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!
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.
To avenge his love’s death, Sir Gerald challenges her murderer to a duel. Her twin, however, feels that Alice never loved the knight and gives him a tea that sends him to into the future, to the Regency era.
About the Book:
The Long Way Home