talking to you.” She waved an expressive hand. “Hence the precautions.”

Despite himself, he was intrigued. No. He would not let her inveigle him again. “I have a way you can avoid that. Don’t talk to me. Go away, Electra.”

She sat in one of the two chairs by the hearth. “The Kingpin has ordered me to kill you,” she said, bluntly. “You are interfering with his trade, I am told.”

His hand had not left the gun in his pocket, but it had relaxed. No more. He hooked his finger back to the trigger, though every nerve in him jangled at the thought of sending a bullet into the flesh he had once loved so deeply.

The Kingpin was a shadowy figure that had, in the past couple of years, taken over some of the most lucrative illegal businesses in London. One of those was stealing cargoes from the ships in the Pool of London and the London docks, which put him in direct conflict with the Thames River Police. 

“I do not recommend that you try,” he growled.

She hooked a single eyebrow. “I have no intention of trying. But when I told the Kingpin that, he took someone very important to me. He tells me I have a choice. Kill you, or see the person I love die. I choose the third option. I have come to ask for your help.”

The sheer audacity of it silenced him for a moment, and then he swore, a long string of invective dredged up from the streets that birthed him. “You think I would lift a finger to help you save your lover?” he added. “Go to hell!”

“I undoubtedly will, for my sins,” Ellie agreed. “But first I must take down the Kingpin before he finds my daughter and carries out his threats against her, and I hope you will help me, for she is your daughter, too.”

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Preconceptions on WIP Wednesday

What a delight to turn a character’s preconceptions around. Here’s my John Forsythe, invaded by unwanted guests and suspicious of their motives.

The rain was even heavier the next day. John’s unwelcome guests would not be moving on. He did not have to see them; he trusted the Thornes for that. Nonetheless, their presence in his house and on his land distracted his attention, so that he failed to lose himself in his work, concern about what the she devil might be up to coming between him and the total concentration he needed to ensure that every part of the machine was placed just exactly where it belonged.

This particular automaton would have over five thousand precisely-made parts, so the potential for disaster was a very real. He covered the work and moved to another bench where a simpler piece, a children’s toy in the form of a monkey drummer, was waiting for spots of paint where the metal pieces had been joined together with pins, so they could move.

Painting was more mindless than constructing a clockwork engine, which had the disadvantage of that he had time to wonder what game Miss Turner was playing. Presumably, she—and probably her sister—were done up in their best gowns, all primped and pretty, and ready to charm him. He was almost tempted to go and see the show.

Mrs Thorne insisted both ladies and their three servants would remain in their quarters. John snorted his disbelief. Mrs Thorne did not know ladies of the ton the way that John did.

He finished touching up the monkey drummer and set it aside to dry. According to the workshop clock, Mrs Thorne would be putting together a meal about now. The visitors were making extra work for her. He could help lighten her load by going over to the other tower and fetching his own food.

He knew it was an excuse, even as he said it. So was his rationale that going through the house would help him avoid the rain. He unlocked the door that separated the tower from the main wing of the manor, locking it carefully behind him.

He could be honest with himself. He wanted to see the visitors, to prove to himself they were not staying where they had been put, that they were swanning around in fine clothing expecting his overworked servants to wait on them.

Perhaps not Lady Violet. He had met her years ago in London, when she and Rose, her sister, ran away from her manipulative self-centred harridan of a mother to beg refuge with Peter. She had been a sweet child. But eight years on, she was no doubt on the marriage market like all the other young women of her class, and lacked a thought in her head beyond marriage and clothing.

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Reluctant heroes on WIP Wednesday

The Writer is an automaton built in the 1770s using 6,000 moving parts by Pierre Jaquet-Droz, his son Henri-Louis, and Jean-Frédéric Leschot. Some regard it as the world’s first programmable computer. In Perchance to Dream, my hero makes automata.

I’m trying my hand at an enemies to lovers trope in the next book in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. In Perchance to Dream, my hero had shut himself away in the country. He lives in a tower, guarded by his faithful servants, the Thornes. Guess the fairy tale! Here’s John’s first scene.

Ravenham, Cumbria, May 1825

“Another letter from that Miss Turner, Captain,” Thorne reported.

“Throw it in the fire,” John commanded. Thorne didn’t comment, but put the letter into his pocket, no doubt to store it with the others.

He didn’t need to read it to know it would be another request for cuttings from the roses that rambled everywhere at Rosewood Towers. At least, he assumed that all five letters were on the same topic. Not that he’d read them, but Arial, Lady Stancroft, whose letters he did read, had said that was what Miss Turner wanted.

Or claimed to want. Arial was one of only three females in the world that John trusted. Arial, wife of his dearest friend, Peter Ransome, Earl of Stancroft. Cordelia, wife of his half-brother, the Marquess of Deerhaven. Thorne’s wife, Maggie Thorne. Presumably, the world held other good females, whom John had not encountered. Pansy Turner was not one of them. John remembered her from his time in London, eight years ago, and wouldn’t trust her an inch. Arial, who was kind and good, might think the harpy would travel all the way to Cumbria for a bunch of rose cuttings. John was sure the Turner female had other motives, to do with her being single and him lacking a wife.

“If that’s all, Thorne,” John hinted.

“No, sir. I came to remind you that you promised to take Miss Jane fishing this afternoon.”

He had, too. He cast a wistful glance at the pieces of automaton scattered across his work table. “Tell Mrs Thorne I will collect her in ten minutes,” he said. “I had better change into something old.”

Not that he had anything new. He had last bought clothes in 1818, not long before he married Jane’s mother. But Mrs Thorne would growl if he went fishing in anything that was still presentable enough for visitors. Not that he ever had visitors.

Jane was waiting impatiently when he arrived at the other tower. “Papa, I thought you had forgotten me,” she scolded.

“Hush, Miss Jane,” said Mrs Thorne, throwing him a worried glance. “Your Papa would never forget you.”

That hurt on two counts. First, that Mrs Thorne could think he would be cross with his darling girl for challenging him. Second, that the only reason he was here, as the Thornes well knew, was his standing order to remind him of any promise to his daughter. When the melancholoy was bad, he forgot everything.

“I am sorry I am late, darling girl. Shall we go and catch some fishies?”

She gifted him with a sweet smile, took his offered hand, and for a moment, his world righted.

The world held four good females, he amended, and the best of them all was Jane, who was only seven. She was something of a tyrant, but she had a good heart.

They passed the rambling manor house and walked through the wild overgrown garden to the trout stream. Jane described the fish she was going to catch, speculated on when her wiggly tooth might fall out, spelled for him the words she had learned that morning, and described the new dress Mrs Thorne was making for her, which was the same colour as the roses.

The roses reminded him of Miss Turner. Five letters! The woman was determined. He hoped the latest would be the end of it.