Shehanne Moore's Blog, page 15
July 13, 2017
Half Guests will travel. Interview with Robbie Cheadle.
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Robbie. Well, Sir Chocolate lives in Chocolate Land where you can eat everything, even the trees, flowers and houses.
Robbie. It would be a great pity to eat Sir Chocolate as then there would be no more Sir Chocolate stories.
Robbie. How about we compromise and you nibble a gingerbread house instead?
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Robbie. I live in South Africa, far across the ocean from Scotland. It is very sunny and hot here and we spend a lot of time swimming and doing outdoor activities. The Sir Chocolate books series is a family undertaking and everyone has a role. Michael comes up with the story ideas and some of the characters, I write the stories in rhyming verse and design the books, Gregory edits our YouTube recipe videos and Terence (my husband) helps with editing the books. Gregory and Michael are both at school. Gregory started high school this year and Michael is in Grade 5 at primary school.
Robbie. I do not have any hamsters but I do have two cats. Our cats’ names are Push-Push and Smudge and they are very cute.
Robbie They like to nibble on our fondant artwork and give it sticky kisses.
Robbie. Naturally, this is not something Michael and I encourage as we prefer our fondant creations without a coating of cat saliva. Our most recent victim of cat love was the Man on the Moon. We made him from fondant and cheese and he looked really great. We left him on the kitchen table while we went for a walk and when we came back we found that cats really like cheese. Our poor little Man on the Moon was missing his middle. [image error]
Robbie Push-Push looks a bit like this:
Robbie. We would love to have hamsters but that poses the question of do cats eat hamsters? Or do hamsters eat cats?
Robbie I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland as she fell through the centre of the Earth while having a debate about whether cats eat bats. Michael loves hamsters, especially, Humphrey, who is the star of his own series of books called According to Humphrey by Betty G. Birney. Humphrey is really amazing and you could learn lots of great tricks from him.
Robbie. I don’t have a recipe for hamsters but I do have a recipe for cakes and other goodies. You can find some of my recipes in Michael and my Sir Chocolate series of books. Each of these books contains a story about life in Chocolate Land told in rhyming verse, five recipes and a poem. The books are decorated with pictures of our cake, biscuit and fondant creations including one by Michael. Of course, each story also has a villain – what good would a book be without a villain. The villains that Sir Chocolate has battled with in our three published books are the trolls who guard the strawberry cream berries in Book 1, the baby cookie monster in Book 2 and the greedy snail in Book 3. Here are their Chocolateville police identification photographs:
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The greedy snails were made by Gregory (back) and Michael (front)
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Robbie. Sir Chocolate and Lady Sweet live in Chocolate Land. They have lots of adventures where they help make the world a better place and put things that have gone wrong in their village of Chocolateville right. Book 4: Sir Chocolate and the Condensed Milk River Story and Cookbook will be available in October. The condensed milk river dries up and the little water creatures are suffering. Sir Chocolate and Lady Sweet set off on a journey along the river to find out what the problem is.
Robbie. I started baking for three very good reasons: 1. I wanted my children to eat food that was as preservative free as possible; 2. I wanted a fun activity that we could all do together; and 3. I find baking very relaxing as I have a stressful, full-time job.
Here are the cakes we made for Terence’s birthday recently:
You can find the recipes and instructions for making these cakes on our blog robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com [image error]
Robbie. I have finished the first book in a new series of books for children called Silly Willy. The story is narrated by Cautious Craig, who is 8 years old, and describes the travels of his family with his very naughty and silly younger brother, Silly Willy, in tow. The first book, Silly Willy Goes to Cape Town, is set in Cape Town in South Africa and includes some fun anecdotes about trips to the beach, wine farms and even an ostrich farm. The Silly Willy books include step by step instructions on how to make many of the fondant illustrations and also five fun party cake ideas with instructions on how to make them. Silly Willy Goes to Cape Town will be available in early July 2017.
About Robbie and Michael Cheadle
Robbie Cheadle was born in London in the United Kingdom. Her father died when she was three months old and her mother immigrated to South Africa with her tiny baby girl. Robbie has lived in Johannesburg, George and Cape Town in South Africa and attended fourteen different schools. This gave her lots of opportunities to meet new people and learn lots of social skills as she was frequently “the new girl”.
Robbie is a qualified Chartered Accountant and specialises in corporate finance with a specific interest in listed entities and stock markets. Robbie has written a number of publications on listing equities and debt instruments in Africa and foreign direct investment into Africa.
Robbie is married to Terence Cheadle and they have two lovely boys, Gregory and Michael. Michael (aged 11) is the co-author of the Sir Chocolate series of books and attends school in Johannesburg. Gregory (aged 14) is an avid reader and assists Robbie and Michael with filming and editing their YouTube videos and editing their books. Robbie is also the author of the new Silly Willy series the first of which, Silly Willy goes to Cape Town, will be available in early July 2017.
Robbie and Michael Cheadle’s books
Sir Chocolate books – currently available
Sir Chocolate and the strawberry cream berries story and cookbook:
Sir Chocolate and Lady Sweet live in Chocolate land where you can eat absolutely everything. Join them on a fantastic adventure to find the amazing strawberry cream berry and learn how to make some of their scrumptious recipes at the same time.
Sir Chocolate and the baby cookie monster story and cookbook:
Sir Chocolate and Lady Sweet find a lost baby cookie monster. Join them on an adventure to return the baby to its mother and learn how to make some of their delicious recipes at the same time.
Sir Chocolate and the sugar dough bees story and cookbook:
A greedy snail damages the flower fields and the fondant bees are in danger of starving. Join Sir Chocolate on an adventure to find the fruit drop fairies who have magic healing powers and discover how to make some of his favourite foods on the way.
Silly Willy goes to Cape Town – available in early July 2017
Blurb: When the George family go on holiday to Cape Town, Cautious Craig cannot believe what he has to endure at the hands of his naughty and wilful younger brother, Silly Willy. Willy throws tantrums at the most embarrassing and inappropriate times, causes a commotion on the aeroplane and tries to steal a chameleon from Butterfly World. What is a poor older brother expected to do in these situations?
Follow Robbie Cheadle at:
Blog: robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15584446.Robbie_Cheadle
Plus.google: https://plus.google.com/105609586198905397891
Facebook: @SirChocolateBooks
Twitter: @bakeandwrite
Purchase Robbie and Michael Cheadle’s Books from:
https://www.amazon.com/author/robbiecheadle
OR
http://tinyurl.com/zdokqjr (The first three Sir Chocolate Books are currently available at a discounted price in hard copy and as ebooks)
Filed under: Author Interviews, blogging, book tour Tagged: Cake decorating, Cake making, Cakes, Cookery books, Robbie and Micahel Cheadle, Robbie Cheadle, Sir Chocolate books, South Africa
July 5, 2017
Interview with the Earl
I have a very special post today in collaboration with Shehanne Moore about her latest novel, Splendor. It includes a review and an interview with Ms. Moore and her hamster friends and even the Earl of Stillmore himself.
Carolee Croft/ First, the review:
[image error]I just love Ms. Moore’s cheeky heroines, and Splenour is no exception. How can you not like a woman whose name is Dora and she therefore decides to name herself Lady Splendora?[image error]
She’s an honorary member in the London jewel thieves’ guild known as the Starkadder Sisterhood, but not a thief herself. In fact, she wants to help the poor, marry her sweetheart Gabriel and buy him a ministry.
Gabriel, as it turns out, is no sweetheart at all. But then neither is the Earl of Stillmore, a man who calls his servant an “overstuffed seal”. He reserves even better names for Splendor. Mostly he calls her names in his head, but sometimes he does so to her face… usually when she’s being a brat, which is quite often.
While Gabe shows his cowardly and whiny nature, the earl drives Splendor up the wall by “training” her to win a chess tournament even though she is obviously better than him at the game.
With shades of Shakesperean cross-dressing comedy and scenes that reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady and Confessions of a Shopaholic as Splendor by turns participates in a men’s chess tournament and then tries to pose as an aristocrat at high society balls, this novel had me laughing out loud throughout. It was also extremely touching when I realized how much these two have suffered for love (and their own stubbornness).
I would highly recommend Splendor as a fast-paced, funny and romantic read!
Now I have some questions for Shehanne Moore (and hamsters):
Carolee. How did you come up with the idea for this novel?
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Shey. Okay dudes can we stop this and leave Hamster Dickens out of this.
Shey. What I meant to say. Now then Carolee, first of all let me thank you for asking me to your fabulous blog. I hope all your own writing is doing well. So looking forward to reading your next book. I have had the basic first scene of this novel a long time. Before I had anything published in fact. I don’t play chess myself but in Regency times it was so popular there were clubs in most of the cities and matches between them too. Obviously the period was very constraining for women. So I had this idea of a woman cross dressing to enter a competition but running into trouble straight off and being challenged to a duel by the best shot in London. That was it. At that time I was trying to break into romance writing and sticking to the ‘sort of’ formula. The characters were pretty limp wristed. The heroine was a lady who had fallen on hard times. Her fiancé was a clergyman. The hero was a very decent sort really. No wonder the first chapter yawned on the shelf for years.
Carolee… What is it about Georgian England that appeals to you?
Shey. Right dudes, can we stop it. I suppose that it’s where a lot of books are set. I have to say thought there is nothing that appeals to me. It was a very different world from this one so I might say I set books there because I want to be bad to my heroines. Oh, ok, it is quite nice to set a book there and try and create characters who will flout convention in an acceptable way. I know that sounds sort of contrary but I mean I hope I make them tough enough to break the rules, to mold their world, as far as that is possible because of the kind of characters they are.
Carolee. Do you have an actor in mind to play Earl Stillmore or Lady Splendor?
Shey. We always have muses don’t we? I do anyway even for the smallest character. So yes. Aidan Turner for Stillmore. He has the right glowering impatience. And Drew Barrymore for Splendor.
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Carolee. Good choice! He was great in Poldark.
The Starkadder Sisterhood series has many fine ladies in it, Ruby being one of my favorites just because I think of her as a very unlikely romance heroine. How many more novels are you planning in the series, and will Ruby get her own love story?
[image error]Shey. You know she is so unlikely and so is Pearl who was her sidekick, I quite fancy having a go and giving each their own story. I have ideas for Diamond, Jade and Amber. So that’s definitely another three. But I am playing with one for Pearl and it would be an awful shame to leave her out. In fact, an idea I have been keeping for Emerald might well work better with Ruby. As you say she is so unlikely…..
Carolee. And for the hamsters… who was your favourite character in Splendor?
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Carolee. I also have some questions for the hero of this novel, the Earl of Stillmore:
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Carolee . Your first wife broke your heart. Why couldn’t you just get over it?
Stillmore :
Splendor: Because he doesn’t like to lose. Not even a dud farthing.
Stillmore: I did get over it. I shot lots of people I challenged to duels. I drank. I went with women. What was that if not getting over it? Well?
Splendor : Being afraid of falling again, Your Grace.
Carolee : Do you actually enjoy playing chess, or did you join the chess tournament just to foil your former mistress and her fiance?
Stillmore. Me? Do that? Me? That is the kind of thing someone else would do? It is the kind of thing you would never see me doing. If you were not a woman, I would call you out for that but I would never call out a woman.
Splendor: Dearest, aren’t you forgetting something? You know….pistols at dawn.
Stillmore: Well, what I mean is… YOU were dressed as a man. Oh very well, the answer is no. Obviously I am an excellent chess player. Indeed if Splendor had taken my advice, freely offered she would never have lost that ten thousand pounds. As for Babs Langley, had she not put me off my game, throwing that bracelet I bought her in my face before the chess tournament, I’d have won it. I can’t think what else she was expecting when I presented her with that trinket box.
Carolee You famously hate marriage, indeed you said-
Stillmore: Not me.
Splendor: Ahem..
Stillmore : I see. Well. It is a loathsome, hackneyed institution. Suitable only for those whose picnic is several sandwiches short. I just didn’t know I was famous about it.
Carolee. But maybe with the right partner it wouldn’t be so bad. Do you think you would like to marry Carolee Croft? 
June 27, 2017
Every night a different show……
SHEY…….
. [image error]was the story of jute in Dundee. How it got there, how Dundee came to be known as Juteopolis and how the mills are all gone now, how the Irish came during the famine in their droves, quadrupling the population in no time at all in a city which was unprepared for the onslaught, how they joined Highlanders being cleared off their land, courtesy of the Duke of Sutherland.
But it was also the story of weaving in the city and how the city and its people, who are not an easily impressed people, have always kept their story moving forward. The title says it all. Halflins were children who did half a day at school and half a day in the mills. Hecklers? Well, Dundee gave the world the word.
[image error] Weavers speaks for itself. As of the Weemin? To quote poet Dundee poet Ellie Macdonald… and I did get to quote these lines in the play and boy did it give me a thrill to deliver them.
‘For any woman brought up in the Dundee tradition there should be no straining for equality no, need for a new consciousness of the power of women. We have inherited a freedom which seems unnecessary to verbalize. We are just waiting for the world to catch up.’
Why did the women have this freedom? Because they were the family breadwinners.
Shey…because there’s a story that William Wallace went to school in Dundee and got in a ‘rammy’ –a row–with the English governor’s son, Selby, killed him,
thus becoming an outlaw but not before being hidden by a weaving woman just outside Dundee. .
SheyShey[image error]Shey. Indeed. Dundee has quietly furnished the world with one or two weel ‘kent’ folks, or folks who were inspired by their stay in the city.
Mary Shelley said Dundee was where she got her idea for the famous ‘unbeast.’ Ian Fleming’s grandfather worked in the jute mills here. We also had a scene involving from mill girl, to missionary to magistrate Mary Slessor.
[image error] She was also known as the Mother of All the People. So we had a wee song about her too sung by the most fabulous choir.
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William McGonagall … with tow of his drunken hecklers….
and an enactment of the only known instance of the famous Scottish play where the lead character refused to die. We had a wee onstage riot courtesy of Dundee woman Mary Brooksbank who wrote the Jute Mill Song, a visit from Mary Queen of Scot’s ghost, . And did I mention Winston Churchill, famously served a maggot in his kipper here
and flung out the town which, despite being the drunkest city in the British empire elected a prohibitionist instead. We also had a scene featuring Joseph Lee, Dundee’s fighter writer and forgotten WW 1 poet. Michael Marra’s daughter Alice, also a professional musician, sung her dad’s amazing Happed in Mist as a solo at this point. It was stunning. Here’s his version.
and then Mr and I recited one of the poems before the scene started. Alice was so stunning I could hardly speak. For once.
Shey…I played tour guide Em Fae Dundee, opposite Mr who played Ken O ‘ Dundee, the sort of keeping everything together hardly off the bloody stage, parts, William Wallace, A singing Suffragette, and on the Sat night cos we were two members of cast short, Mary Brooksbank, mill worker Jeanie
and an American tourist. Oh and on opening night I do believe I also played an unscripted football fan…don’t ask……….A certain blond wig was on the wrong props’ island at that stage…
Shey. Pretty difficult because none of the stellar cast ever intended to be on this play and so far as I was concerned my directing days were done. Five weeks before the play was due on the theatre company who had been involved pulled out. Meantime the fabulous choir run by Alice Marra, had learned all the songs, several of which were written by her late father, Dundee musician Mike Marra. Tickets had been sold. iI took two weeks to put together a cast under the name of a theatre co Mr and I once ran.
[image error] Of that cast, only five had ever done any serious theatre work. And two who had, could not do the Saturday night. I had to think about the overall look of the play–hence the tee shirts and the cast never leaving the playing space, I had to think about the difficulties of that nonetheless wonderful playing space the High Mill at Verdant works, a former mill now a museum, about working each scene in a way that would let folks who had never been on a stage, shine–for example rather than cluttering the Highland clearance scene with a cast of thousands, why not just have the whole thing read, even the ‘Be off with you’ bit from the proclamation, as if it was part of it. I also divvied up the parts in a way that might allow them to rehearse together where they were related to one another. We had the mill during the day but that was no use to some of the cast. There was no time for blocking rehearsals going on for weeks, or technical or props ones either. This play went out there on opening night having been run start to finish twice. There were bits that had been talked through, in terms of business and props at a meeting and then only had one rehearsal. I have to say the cast were wonderful. LOL and I am not saying that cos more than my Mr were family.
And it’s not easy being right up against an audience, although, the audiences were wonderful, it’s not easy never going off stage either, although okay…we did have a slogan, ‘Every night a different show.’ That was in terms of the ad libbing Mr and me did after he did little things, like start the wrong scene, not know what scene we were meant to start.
Shey…No doubt, all down to the fact that on opening night, I spoke the word you never EVER say onstage or off…….
When, in a noble moment as Mr wandered up and down waiting to hear the immortal words ‘Turn Hellhound, Turn.’ and would be waiting yet since he’d cut the speech that made scene of the entire scene, and my older girl who had taken the sword fight scene off me the night before, stood saying, ‘ What do I do Mum?’ and she is trained, I stepped forward and spoke. I also had McGonagall escaping the killing fields not floors. Oh well. You know, a fabulous time was had by all. Mr Shey loved us for putting on a different play from what he wrote. And yep, the cast were so good, I’m glad they all said at the after show party, they are well up for another run.. ….
Filed under: Author Interviews, Scottish Tagged: Dundee, John Quinn, Joseph Lee, Juteopolis, Mary Brooksbank, Mary Queen of Scots, Mary Shelley, Mary Slessor, O halflins an hecklers an weavers an weemin, Play, Verdant Works, William McGonagall, William Wallace, Winston Churchill
June 18, 2017
More Hecklers, More Hamsters and More Reviews
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http://www.paul-andruss.com/the-writer-and-the-rake/
Book Review:
The Writer and The Rake
by
Shehanne Moore
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I can confirm Shehanne Moore is no Miss Barbara Cartland.
Now there is two ways you can take this news. If you are anything like me it will be with a lusty huzzah and an air punch. I was never one for simpering virgins and sex scenes discretely ending outside the bedroom door.
Shehanne Moore writes historical romance with a sci-fi twist that’s unapologetically smexy. For those who don’t know, smexy (her word, not mine) is a cross between smutty and sexy… raunchy romance in the raw… or is that with a roar? Cos, boy, does the gal deliver!
If you want a complex heroine, so feisty she could bitch slap you in a stand-up row, meet tough but vulnerable Brittany Carter – ‘brittle as porcelain and deadlier than shattered glass. An irresistible combination.’
If you like a ruggedly handsome man, oozing animal magnetism, you can’t go far wrong with Mitchell Killgower. He’s not so tough. Underneath them smouldering looks and icy demeanour beats a heart to make you melt. At least something will be wet by the end of the novel.
By that I mean if a ‘good man who needs saving from himself’ don’t bring a tear to your eye then you are no Brittany Carter – not matter how smexy and gorgeous you are – ‘darling!’
Brittany is a struggling historical romance writer and no simpering virgin. Like most good-looking modern women in their mid-twenties, she’s had her fair share of men; all of them disappointments.
The book opens when a stranger called Morte stops Brittany for her autograph. Or so she thinks.
To be honest she’s not taking much notice. The girl’s got a lot on her mind. Off to straighten out her finances with some crap-head she used to date – he took everything but somehow managed to leave her name on a mortgage he’s not paying.
Morte’s weird, more stalker than fan. As his ominous warning about making the right choice rings in her ears, lightning strikes him. Brittany does the decent thing: calls an ambulance; helps Morte live.
Wrong choice!
Next thing Brittany wakes up in a sixteen year boy’s dusty bed. Wound tight as a cheese wire garrotte, she desperately plays it cool, frantically struggling to keep herself together while figuring out what the hell happened?
The boy’s furious. Handsome dad’s furious too. Not with her; with each other.
All the while she’s praying it’s a nightmare and she’ll wake up. Gradually it dawns. She’s somehow travelled through time, back to 1765 to be precise. To a crumbling stately home in Georgian England and the middle of a bitter inheritance feud between handsome rakish father and puritan unloved son, and with a cow of a sister-in-law holding the purse strings and fuelling the whole debacle.
The Writer and the Rake starts at 100 miles an hour and never flags. It is an unrelenting tour de force; a dazzling pas-de-deux of searing wit and laugh out loud moments between Brittany and Mitchell. The frisson between them is tangible, popping and fizzing across the pages as they slog it out to gain the upper hand, only to have the other snatch it back.
Despite wanting to return to her own time Brittany can’t take her eyes off Mitchell; while he can’t keep his hands off her behind. So, what about Morte? Don’t worry, he’s there too. Intent on sealing his Faustian bargain.
When Mitchell sees Morte with Brittany, he’s jealous as hell of her secret lover. It’s just the spark they need for scorching emotions to boil over into reckless sex. Even if you don’t smoke, you’ll be reaching for that post-coital cigarette Brittany can never have because she ran out in the first few days.
Casual sex has consequences. Hell, Brittany knows that. But she’s not prepared for what they are. Ok it’s not the first time she’s woken in a strange bed. But this one’s oddly familiar. She’s leapfrogged forward to her own time to find she’s been missing for weeks, presumed kidnapped, and her books are now best sellers.
Bingo!
Morte picks his moment to explain it all; a drunken night out with the girls. Apparently she’s a time mutant – the mother of a dynasty. Shame she’s too pissed to take it in.
Talk about sealed with a kiss. One drunken snog with some bloke in the club and Brittany’s back to Mitchell’s crumbling house. Only one thing for it, seduce Mitchell and use the ride of her life to hitchhike through the centuries back to her duly deserved fame and fortune.
Here lies the rub.
Mitchell’s the man she wants, the one she’s been waiting for all her life. She knows it from the moment he sweeps her up in his strong arms and drops her on his big old bed. From the second he unbuttons her bodice, and she his breeches. If only he was from her time. If, if, if…
If this is her last kiss; the last time she can make love for fear of ricocheting through the ages with every orgasm, then there is no one she would rather do it with.
Life’s never that simple, is it Brittany? Not with destiny calling… loud and clear.
The Writer and the Rake is a genre-bending adventure. It confirms Shehanne Moore as an author who know today’s woman is as likely to be into science fiction, playing computer games or watching light porn as reading heavy romance. And Moore’s not afraid to give her readers what they want … without ifs, buts or apologies.
The dialogue is racy, witty and thoroughly modern. This is no cod 18th century comedy of manners. That would get in the way of the lust and punishing pace. Her characters are real: gritty, decent and flawed as the rest of us. And ultimately, as redeemable by love we all are. Though it’s bloody hard work for them sometimes!
And in case you are thinking this is just for the girls, I’d advise you to give it a shot, lads. Cos let’s face it… it does no harm knowing what your woman wants.
Filed under: book tour, Reviews, Romance, time travel, Uncategorized Tagged: Book review, Dundee, FinnMacCool, Jack Hughes Books, Joh Quinn, Jute, O Halflins and hecklers and Weavers and Weemin, Paul Andruss, Play, Regency, Shehanne Moore, The Writer and the Rake, Thomas the Rhymer, Time-travel
June 10, 2017
O Hecklers & Hamsters, Sarah Potter & Book Reviews
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all images from–and more info from https://sarahpotterwrites.com/
The Writer and the Rake by Shehanne Moore
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I totally loved everything about this time-travel romance and would give it ten stars if I could.
Brittany Carter is an author, who drinks, smokes, and parties too much. After a surreal encounter with a character called Morte, she’s transported to the Georgian era and meets bad boy Mitchell Killgower, who is locked into an inheritance dispute with some hateful relatives of his deceased wife. When Brittany materialises out of nowhere, he hopes she can prove useful by pretending to be his obedient and mousy wife for long enough to hoodwink those who hold the purse strings and stop his son getting the inheritance. The only trouble is that the feisty Brittany is incapable of fitting into this role and Mitchell has truly met his match on the impossible person’s front.
I don’t want to give too much away, as this will spoil readers’ fun; and the novel is such great fun, in a quirky sense of the word, always sustaining a great forward momentum with wonderfully entertaining dialogue. Come to think of it, I don’t recall the author using any dialogue tags at all and, if she did, they weren’t intrusive.
Brittany is often insufferable, but also pretty cool in a chaotic way. Mitchell is a Mr Darcy type: dark, handsome, brooding, stubborn, hard to impress, and master of his heart, but decidedly sexier than the original. His relationship with Brittany is meant as a short-term arrangement of convenience and nothing more. And the feeling is mutual …until it isn’t.
Speaking of the raunchy scenes, Shehanne Moore knows how to write about sex in a way that’s humorous, playful, erotic and, at times, intense. It’s never explicit, because it doesn’t need to be; the subtle interplay of all the human senses is sufficient.
On the hilarity front, the crowning moment for me is when Mitchell rifles through Brittany’s bag and puzzles over its contents from the future, and then questions her about one of the items in particular.
If you haven’t already guessed, I fell in love with Mitchell and felt really sorry for him when Brittany kept appearing and disappearing. A rake like Mitchell does not give his heart easily to a woman, preferring the casual company of floosies when needs dictate.
The Writer and the Rake can be read as a standalone novel, even though it’s the second part of a series. One reviewer has suggested that, in order to understand the time mutants better, it’s an idea to read the series in the right order, starting with The Viking and the Courtesan.
As you can imagine, Time Mutants #1 is near the top of my reading list, as I can’t get enough of Shehanne Moore’s writing and am delighted to have discovered someone with such a fresh and original voice.
A highly recommended read.
https://sarahpotterwrites.com/2017/06/09/book-review-the-writer-and-the-rake-by-shehanne-moore/
Filed under: Reviews, Romance, time travel Tagged: Book review, Dundee, Dundee and the jute mills, John Quinn, New Play, O Halflins & Hecklers & Weavers & Weemin., Shehanne Moore, The Writer and the Rake, Time-travel
June 2, 2017
It’s a Man’s World. The lot of women in later Regency times.
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It’s A Man’s World – with Shehanne Moore
‘You wait ages for one Shehanne Moore book and then two come along at once! Hot on the heels of her irrepressible timeslip novel The Writer and the Rake, comes her long-awaited Regency – Splendor – sequel to the fabulous Loving Lady Lazuli. Shehanne has the knack of creating unforgettable heroines set against an authentic historical backdrop.
Here she talks about some extraordinary women on the late 18th/early 19th century.’
In terms of being a wife in ruination only which is what he has just asked, you can see my latest hero, Kendall Winterborne, Earl of Stillmore, is following in well-trodden footsteps when it comes to my heroes. As for Splendor the heroine? Well, being up to her neck in it, goes with the turf.
I recently did a guest blog for the lovely poet Christy Birmingham, on the pretty awful lot of Georgian Women. Splendor is set in a slightly later time, Regency more than early Georgian, where the hunt for a husband was a serious business, families spent a fortune on their daughters, ‘coming out’ and unattached ladies had but one goal, NOT to signal what that goal was. But what happened when they achieved that goal?
Mary Wollstonecraft, mother of Mary Shelley—and a woman who defied convention– had published her Rights of Women in 1792.
It highlighted the ‘means and arts by which women had been forcibly subjugated, flattered into imbecility and invariably held in bondage’. So all good for women then? A great one being spent in pursuing frivilous goals?
Well, no. Contraception, childbirth etc, had not greatly improved. For women, chastity before marriage, was often as much a matter of necessity.
Also women were still their husband’s property. My hero Stillmore may be divorced, he certainly got all his wife’s money beforehand. In fact marrying her saved the family fortunes after his father ran off with a kitchen maid who bankrupted them.
So, given all this, you can understand Splendor being glad when Stillmore informs her that while this ’thing’ he’s asking her in such polite and patient terms, involves marriage, it will be one in name only, since he utterly despises and actively fears the institution. In fact he regards anyone foolish enough to take that trip down the aisle, as he once did, as an imbecile.
He has his reasons by the way.
You can also see, given the only slightly improved lot of women in the early 19th century, why quite a few of them wanted to be a man. And that is something Splendor is masquerading as at the start of the book. Not because she especially wants to be a man but because the prize money in a certain chess completion is much greater in the men’s part of the tournament, than the ladies. Nine and a half thousand guineas greater to be precise. Money she needs—badly.
In that respect she’s not the first woman to decide that going about this as a man was the way to ensure her future as a woman. Katherine Ferrers—The Wicked Lady anyone—was said to have taken to the highways as a man in her husband’s absence, to sort out the little blip in her finances, get them on a more even keel. [image error]
Too bad that she was apparently shot, exhorting a victim to stand and deliver, which they did, killing her in the process. Looking on the bright side, at least her financial worries were at an end. Something Splendor certainly considers when she gets challenged to a duel by Stillmore. Just one of the little drawbacks of entering a man’s world. [image error]
Very well, Katherine’s case has never actually been proved but the idea of women dressing as men is not stupid. Shakespeare chooses to make his main character in Twelfth Night, Viola, a cross-dresser. She wasn’t laughed off the stage either. all right she was no doubt being played by a man dressing as a woman, masquerading as a man. [image error]
Shakespeare also has each of the three women in the Merchant of Venice, dress as men at certain points of the play, for perfectly valid reasons. Again, the idea wasn’t derided.
Why does Viola cross-dress? Because, ship-wrecked and needing to find her brother, she is also faced with the harsh economic reality of finding work and the only opening? Yep, you guessed it. It’s for a man.
There are several instances of women cross dressing for that reason.
Christian Cavanagh, an Irish-born mother, left her children with her mother and a nurse to pursue her husband who had disappeared, into the army. Christian the subject of a book by Daniel Defoe, fought in several battles before it was discovered it was Mrs. Davies not Mr. [image error]
Pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read never masqueraded as men but they certainly lived as them.
Lady Caroline Lamb, as mad, bad and dangerous to know as her lover, the poet Byron, being rich, didn’t need to dress as a man to make her way in that world, unlike her poorer ‘sisters.’ But when she fancied a quickie with Byron, she did find that sneaking into his chambers was a lot easier, if she was dressed as a boy. [image error]
Author and mistress of Chopin, George Sand, who I forgot to mention in the original post- (How the hell could I ever miss out George?) never dressed as a man because she wanted to be one, took the name George either. Originally she only wanted to go to the theatre, to the cheap seats where women were forbidden. Why did she want the cheap seats? Because she couldn’t live with her husband any more, divorce was illegal and he cut her monthly allowance. [image error] I reckon that women, were doing what resourceful women, have done from time immemorial, and that’s survive. Whatever the era. And freed from having to be a woman certainly seemed to make them quite as dangerous to know in some instances too. Catherine Cavendish, thank you so much, lady and writer extraordinary for asking me to your wonderful blog today.
And now? That duel.
Extract from Splendor: Shehanne Moore
He was an unashamedly driving, look-at-me male. Unless he knew her body was shaped differently? Did it mean he wasn’t going to shoot her? She could stay in the tournament? Win the ten thousand pounds? If he knew she was a woman, he was surely going to say…
“For God’s bloody sake, you’re damn well meant to move,” Stillmore snarled. “Stop bloody arsing, will you?”
In all of her intimate brush with the Starkadder Sisterhood, she had never been told to stop doing such a thing, especially not by a man whose buttocks seemed glued to hers. She felt him turn his head.
“Don’t damn well add miscounting to cheating.”
“Miscounting? Me? When you—”
“Fram, start the count again. As for you, try to do what he says this time if it’s not beyond you.”
Despite the fact the pistol felt like ice in her hand, she gritted her teeth. “Do you somehow think it’s my fault I’m not? Look, Your Grace—”
“One.”
Whether it was her fault or not, the shock she got at hearing the word yet again and the difficulty of forcing her feet to move, meant she took a giant step forward, almost sliding on her said arse on the wet grass. These damned boots of Gabe’s were too large and thin as milk dribble on the soles. But so long as Kendall Winterborne didn’t think this was another trick on her part to delay the action, it would be all right.
“Two.”
Another step. She could barely keep hold of herself as she took it. But, count her blessings, her senses weren’t being accosted by the feel of him. The man…good God…who might kill her.
“Three.”
A drag of air into her tortured lungs. All she had to do was get off one round. How hard was that? Her finger tightened on the trigger. What if she killed the earl? Was he so black-hearted he deserved to die?
And all because he’d undermined her when she’d meant to say, I’m a woman. You can’t shoot me. Or had she undermined herself, precisely because she was a woman?
“Four.”
For God’s sake, was it five paces or six? Seven even? She could not remember for the mist snaking into her nostrils. And she needed to remember. As surely as her name was Dora Malachi whom everyone called Aurora Splendora, she needed to remember. She would be shot in the back otherwise. Then…then she’d be dead. “Five… Six…”
But there was no sharp retort, no searing agony, no impact of a bullet tearing cloth and flesh, so obviously, obviously, when it came to how many paces, it wasn’t, five, or six. It couldn’t be. It must be…
“Seven.”
The word wasn’t even out when she seized a breath and swung on her heel, managing just to keep her balance in the dew. Her fingers squeezed the trigger. She should have aimed, but it wasn’t as if she could see, so it made no difference. The crack ricocheted through her head, reverberating around every cavity in her eardrums. Crows rose like a screeching blanket from the ground. It was nothing to the noise Kendall Winterborne, the Earl of Stillmore, made as he hopped on one foot.
“Jesus bloody Christ. Jesus suffering bloody Christ.”
Nothing to the way he limped about, blackening the air with curses as she stood trying to look knowledgeable either. The buzz in her ears swelled. Starkadder and his silver watch fob chain she never got to polish, she hadn’t hit him, had she? How on earth she had managed to get that shot off, she had no idea. How it had blasted him in the foot either. But she had blasted him. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She had fired. He hadn’t. It meant one thing.
Even the somewhat large, staggered first pace she’d taken had not substantially increased the distance between them. For that she’d have had to bolt. So now…now he didn’t just stop hopping, he stopped dead center in the space opposite, the space he’d occupied just before she’d shot off her pistol, the smoking pistol that slithered from her palm, making a funny thudding noise as it struck the soft grass.
He raised his arm. Raised one eyebrow too. Her gaze widened in an involuntary spasm, so she saw the drizzle-sprayed mist, and his eyes primed on her like flintlocks above the shining barrel of the gun. The one now leveled at her breast, so carefully aimed, he could not miss.
A shudder shook her as his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. His finger fastened slowly on the trigger.
Then he drew it slowly, deliberately toward his chest.
The only thing he hates more than losing at chess is marriage…
For Splendor, former servant to the London’s premiere jewel thieves, pretending to be someone else is all in a day’s work. So when she learns of a chess tournament—a men’s chess tournament—with a ten thousand pound prize, pretending to be a man is the obvious move. The money will be enough to set her fiancé up in his own business so they can finally marry, and more importantly, it’ll pay off her bills and keep her out of debtor’s prison. But she doesn’t plan on her opponent, the rakish Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, being a sore loser—and a drunken one, at that. But before she can collect her prize, she finds herself facing the most merciless man in London across a pair of dueling pistols at dawn. Chess may be Splendor’s game, but she’s never fired a pistol. And dressed as a man with ill-fitting shoes on the slippery grass and borrowed glasses that make it hard to see, she’s certain she’s finally tipped her own king.
Bitter divorcee Kendall Winterborne, Earl Stillmore, is the ton’s most ruthless heartbreaker. And he’s got three pet peeves: kitchen maids, marriage…and losing. So when he realizes the “man” opposite him has entered the chess tournament under false pretenses, he’s in the perfect position to extort the little chit. But that’s before the exasperating woman begins to slip beneath his skin, and soon all he can think about is slipping beneath her skirts. But the confounded woman is engaged to someone else, and worse—she’s nothing but a former kitchen maid, just like the one that lured his father into the marriage that ruined the family name. And his ex-wife taught him more than he cared to know about why marriage was the worst kind of checkmate of all…
Filed under: blogging, book tour, heroes, heroines, Romance Tagged: Caroline Lamb, Christian Cavanagh, Etopia Press, George Sand, Katherine Ferrers, Mary Wollstonecraft, Regency, Romance, Shaakespeare, Splendor, Starkadder Sisterhood, The Wicked Lady, Twelth Night, Women, women in Regency times
May 29, 2017
Oil, Water, Bees and P.J. Lazos
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Pam. My interest in the environment definitely came first. I remember talking to trees as a child. My mom has a video of my as an infant, wrapped up in a blanket, staring up at the tree she had set me under, just jabbering away.
Pam. I have no idea what we were talking about, me and the tree, but it was in earnest. After college, I went to work for a law firm as a paralegal and after a year I was bored. My bosses convinced me to go to law school; I didn’t really want to be a lawyer.
Pam – But I decided that being an environmental attorney would be the one kind of law I could happily practice so that’s what I did. Ran it into the ground, you mean.
[image error] Pam. No. Absolutely not.
Pam – Although, despite all my blog posts about how we have to care for the Earth and live sustainably, etc., I think we’re more like fleas on a dog where we and the Earth are concerned. She don’t pay us no mind when you really think about it and She will always have the last word (as women should!).
Pam — My favorite experience so far has been writing my novel, “Oil and Water.” It’s a crap-ton of fun, being in the zone, letting your characters lead you to wherever the heck they feel like going. I am working on another novel right now, but haven’t hit my stride yet from a time perspective — always a challenge to find enough time to write — so the characters haven’t started talking to me. I’m trying to find the magic hour where I can write every day. When I wrote “Oil and Water” it was 5 a.m., but I go to bed way too late to get up that early this time around.
Pam — Probably more than I even realize.
Pam – “Oil and Water” was an eco thriller, but I also wrote “The Quality of Light” which is about hydraulic fracturing and am currently working on another novel about pharmaceutics. Even when I’m not writing about the environment, there are eco themes running through the stories. I start with a basic rough outline, not anything as elaborate as a five-act structure, but more like a screenplay’s three-act structure — in the beginning there is this premise (plotter), then there’s this wide open sea of possible ways to get there (panster), and then the end is going to be this (plotter). Not sure what that makes me.
Pam -Well, my husband had kept bees for a long time, long before we even met, and it became one of the staples of our marriage and what we did with the kids, keeping the bees, collecting the honey — every year we’d have a big party when we harvested the honey — making stuff like soap and lip balm and hand lotion with the honey and bees wax, and it’s not something I would have ever thought to do on my own. Sadly, the last few years we haven’t had bees. There were a few years in a row where they all just up and died or disappeared. We kept starting new hives and they’d make it through the winter and then die in the spring. My husband gave up in frustration and I can’t talk him into starting up again. He thinks we’d need all new equipment, that maybe the frames are contaminated with pesticides and that’s what’s killing the bees or maybe contributing to their disappearance. Some years ago we moved our bees to an organic farm, but bees have a 6-mile foraging radius so that wasn’t going to be enough to keep them from eating pesticide-laden food. Each of the last three springs I’ve thought I’d make a go of it on my own, but I really am not ready to do it alone, hence the apprentice.
Pam – It’s like breath. And it’s cheaper than therapy.
Pam–What’s next? A full deep breath and then another sentence.
When inventor Martin Tirabi builds a machine that converts trash into oil it sends shockwaves through the corporate halls of the oil cognoscenti. Weeks later, Marty and his wife, Ruth are killed in a mysterious car accident. Their son, Gil, a 10-year old physics prodigy is the only one capable of finishing the machine that could solve the world’s energy problems. Plagued with epilepsy from birth, Gil is also psychic, and through dreams and the occasional missive from his dead father he gets the push he needs to finish the job.
Meanwhile, Bicky Coleman, head of Akanabi Oil is doing his best to smear the planet in it. From a slow leak in the Gulf of Mexico to the most devastating oil spill the Delaware River has ever seen, Akanabi’s corporate practices are leaving oily imprints in their wake. To divert the tide of bad press, Bicky dispatches his son-in-law and Chief Engineer, David Hartos to clean up his mess. A disillusioned Hart, reeling from the recent death of his wife and unborn child, travels to Philadelphia to fulfill his father-in-law’s wishes.
There’s no such thing as coincidence when Hart meets Gil and agrees to help him finish Marty’s dream machine. But how will he bring such a revolutionary invention to market in a world reliant on fossil fuels and awash in corporate greed? To do so, Hart must confront those who would quash the project, including his own father-in-law.
You’ll find murder, mystery, and humor as black as fine Arabian crude filling the pages of Oil and Water. The characters are fictional, but the technology is real. What will we do when the oil runs out? Open up and see.
P. J. Lazos is the author of the novel Oil and Water, about oil spills and green technology, and of Six Sisters, a collection of novellas; a blogger for the Global Water Alliance (GWA) in Philadelphia; on the Board of Advisors for the wH2O Journal, the Journal of Gender and Water (U of Penn); a member of the Jr. League of Lancaster; a former correspondent for her local newspaper (Lancaster Intelligencer Journal now LNP); a literary magazine contributor (Rapportage); an editor; a ghostwriter; an author of a children’s book (Into the Land of the Loud); an environmental lawyer; and, because it’s cool, a beekeeper’s apprentice. She practices laughter daily.
https://greenlifebluewater.wordpress.com/
Tweets by pjlazos
Filed under: Author Interviews, blogging, book tour, writing Tagged: Eco, eco-fiction, Environmental isues, Law, Oil and Water, P.J.Lazoz, writing
May 21, 2017
Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club? The Lot of Women in Georgian England-reblog
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Have You Heard of the Hellfire Club? The Lot of Women in Georgian England (Guest Post) Shehanne Moore
Here with me today is historical romance author Shehanne Moore. We go back a ways, Shey and I, so when I heard about her new book The Writer and the Rake, I asked her to come visit the blog. She kindly agreed to write a guest post, and, wow, she has provided quite a read about Georgian England, women, and the writing process. Now, let’s give Shehanne Moore the stage.
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Let’s be clear here, this is not a paean of praise to Francis Dashwood’s exclusive club for high society rakes. When meetings often included mock rituals, items of a pornographic nature, much drinking, wenching and banqueting, what kind of a person do you think I am? And while the hero of my latest book has every selfish reason to appear enlightened about women, he has a point. Women were not able to walk into a tavern and drink in these days, the way they do now. In fact, a woman’s lot in 1765 was one to die for and not as we have come to know that term either.
Firstly, let me thank this very special woman, Christy Birmingham, for asking me, a romance author, to her blog today. It’s a great pleasure to be here and to know Christy, one of the most supportive women I know, a tremendous poet and an intelligent advocate for us ladies. My home town, Dundee, gave the U.S. Fanny Wright, lecturer, writer, freethinker, feminist, abolitionist, and social reformer, born here in 1795.
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Where the lot of Georgian women was concerned it’s a pity she hadn’t been born a bit earlier and hadn’t been lost to across the pond.
My idea in writing this book was to take Brittany, a young woman from today’s world and have her flit between Georgian England and the present day. You know ,I even thought how nice, gracious and sedate that Jane Austenish world would be, that within hours of arriving, she’d be so calmed by the green-fielded pleasantry and ladies in rustic bonnets everywhere, she’d fall totally in love with this charming world. DUH. What is it they say about the best laid plans? The more I looked into this alien galaxy and the lot of women, the clashier, not classier, this became. And not just between my hero and heroine either. What was interesting was the things I had to go to bat for re this book.
The hero is a rake but before anyone thinks too badly of him, a lot of upper crust men from that era were because most society marriages were arranged. Sometimes affection grew but not for my hero, whose shy, awkward, naïve, young wife, he was railroaded into marrying at sixteen, hated him on sight, so he joined the ranks of men who went elsewhere. At least he didn’t force the issue which he would have been perfectly within his rights to do.
If, as a woman, you think you would have been free to say no, or choose your spouse, think again. You and your belongings, all these nice shoes, bags, books, everything in fact you thought were yours, were, in fact, your hubby’s. Take the case of rich heiress, Lady Mary Bowes, an ancestor of Queen Elizabeth 2nd, and the subject of The Luck of Barry Lyndon, by Thackeray. Her second husband kidnapped her, beat, gagged and carried her around the countryside on horseback, in winter, all to stop her divorcing him and keep his hands on her fortune.
And to think my editor initially complained after my hero, at the end of his tether and really not understanding why my heroine wouldn’t do what he asked regarding the servants, stuck her under a water pump.
Talking servants, Mary Bowes escaped only with the help of loyal ones. The initially sympathetic public were affronted to learn of her affair with her lawyer’s brother and felt she was quite wrong not to hand her money over to her abusive, swindling, husband.
Interestingly, that was another editorial clash where no questions were raised over my hero but some shock was expressed that my heroine had a history of getting drunk in the present day and went with random men.
So, that’s marriage. Next up? Childbirth. In Georgian England, public opinion was against contraception within marriage. Romance writers Google all sorts –ahem—let’s face it, these things have to be looked after.
And, I understand sheep’s intestines were all the rage for prevention. Soaked in water, of course, for an hour beforehand and torture to get on. Small wonder my hero quite welcomed the contents of my heroine’s bag. Childbirth was one of the most dangerous threats to a woman’s health and life. Up to 20% of women died during or after childbirth. Small wonder too my heroine wants back to her time.
Childbirth wasn’t the only killer. Noblewomen—and we are talking noblewomen here, although the lot of a poor woman was as bad in different ways— noblewomen caught diseases passed on from their husband’s prostitutes. They suffered barbaric ‘bleedings’ during pregnancies, developed lead poisoning from their make up, indeed as my heroine Brittany thinks–
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The Lot of Georgian Women. Quote by Shehanne Moore.
And before anyone thinks their lives were frivolous in their smelly gowns—wash day once a month, baths very seldom—their powdered wigs it took hours to arrange, the lady of the house was tasked with running that same house, of getting up early to instruct the servants on their daily duties and supervise the kitchen, because the servants were mostly illiterate and couldn’t write things down, meal choices, polishing, etc. before sitting down to breakfast at eleven. My heroine thinks the eleven bit is quite civilized but that’s it.
So I think we get the picture that a Georgian lady’s lot was anything but happy. Live in that time? Thank you. No. As for whether Brittany finds anything to recommend it, you’d have to ask her.
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[image error] Extract from The Writer and The Rake
“While it might not pay to underestimate this man, what if this morning was an aberration? Now that he saw how domestic she was, he’d go away again and drop this nonsense about instructing the servants. In what way? If she wrote Regency romance, she might know but she didn’t and frankly she’d other things to consider. Besides she couldn’t. If she was successful he wouldn’t need her.She slipped her gaze back, bestowed her kindest smile on the young man opposite. Mitchell Killgower took another sip of brandy.
“God-fearing, you say?”
“It is what one of us, I can’t remember if it was you, or me, or even Fleming here, told Christian. Or maybe, she told us. But, obviously it is a condition that prevents me from giving too many orders. And frankly I feel it solves everything.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what? Darling, I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“The fact that this condition solves everything.”
She kept her gaze firmly on the wool. Her hands winding it too. Mitchell Killgower sounded quite happy for him. Satisfied as he nursed his drink.
“Yes.”
“So as conditions go, it does not prevent you from sitting on your backside?”
“You know, I almost think you’re taken with my backside, the amount of times you mention it.”
“Sometimes your thoughts fail to come remotely close to what I’m really thinking. To do that you’d have to fully think.”
She smothered a grimace. “Oh, I think all right.”
He set the glass down as if he’d made up his mind. She hoped it was to let her win this battle.
“Good, then you’ll have no trouble coming with me, seeing as you’re so God-fearing, Brittany. After all, a God-fearing wife obeys her husband.”
“Well, they must be several sandwiches short of the proverbial picnic. Anyway.” She stopped winding the ball of wool, tilted her chin. “I didn’t think God-fearing wives were your cup of tea, or that you expected a woman to obey you? Except in certain places.”
The Writer and the Rake Book Blurb
Is having it all enough when it’s all you’ll ever have?
When it comes to doing it all, hard coated ‘wild child’ writer, Brittany Carter ticks every box. Having it all is a different thing though, what with her need to thwart an ex fiancé, and herself transported from the present to Georgian times. But then, so long as she can find her way back to her world of fame, and promised fortune, what’s there to worry about?
He saw her coming. If he’d known her effect he’d have walked away.
Georgian bad boy Mitchell Killgower is at the center of an inheritance dispute and he needs Brittany as his obedient, country mouse wife. Or rather he needs her like a hole in the head. In and out of his bed he’s never known a woman like her. A woman who can disappear and reappear like her either.
And when his coolly contained anarchist, who is anything but, learns how to return to her world and stay there, will having it all be enough, or does she underestimate him…and herself?
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Thanks for being here today, Shehanne! I have my copy of The Writer and the Rake and hope you pick up a copy too. Get The Writer and the Rake
at Amazon US | Amazon Canada | Amazon UK
You can also find Shehanne Moore on social media at Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter.
Find out more at her self-titled Weebly site and follow her Smexy Historical Romance blog too!
Now back to reading and writing here,
♥ Christy
Filed under: blogging, book tour, heroes, heroines, Romance, time travel, writing Tagged: Barry Lyndon, Christy Birmingham, Frances Wright, Georgian England, Lady Mary Bowes, Marraige in Georgian England, New book, Poetic parfait, poetry, Shehanne Moore, The Writer and the Rake, time travellers, Women
May 18, 2017
Splendor. (London Jewel Thieves.) Shehanne Moore Chapter One
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Splendor CHAPTER ONE
London 1810
There was nothing wrong with pistols at seven paces at dawn. Except dawn was at eight o’clock tomorrow, and Splendor had a dressmaker’s appointment then. Three thimbles and the scissors had smacked into the back of the Chinese dressing screen [image error]the last time she’d wandered in ten minutes late. Madame Renare had said these were meant for her assistant, that paying customers, even those who were behind with their bills, were sacrosanct. Splendor knew she lied, that Lady Haskins, who always had the next appointment, would depart wearing Splendor’s guts for garters if she were late again. And if she didn’t bring the money to pay her the bill.
Despite the pulse beating in her throat and her desire for the black-and-white checkered floor she stood upon to open up and swallow her, she’d promised Gabe there was nothing to this. She wouldn’t do anything to draw attention to herself, wouldn’t be found out. Yet just five minutes in this damnable tournament and look at what had happened. Every dull clod-pate in the room was looking at her, glaring holes in her loose fitting jacket—Gabe’s—as she stood there. The grandfather clock in the nearby alcove appeared to be holding its breath midtick, the potted palms to have frozen. The silence stretched from window to window, slipped between the heavy crimson drapes, wound around the yellow tassels, hung from the poles, all the way to the entry salon on the ground floor of Boodle’s Gentleman’s Club.
Worse than being found out, she was going to be shot at dawn. Or rather, eight o’clock.[image error]
Checkmate. If she’d known that one word was going to cause all this trouble, would she have said it?
The spectacles she wore, which did not belong to her, rendered her blinder than a belfry of bats. Nonetheless, she removed her gaze from the shining silver buttons on the waistcoat of the man who stood before her and looked straight at his face.
Young, handsome, divorced, the third Earl of Stillmore was a rake, a killer in every way, in the bedroom and on the chessboard. Or so her sources had said. Impatient, foul tempered, drunk, and a conniving fiddler was more accurate.
“My second, Your Grace?” she asked, speaking in carefully lowered tones as if duels were things she was challenged to fight every day of life. Challenged by the best shot in London too.
“Yes, boy,” Kendall Winterborne, the third Earl of Stillmore, snarled. “Your second. Who’s it to be?”
“Well… I… Well. You see, Your Grace… About that. I was really hoping that you and I might—”
“Oh, hang it all to hell and back. Chasens!”[image error]
His terse huff was followed by a terser finger snap. Please God, not another brandy to add to the lake the drunken earl had already drowned himself in.
The man standing behind him, a blur in black, snapped to attention. “Yes, sah.”
“You might as well fetch me some paper and ink to go along with that snifter. Then I can pen my autobiography while I’m waiting.”
Gabe’s warm breath brushed her cheek as he stepped up behind her. “Come on, Splen. Leave now while you still can. His nibs gets wind of the fact you belong next door, in the ladies tournament—”[image error]
“Where the prize money is less?” She fought the little ripple that always spun in her blood when Gabe brushed against her. “Nine-and-a-half thousand pounds less, to be precise? Gabriel, I can’t.”
“I ain’t needing to be bought into the clergy.”
“Well, I ain’t needing to go on as we are. Besides, he’s drunk.”
A voice cut across the hall. “Would someone mind telling me what the devil is going on at table number seven?”
Her heart almost sprung through the bindings around her chest. The tournament organizer, the Duke of Brampton. While she couldn’t see him for the spectacles, she instantly recognized the cultured tones of the elderly man who’d been so nice to her earlier. “Well? Kendall, why has play stopped? Surely you have not fallen out with your opponent?”
Gabe’s hand snatched at her sleeve, crushed her arm. “Splen… I mean it. Ten thousand pounds ain’t no bleedin’ good if you ain’t around to spend it. ‘Cos you know where you’re headed next, if they find you out, don’t you? And I ain’t talking the cemetery.”[image error]
She knew indeed. The place Starkadder had taken her out of. Prison. Her gaze froze behind her spectacle lenses. Even now, despite the thick fug of cigar smoke clouding the high ornate ceiling, that festering stink of prison, of centuries-old dirt, lay loose as a winding sheet on her skin. Gabe was right. Besides, the money was no good if tomorrow was the lateness to end all latenesses.
“Very well.” She caught his bony wrist. “Let’s go.”
“Excuse me.” The Duke of Brampton, blurry in purple and blue, a powdered wig on his head, squeezed between the tables. “Now then, Kendall, everyone is looking. Sufficient to say, yet again it is at you. Be a good fellow and sit down, won’t you?”
The duke pressed his be-ringed hand on Stillmore’s black-brocaded chest and pushed him down into his chair.
She hesitated. She’d thought everyone was looking at her. But if Stillmore was known for being looked at, perhaps they weren’t looking at her at all. Perhaps she could wait one more moment and see…? She didn’t just need that ten thousand pounds to get Gabe bought into the clergy. She needed it to pay off Madame Renare—without Gabe finding out. If he found out about her dressmaking bills, he’d kill her.
“Splen…”
“Shh.”
“But—”
Win the prize money. Clear her account with Madame Renare. Buy Gabe with his soft dark hair and soulful eyes into the clergy. Marry him. Benefit the poor. Live happily ever after. Stop spending money like water. [image error]
This, as her dear papa always said, wasn’t over till it was done. Stillmore could bluster all he wanted about duels. When it came to it, she’d beaten him fair and square, and that was all he could have on her.
Stillmore’s chair clattered to the checkered floor. “No, I don’t mind if I don’t. I abhor sitting down.” Crystal clinked on the silver tray floating in her vision. “Especially in the presence of cheats.”
“Well, that’s a great pity.” The Duke of Brampton’s voice was silky smooth. “But perhaps you haven’t noticed this is a chess tournament? In love, in war, challenging a man is all very well. But surely even you can see it’s not the done thing to go around shooting your opponents in a chess tournament?”
“When they cheat, I damn well will.”
“Oh, for God’s sake man, have you any idea of how unreasonable that makes you sound?”
“Not half as much as you telling me, me, who’s won this damned thing three years in a row, that I’ve just been beaten in five minutes in the first round by some nincompoop schoolboy in britches. Some…some jackass turkey just out of the nursery?”
Won this thing three years in a row? If this was the standard, she could dispense with any doubts that she’d not win. She just needed to dispose of the arrogant, drunken earl. Or rather, leave the Duke of Brampton to do it for her.
Never let it be said that this was anything her humble position in Lanthorne Street—at Starkadder’s and the Sisterhood of London Jewel Thieves’ beck and call—hadn’t prepared her for. When she’d served as the Sisterhood’s skivvy, she’d burned holes in petticoats, cinderized the odd stocking or two, and suffered sundry pots, pans, and ladles bouncing off her temples. But she never forgot one thing: to remove the sting from the situation, even if humiliation burned in the very pit of her breast, she must always smile.[image error]
She flicked a stray strand of her strawberry blonde hair back behind her ear. “And what, pray tell, would be the purpose of me cheating, exactly, Your Grace? Hmm?”
“Ten thousand bloody pounds. That’s what.”
The growl froze her smile to her teeth backs.
“Anyway, I didn’t say you cheated. I said there has been some…”
He stepped closer, and her heartbeat froze. A heady concoction of mint, brandy, and sandalwood tickled her nose.
“Some…”
She’d glanced over her spectacle rims. When she’d sworn not to. She held her breath right down in the furthest corner of her lungs. In fact, she possibly held it in her stomach. Tousled black hair, black brows knitted with perfect disdain above coal-black eyes that were coldly leveled on her, sinfully sensuous lips and a dusting of stubble on his jaw gave him a wolfish air. Her heart battered her rib cage with metal hammers, his stare was so bold.
He canted his jaw, drawing his brows together. “Some discrepancy…of play. Forgive me for saying so, but…”
His words hung in the air as he stared at her. Her jacket hadn’t burst so that her breasts hung out, had it? “Your Grace,” she said, darting her gaze back behind the safety of the thick lenses. “I don’t forgive you anything. Certainly not you looking…” Down her front? Looking more handsome than any man she’d ever seen? “Saying… Saying I’ve cheated you. It was bishop to that square, and you…well, you…”
Stillmore wrinkled his nose and sniffed deliberately.
Her soap. Essence of Violets. She froze. How, in all the preparations she’d undertaken at Mrs. Hanney’s, had she forgotten that one vital thing? Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut and let the Duke of Brampton deal with this after all.[image error]
“For goodness’ sake, Kendall, sit down, now, before you fall. Or you’ll leave me with no choice but to throw you out.” The duke set the spindle chair back on the tiles. “Everyone here knows you’re foxed over that business with Baxby.”
“Baxby?” Crystal shattered as the stem of the snifter in Stillmore’s hand snapped in two.
Baxby, whoever he was, apparently inflamed the earl almost as much as being checkmated.
There was nothing to be done about that now. It was Gabe’s dearest dream to become a clergyman, and it was down to her to see he succeeded. Then there was the little matter of the dressmaking bill. That was down to her too. Benefiting the poor was all very well. But sometimes, to do so you had to look the part. Spend in order to receive. Papa had always said so, although he had liked to spend money he didn’t have, as well.
If the earl shot her tomorrow at Blackfield Heath, it would certainly solve her bill problems, though.[image error]
“You think this is about Baxby?” Once again, the earl’s voice held notes of the darkest modulation. “That it’s of any consequence to me that the sneaky, damn, bastard son-of-a-whore is here? Dancing on my grave?”
“We’re hardly in the cemetery. But yes. Baxby. And a certain lady with whom you are the talk of London, my boy. So if you want to continue making a damned fool of yourself…”
“I’m not your boy unless my mother was as big a whore as that certain lady. And even if I were your boy, do you think familial loyalty would stop me from calling you out for that?”
Splendor froze. Did the earl descend from wolves? Growling, trigger-happy, pistol-toting ones who thought nothing of calling half the hall out at dawn? What if he shot the Duke of Brampton? Perhaps Gabe was right, and they should leave now.
The earl drained the contents of his glass down his lace-clad throat. “If you must know, this has nothing whatsoever to do with Baxby and Lady Langley.”
“Well, then, if it isn’t, you will see that this boy here—”
“This boy? This boy? Oh, that’s a good one. This boy.”
Splendor’s heart hammered as if a boa constrictor had slithered across the polished floorboards, climbed her leg, and wrapped itself around her rib cage. At all costs she couldn’t afford to sink to the floor. Imagine the sensation it would cause if she did and someone loosened her, or rather Gabe’s shirt?
In another minute the Earl of Stillmore would succumb to the pleasant, manly smile she cast him. If he didn’t, she’d have to accuse him of cheating.
The Duke of Brampton shifted beside her and looked at the chessboard. “Kendall, from where I’m standing the last move was this bishop to that square there—”
“I don’t give a bull’s toss whether the last move was the Archbishop of Canterbury to that square there. The Archbishops of York and Durham too. Every damned archbishop in the country to that square. I know what I saw. Exactly what I saw.” The earl turned to her and pointed a finger at her chest. “Now boy, find yourself a second. And be on Blackfield Heath at eight. Don’t waste time with a physician; by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll need an undertaker.”
BLURB
He hates to lose. Especially to a man who’s not.
One move to win ten thousand guineas in a chess competition. One move to marry her fiancé. Another to face the most merciless man in London across a pair of duelling pistols. For Splendor, former skivvy to the London’s premiere jewel thieves, it’s all in a day’s work. But when one wrong move leads to another, can she win and keep her heart intact, against the one man in London with the potential to bring her down? Especially in a chess game where the new wager is ten thousand guineas against one night with her.
The Endgame to end all Endgames
One move to pay back his ex-mistress. One move to show the world he doesn’t give a damn he’s been beaten in every way. The ton’s most ruthless heartbreaker, bitter, divorcee, Kendall Winterborne, Earl of Stillmore’s, pet hates are kitchen maids, marriage and losing. Knowing Splendor has entered a male chess competition under false pretences, he’s in the perfect poison to extort her help, regardless of the fact she’s engaged to someone else. He just doesn’t bank on having to face up to his pet hates. Certainly not over the kind of skivvy who ruined his father and set him on this course.
As one move leads to another, one thing’s for certain though. His next move better be fast if he wants to keep the ‘Cinderella’ he’s fallen for. But the clock is ticking. When it strikes twelve, which man will she choose?
Filed under: book tour, heroes, heroines, Romance Tagged: Etopia Press, London Jewe Thieves, New book, Regency, Romance, Shehanne Moore, Splendor, Starkadder Sisterhood
Splendor. Shehanne Moore Chapter One
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Splendor CHAPTER ONE
London 1810
There was nothing wrong with pistols at seven paces at dawn. Except dawn was at eight o’clock tomorrow, and Splendor had a dressmaker’s appointment then. Three thimbles and the scissors had smacked into the back of the Chinese dressing screen [image error]the last time she’d wandered in ten minutes late. Madame Renare had said these were meant for her assistant, that paying customers, even those who were behind with their bills, were sacrosanct. Splendor knew she lied, that Lady Haskins, who always had the next appointment, would depart wearing Splendor’s guts for garters if she were late again. And if she didn’t bring the money to pay her the bill.
Despite the pulse beating in her throat and her desire for the black-and-white checkered floor she stood upon to open up and swallow her, she’d promised Gabe there was nothing to this. She wouldn’t do anything to draw attention to herself, wouldn’t be found out. Yet just five minutes in this damnable tournament and look at what had happened. Every dull clod-pate in the room was looking at her, glaring holes in her loose fitting jacket—Gabe’s—as she stood there. The grandfather clock in the nearby alcove appeared to be holding its breath midtick, the potted palms to have frozen. The silence stretched from window to window, slipped between the heavy crimson drapes, wound around the yellow tassels, hung from the poles, all the way to the entry salon on the ground floor of Boodle’s Gentleman’s Club.
Worse than being found out, she was going to be shot at dawn. Or rather, eight o’clock.[image error]
Checkmate. If she’d known that one word was going to cause all this trouble, would she have said it?
The spectacles she wore, which did not belong to her, rendered her blinder than a belfry of bats. Nonetheless, she removed her gaze from the shining silver buttons on the waistcoat of the man who stood before her and looked straight at his face.
Young, handsome, divorced, the third Earl of Stillmore was a rake, a killer in every way, in the bedroom and on the chessboard. Or so her sources had said. Impatient, foul tempered, drunk, and a conniving fiddler was more accurate.
“My second, Your Grace?” she asked, speaking in carefully lowered tones as if duels were things she was challenged to fight every day of life. Challenged by the best shot in London too.
“Yes, boy,” Kendall Winterborne, the third Earl of Stillmore, snarled. “Your second. Who’s it to be?”
“Well… I… Well. You see, Your Grace… About that. I was really hoping that you and I might—”
“Oh, hang it all to hell and back. Chasens!”[image error]
His terse huff was followed by a terser finger snap. Please God, not another brandy to add to the lake the drunken earl had already drowned himself in.
The man standing behind him, a blur in black, snapped to attention. “Yes, sah.”
“You might as well fetch me some paper and ink to go along with that snifter. Then I can pen my autobiography while I’m waiting.”
Gabe’s warm breath brushed her cheek as he stepped up behind her. “Come on, Splen. Leave now while you still can. His nibs gets wind of the fact you belong next door, in the ladies tournament—”[image error]
“Where the prize money is less?” She fought the little ripple that always spun in her blood when Gabe brushed against her. “Nine-and-a-half thousand pounds less, to be precise? Gabriel, I can’t.”
“I ain’t needing to be bought into the clergy.”
“Well, I ain’t needing to go on as we are. Besides, he’s drunk.”
A voice cut across the hall. “Would someone mind telling me what the devil is going on at table number seven?”
Her heart almost sprung through the bindings around her chest. The tournament organizer, the Duke of Brampton. While she couldn’t see him for the spectacles, she instantly recognized the cultured tones of the elderly man who’d been so nice to her earlier. “Well? Kendall, why has play stopped? Surely you have not fallen out with your opponent?”
Gabe’s hand snatched at her sleeve, crushed her arm. “Splen… I mean it. Ten thousand pounds ain’t no bleedin’ good if you ain’t around to spend it. ‘Cos you know where you’re headed next, if they find you out, don’t you? And I ain’t talking the cemetery.”[image error]
She knew indeed. The place Starkadder had taken her out of. Prison. Her gaze froze behind her spectacle lenses. Even now, despite the thick fug of cigar smoke clouding the high ornate ceiling, that festering stink of prison, of centuries-old dirt, lay loose as a winding sheet on her skin. Gabe was right. Besides, the money was no good if tomorrow was the lateness to end all latenesses.
“Very well.” She caught his bony wrist. “Let’s go.”
“Excuse me.” The Duke of Brampton, blurry in purple and blue, a powdered wig on his head, squeezed between the tables. “Now then, Kendall, everyone is looking. Sufficient to say, yet again it is at you. Be a good fellow and sit down, won’t you?”
The duke pressed his be-ringed hand on Stillmore’s black-brocaded chest and pushed him down into his chair.
She hesitated. She’d thought everyone was looking at her. But if Stillmore was known for being looked at, perhaps they weren’t looking at her at all. Perhaps she could wait one more moment and see…? She didn’t just need that ten thousand pounds to get Gabe bought into the clergy. She needed it to pay off Madame Renare—without Gabe finding out. If he found out about her dressmaking bills, he’d kill her.
“Splen…”
“Shh.”
“But—”
Win the prize money. Clear her account with Madame Renare. Buy Gabe with his soft dark hair and soulful eyes into the clergy. Marry him. Benefit the poor. Live happily ever after. Stop spending money like water. [image error]
This, as her dear papa always said, wasn’t over till it was done. Stillmore could bluster all he wanted about duels. When it came to it, she’d beaten him fair and square, and that was all he could have on her.
Stillmore’s chair clattered to the checkered floor. “No, I don’t mind if I don’t. I abhor sitting down.” Crystal clinked on the silver tray floating in her vision. “Especially in the presence of cheats.”
“Well, that’s a great pity.” The Duke of Brampton’s voice was silky smooth. “But perhaps you haven’t noticed this is a chess tournament? In love, in war, challenging a man is all very well. But surely even you can see it’s not the done thing to go around shooting your opponents in a chess tournament?”
“When they cheat, I damn well will.”
“Oh, for God’s sake man, have you any idea of how unreasonable that makes you sound?”
“Not half as much as you telling me, me, who’s won this damned thing three years in a row, that I’ve just been beaten in five minutes in the first round by some nincompoop schoolboy in britches. Some…some jackass turkey just out of the nursery?”
Won this thing three years in a row? If this was the standard, she could dispense with any doubts that she’d not win. She just needed to dispose of the arrogant, drunken earl. Or rather, leave the Duke of Brampton to do it for her.
Never let it be said that this was anything her humble position in Lanthorne Street—at Starkadder’s and the Sisterhood of London Jewel Thieves’ beck and call—hadn’t prepared her for. When she’d served as the Sisterhood’s skivvy, she’d burned holes in petticoats, cinderized the odd stocking or two, and suffered sundry pots, pans, and ladles bouncing off her temples. But she never forgot one thing: to remove the sting from the situation, even if humiliation burned in the very pit of her breast, she must always smile.[image error]
She flicked a stray strand of her strawberry blonde hair back behind her ear. “And what, pray tell, would be the purpose of me cheating, exactly, Your Grace? Hmm?”
“Ten thousand bloody pounds. That’s what.”
The growl froze her smile to her teeth backs.
“Anyway, I didn’t say you cheated. I said there has been some…”
He stepped closer, and her heartbeat froze. A heady concoction of mint, brandy, and sandalwood tickled her nose.
“Some…”
She’d glanced over her spectacle rims. When she’d sworn not to. She held her breath right down in the furthest corner of her lungs. In fact, she possibly held it in her stomach. Tousled black hair, black brows knitted with perfect disdain above coal-black eyes that were coldly leveled on her, sinfully sensuous lips and a dusting of stubble on his jaw gave him a wolfish air. Her heart battered her rib cage with metal hammers, his stare was so bold.
He canted his jaw, drawing his brows together. “Some discrepancy…of play. Forgive me for saying so, but…”
His words hung in the air as he stared at her. Her jacket hadn’t burst so that her breasts hung out, had it? “Your Grace,” she said, darting her gaze back behind the safety of the thick lenses. “I don’t forgive you anything. Certainly not you looking…” Down her front? Looking more handsome than any man she’d ever seen? “Saying… Saying I’ve cheated you. It was bishop to that square, and you…well, you…”
Stillmore wrinkled his nose and sniffed deliberately.
Her soap. Essence of Violets. She froze. How, in all the preparations she’d undertaken at Mrs. Hanney’s, had she forgotten that one vital thing? Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut and let the Duke of Brampton deal with this after all.[image error]
“For goodness’ sake, Kendall, sit down, now, before you fall. Or you’ll leave me with no choice but to throw you out.” The duke set the spindle chair back on the tiles. “Everyone here knows you’re foxed over that business with Baxby.”
“Baxby?” Crystal shattered as the stem of the snifter in Stillmore’s hand snapped in two.
Baxby, whoever he was, apparently inflamed the earl almost as much as being checkmated.
There was nothing to be done about that now. It was Gabe’s dearest dream to become a clergyman, and it was down to her to see he succeeded. Then there was the little matter of the dressmaking bill. That was down to her too. Benefiting the poor was all very well. But sometimes, to do so you had to look the part. Spend in order to receive. Papa had always said so, although he had liked to spend money he didn’t have, as well.
If the earl shot her tomorrow at Blackfield Heath, it would certainly solve her bill problems, though.[image error]
“You think this is about Baxby?” Once again, the earl’s voice held notes of the darkest modulation. “That it’s of any consequence to me that the sneaky, damn, bastard son-of-a-whore is here? Dancing on my grave?”
“We’re hardly in the cemetery. But yes. Baxby. And a certain lady with whom you are the talk of London, my boy. So if you want to continue making a damned fool of yourself…”
“I’m not your boy unless my mother was as big a whore as that certain lady. And even if I were your boy, do you think familial loyalty would stop me from calling you out for that?”
Splendor froze. Did the earl descend from wolves? Growling, trigger-happy, pistol-toting ones who thought nothing of calling half the hall out at dawn? What if he shot the Duke of Brampton? Perhaps Gabe was right, and they should leave now.
The earl drained the contents of his glass down his lace-clad throat. “If you must know, this has nothing whatsoever to do with Baxby and Lady Langley.”
“Well, then, if it isn’t, you will see that this boy here—”
“This boy? This boy? Oh, that’s a good one. This boy.”
Splendor’s heart hammered as if a boa constrictor had slithered across the polished floorboards, climbed her leg, and wrapped itself around her rib cage. At all costs she couldn’t afford to sink to the floor. Imagine the sensation it would cause if she did and someone loosened her, or rather Gabe’s shirt?
In another minute the Earl of Stillmore would succumb to the pleasant, manly smile she cast him. If he didn’t, she’d have to accuse him of cheating.
The Duke of Brampton shifted beside her and looked at the chessboard. “Kendall, from where I’m standing the last move was this bishop to that square there—”
“I don’t give a bull’s toss whether the last move was the Archbishop of Canterbury to that square there. The Archbishops of York and Durham too. Every damned archbishop in the country to that square. I know what I saw. Exactly what I saw.” The earl turned to her and pointed a finger at her chest. “Now boy, find yourself a second. And be on Blackfield Heath at eight. Don’t waste time with a physician; by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll need an undertaker.”
BLURB
He hates to lose. Especially to a man who’s not.
One move to win ten thousand guineas in a chess competition. One move to marry her fiancé. Another to face the most merciless man in London across a pair of duelling pistols. For Splendor, former skivvy to the London’s premiere jewel thieves, it’s all in a day’s work. But when one wrong move leads to another, can she win and keep her heart intact, against the one man in London with the potential to bring her down? Especially in a chess game where the new wager is ten thousand guineas against one night with her.
The Endgame to end all Endgames
One move to pay back his ex-mistress. One move to show the world he doesn’t give a damn he’s been beaten in every way. The ton’s most ruthless heartbreaker, bitter, divorcee, Kendall Winterborne, Earl of Stillmore’s, pet hates are kitchen maids, marriage and losing. Knowing Splendor has entered a male chess competition under false pretences, he’s in the perfect poison to extort her help, regardless of the fact she’s engaged to someone else. He just doesn’t bank on having to face up to his pet hates. Certainly not over the kind of skivvy who ruined his father and set him on this course.
As one move leads to another, one thing’s for certain though. His next move better be fast if he wants to keep the ‘Cinderella’ he’s fallen for. But the clock is ticking. When it strikes twelve, which man will she choose?
RELEASES TODAY FRIDAY MAY 19th. BUY LINKS TO FOLLOW[image error]
Filed under: book tour, heroes, heroines, Romance Tagged: Etopia Press, London Jewe Thieves, New book, Regency, Romance, Shehanne Moore, Splendor, Starkadder Sisterhood
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