family trauma

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Making enemies on WIP Wednesday

I’ll write the last scene of The Night Dancers before the end of the weekend, and have it out to beta readers before the following weekend. So here’s another excerpt, to celebrate. My hero and his brother have escaped their evil father, and are now looking for allies in their battle to stay free. To that end, they have been invited to dinner by the Duke and Duchess of Dellborough, where they will have the opportunity to put their case.

First, they heard the shouting from outside of the room, coming closer. Then the doors burst open and people scrambled into the room. First, two burly men in Teign livery, holding the Dellborough butler between them, his back facing the room as he protested, “My lord, their graces are at dinner. My lord, you cannot burst in this way.”

The men were holding the poor man by his arms so that his feet couldn’t reach the ground, and after them came several Dellborough and Teign footmen, shoving and pushing at one another.

Finally, the instigators of this riot—Teign himself, with Farnham at his elbow—strode into the room, Teign’s voice thundering, “I shall see Dellborough now, and those scoundrelly sons of mine. Dellborough, how dare you harbor these traitors!”

The Duke of Dellborough had risen to his feet. “Good evening, Lord Teign.” He looked down the long table to where his wife sat at the end. “My dear, are we harbouring traitors?”

The duchess remained seated, regarding Teign with the expression of a householder who has found a cockroach in the flour bin. “Lord Teign,” she said. “What is the meaning of this unseemly and violent invasion of our home?”

The marquess glared at her, looked around at the luminaries gathered at the table, and made a visible effort to rein in his temper. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he snapped, with a perfunctory nod in place of a bow. “I had to see your husband, to tell him not to support my sons in their rebellion. I shall just be taking them with me, and leave you to get on with your dinner.”

“Lord Kemble?” said the duchess. “Do you wish to go with your father?”

“I do not,” Allan replied, managing to keep his voice calm, despite the anger and grief he always felt in his father’s presence.

“And what of you other brothers?” said the duchess, managing to speak over Teign’s angry retort.

All seven Sheppard brothers replied. Where it was, a “no”, an “I do not”, or “not likely”, their answers amounted to the same.

“You have your answer, Lord Teign,” said her grace. “If you wish to pursue any complaint you have against my husband, please have your secretary arrange an appointment with Dellborough’s secretary.”

Teign sneered. “What kind of a man are you, Dellborough? Letting a female speak for you?”

The duke chuckled. “A wise and happy one,” he replied, and exchanged a warm glance with his duchess. What an inspiration! Thirty years or more, and their love for one another was palpable.

“A man who bows to a woman is no man at all,” Teign announced. He added, “A woman should know her place—silent, obedient, and in a man’s bed. If she forgets it, she should be beaten.”

Good work, you old sinner. You have now alienated all the great ladies Dellborough and his wife had invited to dinner and most of the men.

Dellborough lifted an eyebrow at his wife, and she commented, “An interesting if primitive view. Tell me? How has it contributed to your domestic and marital happiness?”

The duke smirked.

Teign’s sneer deepened, and he turned on his footmen. “Seize my sons, you fools. Have you forgotten what we came for?” Allan clenched his fist and prepared to leap to his feet.

“The marksmen in the minstrels’ gallery will shoot anyone who attempts to carry out that order,” Dellborough drawled. “Up to and including Lord Teign.”

Startled, Allan looked up. Sure enough, from the shadowy depths of the minstrel’s gallery, several rifle barrels pointed at Teign’s footmen, who were backing away despite the imprecations of their master.

Dellborough picked up his wine glass and leaned back in his seat. “My dear guests, I apologize in advance for the spilling of blood, but better to execute these invaders cleanly than to allow brawling in my duchess’s dining room. Teign, your language, sir! Please do remember that ladies are present.” His drawl edged into insolence.

From a lifetime of observing the marquess, Allan could tell he was on the pointing of losing his temper. Could he pushed over?

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Family reunion on WIP Wednesday

I’m expecting The Secret Word back from the editor this week. Looking forward to it! Here’s an excerpt.

***

Chris waited anxiously in the private room at Miss Clemens’ Book Emporium and Tea Rooms. He was about to meet cousins from both sides of the family, and he was far from certain of the reception he was about to get.

Clem squeezed his hands and he smiled at her. He wasn’t at all certain he would be facing this if not for her. She gave him strength.

She had done so at Aunt Fern’s ball. Both his mother’s brother, the Earl of Crosby, and his father’s cousin, the Earl of Halton, were there. Later, he found that the public repudiation had been organised by Aunt Fern. But whether they meant it or not was the question.

Both reacted with the same disdain when Chris was presented to them.

Lord Halton said, “Reginald Satterthwaite’s son? I have no wish to meet anyone associated with that scoundrel.”

And Lord Crosby looked Chris up and down and declared, “No, thank you, Lady Fernvale. With all due respect, I see no reason to acknowledge this person.”

Chris wanted the floor to open up and swallow him, and then Clem had slipped her hand into his, and all was right with his world. He had not had their approbation before, and had not felt the need of it. He did not need it now.

Nonetheless, as the minutes ticked by, he acknowledged to himself his deep yearning for a family. He would have Clem, of course. Somehow. With or without Wright’s blessing. But, for as long as he could remember, he had longed for brothers and sisters or—failing them—cousins. Perhaps, if this meeting went well, his children with Clem might grow up knowing their cousins.

The first to arrive was Lord Crosby’s son, a tall man with that gaunt stretched look of a youth who was still growing—one who ate like a horse and put on no weight. “Are you the son of Reggie Satterthwaite, who ruined my father’s sister Christabel and ran off with her to Gretna Green?” he asked. “I am Michael Thurgood, Lord Crosby’s son and your mother’s nephew.”

He held out a hand to be shaken, so Chris figured his somewhat hostile first question could safely be ignored. “Clem,” he said, figuring a female—and a non-family member at that—might help to keep the conversation civil, “May I present my cousin Michael Thurgood? Thurgood, Miss Wright has done me the honor of accepting my suit. I have yet to convince her father.”

“Miss Wright.” Michael Thurgood’s nod was perfectly polite, but his attention remained on Chris.”

“Is it true, what Lady Fernvale said? That your grandfather abandoned you in the streets after your father died?” he demanded. “Father says he would have taken you in if you had come to him.”

Chris was about to protest that his nine-year old self had had no idea where the Earl of Halton lived, and no expectation of being welcomed, in any case. But they were interrupted by another arrival. A second man, this one around Chris’s age, so perhaps five or six years older than Thurgood.

Chris would have known him for a Satterthwaite even if he had not been expecting him. He look more like Reggie, Chris’s father, than Chris did, though his hair and complexion were fairer and his chin was firm and determined where Reginald Satterthwaite’s was weak. He wore the flashy uniform of a horse guard,

“If you’re Satterthwaite, so am I,” he growled. “Hello, Thurgood.”

Thurgood nodded. “Satterthwaite.” He gained a bit of respect from Chris when he then turned to Clem. “Miss Wright, may I make known to you Captain Satterthwaite of His Majesty’s 27th Regiment of Horse, and Satterthwaite, this is our cousin Christopher Satterthwaite and his betrothed, Miss Clementine Wright.”

As with Thurgood, Satterthwaite greeted Clem politely, but then turned his attention back to Chris.

“Is it true you did not go overseas with your grandfather? My father wants to know why you didn’t come to us. We would not have turned you away.”

“You did,” Chris said, dryly. “Or at least your grandfather had me and my grandfather thrown out of the house, and when my grandfather sent me on my own, the butler would not let me in.”

“You were nine or ten,” the guard’s officer said.

“I was nine.”

“You went back out into the road, and then what?”

“I ran back to where my grandfather had been, but he was gone. I called out for him. I asked other people if they had seen him. Then I ran down the street he’d left by. But I never found him.”

“I saw you,” Satterthwaite said. “I was watching from the schoolroom. You turned at the corner. Do you remember? You shook your fist at the house.”

“I did,” Chris said.  He had forgotten that detail until this moment. “I was angry with my grandfather and with yours.”

“It is you,” Satterthwaite said. “Chris, isn’t it? Chris, I’m Harry.

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Book blurbs in WIP Wednesday

My work in progress is making great progress! I’ve finished taking in the copy edits from the lovely Reina, given it a final proof, and made some changes to the cover. (It now says The Return of the Mountain King as the series title, for one thing.)

I’ve also rewritten the blurb, and that’s my excerpt for today. Next step, finalise the layout files and put them up in the retailers! Launch date is only a fortnight away.

Ruth Winderfield is miserable in London’s ballrooms, where her family’s wealth and questions over her birth make her a target for the unscrupulous and a pariah to the high-sticklers. Trained as a healer, she is happiest in a sickroom. When a smallpox epidemic traps her at the remote manor of a reclusive lord, the last thing she expects is to find her heart’s desire.

Valentine, Earl of Ashbury, was carried home from war three years ago, unconscious, a broken man. He woke to find his family in ruins, his faithless wife and treacherous brother dead, his family’s two girl children exiled to school. He becomes a near recluse while he spends his days trying to restore the estate, or at least prevent further crumbling.

When an impertinent, bossy female turns up with several sick children, including the two girls, he reluctantly gives them shelter. Unable to stand by and watch the suffering, he begins to help with the nursing, while he falls irrevocably for both girls and the lovely Ruth.

The epidemic over, Ruth and Val part ways, each reluctant to share how they feel without a sign from the other. Ruth returns to her family and the ton. Val begins to build a new life centred on his girls. But danger to Ruth is a clarion call Val cannot ignore. If they can stop the villains determined to destroy them, perhaps the hermit and the healer can mend one another’s hearts.