Tea with the Marquess and Marchioness of Ellington

Recently, the Duchess had the pleasure of receiving James, Marquess of Ellington, and his wife, the former Edythe Cavendish. The ton was abuzz with her ladyship’s story. You see, my friends, she lost both her parents in a fatal carriage accident and became the ward of her distant cousin Prudence. For ten years, young Edythe survived her cousin’s control of both of her bank accounts, a sizable sum and attempts to eradicate any sign of her independence. She kept telling her she would be a spinster for the rest of her life. But Edythe was her father’s daughter, and if anything, a Cavendish is a survivor. There is a happy ending to this story. As a matter of fact, there are two happy endings. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Our duchess, Eleanor, has become a close friend of the couple and has invited James and Edythe to tea. Oh, wait. I believe I hear their coach arriving. Sit tight, my friends and Eleanor will find out all about their amazing story.

“James, Edythe, it’s wonderful to see you both,” Eleanor said, gesturing for them to take their seats.

As they settled, Eleanor’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. “Now, I must confess, I’ve been dying to know more about the infamous Cavendish ghost and its curse. I hear it played quite a role in your union.”

Edythe’s eyes met James’, a smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Indeed, it did. Though a tragic tale, it brought us together in the most unexpected way.”

James nodded, taking Edythe’s hand. “The ghost, Lord Alistair, was denied his love, Isabell. She wasn’t of the correct family. As he lay dying of a broken heart, he cursed the family and Cavendish Hall.”

Eleanor leaned in, captivated. “And how did this curse bring you two together?”

“A series of strange happenings. Mr. Hughes, the prestigious solicitor, had been searching for the heir to the Cavendish estate and fortune for some time.” Edythe held Eleanor in rapture. “Imagine, after ten years of searching, he found me.” Edythe sat back, removing her hand from Eleanor’s. “It was difficult to accept, especially with Prudence telling me terrible things.”

“It’s for me to gossip, my dear.” Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “When you were discovered, let’s just say that the way in which you had been treated by your cousin appalled many if not all of us. But enough about her, how did you and James meet?

“We met when he pulled me into a moving train that was leaving the station for Cavendish Hall. He jumped on the train and gave me his hand,” Edythe recounted. “It was quite breathtaking.”

“Oh, dear.” Eleanor was quite taken aback. “Such daring.”

James continued, “I had been documenting the Cavendish family history. As a remote relative, I was interested in finding out if the ghostly hauntings were true or simply stories told to children to keep them away. When Edythe told me she heard the ghostly music in the ballroom, I knew we were close to finding out the truth.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened, her breath held. “And how did you do it, find the truth?”

“It was a combination of things, Lord Alistair needed to know the truth about his love. Isabell hadn’t abandoned him.” James took Edythe’s hand and stared at her. Eleanor didn’t miss the love between them.

“Edythe found the secret that lifted the curse.” James chuckled. “We started our quest when Edythe learned of a missing music box. Not too long after that, she heard ghostly music box playing in the empty ballroom. That was the first time Lord Alistair appeared.”

“We danced to the music. I thought it was a dream, but he left me a small gift, his handkerchief, so I couldn’t doubt our meeting. Ultimately, it was the music box that held the answer. But it took our declaration of love for Alistair and Isabell to reconcile,” James’s voice resolute. “It was All Saints’ Day Eve, at the witching hour. At the stroke of midnight, the ghosts of Alistair and Isabell reunited, and the curse was lifted. We married soon after.”

Eleanor sat back, a smile playing on her lips. “What a remarkable tale. And to think, it led to your happily ever after.”

Edythe squeezed James’ hand, their connection undeniable. “Indeed, it did.”

Tea continued, conversations flowing easily, but the legend of the Cavendish ghost lingered in the air, a reminder of the power of true love and the mysteries that bind the past to the present.

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Lord Alistair,” she said, turning to Edythe. “And I’m thrilled that you found your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

A Wraith at Midnight

When spooky manors and or ghostly specters call,
this stunning collection of haunted Historical Romance novellas
is sure to answer, leaving you breathless with ethereal, romantic tales…

Many of your favorite Historical Romance authors have come together for a collection of never-before published stories inspired by legendary hauntings and ghostly myths. A derelict old castle? A spectral lady wandering the forests? These tales will give you a chill, a thrill, and have you reading them over and over. From the moors of Devon to the ballrooms of Regency London, and far north into the Scottish Highlands, these stories will bring you wistful dreams of legendary and haunting romance. You’ve never before experience a collection like this by some of the very best authors in Historical Romance.

My Heart’s Song
by Ruth A. Casie

In the melody of a haunted past, romance unfolds, revealing a tale of love,
spirits, and a song that transcends time.

In 1850, tucked away in the heart of Northumberland, Edythe Cavendish’s life is upended by the inheritance of a manor shrouded in mystery and whispers of a bygone era. The sprawling estate, with its rolling hills and ancient woodlands, harbors secrets that echo through the manor’s corridors, watched over by the ghost of Lord Alistair, its last lord. His ghostly warnings speak of an enduring curse, a narrative of love forsaken and a legacy shrouded in darkness.

Lord James Ellington, heir to the Duke of Northumberland, shares Edythe’s passion for unraveling the past. Together, they discover a music box whose haunting melodies are intertwined with the manor’s troubled history, revealing their intertwined fates. Their journey through the archives uncovers letters and relics that draw them closer to the truth and to each other.

Yet, as the curse’s grip tightens, a near-fatal accident threatens their future, and a heated argument pushes them to the edge of despair. In their darkest hour, a hidden letter from the past holds the key to their salvation. Will Edith and James’s love prove strong enough to break the silence of centuries and herald a new beginning?

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

September 12, 1850
East Coast Main Line

Miss Edythe Cavendish’s heart fluttered with a peculiar blend of trepidation and exhilaration as she boarded the train, her shoulder brushing against a gentleman’s arm in the chaos of the boarding crowd. She offered a quick, apologetic smile to the stranger whose startling summer blue eyes lingered in her mind as she settled into the velvet seat of the train compartment. A half-hour later, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks echoed her own restless thoughts. Her hand instinctively reached for her reticule. She withdrew a crisp and formal letter from Mr. Hughes, the solicitor. She had read it and reread it at least one hundred times. The document informed her of an inheritance most unexpected—a manor house, no less.

The correspondence arrived three weeks ago at her cousin Prudence’s home, where she had lived for the last ten years since her parents’ passing. Mr. Hughes’s letter set off a flurry of activity. By the end of the week, preparations and farewells were set into motion. Yet, amidst the bustle, a shadow of Prudence’s discontent cloyed the air like a pall, along with vivid descriptions of a haunted decrepit house. It was clear, in the tightness of Prudence’s smiles and the sharpness of her gaze, that her cousin resented her good fortune, or was it her loss of control over the modest inheritance left to Edythe by her parents? To her relief, Mr. Hughes saw to that as well.

With her solicitor’s assurance, the house was not decrepit, and with his help, Edythe settled her affairs in London and made the necessary travel arrangements. Prudence, ever the matriarch, had deemed Edythe’s solitary journey inconceivable and insisted a seasoned chaperone was required for a young lady such as herself. As a result, Prudence condescended to go with Edythe; after all, who else would go with her? Edythe quickly reminded her while young ladies indeed needed a chaperone, spinsters, the word Prudence used to reference her, did not. So here she was, on her own, aboard the train to Sommer-by-the-Sea and Cavendish Hall.

As Edythe settled into the rhythmic sway of the train, she once again unfolded the letter from Mr. Hughes. The words “rightful and true heir to the Cavendish land and all its holdings” stood out, evidence of the solicitor’s thorough decade-long research and the unexpected turn her life was about to take.

“While the Cavendish legacy allows for female heirs, the lineage has been meticulously traced to ensure that only a direct descendant, who embodies the true spirit and virtues of the Cavendish name, can claim the estate. It appears, Miss Cavendish, that you are the first in a century to meet these stringent criteria. Furthermore,” the letter continued, “it is important for you to be aware that Cavendish Hall has been without a resident Cavendish for the past 100 years since the passing of Lord Alistair, the last recognized lord of the manor. The estate has been maintained through a trust established by your ancestors, ensuring its preservation until such time as a direct heir could be located and take rightful ownership.”

With the proof of her lineage secured within the crisp folds of the paper, Edythe felt the weight of her new responsibility — she was, indeed, the last of the Cavendish line, bound for a home she’d never known, a home waiting for her arrival.

She glanced at the empty paper cone beside her and sighed. The shrill cry of the steam whistle broke her reverie. The train slowed, and Edythe seized the opportunity to disembark briefly and get another helping of chestnuts at the provincial station. The platform bustled with life, the air filled with the scent of coal smoke and the cries of vendors hawking their wares. She exchanged a few coins for a paper cone of roasted chestnuts, the warmth a comfort against the autumn chill. As she ate her treat, she gazed out into the countryside, thoroughly enjoying the view.

As the whistle blew its warning, Edythe turned to see the train lurch forward without her.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the young man with the summer blue eyes she had brushed against in London striding toward her, concern etched on his brow. “Miss, your train!” he called out.

Panicked, her snack spilled out on the ground as she dashed toward the moving train, her boots pounding the wooden planks of the platform.

The young man leapt into action. He jumped onto the train and then extended his hand. “Quick. Grab my hand.”

Tea with the no longer haunted

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, the Duchess, a close friend of Lady Margaret Blanefield, had the pleasure of receiving her friend’s daughter, Lady Elizabeth, and her new husband, the financier James Alexander. The Whispering Hollows haunting was well established. Some say that the town, as well as the Duke, had paid a pretty penny for someone to come in to ‘remove’ the ghost, but it came to nothing. It took Lady Elizabeth and her James to put things right and the ghost to rest. Eleanor was eager to meet the brave duo, and this was her chance. They were returning from their travels abroad following their nuptials and would only be in the area for a few days.

“More tea, Mr. Alexander?” Eleanor asked, holding the pot in her hand.

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

“Lady Elizabeth?” she asked as she warmed James’s cup.

“Please, Your Grace. That sounds much too formal for friends,” Elizabeth began. “Elizabeth is fine.”

“And James for me, if you please.” He dropped a cube of sugar into his cup.

“Very well, please call me Eleanor.” She put the teapot down. “Now that that’s all settled, should we celebrate Thomas’s passing?”

James stopped stirring his tea.

Elizabeth’s hand froze her teacup inches from her lips.

Putting his teacup back on its saucer, James turned to Eleanor. “Thomas will not be joining us. The curse that held Thomas here after he passed has been lifted. Thomas is now at rest.”

“That is a relief.” Eleanor’s shoulders eased as she sat back. “I worried about the poor man. How did you manage to free him?”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “The entire event was somewhat supernatural. My mind was on James’s return. He had been away in the Black Watch for six years.”

“And I couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth. Her letters were what got me through all those years, the good ones as well as the bad ones.” James cast a loving smile at his wife. “I am a very lucky man that she waited for me.”

“Was that the supernatural part?” Eleanor asked, trying to stifle her smile.

“Not at all. I got myself turned around in the patch and encountered a man. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I realized who and what he was.” She glanced at James. “Thank heaven James was at my side.”

“The man suffered for twenty years, and for what?” James wasn’t angry as much as he was disappointed. “In anger, he was left to die and cursed to boot.”

“It was when my parents were young. Mother was much in love with Father. He teased her about his conquests.”

“Let me guess,” Eleanor said. “She was left thinking she was wanting.” Eleanor let out a deep breath.

“My grandfather gave her a lovely necklace that a local boy, a childhood friend of my mother’s, designed.”  Elizabeth nervously smoothed out her skirt, unable to face Eleanor.

“And your mother allowed your father to think she was involved with Thomas…to make him jealous.” The Duchess leaned close and gently put her hand on Elizabeth’s. “My dear, you are not responsible for your parents’ actions. They must face the consequences of their actions, whether intentional or not.”

“You were the one who made them take action,” James said calmly. “If you hadn’t gone into Thomas’s pumpkin patch, he would still be chained to this earth. With your help, he found peace.”

“Oh, how so?” Eleanor asked.

“I picked a pumpkin from the patch, intending to give it to my younger sister. You see, she dropped the one she carved, and it smashed on the floor. That started everything. In the end, both Mother and Father confessed what they had done.”

“Retribution for Thomas was them admitting the truth,” James said. “It lifted the curse and resolved an issue between Elizabeth’s parents that had haunted them for twenty years. That, too, was resolved.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Elizabeth asked Eleanor.

“Oh, dear. I do not believe in ghosts, but I do believe in skeletons, and I have loads of them in any number of my closets!”

That set all three of them into a bout of laughing that lasted, on and off, the rest of teatime. Their conversation continued for another hour or so until James glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Thomas, ” she said, turning to Elizabeth. And I’m thrilled that you waited for your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

An Excerpt from The Ghost of Whispering Hollow

Part of The Spirit of Love of Hearts Through History Anthology

 By Ruth Casie

In the haunted hollows, love dances with destiny.

Amidst the moon-dappled oaks of Blanefield Manor, where ancient secrets whisper through time, James returns from war—a soldier scarred by battle and longing. Elizabeth, his childhood friend, has been his solace through ink-stained letters. But as they unravel a family curse impacting both their lives, they face a haunting love, and Whispering Hollows reveals its true magic. In a dance of shadows and moonlight, their hearts reignite—a love that defies both time and spectral secrets.

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

Glenmore, Scotland
October 31, 1786

In the depths of the Scottish countryside, nestled at the western end of Loch Morlich, lay the village of Glenmore. A day’s ride north of Sommer-by-the-Sea, it thrived as it had for over a century. The quiet, picturesque community was dressed in colorful autumn decorations, all to create the haunting atmosphere of the annual All Saints’ Day celebration. The village elders, their memories steeped in Samhain celebrations, recounted the tales of donning costumes to outwit devilish spirits. Today, the air buzzed with anticipation as the children prepared to dress as ghosts and carve pumpkins, rather than turnips, for the annual contest.

Blanefield Manor, the home of Edward, Duke of Blanefield, his wife, and two daughters, stood proudly beyond the village. Within its stone walls were generations of secrets and whispered confidences. Some secrets were murmured during the harvest moon when the veil between this world and the next grew thin.

In the grand foyer, Lady Elizabeth, the Duke’s eldest daughter, flinched as her sister Nancy’s grasp faltered and the carved pumpkin slipped, smashing on the marble floor. Nancy had labored over her creation all day, carving intricate patterns, certain she would win the contest. Now, her breath caught, and for a moment she stood frozen, tears trickling down her cheeks as Mr. Paris, the butler, and several footmen took charge and worked quickly to remove the mess.

“Don’t worry.” Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed away her sister’s tears. “I’m sure we can find another pumpkin for the evening’s contest.”

“I held it tight.” Nancy, her lips quivering, glanced at Elizabeth. “It slipped out of my hands. We’ll never be able to replace it now.”

We won’t. But I will.” Elizabeth turned to the butler. “Mr. Paris, my coat and shawl, please. I’ll meet you at the Hollow’s gate.”

Her father, the Duke of Blanefield, appeared from the drawing room, his presence commanding attention. His eyes, usually stern and calculating, softened with concern.

“What’s happened?”

Elizabeth and Nancy spun around and faced their father.

“A small accident,” Mr. Paris, ever the unflappable servant, made it sound as if smashing a pumpkin on the foyer floor was an everyday occurrence. “A small accident,” he said. “Your Grace, Mr. Hughes has arrived. I’ve settled him in the library, as you requested.”

Her father turned to his younger daughter, a warm look of understanding on his face.

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Nancy, still in shock. “It slipped out of my hands, Papa,” Nancy confessed, her vulnerability laid bare, “Elizabeth said she would find another one and meet you at the gate to the Hollows.”

“You’ll recognize me. I’ll be the one with the winning pumpkin.” Elizabeth took her coat and shawl from the butler. “Thank you, Mr. Paris.” She glanced at her sister. “What do we say if James arrives?”

James Alexander was a name whispered in the halls of Blanefield Manor these past six long years. A steadfast friend to Elizabeth, he had been absent, called away to war. She exchanged ink-stained letters with him, the only way they could bridge the long distance. Over time, those pages contained their shared dreams, secret confessions, and unspoken promises. It was through these pages that their hearts grew.

Nancy’s question hung in the air.

“James isn’t returning until tomorrow,” Elizabeth said. One more day. After all this worry and waiting, just one more day. She opened the front door, ready to slip out into the fading twilight.

“Wait!” Nancy called in a shallow gasp.

Elizabeth, impatient, turned to her sister and rolled her eyes.

“Where will you find a pumpkin now? We were in the village earlier today. There are no pumpkins anywhere.” Nancy paused. The color drained out of her face. “You’re not going into the Hollow,” she said, her eyes wide, her voice trembling with fear.

“Have no concern. I will find one.” Elizabeth called over her shoulder. “Now, let me leave before all the pumpkins are gone.” She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she rushed out of the house before anyone asked her any more questions.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and set her sights on Whispering Hollows or, as the village boys referred to it, Haunted Hollows. Nonsense, that’s what all this ghost stuff was. For decades, the Gabriels, a fine, respected family, had tended the land that yielded a bounty of vegetables for the village. Twenty years ago, Thomas, the last of the family, left without any explanation. The villagers picked through the fields, but soon, the fields were left unattended, and the neglected vegetables grew with great hopes only to wither on the vine. Whispers of ghosts and hauntings kept trespassers, especially the children, away. No one ventured into the Hollow.

With the sun beginning to set and the sky a soft pink, the village celebration would start soon. Elizabeth had no choice but to turn to the Hollows for a pumpkin. Time was running out.

How difficult could this be? There were plenty of pumpkins at the Hollow. They were clearly evident in their cozy furrows when she passed the pumpkin grove yesterday. It was curious that after years of neglect, the pumpkin patch still flourished. That was a thought for another time, right now the miracle was to her advantage.

A gust of cold air caught her by surprise as she left the shelter of the village buildings. She pulled her shawl tight to keep what little warmth it provided. Farther down the lane, the mist lying over the hills spread along the path and seemed to grow taller and thicker with each step she took.

Elizabeth’s footsteps crunched the fallen leaves as she moved through the woods. The waning gibbous moon hung in the sky, casting a sliver of silver against the quickly fading blue. She clutched her shawl tighter, the hem billowing as if it, too, sought refuge from the chill.

She told herself repeatedly all she had to do was choose the winning pumpkin and bring it to the Hollow’s gate. Nancy was clever. If Elizabeth were quick about it, her sister would still have time to carve it into something special.

But as Elizabeth stepped deeper into the mist-shrouded clearing, she had her doubts. The fog clung to her like an embrace, spirals curling around her ankles, urging her to stay, trapping her in place. Yet she pushed on, her resolve unwavering. She would not fail her sister.

Shapes materialized, phantom creatures that defied classification. Were they ghosts of lost souls, their features softened by time and sorrow? Or were they figments of her imagination, conjured on the eve of All Saints’ Day?

All Saints’ Day had weighed heavily on Elizabeth’s heart, a somber reminder of James’s departure six years ago. The waiting felt like a lifetime. Her long wait would be over soon. He would be home tomorrow.

Her breath hung in the damp air as she continued on, her boots sinking into the mossy ground.

Fear whispered at the edges of her mind, urging her to flee—to turn back and seek the safety of Blanefield Manor. But Elizabeth was no stranger to fear. She had faced it on moonless nights when the wind howled through the branches and the owls called out. She had faced it in the letters from James, written from distant battlefields.

The twilight sounds of the forest quieted. Elizabeth stopped. Her cape fluttered, a dark silhouette against the fading light, as her gaze swept in all directions. The forest murmured its enchantment, and she listened. There was magic here—the kind that defied reason, that danced on the edge of reality and called to her.

A glance at the darkening sky prompted her to move on. These last months, she had kept herself busy helping her mother and her sister. She’d do anything to make the days go faster. And now, here it was, All Saints’ Day Eve. Elizabeth didn’t need to re-read James’s message. She knew it by heart.

“Dearest Elizabeth, I have been blessed. I shall arrive at Blanefield Manor on All Saints’ Day. The journey has been long, but the thought of seeing you again sustains me. Yours always, James.”

Her heart raced at the thought of it. He and his friend Finn Elliot had left to serve in the Black Watch and had been garrisoned in America.

His letters were a comfort. His words danced off the page, echoing the warmth of his Scottish burr. He told tales about him and Finn, new friends, and the sights they encountered. Yet he spared telling her what their battalion did or where they were.

Two years ago, when she opened one of his letters, an uneasy sensation had crept over her. Her eyes had darted across the paper, desperately seeking any reassurance that her fears were unfounded until the stark truth leaped out at her.

Finn passed away this morning.

The two were like brothers despite the lack of a blood connection. Since that message, the laughter had gone from his letters. She ached for him and, at times, cried herself to sleep, concerned about him. She wanted one look, one touch. She needed to know he was well. As much as it frustrated her, she reached out through her letters and ensured he realized that she cared, that she loved him.

After the war, the remaining Black Watch regiment garrisoned in Nova Scotia. For three years, she waited and wondered if James would return to Glenmore as the same man he had been when he left. Others who had returned were often mere shadows of their former selves.

Enough worrying. With one deep breath, she pushed aside her concerns for now. They would be together soon—tomorrow. At the moment, she needed to find a pumpkin. The Hollow’s pumpkin grove was around the next bend.

As she went on, the mist thickened, swallowing the bottoms of the fence posts. Gusts of wind raced along the path, growing stronger and colder. The closer she got to the grove, the more an ominous sensation settled over her. Stopping in her tracks, she shook her shoulders. Stop being silly. She started walking again, her pace quicker in defiance of her growing apprehension.

Reaching the edge of the grove, she paused. The Hollows had always been a place of mystery—a threshold between the mundane and the magical. She’d never thought about going into the patch before.

In the distance sat several winning-size pumpkins. A sense of relief flooded through her. With a tentative step, she pushed open the gate and ventured into the patch.

She picked her way across the fallow field. Despite her caution, the hem of her day dress snagged on brambles. As she stepped around a small thicket that wasn’t more than fallen branches covered with leaves, her foot sank into the thick mud. She turned to make her escape, but thorny twigs caught her shawl. She tugged at it, not willing to leave it behind. Finally free and frustrated, for a moment she considered going home. She glanced at the pumpkin and relented.

She found a nicely rounded, golden-orange pumpkin. Relieved that her search was almost over, she reached to pick it up but quickly pulled her hand away. Worms and insects had eaten out the back, leaving only a shell. Disappointed, she took out her handkerchief and cleaned her hands.

Suddenly, a rustling sound and frantic scurrying drew her attention. A mouse darted out from the underbrush, startling Elizabeth. Her handkerchief slipped from her grasp. As she reached for it, a barn owl swooped down. Its talons grazed the earth, capturing the unsuspecting mouse.

Her heart raced, and her breaths came in shallow spurts. The brutal attack had shaken her to her core. Without looking back, Elizabeth hurried off, her footsteps stumbling over gnarled roots, her handkerchief forgotten.

The second squash was not much better than the first. Elizabeth’s disappointment grew as she went on to a third, which was too flat, and a fourth, which was too small. With each step, she went deeper into the grove until she discovered herself surrounded by dense foliage. Finally, she found a plump, beautiful pumpkin.

Satisfied, she turned to leave but stood rooted to the spot. The sun now dipped below the horizon, coloring the sky a deep purple. The mist closed in, forming a wall around her.

As evening settled in, Elizabeth’s unease grew. It wouldn’t be long until the sky was completely black. There would be little light to guide her way to the gate.

With the ground soft beneath her feet, Elizabeth hoped to retrace her steps, but the forest had swallowed her tracks. The once familiar path blurred, and shadows merged, creating a disorienting maze. Which way had she come? Which was the way back? The darkening evening pressed on, and her sense of panic began to build.

“Take a deep breath,” she reminded herself, forcing her racing heart to slow. “That’s it. Again. One more time.”

Calm at last, she glanced around and put together a plan. The pumpkin grove was laid out in neat rows like other vegetable patches. With a little concentration, she should be able to follow the furrows. She chose a row and began to walk, determined to find her way to the gate and her parents.

The path became more treacherous, and the undergrowth grew increasingly gnarled as she went on. She trudged through puddles and mud. The pumpkin in her arms grew heavier with each struggling step. The hem of her skirt repeatedly caught on brambles and thorns. Her saturated skirt weighed her down and made it more and more difficult to lift her feet.

Tired, wet, and cold, Elizabeth stumbled over one of the roots and fell hard to the ground. She let out a startled scream, more from surprise than from any serious injury.

She sat up and paused, catching her breath and taking stock of her surroundings. Should she wait for the others to gather and find her or attempt to find her way to the gate alone? But which way to go? She looked in each direction for some sign but found none. She glanced at the ground as an unsettling sensation came over her. She picked up her handkerchief. A shadow of alarm ran through her. She’d been walking in circles.

Tea with a Prince and Princess

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, the Duchess found herself in Sommer-by-the-Sea at the Rostov Tearoom, a cozy place with a quiet atmosphere—a welcome relief from the hubbub of London. There, she had the pleasure of seeing her dear friends, the distinguished writer Lady Alicia Hartley and Lady Patricia Edgemont, the unfortunate widow of Lord Edgemont. Tea was lovely, and before she left, the Duchess insisted that Lady Edgemont visit her when she was in London. By the following year, the lady was no longer Lady Edgemont.

The duchess received Princess Patricia Montgomery Edgemont Baranov and her husband, Prince Nikolai Baranov at her home in London. As Nikolai was the son of Grand Duke Anton Stephanovich Baranov from the esteemed House of Breuce, Prince and Princess Baranov’s arrival was a celebrated event.

“More tea?” Her Grace asked holding the pot in her hand.

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

“Your Highness—” the duchess said to Princess Baranov while she freshened the prince’s cup.

“Please, Your Grace. That sounds much too formal for friends,” Patricia began. “Patricia is fine.”

“And Nikolai for me, if you please.” He dropped a cube of sugar into his cup.

“Very well, please call me Eleanor.” She put the teapot down. “Now that that’s all settled, you must tell me about your adventure, or is it a national secret?”

The three laughed, but Nikolai and Patricia gave each other a meaningful look over their teacups. When Patricia thought about the last year, it was hard to believe what had happened.

Nikolai, ever her gallant protector, gave a nod. It was all right to tell the tale.

“You knew Edgemont, Eleanor. He was a quiet man, into his puzzles. I had known him since we were children. His passion for word puzzles fascinated me. We tested each other all the time.” Patricia sipped her tea, put her cup down, and settled back.

“I remember him as a quiet young man, cordial and pleasant but distant. I was surprised when your wedding to him was announced.”

“Benedict and I were good friends.” Patricia glanced at Nikolai. His warm smile encouraged her to go on. “But that was all we were. The idea of marriage… Well, there was no attraction on my part. However, my father thought otherwise.”

“It was a lovely affair,” Eleanor offered. “You did a good job of hiding your feelings. I don’t think many people knew the truth behind your marriage.”

Patricia let out a deep breath. “Yes, I did my wifely duties. I showed him the respect he deserved. I made no demands. I gave him no reason for concern. But when I was told he was found dead in his mistress’ boudoir, I was devasted and angry.” She leaned forward and caught Eleanor’s gaze. “He betrayed me.”

Eleanor reached over and covered Patricia’s hand with her own. “You needn’t go on. I don’t want to be intrusive, bring up unpleasant memories.”

“I was wrong. Benedict hadn’t betrayed me at all,” Patricia said. “Many people thought Benedict had been unfaithful.” She turned toward Nikolai.

“My friend, Benedict, was a good man. A loving man,” Nikolai said. “We worked together for our governments. There is much I cannot tell you.” He looked at his wife. “I can tell you that Patricia is a courageous woman.”

Eleanor preened. She knew Patricia’s attributes and loved her for them.

“It was her closeness to Benedict, even though she didn’t love him. He trusted her like no one else. He left her one last puzzle to solve.”

Patricia took his hand.

“She was the only one who could solve it. She saved us all.”

Their conversation continued for another hour or so until Nikolai glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you found each other. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one. Life’s most rewarding ‘game’ is not one of succumbing to society’s expectations or revenge but rather the ‘game’ of finding and cherishing true love. It’s a tale of letting go of the past and embracing the possibility of a shared future that fulfills the heart’s deepest desires.”

She hugged Patrcia and even Nikolai. “Please, you must visit me again.”

The Lady and the Spy

With each encounter her heartbeat quickened.
With each encounter, his need for her grew stronger.

“…a strong plot brims with tension building twist, with setting descriptions and action sequences are wonderfully vivid which brings this read together perfectly and will keep you on the edge of your seat from the moment you begin the journey with Lady Patrice and Nikolai Baranov until the very end.”

~ Goodreads, 5 Stars

Lady Patrice Montgomery Edgemont always did what was expected of her and look where that got her: married off by her father to her childhood friend, a loveless relationship. Her father tried again but walked away from prospective husband number two just in time, which quickly made him a distant memory. Lady Patrice is not playing games. She is through with men.

Nikolai Baranov is the son of a Russian grand duke and spy for Tzar Alexander I. When his father and associates are killed, Nikolai doesn’t play games. The only thing worth winning is revenge for his family.

But both are caught up in a game neither anticipated but have dreamt of for some time. Can they reconcile the past? Can they both win their heart’s desire… each other.

Buy Link: Amazon Kindle Unlimited

Chapter One

February 14, 1815
Sommer-by-the-Sea

Lady Patrice Montgomery Edgemont, the young widow of the late Lord Benedict Edgemont, 3rd Earl of Gosforth, entered The Rostov Tearoom. She was home in Sommer-by-the-Sea permanently. Her extended stay in London was a distant memory, and she had every intention to keep it that way.

She stomped her feet to remove the slush from her boots and brushed the snow from her primrose yellow pelisse. After wearing black for ten months, she swore she’d never wear the color again.

This snowstorm was as unexpected as her early return. She shouldn’t have left, but in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness, her mother won the day.

“You’ll stay in London with your father and me. You shouldn’t be alone mourning your loving husband.”

Loving husband. That sounded well and good, but she felt no need to mourn over something that didn’t exist.

A year and a day. Really? Two weeks’ mourning was more than enough. But after several arguments, Patrice relented. She closed her country home, The Mooring, in Sommer-by-the-Sea with plans to reopen it in April when her year and one day was over. But that didn’t suit her mother either.

“One doesn’t rusticate in the country until the end of the Season, in June.” As if she didn’t know. Like a relentless woodpecker, Lady Montgomery nagged, jabbed, and stabbed away until Patrice threw her hands in the air and gave in. She’d return north the first of July.

But after last week’s final indignity she refused to stay in London a moment longer. Without a word to anyone, she packed herself up and with her lady’s maid, Jean, returned to Sommer-by-the-Sea. A year and a day. The end of the Season be damned.

She arrived two days ago with her bags in hand at Marianna Ravencroft’s doorstep to a surprised but warm welcome.

The coach ride had been brutal, but the shock on Anna’s face when she entered the parlor was priceless. Anna quickly rallied. It didn’t take long before they were once again sharing a room as they had at Mrs. Bainbridge’s Sommer-by-the-Sea Female Seminary.

Removing the last of the snow from her boots, Patrice soaked up the familiar tearoom that bustled with activity. After staring at the drab furnishings at Montgomery Hall, she thrilled at seeing the painted blue walls with blue damask wallpaper insets in white wainscot panels. She looked across the neat rows of tables, each dressed in a crisp white linen cloth with a lace overlay. Small vases filled with a bouquet of red quince, winter heather, and white snowdrops added a soft and bright finishing touch to the room.

Patrice took a deep breath and enjoyed the grassy aroma of green tea and the astringent scent of the black variety along with the mouth-watering fragrance of warm bread, and sweet scones. The turmoil of the last year slid away. She felt lighter, her spirits brighter. Restored.

The server passed with a tureen of soup. The savory fragrance of the tearoom’s signature mushroom barley soup stirred memories best left buried deep in the St. Petersburg snow. She blinked and quickly squashed the budding images before they could develop.

As bundled as she was, a chill crossed her shoulders and up her neck. It was an uneasy, unnerving, under-scrutiny feeling. A warning voice went off in her head, someone was watching. She glanced to her right. Tatiana Chernokov, proprietress of the tearoom, was actively engaged in a discussion with a gentleman.

Gentleman may have been an overstatement. A further glance had Patrice appalled that Tanya allowed the man into the tearoom and had not directed him to the kitchen door. She was a kind soul, and well thought of by the ton. This man could be her downfall.

Tanya’s back was to her. The man faced Patrice and stared at her intently.

She took a better look. While his appearance was more “vagabond” than “gentleman,” it was his clothes that appeared out of place, not the man. From his loose black trousers, snug white shirt, fitted brown waistcoat, to his broad-brimmed gray hat, it was clear to her he wore the wrong costume.

He had a rugged look with a full beard, and long, curly hair pulled back in a romantic, wild way. But his fixed gaze held her captive. His compelling eyes were summer-sky blue and oddly familiar. Could she have met him before?

He smiled and tilted his head in an arrogant yet elegant nod. Her heart jumped in her chest. The excitement had her heart racing.

Tanya turned, a surprised expression on her face, and gave Patrice a wave. She nodded, leaving Tanya and the man to figure out which of them she acknowledged. Even she wasn’t certain.

She did have to admit the man was appealing.

Her mother would have a convulsion if she had a hint of her daughter’s thoughts. She bit her cheek to stifle her smile. Poor Mother would never understand attraction. Position, title, assets, and gossip were the things that drove her.

Patrice glanced around the room and found her friends seated at a back table. They were a close group of graduates from Mrs. Bainbridge’s who met weekly, either at the tearoom or the seminary’s salon.

As she made her way to her friends, she tried to figure out where she had encountered the man. Nothing came to mind. It was useless at the moment. She would remember sooner or later.

Patrice didn’t know if she was annoyed or pleased that the only empty chair faced Tanya and the man. She avoided looking at him and chatted with her friends. When she did look up, she was once again caught in his snare. The audacity. God’s toes, was she destined to be attracted to a rake in any clothing? It had certainly proved to be her pattern of late.

She dragged her glance away and immediately felt a void, an emptiness. Ridiculous. What was she, some naïve schoolgirl whose head could be easily turned? And by whom? She placed her reticule on her lap all the while schooling herself not to look at the doorway.

“Welcome home.” Hattie grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I was taken aback when Anna told us you had returned. We didn’t expect you until July.”

Effie placed a scone on Patrice’s plate and took one for herself. “Is it true you’re home to stay?”

“I enjoyed being here for the Harvest Festival in November. I missed you all terribly and I am past the stage of residing in my parents’ home.”

“I was surprised you went to stay with your parents.” Effie poured Patrice a cup of hot tea. “Your London address is a perfectly grand home.”

Anna nudged Patrice. “Who are you staring at?”

Patrice gave Anna a shocked glare while Hattie and Effie glanced toward the doorway.

“Who is he?” Effie’s voice was soft, almost playful, her tone conspiratorial.

God’s big toe. She was staring at him, again. Something in the back of her mind kept poking her. She couldn’t fit the man with a place. She casually turned toward her friends.

“You’ll have to ask Tanya. He does appear familiar, but I can’t place him. He must remind me of someone. But I have no idea who.” Had she seen him in passing somewhere along her journey? The road, the inn, someplace? Patrice placed the linen serviette on her lap, her mind not letting go of the puzzle.

“What were they saying? You were standing next to them.” Effie picked up a scone and slathered it with raspberry jam.

“Effie.” Patrice sounded indignant, but her mood quickly cooled. “My Russian is rusty. I didn’t get much past ‘What are you doing here?’ They spoke too quickly for me.”

“You can ask Tanya, if you dare.” Something flicked across Hattie’s face. “I love Tanya, but she’s like my mother. She and my grandmother speak German when they don’t want any of us to understand what they’re saying. Including my father.”

“You know your father speaks fluent German.” Patrice glanced at the ceiling with a someone-give-me-strength look. “So does everyone else in your family.”

“You know that, and I know that, but Mother? No.” Hattie could hardly keep the laughter out of her voice. “I asked her once and she proudly told me that father has many talents, but speaking a foreign language was not one of them. Which made me laugh. And yes, Father taught my sister and me German, with instructions never to tell Mother.”

“So much for your mother’s private talks.” Patrice lifted her teacup in a salute.

“That’s all very enlightening. But that’s not what I want to talk about.” Hattie’s expression went serious. “We said little when you were home in November, but we’ve all been concerned about you since…”

Patrice leaned toward Hattie and covered her friend’s hand with her own. “Edgemont’s passing was difficult to bear. Thank you, and I say that with all my heart. Your letters kept me sane at a time when madness surrounded me. The ton can be so cruel.” Even she heard the sneer in her voice.

“I never thought the gossip or scandal sheets were harmful, simply entertaining.” Hattie’s declaration didn’t surprise Patrice. She would have agreed if she wasn’t their target.

“Of course you wouldn’t. Their so-called polite conversations are verbal duels, fencing matches. I refuse to thrust and parry for groups of spectators. I prefer an intimate dagger attack. Swift, clean, and done.”

Patrice’s thoughts randomly jumped to last year’s trip to St. Petersburg. She’d been pleasantly surprised when she and her husband traveled with Ambassador Cathcart to St. Petersburg. Had it been only ten months since that voyage? It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Edgemont’s intentions for an evening with her alone may have been well-intentioned, but as pleasant, witty, and likeable as her husband was, he couldn’t keep a promise, at least not to her.

Her husband’s pained expression when he was called to a meeting was little consolation. Intellectually, she understood business came first. Emotionally, it was disappointing. Graciously, Prince Baranov came to the rescue and played her escort to the ballet and dinner.

How odd. She hadn’t thought of that evening with the prince in some time.

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.”

Tea with a pair of distinguished authors

The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society expectations. Unlike many of her peers who cling to rigid social positions, she possesses the ability to discern a person’s true worth beyond their title or wealth. Growing up, she was undoubtedly a spirited child, characterized by her openness to embrace people from all walks of life.

Recently, the Duchess found herself drawn to the vibrant atmosphere of a London circulating library. It was there that she had the pleasure of attending an event featuring two distinguished literary figures: Lady Alicia Hartley, celebrated for her captivating prose in “The Lost Dowry,” and J. C. Melrose, whose poignant narrative, “In My Brother’s Shadow,” left a lasting impression on the audience.

The reading, a blend of eloquence and emotion, stirred the Duchess’s admiration for both authors. Impelled by her genuine appreciation for their literary talents, she extended a gracious invitation to join her today for tea, a gesture reflective of her innate inclination to forge connections beyond the confines of societal conventions.

Lady Alicia, with her pen dipped in the ink of romance, wove a tale of love and passion, but with a distinctive twist: her heroines were not damsels in distress awaiting rescue, but formidable figures in their own right, possessing agency and independence rarely seen in the literary landscape of the time.

C. Melrose’s narratives ventured into the realms of war and adventure, where heroes were forged amidst the crucible of conflict and adversity with protagonists, imbued with courage and fortitude, navigated treacherous terrains and faced formidable foes, embodying the timeless virtues of honor and resilience.

“More tea?” Eleanor asked with the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” Alicia smiled brightly and lifted her cup.

“Justin,” Eleanor said as she warmed Alicia’s cup, “you’ve teased me long enough. I still find it difficult to believe that Alicia didn’t know you were a male. I mean, when your work was compared to hers, she assumed you were a woman using initials to hide her identity.”

“He did use initials to veil his identity.” Alicia put down her teacup and placed her hand on the arm of Justin’s chair. “It resulted in a significant misunderstanding that nearly extinguished the spark of attraction between us before it had a chance to ignite.”

Eleanor could see why Alicia is hailed as an exceptional romantic author. The eloquence and emotion in her prose attested to her mastery of the craft.

“I fell in love with her when she bowled me over fleeing my uncle’s office.” Justin’s glaze shifted between his wife and Eleanor. “A scathing review had been published and singled out my book in comparison.”

“Justin was my anchor when I needed one.” Alicia pulled her gaze away from her husband and focused on Eleanor.

“Though I must admit, the brink of disaster was partly of my own making.”

Eleanor, intrigued, placed her teacup on its saucer. “Of your making?”

“Indeed.” Justin’s smile carried a hint of mischief. “You, my dear Alicia, made it quite a challenge. Your incessant harping about J.C. Melrose hardly helped matters.”

Eleanor’s brows creased, puzzled. “What does J.C. Melrose have to do with any of this?”

Justin hesitated for a moment, exchanging a knowing glance with Alicia. “J.C. stands for Justin Caulfield. Melrose was my mother’s maiden name. My editor chose the pen name to avoid any undue influence from my uncle, Isaac Caulfield—”

“The Isaac Caulfield of Caulfield Publishing?” Eleanor’s mouth was agape, her surprise palpable.

“Yes, indeed. Isaac is my uncle,” Justin confirmed. “He actually published my debut story without my knowledge. For me, all that mattered was writing the stories about the men I served with and the situations we were in. It was an opportunity to…” Justin paused.

“Justin’s honored those with whom he served. He had a driving need to tell their story in his way.” Alicia’s eyes shimmered with pride as she looked at her husband.

Eleanor, touched by the revelation, couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Justin’s predicament. “Would you care for something stronger than tea?”

“You are most kind, but no thank you. The success of my first book left me with little choice but to continue using my pen name.”

“Are you either of you writing any new stories? I read a story that reminded me of Lady Alicia’s writing, but it was penned by Ruth A. Casie.” Regretfully, military war stories were not her cup of tea.

“You must be speaking of The Lady and the Flame. When Justin came to do a reading where I live, Sommer-by-the-Sea, I told him the story of Margret’s Miracle. We were touring Sommer Castle at the time. There were two other people who listened to folk tale. Miss Casie contacted me about the story. In the end, I suggested she write the story. She did quite a good job of if.

“Other than that, we haven’t written in some time.” Eleanor focused on Justin. “Uncle Isacc retired and passed the company to us.”

Justin glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. it’s time for us to bid you farewell.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you found each other. Your story is a breathtaking adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

“Eleanor.” Alicia left her husband’s side and embraced Eleanor. “Thank you for your invitation. We have a long journey ahead of us to Sommer-by-the-Sea.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “I wish you both safe travels. The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one, the transformative power of understanding, respect, and collaboration.” She hugged Alicia. “Please, you must visit me again.”

The Lady and Her Quill

Lady Alicia Hartley’s head kept telling her to stop loving him, but her heart couldn’t let him go.

“It’s very easy to get involved with [the] character’s feelings in this historical romance.  Both are right and wrong, and when they realize that’s when the excitement and adventure really starts.” [Petula, Goodreads, 5 Stars]

Renowned author Lady Alicia Hartley has lost her muse after a bad review. She blames it all on the author JC Melrose. A chance encounter with a handsome, witty Justin Caulfield has her heart racing, and her muse seemingly back. Is he her savior or her worst nightmare?

The recently retired Captain Justin Caulfield is facing his own demons. As gifted author JC Melrose, his stories honor men who died at the hand of one man. His only focus is to avenge their deaths, that is, until he meets and falls in love with Lady Alicia.

The two authors take on a writing challenge based on a story of stolen gold taken from the newspaper headlines all to determine the better writer. While researching the story, Lady Alicia is captured by the thieves’ ringleader. Can Lady Alicia turn this mystery into an award-winning story? Can Justin save his real-life heroine? Can they both overcome their own challenges for a happily ever after?

Buy Link: Kindle Unlimited

An Excerpt from The Lady and Her Quill

A visit to Lady Alicia’s London publisher brings her unpleasant news.

“Lady Alicia.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “You’re early. What a pleasant surprise. Please, be seated.”

“I apologize for my early arrival, but I am eager to speak with you.”

“Are you here alone?” He came to her side and glanced out the door.

“Yes.” She winced at the trace of defiance in her voice. Another social blunder. Beatrice warned her London propriety was different from that at home in Sommer-by-the-Sea. It amazed her that a different world existed three hundred miles south of the village.

A chaperone.

The idea made her teeth itch. Today, Beatrice was otherwise engaged and in truth, Alicia’s patience ran thin waiting for her.

She stepped inside. The office was cramped not because it was small, but because it was in disarray. Everywhere she looked, there were books and papers. Dark walnut bookcases stuffed with unorderly books lined the left side of the room. Light filtered through bedraggled curtains on the large windows to her right. Several stacks of papers filled Mr. Caulfield’s desk, which was positioned in front of the window. Similar bookshelves were on either side of the fireplace on the far wall – but were hidden behind a pile of papers on a second desk across from Caulfield’s. The clutter of papers and books rendered that desk unusable. A modest fire burned in the grate to take off the chill.

She was surprised the entire place didn’t go up in flames.

She stepped with care around crates that littered the floor, removed the London Gazette laying on the chair, and settled into the seat.

“My sister was unavailable to join us. She and her husband are preparing the family for a trip north to join our parents for the village’s Harvest Festival. I wanted to speak to you before we left.”

Had he heard her? She followed his stare. He was focused on the Gazette in her hand. She glanced at his desk, the chair next to her, but there was no place to put it.

“I’m leaving with the family for Sommer-by-the-Sea. I look forward to reading at Mrs. Miller’s Circulating Library. I wanted to thank you for seeing that my books were delivered.”

“You’re most welcome. I’m sure reading small segments of your story will encourage people to either borrow or buy your book. I am glad you’re here. I wanted to speak to you today on another subject. I too, will be leaving London.” He reached for the Gazette. “Here. Let me have the newspaper, if you please.”

Alicia took a quick look at the headline: Missing Walmer Castle Chest Found – Empty?

She glanced at Caulfield’s extended hand. She was about to give the newspaper to him when she spotted a corner of the paper was turned down, exposing the book review page. She opened the paper and stopped.

One review was circled: The Lost Dowry.

She read the article out loud.

“This is the fifth little story by Lady Alicia Hartley. While her other stories held promise, this book does not reach the standards the author established in her previous publications. Perhaps the author’s muse has gone astray. The characters and conflicts in The Lost Dowry had potential but only the heroine, who is quite good, shines. It is unfortunate that the others appear to have lost their way. They are forced, mechanical, and obstruct the story. In a word, they are disappointing. In this story…”

Skipping the summary of the plot, she went to the final paragraph.

“She should read J. C. Melrose’s In My Brother’s Shadow or any of the other eight stories in that series. There is an author who evokes a man’s emotion, albeit the author could use some assistance with the female point of view. Can you imagine if these authors combined their skills? They would lay out a plot with characters that would keep you reading until the last page or the last flicker of your candle.”

The newspaper trembled in her hand. She went back to the beginning of the article to find the name of the reviewer. Anonymous.

The coward.

Her eyes focused on the review. The small quakes and quivers of the paper she held attested to the state of her nerves.

“How did an appraisal of my story turn into a review for…” Her words clipped, her tone chilly, she spoke with as reasonable a voice as she could manage and scanned the article. “J. C. Melrose?”

She lowered the paper. Mr. Caulfield’s lips moved as the empty feeling in her stomach built into a furious storm. She wasn’t aware of anything he said, until his words filtered through at last.

“Lady Hartley, are you listening? Reviews like this are…not unusual. Keep in mind, you can’t please every reader. I’m glad to publish your little stories.”

Little stories.” Her heart galloped like a horse in the steeple chase. Her hand touched her pendant. Remain calm.

But soothing herself was getting more difficult by the moment. Even rubbing her stone didn’t help now.

People were buying her novels, all of them. Alicia thrust the offensive paper at him.

“Perhaps we should give the readers some time. We plan to publish your next story in the summer. I want to speak to you about my plans for the company. I’ve bought a new press—”

“The plan was for my new story to be published in February. Now you want a delay? Or do you mean to cancel our agreement?”

His face closed, as if guarding a secret. Her heart sank. He accepted this review. He may be tolerating her tirade, but he agreed with Anonymous.

Unable to remain calm a moment longer, she shot him a penetrating glare as she rose, her parcel in hand.

“Not at all.” He sprang to his feet, his chair scraping the floor behind him. “Being an author is not easy, Lady Alicia. I warned you before we began you would be at the mercy of the reading public, a capricious lot. I knew you were persistent and had promise.” He studied her over the rim of his glasses. “I believe you still do, but with the new press I have plans to—”

But.

How often had she heard that insignificant word in front of every variation of the word no, a weapon men used to deny a woman her due?

“This is one review.” Alicia paced the small space in front of his desk. “Caulfield Publishing has published five of my,” she turned and faced him, “‘little stories’ to your financial advantage.”

He gave her a sheepish glance.

“Before I let you read this…” She paused and held up her parcel. “I’ll give your suggestion to delay publishing more thought, then send you my decision.”

As disappointment and despair dimmed her enthusiasm, she questioned what happened to yesterday’s excitement and celebration. The Lost Dowry was in the circulating library. Congratulatory notes from friends were piled on the salver on the foyer table.

And there was the letter.

She couldn’t believe her good fortune when she read William Lane’s message, although Elkington believed it. She had never seen her brother-in-law so excited. He took out the sherry and they all toasted the occasion. But now…her dream was dissolving in front of her eyes.

How could one awful review ruin everything? Mr. Lane would not want to read her manuscript now, and Mr. Caulfield questioned publishing her next story. Remaining calm was out of the question.

Her secret was out. She had done a good job and convinced herself and everyone else Lady Alicia Hartley was an author.

Everyone but one reviewer. Her breath came in small bursts. She stared at the Gazette on his desk and wanted to tear it to pieces.

“Lady Alicia, please sit down. We’ll discuss this and come to a decision that is satisfactory to us both.”

She glanced at the man, remained motionless, and held her words behind her teeth, not trusting herself to speak. Afraid she’d say something she would regret, Alicia turned and marched to the door with as much dignity as possible.

“My ‘little stories,’ as you like to refer to them, are all the rage.”

She grabbed the latch and hoped he didn’t observe her trembling hand or her watery eyes. At the moment, her single thought was to escape.

“Please, come sit and we can discuss our course of action without any—”

“Womanly emotions?” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“No, not at all. I’ve been trying to tell you about some changes.”

“Another time, perhaps. My family is traveling north, and I mustn’t delay.” By all that was holy, she needed to get away from the man.

“I understand. My regards to your sister and brother-in-law.” He called to her as she pulled open the door and collided into a solid obstacle. Startled and thrown off balance, Alicia lost her grip on her parcel and sent the bundle tumbling to the floor.

Strong hands grasped her shoulders to steady her. Alicia’s head snapped up. She stared into concerned gray, silver-streaked eyes. She took a deep breath and was surprised by the scent of lavender and citrus.

“I… I… forgive me, sir.” She lowered her gaze to the gloved hand on her right shoulder and back to his penetrating stare. “Release me, please. I assure you I have recovered.”

The man’s concerned expression vanished, replaced with a humorous glint. He removed his hands and stepped away.

His great coat flowed around him as he bent and retrieved her parcel from the floor. Her shoulders felt the ghost of his strong yet gentle grasp. As he stood, she looked away eager to leave.

“There is nothing to forgive.” He bent his head toward her and handed her the bundle. “I, too, would want to make a fast escape from Mr. Caulfield.”

“Thank you,” she said without any humor, pulling the parcel close.

“My pleasure, I assure you.” The gentleman tipped the brim of his hat.

Alicia turned and rushed down the stairs.

Tea with a Pirate

Friends, welcome Ruth A. Casie to the blog today, with her account of an interesting visit to Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford

Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford is a progressive woman for her time. She judges a person by their character and not their title or purse. Some think she must have been a handful growing up, always open to meeting all sorts of people. There was one time when she visited Sommer-by-the-Sea, a village near Newcastle Upon Tyne, and had tea at the Rostov Tearoom. She was certain she saw the Grand Duke Nikolai Baranov, a Russian spy. Her astute self quickly identified His Imperial Highness’s interest, Lady Patrice Edgemont. Ah, but that is another story for another time.

Today, Eleanor is having tea with a pirate and his wench. Oh, dear reader, did you spill your tea? I should have been more clever in introducing them. Eleanor is expecting Lord and Lady Reynolds today. They have become dear friends who do not stand on ceremony. They are close enough to address each other by their given names. I know, it is outrageous. And close enough to divulge their deepest secrets.

Lady Reynolds, the former Darla Maxwell, was her father’s greatest prize. Graeme Maxwell and his close friend and business partner, Ewan MacDougall, collaborated in searching for a suitable husband for her. Darla has a … magical background, which, as a young woman, she sought to deny. She found it off-putting to those who knew. Therefore, she had it in her mind to never marry. Eleanor is hoping to find out more about how Darla’s magic influenced her life and what changed her mind about marriage.

Lord Wesley Reynolds, the son of the well-known silk merchant, has a most interesting background. Eleanor is looking forward to hearing more about it.

“More tea?” Eleanor asked with the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” Darla smiled brightly and lifted her cup.

“Wesley,” Eleanor said as she warmed Darla’s cup, “you’ve teased me long enough. I still find it difficult to believe that you were ever a pirate and now one of the King’s most trusted men.”

“Wesley’s personal history has several twists and turns.” Darla put down her teacup and placed her hand on the arm of Wesley’s chair. “It has made him the man he is today.” 

Eleanor knew that Darla was Wesley’s devoted advocate. She smiled, understanding theirs was a sincere love match.

Wesley patted his wife’s hand. It was a tender touch, one that didn’t escape Eleanor’s notice.

Wesley turned toward Eleanor. “As a young man, I followed in my father’s footsteps. He was both an excellent silk merchant and businessman. He taught me the silk business, from cultivating the silkworms to making the final cloth to selling and shipping the bolts. I learned by traveling with him and observing him at his work. He was a well-respected merchant and excellent negotiator. When he passed away, I was ready to take over, although I would never be able to take his place.

He picked up his teacup and finished the brew.

“You are aware that there are rumors that you sailed out of the Cinque Ports in southern Europe in the service of the King.” Eleanor was determined to find out more about his pirate days and what he had done to be awarded a title and Glen Kirk Castle. The estate sat on the border with Scotland.

Wesley moved back in his seat as if he wanted to avoid the subject.

“Wesley,” Eleanor’s quiet voice broke the building tension. He looked at her. “If this is difficult—”

Wesley glanced at Darla, who gave him an encouraging nod. He let out a breath and continued.

“I provided the king with the silks he wanted, as I did with many monarchs across Europe. Because of my connections, I was a good sounding board for him. I had my own ships, and one thing led to another.”

“That led you to become a pirate?” Eleanor was not going to let the subject go.

“I had no love for the Spanish. They thought I was a charity, taking my goods off my ship without paying for them. So, I simply took from their ships as payment of their debt. All in all, a fair transaction.”

Eleanor chuckled, a bit unladylike, but she was with friends. “I dare say they deserved it. It sounds like a good life.”

“Over the years, my brother told me what happened while I was in boarding school, how we had to leave our home, and why. I believed Darla’s father and MacDougall, my father’s closest friends, plotted against him and my family. I thought they ruined his business and took his property, all circumstances that led to his death.”

“Oh, dear. That is a deep betrayal. Darla’s father, you say? I surmise you don’t believe that tale now. What made you believe it in the first place? And why the change of heart?” Eleanor’s interest was piqued.

Wesley’s eyes darkened, and his jaw tensed as he struggled to contain his emotions. “I put my trust in someone close and was deceived,” he finally admitted, his voice strained with regret.

Eleanor, seeing Wesley’s turmoil, poured a glass of port and handed it to him.

Wesley accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. His gaze dropped to the ruby liquid as he took a sip.

“Did this have anything to do with the pirate king, McAlpin?”

Wesley chuckled and drank the last of his port.

“I understand why you ask.” He returned Eleanor’s gaze, his eyes reflecting his resolve. “The MacAlpin has the reputation of being a ruthless, savage pirate. But, in all my dealings with him, he proved to be fair and trustworthy. He was instrumental in seeing justice served.”

He paused, a heavy sigh escaping his lips, and then he continued. “It was difficult, after years of believing something so strongly that had woven its way into your soul, to become fundamental, your very essence, and then to uncover the truth and recognize you’d been lied to for a very long time.”

He glanced at his wife, his expression showing that the hurt of the deception still remained.

“From the first moment we met on the docks by my father’s ship,” Darla offered, “and I mistook him for MacDougall’s son-in-law, Magnus, I was drawn to Wesley. I was exceedingly relieved to learn he was unencumbered. Very pleased indeed.”

“Darla’s father is a gem merchant. Maxwell and MacDougall were nothing like I expected. After my father’s death, I was told again of their thievery. I had it stamped into my brain, and I didn’t question it. You see, from an early age, I was fostered by the Highland Maxwells. When I came back and worked with my father, he had already moved the family from our home on MacDougall’s island, forced out, I was told. I accepted it as truth, and when my father died, I vowed to take revenge for all the injustices Maxwell and MacDougall did to my father and my family.”

“Wesley thought to use me as a pawn in his effort to hurt my father.” Darla sat still, holding Wesley’s hand.

Wesley gazed at Darla, their hands naturally entwined, a silent bond between them. “That wasn’t one of my shining moments,” he admitted. “The more time we spent together and the more I knew you, your father, and MacDougall, the more I knew I had it all wrong, but evil kept buzzing in my ear, pushing me to carry out my plans.”

Darla met his gaze with understanding. “You found the truth,” she said calmly, her voice steady. “It’s all over now.”

Wesley’s gaze softened, filled with gratitude and admiration as he gazed at his wife. “I’m a very lucky man.” His tone carried a warmth and passion that couldn’t be mistaken.

“More tea? Cook made some delicious scones,” Eleanor offered with a warm smile. “Darla, I understand you have unique insight—”

Wesley’s expression tightened as he got to his feet. “Come, Darla.” His tone was clipped. “We’ve imposed on Eleanor long enough.” He extended his hand to his wife, a silent signal he wanted to leave.

Eleanor, surprised at Wesley’s change in behavior, put down the plate of scones she was offering and, for a moment, was startled into silence. “Forgive me, my lord, if I have offended you or your wife.”

“No, Eleanor. You have done nothing of the sort. Wesley is very overprotective.” Darla, still in her seat, gently took his hand and pulled him toward her. He remained as he was. “I do have a unique ability. I have second sight. I see things before they happen. Some people—”

“Unintelligent, witless ones—” Wesley spit out between clenched teeth.

“Eleanor understands your meaning.” Darla acknowledged before turning toward their host. “Some people believe it’s witchcraft. They say and do foolish things. It is why I kept to myself while growing up. Why I never allowed myself to become attached to a gentleman. How could I get someone I loved tangled in that rat’s nest? Some may see my gift as a blessing, but I assure you it is not. Imagine knowing something terrible is going to happen, and you’re not able to influence it at all.”

Darla put her hands in her lap. “I thought I would never marry. I was satisfied with being alone for the rest of my life. I was wrong. I had no idea that I was waiting for the right person, my soul mate. I never saw that coming until I met Wesley. So much for my second sight. When I found him, I knew I would never let him go. He is my love,” Darla declared as she rose from her seat and stood next to Wesley, “my life.”

“As you are mine,” Wesley said, his wife in his arms. He turned to Eleanor. “Deception and family honor were at stake.”

Darla glanced at Eleanor. “So was my heart.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you found each other. Your story is a breathtaking adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

“Eleanor.” Darla left her husband’s side and embraced her dear friend. “Thank you for your invitation. We have a long journey ahead of us to Glen Kirk Castle.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “I wish you both safe travels. The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one. It is a cautionary tale about the destructive nature of revenge and the healing power of forgiveness and love.” She hugged Darla. “Please, you must visit me again.”  

The Pirate’s Jewel

Deception and family honor are at stake – so is her heart.

Wesley Reynolds will do anything to avenge his family’s banishment from Dundhragon Castle, even throw in the notorious pirate MacAlpin. His plan is to ruin Lord Ewan’s trading network. He has a more devious plan for his father’s ‘best friend,’ the man who abandoned them at the eleventh hour. He’ll ruin the man’s most precious jewel, his daughter Darla. Wesley’s so close to ruining the trade network and succeeding he can almost taste it, but revenge is not nearly as sweet as Darla’s kisses.

Darla Maxwell, beloved by her parents, has no prospects of marriage. Her father and Lord Ewan search to find her the right husband. Darla’s special gifts are frightening to many. She has visions that often come true. The murky image of a man haunts her. She’s sure it’s Lord Ewan’s soon-to-be son-in-law, but the vision morphs when she meets Wesley. The meaning couldn’t be any clearer to her; her destiny lay with Wesley.

When revelations surface, indicating Wesley has been deceived and his revenge misplaced. Will he find the truth of what really happened to his family in time to stop the pirates? Will Darla ever forgive him? Will he ever forgive himself?

Buy Link: Kindle Unlimited

An Excerpt

The ship glided out of the protection of the dock and sailed into the churning channel. Huddled under the sail, hugging her knees, Darla thought she might as well be blind. To add to her discomfort, the aroma of beer from the surrounding barrels was overpowering in the small space.

The rise and fall of the ship had her holding on to the barrels for dear life. Large raindrops that randomly pelted Darla’s shelter intensified. The ends of her canvas hideout fluttered and hammered a beat as gusts of wind plowed into the standing barrels, sending sprays of water through the spaces between them. The tight ropes holding her sanctuary together sang as they strained against the pitching of the ship and the onslaught of the wind and rain.

From her hiding place, she had no sense of what happened beyond its boundary. No way to prepare for the next roll of the ship, gust of wind, or drenching rush of water. Shouted orders, along with the grunts and salty words of the crew, reached her ears above the sound of the howling wind and crashing water.

“Take in the sail. Toss out the sea anchor. We need to keep the ship headed into the wind. Tie a bag of oil to the windward side and toss it over. Let’s hope that keeps the waves from breaking over the side.”

Water that soaked through her makeshift canopy gathered above her and rained down on her, adding to her misery. She lifted her skirt, tucked her mantle close, but the water wicked through her clothes. Soaked and tired to the bone, she gave up trying to keep dry. Drained of any warmth, she shivered and waited for her ordeal to end.

Riding up and down the swelling sea, the rise and fall of the ship continued. The limited air in her space soured. Woozy, she needed fresh air but was trapped with no way out. With her head on her knees, she closed her eyes and prayed for the journey to end.

The thundering snap of a rope, followed by the full force of the wind and water startled her from her daze. Part of the sail slid off the barrels. She grabbed at it, but the wind pulled the canvas from her hand. For a moment, she delighted in the salty air and took a deep breath. The ship lurched and the barrels protecting her came loose from their bindings and turned into crushing weapons.

Strong arms grasped her. She didn’t care if her father found her. Getting free of her prison was all she wanted.

The wind roared down the deck, sprays of water erupted from the prow as the ship bounced and rolled in the sea. Nothing hindered the man’s grip. Finally, she raised her head, but the shroud of fog blanketing the ship made it difficult to see.

Darla strained and made out dark wet hair plastered to his face. The ship shifted beneath her feet. Unsteady, he held her close, she clung to him. She didn’t have to see clearly to know who held her.

Close to his chest, she made out rivulets of blood sliding down the side of his head, but she clung hard to him. She pulled away from his chest and stretched to reach his ear with her mouth.

“You’re hurt.”

He said nothing as he moved them forward.

“You have my thanks.”

He turned and gave her a flash of a smile.

“Wesley.” She smiled at him.

“I was afraid you’d think I was Magnus.” He cupped her head and drew her to his chest. He staggered forward, fighting his way against the wind to reach the entrance. Here, there was some protection from the wind. He made fast work of the door.

The wind howled outside. She let out a breath, but Wesley didn’t stop. He hurried down the narrow passageway into a cabin.

“You’ll be safe here.” He sat her in a chair and then went to leave. “Whatever you do, stay inside.”

A secretive smile softened his lips before he left, closing the door behind him. She ran to the door, looked through the small hole, and watched him make his way down the passageway, his broad shoulders nearly scraping both walls.

About Ruth A. Casie

Hi! I’m Ruth A Casie. I write historical adventures from the shores of medieval Scotland to the cobblestone streets of Regency London. My stories embrace strong woman and the men who deserve them. Within the pages you’ll discover ‘edge-of-your-seat suspense, mind boggling drama, and heart melting emotions. Grab your favorite cup of tea, or an ale if you prefer, and join my heroes and heroines as they race across the pages to find their happily ever after. I hope my stories are your next favorite adventures!

Tea with Rebeka and Arik

“Rebeka.” Lord Arik called for his wife as he took the steps two at a time as he hurried into the tower room at Fayne Manor.

Rebeka, with her staff in hand, looked up from the small desk and papers. “I’m here.”

His sanctuary as a boy, he stared at the walls filled with runes and the cheval glass that stood at one end of a pentagram on the floor. She had placed it across from the hearth with its blazing fire as he had instructed.

“I’m looking forward to meeting Her Grace. Are you ready?” Rebeka asked.

Arik nodded his agreement and brought her to the center of the pentagram. The flames from the hearth danced and caressed their reflection in the mirror. He gave her a tender kiss, and then they turned toward the Eastern wall and began the ritual.

“Hail, Guardians of the East. I summon the power of air.” Arik’s voice echoed through the room.

“By the air in her breath, be with us now,” Rebeka replied and tapped her staff.

They turned to the South. “Hail, Guardians of the South. I summon the power of fire.”

“By the fire in her spirit, be with us now,” came Rebeka’s reply, along with a tap of her staff.

They faced the West. “Hail, Guardians of the West. I summon the power of water.”

“By the waters of her womb, be with us now.” Another tap from Rebeka’s staff.

They turned North toward the hearth. “Hail, Guardians of the North. I summon the power of the earth.”

“By the earth that is her body, be with us now,” Rebeka said with a strong final tap.

“As above, so below. As within, so without. Prepare Haverford’s door of time and present us to the duchess sublime. So mote it be.”

The air stirred, at first rustling Rebeka’s long hair then catching Arik’s loose-fitting shirt. Yet everything else in the room was still. They repeated the chant. Even though they were deep into the ritual, they sensed that the room changed.

The flames leaped high in the hearth when the last word was spoken. Soft sounds gathered into whispered words that grew more insistent until a voice called to them, “Lord Arik. Lady Rebeka.”

The smooth surface shifted and swirled. The image of a man materialized. They stepped to the mirror. “Berkeley Court?” Arik asked.

“Her Grace the Duchess of Haverford is expecting you, my lord.”

Arik took Rebeka’s hand, and together, they stepped into the mirror. Rebeka glanced behind her to see a partially draped cheval glass. The rest of the small tower room was empty. The hearth was cold.

“Good afternoon, my lord, my lady.” A footman stood before them, unshaken at watching two people walk through the mirror. “Welcome to Berkeley Court. If you will come this way I will show you to Her Crace.”

The footman took them down the tower stairs to the second floor. From there, he took them to the garden room where a mature lady, eleganty dressed, waited for them, a full service of tea at her side.

“Please do come and sit with me. Lady Rebeka would you like to pour tea?” asked Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford.

“Your Grace, I am honored at the request, but I’m afraid my skills at pouring tea would appall you. In the United—. In America, we put the tea leaves in small bags and then dunk them in boiling water. Lord Arik can pour tea better than I can.”

Arik placed his hand over his wife’s. “Rebeka underestimates her abilities. It’s her way of easing into the differences in time.” Before Arik could act, the duchess took command of the pot.

“I am certain there are many things you both had to reconcile, pouring tea only a minor one.” The duchess glanced at Rebeka. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Black, please.”

“Same for me, if you please,” Arik said.

The duchess handed the tea to her visitors. “A biscuit?” She motioned toward the plate. “Cook makes delicious treats.”

Arik dutifully put a biscuit on his plate. Rebeka declined.

“Traveling through time. I dare say I never gave it a thought. After all, time is what time is. Or so I thought.”

Rebeka noted the excitement in the duchess’ eyes. “I agree, Your Grace.” Rebeka put down her teacup.

“Please, call me Eleanor. No need to be so formal.” Eleanor sat back in her chair with her teacup in her hand and a large smile on her lips.

“By all means. We were surprised when we received your invitation. I will say we questioned it. Of course, the Haverford name is well known even in our time. And with your Somerset estate a day’s ride from ours, Arik sent his brother, Logan, for a visit. Your ancestors were quite cordial. Logan returned telling us what a lovely time he had. He also confirmed the tower room.” Rebeka looked at the biscuits on the plate.

Eleanor turned to Arik. “I found a notation in the estate journal about Fayne Manor and decided to meet you. Once I learned about Rebeka’s traveling through time, I had many questions. What was your first impression of Rebeka?”

“He thought I was a pain in the…” Rebeka glanced at Arik.

“Arse.” Arik smiled at her and then turned to Eleanor. “My wife is quite correct. She had this compulsion to interject herself and her opinions everywhere. She didn’t know her place.” He turned to his wife. “And you, madam? What did you think of me? An actor?”

Arik’s exasperated expression said it all. He returned his attention to Eleanor. “Can you believe it? The Druid Grand Master and Lord of Fayne Manor, and she thinks I’m some carnival performer.”

“What did you expect? I had no idea I had traveled four hundred years into the past.” Rebeka put down her teacup, her eyes on the biscuit. “When I arrived, I encountered Doward, the old tinker.”

“Tinker?” Her Grace asked.

“It was Beltane, and with the way Doward was dressed and riding on a horse-drawn wagon, I naturally assumed he was an actor going to some enactment. They are popular in the twenty-first century. Then we came upon Arik and his men, all on horseback and dressed like Doward; well, what should I have thought? Arik was marching through the woods all proud and self-important, playacting.” Rebeka took a biscuit from the plate.

Arik raised his eyebrow and controlled his temper. “I was patrolling my domain. We were under attack, as you soon found out.”

Rebeka nibbled on the biscuit.

The duchess put down her teacup. “Oh, no.” She leaned toward Rebeka. “And you thought it was all a charade. What happened?”

“We were traveling and came to the river at the crossing. The bridge was damaged, and Arik and his men had to repair it so we could get the Doward’s wagon across. There was no room for the wagon at the shore, so Doward, me, and Logan, Arik’s brother, made camp up the road. The thieves attacked the wagon. They must’ve thought with only one soldier, a woman, and an old man, we would be easy to subdue. This biscuit is delicious.”

Her Grace smiled and offered her the plate. “Please, have another.”

“Subdue?” Arik didn’t try to hide his anger. “They meant to kill you. All three of you.”

“What happened?” Eleanor was not fooled. This was a man who cared dearly about his people and more so about his wife. She had read it in the diary he left in his library.

“The attackers were as shocked as I was. You see, both camps were attacked at the same time. We quickly took care of the marauders who attacked us by the river and went to help the others upriver. I didn’t know what to expect.” Arik shook his head and chuckled. “Rebeka dispatched three attackers before I got there.” He faced the duchess. “She did well. No, she was excellent. She used her walking staff as a weapon in a way I’d never seen. I would have her at my side in any battle.”

“I have read about the ancient Amazonian women and thought that all a fantasy,” Eleanor said.

“I am not a warrior. In college, I studied the Japanese physical movements that help build your physical, mental, and spiritual development. I enjoyed the mind-body connection. I had no cause to use them in combat until I was back in time. At the river, I fought for my life.”

Arik took her hand. “And you did well. That was when I knew there was more to you than I thought. Doward led me to believe the King had sent Rebeka to do research in my library.”

“That’s not exactly what Doward told you.” She took another biscuit from the plate. “You see, Eleanor, by the time we reached Fayne Manor, Doward and I discovered that I was in the wrong time. We also thought that the information I needed to go back would most likely be in Arik’s vast library.”

“I see.” Eleanor nodded her agreement as she refreshed everyone’s tea.

“I’m not certain you do. It was a dangerous game we both played. Arik was certain I was sent by his enemy, Bran. I was certain Arik would think I was a witch and that he would kill me if he knew I traveled through time.

“I began to research his family journals and diaries. I had no idea where to look or what to look for.” How clearly she remembered going through the vast library. She learned so much about his family, about him.

“And everything she did made me suspicious. I was certain the King or the King’s men had sent her. I will say she did excellent work with her research. I read it several times without letting her know.”

“Be that as it may,” Rebeka interjected. “I came from a time when women spoke their minds. On that count alone, I didn’t endear myself to him. No, not at all. But emotions stewed underneath it all. We wanted each other. We just didn’t trust each other.”

“Rebeka, why didn’t you tell Arik your mission? Surely, he would have helped you.” Eleanor smiled.

“I am a proud woman. In my time, I am a renowned history professor. I thought I’d made quick work of it. Besides, it was 1605. No one, not even Lord Arik, would believe that I had traveled through time. And with King James I sharpening the English Witchcraft Act I dared not say anything. I feared for what they might do to me.”

“But, Rebeka—.”

Rebeka put up her hand. “Before you say anything, yes, Arik is the Druid Grand Master, but I didn’t know it then, and I didn’t believe in magic. At least not at that time.”

“Not believe in magic? Then how do you explain your time travel? Surely that was magic,” the duchess said.

“You’re correct, of course. It’s amazing how we hold on to our prejudices. But Arik taught me about magic—on many levels.”

“And I understand from Arik’s journal that together, you saved Fayne Manor. I can see it in your eyes. You are a strong and vibrant pair. I wish you both well.”

Arik put down his serviette. “Thank you for your invitation and tea. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Eleanor stood and walked her guests to the door. “The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one. Love can transcend time, even four hundred years. Please, do visit again.”

How It All Began

In ancient times, druids and magic reigned supreme. Valor, courage, honesty, honor, and heart were their ingrained values. Destined for greatness, over the centuries this family rose above the others, but not without its own struggles.

This is the story of the druid Grand Master Lord Arik of Fayne Manor and his effort to protect all he holds dear from the Dark Magic that wants to destroy it all. Amid the spells and incantations, will he discover that the magic of the heart is the most potent force of all?

Knight of Runes

Rebeka Tyler, a distinguished expert in medieval and Renaissance studies and a casual martial arts enthusiast, never envisioned herself as a warrior. However, thrust into the 17th century, she finds herself caught in the conflict between two powerful druid masters. While deciphering ancient runes and unraveling a family secret to secure her return, Rebeka engages in battles for survival against in a society she knows well from her studies, as well as against the malevolent druid, Bran.

Amidst the struggle, emotional complexities arise with Lord Arik, the druid knight, as long-buried truths about their shared past come to light. The key to triumph lies not in individual efforts but in a partnership between Rebeka and Arik. Yet, this alliance comes at a steep price – her heart and, if fate favors her, her rightful future. For Rebeka, this journey isn’t a mere journey into the past but a return to where she truly belongs. In this riveting tale, the boundaries between love, destiny, and sacrifice blur as Rebeka navigates a world of ancient mysteries and profound connections.

Review: “Friends. FRIENDS. Oh my gosh, listen to me. If you only pick up one book this upcoming summer, it needs to be Knight of Runes. Imagine Game of Thrones and Outlander having a lovechild whose nanny was Jane Austen. Yes, I am serious. No, I am not kidding. It’s that good.” – Stacie T. 5 Star Review

Buy Link: https://amzn.to/2C73zRV
Ruth’s Website: https://ruthacasie.com/books.html

Excerpt:

Prologue

England – May 1605

I should not have stayed away so long.

Unable to shake the ominous feeling of being watched, Lord Arik kept the small group moving quickly. On high alert, his eyes continually swept the underbrush bordering the rain-slicked forest trail. He and his three riders escorted the wagon with the old tinker and the woman quickly through the forest. At length, he slowed the pace. The horses winded as they neared the Stone River.

“The forest is flooded,” he said. “I suspect the Stone will be as well. Willem, ride ahead and let me know what we face at the crossing.”

Willem did his lord’s bidding and quickly returned with his report. “The river ahead runs fast, m’lord. The bridge is in ruins and cannot be crossed.”

Arik raised his hand and brought the group to a halt. “We must make repairs, Doward,” he said to the old tinker, “there’s no room for the wagon at the river’s edge. You and the woman stay here and set up camp. Be ready to join us at the bridge when I send word.”

Logan, Arik’s brother, spoke up. “I’ll keep watch here and help Doward and Rebeka.”

Arik nodded and, with the others, continued the half mile to the bridge. “I am not pleased with this new delay.”

“It can’t be helped, m’lord,” Simon said. “We would make better time without the wagon.”

“We cannot leave Doward and the woman in the forest on their own, not with what we’ve heard lately. We’ll have to drive hard to make up the lost time,” Arik said as they came to the crossing.

The frame of the bridge stood solid, but the planks were scattered everywhere, clogging the banks and shallows. Arik leapt from his horse onto the frame to begin the repairs. “Hand me that planking.” Arik pointed to the nearest board.

Simon grabbed the nearest plank and examined it. “Sir, these boards have been deliberately removed.”

Arik reached for the board just as an arrow whooshed out of the trees and slammed into the plank’s edge. Willem pulled his ax from his belt. In a fluid, practiced movement, he spun and sent his ax flying. The archer fell into the river and was swept downstream, Willem’s ax lodged in his forehead.

A dozen or more attackers broke through the stand of trees. Poorly dressed fighters carrying clubs and knives moved toward them. There was only one sword among them, held by the leader—Arik’s target.

Arik tossed the board into the river and readied his sword. “They plan to pin us here at the river’s edge. Come, we’ll attack before they form up.”

Arik and his men surged forward, driving a wedge through the enemy’s ragged line, forcing what little formation they had to scatter and fight, each man for himself.

A man, club in hand, rushed at Arik. Before the attacker could bring his weapon into play, Arik pivoted around him. He raised his sword high and slammed the hilt’s steel pommel squarely on the man’s head and moved on before the man’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground.

Willem and Simon, on either side of Arik, advanced through the melee. Their swift swordplay moved smoothly from one stroke to the next, whipping through the air. They slashed on the down stroke and again on the backswing, sweeping their weapons into position to repeat the killing sequence as Arik and his soldiers steadily advanced, punishing any man who dared to come near them.

“For honor!” Logan’s war cry carried from the small camp to Arik’s ears.

Arik stiffened. Both camps were now under siege. He pulled his blade from an enemy’s chest. The body crumpled to the blood-soaked ground. Arik breathed deeply, the coppery taste of blood in the air.

“For honor!” he bellowed in answer. His men echoed his call, arms thrown wide, muscles quivering, the berserker’s rage overtaking them.

The remaining assailants fled headlong back into the forest.

Motioning to his men to follow, Arik raced toward Logan and the camp. He could hear shouts and cursed himself for not seeing the danger earlier. He crested the hill and came to an abrupt halt.

Logan’s sword ripped through the air as he protected Doward. The tinker drew his short blade and did as much damage as he could. But it was the woman Arik noticed. Her skirt hiked up, she twirled her walking stick like a weapon, with an expertise that left him slack-jawed. She dispatched the enemy, one by one, in a deadly well-practiced dance.

A man rushed toward her, knife in hand. The sneer on his face didn’t match the fear in his eyes.

She stepped out of his line of attack, extended her stick to her side and, holding it with both hands, swept the weapon forward, striking the intruder across the bridge of his nose. Blood exploded from his face in an arc of fine spray as his head snapped back. Droplets dusted her face, creating an illusion of bright red freckles. As he fell, she reversed her swing and caught him hard behind his knees. He went down on his back, spread-eagled. The woman swung her stick over her head and landed a precise blow to his forehead that knocked him unconscious.

As the woman spun to face the next threat, her glance captured Arik’s and held. In the space of an instant, time slowed to a crawl. Her hair slowly loosened from its pins and swirled out around her. His breath caught, and his heart quickened as a rapturous surge raced through his body. Something eternal and familiar, with a sense of longing, unsettled him.

In the next heartbeat, she tore her eyes away, leaving him empty. Time resumed its normal pace. Another fighter lay at her feet.

Arik joined the fight.