Author: Bluestocking Belles Page 36 of 39

Lord Parkington Speaks Out

On July 25, 2018

You’d think that all would be well, what with Napoleon now exiled to the distant tropical island of St. Helena, but Paris in July 1815 is a deuce of a mess. So now I must assist Lord Forgall, Wellington’s most secret spymaster, to quell any resistance while we get King Louis XVIII’s fat old backside firmly re-settled on the French throne.

“Of course, always glad to do my duty,” I told Lord Forgall (Forgall the Wily, as we diplomats call him). But under my breath, I added, “though we’d be a damned sight better off without that Irish fellow.”

The Irish fellow in question is Captain Stephen Killian. One of the Inniskilling Dragoons – they did their job at Waterloo, I’m not saying they did not, but like any other soldier, he’s only suited for rough and brutal tasks. So why on earth would he want to be a spy? Killian is a devil of a fighter in battle, they say, even though he’s not one of your huge, hulking types. He’s just of middling height, rather lean, and not even that good-looking. Average at best, easily lost in a crowd. Yet women fawn over him. Of course, they go completely giddy over any man with a strong jaw and a thick head of hair – let him cut a fine figure, and nothing else matters. Utterly frivolous!

Not that I would object to a touch of frivolousness in the lovely Miss Emma Forgall. Her inky black tresses and jade green eyes are fetching indeed, and her figure is perfection. She’s got that cold and regal air, but her father likes me. Given time, she’ll warm up to me, too. One would naturally prefer that such a beautiful young lady not be aware of State Secrets—you know how the ladies love to chatter, bless them!—but her father insists that she is the most skilled cryptographer he has ever taught. Still, there will be no more of that, once she’s married to me.

I don’t deny I was dismayed when Wellington made such a fuss over Captain Killian’s “heroism” for standing his ground on that Parisian bridge that General Blucher was trying to blow up. Wellington took such a shine to him, he ordered Lord Forgall to teach the Irishman spycraft and code-breaking. Naturally, the particulars of that task would fall to his daughter, Miss Emma.

However, old Forgall told me that his plan is to pretend to take Captain Killian under his wing while ensuring that the fellow is an utter failure at the job. I’ve heard Killian’s a wild man in battle – so he hasn’t got the self-control to be a spy. With any luck, he’ll be killed by that devilish Prussian assassin Wolfgang. I’ve seen Wolfgang dangling after Miss Emma, too, blast the big blonde brute’s eyes.

Maybe the two of them can slaughter each other, and leave Miss Forgall to me – now there’s a happy prospect!

One day, she will be mine. Until then, I’ll just have to keep my eye on her…

HER WILD IRISH ROGUE-coming October 2018

~an excerpt~

Miss Emma Forgall waved her fan lazily. “Where in Ireland are you from?”

“I’m from Macha’s Brooch,” Captain Killian replied, hands clasped behind his back and feet set sturdily apart. Somewhere in the back of the elegant Parisian ballroom, the orchestra struck up a tune.

Lord Parkington snorted. “Impossible. Macha’s Brooch isn’t a place.”

It’s a riddle, you fool, Emma wanted to say. Why wouldn’t Lord Parkington go away? Just because Emma’s father approved of him, that didn’t give him permission to act like he was her keeper.

She ignored him and thought about the riddle. In Celtic legend, the goddess Macha used the point of her brooch-pin to scratch the boundaries of the city of Ulster into the ground and made her vanquished enemies dig its fortifications for her.

Macha’s Brooch meant Ulster.

“Ulster is a great distance from Paris,” Emma remarked casually, watching Captain Killian’s face for signs that she’d gotten it right. “Where did you stop along the way, when you traveled here?”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “We stopped in the home of the man who herds the cattle on the plain of Tethra.”

“The what?” demanded Lord Parkington, who still hadn’t gone away. The man simply never could take a hint. “What are you talking about?”

Another riddle. She was beginning to enjoy herself. Good thing she knew her myths – Tethra was an ancient guardian deity ruling over the waters, and the “plain of Tethra” was the sea. Therefore, the cattle of the sea were…fish. Captain Killian had stayed at the home of a fisherman.

“So your host was a fisherman,” she said coolly. “No doubt you had excellent fish for dinner?”

He grinned at her. “Most excellent fish.”

Right, again! Emma’s heart gave a little hop of excitement. She smiled back at him and asked, “And where did your travels take you then?”

“Simple enough,” replied Captain Killian. “We went over the Great Secret of the men of Dea, down the Great Crime, across to the Land of the Red Dragon, to the Ford of Oxen, and then to Caer-Lud. Then on to Lutetia.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?” Lord Parkington howled. “Surely you can’t pretend that you understand him, Miss Forgall!”

Emma waved a dismissive hand. She knew her Celtic mythology and her ancient Roman history. Besides, it was worth it just to see Lord Parkington’s purple-faced frustration.

“So, down the Boyne, over the River Delvin, across the sea to Wales, and then through Oxford to London. And here you are in Lutetia—or, as we call it, Paris.”

“Exactly.” Captain Killian nodded. “Now tell me about yourself.”

About the Author

Saralee Etter is the author of three traditional Regency romances. Her next book, coming October 2018, will be HER WILD IRISH ROGUE. It is part of the LEGENDS TO LOVE Regency romance series, with a protagonist based on the legendary Irish hero Cuchulain. She is working on A SHORT SHARP SHOCK, the first book in a Victorian-set mystery series featuring sleuth Lucy Turner and her friends, William S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan

You can visit her on the web at www.saraleeetter.com

Artwork:

Portrait of William Cathcart, 1st Earl Cathcart, by Thomas Gainsborough,

Duchess of Richmond’s Ball, by Robert Alexander Hillingford

Both in the public domain via Wikimedia Commons

Could you wow the Teatime Tattler audience? Contact us if you think you can.

By Bluestocking Belles

On June 6, 2018

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

“But how did this happen?” Sam asks. “Again!” The Wednesday article has failed to arrive, and Sam Clemens is not happy. “I blame Mrs. Knight,” he grumbled. “She didn’t send out a reminder. But still, people are usually excellent at remembering for themselves.”

“Look!” he declares, waving at the old editions of the Teatime Tattler scattered across his desk. “People love it. Have you seen the numbers of readers for these posts? We regularly have over a thousand views a month. And we have fans; people who say they read the Teatime Tattler twice a week, as soon as the edition comes out. We have bookings through to Christmas.”

“But,” he frowns sternly at the gathered staff members: printers, correspondents, ink boys, paper sellers, “we still have gaps. Get out there, and find us more authors who want to write for the Teatime Tattler. Great articles like the ones here.”

Read the high-performing articles below to find out what Sam loves to see in the Teatime Tattler, or sign up to write your own, and to advertise your book (new or one from your backlist).

The Mistress and the Wife — The Soldier’s Return, by Laura Libritz

A base-born son, a hasty marriage — The Bastard’s Iberian Bride, by Alina K. Field

Mrs Bingham tries again — The Rake and His Honour, by Beth Elliott

Be Careful What You Ask a Hero — Only a Hero Will Do, by Alanna Lucas

Duke in Disguise — To Dodge a Duke, by Naomi Bloom

Overheard at the Courtesan’s Ball — The Pleasure House Ball, by Suzi Love

A sister’s love

By Bluestocking Belles

On May 19, 2018

In Jude Knight, Teatime Tattler

Flora hugged her cloak around her, as much for its concealment as for its warmth, though certainly the night grew colder as midnight approached. A dark shape in the shadows of the trees, she could not be seen even if the old hag had men patrolling the grounds. And in the two hours Flora had been watching, no patrollers had shown themselves.

Presumably, the Dowager Lady Rutledge assumed she had her daughter-in-law thoroughly cowed. And, indeed, how likely was it that such a gentle creature as Chloe would flee into the night?

Flora spread her lips in a fierce grin. Her little sister was stronger than that harpie knew; stronger than Chloe herself knew. She had survived her vicious husband by retreating into herself, but the real Chloe peeped out when she was with her little daughters, or on the rare occasions that Flora was permitted to visit.

Since Lord Rutledge’s death, Flora had been turned away at the door and Chloe had been confined. Flora had laid out far too much of her small stock of coins to confirm that her sister had been locked in her own suite of rooms. If she was successful tonight, they would need to go cap in hand to the Countess of Chirbury. Flora hoped she would take them as her pensioners, for if she turned them away, there was no backup plan.

The last of the lighted windows turned dark. In half an hour, the whole house would be asleep. She began reciting the play Hamlet as a rough measure. When she finished Act II, it would be time to move.

Flora kept to the edge of the shrubbery as she crept closer to the house. When all that separated her from the wall she needed to climb was a large open patch bathed in moonlight, she stopped, waiting for a cloud to cover the moon. In the near dark, she ran across the grass to crouch, her heart pounding, at the foot of the wall.

It would have been too much to hope that Flora’s nieces would be kept with her, so Flora needed first to free Chloe, and then raid the nursery to kidnap the two girls.

She unclasped the cloak, and rolled it into a bundle. Now her childhood prowess at climbing was about to be put to the test. But it was easy. The old vine that draped the wall clung to the stones and provided almost a ladder to the window she had selected, in the suite next door to Chloe’s. Now she would find out whether the help she had been offered was true, or a trap.

The window slid up easily, as she had been promised. And no-one waited to keep her from her sister. Now for a little more light to see if the key was waiting, too.

On cue, the cloud slid away from the moon, and there it was, waiting in the keyhole of the connecting door, as promised. Flora put her ear to the door, but could hear nothing. Chloe had a maid sleeping with her, apparently. But the girl slept deeply, and if the sister remained quiet, they could escape without waking her.

Time to put it to the test.

Flora took a deep breath, turned the key and opened the door.

The scene about takes place around six months before The Realm of Silence. In the book, the new Lord Rutledge has many burdens: a estate bankrupted by his wicked brother, both financially and morally; a mother who hates him; a sister-in-law who hasn’t been seen since she fled into the night with her two children.

The Realm of Silence

(Book 3 in the Golden Redepennings series)

Rescue her daughter, destroy her dragons, defeat his demons, go back to his lonely life. How hard can it be?

“I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved… the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave.” George Eliot

When Susan Cunningham’s daughter disappears from school, her pleasant life as a fashionable, dashing, and respectable widow is shattered. Amy is reported to be chasing a French spy up the Great North Road, and when Susan sets out in pursuit she is forced to accept help from the last person she wants: her childhood friend and adult nemesis, Gil Rutledge.

Gil Rutledge has loved Susan since she was ten and he a boy of twelve. He is determined to oblige her by rescuing her daughter. And if close proximity allows them to rekindle their old friendship, even better. He has no right to ask for more.

Gil and Susan must overcome danger, mystery, ghosts from the past, and their own pride before their journey is complete.

Get the first in series, Farewell to Kindness, for only US 99c for the rest of May, and the second, A Raging Madness, with a US $2.75 discount from Jude’s shop. Just choose the Buy from Jude Knight button, go to checkout and enter the code KWMS6GNW.

GRANDMOTHER FEARS GOVERNESS

By Bluestocking Belles

On March 28, 2018

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Eaton Square

January 1821

Dear Teatime Tattler,

I do believe my darling grandson has lost his mind. I come to you, understanding that by addressing my desperation publically, I may make the gossip about him worse. But I need insights from your readers.

At six and thirty, he’s older than most bachelors should be. More attractive, too, dare I say, with a shock of bright blond hair and charming blue eyes. He’s wealthy with eleven thousand a year from estates, but independently situated because he is a hero of the recent campaigns abroad. Against Bony, my dear boy was a leader of men in our Army. For his service, he gained numerous awards and bonuses that allowed him to purchase a townhouse in Dudley Crescent. He’s lived an honorable life and at the recent demise of his older brother (who by the way never saw fit to open his purse to help him buy his kit!), he has inherited the earldom. He devotes himself to learning his new responsibilities and his tenants do praise him for his devotion. Their lot—shall I praise my boy inordinately?—has risen since his ascension to the title. He is so dear, so dedicated to those who rely upon him, that I fear for him in this new challenge he faces. Bless his soul, he deserves better than more turmoil in his life.

But I must get to the crux of his problem, mustn’t I?

A friend, a former comrade in arms, has recently passed this mortal coil. The man was a widower with a young daughter, age eight, in his sole care. At his demise, this gentleman wrote in his last will that he gave his daughter to the care of my grandson! The child is lovely, at first demure and well-mannered. But she arrived on my grandson’s doorstep with a dog and a parrot. Now mind you, canines are a special species. I keep quite a few hunters at my home in the country. But they sleep in the stables. Never in my home! And a parrot? Really. The creature talks like an inmate of Bedlam! But this, dear Tattler, is not the worst problem. Oh, no.

The child has moved in. She’s intelligent, but forward and will grow into a bluestocking, I wager. The dog seems well-mannered (and without too many fleas, I must add.) The bird, odd creature, irritates me because he (she?) imitates my greetings.

But the bigger problem is now the new governess. She is astonishingly beautiful with a heart-shaped face, green eyes the color of spring grass and a laugh so bright it would charm church bells. From what my grandson tells me, she has no previous employment as governess, but speaks French well and plays the piano like Brahms. He hired her within ten minutes of laying eyes upon her. But she disrupts his life with dancing in the upstairs hall and without invitation, moving pieces on his chessboard. Now he has her dining with him in the kitchen!

I fear, dear Tattler, she is there to lure my boy to the altar. What should I say? What can I do to alert him to the possibility she will seduce him, marry him and ruin his reputation and his life?

Respectfully,

A doting Grandmother

Find out more

(This lady appears in the forthcoming tale, HIS TEMPTING GOVERNESS, Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2, by Cerise DeLand. The first book in the series is currently available everywhere, HER BEGUILING BUTLER!

CORRESPONDENTS WANTED: APPLY WITHIN

By Bluestocking Belles

On March 21, 2018

In Teatime Tattler

Sam Clemens, editor and proprietor of the finest Society newspaper in the historical fictionsphere, completed the final draft of his front-page advertisement, put it into the tray marked ‘Urgent’, and rubbed a hand over his face. Today’s edition would be late to the boudoirs of the ladies of the ton, the clubs of the gentlemen, and the shadowy world occupied by the (to his mind) half-mythical ‘authors’ who purportedly invented the multiple universes and characters featured by the Teatime Tattler.

Today, his advertisement would take pride of place on the front cover, which might not excite the first two categories of reader, but would, Sam hoped, be seen as an opportunity for the third.

The recent push for Wednesday correspondents had garnered many more bookings, but they were spread through the year. He still had spaces most months, including the second half of April.

He crumpled up his rejected attempts and lobbed them one by one into the waste paper bin. “Promote your book”, one started. “Reach new readers”, said another. “A fun way to promote” followed “Stand out in the billion-book marketplace” into the bin.

He’d done his best. Now it was up to the authors. He rang the bell for the copy boy. “And tell Tom to add the block with the place they can find out more and book their spot,” he ordered. As the door closed behind the boy, he fished his brandy and a glass from the bottom drawer. Time for a quick drink before the proofs arrived, and then he’d be busy all night as the presses rolled.