A most shocking bit of news has reached This Author’s ears regarding none other than the Duke of Ashmore’s sister. Yes, you have read right: Lady Arabella, this season’s Incomparable. They say, gentle reader, that Lady Arabella has mysteriously disappeared from the aforementioned duke’s residence on the evening of June 14 and not been seen since. It has come to This Author’s attention that the duke has sent out bowstreet runners to look for her. The Duke of Ashmore, who is as high in the instep as no other, with a name yet untouched by scandal and gossip, is said to be quite beside himself with worry.
Has she been kidnapped?
Has she run away?
Or has she – oh horror – eloped to Gretna Green?
The ton is abuzz with rumours. One cannot help but wonder how, and in what manner, our Incomparable has finally, and sadly, come to fall.
But oh, let it be known, Curious Reader, that This Author has it on the best of authority that a lady of the same stature, regal bearing and complexion as Lady Arabella has been espied boarding the stagecoach not to Gretna Green, but to Cornwall! Upon inquiring where she was heading, she replied she was answering a position as a governess—with a family of bourgeois origins.
A duke’s daughter as a governess?
This Author finds this so inconceivable that she has concluded this particular rumour to be a vicious falsehood, indeed. It cannot be true.
Or can it?
♥♥♥
About the Book
Arabella and the Reluctant Duke by Sofi Laporte
A runaway duke’s daughter. A handsome blacksmith. A festering secret.
Their lives were built on lies……until they unravelled.
Being a duke’s daughter is not all it’s cracked up to be. Surely there must be more to life than embroidery, balls, and finding a husband?
Running away to work as a governess, Lady Arabella does not count on being hired by a precocious 14-year-old girl who runs the family…. or being swept away by her dashingly handsome father.
Mr Philip Merivale, inventor, blacksmith and widowed father of three lively children, is not amused. Clearly, the beautiful new governess who answered his daughter’s advertisement must be a lady. There is one thing he hates more than anything: the aristocracy.
But challenging the lady who has snuck into his life has unexpected consequences: Philip finds himself falling for a woman whose true identity represents all he claims to despise.
When spats turn to sparks, Arabella discovers that Philip harbours a devastating secret of his own… one that threatens to jeopardise everything.
Arabella and the Reluctant Duke is a standalone and Book 2 of The Wishing Well Series. This is a sweet traditional Regency with simmering romance, mischievous, witty banter, and heart-throbbing happily ever after.
Sofi was born in Vienna, grew up in Seoul, studied Comparative Literature in Maryland, U.S.A., and lived in Quito with her Ecuadorian husband. She has worked as a journalist, university lecturer, foreign language teacher and librarian. Sofi likes coffee, owls, ruins and books. When not writing – she is always reading – she likes to travel and scramble about the countryside exploring medieval castle ruins, which she blogs about on her website. She currently lives with her husband, 3 trilingual children, a sassy cat and a cheeky dog in Europe.
An exclusive gathering of wealthy and influential citizens of Northern California was held at the Millbrae home of The Bank of San Francisco’s founder, Montgomery Mercer. A representative from the Teatime Tattler, Susannah Clemens, was invited to a pre-holiday high tea with Mrs. Mercer this past weekend. Miss Clemens was thrilled to attend the social along with the ladies from the Millbrae Philanthropic Society. The group toured the 32,000 acre estate in elaborately decorated coaches before entering the grand home. Mercer Mansion consists of forty-two rooms, three stories, a conservatory, carriage house, and three artificial lakes. The main house took three years to build and is one of the grandest in Northern California outside of San Francisco. Miss Clemens reports that the women on the tour were all aflutter over the gardens and vistas, and were grateful the sun cooperated with their excursion rather than the usual thick fog that blankets the hillside just south of San Francisco proper.
Montgomery Mercer has amassed a considerable fortune aided by the gold and silver boom in California, and he’s set out to create a dynasty in the young state. His eldest child, Montgomery Mercer II, is currently attending the University of California in Berkeley, a new learning institution which his father helped to establish across the San Francisco Bay. The couple’s daughter, Meredith, attends a finishing school located in Grass Valley, and was not present for the event. Montgomery Jr., on the other hand, and his charming friend from the university, Sterling Mackey of the Virginia City Mackeys, entertained the ladies by playing the piano together and singing. The young men are studying law at the new university and shared their aspirations of becoming lawyers and starting a firm together, however Mrs. Mercer sternly reminded Montgomery II that his father had other plans for him, at which point he abruptly left the room and the tea commenced.
The tea was the first time society women had been invited to the Mercer’s home and while Mrs. Mercer set an impeccable example, wearing a lavish dress she stated had been made by a tailor in New York during their last visit, there was a tension in the air that more than one guest alluded to on the ride back down the hill. The most plausible cause was the upcoming holidays, which would obviously put a lot of pressure on a woman like Mrs. Mercer, however Miss Clemens was struck by something Montgomery Jr. said as he and his friend were leaving the tea. Most of the guests were otherwise occupied, but Miss Clemens overheard Sterling consoling his friend with the knowledge that his twenty-first birthday would be arriving soon and with it a bit more freedom. Montgomery shook his head and simply stated, “not freedom, more responsibility. I’m running out of time.” She heard no more as they disappeared up the back stairwell.
The Mercer Family remains a mystery to the writers of the Tattler, but never fear, dear reader. We shall uncover the source of the aspiring young lawyer in future articles. Until then, we remain steadfast in our search for the truth.
About the Book
Harkening back to the glory days of gothic romance that had us up reading all night, we present, Haunts and Hellions… 13 stories of horror, romance, and that perfect moment when the two worlds collide. Vengeful spirits attacking the living, undead lovers revealing their true nature, and supernatural monsters seeking love, await you. Pull the blinds closed, light your candle, and cuddle up in your reading nook for some chilling—and romantic—tales. With stories by: Emily Blue, Lucy Blue, Kevin Ground, Rowan Hill, Naching T. Kassa, Emmy Z. Madrigal, R.L. Merrill, N.C. Northcott, Emerian Rich, Daniel R. Robichaud, Daphne Strasert, Tara Vanflower, and B.F. Vega.
R.L. Merrill’s story “The House Must Fall” is an homage to Edgar Allan Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher” and tells the tale of Sterling Mackey’s search for the truth about Montgomery’s disappearance from the university mere months after this article was written. Paperbacks available now from Amazon, or a Special Edition pack can be purchased directly from HorrorAddicts.net Press. E-books will be available soon!
About the Author
R.L. Merrill brings you stories of Hope, Love, and Rock ‘n’ Roll featuring quirky and relatable characters. Whether she’s writing contemporary, paranormal, or supernatural, she loves to give readers a shiver with compelling stories that will stay with you long after. You can find her connecting with readers on social media, advocating for America’s youth, raising two brilliant teenagers, writing horror-infused music reviews for HorrorAddicts.net, trying desperately to get that back piece finished in the tattoo chair, or headbanging at a rock show near her home in the San Francisco Bay Area! Stay Tuned for more Rock ‘n’ Romance.
You no doubt read this report from our intrepid Suffolk reporter last month:
The rustic seaside town of Fenwick on Sea is not as sleepy as one might think, especially with the travelers stranded by what might truly be called the Storm of the Century.
A Scotsman has arrived at the Queen’s Barque, his well-made coats soaked and his fine boots caked with mud. A tall, handsome specimen of our northern cousins, he claims the status of gentleman. And yet, dear Reader, he arrived with a local woman, with whom he plans to shelter in the inn’s oldest wing–alone!
Is she, in truth, a titled lady, as some say? She goes about in men’s trousers, is said to be not averse to a midnight sail, and often visits the inn with a tub or two in hand! Though on this occasion, it was her companion thus encumbered, so perhaps he truly is a gentleman after all.
The Teatime Tattler
My dear Lady F
I’m sorry I did not get a chance to bid you farewell before leaving town. My journey north was uneventful, apart from my diversion to Norfolk for my godson’s leave-taking. I just could not deny myself the opportunity to visit my cousin there who has not been well.
I found myself caught in that terrible storm flaying East Anglia, and thus, having broken an axle, stayed several nights at the Blue Boar in Yarmouth. I cannot tell you how surprised I was to see your relation there, young Lord M. Such a handsome and sober young man for a Scotsman. You recall that he attended my soiree with your other relation, Mrs. McB. That was a clever bit of matchmaking we managed there, bringing her back together with Major McB. As for Lord M, I saw him across the crowded inn yard as I was departing, and was about to send my man to fetch him, when he was joined by a boy of about twelve years of age, and, dare I say, a lady? She did appear to be a lady, and I was reliably informed that she was indeed a titled lady, and a quite comely with an air of assurance. You must write at your earliest convenience and tell me if there is news, because I had thoughts of introducing Lord M to my great-niece and must not raise her hopes.
Dear Readers, could this be the Scotsman and titled lady in men’s trousers from the Queen’s Barque? And who is the boy appearing with them?
About the Book: Storm & Shelter
When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.
One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.
About The Story: Comtesse of Midnight
A Scottish Earl on a quest for the elusive Comtesse de Fontenay rescues a French lady smuggler from the surf during a devastating storm, and takes shelter with her. As the stormy night drags on, he suspects his companion knows the woman he’s seeking, the one who holds the secret to his identity.
Marielle Plessiers may dress like a boy and go out with the local free traders, but she’s really the Comtesse de Fontenay. She trades in spirits, not secrets, but the information she holds will change Malcolm Comyn’s life forever.
Excerpt:
The Scotsman, however, was dead on his feet. She could almost feel sorry for him. He was far from home, and had been traveling for several days. His neckcloth was limp, his cuffs soiled, his coat wrinkled. His boots, well and carefully crafted, if not by Hoby then by some equally fashionable bootmaker in Edinburgh, had not been properly polished in the last few days.
He’d shaved though, probably very early that morning, because a delicious dark stubble had sprouted along his strong jaws.
Did he have a razor in his interesting valise? She wouldn’t molest him, unless he thought to do the same to her. If it came to that, and she prayed that it wouldn’t, she would use her own blade and not some unfamiliar shaving instrument.
“Is this one of your imports?” he asked, swirling the amber liquid. “It’s very good.”
His words stirred her out of her imaginings about handsome young men, and she realized she must manage the conversation else she’d slip into sleep, or perhaps something more inconvenient, without thinking.
The Comte had always succumbed to sleep when they’d conversed, no matter the topic. She must soothe this fine-looking and very fatigued man the same way.
Outside, the thunderstorm had moved on, and the rain pounded in a comforting downpour. With the warm fire, and the heavy blankets, and the sleeping dog, it was quite cozy.
But what to talk about? Most certainly not the free trade. It would be far too diverting to put him to sleep, and besides she had no idea what he would do with the knowledge.
The countryside? She might slip and drop a hint about her home at Bloodmoor Hill.
She thought back to her time on the fringes of a London society that she’d found unbearably dull.
The weather.
“I am glad you are enjoying the brandy,” she said. “But I daresay you are not liking this weather. It is quite the worst storm in many seasons, people are saying. Normally at this time of year the sea has quietened.” A lie, of course, but how would he know?
He sipped his drink, eyeing her over the glass.
Oh. Given that it might remind him of her activities that evening and spark questions, the sea was an inappropriate topic, whether or not one was fudging a weather report. “Winters, however are generally mild.”
He yawned, and she went on, discussing the number of rainstorms in March and going back to February, and then January, and making up the story as she went along, until his eyes drooped and the empty glass fell into his lap and lodged itself next to his fall.
Warmth uncurled in her. His trousers were tight in the usual fashion for gentlemen, outlining masculine endowments that sparked her interest far too much. Retrieving the fallen tumbler was out of the question.
She set down her own glass and fought the urge to join him in slumber.
Storm & Shelter also includes novellas by Jude Knight, Carolyn Warfield, Sherry Ewing, Rue Allyn, Cerise DeLand, Mary Lancaster, and Grace Burrowes.
Award winning and USA Today bestselling author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but prefers the much happier world of romance fiction. Though her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California, where she shares a midcentury home with her husband and a spunky, blond rescued terrier. She is the author of several Regency romances, including the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring. Though hard at work on her next series of romantic adventures, she loves to hear from readers!
Although I was thrilled to receive your letter now that you are settled in, I find your new situation most tenuous and upsetting! One can hardly believe that you have no decent milliner in that little town of Clun that you and Randall have moved to, but to also know that a young woman serves by choice to be the town’s layer-out of the dead is most disturbing. I found myself in need of respite after reading your letter the first time through. I cannot imagine the dire straits you find yourself in. Does anyone in that little town serve as your equal? I dare hazard a guess that there is none amongst them worthy of sitting in the same parlor as you.
I do hope Randall understands your sacrifice. While I know he has business interests in the area and hopes to expand into milling and manufacturing, he cannot expect you to reside there forever, does he? Men. Our husbands have no understanding of the sacrifices we make do they?
It is not the same here in London without you. I find I must take tea with the Chatsworth sisters more often now, and I find them much less entertaining without you. They are in need of advice as their daughters are coming of age and shall debut next fall. I do not hold much hope for either of them. Both seem too mousy and indelicate in features and personality. I have forgotten twice now that they were in the same room with us upon meeting with them. Can you even imagine being so forgettable?
As you expected, the snow is beautiful and banked deeply along the Thames as our winter has been a cold one so far. Ms. Starling sends her well wishes and has promised to make you a special hat for me to bring to you, since you have no milliner worthy and equal to her skill in your quaint little town. I shall ask her to use some of that lovely blue fabric you commented on during your last visit.
Please do come and stay with us. You need never wait for an invitation. When you come you must tell me all about this scandalous woman who deals with the dead. Despite my efforts to be only appalled at the thought of it, I find myself quite curious as to what such a woman would look like and act like.
With all my love,
Ophelia
About the Book, Lovely Digits
When two murders strike the sleepy Victorian town of Clun, England, an unlikely partnership forms. But can the killer be found before there is a third?
Lovely Digits is the town oddity…
But quirky spinster Lucy Wycliffe prefers to ignore gossip and embrace her position as the town’s layer out of the dead, despite how her parents’ deaths thrust her into such unlikely work. Lovely Digits, as she’s known to the local townspeople, no longer dreams of marriage, but takes pride in providing dignity to the dead. Desperate to hold on to her family’s cottage and support her widowed sister and young niece, an unexpected offer of employment as assistant to the constable arrives at the perfect time.
Former sailor John Brodie is the mysterious new constable…
But John Brodie is far from a stranger to Clun or the events of its past. Accepting the position as constable in the small town is a double edged sword meant to heal his past and redeem his future, but falling for the beautiful and intelligent Lucy Wycliffe was never part of his plan. As the killer closes in, will John reveal his secret and risk losing everything to save Lucy’s life?
Excerpt
Clun, England
February, 1839
Old Man Codger’s frozen toe rolled across the floor toward the door.
“Lord above. Mind the corner, sister,” Lucy muttered. She blew an errant curl from her cheek as they swung the man’s stiff body onto the scarred wooden table in front of the hearth. The body landed with a thud.
Blast. Lucy scanned the floor. Nothing. Where had it gone? She lifted her skirts.
“There you are,” she grumbled. The rogue digit rested between the scuffed heels of her old brown boots. Using the edge of one of the sleeves of her faded blue blouse, she leaned down and clutched the rather putrid, large hairy toe and placed it on the man’s chest. Now she’d have to sew on a toe, too. A frozen toe.
Perfect.
Priscilla covered her mouth with the back of her hand and yielded a dry retch. Plugging her nose, she rolled her eyes. “There has to be another way.”
Lucy eyed her pert younger sister and sighed. At thirteen, Cil was on the cusp of womanhood. There were so many things she would miss from their parents not being there to guide her. The guilt over the death of Mother and Father a month past stung like a barb under Lucy’s skin. If only she’d arrived home at the cottage sooner instead of lingering about the forest to find her pet starling. She banished the thought away.
After tying back her hair, Lucy pushed up her sleeves to the elbow. “If there had been any other option, we’d have done it. It’s either prep him for burial or starve. It’s just us now, Cil.”
The old man’s time in the woods had not been kind to him, but at least the extreme cold had kept the insects at bay. A white milky maggot dropped from his nose to the table. Lucy shuddered. Most of them. She loathed insects, especially worms. Things that could move without legs weren’t natural.
“Hand me the needle and thread.” Lucy rested her hands on her hips. “I need to get this toe sewn back on when he thaws. I’ll not be docked pay for him missing parts.”
Care to read more of Lovely Digits? Here are the Buy Links:
Jeanine Englert is a Golden Heart ® Finalist, Silver Falchion Award Winner, and Daphne du Maurier Award Winner in historical romantic suspense. After years of writing in secret, she joined Romance Writers of America and Georgia Romance Writers in 2013 and has been an active member ever since. She writes Scottish Highland historicals and historical romantic suspense novels.
When she isn’t wrangling with her characters on the page, she can be found trying to convince her husband to watch her latest Masterpiece or BBC show obsession. She loves to talk about books, writing, her beloved pups, and of course mysteries with other readers on Twitter @JeanineWrites, Facebook, or at her website www.jeaninewrites.com.
Her debut novel, Lovely Digits, released in June of 2019 by Soul Mate Publishing, is a Victorian romantic suspense that won the 2020 Silver Falchion Award for Best Mystery and the 2020 Maggie Award for Best Romantic Suspense. It also won the 2017 Daphne du Maurier Award and was named a 2018 Golden Heart ® Finalist for best unpublished romantic suspense. Her latest novel, The Highlander’s Secret Son, will be released in May of 2021 by Harlequin Historical.
Your correspondent is curious to know why Miss F, Lord B’s eldest daughter, has been out of town for some weeks. You may recall that Miss F was being courted by Lord O who, I have on the best of authority (his own!), is a fine upstanding young man always ready to provide advice and direction to the fairer sex. Perhaps Miss F did not perceive the advantages of an alliance with him as clearly as he did himself?
Whatever the reason for her recent absence, Miss F is now back in society. Only a few days past she was seen in the Park, first driving with Lord O, and then being taken up by Lady C for a turn in her phaeton. Lord O did not look best pleased, to put it mildly. It would not be going too far, I think, to mention the clenching of fists and gritting of teeth.
But the intrigue deepens, my dears. Only yesterday Miss F was driving in the Park with Lady C again, when they met one of the younger sons of Lord D. He was accompanied by a young man I have never set eye upon before—and as I’m sure you are aware, I know everyone who is anyone. This unknown young man spent some time walking with Miss F.
Can there be romance in the air? Has Lord O lost to a nobody from the country? Be sure to look out for more news in this column.
About the Book: An Embroidered Spoon
Can love bridge a class divide?
Wales 1817
After refusing every offer of marriage that comes her way, Isolde Farrington is packed off to a spinster aunt in Wales until she comes to her senses.
Rhys Williams, there on business, is turning over his uncle’s choice of bride for him, and the last thing he needs is to fall for an impertinent miss like Izzy – who takes Rhys for a yokel. But while a man may choose his wife, he cannot choose who he falls in love with.
Izzy’s new surroundings make her look at life, and Rhys, afresh. As she realises her early impressions were mistaken, her feelings about him begins to change.
But when her father, Lord Bedley, discovers the situation in Wales is not what he thought, and that Rhys is in trade, Izzy is hurriedly returned to London. Will a difference in class keep them apart?
Amazon link: mybook.to/Spoon
About the Author
Jayne Davis writes historical romances set in the late Georgian/Regency era, published as both ebooks and paperbacks.
She was hooked on Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer as a teenager, and longed to write similar novels herself. Real life intervened, and she had several careers, including as a non-fiction author under another name. That wasn’t quite the writing career she had in mind…
Finally, she got around to polishing up stories written for her own amusement in long winter evenings, and became the kind of author she’d dreamed of in her teens. At present she is working on the Marstone Series – standalone stories with some characters in common – and trying to fight off all the other story ideas distracting her.
Excerpt from An Embroidered Spoon
Once Lord Ordsall had tooled the curricle through the park gates and could safely divert some of his attention from the track ahead, Izzy asked him if he liked her gown. “For it is new, you know, although not as fine as I’d like.”
It looks very well on you, Miss Farrington,” he said, after a quick appraisal. His expression softened a little as his gaze ran down her body.
“It is rather plain, though.” Izzy fingered the silver embroidery down the front, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling his inspection had induced. “Seeing my relatives in Wales made me realise how nice it is to have a rich father who can keep me in new gowns.” She made a brief pout. “But Mama will insist that simplicity is best for unmarried women. I’m so looking forward to being able to decide on my own wardrobe once I am wed.”
A surreptitious glance in Ordsall’s direction revealed his eyebrows rising.
“There are some lovely new fabrics, you know, with real silver and gold thread in them, or embroidered with pearls.” At least, if there were not, there should be. “They are a trifle expensive, to be sure, but my future husband won’t mind.”
“Miss Farrington, I thought you were aware that I would be spending much of my time on my estate. Such gowns are not required for country living.”
“Oh, no, I agree. I will need a completely different wardrobe for that, but even country gowns need to keep up with the fashions, do they not? And I will visit my family in Town often.” She smiled at him kindly, noting the crease between his brows deepening. “I need not drag you away from your estates, you know. A married lady has more freedom to go about.”
“Miss Farrington, I do not—”
“Oh, look—is that a high perch phaeton?” Izzy pointed at a carriage some distance away. “I do so want to learn to drive. That will be useful in the country.”
“Yes, but I have a coachman to—”
“Oh, pooh, that is no fun! A phaeton like that will be just the thing for me, or perhaps a curricle.”
His brows were drawing together now, and was that an angry flush on his cheeks? “Miss Farrington!” His voice was getting louder, too—excellent!
“Ladies do not drive such vehicles.”
Fortune really was smiling on her today. As the phaeton approached, Izzy saw that it was driven by a woman of middle years, smartly dressed in a wine-coloured pelisse. Izzy recognised the driver as an acquaintance of her mother.
“Do you mean Lady Cleeve is not truly a lady?” Izzy adopted her puzzled expression as the phaeton drew to a halt next to them.
“L-L-Lady Cleeve,” Ordsall stuttered, casting a venomous glance at Izzy. “How… how nice to meet you here.”
“Lord Ordsall.” Lady Cleeve nodded at him and turned to Izzy, her mouth curving in a friendly smile. “Miss Farrington, I was hoping to meet you today. Will you take a turn about the park with me?”
