Because history is fun and love is worth working for

Category: Historical Period Page 13 of 16

Tales from a Shifting Duchy: First Day on the ‘Job’

June 6, 1814…

Stonebridge House…

Mondays. Would they forever be known as the most dreaded day of the week? Even at Stonebridge House, the servants approached all Mondays with a sense of reluctant melancholy.

Personally, I had never thought so. My father tossed me out of his house on a Wednesday on account of my having conceived a child out of wedlock. And the Duke of Stonebridge rescued me, offering me a position in his home, on a Monday, so…

But this Monday, the 6th day of June, my nerves were a jumble of fiery sparks bouncing about in the pit of my stomach and wreaking all sorts of havoc on my digestion as I worked tirelessly to shine the brass railing on the main staircase of Stonebridge House, hoping to make a good first impression on Her Grace. And not by casting up my accounts at her feet, if you take my meaning.

You see today was the first official day that Lady Grace Langley née Radclyffe would take charge as the new Duchess of Stonebridge and Mistress of Stonebridge Park…and we bloody well didn’t know what to expect.

The duke? Well, he was no help at all. When asked, he just smiled and said, “You’ll see,” then wandered off with a whistle and a bounce in his step the likes of which we’d never seen before.

Oh, now, he wasn’t a bad master. Not at all. But he’d never been so…so…jolly afore now. Yes, that’s the word for it…jolly.

Now, I’m not one to bandy words, but…this particular morning, I was near the foot of the stairs and near finished with that stubborn railing when Their Graces came a-walking down the stairs, hand-in-hand, and laughing up a storm. And Her Grace? She actually took a moment to stop and say “Good morning,” to me. I was so startled, I just…forgot to respond. Instead, I just stood there, mute, with my mouth wide open like a candidate for Bedlam. She wasn’t supposed to do that, was she?

And the duchess? She just smiled, threw me a wink, and carried on. I watched all agog as the two of them stopped near the door. They surely didn’t notice my stare for they had eyes only for each other.

After only a few murmured words, the duke left the duchess with a kiss and a “You’ll be marvelous, darling,” and that was that. I couldn’t help but blush on my lady’s behalf. It was clear she was a might nervous, judging by the twisting of her hands in her skirts. Yet it was just as clear the duke had no such reservations.

So anyways, I started to resume my polishing, but wouldn’t you know that the duke marched back in not five seconds later and give her a second kiss? I nearly gasped, I was so surprised.

Then, there was a third kiss. I swear I tried to look away, but they were simply too…sweet…to be ignored.

But then out of the blue he just growled. And swore. And marched back out the door, slamming his hat on his head in the process.

I might have thought he was angry, but the duchess? She just crossed her arms and laughed at his departing back, a little more at ease. Still, I waited with baited breath as she stood there, arms akimbo now, staring at the door.

Was she expecting him to return yet again? I held my breath in solidarity.

Five seconds passed. I thought sure he was gone this time.

Ten seconds. I looked to the duchess, amazed.

Twenty seconds and I was ready to polish again.

But then sure enough, thirty seconds later the duke ran back in, swung his lady up into his arms, and carried her upstairs as if his breeches were on fire.

Lord, I still blush to think on it.

I recall the duchess giggling all the way upstairs…right up until the door to the Master’s chambers closed with a bang!

Ooh – and that was going on 2 hours ago.

I guess, she must not be all bad, right? For him to be so openly carefree with his lady?

-Miss Eliza Smythe
Downstairs Maid
Stonebridge House

What the Duke Wants
Agents of Change, Book 1
By Amy Quinton

England 1814:  Upstanding duke desperately seeks accident-prone wife from trade…

She is from trade. He is a duke and an agent for the crown with a name to restore and a mystery to solve. Miss Grace (ha!) Radclyffe is an oftentimes hilariously clumsy, 20-year-old orphan biding her time living with her uncle until she is old enough to come into her small inheritance. Much to her aunt’s chagrin:

She isn’t:

  • Reserved – not with her shocking! tendency to befriend the servants…
  • Sophisticated – highly overrated if one cannot run around barefoot outside…
  • Graceful – she once flung her dinner into a duke’s face… on accident, of course. But she is:

But she is:

  • Practical – owning a fashion house is in her future; unless someone foils her plans…
  • In love… maybe… perhaps… possibly…
  • The Duke of Stonebridge is a man with a tragic past. His father died mysteriously when he was 12 years old amid speculation that the old duke was ‘involved’ with another man. He must restore his family name, but on the eve of his engagement to the perfect debutante, he meets his betrothed’s cousin, and his world is turned inside out… No matter:

He is always:

  • Logical – men who follow their hearts and not their heads are foolish…
  • Reserved – his private life is nobody’s business but his own…

And he isn’t:

  • Impulsive – it always leads to trouble…
  • Charming – that’s his best friend, the Marquess of Dansbury’s, area of expertise…
  • In love… maybe… perhaps… possibly…

Can he have what he wants and remain respectable? Can she trust him to be the man she needs?

Amazon | B&N | Kobo | Google Play | iBooks

Amy Quinton is an author and full time mom living in Summerville, SC. She enjoys writing (and reading!) sexy, historical romances. She lives with her husband, two boys, and two cats. In her spare time, she likes to go camping, hiking, and canoeing/kayaking… And did she mention reading? When she’s not reading, cleaning, or traveling, she likes to make jewelry, sew, knit, and crochet (Yay for Ravelry!).

Website | Facebook | Twitter | G+ | Pinterest | Tumblr
Amazon Author Page | Goodreads

 

The Secretary’s Secret

Sebastian Beringer covered his notes with one arm, trying to do so in a way that would not draw fire from his angry employer. If need be, he would claim he was writing a love letter. The Merry Marquis, whose love affairs were legendary, would surely not snoop further.

On no account could he allow the man to know that he was actually writing his second article for the Teatime Tattler; not when it was the first article that had Lord Aldridge pacing the length of the study with quick, angry strides, ranting about ingratitude and charging Bas with finding out who on the crew of his sailing yacht was a cursed spy.

“You will not believe what this low-life scum wrote,” Aldridge fumed.

Bas could quote it word for word, having worked over it again and again in spare minutes, and read it six times in its splendid printed form in The Teatime Tattler. The extra money that Mr Clemens was paying would come in handy, though Lord Aldridge paid well. But the glory of being in print!

Not, of course, that he could ever claim it. That would be career suicide for a private secretary, whose job was to keep secrets. Possibly, as angry as his employer was, bodily suicide as well.

He was not quite sure what had the man in such a taking. Surely nothing in the article would come as a surprise to the London reader, already inured to scandal from the Merry Marquis and his brother, Lord Jonathan Grenford?

After all, it was a mere two paragraphs, about a yacht trip and a mysterious woman.

During his recent excursion to the ducal estate at Margate, the M.M., accompanied by his younger brother Lord J. G., sailed Lord A.’s private yacht to the southern coast of Essex, where they left it for several days.

Of what purpose was this voyage, our reader may ask? This correspondent was not in the brothers’ confidence, but can disclose that a certain woman’s name was mentioned several times. Who, you may wonder, is Antonia? And what is she to the M.M.? What, indeed, is she to Lord J.?

To find out the brothers’ destination and the identity of Antonia, read Jude Knight’s Revealed in Mist. And see below the blurb for an excerpt.

Revealed in Mist

Prue’s job is to uncover secrets, but she hides a few of her own. When she is framed for murder and cast into Newgate, her one-time lover comes to her rescue. Will revealing what she knows help in their hunt for blackmailers, traitors, and murderers? Or threaten all she holds dear?

Enquiry agent David solves problems for the ton, but will never be one of them. When his latest case includes his legitimate half-brothers as well as the lover who left him months ago, he finds the past and the circumstances of his birth difficult to ignore. Danger to Prue makes it impossible.

#~*~^~*~#

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/2dBfNGq

iBooks: http://apple.co/2dVsHPq

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2dCsbCg

Amazon (print): http://amzn.to/2hmIqHk

Amazon (ebook): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N7HI8IA/

Excerpt

David joined Gren and Aldridge for dinner in a private parlour Aldridge hired.

“We need to return to Margate,” Aldridge said. “His Grace said Jon was to go there and stay. I tried to leave him behind, but you know what Jon’s like. He sticks worse than a burr.”

Gren made a rude gesture. “Aldridge only let me come because he needed someone to crew the yacht,” he told David.

Aldridge just grinned. “I have a crew. And you were not much use draped over the rail puking, Jon.”

“You sailed from Margate?” David asked. “Clever.”

“Yes, to Ipswich. His Grace’s spies at the castle will think we are on a pleasure cruise for a few days. It’s good the days are getting longer. We sailed at first light yesterday, then rode all day to get here. We can make it back again by tomorrow, late afternoon, if we change horses regularly.”

A succession of maids carried in dinner: a roasted bird, a leg of lamb, and a stew, with a variety of side dishes.

“The claret is acceptable,” Aldridge decided, and they talked about food and wine till the last maid left the room, blushing and dimpling at Gren.

“I think she likes me,” he told Aldridge and David.

“Do they not all like you, Gren?” David asked with a sardonic smile.

“I expect she likes your coin,” Aldridge suggested.

Donating to a worthy cause

Dorothea looked around the private sitting room of Lady Georgiana Winderfield. Even being here was something of a miracle. To think that four months ago…

‘It is in the past, Miss Berryman,” Mr Milford would remind her, were he here. But of course the past was the point of her visit; the reason for her being invited to take tea with Lady Grace and her sister-in-law Lady Sutton.

“Georgie. There you are. I want to have a word with you. Oh. Grace. You’re here, too.” Lord Sutton barged into the room without knocking, ignoring Dorothea and addressing his two nearest female relatives. “Grace make Georgie see she cannot go on like this. Father won’t have it.”

Lady Georgiana turned to her visitor. “Miss Berryman, I do not believe you are acquainted with my brother. Sutton, Miss Dorothea Berryman.”

Dorothea, not without some trepidation, met Sutton’s gaze, her face carefully bland. Not that she expected him to recognise her. Not without the paint and the powder. Not with her hair returned to its natural brown and her clothing designed for dignity and discretion rather than seduction. Considerably more clothing than she had worn at the beginning of her last encounter with Lord Sutton.

The manners drilled into his lordship in the nursery surfaced long enough for him to bow briefly and mutter, “Miss Berryman. Charmed.” Then he returned to his grievance.

“Just look at it.” The wave of his encompassed the dozens of portraits on the mantelpiece and the walls either side of the fireplace. Every one showed the courtesan known as Lily Diamond. All were draped in black.

“It is pathetic, Georgie. You are making a laughing stock of yourself, and us.” Sutton was pacing too and fro, thumping a fist into his hand. “People are making the most outrageous of suggestions. Bad enough you even knew the woman. But to mourn her as if she were a friend? You have to stop it.”

“Lillian was my friend, Sutton. I am not interested in the opinions of those who considered her beneath them, though they were perfectly willing to partake of her charms.”

“Georgie!” Sutton cast a shocked glance Dorothea’s way. “You must forgive my sister, Miss Berryman. Her humours are unbalanced,  I fear. Georgie, you cannot discuss women like that. It is not seemly.”

Dorothea had seen Lord Sutton being very unseemly indeed, back when she had been called Fanny and had been commanded to entertain him. She managed to keep her face bland.

“Sutton, may I suggest we continue this conversation at a later time,” Lady Sutton said. “Miss Berryman is here to interest us in her charitable work.”

“Yes, Lord Sutton,” some imp prompted her to say. “I am hopeful of providing work for gentlewomen in need of some means of support. Perhaps you would care to make a donation?”

“I am sorry to interrupt, Miss Berryman.” Sutton allowed his indignation to spoil his apology. “Shouldn’t air our linen in public, but the damned woman was a bird of paradise!”

“Sutton!” His wife and sister chorused their disapproval of his language, and he flushed.

“Beg pardon,” he mumbled. “Better put me down for fifty guineas.” The thought of his own generosity buoyed him, and he bowed himself out of the room.

Lady Georgiana grinned broadly. “Well done, Miss Berryman. Your first donation. But please, continue your story. You were telling us about how Mr Wakefield and Miss Virtue paid your debt so that you could be released from the brothel.”

“Yes,” Lady Sutton agreed. “Please finish your story, and then tell us how we can help you to rescue some more damned birds of paradise.”

Dorothea is a minor character in Revealed in Mist. See the story for more about who murdered Lily Diamond, what Lady Georgie had to do with it, and the part Dorothea plays in supporting David and Prue to solve several interlocked mysteries.

Prue’s job is to uncover secrets, but she hides a few of her own. When she is framed for murder and cast into Newgate, her one-time lover comes to her rescue. Will revealing what she knows help in their hunt for blackmailers, traitors, and murderers? Or threaten all she holds dear?

Enquiry agent David solves problems for the ton, but will never be one of them. When his latest case includes his legitimate half-brothers as well as the lover who left him months ago, he finds the past and the circumstances of his birth difficult to ignore. Danger to Prue makes it impossible.

 

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/2dBfNGq

iBooks: http://apple.co/2dVsHPq

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2dCsbCg

Amazon (print): http://amzn.to/2hmIqHk

Amazon (ebook): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N7HI8IA/

Extract

“Fanny, show my young friend a good time, eh?” Talbot commanded, and David followed her to one of the rooms.

He had a better use for the bed than the exercise Talbot imagined. He was beginning to feel the loss of a night’s sleep.

“Don’t bother,” he told the prostitute, as she began to unbutton her blouse. “When were the sheets last changed?”

“Maybe three days.” She looked uncertainly at the bed and back at him. “How do you want me then?”

David explained. “What I’d like you to do is sit in the chair over there and wake me in half an hour. Before we leave this room, I’ll give you double what I gave your bawd. And when we get back out there, you’ll pretend to everyone, especially my friend, that we’ve coupled.”

The prostitute frowned. “You’ll pay me. Just to sleep in the bed.”

“On the bed, but yes. Miss Fanny… or is it Miss Frances…? You’re very desirable, but I’m very, very tired, and I’d rather nobody knew…”

She nodded. “It’s Dorothea, really. But Old Hatchet-Face, who owns the place, she said that was not a good name for a whore.”

“Do you have a way to tell the hour, Miss Dorothea?” He’d removed his coat, but he laid it on the bed and stretched out beside it. No point in putting temptation in the woman’s way. He’d wake in an instant if she approached the bed to check his pockets.

She nodded. “I can hear the clock tower down the street. It chimes the quarters. It’ll be just on the half I wake you.”

“Good. Thank you.” His nose wrinkled, but he’d slept in places more rank. Willing his body to relax, he closed his eyes, and Mist was suddenly there stretched beside him. No. He was here to sleep, not to fantasise about the only woman he desired.

“Mister? Mr. Walker?” He woke to the woman’s whisper. “It’s been half an hour.”

Yes. The half was still chiming. Half an hour was not enough, but it took the edge off his weariness. He’d cope.

In the main sitting area, Dorothea poured him a glass of wine and perched on the arm of his chair, leaning against him while he waited for Talbot. Her silence money safely in the pocket she had tied to her waist under her skirt, she had obviously decided to throw herself fully into her part.

Talbot arrived some minutes later, buttoning his breeches. His companion was smiling admiringly up at him, but David caught the contemptuous grimace she passed to her companions behind Talbot’s back.

“That’s the ticket,” Talbot said to David, grinning at the way Dorothea was draped over him. “Can’t get enough of you here, can they? They should pay us for servicing them. Hah! That’s a good one. They should pay us, eh?” And he slapped the bottom of his companion with expansive glee.

“You want another round, Walker? Or what about an exotic dance? I know a place where the girls…” he gestured expansively, shaping improbably curvaceous shapes in the air.

“That sounds very exciting, Sir,” David said, back to being suitably grateful. “Is it a place we could get something to eat, Sir? All that exercise…”

“Good lad. Worked up an appetite, eh? Oh, to be young again. Come on, then, lad. The night is young. We’ll stop at a coffee house and then go on to Sultan’s Palace.”

David saluted Dorothea with a kiss on the cheek and received a warm smile in return. “Best half hour I ever spent in this place,” she told him loudly, “and that’s the truth.”

Resilience: Moving House and an Unexpected Visitor

After a flurry of activity, Felicia, her daughter, and Maris arrived at Brook Street on the appointed day. As the house was to be sold soon, only a handful of servants remained to wait on them, the others having found positions elsewhere. Having assumed a new identity, Felicia could not offer them positions in her new home and risk someone letting slip a hint of her scandalous past. Maris, however, shared a long history with her mistress, and her loyalty to Felicia was unquestionable.

***

Being required to assist in conveying the luggage, neither John, the coachman, nor Richards, the armed footman,  remarked the presence of the small tattered boy huddled behind the street lamp, his discerning eyes focused with interest on the new arrivals. This development would be worth a coin or two when relayed to the folks at the Pleasure House. He remained in his position until long after the coachman had driven the rig around the back to the stable area, observing that although no other activity appeared to be taking place there, the heavyset footman with a bulge in his pocket that could have been a pistol maintained constant vigilance over the house’s entrance from the parlor window, relaxing his duties only for a few minutes while he accepted a cup of tea from another servant. As darkness came and the house appeared to be settled for the night, the boy left his post, visions of jingling coins occupying his thoughts.

***

The next few days were busy ones indeed, as Felicia and the few remaining servants were engrossed in packing up the contents of the house to be either sold or conveyed to Weldon Park. Felicia had her hands full with Cynthia, as well, since it had been decided to leave the nursemaid behind and there were no servants to spare for minding the child. It was actually a blessing, she thought, as she finished doing up the buttons on the pretty pink frock and took a brush to her daughter’s unruly reddish blonde curls. There was far too much to do to allow for painful thoughts, such as bidding a final farewell to Charles and their life together, and also, she realized in surprise, disappointment that Anthony had failed to call on them since their arrival.

Nor had he been present at her meeting with the solicitor, who had discussed the sale of the house and presented her with several documents to sign, remarking that Lord Kendall had overseen the entire process personally, and that all that was necessary was Felicia’s approval.

Personally? thought Felicia. Not hardly, since she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since their arrival. Well, why should he, she argued with herself? He was a Lord of the Realm who—if the Pendergast chits were correct—was much too occupied in courting a wife to be bothered with one such as her. In any case, once wed, his wife would see to it that any friendship between them was severed, so it was well and good to put some distance between them now. Or so she told herself.

“Ouch!” complained Cynthia. “Mama, you’re hurting me!”

Instantly contrite, Felicia hugged her daughter. “I’m sorry, poppet. I’m hopeless with hair. But Maris is occupied with the linens at present, so you’ll have to make do with me instead. I shall try to be a bit more gentle.”

She had noticed before that Cynthia’s hair, although with a tinge of strawberry, was as lush and curly blonde as her own. Felicia had always struggled to keep hers tamed, and it seemed her daughter would be fated to do so as well. She did wonder where the red had come from, as Cynthia’s natural father had been very fair. But she had never seen his parents, or, for that matter, her own natural parents. No doubt some ancestor up the line had been red-headed.

As she turned her daughter loose in the nursery to play with her dolls, Felicia started down the stairs and halted suddenly when she saw a stranger on the landing, a middle-aged lady dressed in finery from head to toe, wearing a dashing pelisse of peacock blue, in the process of removing a stylish bonnet of matching hue, to reveal a head of abundant strawberry blonde locks that appeared to be an exact match to Cynthia’s.

A maid rushed in and took the new arrival’s hat and pelisse, apologizing when she saw Felicia. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hammond, but we’re so short-handed there weren’t nobody ter send fer ye ter say that Lady Middlemarch has come ter call.”

Lady Middlemarch looked up at Felicia with bright eyes that looked suspiciously like tears. “I’m sorry to have come at an inconvenient time, Mrs. Hammond. Perhaps I should come back at another time?”

“Oh no, of course not,” Felicia insisted. “Please come and sit in the parlor.” Turning to the maid, she asked, “Kate, do you think you could manage to bring us some tea?” At the maid’s curtsy of assent, she turned to her unexpected guest.

“I apologize that I am unable to offer you anything more, Lady Middlemarch, but as you see, we are in the process of packing up the house and we are in a state of upheaval at present.”

“Yes,” said the older woman, “I-I-I understand that you are removing to the country.” Her blatant stare unnerved Felicia.

As they sat facing one another, Felicia was struck by the woman’s resemblance to herself and her daughter: the thick, curly hair, the clear blue eyes, the pert nose, the pale skin. What could she think but that this elegant lady might be… no, of course not.

Breaking the silence, she began. “Lady Middlemarch…”

“Mrs. Hammond,” began the other woman at the same moment, wringing her hands nervously. “Mrs. Hammond, I think you must comprehend by our resemblance that I—” she paused, “—that I am your mother. Your natural mother, that is.” And then she broke down into uncontrollable weeping as an astonished Kate carried in the tea tray.

Resilience is the story of a prostitute and demimondaine who escapes to the peace and respectability of country life with her young daughter.

I wrote this story in 2010 during my “summer of practice retirement” where I wanted to prove to myself I could become a productive writer and not a coach potato. I got so into the story that I had dreams about it and got up at 4 a.m. (once school started) to write them down.

It’s been languishing in my pile of unfinished manuscripts, but I was just thinking the other day that it might be time to resurrect it. So that’s what I’m doing on Wattpad. You can read more here.

Stunning Crime Thwarted by Duke’s Grandson on Marlborough Street

1473413106unten-mitte

This reporter is in shock today after witnessing the attempted heinous crime in our dear city of London, this day, the 23rd of December, in the year of our Lord 1822. The criminal acted with deplorable boldness when he attempted to snatch the reticule of the ton’s beloved Lady Delia Witherspoon whilst the lady frequented the elegant shops of Marlborough Street. This reporter is appalled at the criminal’s audacity to commit such fiendish acts, but it is with a gleeful pen I report the criminal’s even more magnificent downfall.

It happened thus –

Lady Witherspoon had just alighted from her carriage in front of the esteemed establishment of Rugbottom’s Books on Marlborough Street at the stroke of two o’clock. The lady was, of course, escorted by her charming companion, one Miss Penelope Paiget. Lady Witherspoon was intent on procuring one or two more items for the loved ones on her Christmas list when she thought to peruse the offerings of Rugbottom’s. But no more had she stepped from the carriage than the assailant attacked, slicing the strings of her reticule with wicked accuracy as he made off with his purloined treasures. Lady Witherspoon promptly and properly executed a trembling scream of outrage so sharp it was heard by this reporter from across the thoroughfare.

This reporter had only seconds to follow the ill-fated attempt of the criminal to flee when the intrepid Mr. Samuel Black, whom our dear readers will know as the handsome grandson of the popular Duke of Lofton, leaped into action with breathtaking cunning. With moves this reporter is unable to capture with proper articulation, Mr. Black apprehended the criminal and returned the offended reticule to Lady Witherspoon. But while Mr. Black’s capture of the thug was earthshattering, it pales in comparison to the explosion of heat that erupted when our dear Mr. Black laid eyes on the lovely Miss Paiget.

Will this reporter be writing of the sounds of wedding bells for our Mr. Black and Miss Paiget? Perhaps next time on the Tattler.

 

To Be a Spy: A Christmas Spy Series Short Storyjessieclever_tobeaspy_800px

by Jessie Clever

Samuel Black must make a decision: to be a spy like his father or follow his heart.

Either is likely to give his mother chest pains.

For Samuel is no longer a lad with the ambitious and noble wish of being a lamplighter to keep the seedy streets of London safe. About to embark on university, his mind stirs with the thoughts of creating a policing force in London to safeguard its citizens. Held back by his family’s legacy as spies, Samuel does not make his ideas known.

But when he stops a would-be purse-snatcher, his path unexpectedly veers into that of one Miss Penelope Paiget, and suddenly, Samuel must make a choice.

The short stories in the Spy Series:
1. To Be a Spy
2. To Be a Duke
3. To Be a Lady
4. To Be a Debutante

The Spy Series short stories take place after the conclusion of the Spy Series.

*Goodreads * Amazon US * Amazon UK * Nook * iBooks * Google Play * Kobo*

Now available on audio!
*Audible * iBooks*

Excerpt

London, 1822

It happened on Marlborough Street a little past two o’clock two days before Christmas.

Samuel had just returned from Eton the day before as his Greek studies had compelled him to stay longer than the rest of the students. It all sounded rather dull, but honestly, it was quite thrilling as one of his tutors believed he had stumbled upon an undiscovered Biblical text. The ramifications could be enormous, and so when asked to assist him in analyzing the text, Samuel had stayed on, of course. It wasn’t as if he would miss the opportunity.

And thus two days before Christmas, he found himself on Marlborough trying desperately to find a present for Jane and Elizabeth. He wondered briefly if any other man of ten and eighteen was stricken with not just one headstrong sister but two for whom to shop, and if those sisters were raised by an equally headstrong mother. All three of them would not settle for the customary ribbons or baubles or fabrics that other ladies would surely drool over. If it were anything less than divine, the Black women would not find it at all appealing.

Samuel stared in one window after another hoping inspiration would strike. It was while waiting for inspiration that the crime was committed.

He was standing innocently enough outside of Rugbottom’s Books admiring a particularly ornate illustration of Shakespeare’s sonnets when the commotion began behind him. Having been raised in less than ordinary circumstances, the time that lapsed between when the commotion began and when Samuel noticed it was rather exaggerated. But commotions were quite common in the Black family, and he thought nothing of it.

Until Lady Delia Witherspoon screamed.

“He’s stolen my reticule!”

Samuel turned at this in time to see Lady Witherspoon pointing at a fleeing figure clutching the offended reticule under his arm.

And then Lady Witherspoon screamed again.

“That man! He’s stolen my reticule!”

The fleeing man charged at Samuel directly, as it was previously noted, Samuel merely stood in the middle of the pavement staring into a window. He was obviously ripe for any interaction with a passerby on the pavement, even should that passerby be a thief.

As he watched the thief approach, Samuel’s mind took that opportunity to think on matters. He wondered briefly if other gentlemen stepped out of the way of fleeing criminals or if they advanced. He wondered if they cowered at the thought of getting their waistcoat ruined. And then he wondered what the wives of said gentlemen would think if their noble husbands did not act to avenge the slight against a lady.

Samuel thought none of that likely as the gentlemen of the ton that he had had the pleasure of meeting were all sopping idiots. The apprehension of criminals was not something that suited such personalities.

And then Samuel sighed.

He sighed because he quite liked his waistcoat. It was a fine cranberry color that went well with his breeches, and if he had learned anything from his Uncle Alec, it was that a man who showed care for his dress showed care in every aspect of his life. And that was why Samuel was rather despondent to put his cranberry waistcoat in danger.

jessiecleverheadshotAbout Jessie Clever

Jessie decided to be a writer because the job of Indiana Jones was already filled.

Taking her history degree dangerously, Jessie tells the stories of courageous heroines, the men who dared to love them, and the world that tried to defeat them.

Jessie makes her home in the great state of New Hampshire where she lives with her husband and two very opinionated Basset Hounds. For more, visit her website at jessieclever.com.

Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Pinterest * Goodreads *

Page 13 of 16

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén