No one in London can be unfamiliar with the circumstances of the death of one of our most beloved and renowned citizens, the elephant Chunee, who Wednesday last met his fatal end at the Exeter Change in such a barbarous manner that many were moved to write letters on his behalf. The Tattler has learned the identity of one lady of quality, whose letter we reprint here. While we must applaud the lady’s sentiments on behalf of this noble creature, we must also wonder if so outspoken a young woman as Lady Emily Radstock will ever find a husband among the gentry and nobility of England. Rumor has it that she is one of the financial backers of Sir Arthur Broome’s Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Sir Arthur currently resides in Marshalsea Prison for debt.
Sir:
The facts in the death of Chunee are so well known as to
need no recounting. Thousands in London have seen the prints of his cruel
slaughter. His agony at the hands of those on whom he long depended for his
sustenance and whose pockets were lined with the proceeds of exhibiting him to
the public is indefensible.
His handlers’ inability to consider his needs and to
foresee a time when distress of body and spirit would render him a danger to
himself and others and to plan accordingly for his care and ultimately for his
end brings into question the fitness of human persons for keeping any wild
animals in captivity, confined against their nature in cages, to be stared at
by the masses with no freedom to act in accord with the promptings of their
natures.
It is time to close the Exeter Change and all similar
institutions whose indifference to the well-being of their charges is a stain
on the honor of our city.
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
E. Radstock
About the Book: The Spy’s Guide to Seduction
Weeks from her twenty-ninth birthday, Lady Emily Radstock receives from her mother a little blue book, The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London.Outraged at her mother’s attempt to push her out of the nest, Emily declares she’ll marry the first imbecile she meets. Overhearing the beautiful heiress, Baronet Sir Ajax Lynley, newest gentleman spy in the Pantheon Club, takes her at her word. From the moment their engagement begins, Emily finds herself intrigued by her fiancé, a man who encourages her daring and who offers a most seductive partnership in spy-catching. When mounting danger and an uncanny echo of his painful past lead Lynley to abandon the partnership, Emily has to put aside the hurt and humiliation of a missing fiancé to save her partner in spying and seduction. A 2019 Library Journal Top Pick in Romance.
Kate Moore taught English lit to generations of high school students, who are now her Facebook friends, while she not-so-secretly penned Romances. In Kate’s stories an undeniable mutual attraction brings honorable, edgy loners and warm, practical women into a circle of love in Regency England or contemporary California. A Golden Heart, Golden Crown, and Book Buyers Best award winner and three-time RITA finalist, Kate lives north of San Francisco with her surfer husband, their yellow Lab, toys for visiting grandkids, and miles of crowded bookshelves.
Your Teatime Tattler once again has the pleasure of receiving scandalous news from afar, this about a notorious Pinkerton agent.
Dear Mr. Clemens,
You may not be able to print this
scandalous story. I am reporting to you an event that has horrified my friends
and me! Miss Lydia Wood was seen in the company of a man, Mr. Jake Hunter, in a
saloon for commoners. To make matters more appalling, she wore a scandalous
dress that exposed her ankles and a bit of her… appendages. His dress presented
him as a riverboat gambler. This was not to a costume ball, Mr. Clemens, but a
night on the town. She even sang in the saloon!
Miss Woods said she and Mr. Hunter are agents of the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s Denver, Colorado, office. I hesitate to call her remarks into question. Nevertheless, have you ever heard of a woman Pinkerton detective? You can understand why I am dismayed beyond words!
Pinkerton Agency Reward Poster
The two rushed off to some ridiculous
place called Hole-in-the-Wall, Wyoming, to chase after robbers. Don’t you agree
that a woman going to a place where robbers congregate is outrageous? Miss Wood
is from a prominent Kansas family and knows society’s rules. I am surprised she
would act so boldly in public. I pity her poor parents, who must be distressed
at their daughter’s choices. You may remember Miss Wood was left at the altar
two years ago by this same Mr. Hunter. She said
they are now in a marriage of convenience for this assignment. If that is true,
her parents know nothing of the arrangement.
As I learn more of this distressing affair, kind sir, I shall keep you informed further.
Miss Lilith Black
About the Book
AN AGENT FOR LYDIA, Pinkerton Matchmaker Series #56
When Lydia Wood is left at the altar, she
believes something beyond her groom’s control has happened. Two years with no
word have hardened her heart. She has to get away from her parents’ constant
urging her to choose an acceptable husband and wed. Becoming a Pinkerton agent
suits her plans.
Pinkerton Agent Jake Hunter has recovered
from injuries that put him in a coma and a long convalescence. He realizes
Lydia would have been injured had she been with him. To protect her, he vows to
distance himself from the one person who means the world to him.
When they are paired for an investigation of robbers they must follow the trail to a dangerous hangout of men on the run. Can the two successfully pull off their charade and capture the robbers and their stor will this trip confirm Jake’s worst fears?
An Excerpt
Lydia gazed out the train window at Wyoming’s desert landscape, recalling how terrified she’d been last night in the saloon. The man who’d wanted to take her upstairs was huge and smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in months. He carried a bottle of whiskey in one hand, some of which he had spilled on his shirt.
Thank
goodness she had her gun and her knife. Would her little gun have stopped such
a large man? With any luck she’d never have to learn the answer.
Forcing
herself not to snuggle up to Jake for comfort had been almost impossible. His
presence reassured her. He’d had several years experience at Pinkerton’s and
knew how to deflect and defeat combatants.
An
older couple sat in the seats facing theirs. Lydia avoided eye contact with the
prune-faced woman across from her. The woman had snubbed her and Jake as if
they carried leprosy.
Prune-face
ceased staring long enough to tug on her husband’s sleeve and whisper, “Horace,
doesn’t he look like the man on that wanted poster we saw in Cheyenne?”
Horace
frowned at her. “Hush, Mattie.”
Did
those two think she and Jake couldn’t hear them?
Lydia
gestured to the window. “I’ve never seen so much sand and scrubby bushes.
Barren as it is, it emanates a serene beauty.”
“Wait until you see where we’re headed. I’ve
heard it’s picturesque as well.” Jake flashed his bone-melting grin.
No,
thank you, she couldn’t weaken now. She’d had the vaccination for that grin’s
affect. Too bad the inoculation hadn’t proven very effective.
About the Author
Through a crazy
twist of fate, Caroline Clemmons was not
born on a Texas ranch. To compensate for this illogical error, she writes about
handsome cowboys, feisty ranch women, and scheming villains in a tiny office
her family calls her pink cave. She and her Hero live in North Central Texas
cowboy country where they ride herd on their dog and three rescued indoor cats
as well as providing nourishment outdoors for squirrels, birds, and other
critters.
The over fifty titles she has created in her pink cave have made her an Amazon bestselling author and won several awards. She writes sweet to sensual romances about the West, both historical and contemporary as well as time travel and mystery. Her series include The Kincaids, McClintocks, Stone Mountain Texas, Bride Brigade, Texas Time Travel, Texas Caprock Tales, Loving A Rancher, and Pearson Grove as well as numerous single titles and contributions to multi-author sets. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with her family, reading her friends’ books, lunching with friends, browsing antique malls, checking Facebook, and taking the occasional nap.
Sam, you were right about the story, but you can’t use it. You’ll have two dukes down on you like a ton of bricks. You won’t be able to hide this one in initials and pretend you’re talking about someone else.
I’ve written it up anyway. Maybe it will come in handy when their Graces have gone to their reward — which, if there’s any justice in the afterlife, will involve hot flame and pitchforks. In any case, it will satisfy your curiosity.
Mr Redding, the young man who insisted on seeing the Duke of Sutton, was a gentleman — Perkins could tell a fake a mile off — but almost certainly a younger son, and so of no account. He had an attempt to spruce himself up, but the marks of travel were clear to an experienced butler. Poverty, too.
Perkins thought it unlikely that His Grace would receive Mr Redding, but he was not prepared to take the risk of making the decision for that irascible peer. To interrupt him and his friend the Duke of Haverford at their port might earn him a glass flung at his head. To fail to interrupt him if Mr Redding’s claim of urgency was true would see him on the street, never mind a lifetime’s faithful service.
To Perkin’s surprise, he was ordered to show Mr Redding in immediately. “You’ll be interested in this, Haverford,” His Grace of Winshire told his friend.
Perkins was, too, so he was careful not to completely close the door once he’d ushered Mr Redding inside, so that any conversation would reach the ear he put to the crack.
“Well, Redding,” the duke said. “Where’s my son?” His son? Lord Sutton was probably at his club, Lord Richard had been dead nearly two years, and Lord James, God bless him, had met his end on foreign shores fifteen years ago.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Mr Redding replied. “We weren’t able to persuade him.”
“What!” Even over the duke’s roar, Perkins could hear the crash as he leapt to his feet fast enough to knock his chair over. More crashes followed. He’d be sweeping anything before him off the table. Perkins winced as priceless Italian crystal goblets and fine Chinese porcelain were sacrificed to the duke’s rage.
“You should have abducted him!” the old man shouted. “The Devil knows I gave you a large enough purse to hire an army.”
“We did, Your Grace. We had men at the ready, but we thought to persuade him first. He seemed open to it. Then he asked if he could bring his wife and eight children home, four of them sons.”
The duke’s snort gave all the answer needed.
“Exactly, Your Grace. A native woman and her brats? And him the heir to one of the premier titles in Britain?” Perkins could almost hear Mr Redding shake his head. “We weren’t fool enough to tell him that, but he must have known, because he slipped away in the night, and managed to evade the men we had ready to detain him.”
“That was it? He escaped and you let him go?”
“We chased him, of course, Your Grace.” Mr Redding managed to sound a little hurt. “No catching him. Those horses they breed in Turkmenistan are devilish fast, and you’ve never seen endurance like it. Of course, once he made it into his mountains, and was locked up in that kingdom of his, there was no point in anything but going home. He left a note for you, Your Grace.”
There was silence for a moment, then the duke’s voice, raised again. “Cognizant of your generosity. Must regretfully decline at this time. Will pray for good health and a long life for my nephew. Damn the boy. How dare he!”
Haverford’s voice sounded amused. “Refused you, did he? He always was an ungrateful cub. Never mind, Winshire. Sutton’s whelp seems to be in better health. You don’t need your youngest son. He has clearly gone native, and is unfit for your high position.”
Winshire snapped at his old friend. “You’re just upset because he coveted your wife, Haverford! Four sons! He’s a good breeder, I’ll give him that. I’ll get him home if it’s the last thing I do. Get out, Redding. I don’t want to see your face.” Something smashed on the door, warning Perkins, and he stepped away in time to escape being caught as Mr Redding scurried out of the room, just ahead of another crash.
Perkins, his mind seething with conjecture, conducted Mr Perkins to a small parlour, well away from the salon where the duke still raged. Lady Georgiana, the duke’s daughter, would not be pleased if he let the man leave without consulting her. Besides, Perkins himself wanted to hear news of Lord James, whom all the servants had loved — something that could not be said for the duke or his eldest son.
“Sit yourself down, Mr Perkins. You are fatigued and must be hungry. Let me get you something to eat and perhaps a drink. Do you have somewhere to stay the night? Shall I have them make up a bed?”
He sent a maid scurrying to the kitchen and another to the third floor where an anonymous guest might stay with the duke none the wiser, and hurried upstairs to her ladyship. If he was fortunate, she might permit him to stay and listen when she questioned Mr Perkins.
Paradise Regained
In discovering the mysteries of the East, James has
built a new life. Will unveiling the secrets in his wife’s heart destroy it?
James
Winderfield yearns to end a long journey in the arms of his loving family. But
his father’s agents offer the exiled prodigal forgiveness and a place in
Society — if he abandons his foreign-born wife and children to return to
England.
With her husband
away, Mahzad faces revolt, invasion and betrayal in the mountain kingdom they
built together. A queen without her king, she will not allow their dream and
their family to be destroyed.
But the greatest
threats to their marriage and their lives together is the widening distance
between them. To win Paradise, they must face the truths in their hearts.
Paradise Regained takes place in 1794. Eighteen years later, the hero of this novella, now a widower, returns to England with six of his children. The series that tells of the adventures and romances of these children will begin publication around March next year.
Excerpt
James regarded the Russian and the
Englishman across the delicately hand-knotted silk and woolen rug. He may have
made a tactical error in wearing European clothes. He’d thought to emphasise to
Redding and Michaelov that he was English and a duke’s son and to be treated
with respect. Instead, they appeared to have taken the message that he was
ready to abandon the life he had built here in the Middle East and crawl back
to accept whatever crumbs fell from his father’s table.
Their contempt and condescension grew as
the interview, if you could call it that when he sat silent and impassive,
continued.
At his shoulder, Yousef bristled with anger
on his behalf, but he would do nothing without James’s signal.
“You can be sure of the prodigal’s welcome,”
Redding said, folding his hands across an incipient paunch with a smug smile. “Your
father is prepared to forgive all and to welcome you with the fatted calf.”
Forgive him? For what? For being exiled?
For continuing to live after he was imprisoned by the Persians and his father
refused to pay the ransom? For certain, Garshasp Khan would have had him
beheaded or at least castrated if the man’s mother had not been English and
ready to intervene on a fellow countryman’s behalf by pointing out that James
had weapons skills that made him valuable to the Khan’s guard.
James inclined his head at Redding’s
nonsensical comment, a noncommittal sign but one Michaelov took as agreement.
“And you may yet be duke, Lord James. Lord
Sutton has only the one son, and he is a sickly boy. With Lord Edward’s death,
you are third in line.”
Time to end this.
“I have four sons,” James told them, “and
three daughters.” And another child by now, whose birth he had missed, thanks
to the troubles they had encountered and a further delay to meet these idiots. “I
take it that my father is willing to accept Lady James and our children with
the same enthusiasm?”
Not likely and the expressions on the faces
of his father’s men confirmed it.
“Lady James?” Redding said cautiously. “Your
native wife, is it?”
His Mahzad, royal in all her bloodlines,
every inch a princess and the holder of his heart, though that organ did not
appear to be as essential to her as the children and the kingdom they shared. If
he were to abandon good sense and his duty to their people and traipse back to
England to live on his father’s erratic goodwill, he had very little hope she
would come with him.
After that, the meeting broke up fairly
quickly. Redding did a good job of hiding his shock that James would put his “native
wife” ahead of the supposed advantages of being possible heir to a duke, but
Michaelov showed open disdain, and James left before he lost his temper.
“We’ll leave as soon as we can pack,
Yousef,” James said as they arrived back in their room.
“Carefully, my lord,” Peter warned. “They
have a force of armed men just outside the village.”
James raised his brows. “Good to know. How
big a force, and how did you find out?”
“I went to find the black cat I spoke of,
my lord. Sure enough, it brought us good luck, though I did not think so when
it walked away from me, staying just out of reach until we left the caravanserai and crossed the whole of
the village. Then, it dived behind a wall, and when I went after them, I heard
them say your name, Winderfield, so I hid and listened.”
“Just as well for us, Peter,” Yousef
agreed. “What did you hear?”
Peter explained that the men were itching
for action, since they’d been lying in wait for several days. “But Michaelov
said you were going to come of your own accord, so they wouldn’t be needed, and
they were complaining about having to camp out in the fields in the cold.”
James asked a few more questions about the
disposition of the men and the number. “We leave tonight, as quietly as
possible, after the caravanserai is
asleep,” he decided. “Yousef, let the men know. Once we are out in the desert,
no one will catch our horses.”
He left Peter to pack up the room and Yousef to organise the men while
he wrote a note for Redding to take to the duke a few conciliatory words. If he
had to go back to England one day to be duke, as well to leave the door open.
Loose lips and reckless accusations ‘ll get us in trouble every time. Best hold off.
I went to the Marquess of Wellbridge’s townhouse as you said, but I couldn’t get past the butler. When I asked after Lord Ethan Alcott, all I got was a cold stare, and “His Lordship is as well as can be,” before the door shut in my face.
I set up in the pocket park in the square behind some bushes. You’ll owe me extra for this one. Cold it was. The watch caught me making a small—really very small—fire and almost took me in. Anyway, the Earl of Chadbourn, you know—the one with his paws in all the charities for the raggedy parade of veterans being shipped back from the Peninsula—came and went every day. A couple of times I saw two ladies I later figured out were the earl’s sister and—get this!—Lady Georgiana Hayden, daughter of a duke and the sister of the Marble Marquess hisself. Yep. I mean Glenaire. I’m guessing the whole bunch of them’ve made a project of Lord Ethan, that’s what I think.
Monet, Snow at Argenteuil
I tried the nearby pubs and all I got is that the lost sheep had returned. He’d been missing all right, but I couldn’t find anyone who could confirm he deserted after Badajoz. I know your man Baker got wind he disappeared from his unit, but here he is in London as free as you please.
Before you go calling the man a deserter in print, Sam, we need something solid. With a Marquess for a father and with Glenaire and Chadbourn involved, they’d be able to cover it up, even if it was true and thrash you in the process. Besides, what if it turns out your boy here was actually a certified hero? Have you thought of that? You don’t want to get on the wrong side of this one, I’m telling you. I’ll sniff around the mews at Lords and Horse Guards but no more freezing my arse in front of Wellbridge House. I’m done with that.
Yers most sincerely, Horace Coffee
Horace is right to tell Clemens to be cautious. Just how Ethan found himself transported with the enlisted men and unidentified remains a mystery. You can bet his father will keep it that way—unless the facts make the son look like a hero.
When a young woman marches into an alley full of homeless
former soldiers, Ethan Alcott feels something he thought dead stir to life: his
sense of honor. Effort at charity put the chit in danger; someone needs to take
her in hand.
Lady Flora Landrum discovers that the mysterious one-armed ruffian she encountered in a back alley is Lord Ethan Alcott, son of the Marquess of Welbrook; her astonishment gives way to determination. As Ethan comes to admire Flora’s courage, perhaps he can reclaim his own.
About the Book
Join The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans in their pursuit of justice, charity, and soul-searing romance.
The Napoleonic Wars have left England with wounded warriors, fatherless children, unemployed veterans, and hungry families. The ladies of London, led by the indomitable Duchess of Haverford plot a campaign to feed the hungry, care for the fallen—and bring the neglectful Parliament to heel. They will use any means at their disposal to convince the gentlemen of their choice to assist.
Their campaign involves strategy, persuasion, and a wee bit of fun. Pamphlets are all well and good, but auctioning a lady’s company along with her basket of delicious treats is bound to get more attention. Their efforts fall amid weeks of fog and weather so cold the Thames freezes over and a festive Frost Fair breaks out right on the river. The ladies take to the ice. What could be better for their purposes than a little Fire and Frost?
Celebrate Valentine’s Day 2020 with six interconnected Regency romances from the Bluestocking Belles.
This clipping came to the Tattler offices from a contact in the former colonies.
Dear Miss Decorum of the Angel Creek Gazette:
It has come to my attention that a certain group of impoverished debutantes from the war-torn city of Charleston have arrived in Angel Creek, Montana for the sole purpose of getting married. Of getting married, my friends! As in…the very moment they step off the stagecoach!
Postkutsche im Winter. Um 1798.
I’ve
yet to verify all the details, but it appears they are responding to an advert
in a newspaper that a few gentlemen in our town (who will not be named, at the current time) placed in the hopes of
finding themselves wives. Now, I know there aren’t many young ladies in our
town of a marriageable age, but my lands! To advertise in a public newspaper in
order to find a match seems to exhibit a lack of faith in the good Lord’s
ability to provide.
What’s
worse, I had to witness (with my own
aging eyes) one of these lovely young debutantes dis-embark from the
stagecoach just this afternoon. Not only was she dressed in tatters, she was
traveling alone without a proper companion or chaperone. Oh dear, where are my
smelling salts? Just writing about it is giving me another fit of the vapors.
I
did a little investigating and discovered that this young woman is named Miss
Elizabeth Byrd. She served as a battlefield nurse during the Great War. Bless
her heart! I don’t even want to contemplate the tragic things she’s seen and
the horrid places she had to travel while following the drum. However, if she
thinks marrying a man (sight unseen)
will make her life any easier, well, heavenly days! I wish the gel the best, I truly do.
At
any rate, Miss Byrd was escorted to the church by none other than the retired
Army Captain David Pemberton. I can only presume they said their vows and are
married by now. Captain Pemberton is a bit of an odd fellow, albeit a handsome
devil — just arrived into town a year ago, himself, and pretty much sticks
to his lonesome. A quiet, brooding man who, rumor has it, was widowed during
the war. Now, I wonder how in tarnation the other young fellows wheedled him
into going along with such a scandalous lark as sending for a mail-order bride?
I’ll be keeping my ear bent for any new juicy tidbits about this developing story and report back as soon as I know more.
Sincerely, A Concerned Citizen Who Wishes to Remain Anonymous
About the Book
Can the hope and joy of Christmas light the way for two hearts devastated by war?
Elizabeth Byrd receives an invitation to join her friends in Angel Creek, Montana to become a mail-order bride. At first, the young battlefield nurse is scandalized by the idea of agreeing to marry a man she’s never met, but the war has taken everything from her — her brothers, too many friends to count, and her fiancé. There’s nothing left for her in Charleston but more heartache.
Captain David Pemberton retreats to his hunting lodge in Montana the moment the war is over. He’s looking forward to being alone with the memories of his wife who passed in the early days of the fighting. But the men of Angel Creek don’t see fit to leave a widowed soldier alone during Christmas. Insisting four years is long enough to grieve, they dare him to join them on a holiday venture to acquire wives for them all — a dare he accepts in a weak moment.
He receives the shock of his life at who steps off the stagecoach to claim his hand in marriage.
At least I’ll fit in. Elizabeth glanced ruefully
down at her workaday brown dress and the scuffed toes of her boots. Perhaps,
wearing the castoffs of her former maid, Lucy, wasn’t the most brilliant idea
she’d ever come up with. However, it was the only plan she’d been able to
conjure up on such short notice. A young woman traveling alone couldn’t be too
careful these days.
With a sigh of resignation, Elizabeth reached down to grasp the
handles of her two travel bags that the stage driver had unloaded for her. The
rest of her belongings would arrive in the coming days. There’d been too many
trunks to bring along by stage. In the meantime, she hoped and prayed she was
doing the right thing for her loved ones. At worst, her reluctant decision to
leave home meant one less mouth for her mama to feed. At best, she might claw
her way back to some modicum of social significance and be in the position to
help her family in some way. Some day…
Her hopes in that regard plummeted the second she laid eyes on the
two men in the wagon rumbling in her direction. It was a rickety vehicle with
no overhead covering. It creaked and groaned with each turn of its wheels, a
problem that might have easily been solved with a squirt of oil. Then again,
the heavily patched trousers of both men indicated they were as poor as church
mice. More than likely, they didn’t possess any extra coin for oil.
Of all the rotten luck! She bit her lower lip. I’m
about to marry a man as poor as myself. So much for her hopes of improving
her lot in life enough to send money home to Mama and the girls!
The driver slowed his team, a pair of red-brown geldings. They
were much lovelier than the rattle-trap they were pulling. “Elizabeth Byrd, I
presume?” he inquired in a rich baritone that was neither unpleasant nor overly
warm and welcoming.
Her insides froze to a block of ice. This time, it wasn’t because
of the frigid northern temperatures. She recognized that face, that voice; and
with them, came a flood of heart wrenching emotions.
“You!” she exclaimed. Her travel bags slid from her nerveless
fingers to the ground once more. A hand flew to her heart.
About the Author
Jo Grafford writes sweet historical and contemporary romance stories — with humor, sass, and happily ever-afters.
A typical day finds her with her laptop balanced on her knees, a fizzy beverage within reach, and a cat snoozing on her knees. He takes credit for most of what she does.
When Jo’s not writing stories, she’s reading them. She adores dashing gentlemen, resilient heroines with a sense of adventure, humorous sidekicks, dusty cowboys, bounty hunters, mail order brides…you get the idea.
She loves to visit with readers in her Cuppa Jo Readers group on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/groups/CuppaJoReaders/.
To receive a personal email about each book she publishes, join her New Release Email List at JoGrafford.com or follow her on BookBub at https://www.bookbub.com/authors/jo-grafford.
Plus you can read free chapters of many of her books on Wattpad.com/user/JoGrafford.
