It’s almost my last chance to post a work-in-progress excerpt from The Lyon, the Lady, and a Fine Pair of Boots. This bit is told from the point of view of the hero, who is valet to a retired officer with bad memories. Click on the link for the blurb and buy links. The book is on preorder, and will be published on June 3rd.

***

Jake Flynn eased his employer out of the hackney. Captain Harraway was rocky on his feet, but still more or less mobile, with Jake propping him on one side and guiding him. Jake fumbled in his pocket for money to pay the jarvey. He’d managed to sequester a few coins from the captain’s purse before the man could lose the lot, which he usually did.

Tonight was like almost every other night in the months since the captain had recovered from his injuries enough to stagger to the nearest gaming hell. He drank, he gambled, he lost.

Mind you, he normally didn’t drink quite so much. Tonight, he had been celebrating, and his friend Podger had been buying, for the envelope with Captain Podger’s name on it had been handed over, and Podger was endearingly grateful.

It was potentially a problem, because—though Podger had promised to keep the identity of his savior secret—the man was loquacious when in his cups. Jake was worried about what Waterford might do when he discovered Captain Harraway was the reason all his blackmail materials—and therefore his sources of income—had disappeared overnight.

Not that the captain was concerned. When Jake had suggested finding a way to return the envelopes anonymously, he had been told he was worrying about nothing. “What, after all, can he do, Jake? If he makes a fuss, he shall be outing himself as a blackmailer, and if he tries to have us arrested, we’ll just deny we were ever there.”

I doubt it will be that easy, Jake thought. Waterford will find a way to take revenge, I’m certain of it. The captain’s problem was that he thought like a decent man. Waterford didn’t, and neither did Jake, come to that. Which was just as well, because it would help him protect his employer.

“Come on, captain. Time for beddie-byes,” he encouraged, as Captain Harraway wobbled uncertainly on one step after the other, leaning heavily on Jake one minute and lurching against the wall the next.

At least the captain had not been losing tonight, and at least, however drunk he might be, he never forgot his promise to Jake, that he’d only lose what he had with him, and only cash. No wagering his possessions. No writing promissory notes. A decent man, that was Jake’s captain.

Thanks to that promise, they still had food in the pantry and the month’s rent, which was due at the end of the week. Though perhaps that was not a good thing. If they lost their place to live, the captain might finally consent to leave London. Jake had ridden out to Ealing to have a look at the place the captain had inherited. It was a fine mansion no more than two hours from London, and the nice bit of land with it made a tidy income.

Some pretty scenery, too. The captain had enjoyed painting at one time, to hear him tell it, and certainly some of the drawings he made when they were out on reconnaissance made their way into reports and from there into battle plans. There were even a couple French spies who owed their capture to sketches by the captain that had been circulated among the officers attached to arrest orders.

A pity he ignored all suggestions to take up painting again.

“We should move to your estate,” Jake said, and not for the first time. He’d not intended the captain to hear, but the man’s ears were sharp.

“Too many memories and not enough,” he said. “Leave it, Flynn.”

When his employer called him “Flynn”, Jake knew better than to argue.