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A little mouse of a heroine in WIP Wednesday

Thrown to the Lyon is beginning to gel in my mind.

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Dorcas Kent hoisted the heavy bag of linens and embroidery thread a little higher on her shoulder. Short as she was, it was hard to keep the bag from brushing the ground, which would be bad enough on any day, but worse when three days of heavy rain had turned the streets into a swamp of mud, dirty water, and other far more noxious substances.

She had walked to the drapery warehouse as soon as the sun had peeped through the clouds. Even if she had had the coins to spare, she was unwilling to risk the table linens she had embroidered in the filthy interior of a hackney. Mr. McMillan would dock the price of damaged linens from her wages and would, moreover, refuse to pay for any work she had done on them. Mr. McMillan was the man who employed her to apply family crests, monograms, or whatever motif buyers desired onto the household linens he supplied.

That was also why she was walking home, keeping one wary eye on the gathering clouds.

She carried two weeks or more of work and therefore a month’s rent, and food on the table for at least part of that month. The loss of even a set of table napkins could leave her destitute. Scraping the bag in the mud would be a disaster. Rain before she reached her room would be a disaster.

So, she readjusted the handle for the umpteenth time and trudged on.

Disaster came looking for her just as she rested for a moment against a stone water trough set a little back from the footpath. She had her back against the trough and the precious bag clasped to her belly as she looked idly at the passersby and wished that she did not have so far to walk.

People must have rushed out to enjoy the brief sunshine, for both road and footpath were crowded. One lady caught her eye. She was clad in deep black, and a veil fell from her bonnet to cover her veil. Dorcas found herself wondering about the widow. Did the heavy mourning represent the truth or a social lie?

Dorcas had worn black for Michael, and then again for Noah. Not, however, quite like the lady she observed. She smiled at the very idea. It was like comparing a sparrow and a peacock—her in her hastily dyed everyday gowns and the clearly wealthy lady who was picking her way cautiously around a puddle in her expensive and fashionable sails and velvets.

The lady was just walking past Dorcas when someone dashed out from the shadows and pushed her, so that she stumbled into the street, right into the path of an approaching carriage.

Dorcas was barely aware of the assailant running away and was not conscious at all of casting her bag down and hurling herself after the lady. She didn’t think, but grabbed a double handful of the lady’s redincote and swung her around, just before the horses, snorting and stamping, reached their position.

For one horrid moment, she lost her own balance as the carriage raced towards her. Then hard hands grabbed her, pulling her to safety. And the lady in black, too, she noticed as a tall strong man with hard eyes set her on her feet, and another did the same for the widow. The carriage had driven on by, the driver hurling imprecations over his shoulder.

“How can I ever repay you?” The widow held her hands out to Dorcas. “You saved me from serious injury, at the very least. Titan, did you see who pushed me?”

“No, Mrs. Dove Lyon,” said the man who had caught the lady. “I’ve sent a man after him, but he was fast on his feet.”

“And you, Miss?” Mrs. Dove Lyon asked Dorcas.

“Mrs.,” Dorcas commented. “And no, all I saw was his back as he gave you a shove.”

“Mrs…?” Mrs. Dove Lyon asked.

It was at that moment that Dorcas remembered her bag. “Kent,” she replied absentminded as she looked for the bag. Her heart quailed when she saw it lying on the edge of a puddle. “My linens!” she moaned.

Sure enough, when she picked up the bag, she could see that one corner was completely saturated in muddy water.

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Music and supper with the ton

An excerpt post, but not for tea. The excerpt is from Hold Me Fast.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, and I shall buy you a drink before dinner,” Bran said.

Jowan would prefer the drink without the dinner. He was doing his best to remain positive, but the word “No” kept echoing in his mind and, somehow, in his gut, too.

Still, Bran wasn’t about to let him stew in his own misery. Besides, Jowan could not turn up drunk to the musicale. He owed it to his people to make a good impression on these Londoners, especially those who were going to decide whether or not the new mine went ahead.

They had brought evening wear with them—Jowan had Bran to thank for that, too. He had insisted they should be prepared for all eventualities. They had both been outfitted by a Plymouth tailor and were—or so the man had assured them—elegant enough for London society.

Certainly, Bran looked good in his, and Jowan could have been his twin but for one inch more in height and hair that was a lighter shade of brown. They had both chosen black for breeches and coat. Jowan had a green waistcoat embroidered in copper and Bran’s was blue with silver embroidery. The clocking on their stockings matched the embroidery, as did the buckles on their black shoes. A pin on their white cravats added another spot of colour—green for Jowan and blue for Bran.

From what he’d seen on his way around London, Jowan wondered if many of the gentlemen would fill their garments to as much advantage. He and Bran both lived active lives, turning their hands to anything needed on the estate’s farms, in the mines or in the fishing fleet.

Perhaps London ladies preferred the weedy creatures he’d passed on Oxford Street. What did Tamsyn prefer now? And there he was again, thinking of her.

“Shall we take a hackney, Bran?”

“Will we get dirtier catching one of those flea and stink traps, or walking?” Bran wondered.

They walked.

The Winshire mansion was in one of the older squares of Mayfair. The largest building of any in the vicinity, it was lit from basement to attics, and so many carriages were attempting to access the front steps that the traffic was queued as far as the eye could see down streets in every direction.

They bypassed the carriages and joined a second instance of traffic congestion on the footpath, as guests waited to ascend the steps of the house. This queue was short and swiftly moving. They soon reached the front door, where they showed their invitations to a footman. The entry hall was large enough to swallow the drawing room at Inneford House. The stairs rose up through the house, lit by a great chandelier, but Jowan could just make out a ceiling lantern high above. The house was twice as high as Inneford House, too.

They ascended the stairs step by step in the queue to the reception line on what in any less elegant house would have been the landing. If one could call a space as large as four tenant cottages a landing.

At last, it was their turn to be greeted by their hostess. The butler took their invitations and announced them to the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The ducal couple were perhaps in their sixties but still vigorous. Jowan could see traces of Drew in the duke—or the other way around, he supposed. The duchess greeted them both with a smile. “You are Drew’s guests,” she said. “Go on into the drawing room, Sir Jowan, Mr. Hughes. Drew is waiting for you there.”

The drawing room carried on the theme of the house. Jowan had seen assembly halls that were smaller, though to think of assembly halls in the same context as this richly appointed and elegant room seemed like a form of blasphemy.

“I’m feeling like a country mouse,” whispered Bran.

“You are,” Jowan pointed out, keeping his own voice low, “and so am I.”

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Where I’m at with 2024, nearly one third of the way in.

Here we are one third of the way through 2004. So far, January and March’s publications have been published. I just learned this week that The Sincerest Flattery has been pushed back to May, but it is on pre-order, as is The Blossoming of the Wallflower, for July. Not Inviting the Wild, yet, but it is with the publisher for editing.

The two August publications are both written. Hold Me Fast is out for beta reading, and I’m editing the novelette for Hot Duke Summer. I don’t yet have a cover for Thrown to the Lyon. I’ve started writing it and The Trials of Benedict.

I’ve a few other stories that need to be put between covers when I get a minute to think about them. News about those as they come to hand.

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Mysteries to solve in WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from Hold Me Fast, which should be finished this week. (I’m editing, but I also have to write the very end. The villain is dead, but the story isn’t over until my couple are happily married.) In the following excerpt, Jowan has been turned away at the house where Tamsyn lives, and decides to hire an investigator.

“There is another matter,” Bran said, with a nod of encouragement to Jowan.

Wakefield raised an eyebrow.

Jowan wasn’t sure where to start. “The singer, Tammie Lind. I need to know… That is, could you find out…” What? If she was a prisoner? It sounded ridiculous to his own ears, and he could only imagine what Wakefield would think of it.

“The lady is actually Tamsyn Roskilly, the daughter of our father’s housekeeper,” Bran explained. “She left Cornwall when she was sixteen, promising to keep in touch. She failed to write, even to her mother. When her mother died, shortly after our father, we informed her through the Earl of Coombe, her patron.”

Wakefield, who had been toying with his pen looked up at that, his focus sharpening.

“We received no reply even to that,” Bran continued. “When we called on the Earl of Coombe, we were denied entry. It is possible that the lady has brushed the dust of her homeland from her feet and wants nothing to do with anything from her past. My brother fears that letters from home might have been kept from here, or that she is being suborned in some way, or both.”

“Bran puts it very well,” Jowan agreed. “We will leave her alone, if that is her choice. But we owe her a rescue if she needs one.

“The Earl of Coombe has a dark reputation,” Wakefield told them. “I can tell you that without any investigation at all. How much it is still deserved, I do not yet know. When he was last in England, he was infamous for his parties and his liaisons, and known in certain circles for dissolute behaviour beyond that normally expected of a young British aristocrat. I have not followed his activities on the continent, but I know who might have done so. I can ask. Also, I have another client who has asked me to investigate his current activities. I can report on what I find to you, if you wish.”

“If you would,” Jowan said.

“As to Miss Roskilly, or Miss Lind as she is now known, I should be able to find out what you want to know. You might not like any answers I find for you, however. Coombe was well known for his ability to corrupt innocence, and I cannot imagine that any young woman in his power would escape his attentions.”

Jowan shut his eyes against the roaring in his ears. His sweet Tamsyn in the hands of a villain! He didn’t want to imagine it but was beseiged by a kaleidoscope of scenes of her calling for help while a malign presence assailed her.

“Jowan?” Bran’s voice anchored him back in the presence and allowed him to catch his breath.

“Find out, Wakefield. It is better to know the worst rather than be haunted by speculation.”

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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.

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The Barbary Pirates and coastal villages

The Italian places attacked by pirates between 1516 and 1798. Naturally, people tended to move inland, and to steep places that were harder to attack. Think of that next time you see an Italian village on a steep hill.

In my new release, Hook, Lyon and Sinker, the hero’s life is completely changed by Barbary pirates.

The Barbary states were a collection of North Africa states along what was known as the Barbary Coast. Through until the early 19th century, these states sponsored three kinds of economic activity that other nations eventually ended by force: slave-taking, abduction for ransom, and a protection racket.

The ships that operated out of their ports attacked ships of other nations sailing in the Mediterranean and out into the North Atlantic and also conducted raids into coastal areas in the Mediterranean, the west coast of North Africa, and what is now Europe.

They took goods, but also people who would either become slaves or–if they had wealthy relatives–be offered for ransom. Some of the slaves were offered for redemption, and various charities were set up in Europe and the United States to collect money to buy these captives out of slavery.

Muslims being forbidden to enslave (or even rob) other Muslims, the corsairs attacked any underprotected European or American ship that strayed into their path, thus combining the religious duty of harrying the infidel with the economic pleasure of making a profit.

Except when those ships came under the third kind of activity. The protection racket was an agreement that their ships would not attack ships showing the flag of a nation or merchant who had paid tribute to stop such attacks.

It was not until France took over Algiers in 1830 that the last of the barbary pirates ceased operating out of those ports.

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Another new beginning in WIP Wednesday

This is the first scene in The Blossoming of the Wallflower.

Spring was when the social life of the London upper classes upped its pace from a few insipid entertainments to the full gallop of the Season. Merrilyn Parkham-Smith, in other words, suddenly had to make room for engagements she would have paid to refuse, and to be (at least publicly) polite to the cruel diamonds and sarcastic rakes who had made her first three seasons miserable.

Not that they annoyed her as much as they used to. Not since she and her friends had formed the Nemisis Collective, and devoted themselves to the principles of artistic revenge. The last two seasons had, she supposed, been tolerable.

But spring was also the time when her garden burst into life. Since Merrilyn loved her garden above all things, every minute that she had to spend doing something boring instead of gardening was pure torture.

In the summer and autumn, when much of the Polite World made their exodus to the country, she could spend all day in her garden, if it pleased her to do so. It usually did. Winter was for reading (nurserymen’s catalogues, but also fiction, biology, poetry, and much more). Summer and autumn were for gardening. And spring was to be endured, with moments in her garden as her reward for doing her duty.

She was stealing one such moment this fine June morning. Her liriodendren tulipipefera—the tulip tree she had planted with her grandmother when she was eight years old—had finally produced buds, and when she had checked that end of the garden several days ago, the first of the bracts that enclosed the flowers had begun to open.

By now, perhaps she would find twenty or more fragrant flowers! Pretty six-petalled cups in yellow or green with a stripe of orange at the base and a coronet of stamens around a cone of pistils. How she wished her grandmother was here to see these first flowers!

Merrilyn had three gates—and four gardens—to walk through to reach the tulip tree near the wall that sheltered the compost heap and other garden utilities at the far end.

Grandmama had designed the garden when she first came to this house as a young bride. One in a terrace of townhouses, it and its companions were distinguished from others in the area by the size of the gardens, or rather the length—the width being constrained by the width of each house.

The area closest to the house, which Merrilyn quickly traversed, was designed for viewing from the terrace or from inside the house. The plants had been chosen to fill the space year round with colour, texture, shape, and pleasing scents.

Beyond the first gate was the vegetable garden, designed like a French potager with flowers, herbs and vegetables mixed, and berry cages around the walls.

Then came a modest orchard, with a dozen trees that kept the household supplied with fruit from spring until autumn. Through the third gate, and Merrilyn was in her favourite part of the garden, which she had, as a child, dubbed ‘the Forest’. Grandmama had created a little fairyland of trees, shrubs and forest wildflowers.

Merrilyn left the straight path that led on to the utility area and took one of the forest paths that wandered between the trees. At the far end of this path on the edge of a little glade was her tulip tree.

She had taken no more than half a dozen paces down the path before she saw the carnage. Freshly cut branches covered the walkway and clogged the undergrowth—what was left of it. Horror rose as she saw the mess someone had made of the growth along the wall—trees and shrubs her grandmother had planted. Someone had cut them down to just above wall height. Sliced them off at an angle, right through the trunks, and left the evidence on the ground.

Her liriodendren! She hurriedly retraced her steps to the main path and rushed to the end of the forest section, turning into the path next to the dividing wall with the utility area. It was really no more than a space, three feet wide, kept trimmed to allow access to the wall, but it was clear no longer, since the felled part of the tulip tree had dropped into the space and reached almost to the central path.

She put out a hand to the top of her tree, which only a few days ago had been a brave twenty-five feet above her head. The desecration had happened long enough ago that the leaves were wilting, the buds that had given her such joy were limp and shrivelled.

Tears rose to her eyes. Who had done such a dreadful thing? And why?

 

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Spotlight on Hook, Lyon and Sinker

Hook, Lyon and Sinker

When Lady Laureline Barker asks Mrs. Dove Lyons to find her a husband, she does not expect one of her choices to be the man she admired years ago, when she was still a schoolgirl—the man who rescued her from drowning. He is also a war hero, famed for trading his own freedom and health for the safety of others.

Laurel is committed to a contest, with the winner taking her and her dowry. Can she back out? And will he still want her if she does?

Angelico Warrington doesn’t expect Laurel to remember him. Even if she does, why should she favor him over other suitors? She is the respected sister to an earl, the only flaw on her reputation that she refused to marry a jerk who has been putting off the wedding date for five years.

Angel is a musician in a gambling den, unable to walk without crutches, and with no place in the Society to which Laurel belongs.

This apparently ill-assorted couple are a perfect match, but history must repeat itself and secrets be revealed before they can win their happy ending.

Preorder price only 99c. Published this coming Wednesday. https://www.amazon.com/Hook-Lyon-Sinker-Lyons-Den-ebook/dp/B0CSF79RMD

Excerpt:

One of Titan’s men came to tell Carter and Angel that the first contest was about to start. While they had been talking, some of the servants had rolled out a large square piece of furniture. Angel couldn’t imagine its purpose until he approached closely enough to see that it was an open-topped box about ten feet across. It was lined with something that must be impervious to liquid, for the box was full of water almost to the top. A score or more toy ships sailed on the surface.

“Gentlemen,” said Titan, “if you will take your places, please.” He directed Angel to one side of the box, and Carter to the opposite side. Angel picked up the sling he found waiting for him. The bowl full of smooth blue stones told him what the game comprised before Titan explained.

Carter’s stones were red, Angel noticed. Half a dozen gentlemen took their places along the remaining sides of the tank, and two of Mrs. Dove Lyons men stood flanking each of the players.

Other gentlemen crowded in behind the spotters, though several of Titan’s wolves kept them back from behind Carter and Angel.

Then Titan said, “Go,” and Angel picked up his sling, fitted a stone, and hurled it at a ship. It was harder than it appeared. For one thing, it took considerable force to sink a ship. For another, any lesser hit sent the target careening across the water, rocking the other ships and setting them sailing in unexpected directions. All that movement started waves, which complicated matters still further.

The watchers roared when a lucky shot from Angel sank an already-damaged ship, and again a few moments later, presumably for Carter, though Angel was not about to take his eye from his current target.

As he continued to launch stones, someone came to fill the bowl. Was he getting better? He had the impression he was sinking ships more rapidly, but perhaps it was just that time had slowed as he slung stone after stone, not pausing to see the effect, but moving on the next.

Every now and again, though, another stone hit a ship he was aiming for just before or after his own. If the ship sank, the spotters yelled out the name of the man who was responsible. Twice, there was a dispute, but Angel didn’t allow that to distract him, either.

Then Titan shouted, “Time! Put down your slings, gentlemen.”

Angel replaced his sling on the side of the box and looked across the water to Carter, who nodded and smiled. Angel had no idea whether he or Carter had won. He returned the nod and the smile. Carter was a decent man.

Angel’s eyes drifted up to the ladies’ gallery, where Laurel stood, watching the first of the contests that would decide her fate. Carter was a decent man, but he wanted a mother for his daughters.

Laurel deserved more. She deserved a man who adored her.

 

 

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A cunning plan on WIP Wednesday

 

My hero abducts my heroine in Hold Me Fast. The image above belongs to one of the stories that inspired mine.

It was time, then. Jowan mounted his horse. “Wish me luck, Bran.”

“Always,” Bran replied from the back of his own steed, extending his hand. Jowan shook it and Bran rode off, away from the main ride.

After a nod for the boy on lookout, Jowan nudged his horse into a swift walk. So far, so good. Coombe kept coming. Jowan kept his head down so that the hat would shade his face. The conspirators had calculated that Coombe would not give Jowan a second look, given he was on a side ride and not likely, at his current pace, to reach the main ride before all of Coombe’s retinue had passed.

Good. Coombe was beyond the intersection of the two rides. Jowan gave the horse the signal for a trot, then a canter. One. Two. Three. By the time he counted to fifteen, he was pulling the horse up alongside Tamsyn, clasping her around the waist, and lifting her to sit on his pommel. The clever lady had already kicked her feet free of the stirrup, and so the transfer took a count of two, but that was enough time for one of Coombe’s men to react, forcing his horse foreward to block Jowan’s escape.

The horse Drew had provided for the rescue shouldered the other horse away out of the way and bounded away, reaching a gallop within a second. Ten strides and they were through the gate. They slowed and turned left, continuing to reduce speed. Drew had assured Jowan that the horse would be able to stop within ten yards of the gate, and so two of Jowan’s accomplices waited at that point.

The horse was still moving, if slowly, when Jowan let Tamsyn down into Drew’s arms. By the time he had dismounted himself, Tamsyn had abandoned her riding cape to Prue Wakefield and was donning the hat Prue gave her—a stylish flat hat that tied on with a scarf and hid part of Tamsyn’s face.

Jowan tossed Tamsyn up into the saddle of one of the two horses that a boy was holding, and himself mounted the other. Meanwhile, Prue had put on Tamsyn’s cape and Drew tossed her up on the horse Jowan had abandoned, and was mounting behind her.

“Thank you both,” Jowan called to them as they rode off along Park Lane. Jowan led Tamsyn in the opposite direction. They had organised several more decoys, and would fire off one of them as soon as they reached the corner of Cullross and Park. Drew’s horse would go one way along Park, and the near identical horse that was standing at wait would go the other. They’d repeat the ploy at three more corners, until sixteen chestnut geldings spread out across London, all around 16 hands high and all bearing a rider in a black coat and top hat, with a passenger sitting on the front of his saddle. All those decoys had to do was stay out of reach of Coombe and his men, but even if they were caught, they all had good reason to be out on the roads on such a day.

Meanwhile, Jowan must trust them to know their work, for his part of the plan was to turn off into a street away from the shell game of the multiplying horses, where a hackney waited that would take them west to Bran and the travelling carriage.

“We will go to Southall tonight,” he told the woman in his arms. “It’s two hours, so we will not need to change the horses.”

“They are lovely horses,” Tamsyn said, her voice distant as if she was thinking of something else. “We will send these beauties home to their owner,” he told her. “We turn here, and there, up ahead, is our transport for the next step. It’s not the final, though. The hack will take us to the last vehicle of the day.”

Tamsyn giggled. “It is like the children’s game. Stop the music, and if there is not a horse to plop down on, you lose.”

She willingly allowed him to help her down from her horse and see her into the hack.

So far, so good.

 

 

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The Talons of a Lyon is free from 11th to 15th March

I’m at the readers’ club on Facebook from March 11th to March 15th, posting several times a day, and talking about my A Twist Upon a Regency Tale series, fairy and folk tales, and other topics that may come up. Come and ask your questions or have your say. I’d love to see you. Book of the week is The Talons of a Lyon, and it will be free for the week. If I can figure out the technology, there’ll be a live chat about the book towards the end of the week.

It’s a public group, and has a Dragonblade author every week. Do join us.

Collect the free book here: https://books2read.com/TToaL

Find the group here:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/274839866984258