Category: Teatime Tattler Page 101 of 152

All of London want to know more about the elusive Carlingford family. Wait no more. Our intrepid editor, Sam Clemens, is determined to uncover all the gossip for you, dear readers.

Carlingford Enterprises, the megalith manufacturing company, who dominates the burgeoning iron industry in England, making many of our famous steamer boats, as well as bridges, and other pieces of industrial equipment, is known to all. Many of our readers enjoy a drop from their famous brewery. Less well known is the family behind the company. That is, apart from the heir, Wilberforce Carlingford, who often frequents our ‘Street Philosopher’ section.

Your Teatime Tattler has been chasing an interview with young Miss Carlingford ever since she arrived back from her European tour. Readers, let me share the excitement with you. We have an exclusive interview with young Miss Carlingford’s footman.

“Higgins, Miss Carlingford must be one of the most sought after young ladies in Victorian London.”

“Doctor,” the footman replied succinctly. I pricked up my ears. In one word, the interest in this interview grew in epic proportions.

“A wealthy heiress, and a doctor? An unusual combination.”

“Dr Carlingford recently graduated from the Municipal University of Amsterdam and runs a medical charity in the slums of the East End. I accompany her for her safety.”

“Yes, well, we can’t have heiresses traipsing around the East End without protection. Do tell us just how large her dowry is.”

“I’m afraid that is confidential. However, anyone who wishes can apply to be seen at her medical practice on Harvey Street. Dr Carlingford specialises in the health of female patients and encourages all women of status to visit her at this clinic on Mondays and Tuesdays,” Higgins said.

“I’m sure that’s fabulous.” Clemens felt you, dear reader, did not require an advertisement from a footman with regards to young Miss Carlingford’s unusual medical practice. The idea that a woman could become qualified, in a foreign university, none-the-less, and declare herself fit to treat the lovely women of the upper classes was outside the scope of this publication, and of no interest to you, dear reader.

“Now tell us more about Mr Carlingford, the younger. It is said he is being groomed to take over from Mr Carlingford the elder and is in much need of a wife.”

“Mr Carlingford, junior, is in his mid-twenties. Too young to be contemplating a wife.”

“But if such a woman was interesting in helping him fall into the trap of matrimony, what preferences does he have?” Clements asked.

The footman, Higgins, clenched his jaw. “This interview is not about Mr Carlingford Junior. It is about the great leaps forward my mistress, Dr Carlingford, has made in the medical profession. Sir, it is 1888, beyond time we had female doctors to treat female patients.”

“My readers are not interested in such political statements. Is it true the Carlingford family came from the Americas?”

“I believe it is public knowledge that Mr Carlingford made his first fortune in oil but felt the steam-boat market was a better place to invest. He shifted the family to England, for the sake of his children’s education, and now you see the results. Carlingford Enterprises is one of England’s grandest businesses. My mistress, Dr Carlingford, represents the future of this nation.”

I closed the interview certain my readership would not be interested in the way the Carlingford’s loyal servant, Higgins, continued to advertise their businesses without gifting the readers any gossip of note.

When an uncommon lawyer meets an unusual doctor, their story must be extraordinary…

20 October 2018
Pre-order now.

https://www.harpercollins.com.au/9781489264626/

http://books2read.com/u/3yD16v

http://www.reneedahlia.com/books/bluestockings/

Heart of a Bluestocking

September 1888: Dr Claire Carlingford owns the bluestocking label. Her tycoon father encouraged her to study, and with the support of her two best friends, she took it further than anyone could imagine, graduating as a doctor and running her own medical practice. But it’s not enough for her father. He wants her to take over the business, so he can retire. Then his sudden arrest throws the family into chaos and his business into peril.

Mr James Ravi Howick, second son of Lord Dalhinge, wants to use his position as a lawyer to improve conditions for his mother’s family in India. When an opportunity arises to work for Carlingford Enterprises, one of the richest companies in the world, Ravi leaps at the chance to open his own legal practice. But his employment becomes personal as he spends more time with Claire and she learns the secret that could destroy his family.

Both Ravi and Claire are used to being outsiders and alone. But as they work together to save their respective families from disaster, it becomes clear that these two misfits might just fit together perfectly.

Excerpt

‘Dr Carlingford,’ she said. She slid the book back on the shelf, concentrating on that task so she couldn’t see the clerk’s reaction. With a nod to Higgins to remain in the foyer, she followed the clerk, who led her through an oak door and along a corridor. With each step, she hoped that she was getting closer to the biggest office. Woodleyville certainly had the seniority to deal with her father’s problem. She grinned to herself. It wasn’t every day that a tycoon was arrested. Hopefully, she could present the case as a puzzle to appeal to the elderly lawyer, enough to overcome his snobbery. The clerk opened a door and gestured for her to enter. She nodded her thanks and walked inside.

Behind a large desk with neat piles of paperwork stood a tall man of Indian descent. His dark brown eyes were framed by thick-rimmed glasses. The summer sunshine streamed in a large window and bounced off the glass on his face. Claire blinked. The room smelled of furniture polish, with a heady hint of hops about to be harvested.

‘Welcome,’ he said. His voice rumbled through the space between them, sending a shock wave inside her. She swallowed.

‘I was expecting Woodleyville Senior,’ she said. This man had to be around her age, and wasn’t at all like the senior partner she had expected to see. A tiny flutter began in her stomach and she pressed her hands softly against it.

‘Perhaps you could outline the issue to me,’ he said, calmly.

There was such music in his voice, a masculine music causing the small flutter to grow. Josephine’s note crinkled in her palm as she clasped her hands together, dragging her attention back to her task.

‘And you are?’

Meet Renée Dahlia
Renée Dahlia is an unabashed romance reader who loves feisty women and strong, clever men. Her books reflect this, with a side-note of dark humour. Renée has a science degree in physics. When not distracted by the characters fighting for attention in her brain, she works in the horse racing industry doing data analysis. She writes for two racing publications, churning out feature articles, interviews and advertorials. When she isn’t reading or writing, Renée wrangles a husband, four children, and volunteers on the local cricket club committee.

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The Wanderer Returns

By Guest author

On September 26, 2018

In Teatime Tattler

We are delighted to report that Lord Wayshaw’s younger brother, Rafe, has returned to the magnificent Taverslow estate after his travels in Europe and a stay at the family’s villa in Umbria.

The great and the good of Somerset will no doubt look forward to hearing tales of his continental adventures, while the young ladies will surely hang on every word of the county’s most eligible bachelor. It is said that the dashing Mr. Wayshaw is even more handsome than when he left these shores almost a year ago, and that his already fine skills in riding and dancing have been greatly enhanced by his time in foreign lands.

The debutantes of Somerset and London will have to compete for his affections, however, which are apparently taken by his two charming Yorkshire Terriers, Pepe and Paolo. They may also have to win the approval of Mr. Wayshaw’s faithful valet, Simpkins, from whom he seems quite inseparable. Indeed, some have hinted that they may be more intimate than one would expect of a servant and master. Of course the Tattler would never spread such gossip, but if we hear more of Mr. Wayshaw’s romantic attachments, rest assured dear readers, you will be the very first to know.

About The Book

A Valet’s Duty

At the turn of the twentieth century, Henry Simpkins is a valet at Taverslow, the Earl of Wayshaw’s Somerset home. When the Earl’s younger brother, Rafe, arrives from his villa in Italy, Henry is given the task of caring for his mischievous dogs, Pepe and Paolo. As part of his duties, he also goes to Rafe’s room each night to tidy away his clothes.

One night Rafe asks Henry to go beyond his valet’s duty, to relieve his sexual tensions. Henry enjoys their increasingly intimate encounters, but he’s soon disturbed to find he feels more for Rafe than mere physical attraction. Now Henry faces a difficult decision. Can he remain in the same house as Rafe if his affections are not returned?

A Valet’s Duty is available at Amazon: https://amzn.to/2n1Ei0A

Excerpt

When he followed Lord Wayshaw up the grand marble staircase, Henry wondered what sort of man the brother might be. He seemed to have a sense of humour, since he hadn’t chastised Henry for scolding his precious dogs. Henry only hoped he required as little attention as the earl. Each night, he sorted his lordship’s clothes when he undressed, and took his orders for the following day. His night-time duties were over in a matter of minutes, and he could go outside for a smoke before he turned in.

Henry knocked on Rafe’s door and was somewhat taken aback, when the ornately carved oak opened to reveal Rafe already in his dressing gown.

“Come in, Simpkins. I won’t keep you long.” Henry followed Rafe into the bedroom. “Just tidy my clothes away, would you?”

Rafe settled himself on a sofa and chattered away, as some gentlemen do, while Henry picked up his garments from the floor, sorting those that could be worn again from those that needed to be washed. He listened to Rafe describe his villa in Italy, where he obviously spent much of the year. It sounded enchanting, with its endless sunshine and olive groves, but Henry couldn’t properly picture the place—he’d never been farther south than Dover.

The next few nights passed in a similar way, with Henry nodding and smiling, and sometimes laughing, when Rafe talked of his life in Umbria. Falling to sleep each night in his narrow bed, Henry found himself dreaming of orange trees and vineyards. Sometimes he even dreamt of Rafe wandering among them in the Mediterranean sun, but on the fourth night when Henry went to Rafe’s room, something had changed. Rafe seemed on edge as he opened the door, and he sat on the sofa in silence as Henry carried out his tasks. Henry started to leave, when Rafe spoke at last, an unfamiliar tension in his voice.

“Simpkins, could I ask you something?”

“Of course, sir.”

Rafe gazed intently at his fingernails, giving Henry no clue as to what he might ask. His eyes remained lowered as he made his enquiry.

“Simpkins, are you—are you the same kind of man as Oscar Wilde?”

About the Author

H. Lewis-Foster lives in the north of England and has always worked with books, in one form or another. A keen reader and writer of gay fiction, she is now the proud author of several short stories and a debut novel ‘Burning Ashes’.

Lewis-Foster likes to create characters that are talented, funny and quite often gorgeous, but who all have their faults and vulnerable sides, and she hopes that you’ll enjoy reading their stories as much as she loves writing them.

You can find out more about H. and her books on her website.

A letter of retraction

By Sherry Ewing

On September 24, 2018

In Sherry Ewing, Teatime Tattler

Mr. Clemens:

I can stand silent no longer, Sir. The recent flurry of activity in your paper with regards to the Bluestocking Belles has been not only outrageous but without cause. To see their name tarnished by closed minded individuals has caused me to rise to their defense!

One might think of me as one of those forward speaking women, and if this includes the Belles then I know I am in good company. There is nothing scandalous in their novels and I have even heard they give part of their sales to a charity. A charity, Mr. Clemens! Now how can anyone complain about people who will give their hard earned monies to those who are less fortunate?

I pray that those who previously published such unkind words regarding the Bluestocking Belles will make a retraction in the Teatime Tattler. I, for one, will be looking forward to their next release.

Sincerely,
Lady Elinor Lacey

To our esteemed readers:

In case you wish to see for yourself what all the fuss is about, be sure to check out the Bluestocking Belles’ page for information on their next box set, Follow Your Star Home.

S. Clemens

Author Allyn Working on New Heart Melting Romance

By Rue Allyn

On September 22, 2018

In Teatime Tattler

Dear Mr. Clemens,

I want to thank you for your support of authors ancient, contemporary and future, as evidence by your well-balanced support of the Bluestocking Belles. Albeit, your physical milieu is Regency England, your—how should I put this—timely connections are well known and highly regarded for their accuracy and vision despite The Tattler’s reputation for rumor and innuendo. But I digress.

I bring you via this letter the news that Miss. Rue Allyn, Bluestocking Belle, medieval scholar, and highly regarded author, is now writing a new 1870’s Wyoming novel. Yes, her fans and those who may never have indulged in her writings will thrill to adventures of Boyd Alvarez and Elise Van Demer who first appeared in Miss. Allyn’s opus One Night’s Desire. That Miss. Allyn is once more producing her heart melting romantic novels is truly good news.

The sad news is that a year may pass before the publication of The Legend of Skinner Jonas (the working title of Miss. Allyn’s Boyd and Elise story). Should anyone be interested in keeping abreast of Miss. Allyn’s progress, they may join her newsletter by following this link to RAVON. Meanwhile to whet readers’ appetites here is a small sample from The Legend of Skinner Jonas. Of course, Miss. Allyn’s already published works are available for purchase. Information about them and Miss. Allyn can be found at her website https://RueAllyn.com.

Again we thank you for support of Miss. Allyn and all authors.

Respectfully,

Miss Essie Charleyton

President of RAVON (Rue Allyn’s Very Occassional News and blog)

A sample from The Legend of Skinner Jonas:

Nowhere Wyoming, September 1876 [Boyd is 28, Elise is 22/23]

“I saw Skinner Jonas’ rig over to the stable,” said one of the yahoos a the bar.

From the front door of the saloon, Boyd Alvarez spotted his quarry at the far end of the bar then headed for an empty table in the same area. He motioned to the barkeep, ordered one shot of Redeye neat, and settled with his back to the wall to watch Zachariah Jackson—the meanest, dirtiest, claim jumper, this side of the Wind River—whoop it up with some friends. With any luck, Jackson would drink himself into a stupor, and Boyd could haul the man over to the sheriff’s office with little or no problem.

“Ain’t never see’d Jonas m’self,” Jackson said.

“Well y’ can see ‘im now,” remarked one of the friends. He tilted his head toward the door Boyd had passed through. “Just came in.”

Jackson stood on his toes and craned his neck to see over the crowd. “Where? Man with as big a legend as Jonas’ oughta be big enough to see easy.”

The friend grinned. “Ain’t Skinner’s size what got ‘im ‘is reputation; it’s his luck. He’s standing smack in the middle of the doorway.”

“Afternoon boys.” The voice was rusty as barbed wire but surprisingly rhythmic—like church bells or a lullaby, and oddly soothing.

Boyd supposed a man who coaxed critters to haul 500 pound plus loads would need such a voice.

Booted tread followed the greeting. The crowd of men around the bar made room. Boyd watched a scruffy figure stride through. Something besides the skinner’s voice struck Boyd as odd. He couldn’t figure exactly what. As he considered, Jonas stepped into to a spot at the bar bedside Jackson, right between Boyd and the claim jumper.

“Whisky neat,” said the barbed wire and bells voice.

Boyd was still mentally cursing the luck that put an innocent between him and a $100.00 bounty when he finally figured out what bothered him. How in Hades have all these men failed to notice that Skinner isn’t a man.

Admittedly, dressed as she was it was kinda hard to tell she was female—so maybe it wasn’t so strange that most accepted her as a man—especially since Jackson’s friend called her one. But that walk was unmistakable. From whore to starched up school marm, every woman known to man had that same hip-swaying, make a man’s cock ache, sashay. Some had it more’n others, but they all had it, and despite Boyd’s blue balls that strut was a pure pleasure to watch. Purer than he’d seen in a long, long time.

This one had less sway than many he’d seen. She had a stride that fit a man, aggressive and bold as brass, but she couldn’t hide that swing. Would’a been nice if she’d dressed like a woman ‘stead of a muleskinner. Would’a been even nicer if she’d cleaned up a bit and smelled like a woman. But she smelled the way she looked—trail-whacker through and through. Except for that sway. When one of the woman-starved men in this saloon finally noticed, she was bound to cause trouble.

The gloves she threw on the bar along with a very professional looking whip, had the creases and worn spots of an experienced wagon driver. The battered, broad brimmed hat that covered her hair and shaded her eyes was as dusty as that of any skinner he’d ever seen. And he’d seen a fair number during his days with the Pinkertons. The only thing missing was a lump in her cheek that indicated a chaw of tobacco. Which meant she probably still had all her teeth.

He swallowed a sigh along with a swig of red-eye and watched. Hard as he tried he could not determine hair color, eye color or the shape of any of her features. He cast a quick glance around the room. Either they were too drunk to notice she was female or not drunk enough to have the cajones to approach a woman as tough as this one appeared.

He shifted his gaze back to the woman downing her whisky. So what if she drank like a muleskinner too. Nothing about her would put off any of the men smart enough to see past her disguise. Boyd would be first in line, if he didn’t have more pressing business. Not one of those men would ask nice, at least not as nice as he would. Not one would take no for an answer. He would, even if he didn’t want to. Forcing an unwilling woman wasn’t just a crime, it was simply wrong. He may not be a Pinkerton any longer, but he would uphold the law and keep the peace. And the best way to keep the peace was to prevent law-breaking before it happened. Dang it, I have business to tend to. The last thing he wanted was to tangle with anyone over some strange woman. If he were lucky, he could distract the whole crowd from the female long enough for her to finish her drink and skedaddle.

He chugged the last of his redeye, plunked the glass down on the pinewood, and stood. Looking at the barkeep he put his two bits beside the glass and turned toward his quarry.

At the same moment, Jackson put his hand on the woman’s arm. “Yer a might scrawny fer a mule-skinnin’ legend, friend.”

Skinner shrugged her shoulder and stepped back. Posture balanced and relaxed, she looked Jackson up and down then sneered. “Keep yer hands to yerself. I don’t know you, so you ain’t no friend.” The bells tolled a warning.

She moved as if to walk around Jackson, but the bigger man stepped into her path.

“That was a mistake, mister.” The barbed wire muttered.

Damn, I waited too long. Boyd stood and reached out to tap Jackson’s shoulder to draw his attention.

“Sez you, pipsqueak. Whatcha gonna do ….”

Before he could finish speaking, Jackson lay moaning on the floor. The woman muleskinner had her foot planted square in his back. His gun arm was pulled straight out behind him held in a solid single-handed grip while she bent to slip the pearl-handled colt from his belt holster.

About Rue Allyn: Award winning author, Rue Allyn, learned story telling at her grandfather’s knee. (Well it was really more like on his knee—I was two.) She’s been weaving her own tales ever since. She has worked as an instructor, mother, sailor, clerk, sales associate, and painter, along with a variety of other types of work. She has lived and traveled in places all over the globe from Keflavik Iceland (I did not care much for the long nights of winter.) and Fairbanks Alaska to Panama City and the streets of London England to a large number of places in between. Now that her two sons have left the nest, Rue and her husband of more than four decades (Try living with the same person for more than forty years—that’s a true adventure.) have retired and moved south.

When not writing, learning to play new games, (I’m starting to learn Bridge) and working jigsaw puzzles, Rue travels the world and surfs the internet in search of background material and inspiration for her next heart melting romance. She loves to hear from readers, and you may contact her at contact@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.

What Rue likes best about the belles is their can-do spirit. This group isn’t afraid to try anything the publishing world can dish out. The only other place I’ve found such completely supportive energy is with my fellow sisters-in-arms, both active duty and not.

Rue Allyn’s media links:

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A Scandalous Wager

By Guest author

On September 19, 2018

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

“A good day to you, Saybrook. A bit early for tippling, don’t you think? But perhaps you’re drowning your sorrows over losing Lord Dulcie for your sister.”

Theo Pennington, Viscount Saybrook, set down his glass and glared at the gentleman who had so rudely interrupted his solitary perusal of the Times in the Coffee Room of White’s Gentleman’s Club. “Selsey. What nonsense are you babbling? Dulcie’s father and I are meeting later this week to iron out the details of the marriage settlements.”

“Dulcie’s father, yes. But will Dulcie agree? Fifty guineas says he’ll never show.”

Theo sat up in his chair, his eyes narrowing. He might drink like a fish, but he never gambled. And neither did Selsey—unless he was absolutely certain of winning.

“What have you heard, Selsey?”

“Ah, it’s not what I’ve heard, but what I’ve read,” Selsey said, tapping a finger aside his nose. “Haven’t taken a look at the betting book this morning, have you, Saybrook?”

Theo rose on none too steady feet—coffee was not the only beverage served in the Coffee Room—and made his way to the sideboard where the Club’s betting book lay open. There, below the bet about how soon the recently-widowed Lady Constance Wingfield would take a lover, and above the wager on how long before the new Lord Raikes would pass on his title (the previous five holders of which had all died within a twelvemonth of gaining it), he found the following:

Mr. L. Leverett wagers 500 guineas that sentiment for Benedict Pennington will prevent Viscount Dulcie from courting and stealing away Miss Polyhymnia Adler (and her dowry of Old Masters paintings) from the aforesaid B. P.

It was even worse than he’d thought. If Dulcie won this bet, he’d scuttle all Theo’s efforts to finally get his troublesome sister off of his hands. But if Dulcie lost, the wording of the wager implied it would only be because he harbored some highly irregular feelings for Theo’s brother.

Feelings, Theo worried, that Benedict was all too ready to return.

“Damnation!” he whispered under his breath as he slammed the book shut…

Find out who wins the bet in A Sinner without a Saint:

An honorable artist

Benedict Pennington’s greatest ambition is not to paint a masterpiece, but to make the world’s greatest art accessible to all by establishing England’s first national art museum. Success in persuading a reluctant philanthropist to donate his collection of Old Master paintings brings his dream tantalizingly close to reality. Until Viscount Dulcie, the object of Benedict’s illicit adolescent desire, begins to court the donor’s granddaughter, set on winning the paintings for himself . . .

A hedonistic viscount

Sinclair Milne, Lord Dulcie, far prefers collecting innovative art and dallying with handsome men than burdening himself with a wife. But when rivals imply Dulcie’s refusal to pursue wealthy Miss Adler and her paintings is due to lingering tender feelings for Benedict Pennington, Dulcie vows to prove them wrong. Not only will he woo her away from the holier-than-thou painter, he’ll also placate his matchmaking father in the process.

Sinner and saint—can both win at love?

But when Benedict is dragooned into painting his portrait, Dulcie finds himself once again drawn to the intense artist. Can the sinful viscount entice the wary painter into a casual liaison, one that will put neither their reputations, nor their feelings, at risk? Or will the not-so-saintly artist demand something far more vulnerable—his heart?

Publication date: September 16, 2018

ASIN: B07DZ2CVK9

ISBN (ebook): 978-0-9961937-6-4

ISBN (paperback): 978-0-9961937-7-1

Subgenre: Historical (Regency) romance; male/male romance

Page count: 352

Meet Bliss Bennet

Bliss Bennet writes smart, edgy novels for readers who love history as much as they love romance. Her Regency-set historical romance series, The Penningtons, has been praised by the Historical Novel Society’s Indie Reviews as “well worth following”; her books have been described by USA Today as “savvy, sensual, and engrossing,” by Heroes and Heartbreakersas “captivating,” and by The Reading Wench as having “everything you want in a great historical romance.” Her latest book is A Sinner without a Saint.

Despite being born and bred in New England, Bliss finds herself fascinated by the history of that country across the pond, particularly the politically-volatile period known as the English Regency. Though she’s visited Britain several times, Bliss continues to make her home in New England, along with her husband, daughter, and two monstrously fluffy black cats.

Bliss’s mild-mannered alter ego, Jackie Horne, writes about the intersection of gender and genre at the Romance Novels for Feminists blog.