Category: Teatime Tattler Page 141 of 153

Joust on the Hofvijver, 1625

October 30th, 1678

Dear Achille,

Many thanks for the boots – you are too generous! Achilles thrives and I doubt it will be long before he can fit into them. He has barely opened his eyes and already seems to have his mother’s serious temperament. He rarely cries and has not smiled; I worry that some dark aspect of the battle will hang over his life. He can have no way of knowing how many good men died as he drew his first breath or how close the cannon fire came to his parents, but I look at him sometimes when I hold him and wonder. Alice swears it is only that he is too young and I’m certain she must be right as she has heretofore been right about nearly everything, but if you could only see him, Achille! It would seem he was born to bear the weight of the world, and that is a fate I would not wish on anyone, least of all my own small son.

Alice is in good spirits, but she has been slow to recover. The birth was not easy, but I thank God for every day she is here with me and Achilles, and I pray for her recovery. We have made it to The Hague and will stay here until Alice is able to travel again. I found us a modest apartment overlooking the square where I am told Johan de Witt and his unfortunate brother were dismembered and eaten by an angry mob not half a dozen years past. My Dutch is improving by leaps and bounds, but stories like that make me wish it was not so good. I could do without knowing the Dutch word for cannibalized (gekannibaliseerd, if you’re wondering), but Alice takes it in stride and tucks the word away in her remarkable mind between other fearful words in half a dozen languages in case we ever have occasion to use it. I pray we never will.

Thank you for the kind offer to stay with you in Paris. When we are mobile again, I should like that very much. I am dismayed to hear of your niece’s fixation on Languedoc as she always struck me as a clever girl. Attraction has little to do with reason, I’ll warrant, but I hope for her sake she directs her attentions toward someone who is free to return them.

I hope you enjoy your journey to London. It has been years since I’ve been back and I miss it dearly. Southwark is a wild place, so do take care to disguise any obvious wealth should you happen to walk down the street. I know this will be difficult for you as your wardrobe puts the King’s to shame, but have a care as my former neighbors are proficient and ruthless thieves and you will be a tempting target. Give my love to my old master, if you will. Mark Virtue lives on Love Lane in a house with the sign of a coffin out front. You may also enjoy meeting his brother and his wife, the Earl and Countess of Somerton. Sally is French and a brilliant baker, so if you find yourself longing for your own language and cuisine, I’m sure you’ll be more than welcome at their table.

As for the Henshawe sisters…bon chance.

Your affectionate friend,

Jack

The Long Way Home
(The Southwark Saga, Book 3)
By Jessica Cale

A paranoid king, a poison plot, and hideous shoes…it’s not easy being Cinderella.

After saving the life of the glamorous Marquise de Harfleur, painfully shy barmaid Alice Henshawe is employed as the lady’s companion and whisked away to Versailles. There, she catches King Louis’ eye and quickly becomes a court favorite as the muse for Charles Perrault’s Cinderella. The palace appears to be heaven itself, but there is danger hidden beneath the façade and Alice soon finds herself thrust into a world of intrigue, murder, and Satanism at the heart of the French court.

Having left his apprenticeship to serve King Charles as a spy, Jack Sharpe is given a mission that may just kill him. In the midst of the Franco-Dutch war, he is to investigate rumors of a poison plot by posing as a courtier, but he has a mission of his own. His childhood friend Alice Henshawe is missing and he will stop at nothing to see her safe. When he finds her in the company of the very people he is meant to be investigating, Jack begins to wonder if the sweet girl he grew up with has a dark side.

When a careless lie finds them accidentally married, Alice and Jack must rely on one another to survive the intrigues of the court. As old affection gives way to new passion, suspicion lingers. Can they trust each other, or is the real danger closer than they suspect?

“Really brilliant writing that’s so engaging with such endearing characters! I especially love the way Jack and Alice are both so devoted to each other! I was totally absorbed in this exciting and fascinating world Jessica Cale created from the very first paragraph to the last! I read this all in one sitting, staying awake late to finish, just had to!” – Romazing Reader

Jessica Cale is the award-winning author of the historical romance series,The Southwark Saga. Originally from Minnesota, she lived in Wales for several years where she earned a BA in History and an MFA in Creative Writing while climbing castles and photographing mines for history magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough) and is enjoying her happily ever after with him in North Carolina. She is the editor of Dirty, Sexy History and a Bluestocking Belle.

Interview with the spy’s husband

By Bluestocking Belles

On October 5, 2016

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

park-444223_1920 The newest correspondent for The Teatime Tattler is masked, but the mask cannot disguise the youth of her voice or the slenderness of her form. Still, who better to interview a viscount about his life and his love, than a lady? The predictable, thrifty, chivalrous hero from Barbara Devlin’s book My Lady, The Spy takes the seat beside her in the park, as arranged.

Anonymous interviewer for The Teatime Tattler: What is your full name?

Viscount Wainsbrough: Dirk Henry Archibald Randolph, Viscount Wainsbrough.

TTT: Do you have a nickname?

VW: My brother calls me His Dullship of Wainsbrough, though I take issue with his characterization. What Rebecca calls me is between my wife and I.

TTT: What is one word that best describes you?

VW: Honorable.

TTT: You don’t elaborate much, do you?

VW: I exercise economy in all things.

TTT: Describe what you are wearing now to our readers.

VW: Buckskin breeches, a white shirt sans cravat, a dark green hacking jacket, and highly polished Hessians.

TTT: Do you think the author portrayed you accurately?

VW: I do not believe I am as stodgy as Ms. Devlin thinks, and I suspect my wife would agree with my assessment.

TTT: What makes you laugh out loud?

VW: I am not one to engage in frivolous jollity.

TTT: What is your favorite dessert?

VW: Rebecca, my wife.

TTT: What is your favorite drink?

VW: Brandy.

TTT: What is your greatest fear?

VW: That Rebecca might be recalled into service for the Counterintelligence Corps.

TTT: What is your favorite color?

VW: In truth, I have no such partiality, but Rebecca believes I favor burgundy, which was my father’s preference. It is a longstanding joke in my family.

TTT: What do you wear when you go to sleep?

VW: That is between my wife and I.

TTT: What is the perfect romantic date?

VW: Ah, Ms. Devlin explained that a date refers to a private event, of sorts, with a lady, and that is an easy answer. Anything involving my wife. Beyond that, my needs are simple.

TTT: How ticklish are you? Where are you ticklish?

VW: I am immune to such childish antics.

TTT: What’s your favourite smell?

VW: I adore Rebecca’s lavender water.

TTT: What does it remind you of?

VW: Why, my wife, of course.

TTT: When you look at a woman what catches your interest?

VW: The only woman who holds my attention is Rebecca, and I love her brown eyes. She is the only woman I have any interest in touching or having touch me.

TTT: Do you have somebody in your life now?

VW: Rebecca is my life.

TTT: What is one word that best describes her?

VW: Incomparable.

TTT: Is your book part of a series?

VW: It is the second in the Brethren of the Coast series.

TTT: What does the future hold for the readers of the series?

VW: Each member of the Brethren has a story, and some have yet to be told. I believe Damian’s story, The Duke Wears Nada, debuts in January 2017, and I am anxiously awaiting that one, as he is long overdue for his comeuppance.

Barbara says: It’s truly an honor to join the Bluestocking Belles, and I’ve enjoyed introducing one of my favorite characters, the hero from my second book, My Lady, The Spy, which draws heavily on my previous career as a police officer, as well as my personal experiences with undercover work. Enjoy!

barbara-devlin-brethren-series

Excerpt of My Lady, The Spy, Brethren of the Coast book II

The Descendants
France
April, 1811

Death came in a matter of seconds, and it chose a beautiful, star-filled night. In the silver glow of moonlight, the blood staining the front of her peach silk gown, and oozing between her fingers, appeared black as soot from a chimney.

“Oh, Colin. I am so sorry.” Voices echoed in the distance, and L’araignee peered into the darkness to check the vicinity. “I never should have left you alone.”

Amid the blooming rose bushes heralding the advent of spring, the renewal of life, another life had ended. The head cradled in her lap had once sported a boyish expression that melted many a female heart. Now, with his face eerily devoid of emotion, she bent and kissed the only spot on Colin’s forehead not covered with blood.

“I will avenge you, my sweet angel.” Despair was a bitter pill, and L’araignee clenched a fist and swallowed a sob. “I swear it on the graves of my parents.”

A search party drew nigh, and she had to depart or risk a similar fate.

Yet it was so hard to let go.

Her partner would be buried in an unmarked grave, with no ceremony, prayer, or eulogy offered. And no mourner would shed a tear.

Because no one grieved the death of a spy.

“Over here. There is someone over here!”

“I will cry for you, and I shall carry your memory forever,” she said in a whisper. For the last time, she caressed his cheek and eased his head from her lap. She pressed her fingers to her lips, and then touched his cold flesh. “Be at peace, my darling.”

Rustling in the bushes brought her up short.

“You there, stand fast,” an unknown male ordered.

“I think not,” L’araignee stated softly below the interloper’s earshot.

In a flash, she ran behind a tall hedge to a hailstorm of protestations. Ah, a garden was an excellent hiding place. After eluding her pursuers and gaining a measure of safety among the topiaries, she doffed her gown, slippers, and undergarments and rolled everything into a tight ball.

Quickly, she dropped to her knees and crawled beneath the thick canopy of a thorny shrub, which opened countless tiny cuts in her flesh. Ignoring the burning sensation, she smeared handfuls of damp earth on her skin as camouflage. When footsteps approached, she covered her mouth, because the slightest gasp could betray her location. Through the foliage, she counted five rows of buttons on a hussar-style waistcoat and bit her lip. The man was a member of General Bonaparte’s la Garde imperiale.

And L’araignee was in trouble.

If Bony wanted her, she had been well and truly compromised.

Fear shivered down her spine. She saluted the disconcerting reaction and set it aside, because now was not the time for hysterics. She had to get to a safe house. Had to make a run for the Belgian coast. If her communiqué had reached London, Colin’s friend, a trusted ally, should be anchored offshore.

Dirk Randolph would take her home.

Information of utmost importance had to be delivered to the Ministry of Defense and the Counterintelligence Corps. What she possessed was vital to national security, and she could not fail in her duty.

Colin had died for what she knew.

There was a traitor to the Crown in their ranks.

The situation was urgent, and she had to move. With the stealth and skill of a seasoned agent, she slipped between row upon row of ornamental trees and bushes in the elegant garden. Conversation ahead halted her flight. With nary a sound, L’araignee shimmied on all fours and sheltered in the underside of a large holly. The pointed leaves snagged her hair and the bundled clothing.

“I thought I saw someone come this way.”

From her vantage, several pairs of hussar boots appeared on the path.

“Well, there is no one here now.” The guard kicked a small stone. “Get some privates from the infantry, and have them dig a hole for the body. I am returning to the ball.”

L’araignee sat still for several minutes. Despite inclinations to the contrary, she remained calm and patient. An ambitious military man could be lurking in the vicinity, in hopes of making a name for himself at her expense. It was an old trick; one she knew well.

“You are so very sly,” she whispered to herself. “But so am I.”

She waited a tad longer.

Muffled footsteps caught her trained ear, and she shook her head and smiled.

They would not catch L’araignee that night.

About Barbara Devlin

Bestselling, Amazon All-Star author Barbara Devlin was born a storyteller, but it was a week long vacation to Bethany Beach, DE that forever changed her life. The little house her parents rented had a collection of books by Kathleen Woodiwiss, which exposed Barbara to the world of romance, and Shanna remains a personal favorite.

Barbara writes heartfelt historical romances that feature flawed heroes who may know how to seduce a woman but know nothing of marriage. And she prefers feisty but smart heroines who sometimes save the hero, before they find their happily ever after.

After a line-of-duty injury forced her to retire from police work, Barbara earned an MA in English and continued a course of study for a Doctorate in Literature and Rhetoric. She happily considered herself an exceedingly eccentric English professor, until success in Indie publishing lured her into writing, full-time, featuring her fictional knighthood, the Brethren of the Coast.

The Diary of a Duchess

By Guest author

On September 30, 2016

In Teatime Tattler

October 15^th, 1816

My Dearest Diary,

Dudley House, Hanover Square, London

Jonathon and I have not been back at Dudley House for more than a few days and already Helena has arranged a ball to welcome me back to Society! I cannot believe it! She is my darling friend and I know she means well but I cannot help thinking she and Jonathon are determined to match-make now that I have officially emerged from mourning. They think I am lonely, I know it. And perhaps I am, but I do not want a paramour—even though it is de rigueur for many widows—let alone another husband.

Ah, Teddy, I miss him so. Indeed, he would have laughed at me had he seen my face when I opened Helena’s invitation this morning. The sheer horror that gripped me! I dare not even think how I am to brave any event without Teddy by my side, my dearest friend. My protector…

Georgiana Dudley, The Duchess of Darby

Nine wonderful years we had together—it was a marriage of convenience to be sure—but the arrangement suited us both well as you know, Dearest Diary. And Jonathon. But I dare not speak of such secrets, even to you…

But I digress. My real fear is now that Teddy has gone, all manner of rogues and rakehells shall come to hound me—a wealthy widowed duchess of only eight-and-twenty years—they’ll no doubt think I’m desperate for a man. A woman ripe for the plucking as it were. Ha, but they shall only find a gooseberry and thorns should they come to close, not a tasty, sweet morsel at all.

I suspect I shall have to resort to my usual defence during such affairs—The Ice screen-shot-2016-09-29-at-11-52-15-am Duchess shall play piquet—and hopefully win! I won’t dance, or worse still, engage in mindless small talk and facile flirting with members of the opposite sex no matter how much Helena wants me to. She should know by now that I won’t play along. If she weren’t so dear to me, I would cry off but I am loath to hurt her feelings.

And so Dearest Diary, I shall soldier on, armed with nothing but sang-froid and a handful of cards to ward off any potential suitors. I must remind Constance to press my azure blue silk gown for the ball. That should do well enough.

Now, I must bid you adieu, my dear confidante. Constance is here with my chamomile and valerian tea. I trust it shall help me to sleep well tonight; I’ve had far too many fretful nights of tossing and turning. But then again, perhaps the dark circles beneath my eyes will scare the rakes away! I can but hope!

Georgie

___________________________

Georgiana, the Duchess of Darby, is the heroine of Amy Rose Bennett‘s latest release, The Ice Duchess. The hero is Rafe, Lord Markham, a spy for the Crown who is also friends with Lord Rothsburgh, the hero of Lady Beauchamp’s Proposal.

Following is an excerpt of the first-meet of Georgie and Rafe at the ball arranged by Helena, Lady Maxwell…

Georgie took her seat at one of the piquet tables in the card room and removed her gloves, hoping that Phillip, Lord Maxwell, wouldn’t notice her slightly trembling fingers when he joined her. It seemed absurd to be so nervous. Where was her famous sang-froid?

It probably didn’t help that a hush had descended over the card room as Jonathon had escorted her in, and at this very moment, she could feel at least a dozen pairs of eyes, if not more upon her. The unvanquished Ice Duchess—the woman who barely ever lost a game—was about to play cards again. Of course people were going to notice.

Curse her brother and Helena. She would have attracted much less notice if she had simply decided to dance after all. Lemonade in the ladies’ retiring room seemed more appealing by the second. And where in heaven’s name was Phillip? She glanced about the room but could not spy Helena’s husband anywhere.

Not only that, she could see Jonathon disappearing out of the card room, no doubt chasing the dapper young buck he’d been making calf’s eyes at earlier.

If Phillip didn’t appear within the next thirty seconds, she would cut and run.

“May I join you, Your Grace?” A soft baritone drew Georgie’s attention away from the ornately arched doorway of the card room and back to the table.

She glanced up. And it was all she could do not to gasp.

A dark-haired, lean-jawed rake was smiling down at her. Her dastardly brother and friends had set her up after all.

Blast them all to hell.

Drawing in a steadying breath she summoned a slight smile. Her well-practiced, cool duchess’s smile—a smile that had sustained her for almost a decade in the face of such obvious raw masculinity. Thank God she still had it.

“And you are?” she asked smoothly, arching an eyebrow. “I believe we’ve never been introduced.” She thought she knew most rakes of the ton and she had only been away from London for a year. But this tall, handsome man with smoke-gray eyes and a dark velvet voice, she didn’t know at all.

The corner of his wide, well-shaped mouth lifted into a smile. “Forgive my boldness, Your Grace. I am Rafe Landsbury, Lord Markham. Lord Maxwell has been… detained and offers his apologies. He asked me to stand in, in his stead.” His eyes held hers—a question or perhaps it was a spark of challenge flared in their gray depths. “If you don’t mind of course.”

As if she could refuse with everyone watching. She’d gleefully strangle Phillip, Helena and Jonathon later for putting Lord Markham up to this. They probably thought she’d build up a rapport with the man over cards. Then he’d suggest they dance or perhaps peruse the supper table together. His large hand would touch her elbow, the small of her back. His fingers would brush against hers as he passed her a glass of champagne… She knew all the ploys he would use to try and get her hot and bothered. But she wouldn’t fall for any of them. Never again. Just because she was a widow, it didn’t mean she was fair game.

Lord Markham was still watching her expectantly so she affected a small tinkling laugh and shrugged a shoulder. “Of course I don’t mind. Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Georgie tried not to stare as the nobleman folded his long, lean frame onto the damask covered Adams chair opposite her. Markham, Markham. No, not a memory of him stirred at all. Where had such a man been hiding for the last decade? He exuded such a quiet self-assurance as he watched her reach for the deck of cards, a completely unexpected and most disconcerting wave of heat swept over her face.

She hadn’t blushed in years. What is wrong with me?

_________________________

theiceduchess_med-copy Georgiana Dudley, the ‘Ice Duchess’, has just emerged from mourning after a nine-year marriage of convenience to the Duke of Darby, her twin brother’s lover. Deeply hurt by a scoundrel a decade ago, Georgie swore she would never turn her head for any man, let alone another rakehell. But then she encounters the wickedly handsome and all too charming Rafe Landsbury, the Earl of Markham and against her better judgment, her interest is reluctantly aroused. An affair may be impossible to resist but dare she trust Lord Markham with her most intimate secrets… and her heart?

Society believes Rafe to be a diplomat but for many years he has been working on the Continent as a spy for the Crown. Leaving the shadowy world of espionage behind, he returns to London with the intention of finding a wife. When he is paired with the frosty yet fascinating Duchess of Darby at the piquet table during a ton ball, he is intrigued. Do-or-die man that he is, he’s certainly not going to let her cool demeanor dissuade him from pursuing her.

When Rafe’s dark past returns to endanger Georgie, he is determined to protect her at all costs, even if that means hiding who he once was. With the stakes so high, both Georgie and Rafe must decide if love is a risk worth taking…

Heat Level: Steamy to hot. This story is a Regency romance with open-door love-making scenes and frank language is used.

Additional information: This novel is releasing on the 30th September, 2016. It is Book 2 in the loosely linked series, Scandalous Regency Widows Series, but can be read as a stand-alone title.

Amazon Buy Link

Amy Rose Bennett is one of the Bluestocking Belles. You can find out more about her writing here.

The Importance of Being Norman

By Guest author

On September 28, 2016

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

It seemed very real. Must have been the gin, or maybe the brandy, but I could swear I went home the long way round last night.

Via another century.

san-carlo-cicchetti-by-aldo-zilli-italian-restaurant-piccadilly-london You might laugh, but it was 1822 when I left the workroom, and it wasn’t 1822 any more when I turned onto Gillinghall Street.

That isn’t the point. What I remember most is the argument I overheard in Tazzi’s restaurant. You’ve never heard of it? It won’t open for nigh two hundred years, I tell you. I ducked in there to get away from the horseless carriages—great metal boxes that hurtled along with a great blast of noise.

It was a pleasant enough place. Service wasn’t that good mind you, and the décor was a rather peculiar mix of industrial and elegant. But my lucky silver crown got me anything on the menu, yes and a glass of that brandy I mentioned.

They serve Venetian tapas. Now I know what you’re going to say. You’ve heard of Spanish tapas, but never Italian. Neither had I until I went there.

Anyway, this couple, probably in their late twenties—or maybe he was a bit older—sat at the next table. He was out of breath when he arrived, as if he’d walked a fair distance. She’d been fidgeting before he got there, studying the menu as if she was going to be quizzed on it! She eventually ordered the asparagus salad with quail eggs and black truffles, and he had some sort of mini-pizza.

I don’t think they knew each other well. Both nervous. Maybe a first date. Attractive though, especially him with his thick, black hair. Spiffy-looking in a grey summer blazer and white slacks. No cravat; just a thin striped strip of fabric down the front of his crisp linen shirt. It should have looked absurd, but he carried off the combination of casual and formal. He was easily the most handsome man in the busy restaurant. I wasn’t the only woman who noticed him, I can tell you.

Funny thing. He was the spit and image of the Earl of Warenton. Marcus De Wolfe, one of those aristocratic types who can trace his line back to the Dark Ages! Not dressed the part, of course, but certainly as handsome as the earl. We used to dress his wife—what they can spend on a gown, the aristocracy!

How the other half lives, eh?

Come to think of it, this man and the young woman seemed to be discussing family trees. I got the feeling he’d hired her to do some research, and the pleasant conversation turned heated when he obviously didn’t agree with something she’d said.

It was too bad because they looked well suited to me, but she got up, threw down her napkin and left in a huff. He paid the bill and went after her, but she had a good head start, and she was mad!

Me? I finished my brandy, and then it was morning and I was here. It must have been the brandy. My lucky silver crown is gone, though.

Hungry Like De Wolfe

markland-cover Blaise de Wolfe risks losing De Wolfe Hall unless he can prove his pure Norman ancestry and be eligible for a substantial renovation grant from the “Sons of the Conquest”, an exclusive club. He turns to family tree researcher Anne Smith, unaware of her Norman roots and consequent disdain for the male-only policies of the club. Sparks fly between them when she digs up some unexpected information about Blaise’s medieval ancestor, Gaetan de Wolfe.

Anne harbors other resentments. Widowed when her husband volunteers for a second tour with the British Army in Iraq, she is reluctant to embark on another relationship, though she is drawn to Blaise. He too is afraid to risk his heart after his fiancée dumps him upon learning his ancestral home is draining his bank account.

Two great medieval dynasties come together in this novella set in London in 2006— Le Veque’s De Wolfe Pack and Markland’s Montbryce~FitzRam family. The world will never be the same.

EXCERPT:

Blaise gritted his teeth, cursing himself for a fool when Anne glared back angrily and thrust her fork into the remaining quail’s egg like Saint George slaying the proverbial dragon.

A man in his profession never blurted out a judgmental statement of that sort. His emotions had got the better of him. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate the first woman he’d been attracted to in years. Plus, he was financially dependent on her goodwill. “I apologise,” he muttered lamely.

She put down her knife and fork and stared at him. “Not that I have to justify my credentials to you, Mr. de Wolfe, but it happens that the Norman Conquest is my area of expertise. I too am a descendant of a knight who fought at Hastings, the first Earl of Ellesmere, and what’s more I can prove it.”

Once again his better judgement failed him. “With a name like Smith?” he scoffed.

She crumpled her napkin and threw it onto the table. “I’ve changed my mind about the tiramisu,” she said, pushing back her wheeled chair. “I trust you’ll get this?”

She was gone before he could retract his accusation.

Meet Anna Markland

Passion conquers whatever obstacles a hostile medieval world can throw in its path. My page-turning adventures have earned me a place on Amazon’s All-Star list.

Besides writing, I have two addictions-crosswords and genealogy, probably the reason I love research. I am a fool for cats. My husband is an entrepreneur who is fond of boasting he’s never had a job.

I live on Canada’s scenic west coast now, but I was born and raised in the UK and I love breathing life into the history of my homeland.

Escape with me to where romance began.

You can find me at my website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.

Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter.

Hungry Like De Wolfe is a Kindle Worlds novella based on Kathryn Le Veque’s Warwolfe (coming soon). It represents my first foray into contemporary romance, though as you have probably gathered it has heavy medieval overtones. I hope you enjoy meeting Anne and Blaise.

LINK: Amazon

A Wary Widow Seeks Advice

By Aunt Augusta

On September 26, 2016

In Ask Aunt Augusta, Teatime Tattler

Ask Aunt Augusta

Dear Aunt Augusta,

I am alone in a foreign country where I speak not a word of the language. I recently hired an Englishman fluent in Italian to interpret for me. He claims to be a military man but I see no evidence of it. He wears a shabby coat, is in want of a hair cut, and, I am embarrassed to say, smells of drink. He does his job, but frequently oversteps and appears to think he is my bodyguard. I fear I like him too much. Can he be trusted?

Signed,

A wary widow, the heroine of DANGEROUS SECRETS by Caroline Warfield

Dearest Wary Widow,

I commend you for being alone in a foreign country and endeavoring your best to not only survive there but to thrive. Hiring an Englishman to interpret for you is smart, and it is smart, too, I feel, for you to be wary. If a man claims to be military but you see no evidence of it, that does raise suspicions.

Then again, you mention that he appears to think he is your bodyguard. He obviously cares about you, and your safety, as do I, and I am grateful that he is there for you. It cannot be easy to be alone in a foreign country and you a widow!

You fear you like him too much. I always advise to follow one’s heart, and if you feel safe with him, your interpreter and bodyguard, maybe you can trust him.

I would suggest that you talk to him. Ask him for more details. And maybe, just maybe, you can interpret each other’s hearts.

I wish you the very best,

Aunt Augusta

DANGEROUS SECRETS by Caroline Warfield

Will love—and the truth—bind them both together?

http://www.carolinewarfield.com

~~~

Dear authors, if ever you should find that one of your characters has found him or herself in a rather trying position, whether in matters of the heart or matters of fashion or any matter at all, do be a kind soul and write to me. I will endeavor to answer your questions, if you but pen them for me.

Because history is fun and love is worth working for