The Collected 2015 Editions of
The Teatime Tattler

By the Bluestocking Belles:

Amy Rose Bennett

Susana Ellis

Sherry Ewing

Jude Knight

Caroline Warfield

Nicole Zoltack

www.BluestockingBelles.net

Copyright © 2016 by the Bluestocking Belles.

Copyright to individual articles resides with the author.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

It contains the Teatime Tattler articles written by the Bluestocking Belles during 2015. We hope you enjoy re-meeting our characters and learning a little more about their lives outside of the pages of our books.

The Teatime Tattler is a Regency gossip paper, edited and published by one Mr. Samuel Leishman Clemens. Mr Clemens is the fictional brother of John Clemens, who will one day father another Samuel, a sixth son who will go on to become a reporter and rather famous writer under a pen name.

Gentle Reader.

As we approach the End of this Year, your Humble Servant looks back on the first months of your Favorite Newspaper, and thanks you for your Patronage.

When first I began The Teatime Tattler, I promised my Readers an exciting Mix of News from All Levels of Society. Who can doubt I have succeeded Beyond my Wildest Dreams?

The Collected 2015 Editions is, I hope, the first in an annual Feast for Faithful Supporters of this publication. Within, you will find every article published this year by my Indefatigable Correspondents, the Bluestocking Belles. Every Saturday since The Teatime Tattler's first edition, and sometimes on Mondays, too, they have brought you news of High Society and Low, Love found and Love lost, Danger feared and Danger overcome. Even I do not know how they know about the matters they share with you in my Pages. They must have entry to some of the Highest Homes in the Land.

My Thanks must also go to the Guest Correspondents who Grace our pages on Wednesday and add even more Variety to the stories you Enjoy from your Teatime Tattler. Their Stories are not within these Covers, but as Proprietor of this Fine Newspaper, and on behalf of my Anonymous Backers, I give them my Profoundly Grateful Thanks.

I wish you Much Pleasure reading the Articles and Stories I am proud to present in this, The Collected 2015 Editions of The Teatime Tattler.

I Remain, etc., etc.

Samuel Clemens

Is the Earl’s Man Mrs Cooper’s New Flirt? And Who will Win the Jam Prize?

Breaking News from Rome: Poet Claims Illness

The Ultimate Escape

Sir Gerald Succumbs to Gossip

A Diary Entry of Miss Margaret Templeton

The Secret Diary of Elizabeth, Lady Beauchamp

Horace Hogge-Worthy Digs For Dirt

Riorden de Deveraux Requests an Audience with his Author Sherry Ewing

Lord Moreton’s Fate is Sealed. Isn’t it?

Stolen Correspondence

Her Grace of Haverford does her duty

A Consultation with The Black Goddess

Sir Daniel Sees a Ghost

Scandalous Rumors are Overheard at the Bluestocking Bookshop

Women Manage the Marquess

A Shocked Groom-to-be’s Unexpected News

Scandalous Scratchings from the Quill of the Ever-Curious, Lady S.

Scandal at St. George’s: Where are the Bride and Groom and what does a Gypsy have to do with it?

Men are Such Gossips!

A mother rubs salt in the wounds of a rejected suitor

Private Dispatches from the Mediterranean

Diary of a Would-be Rapist

The Regret of Choices Made

Kate’s Very Great Favor—a prequel scene to The Ultimate Escape

A Frantic Attempt to Save the Earl from a Grave Mistake

A Delightful Meeting—Or Maybe Not

Storm-tossed lovers

A Surfeit of Questionable Behaviour

The Bluestocking Belles and their books

Is the Earl’s Man Mrs. Cooper’s New Flirt? And Who will Win the Jam Prize?

Image credit: Cottage interior with figures, by Victor Emile Janssen

Today, we have a bit of gossip from Longford Village on the estate of the Earl of Chirbury. The village is preparing for Whitsun Week and is very excited to have the earl at home for the occasion, for the first time in many years.

Join us as we eavesdrop on Ruth Benton, the miller’s sister, and Hannah Cooper, maid-of-all work to the widow, Mrs Forsythe.

Rumor has it that Mrs Cooper, whose apple pasties have won best-in-show at the Whitsun Week Fête for the last three years, will this year be focusing on carrying off the cup for best jam. Miss Benton, runner-up pastry maker for two of those three years, is torn between celebrating the departure of her rival and entering her own gooseberry jam.

But first, she needs to confirm that the rumors are true.

“You’ll be up early to make your pasties then, Hannah, come Tuesday,” says Miss Benton.

“My ladies do fair love those pasties, Ruthie. Pass me that cloth, will you? I need to give the pot a stir.” Hannah swings a kettle away from the flames and holds it steady with a cloth-protected hand while she stirs it, sending up a rich aroma redolent of strawberries.

“Jam, is it, Hannah?” Ruthie leans over the table, craning her neck for a better look.

Hannah nods but makes no other reply as she swings the pot back then turns the crank handle a couple of times to raise the pot a little farther above the flames. She takes her seat again then lifts the teapot, weighing it to see how much tea is left. “Another cup, Ruthie?”

“Perhaps just the one… Jam for the fête, would it be?”

Whether Hannah would have answered or not, we will never know, for at that moment, there is a knock on the back door.

Hannah opens and stands aside for the Earl of Chirbury’s man, John Price. Ruthie smooths her apron and checks to see if her hair is tucked neatly inside her cap. He is a handsome man—small and dark complexioned like all of the Price family but well knitted together.

He acknowledges the introduction to Ruthie with a courteous smile. “Mr. Samuel Benton’s sister. Am I right?”

After a few moments of chat, they establish mutual acquaintances and even a distant connection through Samuel’s deceased wife, whose cousin was married to a sister-in-law of Mr. Price’s sister.

“And what have you there, Mr. Price?” Hannah asks, nodding at the large basket he is resting on the table.

He removes the cover. It is full of earthenware pots and glass jars. “For your jam for the fair, Mrs. Cooper. I mentioned that you was raising money for training the young lasses, and the cook up at Longford Court wanted to help. Is that the jam on the fire?” He takes a deep sniff. “Smells like a prize-winning jam to me, and that’s a fact.”

Hannah looks at him sidelong and smiles.

Well! Ruthie has her answer, and a delightful piece of gossip into the bargain. She can hardly wait to take her leave. Her next stop will be the bakers where her friend Jerusha will love to hear what she has to say. “The earl’s man is courting Mrs. Cooper. What do you think of that!”

Hannah and John appear as supporting characters Jude Knight’s Farewell to Kindness. Hannah is maid to Anne Forsythe, and John is man-servant to Rede, the Earl of Chirbury.

Breaking News from Rome: Poet Claims Illness

Image credit: Crown Prince Ludwig in the Spanish Wine Bar in Rome, by Franz Ludwig Catel

Special Dispatch to The Teatime Tattler

From Mr. Horace Hogge-Worthy, Rome November 1820

Most honored editors,

I tracked that poet Keats to Rome as instructed. He’s taken up rooms in an apartment building on the Piazza di Spagna overlooking a monstrous fountain with horses, naked statues, and water sailing in all directions.

He’s with some artist fellow named Severn. Fellow acts like an attack dog when I try to gain entrance. From what I can see from the door, it looks like a two-room hovel.

I tried dressing Italian and carrying up a food delivery like I saw them getting earlier this week, but Severn saw right through it. That time I spotted what looked like someone in a bed before Severn slammed the door in my face. The rumors about ill health may be correct.

I’m spending my time at a café across the piazza where I can see the comings and goings. So far, no sign of P.B. Shelley or any of his infamous inamorata. (No women at all that I’ve seen so far, but believe me, I’ll make note and be sure to send that on.) We know Shelley’s somewhere on the Italian peninsula, and so’s that scoundrel Bryon so I have hopes.

My sketch pencil has been busy. I’m sending along some sketches. I wish someone would invent a machine so I could catch a picture of everyone who goes in and out.

One man comes and goes every day. I followed him yesterday. Name’s James Clark, a Scotsman. He keeps premises here and practices medicine. Keats must be in a bad way if he needs a physician every day.

Sitting here gets painful, what with the constant sun and dry climate. I have to give the café my commerce, but be assured I order only the lowest sort of Umbrian wine. I will append my expenses.

All the blast miserable Italian is weighing on me. Can’t speak more than five words past “vino.” A fellow named Jones stopped here for a nip last evening right before sundown, and I was glad to talk to someone in English I can tell you that. Bit rough is Wat Jones. Claims to be a former artillery sergeant or something. Claims he was at Waterloo. Don’t they all? He made me think maybe there’s plenty of English in Rome to dig up dirt on if this Keats thing goes dry.

I did pick up one item of interest. Jones acts as footman/bodyguard for some English lady with a fancy house up on the Quirinale hill. High cost neighborhood. Jones says she don’t have a title, but she’s a lady to her fingertips. Jones was on his way to escort her home from dinner at the Palazzo Savoia. Very high class. The woman’s name is Eleanora Bently; she’s married to a Major Bently. Ever heard of them? See what you can find. That house is too much for an impoverished major, and half-pay officers don’t dine with the House of Savoy. I smell a story there. I may sniff around and see what I can dig up.

My expenses are below. I would appreciate payment soonest.

More when I have it.

Horace Hogge-Worthy

Find out about Wat Jones and the mysterious major in Caroline Warfield’s Dangerous Secrets.

The Ultimate Escape

Image credit: St Georges Hanover Square—Print from Leigh’s Guide to London

December 3, 1812

I always believed my parents’ marriage was a love match, although Mama never said so, and Papa wasn’t the type to make such emotional declarations, at least not while we were around. He was a gruff man and rarely smiled, but his affection showed in his eyes by the way they followed her around whenever they were together and how often he touched her hands or shoulder. Nor did I ever see him turn her away when she embraced him or kissed him on the lips, which she was wont to do. And three years ago after he left his earthly shell, my sisters and I thought Mama wouldn’t last out the year. She did, though, but she was never truly happy after that. Always seemed to be searching for something to give her life meaning.

But they did have their quarrels. Papa’s family were Tories, and Mama, when she found the time, secretly associated with the Whigs and the Devonshire set. He always pretended not to know, but now that I’m older, I feel pretty certain he did. He knew Mama wasn’t the sort of woman to be dictated to, but he couldn’t openly condone it either. For the most part, he trusted her to be discreet.

Except that one time. When I was thirteen, they had a dreadful row that went on for days, and then one day, my mother was gone. Papa put it around that she had gone to the country to recover from an illness, but we knew she hadn’t. He was beside himself with worry, interrogating us and all of her closest friends, even to the point of calling on the Duchess of Devonshire, Lady Bessborough, Lady Holland, and Lady Melbourne (Mama’s Whig friends who, I discovered later, my father detested), in an attempt to discover her whereabouts. All to no avail. Finally, he just shut himself up in his study and refused to allow anyone inside except servants and numerous bottles of spirits.

A fortnight later, Mama returned and hugged us all, promising she would never leave us again, and she and Papa went upstairs to their rooms and resolved their differences. They were happier after that, but neither could be induced to tell us anything about their quarrel or where she had been during that time.

It wasn’t until two years later that I discovered her journal and learned the truth, shocking and unbelievable though it was. During those two weeks, Mama wrote that she had escaped two hundred years into the future to the twentieth century!

When confronted with the journal, she admitted it was true. Apparently, the newly married William Wilberforce had acquainted Papa with the facts about Mama’s dealings with the immoral Devonshire set—nearly all of whom had children by other men than their husbands—and told him he’d best get his household in order before he, too, became a laughingstock. Papa had been so humiliated that he’d come home in a fit of temper and demanded that Mama cease all of her political activities and content herself with her role as wife and mother. When she refused—and he had to know she would—he threatened to banish her to the country until she agreed.

They quarreled for several days, and then one day, she walked off and didn’t come back. In her diary, she wrote that she had found herself in an odd little shop on Gracechurch Street where a gypsy lady told fortunes and such. Mama confided in her, saying that she didn’t want to face anyone she knew until she managed to get her thoughts together and come to a decision about what she should do. The gypsy, who goes by the name of Herne, offered to send her away into the future for a time, and Mama was desperate enough to accept, after being reassured that she could return when she wished to.

She never would tell me what happened during those two weeks, and she burned the journal so that nobody else could see it. Nor do I know what she told Papa, but he never questioned her behavior again, and I believe their marriage was stronger after that. She had a locked drawer in her desk that she only opened when she was alone, and when we were ill, she used to bring us smooth white pellets instead of the usual willow bark tea, and she adamantly refused to allow us to be bled for any reason. I once caught a glimpse of her in some scandalous nightrail that made Papa’s eyes light up when he saw her in it, and she later confessed that she had got it from some shop in the future called ‘Victoria’s Secret’.

She never left us again until after Papa’s death, and before she did, she made sure to tell my sisters and me beforehand.  Philippa and Sarah didn’t believe her at first, and I think they are still a bit skeptical and disapproving, but they are both happily married society matrons now and can’t imagine why anyone would want to travel in time. I, on the other hand, have always been fascinated by the idea.

And now, on the eve of my marriage, I find myself longing to escape, at least until I can reflect clearly on my future. If I do not appear at St. George’s on the morrow, my future with Oliver will certainly be ended. But after what I overheard this evening, I comprehend that I cannot marry a man who only wants me to be a mother to his child, who still loves his deceased wife, and who was my best friend. Not even though I’ve loved him desperately my entire life and he may be my only chance of escaping spinsterhood.

The house is asleep, so I change into a traveling gown and pelisse, scoop up my stash of coins into a reticule, and hail a hackney to take me to Gracechurch Street. A bold move, but then, I am my mother’s daughter. And I’d sooner brave the unknown than the consequences of leaving my betrothed at the altar.

For the rest of this story, see The Ultimate Escape by Susana Ellis. It's a prequel to the time travel novel, A Home For Helena.

Sir Gerald Succumbs to Gossip

Image credit: A knight and his lady, by William G Mackenzie

Sir Gerald isn’t much for gossip. Not normally, at least. As a knight, he has more honor than to spread what might be falsehoods against another person. But such confusion and doubt fill him that he must talk to someone about it, for fear he would elsewise go mad.

But being here, in this place, there is no one he can trust. In a study, he spies some parchment and a quill. Writing down his thoughts, yes, that just might help some.

I was all prepared for the joust, ready to fight for my love’s honor. What better purpose can a knight serve? But then I fainted and woke to find the clearing, my horse, my opponent, the onlookers, all of them gone.

There’s a house nearby, but I feel too befuddled to move. The landscape here is different. So too is the air. I cannot quite explain it, but everything is wrong.

Before I can even gather my thoughts, a woman approaches. Her hair is uncovered, and she has a presence about her, one that commands respect. It is she who brings to my attention that it is Christmastime here.

But from whence I came, it is springtime.

Something is not quite right.

The woman, Lady Vanessa of somesuch or another, has many questions for me, I can tell, but as I have no answers to give her, I only allow her one, which she choses to ask at a later time. Truthfully, I find her as puzzling as she appears to find me. Her clothes, her manner of speaking… she is rather different from any woman I have met previously.

And by far the most generous. She offers her parents’ house for me to reside in. Temporarily, of course. I cannot stay here long. Only until I learn where here is and how to return to my time. The joust to kill my love’s murderer cannot wait.

How I came to be here, and why, I do not know, but having met Lady Vanessa, I am quite glad. At least I know there still are decent and good and kind persons in the world. Not like those who would spread lies about my love like her own twin or her foul murderer.

Still, as much as I appreciate Lady Vanessa, I will leave as soon as I can. I do not belong here. There is nothing that binds me to this land.

I do hope Lady Vanessa will understand.

Sir Gerald and Lady Vanessa are the main characters in Nicole Zoltack’s Love Before Honor.

A Diary Entry of Miss Margaret Templeton

Image credit: Western Exchange, also known as the Bond Street Bazaar—early nineteenth century print

10 December 1811

Dearest Diary,

There has been much going on in my life of late, although I have not been permitted enough time to take pen to paper as I know I should. I will forgive myself these hastily scratched words as I get myself up to date.

Father has taken it upon himself to see me wed. I must admit the circumstances that find me just outside of London are most unusual, for I am acting the hostess for a man to whom I am not wed or even engaged. It is odd but true. As I write this, I am sitting in the home of Captain Sander Morledge, with whom my father wishes me to make a match. I decided to be the dutiful daughter to make him happy and complied.

Captain Morledge seems the sort of gentleman that any young woman might wish to marry. Charming, handsome, a man focused on his career. He would undoubtedly be gone for long periods of time on one campaign or another, or so I reason. If we were to wed, his absence would allow me the freedom to delve into any number of my beloved books at my leisure and also to visit the local museums, libraries, and bookstores that can be found in excess in London.

On my first day in London, I encountered the one individual I hoped not to see. I must admit my heart near burst with both excitement and sorrow, if such emotions were possible to have at the same time. You know of whom I speak, because you know who would cause such a reaction, do you not, dear diary? You would be correct, for I ran into none other than my childhood friend, Frederick Beacham, while at the Bond Street Bazaar viewing the art galleries. I would not confess this aloud, but I cannot help but write how well he appeared. As I stood there with him, the years seemed to vanish away, and I realized just how much I had missed his banter.

We began a friendly enough conversation, but already I could hear the whisperings of several ladies nearby at my speaking with a gentleman when I was, for a brief moment, without escort. How could I forget that the ton could be so cruel and turn the simplest situations into something worthy of The Morning Post gossip column? It is no wonder I prefer the country life.

Needless to say, Freddy asked why I was in London this time of year, for it was most unusual. He did not like my answer and has voiced his displeasure at a match with the good captain. Freddy has yet to give me any validation or proof that I should doubt Captain Morledge’s character or true nature. Until then, I shall keep an open mind about whether we shall suit. The way Captain Morledge spoke when he came to meet me in town yesterday gave me pause, but perhaps he was merely concerned, and certainly he was all affability afterward.

Freddy has always been a tad possessive of me, and that has clearly not changed because I refused to wed him due to my station in life. He is nobility. I am nothing more than a vicar’s daughter who does not have the place and rank within society his parents would demand of his wife. My heart may have wished for our situation to be otherwise, but I am not foolish enough to think such a match would, in truth, work to our advantage.

But enough of Freddy for now. I have already filled several diaries over the years with nothing but words of despair about my dear Lord Beacham. I know he is completely out of my reach, and my despair and sorrow over that fact is much of my own making.

With my mother’s dear friend Lady Whittles acting as my chaperone, we have now settled at Captain Morledge’s manor house so I may act as hostess for the ball he plans to celebrate the start of the advent season. We will stay here over the next week, and then I will return home to Edington.

Already, I feel this may be longer than I truly wish to visit. There is something odd about this house, or so it appears on the surface. I have felt an eerie sense of being watched while I go about instructing the servants and making sure all is in order for the scheduled festivities. Those same servants skitter about, whispering behind my back when they think I am no longer within listening distance and constantly steer me away from the third floor. I thought I was to meet the captain’s children. They have been motherless since his poor wife’s demise, but I have yet to encounter them.

I am afraid my curiosity may get the better of me. I am intrigued about what I might find if I were to venture up to the next floor of the manor. I almost gave in to the impulse, but Captain Morledge espied me while I had only one foot upon the stairway. He was clearly displeased, and of a sudden, I had a premonition that perhaps Freddy was indeed right. Perhaps I should not marry the man.

I must make haste, as I have duties to attend to, but will write more if or when time permits while I am still here.

Margaret

Margaret Templeton’s story is Under the Mistletoe, by Sherry Ewing.

The Secret Diary of Elizabeth, Lady Beauchamp

Image credit: A view of Tantallon Castle, by Alexander Nasmyth

7th October 1815

Dear Diary,

It has been some time since I last permitted myself the luxury of confiding my thoughts, or perhaps I should say secrets, to you. But given my situation, I sorely feel the need to do so now. You see, my life as Elizabeth, Lady Beauchamp is over, and as dramatic as that sounds, it is nothing but the truth. Circumstances beyond my control have compelled me to leave my husband, Hugh de Lancey Harcourt, the Earl of Beauchamp. But more than that, I have now gone into hiding, and, believe me, it was not a decision I made lightly.

As you well know, dear Diary, Hugh and I have only been married three years, and even though it is hard for me to admit, my husband has never loved me. I suppose some might say—and I would agree—that we are long-estranged. I did love him once, but it is hard to continue to care for a man who professes you to be pretty but dull and who barely gives you the time of day. I know he takes mistresses, and worse—prostitutes from the street—to his bed, rather than me. The shocking knowledge once tore at my heart, but now I just feel saddened. Strange how I have grown used to feeling quite alone.

Indeed, it is because of Hugh’s dissolute way of life that I have been forced to flee. I recently discovered he has syphilis, or ‘the pox’. One of his mistresses wrote to me but a month ago, warning me to leave before Hugh passed on this terrible, incurable, and ultimately deadly malady. She professed that she had contracted the pox from my husband, and I am inclined to believe her.

Now, dear Diary, you are probably wondering why. Strangely, her letter held a ring of truth to it; she informed me that Hugh sported an incriminating mark of the disease—an ulcer called a chancre on his hand—and I have seen it! But of course, Hugh—arrogant and obstinate as ever—refused to discuss it with me or to consult our physician. Even more terrifying was the fact that shortly after I received the letter and had begun to lay careful plans to leave, Hugh suddenly—and uncharacteristically—wanted to bed me again; to beget an heir were his words to me on the very last night I spent at Harcourt House, our London residence. But I can never be intimate with my husband again. If I did share his bed, I and any babe conceived would be damned as much as Hugh. I cannot countenance such a diabolical act.

So I left him. With no personal fortune—Hugh has always controlled the purse strings—I have been obliged to take on a new persona, that of Mrs. Beth Eliott, widowed governess. As a patroness of the Widows of Waterloo Trust—a charity that finds paid, decent work for women who have lost their husbands at Waterloo—I heard of a long vacant governess’s post within the Marquess of Rothsburgh’s household in a remote part of Aberdeenshire. In fact, the marquess’s castle, Eilean Tor, is situated on an island and can only be reached via a causeway at low tide. Quite desperate, I journeyed here with my self-penned letter of reference from ‘the astute Lady Beauchamp’ only to discover that Lord Rothsburgh no longer requires a governess. After the recent, accidental death of his wife, their young daughter now resides in Edinburgh with his sister’s family. To make matters worse, on my arrival, I succumbed to a terrible ague that was plaguing the district, and to my mortification, Lord Rothsburgh himself took part in a good deal of my care.

My friends in the Widows of Waterloo Trust had warned me that Lord Rothsburgh was quite the misanthrope—a lone wolf—but I have not found him to be churlish or unsociable at all. I have observed in the short time I have been here at Eilean Tor, that he is quite mercurial and has a strange, perhaps even wicked sense of humor, but beneath all that, he is quite charming—and devilishly handsome, even dangerously so. Long ago, I gave up on the idea of ever having love in my life, and I must certainly not entertain the notion now. I might be physically attracted to Lord Rothsburgh, but I cannot, must not, give into wicked temptation and cultivate any tender feelings for the man, despite his care and concern for my well-being. I have almost fully recovered from the ague and hope to hear of another governess’s position very soon. Indeed, Lord Rothsburgh is currently visiting his sister, Lady Maxwell, in Edinburgh to make enquiries—on my behalf—about other vacant posts.

If there are no other positions about, I do not know what I shall do. All I know is that I cannot go back to Hugh.

I must go now, but thank you for listening, dearest Diary. Please keep my secrets safe.

E

Elizabeth, Lady Beauchamp is the heroine of Amy Rose Bennett’s debut Regency novel, Lady Beauchamp’s Proposal.

Horace Hogge-Worthy Digs For Dirt

Image credit: Ein gutes Blatt, by Reinhard Sebastian Zimmermann

Update to The Teatime Tattler
From Mr. Horace Hogge-Worthy
Rome December 1820

Most honored editors,

I am on to something new. Per my missive of last month, I tracked Jones, the fellow I met in a tavern, to a villa in the posh neighborhood up one of the hills. It’s a place called ‘Casa Beaumont’ Jones wasn’t lying. Big money up there. I watched the house for a day or two. I was ready to leave it and go back after that Keats fellow, but when I turned to slip back down the rear lane, I almost bumped into a little weasel of a fellow hiding behind the house. Someone else had an eye on this major and Mrs. Bently. My nose for news itched.

The weasel works for a count named Castellimonte. He’s some representative to the pope himself for the king of Sardinia, the king’s cousin, no less. Aren’t those folks the Jacobite heirs? London would be keeping an eye on them, I can tell you. Your readers might want to know they spied on an English major. Readers will be happy to think the worst of some Jacobite-Italian mushrooms. It shouldn’t be too hard to show them up for the rum coves they are, the lot of them. My landlord being one of the worst gougers, as you can see from my expense sheets.

On the other hand, there is something funny about the Bentlys. I decided to follow Jones to his favorite tavern to see what else I could find out. Jones—he goes by ‘Wat’) became more loquacious after I bought a few rounds. My expenses, as always, are enclosed for your speedy response. Unfortunately, the Bently woman turns out to be the daughter of some vicar in Dorset, not the sort of person London readers are wont to consider worth the price of the newssheet. I questioned the barmaid at length, but she knew nothing. Neither did the other one.

Just when I thought I had no story, I got lucky. A pair of Englishmen visited two days ago. One dressed all in black, head to foot. He looked like a clergyman or bookish type except he sported the ugliest phyz I’ve seen, all scarred up like no scholar you ever met. Limped too.

The other one, though, now he was a serious nob and very interesting. The sun off that yellow hair about blinded me. He dressed like he was paying a call on Lady Jersey herself, cool as can be, dripping lace. He looked damned familiar, so I sniffed around some and discovered that the Duke of Sudbury, he what used to be Marquess of Glenaire, deputy to Castlereagh himself, is in Rome. At least he was. If the swell I saw was really the duke, Bently must be in big trouble. I saw the swell and his friend leave with Bently between them. The major looked like he was on his way to a hanging and not as a spectator either. Since I heard Sudbury left Rome and Bently never came home, I believe that is so. You may want to put someone on it in London.

Since then the buzzing in the taverns is all about Castellimonte and the Bently marriage. Seems to be some chance it may all be a sham. There’s a child in the house. No one seems sure about the chit’s parentage, but the Bently woman claims to be an aunt, and rumors about her fitness are everywhere. The whole thing may end up in the papal court. We can take the unfit mother tack on this or go with the Papists bullying a good English woman. We may want to figure out what happened to Bently first and how Sudbury is involved. Please advise.

 My expenses are below. I would appreciate payment soonest.

More when I have it.

Horace Hogge-Worthy

More about the Bentlys in Caroline Warfield’s Dangerous Secrets.

Riorden de Deveraux Requests an Audience with his Author Sherry Ewing

Image credit: Tea set, by Jean-Etienne Liotard

There isn’t much in life that can surprise me these days, but every once in a while it does tend to happen. One minute I’m sitting at home marketing my books, and the next the room spins and I’m transported through space and time.

Dizzy and disoriented, I look up only to see the familiar building of Mrs. Marlowe’s Book Emporium and Tea Rooms. Go figure. What are the chances of that? I shake my head, wondering what in the world I’m doing here until I hear a gasp of outrage behind me. I turn, and there is a woman taking a firm hold of her child’s hand. She looks me up and down before making a wide path around me. Given her elegant Regency clothing and my very modern jeans and comfy t-shirt, I can only imagine what the poor woman must think.

With a shrug, I grab the copy of The Teatime Tattler lying on the ground before entering the establishment. The multitude of books beckon to me, but apparently I’m not here to get lost between my choices of what book I’d like to read. I would know Mrs. Marlowe anywhere as she approaches.

“They have been waiting for you in the tearoom, Ms. Ewing,” she states clearly as she points in the direction of where I’m apparently supposed to be going. “They told me you would prefer to be called that instead of Miss. Is this the correct form of address where you are from?”

“Yes, that’s fine, but who is waiting for me?” I ask with what surely must be a puzzled expression.

She doesn’t answer my question but only smiles. “If you do not mind, I will need to take The Teatime Tattler, but thank you for bringing it inside for us,” she said. “We would not like to reveal any spoilers before events can pass the way they are intended.”

“No, I suppose not.” I look at the rolled print, wondering what’s hiding inside. I finger the edges, hesitant to let go of the curiosity that was getting the better of me.

“Ms. Ewing?”

“Yes?”

Mrs. Marlowe holds out her hand. “The paper, if you please.”

Reluctantly, I hand her The Teatime Tattler knowing there will be people eagerly waiting to see what the latest gossip holds. Apparently, I have another purpose that is more important than learning the current trend in Regency England.

As I enter the tearoom, I am pleasantly surprised to see none other than Katherine and Riorden de Deveraux. She is sitting, wearing a lovely green gown and sipping tea in a floral china cup. He, on the other hand, is standing there with his arms crossed against his chest and a frown marring his handsome features. Clearly he is angry about something.

“Sherry, how wonderful it is to see you. Please sit down and have a cup of this divine tea,” Katherine says with a welcoming smile.

“God’s Wounds, Kat, we have not brought this woman through time to sit and have tea,” Riorden fumes with a loud growl of outrage.

“There’s always time for tea, Riorden. Calm down.” Katherine tries to sooth her husband by reaching up to pat his hand. She pours tea and hands me the cup. “He’s a bit testy at the moment.”

“I can see that,” I answer honestly as the knight glares down at me from his towering height.

“Tell me what year it is for you,” Katherine asks with a smile.

I have to laugh since I can see this woman is dying for information from San Francisco. “2015.”

“How are the Giants doing?”

A grunt escapes Riorden, and with wide eyes, he leans forward to whisper to us. “Bloody hell! You have giants where you come from?”

Katherine and I look at each other and burst out laughing, only causing him to straighten with another fierce frown in our direction.

“I see not what there is to jest about with giants running amuck in your Sanfran Cisco,” he grumbles.

“They’re a baseball team,” I offer, but his frown only deepens. “They won the World Series last year.”

“That’s awesome news. Baseball is a game, babe,” Katherine said before turning her attention back to me. “What about—”

“Kat… I must needs have speech with her,” Riorden demands.

“Just hold your horses, Riorden,” Katherine replies.

“You know I did not bring Beast with us when we crossed the portal through time. I cannot hold him if he is not here, my love,” Riorden declares with a smug smile.

“Another expression, dear heart. What about the Warriors?” she continues onward.

“Aye, tell me of the warriors of your time,” Riorden requests with a roguish grin. “They must be fierce.”

I open my mouth to report about the team having won this year’s championship, but one look at the knight standing in front of me, and even I could forget my own name since he is just so damn attractive. He knows it too. I continue to ogle him. I know the minute he knows what I’m thinking for his satisfied grin only deepens.  I swallow hard, trying to collect my thoughts and attempt to forget that I’m practically drooling over him no matter his arrogant stance and demeanor show that he knows he’s conquered yet another woman’s heart.

“But wait… I created the man. It’s all my fault he’s the way he is, isn’t it?” I turn red, realizing that last bit of information wasn’t inner monologue. “Good Lord… I just said that out loud, didn’t I?” I groan, reach for my cup attempting to hide my embarrassment, and wish that the tea was something stronger.

Katherine laughs and mumbles an apology. “He is rather hard to live with at times, but I’m thankful every day I have him in my life. I try not to let him get away with too much.”

“Katherine…” Riorden lets her name hang in the air, and the electricity that zings between them is enough for me to want to reach for a fan to calm my suddenly flushed face. Clearly, I didn’t err when I put these two together.

“If I can interrupt the chemistry going on between the two of you that’s making me jealous, can we get to the point of why I’m here?”

They come out of their trance-like state, and I’m almost sorry I broke up whatever was passing between them. Riorden clears his throat and once more assumes his angry stance.

“He’s upset with you,” Katherine answers for her husband.

“Me? What did I do? Didn’t I give you both a life together? Aren’t you happy?” I ask, bewildered at what I could possibly have done to upset a twelfth-century knight.

“It’s not that,” Katherine once more offers. She looks at her husband whose lips turn down with a fierce look of displeasure.

“What’s the reason then?” I ask with a raised brow. “If the man is going to be ticked off at me, why can’t he tell me himself?”

Riorden unfolds his arms, and, for the first time, he is the one to look uncomfortable. “May I?” he asks, gesturing to the chair.

Katherine and I exchange glances. “Of course,” I respond, and wait for the knight to enlighten me as to why I’m here. Several minutes pass until I barely hear him mumbling something about his name. “I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you.”

“You did not know how to pronounce my name!” he shouted.

All the patrons of the tearoom turn to stare at our table.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“’Tis no jesting matter, madam, I assure you.”

I put my cup back down upon the saucer. “Let me get this straight. You called me here from over two hundred years into the future because you’re angry I didn’t know how I wanted to pronounce your name in an audio book?”

“Aye.”

“How did you know I was having an issue with how I wanted it enunciated?”

“I could feel the conundrum you were in,” Riorden declared honestly. “The despair called to me.”

“No way! Really?”

“You are as connected to us, madam, as we are to you. Katherine and I are a part of you. ’Tis only natural we could feel your dilemma.”

Katherine began to laugh. “RI-OR-DEN, REER-DUN, ROAR-DEN… We heard you as clear as day, and it went on for hours on end. He was quite bothered by it.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “Did I get it right in the end? ROAR-DEN?

“Aye, you did. You only needed to but ask,” Riorden replied, standing once more to help Katherine rise, and I notice for the first time she is very much pregnant. “We must needs make haste. James will be needing his mother.”

“I’m forgiven then?” I ask, trying to hide my smirk.

His brow quirks at me. “Aye, although only the good Lord knows for sure what you are concocting in that head of yours for our future.”

I laugh as I walk with them toward the door. “I’ll try to make sure your offspring have names that can be properly pronounced without too much difficulty inside my own head.”

Katherine turned to give me a hug. “We’d appreciate that, Sherry; otherwise, you’ll probably hear my lion of a husband roar again throughout time.”

Riorden stops before reaching the door and leans down to place a kiss upon my cheek. “Thank you for giving me my Katherine. I am forever in your debt,” he whispers.

Without another word, they open the door, and I watch them disappear back to their own proper place in time. I look back to see the occupants of the bookshop. With a wave goodbye to Mrs. Marlowe, I walk through the doorway and find myself back at home. Looking at the clock, it was like I had never even left, but I swear I could still feel Riorden’s kiss upon my cheek. Damn… what a handsome devil I created.

Thank you, Sherry, for the compliment. The rich deep timbre of his voice echoes inside my head.

I smile, already knowing what I have in store for their children. I have a feeling they will be contacting me again…

Riordan and Katherine live in Sherry Ewing’s books For All of Ever and Only for You.

Lord Moreton’s Fate is Sealed. Isn’t it?

Image credit: The Tryst, by Vittorio Reggianini

May 1804

The Draytons’ Ballroom

London

“Lord Moreton! Oh, how very glad I am to see you!”

Miles spun around to find one of the Miss MacPhersons behind him, grimacing in pain as she limped behind him.

“Miss MacPherson…” he began, but found his arms reaching out to her instinctively when she began to slump toward him. “You are injured?”

She looked at him with over-bright eyes. “I seem to have twisted my ankle during the last dance. Might I impose upon you to assist me, my lord? I don’t believe I shall be dancing any more tonight.”

“Of course.” Miles cast about for a chair and frowned when he didn’t see one. In his opinion, Lady Drayton’s guests were twice the number that her small ballroom could comfortably accommodate. No doubt that was the reason most of the furniture—including the chairs—had been removed.

“Please,” the pretty blonde entreated, “if you could just help me toward that alcove next to the window.”

Miles looked doubtfully at the heavily curtained area several yards away. Might there be chairs there?

“The pain is beyond endurance! I believe I am about to swoon.”

“As you wish,” he said, lending her his support as they made their way slowly in the direction of the alcove. Astonishingly, other than a few curious glances, their progress seemed to be of little interest to anyone else, no doubt because Lord Drayton had chosen that moment to make the announcement of his daughter’s impending marriage.

How very odd, he thought. The lovely MacPherson twins were usually the center of attention. Lauded as the loveliest sisters launched on the ton since the Gunning sisters, the favor of the ‘Golden Twins’ was sought by nearly everyone they met, from the lower echelons all the way up to the Prince of Wales, who had recently quarreled with Mrs. Fitzherbert. He couldn’t deny that Alice and Arabella MacPherson, with their bright blue eyes, lush golden-blonde hair, and pleasing forms were delightful to look upon, but for some reason, he had not been tempted to join their court.

Speaking of which, he had no idea which Miss MacPherson he was assisting. Not only were they identical, but they often wore the same color gowns, which made it impossible for anyone but their most intimate acquaintances to tell them apart. He found it disturbing that young ladies who seemed all friendliness and sincerity would deliberately tease their acquaintances in such a way. They were younger by a few years than he, so he supposed it to be an innocent mistake, but still…

Tossing aside the heavy crimson drapes, he gave a relieved sigh to see there were indeed two chairs concealed behind them.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she exclaimed when she saw them. “I can’t tell you how much agony this pain in my foot is causing me.” She dropped into the chair and took a deep, calming breath and reached down to her injured foot.

“You must have that looked at by a doctor. I’ll fetch Mrs MacPherson, and perhaps she can prevail upon Lord Drayton to send for one.”

“Oh, no!” she said, biting her lip. “I’m feeling better already. I’m sure a brief respite is all that is necessary. Will you not sit and talk with me for a time? I find conversation to be quite refreshing.”

Miles hesitated. “I don’t think…”

“Oh, please!” she implored, turning her stunning azure gaze on him. “Just for a moment. If you could take my mind away from the throbbing in my ankle, I should be exceedingly grateful.” She moistened her lips in such a way that Miles found himself unable to focus on anything else.

“Well, I suppose… for a short while.” He seated himself in the chair beside her.

She leaned closer and studied his face. “Do you find me attractive, Lord Moreton?” she whispered.

He swallowed. Her position gave him an enticing view of the cleft between her breasts in the low-cut pink gown. He knew he really should move away from her, but his body seemed reluctant to do so.

“Such a question is not at all proper, Miss MacPherson.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know my name, do you?” She grinned. “Am I Miss Alice MacPherson, the older by six minutes, or Miss Arabella MacPherson?”

He shook his head. To him, they were exact replicas of each other.

She tugged at his arm. “I insist that you make the attempt. Take a good look. Do I look more like Alice or Arabella?”

It wasn’t at all proper to ogle a lady, but Miles’s eyes seemed to have a mind of their own. Miss MacPherson—whichever twin she happened to be—was an exceedingly attractive young woman.

“I… uh—” What was the question again?

Suddenly, the drapes flew open, and Miles stared into the disapproving eyes of Lady Winkfield, otherwise known as ‘Lady Loose Lips’ and the mother of his school chum from Eton. He scrambled to his feet, as did his provocative companion—who stood on both feet with no obvious pain. Hmm.

“Miles Framingham!”

“Arabella! I’ve been looking all over for you! What are you doing here? Oh my!”

That was when he saw the other twin peering out from behind her ladyship. Alice, he supposed.

“Nothing happened!” Arabella interjected, blushing profusely.

“Indeed not!” Miles agreed, feeling drops of sweat pool on his forehead. “Miss MacPherson injured her foot. There weren’t any chairs, you see, except here, and…”

Lady Winkfield pressed her lips into a fine line, and Miles’s heart sank. His fate was sealed.

Wasn’t it?

Do Lady Winkfield’s ‘loose lips’ result in a scandal? Are Miles and Arabella forced to marry? Was this all happenstance, or was Miles the victim of a scheming twin or two?

Find out in The Third MacPherson Sister by Susana Ellis.

Stolen Correspondence

Image credit: Young lady writing a letter, by Victor-Gabriel Gilbert

The Tattler does not condone maids who bring papers from their mistress’s boudoir to sell. This correspondence came to the attention of this paper by other means. Truly. We would never use stolen material. Honestly.

Dear Duchess,

It was lovely to sit with you at Lady J—’s al fresco breakfast Thursday last. One longs to confide one’s thoughts to a lady of mature age from whom one might learn. Ladies of good ton of whom one’s mother might approve are few, alas, but Her Grace gave a nod at our conversation, a gesture of approval that gives me courage to write this missive.

I wish to resume our conversation about Baron R— which was so sadly interrupted by my mother’s arrival. He has never met Her Grace’s approval for all he is one of my brother’s closest friends. I believe now that he is no longer merely Major J.H. but has been elevated to his title, she must surely relent. He looks so dashing in his dress uniform, does he not? One of the spiteful young ladies told me he wears it because he has no other suit, but I believe it is because he looks so well in it, don’t you agree?

Please tell me you approve of my interest in him.

With respect,

Lady Marianna Hayden

FAIR COPY OF MESSAGE SENT (The poor girl’s mother is a horror. Someone needs to take her in hand.)

Dear Lady Marianna,

When one is young, one’s head is easily turned by a uniform, as I am certain your mother has told you. A man who has Glenaire’s respect, however, must have qualities less obvious to the rest of us.

As to approving your interest, I cannot say. Perhaps coming into his title will settle the young man down a bit.

With interest,

Eleanor Haverford

Dear Duchess,

One does hear things from the other young ladies at social events, but one is reluctant to believe Baron R— is quite so wild or that he spends as much time as the other debutantes imply in houses young ladies don’t know about and never mention.

My brother came for his monthly dinner with Their Graces last night, but of course one cannot ask over dinner. I managed a few moments in the hall before he left to tell him I worry for the baron and to ask after his wellbeing. Glenaire gave me only horrid rudeness. He actually called me a nodcock. “Jamie Heyworth is not interested in some society chit with more hair than brains.” I fear his meeting with His Grace did not go well. They are anxious he make a match with the Duke of L—’s daughter, a highly desirable match. Did he have to take it out on me?

Please assure me that my feelings are not misplaced. I know the daughter of a duke can look higher than a baron. My own dear sister Eloise married an earl. Georgiana disgraced us all by marrying that horrid schoolmaster’s son, however. Mother fears she has dampened my chances. She is, of course, not received, and I do not wish to be tarred with the same brush.

With respect,

Lady Marianna Hayden

FAIR COPY OF MESSAGE SENT (Girls today are raised to be dimwits. Jamie Heyworth’s dissipation and empty pockets are the talk of the town. Rumors have begun that he is running from creditors. Her mother is useless.)

Dear Lady Marianna,

I fear I cannot give you the assurances you require. The baron is unlikely to provide the sort of life you wish. Forget him.

With care,

Eleanor Haverford

Dear Duchess,

I cannot bear it. Baron R— did not attend a single event in the past three weeks. I thought perhaps he had retired to his country estate to care for business as His Grace often does. Glenaire told me to grow up and stomped away when I asked him. Then I overheard Lady D— tell Mrs. P. C. that he had taken a repairing lease.

I can manage poverty. I can teach him how to economize. One does not need more than six ball gowns in a season if one has sufficient ribbons to change them subtly. I’ve seen other girls do it. I cannot bear that he has utterly disappeared.

Anxiously,

Lady Marianna Hayden

FAIR COPY OF MESSAGE SENT (Ball gowns? Whoever marries Jamie Heyworth would have far greater problems than that. That assumes he is ever in the position to take a wife. If what Wakefield let drop is true, far more troubles the baron than poverty.)

Dear Lady Marianna,

Discontinue your interest in the baron immediately. He is not a suitable interest for a young woman.

With concern,

Eleanor Haverford

Duchess

My daughter is confined to her room on bread and tea. All correspondence has been monitored. Your advice was good, but you will cease corresponding behind my back.

Wilhelmina Sudbury

FAIR COPY OF MESSAGE NOT SENT (Any woman who rates her consequence so highly she refuses to acknowledge her own grandchildren should be snubbed by all and sundry. That Wee Richard Mallet is a treasure.)

Duchess

You are a damned fool, and your daughter threatens to follow in your footsteps. How on earth did you ever produce a brilliant young woman like Georgiana Mallet?

With contempt,

Eleanor Haverford

Marianna Hayden appears as the Marquess of Glenaire and Georgiana Mallet’s dimwitted baby sister in Dangerous Works. The object of her passionate crush, Jamie Heyworth, is the hero of Dangerous Secrets. While she is pouring her heart out to the Duchess of Haverford, Jamie has absconded to Rome where he is hiding out under an assumed name after having made some very bad decisions. It takes a very determined English lady to pull him out of hiding. Glenaire’s problems with the Duke of Lisle’s daughter are resolved in Dangerous Weakness.

The Duchess of Haverford is a secondary character in many of the stories in Jude Knight’s fictional world and plays an important role in A Baron for Becky.

Her Grace of Haverford does her duty

Image credit: Overheard, by Lucien Gerard

The Teatime Tattler never discloses its sources. However, given the sensitive nature of the material that follows, the proprietor wishes to protect the innocent by assuring the Duchess of Haverford and the entire extended Grenford family and their aristocratic relatives that no servants were involved in recording the following private conversation.

“Mama?”

At the sound of Aldridge’s voice, Eleanor, Duchess of Haverford composed her face, smoothing the slight frown that creased her forehead and forcing a smile as she turned from her desk to greet this beloved guest.

“My love,” she said, as he crossed to press a kiss on the hand she raised for him and then on one cheek. The boy looked well. He had a spring to his step that had long been missing, his eyes were clear and bright, and his cheerful grin had lost the cynical twist so pronounced a bare few months ago—to her eye, at least.

Eleanor hoped what she had to say would not cast him back into melancholy.

Aldridge had been raised with the finest manners money could buy. He took the seat he was offered, complimented her on the success of her most recent entertainment, asked about the book her companion was reading, discussed the likelihood of rain on Tuesday next, and generally kept up his end of the conversation without once showing impatience or asking why she had sent for him.

He must be wondering, though. “Cousin Judith,” Eleanor said to her companion, “I would like a few minutes of private conversation with my son. Would you leave us, please? I will send when I want you.”

“What do you plan for that one, Mama?” Aldridge asked. Haverford had an army of indigent relatives, with nothing to do but hang on the ducal coat tails. Eleanor had long since formed the habit of taking the women one by one as companions, finding their talents and interests, and helping them into positions that suited their skills.

“Not, I think, a marriage, my dear. A library perhaps. She is happiest with her head in a book. Or, I begin to think, perhaps she might be persuaded to try her hand at a memoir or a Gothick. She writes the most delightful letters. I can see her living with Cousin Harriet in a comfortable little house, writing spine-chilling stories and having a most wonderful time.”

Aldridge chuckled. “Cousin Harriet, is it? The one that breeds dogs and hates men? Mama, you are a complete hand.”

“I collect that is a cant expression, Aldridge darling,” she said attempting to be disapproving but twinkling back at him. He really was a sweet boy.

“You must be wondering why I sent for you,” she began.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek again. “Because you missed me?” he suggested. “I have neglected you shamefully, Mama, these past weeks.”

An opening. Eleanor took it. “These past six months, Aldridge. Since you took Mrs. Winstanley into your keeping. You have been much engrossed, I take it.”

Aldridge sat back, his eyes suddenly wary. “I am sure discussing one’s mistress with one’s mother is not de rigueur,” he complained.

“Introducing one’s mistress to one’s Mama opens one to such comments, dear,” Eleanor teased, ignoring the subtle withdrawal evidenced in the suddenly bland voice, the stiffness of his posture.

As she’d hoped, Aldridge relaxed, a fleeting grin lifting one corner of his mouth.

But the matter was serious enough. “One hears remarks, my dear. Hostesses who lack the Merry Marquis at their affairs; gentlemen who must play their merry japes without their boon companion; even His Grace your father has commented you have abandoned your usual pursuits.”

“His Grace has no reason to complain. I do my work.”

“Yes, my love. You are an excellent manager, but, Aldridge, I am concerned.”

“You have nothing to be concerned about, Mama.” It would be an exaggeration to say her tall elegant son flung himself to his feet, but he certainly rose more quickly and less smoothly than usual, and then he stalked with controlled deliberation to the brandy decanter she kept for him on the sideboard. “May I?”

She nodded her permission, and he poured a drink while she decided how to approach her topic. It was harder than she expected. She yearned to tell him to do what pleased him, to stay in the fools’ paradise he was building with the lovely Becky.

But she could not ignore the duty owed to the young woman. Eleanor, who seldom allowed herself to feel such a plebeian and useless emotion as guilt, was aware she should have given Becky the means to escape when they met six months earlier. She had quite deliberately put Aldridge’s need for Becky’s brand of comfort ahead of Becky’s evident desire to abandon the life of a courtesan. She did not feel guilty, but she did acknowledge a debt.

“You are not the one for whom I am concerned, Aldridge,” she said.

He had been studying his brandy but glanced up at that, a quick look from beneath level brows before he drew them into something of a frown.

“Who, then?”

“Mrs. Winstanley, dear. I am concerned for Mrs. Winstanley.”

Another quick movement, this one sending the brandy sloshing in the tumbler, but he steadied his hand before it spilled. “No need, Mama. Becky and I are very happy.”

“You spend all your time with her, Aldridge. If you are not at her townhouse, she is in the heir’s wing. If you travel, she travels with you. Last time you went to Margate, you stayed with her in the town rather than at Haverford Castle.”

“You are very well informed, my dear.”

Eleanor knew that cold ducal tone, but from her husband’s lips, not her son’s. Almost, she stopped. But no; she would do her duty; she had always done her duty.

She matched his tone with her own. “You employ Haverford servants, Aldridge. They answer my questions, as they should.” But this was not to the point. Better to just spit it out.

“If you continue as you are, you will break Rebecca Winstanley’s heart, Aldridge. She deserves better from you.”

Whatever he expected, that wasn’t it. He was too controlled to openly gape, but the muscles of his jaw relaxed. He recovered himself and took a sip of his brandy, gaining time while he thought. It was a trick she used herself.

“What can you offer her, Aldridge? A year? Two? And then what? You cannot marry her, of course…” Was that a flare of longing she saw, quickly suppressed? Merciful heavens, had it gone so far, then?

“You cannot, Aldridge. Even if we could find a way to conceal her past—and with the interest your marriage will attract, every tiny detail of your wife’s history will be uncovered and inspected—she is lower gentry, if gentry at all.”

“Lower gentry,” he conceded reluctantly, “but what does that matter, Mama? Peers have married beneath them before. What of Chandos? Or, if you want a more recent example, Marquis Wellesley?”

Eleanor struggled to show no hint of her alarm, keeping her voice level as she said, “And their wives have suffered for it, Aldridge. Their estates, too. You would be doing Mrs. Winstanley no favor, Aldridge, even if her past did not come to light. And it would.

“Besides, your duty to your name precludes such an action. You will be Haverford. Your wife will be mother of the next Haverford. And consider your little half-sisters, who will only be able to overcome the circumstances of their birth if Society continues to pretend they are my protégées and not your father’s base-born daughters.” She shook her head, sad but firm. “You cannot marry your mistress.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but suddenly the fight drained out of him, taking, it seemed, his ability to stay upright. He sank into a chair, all the joy gone from his face leaving it bleak and lonely.

“I know, Mama. Truly.” He fell silent again, cradling his brandy in front of his chin and staring into nothing.

She had to ask. “Does she seek marriage, my son?”

Aldridge’s short laugh was unamused. “Becky? Of course not. She has no expectations at all. Not even of common courtesy or kindness, let alone of being treated like the lady she is. And I am a scoundrel for taking advantage of that. Were I the gentleman I pretend to be, I’d set her up as a widow somewhere and leave her alone. After the life she has had… I doubt she would marry me even if I asked. She is grateful to me, but gratitude only goes so far.” He glared at his mother. “But I will not give her up, Mama. We have the rest of this contract term and another after that if I can persuade her.”

“I am not asking you to surrender your domestic happiness, my dear. Just to reduce it a little for Mrs Winstanley’s sake.”

Aldridge cocked one eyebrow in question but said nothing.

Should she tell Aldridge his mistress was in love with him? She had seen them in the park—Becky, her little daughter, and Aldridge—by chance as she returned from an unusually early errand and then deliberately several more times. Her son was so absorbed in the woman and the little girl he never noticed the stopped carriage where she sat observing the three of them together.

No. She would say nothing. If he had already considered the logistics of marrying the woman… “You will have to let her go, Aldridge, at the end of the contract or in any case when you find a suitable bride. The parting will be much harder for both of you if she fancies herself in love with you. Spend a few nights a week away from her, my dear. Let her know you are seeing other women. Help her to armor her heart against you, if you love her.”

“Love, Mama? Can Grenfords love? I like her. I respect her. I enjoy being with her. She makes me happy, Mama. Is that so terrible? I’m not sure I know what love is, but I know I don’t want Becky to leave me or—worse—to hate me and stay.”

“I have every faith in your charm, Aldridge. You will be kind. You will be gentle. And you will do your duty by your mistress as you always do your duty in all things.”

As Eleanor always did hers, she reflected after her son left, and duty could be a cold and thankless master. Aldridge would not soon forget her role in this day’s work, and Becky would be ungrateful if she ever found out, but it was for the best. She had to believe it was for the best—not just for the Grenford family but for Aldridge and Becky as well. She hoped it was for the best.

Find out what happens to the Marquis of Aldridge and his mistress in A Baron for Becky by Jude Knight.

Sir Daniel Sees a Ghost

Image credit: The Serpentine, by Giuseppe de Nittis

This correspondent is seldom shocked, but the sight of a full-grown gentleman on his knees on the banks of the Serpentine, sobbing and calling out as he grabbed at the skirts of an innocent child…

The young lady in question was strolling with her sister, just ahead of a family group that included her parents, her younger sisters, and her father’s closest friend. Lord O. and the M.M. are not unknown to London society, though their frequent appearances in the columns of this paper belong several years in the past.

The young lady, who all agree is a younger version of her lovely mother, appears unharmed by the incident, which ended when her father and foster-uncle hurried her assailant from the scene.

“Thank you, sir,” Sir Daniel Thorpe said when Overton invited him to take a chair. “I must confess, I feel shaky still.”

He took the tumbler of brandy that Aldridge offered.

Overton and Aldridge. They had introduced themselves by those single names as they helped him from the park after he collapsed at the feet of Becky’s ghost. Mister? Lord? He rather thought ‘Lord’. They had that air. Two young London swells: both tall, one dark, one fair.

Older than Dan in years, perhaps, but he was their senior in fear and self-loathing. He needed them to understand. He was not normally such a coward. “It was the shock, you see. The shock. I did not expect her to follow me here to London.”

“You have seen her before, then,” Aldridge asked.

“Did you see her?” Dan was astounded. “This last eighteen years, others have claimed she was not there. When she has drifted before me on the high moors or interrupted me at table or invaded my bedchamber, my brothers called me mad, and my servants shook their heads and looked away.”

“Who is it that you saw?” asked Overton. Perhaps the scarred side of his face gave him that wrathful glare. Dan had given the man no cause to be angry; he had never met Overton before.

“It was her,” Dan explained. “It was little Becky, looking just as she did before we…” He could not speak of it. Could not tell these men, who would rightly despise him.

“She seemed happy, there in Hyde Park, walking by the duckpond with another girl. They were arm and arm, two lovely ghosts, sweet girls on the verge of womanhood. I wonder if the other ghost also died as Becky did? But today she looked happy.”

He looked away from Overton. Aldridge seemed friendlier, or at least less forbidding.

“I heard her voice, too. That is new. When she began to visit me, her mouth would open and close as if she were talking, but all I could hear were the screams in my memory, the screams and the sobbing as we ripped her innocence from her. But I understood what her ghost wanted, and I carried out her command. I told her father the truth.”

The glass was empty. How had that happened? He could not remember drinking the brandy, but Aldridge was pouring him another.

“I owe her that debt too, one more in the great pile I can never repay. I told her father, and he lay in wait for me and my brothers and shot us. He killed them both. I nearly died myself. The bullet missed my vitals, but I took a fever. I was lucky to pull through, they told me.”

“Lucky, yes,” Overton said. “So your brothers are both dead?”

“Yes, Nat was the eldest and our leader. Ben pretended to be her friend and betrayed her to us. I should have died, too, if only to pay for my part in the scheme, but I lived. And while I lay sick, they hanged her father for murdering my brothers. Murder? It was an execution. They—no, we—were the murderers, raping the poor child and driving her out onto the moors to perish. I owe her for her father’s death, as well as for her own. How can I ever pay that debt, gentlemen? How?”

“You cannot,” said Overton bluntly.

Dan sighed. For a moment, while seeing the two ghosts strolling arm-in-arm along the side of the Serpentine, he had hoped she had forgiven him. But how could she? What he had done—what he had helped his brothers to do—was unforgiveable.

The servant who entered was apologetic. “Excuse me, my lords,” he said, “but Her Ladyship insists on speaking with you.”

Ah. He was right. They were lords.

“Tell Her Ladyship we have a matter to deal with and will join her shortly,” Overton instructed.

The servant lowered his voice, and Dan had to strain to hear. “Sir, she says you must come to her, or she will come to you.”

A silent message passed between the young men, then Aldridge said politely, “Please excuse us, Thorpe. We will not be long. Relax. Have another brandy.”

He would. Three was two more than he usually drank, having been abstemious since he was seventeen, horrified at how he had behaved when drunk.

But the encounter had been a shock. Tears rose to his eyes as he saw again, in his mind’s eye, the beauty of the little ghost, chattering gaily to her companion before he fell weeping at her feet.

In the next room, Aldridge then Overton hugged the woman who waited. “How are you, Becky?” Overton demanded. “How is Sarah?”

“A little bewildered but not at all harmed, Hugh. You and Aldridge picked the man up and hurried him off before she and Sophie could be alarmed. He is one of the Thorpe brothers, is he not?”

“You recognized him?” Aldridge asked, prowling the edges of the room, repeatedly thumping his fist into his other palm.

Becky shook her head. “He has something of the look of my father’s employer. But no, I would not have known him had he not been sobbing my name. He was little more than a boy when… when I last saw him. Which one is he?”

“He gave his name as Sir Daniel Thorpe,” Aldridge told her.

“The middle brother. But ‘sir’? His father must be dead, then. And Master Nat, the oldest brother, he must have died, too, for Master Dan to be… He thought Sarah was me, of course.”

“He thinks you died that night, Becky,” Overton explained, “and that you have been haunting him ever since.”

“Ah. Well, I daresay I might have done had I indeed died that night. Yes, and his brothers, too. And my father, come to that.” Becky caught the glance the men exchanged. “What? What is it you are not telling me?”

“Thorpe says both his brothers are dead, Becky,” Overton said. “And Becky…”

Aldridge opened his mouth.

Overton forestalled him. “No, Aldridge, she has a right to know. Becky, your father is dead, too.”

“Thorpe is not. Yet.” Aldridge’s voice, cold and contemplative, confirmed he would amend fate’s oversight, and Overton nodded.

“No.” Becky put up a hand as if she would stop the men who loved her by force if need be. “No, you will not kill him nor will you have him killed.”

“Becky, he deserves—”

Becky did not let Overton finish. “No. You will not, I say. I will not have his blood on your hands, Hugh, or on yours, Aldridge. He is haunted, you say? I believe you. He looks decades older than his years. Do not tell him that I live. Let that be my revenge.”

They were kind, these London gentlemen. Lord Overton turned out to be a baron, and the other was a marquis! Dan was still a little dazed when, a week later, he took a coach back to Somerset.

Lord Aldridge had come with Dan to see the London solicitor whose letter had drawn him from Thorpe Hall and his books.

The solicitor’s revelations were unwelcome but not entirely unexpected. Father had left more and more of the Thorpe affairs in the hands of his heir, and Nat had nearly ruined them before Mr. Winstanley had taken his revenge for the rape of his daughter.

Money had dribbled through Nat’s hands in one speculation, one wild start after another. And, no doubt, Ben had been his willing collaborator, while Dan and Father were at their research in the library.

Dan shook his head. He had understood that much, but not what the solicitor proposed as a solution. He followed the suggestions about mortgages and economies, and that there were monies that could, perhaps, be recovered. But the solicitor had described how, and Dan had been lost. His bewilderment must have shown, for Lord Aldridge had insisted on managing the business for him. “Put yourself in my hands, Thorpe,” he said. “It would be my pleasure to make sure you get what is coming to you.”

Such a kind man, to go to so much trouble for a stranger.

Sir Daniel does not appear in A Baron for Becky, but Overton and Aldridge do, and so does the woman whose life Dan assisted in ruining.

Scandalous Rumors are Overheard at the Bluestocking Bookshop

Image credit: Le Beau Monde

Lady Constance Whittles looks up from the main desk of Mrs. Marlowe’s Book Emporium and Tea Rooms. The bell above the door rings to announce the arrival of another customer. Two women rush in with snow-covered redingotes, and a flurry of white flakes fall to the floor as the garments are taken off and thrust at a servant.

Constance quickly makes her way to the tea room to make sure the ladies have a pot of tea to warm them after being out in the chilly weather. The women are not far behind her and take a table toward the back of the room near a window. Constance sets down the tea service, and one woman gives her a kindly smile before she begins to pour the steaming brew.

“Tell me again, Prudence, what you read this morning,” the lady says, setting down the pot before adding a splash of cream to her cup.

“You will not believe it, Abigail,” the woman replies, beginning to smooth out her copy of The Teatime Tattler. “Now where is it? Ah yes, here it is.” Prudence begins to read aloud, while Constance tidies the nearby tables so that she can continue to listen in on their conversation.

It appears that the very eligible Captain Sander Morledge of the 11th Light Dragoons has at last come out of mourning and is in search of a bride. Captain Morledge was recently seen in the county visiting none other than Miss Margaret Templeton of Edington. Although Miss Templeton is well received within the Ton, this reporter has learned she prefers the country life to that of London. Will an engagement be announced during the holiday season? Will there be wedding bells ringing come the New Year? And what will Society think of its newest couple…

Abigail sets down her cup to peer over the table at the small article on the fifth page and raises her brow. “You had me come to meet you here for one paragraph of gossip? I hardly see what the ruckus is all about. It is merely a possible engagement between two people.”

“But this is just the start of the rumors, sister,” Prudence declared, and hastily takes a sip of her tea before rushing to continue, “I heard from Mr. Flannigan who heard from Mrs. Derby who heard…”

“Exactly how many people are involved in passing this rumor down to you?” Abigail asks.

Prudence gives an unladylike huff of annoyance. “You are ever so impatient. I am getting there… Let’s see. Mrs. Derby heard from Lady Gertrude—you know Lady Gertrude, do you not, Abigail? She is Mrs. Cartwright’s daughter who used to be a friend of Mrs. Morledge before she was wed. But I digress. Where was I again?” Prudence looks puzzled.

“A rumor, dear.” Abigail sighs.

“Oh, yes… The rumor is that Captain Morledge murdered his poor wife.” Prudence takes up her tea and sips then peers at her sister over the cup’s rim.

“Murdered her? You must be mistaken.”

“Everyone who is anyone is talking about it. No one sees his wife anymore, and last anyone heard she was ill, the poor dear. Many say that is why he killed her, her being too frail for his liking and all.”

Abigail chokes on her tea and reaches for a linen to wipe her mouth. “I highly doubt these accusations. Perhaps his wife is more comfortable in the country.”

“She has been deceased for years now, are you not listening to me? You always see the good in everyone, Abigail, but how could you with Captain Morledge? I heard he is a horrid man, and now he has his sight on Miss Templeton, someone should warn her about him. He is on the prowl again for his next victim.”

Abigail gazes at her sister in bewilderment. “You have never even met the man. How can you form such an opinion of someone based on nothing more than rumors? I have encountered the good captain and found him charming. He comported himself as well as any gentleman I have had the pleasure to meet.”

Prudence wags a finger at her sister. “Do not be taken in by a fine-looking face.”

“And you are being a ninny listening to rumors that do not concern you,” Abigail declares. “If Miss Templeton becomes betrothed to Captain Morledge, then it is none of our business. With his poor wife passed on, God rest her soul, and ample time of mourning, why should he not wed again?”

“But, Abigail,” Prudence begins, only to have her sister hold up her hand to silence her. Prudence sits back in her chair in a huff.

“Captain Morledge did not kill his wife. You need to keep from eavesdropping, dear sister. You get too involved in the web of lies from vicious gossipmongers who have nothing better to do with their day,” Abigail warns.

“Web of lies indeed,” Prudence guffaws. “Mark my words, Captain Morledge did harm his poor wife. A man like that has no soul.”

The two sisters stand as one and leave the bookshop as quickly as they had arrived.

Constance begins to clear the table but stops to study the open Teatime Tattler. After reading the brief passage, she bites her lip in worry for her friend. As soon as her time at the shop is over, she will pen Margaret a letter and post it on the morrow. One should not be too careful when a friend’s safety is concerned.

Lady Constance Whittles is a secondary character in Sherry Ewing’s novella Under the Mistletoe.

Women Manage the Marquess

Image source: Engraving from La Belle Assemblée

February 6, 1818
Chadbourn Park, Dorset

To Mrs. Georgiana Mallet
Bedford Square, London

Dearest Georgiana,

You may rest comfortably in your decision to refuse my invitation. My little house party has taken on the atmosphere of a political siege, what with the Ottoman delegation camped out in my upper guest rooms and the odd Russian or two in the east wing. More to your point, Her Grace, your mother, has, as you predicted, tracked your brother here and imposed no fewer than three eligible young ladies and their mamas on our hospitality. I have been forced to move the single gentlemen—Glenaire’s underlings from the Foreign Office—to the dower house. As much as I know the man is your brother I cannot bring myself to call the Marquess of Glenaire ‘Richard’. Did you know his staff calls him ‘The Marble Marquess’?

Yours always,

Catherine Landrum, Countess of Chadbourn etc., etc.

Post script

Georgie,

I forgot to thank you for recommending young ladies from your literary circle to even the numbers with all those diplomatic clerks. Unlike your mother’s protégées, they raise the level of the conversation considerably. I particularly like Lily Thornton, as you predicted. Her facility with languages amazes me. Heard her converse in Russian, Turkish, and French in single encounter.

Cath

February 9, 1818
Chadbourn Park, Dorset

To Mrs. Georgiana Mallet
Bedford Square, London

Darling Georgie,

Of course I know your brother isn’t actually as cold as marble! My Will would never have remained a loyal friend to him all these years if that were so. Somewhere under the dutiful son, dedicated statesman, and stuffy aristocrat is a very lonely man, one suspects. As to the young ladies on the hunt, has no one ever taught them that a predatory gleam in one’s eye is unattractive? The desperate look in Glenaire’s when he sidesteps them should be a clue. The one he needs to fear is, I think, Sarah Wharton. She holds herself aloof from the pack and behaves with calculated shrewdness. So far, the only one he has asked about is Lily Thornton, but his interest, alas, appears to center on her conversations with a Russian agent that managed to slither into the party, not the lady’s attractions.

More tomorrow,

Cath

Countess and all that.

February 10, 1818
Chadbourn Park, Dorset

To Mrs. Georgiana Mallet
Bedford Square, London

Dear Georgiana,

You are quite correct. Lady Sarah Wharton is the Duke of Lisle’s daughter and, from the looks of things, the likely front runner. Your mother the duchess holds court in my parlors, looking positively smug. The Wharton’s rank placed her at the head of the table next to your brother at dinner last night. She conducted herself well enough to get a nod of approval from Glenaire. Of course, that may be simply in contrast to Lady Jane who behaved like such a ninnyhammer that she almost caused an international incident with Sahin Pasha, the ostensible honored guest.

Lily Thornton, by the way, disappeared from the ball the night before last. She has looked wary ever since. Interestingly, I notice Glenaire’s eyes follow her constantly. All politics? One thinks not.

Cath

Etc. etc.

February 12, 1818
Chadbourn Park, Dorset

To Mrs. Georgiana Mallet
Bedford Square, London

Dear Georgiana,

Chadbourn Park is again my own. The Ottomans departed early this morning with much drama and upheaval. Lady Jane and the pack left one by one, looking glum but determined. One suspects they will make another foray at your brother in London, but they will be disappointed. The Wharton chit sailed out on your mother’s arm, triumph plain on her face. The Wharton is a cold one, likely to turn out as hard as your mother. Apologies, but you know I’m right. Any woman who would treat her daughter as she—but never mind.

I fear for Glenaire. As you pointed out, Her Grace’s approval is not the same as his. Now, if the foreign office would just—

Georgie! I was interrupted by the most astounding development. Will just told me Glenaire has taken Mercury—Will’s pride, joy, and champion racer—and hared off cross country after Lily Thornton. Impulsive behavior from the Marble Marquess? Amazing! Do tell me all if you hear anything before I do. I confess he mentioned the odious Russian’s name in connection with this, but the behavior is not Glenaire’s normal approach to politics.

Cath

Post script

Still more developments before I could post. I can hardly credit it! Lily Thornton and Glenaire returned to the Park on a farmer’s cart not one hour ago smelling of sheep, looking like the very devil, and spouting some nonsense about walking all night lost in the dark. She is upstairs now attempting to make herself presentable. Glenaire, already impeccable, stews in Will’s office, looking like a bear with a thorn in its paw. The servants tiptoe past. One dare not ask what occurred. They glared at one another with such intensity; I can only say that sort of anger doesn’t rise from indifference.

I will come to London immediately, bringing the children with me. We must, we truly must, put a spoke in Lady Sarah Wharton’s wheel. We will throw Lily at Glenaire’s feet wherever he goes. The woman doesn’t have the guile to do it herself. Let’s begin with the Duchess of Haverford’s ball. Everyone attends, including, no doubt, your brother. We must get Lily an invitation.

Your determined friend,

Catherine

What would the ladies say if they knew exactly what happened between Lily and Glenaire? Catherine is right about one thing, the sparks flying don’t arise from indifference! You can read their story in Dangerous Weakness. Look for more about Catherine and her earl in A Dangerous Nativity.

A Shocked Groom-to-be’s Unexpected News

Image credit: Interior of gaming hell, by Cruikshank

Stephen, Duke of Wyndale entered the room and held out his hands. “I am sorry for my tardiness, my good men, but have no fear. I will be taking your monies off your hands for you.”

Lewis, his good friend, threw back his head and laughed. “Overconfident, are you?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Stephen slid into his customary seat at the large oak table. Every seat was now occupied. “I haven’t lost to you in a fortnight.”

“Fortune can change at any time,” Lewis warned.

“Truer words were never spoken,” George cut in.

“Ack, he’s only feeling so lucky and confident because of his trip to the country on the morrow.” William grabbed the dice from the center of the table and stretched out to hand them to Stephen.

He accepted them, enjoying their familiar weight in the palm of his hands, but his mouth had grown dry and his heart was starting to pound. “Trip?” he repeated, more than a little confused.

“Yes, at least that is what I have heard.” William shrugged.

“Have you been holding out on us, Stephen?” Lewis leaned forward. “Is there a lady involved? With you, there always is. Do tell us about her. What is her name? She must be something else if you’re willing to stop your wenching.”

Stephen drained his drink, waited for a servant to refill it, and drank some more. He certainly would know if he were about to embark on a trip! Admittedly, there was not much he would not do for a lady if she knew how to play her cards right…

William twisted toward Stephen. “You’re quiet. No longer confident about your gaming?”

“Or your trip for a mystery lady?” George laughed.

Stephen stared at them all. “I am not going on a trip anytime soon, my good men.”

“But we heard–” William started.

“Actually, I did hear a little about a lady.” George frowned. “I cannot recall her name, but you and a lady I never heard of before are linked.”

Stephen stood. What on earth were they talking about? A trip he had not planned and a lady he did not know. Why, it sounded as if they were talking about someone other than himself! “I should go.”

“Stay. Take our monies.” William reclaimed the dice. “Fine. If you wish to forfeit this round, we will play without you.”

His head swimming, Stephen headed to the door.

Lewis followed. “What is it? You look like a ghost.”

“I have no notion what the lot of you were blabbering on about,” Stephen muttered.

“Even I heard a few whispers. You are expected in the country and soon. Where exactly, I do not know, and, yes, a lady is involved somehow. Which does sound like you, you must admit.”

“But…” Stephen protested.

“You and I have both been around long enough to know that rumors usually contain some truths.”

Stephen marched back to the table, finished his drink, and left the club. He would have to ask around, but it seemed to him that someone might be impersonating him. This lady, whoever she was, if she thought herself courted by the Duke of Wyndale, she was quite mistaken.

Maybe, just maybe, he should go and seek her out if he could learn of her name. He must find the impostor. He must.

These events precede Joy to the World, a novella by Nicole Zoltack.

Scandalous Scratchings from the Quill of the Ever-Curious, Lady S.

Image credit: The Kiss, by G. Baldry

4th December, 1816

A night to remember at Penrose House, Berkeley Square!

My Dear Devoted Readers,

If you were not at Penrose House last night, you missed one of the most exciting events to close the Little Season! Heavens, what an evening, and only two days before St. Nicholas’s Day, the beginning of Yuletide! This particular author’s head is still spinning, that not one but two romantic trysts and a betrothal took place during the course of the evening.

For those of you who were not able to attend, the event was essentially a trial come-out ball for Viscount Trevilian’s youngest sister, Miss Emma Penrose. Let me state here and now, this author has only the highest regard for Miss Emma. She is a lovely young woman; however, her chances of making a successful debut next Season were most definitely put in jeopardy by the scandalous conduct of her older sister, Miss Tessa Penrose, during the ball.

Society does not know much about Miss Penrose, the Elder; she has hitherto kept very much to herself. She is by all accounts (from the few who do know her), a most singular, intelligent, and determined young woman—this author would even venture to call her a bluestocking. A talented artist, she has of late become known for her excellent portraiture skills, and at least several well-connected noblewomen have sat for her in recent months. She is also a dedicated patroness of the most admirable of charities, The Benevolent Society for the Women of Whitechapel.

Not one to attend social events of any description, Miss Penrose nevertheless made a rather large and altogether shocking splash at her sister’s ball last night, when, she was caught being thoroughly compromised under the kissing bough by one of the wiliest and wickedest rakes of the ton, none other than the vaunted Corinthian and returned war hero, Jasper, the Earl of Arlington.

I can almost hear your collective gasps right now. However—and I hope you have a cushioned surface and smelling salts at the ready—the scandal gets worse. Whispers have also reached Lady S.’s ears that Lord Arlington shared a tryst with another woman earlier that very same evening—a certain widowed baroness, who shall remain nameless as I have not been able to substantiate the rumor myself. But I think many of us can guess who it might be.

Lord Arlington’s only saving grace appears to be that he has forthwith offered for Miss Penrose’s hand in marriage; whilst his actions are commendable (even if his behavior leading up to the engagement has not been entirely honorable), this author rather suspects that self-preservation is also a motivating factor. Becoming leg-shackled to Miss Penrose would be a decidedly more appealing option when compared to facing an angry Lord Trevilian on the dueling field. The earl and the viscount have been friends for many years after all. And now it appears they will become brothers.

It is Lady S.’s prediction that Lord Arlington will acquire a special license before the week is out, and that a Christmas wedding will shortly ensue. Lady S. also hopes that the unexpected union between the aforementioned bluestocking and rake will result in a love match, but as is often said, only time will tell. Perhaps that is a story for another day…

Lady S.

Meet Miss Tessa Penrose and Jasper, Lord Arlington in Amy Rose Bennett’s novella All She Wants for Christmas. 

Scandal at St. George’s: Where are the Bride and Groom and what does a Gypsy have to do with it?

Image credit: The fortune teller, by Michail Alexandrowitsch Wrubel

By your faithful Correspondent, Mrs. X

Word has been received that the wedding scheduled for this morning at St. George’s Church did not take place. The guests—among whom could be found a goodly number of society elite, including the Prime Minister and his wife—waited with increasing anxiety for nearly an hour when Lady Sarah Newsome and Lady Hooper, the bride’s sisters, announced that the wedding was not to transpire after all.

Conspicuously absent were not only the bride and the groom but also the bride’s mother, Lady Pendleton, who, up until then, had declared herself aux anges at her daughter’s unequal match with the Stanton banking heir. (Although Lady Julia is of an age to consider putting on her spinster’s caps, so perhaps her mother’s enthusiasm is not so singular after all.)

Inquiries at the Pendleton home at Grosvenor Square were not fruitful; however, an informant at the groom’s father’s home stated that the groom, Mr. Oliver Stanton, after having received a message from Grosvenor Square at an early hour, departed the house and has not yet returned at the time of this writing, which is half past eight o’clock in the evening.

Has the bride decamped, leaving her heartbroken banker at the altar? Although he too failed to appear! Or could it be that the groom, still mourning the death of his first wife, found he could not marry again so soon after her tragic death? Dear Reader, we should be left with nothing but speculation but for the fortunate happenstance that a certain rather loquacious Lady S. J., on her way home after the ill-fated wedding, observed Lady Pendleton departing from a rather odd establishment on Gracechurch Street. According to Lady S. J., the sign on the shop said something about gypsy fortune-telling, and, curiously, that the generally amiable Lady Pendleton refused to acknowledge Lady S. J.’s presence when their carriages passed in the street.

Upon learning of this information, I, your correspondent, hastened to the shop in question and requested a consultation with the proprietress, a woman calling herself Madame Herne. She welcomed me into her establishment, which was draped in gaudy crimson and gold and cluttered with all manner of peculiar objects, not the least of which was a crystal ball.

Below is a faithful account of our conversation. I am anxious to see if you, Dear Readers, can make more of it than I was able to.

Mrs. X: I understand that a certain countess called on you this morning. Can you confirm that, Madame Herne?

Madame Herne: If you mean Lady Pendleton, then yes, she is a client of mine. One of many, of course, but I am always available to ladies of stature such as yourself, Mrs. X. Have you come for a palm reading? Or would you prefer the crystal ball instead? Should you wish to contact a loved one who has passed into the next world, it would be my pleasure to arrange a séance for you. Please take a seat, and I will put some water on to boil for tea.

Mrs. X: Please do not go to any trouble, Madame. I am not here for myself, you understand. I am merely here to inquire after Lady Pendleton’s state of mind. A concerned friend has solicited my assistance after this morning’s unfortunate event.

Madame Herne (a trifle coolly): Now I began to catch your meaning. Her ladyship must be seriously disturbed to be so rash as to consult with someone such as myself.

Mrs. X: Er, yes. No. That is, this morning’s incident would be enough to put any parent’s mind in a state of great anxiety. Her friends are merely concerned about her wellbeing, of course.

Madame Herne: Indeed. Then why do her friends not call upon her and find out for themselves? Has she not returned to her home?

Mrs. X: As a matter of fact, she has, but her door is closed to all but her immediate family.

Madame Herne: Family is important at such a time, do you not agree? No doubt her other daughters will be of assistance to her.

Mrs. X: Indeed. I have it on good authority, however, that her elder daughter, the bride, is not present, and that the groom seems to have disappeared as well. Have you any knowledge of their whereabouts, Madame Herne? Did her ladyship mention anything to you of what occurred to disrupt the wedding?

Madame Herne: It is not for one such as I to know of the intimate details of an affianced couple, Mrs. X. However, if you should require my professional services, I should be delighted to accommodate you.

Dear Reader, I confess I did indulge myself and discovered Mrs. Herne to be a most prodigiously talented fortune-teller! Why, she knew things about me that she could not possibly have known! When I returned home, I realized how she had skillfully manipulated me into abandoning my quest for information, but I was too overjoyed about her prognostications for the future to care.

So… where are Lady Julia and Mr. Stanton? What happened to prevent their marriage this morning? And why did Lady Pendleton waste no time consulting a gypsy fortune-teller on the same morning? I beg your pardon for failing to give a proper account on this matter at the moment, but I am certain news will be forthcoming from my informants in a matter of days, if not hours. In the meantime, perhaps you would be interested to know that a certain Miss E was discovered in a compromising state with the very married Lord B. J. at the Berringtons’ ball last evening. Dear me! I scarcely know what to think about young ladies these days… cavorting with rakes, disappearing into thin air. What is the world coming to?

To find out what happened to Oliver and Julia, see The Ultimate Escape.

Men are Such Gossips!

Image credit: Bay stallion, by John Paul

Sitting quietly in a wing-back chair at White’s on any given night, you hear the most delicious scandal. The Earl of Chadbourn, William Landrum and his friend James Heyworth, Baron Ross were deep in their cups one night. They didn’t seem to notice the members who can hear them and whisper to a scandal sheet.

“There isn’t much to tell.” Will punctuated his words with a shrug and another sip of White’s very fine brandy.

“Come, come. Out with it,” Jamie replied. “You’ve been evading the question all week, and Richard acts like a bear with a thorn in its paw every time the woman’s name comes up. What happened at your house party?” He reached for another morsel of cheese. He hesitated. White’s offered such an abundance of choices. He tucked a fine Stilton on a hard wafer and popped it in his mouth. “Well, give it over,” he mumbled around the bite.

The earl sighed deeply. “You win, but remember Richard will have my hide if he knows I spoke to you. If it were anyone but you or Andrew, he would call me out.”

Jamie looked around while Will leaned forward, elbows on the table and began to gather the strands of his story. No one seemed to be listening, and Jamie liked the feel of the room. He couldn’t afford to belong to a private club. Sitting there as Will’s guest warmed his heart but didn’t stifle his curiosity.

“He watched Lily Thornton all week,” Will began.

“She doesn’t seem like one of the chits his mother threw at him.”

“Daughter of a plain mister? Hell no. The duchess had a gaggle of uppity-nosed misses with impeccable pedigrees in tow. He avoided them all week. No, Lily wasn’t in the marriage stakes. He had some other interest. At least I thought so until it happened.”

“What happened?”

“One of Richard’s minions, who was supposed to watch her, came to report she had gone, and Richard took off like the hounds of Hell were on his tail. The odd part was everyone left that morning. The problem appeared to have something to do with some Russian who had weaseled an invitation, but I don’t know what. All I know is the man told him she left alone on horseback, and the Russian did the same the hour before.”

“And he took off? He has agents for that.”

“He didn’t just hare off. He took my favorite horse. I haven’t seen it since.” Will sat up and poured them each another drink.

“Didn’t he bring it back?” Jamie asked, slicing more cheese and offering one to Will who waved it away. Jamie wolfed it down. A man who doesn’t eat regularly can’t afford to turn down food when a friend is paying.

“He didn’t come back,” Will said. He hurried on when Jamie raised an eyebrow. “At least, not that night. Catherine fretted something fierce, and I admit running off with no word isn’t Richard’s usual style, but I assumed he knew what he was doing.”

“Does he?” Jamie asked innocently. “He’s acting like a man with his world turned upside down.”

Will chuckled. “Oh yes. I went out to my stables just after dawn to see to a gravid mare. Richard and Lily Thornton rode into the yard on a farmer’s cart. I wish you could have seen it, Jamie. His jacket had one sleeve torn at the shoulder. His shirt had some unspeakable stain. His trousers sported almost as much dirt as clean, and he smelled of sheep.”

Jamie choked on his brandy. “Sheep? The Marble Marquess hasn’t been near a sheep in his entire life.” He couldn’t picture Richard Hayden, Marquess of Glenaire with so much as a hair out of place, much less a torn sleeve.

“He must have met one the night he disappeared. I know them well, and he definitely smelled of sheep. So did Miss Thornton. Her clothes were no better. They both looked—“

“Like they had rolled in the hay?” Jamie suggested with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Were they blissful?”

The earl sat back and cradled his brandy. The fire had burned low, and it was difficult to see across the room, but voices still carried. “The lady looked furious, and Richard looked grim. I almost feared leaving them alone together for fear they would come to blows. Of course we made sure no one knew of it. Catherine is doing her best to protect Lily’s name. She’s doing her best to find the girl a husband.”

“Richard doesn’t like his will thwarted, as we both know.” Jamie shook his head. “He’s still having her followed. He had me dance with her the other night and sent me to pay calls. Has his men escorting her around. Says its politics, but you can’t raise the woman’s name without risking him taking off your head.”

“I know.” A slow smile spread across the earl’s face. “I know,” he said.

Glenaire’s and Lily’s story can be found in Dangerous Weakness by Caroline Warfield.

A mother rubs salt in the wounds of a rejected suitor

Image credit: Hyde Park, Rotten Row, source unknown

Viscount Beacham, known to his friends as Frederick, slammed the door of his study, shrugged out of his jacket, and reached for the decanter of brandy resting on the sideboard. He had barely filled his glass before the door swung open again. Mother! She was the last person he wanted to see at this moment.

“Would you care for a sherry, madam?” Frederick asked politely, although he already knew what her response would be.

“Really, Beacham, it is barely noon. Let me call your housekeeper and have her bring tea instead of you imbibing in spirits at this ungodly hour.”

Frederick raised his glass in a silent salute before drinking a good portion of the contents. “No tea, Mother. I have all I stand in need of.” He grabbed the decanter of brandy and made his way to a chair by the fire. “Why are you here?”

“You missed our appointment to have lunch together today.” She took a seat opposite him.

“I was detained on a matter of importance. You did not get my note to reschedule?”

“Yes, I received your hastily penned message. I could see that something was wrong and came straight here to visit my son. I am your mother. You can surely understand that I wish to see how you fare.”

“No offense, Mother, but I am hardly fit company at this particular moment. I have a date with a bottle of brandy. Perhaps even two.”

“You have never overindulged in spirits, Beacham. What has happened?”

“Miss Margaret Templeton has refused my offer of marriage.” The crystal was once more pressed to his lips, and he downed the contents before refilling the glass.

A startled gasp echoed in the room. “You dared to offer for her despite the warning from your father and myself that we would not give our blessing on such a union?”

“I love her as I have always loved her. You knew my affection for the lady remained no matter how many years had passed.”

“At least one of you has common sense. I have to give the young woman some credit for seeing that such a match would be disastrous. She is a vicar’s daughter with no dowry or title. Surely you can find another woman to wed who would meet with our approval.”

Frederick watched his mother rise and make her way to pour a sherry. It was a testament of how upset she really was that she decided to have a drink. “Then you should be happy, madam, since she has rejected me and ended even our association. She will not even remain friends.” He drank most of the second glass. “I will have you know it was quite embarrassing, especially since I was proposing in the park for everyone to see.”

“Egads… You offered for her in public?” His mother began pacing. “I told your father over and over again that no good would come of you and Miss Templeton spending so much time together when you were children. It matters not, he said. He thought you would out grow your infatuation with her. Now look at you! Drowning your sorrows in the middle of the day for a woman who is beneath you.” She took a sip of her drink. “And you made a spectacle of yourself in a public park! I feel faint to think that a son of mine…” She took another sip to compose herself.

Before Frederick could respond on his mother’s outrageous comment, his study door flew open again.

“Freddy, I just heard—” Digby Osgood clamped his mouth shut upon noticing Frederick was not alone.

An unladylike noise passed his mother’s lips. Her brow rose at Digby. “Perfect! It takes only this. A guest bursts in without announcement and addresses my son so informally. I see now that manners do not apply in this household.”

“My apologies, Beacham. I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Ah, Digby, right on time. My mother was just leaving.” Frederick rose from his chair and began escorting his dame to the door.

“We are not done with this conversation, son,” his mother began sputtering in protest.

The study door opened, and Frederick called for her carriage. “It was lovely visiting with you, madam, but I have important matters that I must attend to with Osgood. I will call upon you at the end of the week.” Frederick kissed her cheek, closed the door behind her, and then turned the lock, ensuring his privacy. Frederick loosened his cravat and made his way back to his chair. He waved a hand toward Digby. “Grab yourself a bottle of whatever pleases you, Digby, and plan to be here a while. I mean to get completely sotted, and you are the lucky friend who gets to join me.”

Digby grabbed a glass and held it while Frederick filled it to the brim with brandy. “And just what are we celebrating, Freddy?”

“Bachelorhood!”

Their glasses clinked, and both men took a long hard pull of their fiery liquor.

Frederick lost count of the drinks he consumed far into the evening hours. His attempt to obliterate the look upon Margaret’s face when she turned down his offer of marriage had failed. Little did he know it at the time, but it would be several years before their paths would cross again.

Frederick Beacham is the hero in Under the Mistletoe a novella by Sherry Ewing.

Private Dispatches from the Mediterranean

Image source: Rock of Gibraltar, by unknown artist

Those who’ve wondered about the Marquess of Glenaire’s sudden disappearance from society may be surprised to learn that rumors place him in the Mediterranean racketing about in various guises. Can this be true? It is as unlikely as a duke’s heir throwing over the Duke of Lisle’s daughter for a mere ‘Miss’.

To the Right Honble. The Countess of Chadbourn

Chadbourn Park, Dorset

Dearest Catherine,

Andrew and I arrived in Malta yesterday to find Richard gone again. After a stormy passage to Gibraltar, we discovered he had indeed taken the packet there. The Governor General seemed baffled by his sudden appearance, ‘peculiar’ (his word) questions, and equally sudden departure. After considerable questioning along the waterfront, we discovered he hired a fishing boat to take him to Malta because no ship sailed quickly enough to suit him.

You read that correctly. Fishing boat, and a shabby one at that. The fisherman seemed quite amused, and one suspects he pocketed a considerable amount of Richard’s coin in the transaction.

Andrew’s instinct that Richard has lost his head over Lily Thornton appears to be correct. Marriage to Richard’s sister has given him insight we may need. We intend to find him and keep him out of trouble. How long that will take, I cannot say, but any day away from you is too long. When this is over, Richard-damned-Marquess-of-Glenaire will owe me a debt for many years.

Yours,

Will

The Right Honble. The Earl of Chadbourn

Governor’s House Malta

The Right Honble. The Countess of Chadbourn

Chadbourn Park, Dorset

Dear one,

Sir Thomas Maitland (after regaling us with a tale of how Richard arrived smelling of fish) has insisted our man spent his time here inspecting the ‘superior’ fortifications and then returned to Gibraltar to take ship to London. We beg leave to doubt it having just come from there.

After scouring the waterfront and some taverns I prefer not to describe to you, we discovered Richard has badgered everyone on this pile of rock about women traveling alone or with a man matching the description of Konstantin Volkov. No Volkov but at least three stories of women drew his interest. One traveled to the Balkans by way of Thessaloniki. One went on to Constantinople. A possible third traveled to Algiers. Andrew and I will review our options, but we will not split up.

By the way, two brutes in one of the taverns insisted the man we described spoke French and worked as a stevedore unloading a ship. It pleases me to think of Richard unloading cargo with those two, but that seems unlikely. Then again, not much he’s done lately makes sense. Think of the gossip if word reached London!

All my love,

Will

The Right Honble. The Earl of Chadbourn

Governor’s House Malta

The Right Honble. The Countess of Chadbourn

Chadbourn Park, Dorset

Dearest Catherine,

We’re another week here and still no clues. We have been warned to avoid Thessaloniki. Word has come of unrest and executions. Andrew believes we ought to go after him, but I pointed out we have no assurance that is where he went. This begins to feel like a wild goose chase. Even Andrew is flagging. In his cups last night, he said he would go home, but that Georgiana will never speak to him again if her brother comes to harm and he didn’t help. I know better. He cares as much for Richard as I do.

All my love,

Will

The Right Honble. The Earl of Chadbourn

Governor’s House Malta

The Right Honble. The Countess of Chadbourn
Chadbourn Park, Dorset

Dear Catherine,

You will note we have returned to Gibraltar in frustration. Rumors fly around Malta almost as they do in any London drawing room. We prefer to ignore the word of Ottoman cruelty, revolution in Greece, or pirates. Andrew suggested official correspondence from all ports is likely to pass through here. However, we have been here a week, and—

Later

Damned if Andrew didn’t have it right! A Berber ship came in under truce and left a packet for the governor. When he read the various pieces, one was for the Foreign Office—“Another damned ransom request from Barbary corsairs,” he said—another was to Richard’s father, and the third was addressed to me at Chadbourn Park.

The message would tear your heart. Richard asked—he begged—Andrew and I to make sure the ransom is paid. I don’t remember him ever asking for help before.

Thank God I was here to intercept the message. He and Lily Thornton are being held on an island off Algiers. The governor insisted that the official policy remained “no ransom.” I persuaded him that Castlereagh would make an exception for his protégé. He looked skeptical, but we wore him down until he managed to find a third of the money in the treasury.

I leave for Lisbon on the next tide to meet with my banker. Andrew will stay here to keep things moving. We will move heaven and earth to do as Richard asked. He would do the same for any of us.

All my love,

Will

Earl etc.

Government Office, Gibraltar

The Right Honble. The Countess of Chadbourn

Chadbourn Park, Dorset

Madam

Catherine

Will has not yet returned, but I wish to tell you and my beloved Georgiana that we have had more assistance. A galley flying the flag of the Sublime Porte sailed in this morning. Sahin Pasha himself disembarked, asking as we were about Richard’s well being. He offers a goodly portion of the ransom and the support of his ships.

When we find my brother-in-law, he had better have a good story about how he managed to be kidnapped. I alternate between fear for his life and anticipation of rubbing his debt in his face for the rest of his life. I refuse to worry. Richard can bend anyone to his will, even pirates.

I enclose a note with my love to Georgiana in hopes the earl’s frank will get it there faster.

Andrew Mallet

Under the seal of

The Right Honble. The Earl of Chadbourn

Gibraltar

Catherine,

A quick note. I returned last night. We have what we need. I pray we’re on time.

Will

You can read the story of what happened to Glenaire and Lily and find out about the ransom attempt in Dangerous Weakness. Andrew’s and Georgiana’s story is in Dangerous Works, and Catherine and her earl find their happy ever after in A Dangerous Nativity.

Diary of a Would-be Rapist

Image source: Lady Godina’s Rout, by James Gillray

The chit was chattering on about some book she was reading. Viscount Bosville didn’t listen. He was anxiously reviewing Sir Jasper Smithson’s instructions. Persuade his cousin to go driving. Done. Be charming and friendly. Done. Don’t alarm her by being over familiar. Done. Tell her you want to show her something in the woods. Done.

She had argued about leaving the chaise, but he was ready for that, with some farradiddle about a late nest of squirrel that might be seen playing if one approached with extreme care. Girls liked baby animals, Sir Jasper said.

Sir Jasper knew a lot about woman. He knew a lot about everything. Bosville was very fortunate that such a clever man had taken an interest in him. What he was about to do was for Sir Jasper’s sake as much as for Bosville’s. How else was Bosville to pay the money that Sir Jasper had won from him at cards?

He stopped before the path dived into the woods and looked at his cousin sternly. “Now, Mary, you must be silent, or we will alarm them.” He could do nothing about her looks, but he at least did not have to listen to her firm, confident voice wittering on about things women should know nothing about: politics, the war news, and the devil knew what else.

If only she had been a real woman, softly curved and plump in all the right places, with one of those sweet little girlie voices that made him feel big and strong. Fair hair would be nice, too. He liked fair hair, though brown or black was acceptable. Anything but red. Mary was short and skinny, and her hair was screamingly red.

Her size would be to his advantage in the next few minutes. He patted the scarf he had in his coat pocket. “Once you are well out of sight in the trees, subdue her, and gag her,” Sir Jasper had instructed. “You do not want her to scream when you… anticipate your marital privileges.”

He would try to find a soft piece of ground to take her on. He owed the future Viscountess Bosville that courtesy. For the same reason, he had refused Sir Jasper’s help. No. He could manage this on his own.

And if Mary did not like it, well, it was her own fault. If the silly chit had just accepted his proposal, none of this would be necessary.

Six weeks later

Bosville entered the club with a bounce in his step, happier than he had been for weeks. Through the smoke, he could see to the ill-lit corner that Sir Jasper ruled. His mentor was there, a half-clad girl perched on one knee, a fan of cards in the hand that was not fondling the girl, and a bottle and glass at his elbow.

Sir Jasper would be pleased with his news. Sir Jasper had thought Bosville’s first failure was funny. It was not Bosville’s fault. How was he to know the vicious bitch had such a punch on her? And she knew where to punch, too! What innocent knows how to protect herself in such a way? Miss Mary Pritchard was too knowing by half!

That’s what Sir Jasper had said, too, warning Bosville he would find he wasn’t the first to plough the chit’s field.

“Stands to reason,” he told Bosville. “The bitch travelled with the navy! She likely knows all sorts of tricks. It’ll be like having your own private whore. Punched you in the cods, eh?” And he went off into another spasm of laughter.

He had not been so amused by Bosville’s second failure. In fact, he had been cool to Bosville for weeks and had recently been making remarks about other ways that Sir Jasper could redeem his vowels. Bosville ran a finger around his suddenly tight collar while he waited in his mentor’s line of sight to be noticed. One did not interrupt Sir Jasper while he was playing.

The second time wasn’t his fault, either. He had followed Sir Jasper’s instructions to the letter. He had popped the latch on her bedchamber door and wiggled a knife along the base until he dislodged the wedge she’d place to hold it shut.

And she was gone, her room stripped of all her possessions and her window open.

It was unfair of Sir Jasper to blame him. He had rushed all over town like a mad thing, visiting anyone she had been the least bit friendly with, even checking all the hire places to see if she had commissioned a coach so that she could leave town. She had completely disappeared.

If it were not for her lovely money, she could drown in the Thames and he would dance on her grave. Stupid, selfish, bitch. He planned to make her a viscountess, damn it. When he caught up with her. Which he would. And he grinned so broadly at the news he carried that Sir Jasper finally consented to notice him as the hand ended.

“You look pleased with yourself, Bosville. Have you come into money?”

“As good as, Sir Jasper. Mama had a letter from one of Cousin Mary’s other aunts.”

Sir Jasper purpled. “Your cousin has other aunts? And you have not been to check them? You fool. You…” The girl wriggled and squealed as his hand clenched, and he slowly relaxed and caught back whatever other insult he had been about to bestow. “You have found her, then, my boy. Well, well. What good news.” He stood, tipping the girl from his knee. “Deal me out, gentlemen. My young friend here, and I have a campaign to plan.”

Viscount Bosville is the incompetent villain in Gingerbread Bride, a novella by Jude Knight.

Sir Jasper Smithson is the far more sinister villain in ’Tis Her Season and other Royal Regard prequels by Mariana Gabrielle.

The Regret of Choices Made

Image source: La Comtesse de Morel Vinde and Her Daughter, by Baron Francois Gerard

Margaret Templeton entered the home of Lady Whittles, or Aunt Penelope as she preferred to be called, and stilled the urge to race up the stairs to her room. How she had managed to keep herself composed in the carriage on the ride from Hyde Park was beyond her comprehension. What had started out as a lovely day to enjoy the park had turned into a disaster. She had made a mess of things, that was for certain.

She handed her wrap to a servant and began to make her way to the stairs to find the solitude she needed.

Her aunt apparently had other ideas in mind, as she called out to her housekeeper. “Mrs. Clark, please send a pot of tea to the library, along with some of those delightful little cakes baked this morning. Margaret, you will follow me,” she said in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

Another servant went before them and banked the fire in the hearth before discreetly taking her leave. Margaret stood in the center of the room and began to shiver. It had nothing to do with being cold.

“Sit by the fire, my dear, before you fall.”

Margaret looked up, attempting to find her next breath. “I beg your pardon?” She obviously had not heard a word her aunt said.

Aunt Penelope took hold of her elbow and motioned to one of the chairs. Margaret sat, but it was hardly ladylike, as she all but plopped herself into the vacant seat in an undignified heap. With trembling fingers, she removed her bonnet, letting it fall to the floor. She was afraid to let her emotions show for fear that, once she unleashed the tears that were sure to come, they would not stop.

Mrs. Clark arrived with the tea and cakes and quietly closed the door behind her. Margaret barely glanced at the tray. Nothing looked inviting, and her stomach churned with what today had cost her.

Aunt Penelope poured the tea and handed her a cup. “Why did you refuse, Viscount Beacham?” she inquired softly.

Margaret took a tentative sip of her tea but found it tasteless. She set the cup down to stare into the flames of the fire. “You know why.”

The scene flashed before her as if she were reliving it and could somehow change the outcome. Their carriage ride had been interrupted when Frederick, Viscount Beacham, her long-time friend, had ridden up on his horse and asked if he could escort Margaret on a short walk. Her aunt had nodded her consent, and Frederick had tied the reins of his horse to the back of the carriage that followed slowly behind them.

They had not gone far before Frederick surprised her. He had taken one of her hands, got down on one knee, and, from his free hand, presented a ring asking for her hand in marriage. Right there. In the park. For all to see.

A part of her had been thrilled, and, to be honest, she had been ready to accept his offer until the memories of their last meeting with his parents flashed before her eyes. They had made it clear they would not give their blessing to their union, she being only a vicar’s daughter with no title or dowry, he being a titled gentleman of substantial means.

She could still see the moment in his face when his expression turned from one of hope to disbelief when she voiced her refusal. How would she ever be able to erase his look when he rose and attempted to change her mind? But she would not be swayed. She would not be the reason he lost his inheritance nor his standing within the ton. He had left with an angry stride and to the sniggering of those nearby who had been witness to the incident.

“He is in love with you, Margaret,” Aunt Penelope declared, and reached out to take Margaret’s hand. “It is not often that love finds you, dear heart, and such a gift should not be thrown away so carelessly.”

The noise that leaked through her barely parted lips hinted at the hysteria about to let loose in a wave of horrific misery. She swallowed, trying to hold back the tears. “And I love him, but I will not be the cause of the ruin of his reputation.”

“You would not be the first to have your station raised up by marriage. He could provide for you, and clearly he cares not what his parents think since he offered for you despite their objections, and in public no less. Write him a note and tell him you have changed your mind before it is too late,” her aunt urged.

“No! It is too late. Mistake or not, I have ended any further association with Freddy and told him to move on with his life. I made my choice. I will have to live with it.”

“The young are so foolish at times.” Her aunt began mumbling her own objections and shaking her head. It was clear she did not approve of Margaret’s decision.

Margaret finally lost her resolve to remain strong. A sob erupted from her lips. “What have I done?” she whispered. She hastily excused herself, running from the room as if the fires from hell were licking at her shoes. Climbing the stairs, she flung open the door to her room and threw herself onto the bed.

Her tears would be heard throughout the night and for many days to follow. Her heart broken by her own actions, she resolved to remain a spinster. It would be several years before her father took matters into his own hands and began his quest to find her a husband she could come to care for.

Under the Mistletoe is Sherry Ewing’s novella.

Kate’s Very Great Favor—a prequel scene to The Ultimate Escape

Image source: Signing the Register, by Edmund Leighton

3 August 1809

Stanton House

Wittersham, East Surrey

“It warms my heart to see you again, my boy, knowing as I do how much work has been transferred to your shoulders since I named you my replacement. And all for the purpose of celebrating a birthday, which seems a paltry reason indeed when one has had as many of them as I have!”

Oliver clapped a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “Nevertheless, the opportunity to celebrate living three score and ten years on the earth comes only once, old man. I thought to surprise you with a small dinner party of neighbors and friends, and then I discover I’ve arrived just in time for the vicar’s funeral instead.” He grimaced. “Not an opportune time for a party, I’m afraid.”

Robert Stanton shook his head. “A dreadful shock. The reverend was years away from sixty and seemed in the prime of health… except perhaps that he enjoyed his food over-much. Mrs. O’Hara was an excellent cook.”

One didn’t expect a man to keel over dead due to his love of good cooking, though, Oliver thought. What would now happen to Mrs. O’Hara and Kate, he wondered idly. He supposed he should call on the vicarage in a day or so, to express his condolences.

But his thoughts turned to the family on the neighboring estate. “Perhaps we might still invite the Pendletons, at least, for a private celebration. I was surprised not to see any of them at the funeral, not even Lord Pendleton. Do you know if the family remains in good health?”

By family, he meant Julia, of course. Not that he didn’t have great affection for her parents—he did—but it was their eldest daughter who held the most interest for him and had for more than five years, since he’d seen her grown up and so lovely at a ball during her first Season. Seeing as how a banker’s heir was in a no way a fitting match for an earl’s daughter, he’d attempted to abolish those inappropriate feelings from his thoughts, but they, not unlike the determined character of Julia herself, stubbornly refused to be exiled. In spite of all, he had been hoping to see Julia again.

His grandfather gave him an understanding nod. “I know; you’re still fixed on the girl. She inquires after you often, you know. I’m sure she—and her parents—would be pleased to see you again. Still unwed, you know. The younger ones both settled.” He shrugged. “Not sure they’ve come home yet. Went to Ireland, you know. Lord Pendleton has relatives there.”

Ireland? Oliver swallowed. “His heir lives there. I, er, heard that a match was planned between the heir’s son and Lady Julia.”

“Ah.” His grandfather stared intently into Oliver’s eyes. “That Julia don’t seem the type of gel to submit to an arranged marriage. Got spunk, she has.”

That she has, Oliver thought as he fondly recalled the flame-haired tomboy he’d grown up with. She’d scorned needlework and everything ladylike for as long as he could remember, but in spite of all her protests, she’d become a beautiful, accomplished young lady after all.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but you’ve a visitor.”

Oliver and his grandfather turned surprised eyes toward the butler.

“Miss O’Hara,” Fox informed them, “to see you, Mr. Oliver. I have put her in the green drawing room.”

Oliver’s eyes widened. Kate? What could she possibly want? Her father buried that same day.

“Oh, Oliver! I am so glad you are here! I don’t know what I should do without you!”

A teary-eyed Kate rushed into his arms as he entered the room, laying her blonde head against his chest. “I still cannot believe Father is gone!”

Oliver put his arm around her and patted her back rather awkwardly, knowing as he did so that such familiarity was not quite the thing anymore, since they were no longer children.

“Dear Kate,” he managed to say as he gently put her away from him. “I was so aggrieved to hear of your father’s passing. Please accept my condolences. I was, of course, planning to call upon you and your mother at the vicarage in a few days.”

Kate was trembling so badly that he clasped her around the waist and and led her to a sturdy chair. “But I couldn’t wait until then,” she cried, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I had to see you, Oliver. You are the only one who can help us, and you are so seldom here… I am certain it was God who brought you here in our time of need. You could not possibly have heard of Papa’s… Papa’s, er, passing so quickly if it were not for the Lord’s wisdom.” She choked into her handkerchief.

Oliver decided not to mention his grandfather’s birthday. “What is it, Kate? Are you and your mother in need? I am sure Cook can offer you some food… and the other parishioners would as well, if you should need such assistance.”

Kate clutched at his upper arm. “Oh, Oliver, it’s not so simple as that. What I need, er, what we need… is a favor from you. A big one.” She bit her lip. “Oh, Oliver, I would never impose on you in such a manner if I could think of any other solution, but I have wracked my head, and I simply cannot think of another…” She released his arm and covered her face with both hands.

Oliver leaned in and put his arm around her shoulders. “Tell me what you need, Kate, and you shall have it. We have been friends forever. You must know I could never turn you away in your time of need.”

But he wasn’t prepared for her answer.

She looked up at him with shining eyes. “Oh, Oliver, I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Let us down. I promise you shall never regret it. I shall be a good wife to you, just wait and see if I don’t!”

“Wife?” Oliver choked.

“Yes,” she said with a shaky laugh. “I need you to marry me.”

A sudden coldness hit his core.

To find out what happened to Oliver and Kate, and to Oliver and Julia, see The Ultimate Escape.

A Frantic Attempt to Save the Earl from a Grave Mistake

Image source: Portrait by Christoffer Wilhem Eckersberg

Fairweather House, London

December 8, 1815

My dear Mr. Clemens,

As you have been so kind as to find a use for such little tidbits as I am able to send you from time to time, I take the liberty to pass along some things I discovered in the vicinity of the village of Weatton.

I had occasion to pause on my Tedious Journey from a house party in the North Country to London. One must attend such gatherings even when they occur in the Vilest of Climes for the sake of my darling Jane. She will come out next spring, and, as we both know, the right contacts are everything, are they not?

In any case, our journey home brought us to the vicinity. One is tempted accept the hospitality of the Better Families in any such area one visits. However since the better home in the area, Eversham Hall, is a house of mourning, I did not impose. Of course given the Reputation of the late duke and the Tales of Debauchery one hears about the place, I would have hesitated to subject my Darling Jane to such a place. One did hear the Earl of Chadbourn was in residence to support his dear sister, but one did not wish to Impose.

I settled on a brief visit with my cousin, Amos Archer, Esq. instead. He is kindly enough, although sadly lacking in discernment where Rank and Position are concerned. I knew the visit would do my Jane no harm. We had been there but a day when I discovered that none other than the Marquess of Glenaire was in residence at Eversham Hall, presumably to support Chadbourn. Their friendship is well known. There was nothing for it but to extend our visit and suggest that my cousin host a dinner party so he could invite Glenaire and Chadbourn to meet Jane. After some Gentle Persuasion, he did so.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Wormwood, proved open to Excellent Suggestions and soon was at work bringing the squire’s manor to something approaching adequate. While of course one must never stoop to Servants’ Gossip, the woman would talk, and one must politely listen. Such tales! The late duke associated with Most Disreputable Associates. He housed Women of Loose Virtue in the dower house while his poor wife was in residence. Thank goodness one does not have to associate with such a reprobate. About Chadbourn, she had only good things to say. He had made himself agreeable to the neighborhood, and I had such hopes. As to Glenaire, he is of course a duke’s heir and all that is desirable in an alliance.

Wormwood alerted me to a problem. It appears Chadbourn has begun to associate openly with one Miss Catherine Wheatly. While some Persons of Little Discernment such as my unfortunate cousin find her acceptable, Wormwood assuredly did not and questioned the Nature of the Association. It appears the late duke and his friends sniffed around the woman’s skirts and likely more. Worse! Wormwood told me in bluntest terms that the woman is of Low Birth, entirely on the Wrong Side of the Blanket and that her mother was known to have consorted not only with the duke but with the duke’s brother, Lord Arthur Wheatly, while unmarried before an Unfortunate Condition forced her to flee to Scotland. The Wheatly woman is not to be borne. I made sure her name was stricken from Squire Archer’s guest list and let it be known in the community.

Unfortunately, a Curt Message arrived soon after. Chadbourn and Glenaire declined my invitation in most forceful terms. Wormwood believes the Wheatly woman has Pulled Wool over the earl’s eyes.

I offer this information to you, my Dear Mr. Clemens, in hopes you may find room in your Delightful newsletter to inform your readers of Miss Catherine Wheatly’s position and Unfortunate Origins. Perhaps Chadbourn can be brought to his senses before he makes a Grave Mistake.

I would of course be appreciative of one of your little Gifts of Gratitude. They do so augment my pin money. Fairweather has been so ungenerous these past years.

Florentia Fairweather

The Right Honorable the Viscountess of Fairweather

Find out more about Catherine and her earl in A Dangerous Nativity.

A Delightful Meeting—Or Maybe Not

Image source: Le Beau Monde

Eliza Berkeley strolled the grounds. The weather was cool, and she quickened her pace. Long walks always soothed her, and at the moment, she needed some time to herself. Her latest writings were just dreadful, and she could not figure out how to better them.

The sound of an approaching coach had her looking toward the street. A handsome man was driving it, and he tipped his hat and slowed down to a halt.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a low voice that warmed her immediately.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Remembering her manners, she curtsied. Then she realized she had told her maid, Barrows, not to accompany her for this walk, and she, an unmarried lady, was talking with a man who wasn’t a family member unchaperoned. “I…” Eliza glanced back to her house.

“I wish you no ill,” he said easily, remaining on his perch on the coach. “Your beauty caught my eye. The sweetness of your smile, the rosiness in your cheeks… The outdoors agrees with you.”

“Thank you for your kind words.” She couldn’t help stepping back, though. His speech was kind, but who was he?

“We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting before, have we?” He tapped a finger to his chin. “I think not. I would remember one such as you.”

Eliza’s cheeks heated. “No, I do not believe I have had the honor. I am Miss Berkeley. My father is a baron and…” She trailed off, feeling like a babbling fool.

“I am Stephen. Stephen Huntington. The Duke of Wyndale. I am surprised our paths have not crossed before at parties or balls.”

“Oh, well…” Eliza coughed slightly. “You see, my sister…”

“Ah. She is older, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Married?”

Eliza nodded.

“Then it shall be your turn next.”

Her cheeks heated even more, and she lowered her gaze to the ground. The man was far too good looking, his eyes an unusual shade she found herself wanting to look upon, but she dared not be that forward.

“Might I trouble you for a bite to eat?” he asked.

He could not mean… Was he trying to insinuate interest in her? Knowing she was only a second daughter of a baron when he himself was a duke?

Manners dictated her actions. “Certainly.”

He climbed down from his coach and walked beside her, not too closely but not far away either. She kept glancing over at him, wanting to learn more about him, this man who treated her as an equal. Who was he, and what did he want from her?

These events precede Joy to the World, a novella by Nicole Zoltack.

Storm-tossed lovers

Image credit: Tantallon Castle, by George Blackie Sticks

"The wind is dying," David said, as he came back into the room with an armful of wood clutched to his breast and a basket depending off the arm with which he had opened the door. "They'll be able to cross from the mainland today."

"I will be pleased to know that Lord and Lady Penworth are safe," said Mist, "but I will regret leaving this little sanctuary they made out of their prison."

"I don't want to leave, either," David said.

He looked around the tower room that had been their refuge this last two nights, alone in a deserted castle on an abandoned island. It was very familiar to him now. At that table, they had shared information and pieced together the plot that had ensnared two earls and would have cost David his life had Mist not come to the island on a mission of her own. At that window, they had watched the boat carrying last of the fleeing villains turn away from the shore where constables waited to arrest them and lose the gamble when the storm overwhelmed them. On that sofa, he had slept the first night, leaving the bed on the next floor to Mist. And on that rug, in front of the fire, they had made love for the first time yesterday afternoon before repairing upstairs to that same bed.

The thought heated his gaze as he placed the basket on the table, and Mist joined him to explore what his scavenging had produced for their meal. She blushed and lowered her eyes. He had not been her first—had not expected or wanted to be—but nor was she a wanton. Except at the appropriate moments, he amended, certain memories curving his lips. There would be time for another appropriate moment before their peace was invaded. And perhaps when they both returned to town?

She was cutting the bread he had found and threading it onto a toasting fork. Yes. Eating first was a good idea.

She was sitting on the rug now, the richly colored banyan she wore pooling around her. It was the earl's clearly and far too big for her, swamping her lithe form. David speared a piece of cheese to grill and sat beside her, enjoying the way she cleared the robe from his way so he could sit close enough for her to rest her head on his shoulder. Was she wearing anything beneath it? He rubbed his cheek against her hair, shifting slightly to ease the reaction the thought prompted.

Mist's thoughts, though, were on food. "Toast, cheese, and apples. A feast, David."

He loved the sound of his name on her lips. He had told her last night, after she had called out "Shadow!" at the height of her passion. The name she had known him by these last three years was not enough with her, though it had sufficed in the past with others. Those who served the Crown in this half-world of lies had code names to protect their identities, but he wanted Mist to know him, though he was not yet ready to think about why. "My name is David Wakefield," he told her, as she lay limp and gloriously naked on the large bed. It stung a little that she had not shared her own name.

She held out a slice of toast, and he slipped the toasted cheese onto it, refurbishing both forks before taking a bite from the prepared treat and holding it to her mouth for her own bite.

"I used to make cheese and toast with my half-brother," he told her. "Little scamp. He would come sneaking up to my room at all hours of the night with half a loaf of bread and some cheese that he'd charmed out of a kitchen maid."

"You are the eldest then, David?"

"I was the eldest at the castle," David temporzed. Only God knew how many other by-blows the Duke of Haverford had or what ages they were. Certainly His Grace neither knew nor cared. "Aldr... my half-brother was the heir, though. Lived all by himself in a vast suite of rooms with servants to wait on him hand and foot. I never envied him that lonely life or the weight of expectations on him. It's no surprise he used to escape to visit the by-blow in the tower."

What was wrong? She had stiffened beside him, and when he looked down, her face was drained of color. An icy hand closed around his heart, and he forced his next words out through a closing throat, already knowing that their idyll was over.

Well, what of it? He had been rejected before for the circumstances of his birth and had survived. But with this one woman, it cut to the quick.

“Mist? Is something wrong?” He asked the question, but he had already retreated from her, his face no longer reflecting every emotion, his hazel eyes flat and hard. His eyes—how could Prue not have seen? He was shorter than the Marquis of Aldridge and dark where Aldridge was fair, but the eyes and the heavy brows were just the same.

She choked back a laugh or perhaps tears. If she let either out, she would not be able to stop.

“Nothing,” she managed to say. For seven years, she had practiced imposing calm, hiding her reactions and feelings under a facade of pleasant interest. She could pretend nothing was wrong.

Aldridge’s brother! She had been seduced twice, and both times by sons of the Duke of Haverford. No. That was unfair. Aldridge had seduced her, certainly, though she still blamed herself for falling for his blandishments. She had been young and lonely, but she knew better; she should have known his honeyed words did not presage marriage.

But David had not seduced. She had chosen to give herself to him. They had chosen one another. She had admired him these three years, had worked with him many times, trusted him more than any other man on the face of the earth.

What would he say if she told him that his younger privileged brother had been her first and—until yesterday—only lover?

“If you are sure, Mist.” His voice was cold, and he had pulled away, was standing to tidy up the remains of their breakfast. How she longed to hear him say her name—her real name, not the code name that was all he knew. She had been going to tell him this morning; should have told him last night.

But at the time, he was scolding her for risk-taking—teasing more than scolding. He had started with the risks she had courted rescuing him and the earl and countess and then reprised a dozen other incidents from their shared cases. How could she tell him that her father had named her Prudence? And as for her surname, Virtue! She was naked when he told her his name, naked and rosy from their third bout of love making. She flushed at the thought then paled again as he reached a hand toward her.

He would not want to touch her if he knew all. If he knew she was a rejected conquest of the man they called the Merry Marquis, he would know her for the harlot her sisters called her.

“I should dress,” she said, pretending she did not see the hurt in the eyes so like the remembered eyes of her first lover.

“Go then.”

She flinched at his sudden shout.

He moderated his volume, but not his angry tone. “You are not the first to bed the bastard and then reject him. I thought you were different, but I should have known.”

No. He didn’t understand. Prue opened her mouth, but the words would not come, and the tears were threatening to spill. Instead, she fled. She would explain later.

But by the time she had composed herself, he had gone down to the wharf to meet the boat from the mainland, and he left for London almost as soon as they landed on the other side of the channel. Clearly, their night together had not meant as much to him as it had to her.

Lord and Lady Penworth would have loaded her with rewards, but all she would accept was the hire of a post chaise so she could report the success of her mission. As each sway of the yellow bounder took her closer to journey’s end, she hoped she would never see Aldridge or his half-brother again.

To find out why Lord and Lady Penworth were imprisoned, and how they escaped, see The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle in Hand-Turned Tales.

To read what happens next to David and Prue, see Revealed in Mist.

A Surfeit of Questionable Behaviour

Image source: The musicale, by Charles Soulacroix

Fairweather House, London

March 10, 1818

My dear Mr. Clemens,

Because our dealings in the past have been Beneficial and because I know you share my own desire to educate young people in matters of Correct Behavior and Social Consequence, I once again send along items that I have come across during the course of certain Social Dealings.

The Earl and Countess of Chadbourn invited my Jane to a house party last month. We assumed that they were careful to invite only the Best People. Jane, having had a most successful Debutante Season in which she rejected offers from a Viscount (having luckily discovered he was somewhat pockets to let) and also no less than four other Lesser Offers, and now approaching a second season in which she will be a Leading Light and Glittering Diamond, looked forward to the party. My Jane enjoyed the sponsorship of no less than the Duchess of Sudbury who I assumed before the party to be a Lady of Discernment.

Alas, activity at Chadbourn Hall proved to be not at all what Some People promised it would be. Perhaps the Questionable Origins of the countess (about which I have alerted you in the past) are the cause of Serious Breaches of Good Taste that we witnessed and people of low class allowed to attend.

To begin with, you will note that people of a Certain Foreign Extraction were included in the party so that my Jane was forced to sit at table with a Turkish gentleman who hindered her attempts to fix the attention of the Marquess of Glenaire who you will remember is Sudbury’s heir.

Lady Sarah Wharton proved to be quite the Pushing Young Lady, monopolizing the attention of the duchess and her son Glenaire. Indeed when the party concluded, the duchess abandoned her previous sponsorship of My Jane in favor of Sarah Wharton, to whom I refused to give the title “Lady.” One remembers that the Duke of Lisle, her father, is in possession of a strip of land bordering the main Sudbury holdings. The duchess is apparently the Sort to value land over Character, not that it will do her good.

Now that the Season has begun, the Wharton clings to Glenaire like a limpet while he shows every sign of Great Boredom. He would, of course, be much better served by My Jane should he or his Horrid Mother but turn their attention elsewhere.

Rumors that the marquess is taken with the charms of Miss Lily Thornton are Not To Be Borne. The woman has nothing to offer and is of a class who ought to be beneath the notice of Lord and Lady Chadbourn, yet she would attend. Though she sat below the salt with lesser members of the Foreign Office where she might belong, she continually drew attention from the head of the table. As if that weren’t enough, I Personally Witnessed her associating with the Foreign People and conversing in languages No Good Englishwoman would know or admit to it if she did.

One hoped that here in London the Marquess will have no call to encounter the Thornton Creature, but she manages to put herself forward. I saw with my own eyes that he followed her to the garden at a musicale just two nights ago. They left separately but one is Not Fooled but such behavior. She has become quite the confidante of his sister, Georgiana Mallet, also. All of London knows the Mallet woman is Not Received, even by her parents the duke and duchess. Glenaire ought to Know Better.

Lady Sarah (or LSW___ as you will no doubt call her) meanwhile behaves in the most forward way as if she has staked a claim to the Sudbury heir. She was overheard quite taking him to task on no less than three occasions. One hopes you will point out the Dreadful Impropriety of her behavior. One hopes the marquess will come to His Senses and Look Elsewhere.

Should you use these tidbits and should the marquess indeed look at Another Lady, none of your little Gifts of Gratitude would be necessary. I would already be Quite Content.

Florentia Fairweather

The Right Honorable the Vicountess of Fairweather

You can read the story of what happened to Glenaire and Lily in Dangerous Weakness by Caroline Warfield.

Meet the Bluestocking Belles

The Bluestocking Belles (the “BellesInBlue”) are six very different writers united by a love of history and a history of writing about love. From sweet to steamy, from light-hearted fun to dark tortured tales full of angst, from London ballrooms to country cottages to the sultan’s seraglio, one or more of us will have a tale to suit your tastes and mood.

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The Bluestocking Belles have chosen the Malala Fund as the charity they support, and to which they donate some of their royalties. Periodically, they take on projects intended to directly support this cause, which exemplifies their personal values and intentions: the right of girls and women to do whatever they choose with their lives.

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