Jude Knight's Blog, page 5

Spotlight on My Christmas Knight

For fans of Elizabeth Hoyt and Sherry Thomas comes a Christmas novella about how a mistaken identity forces two strangers to realize that love can bloom` from a marriage of inconvenience and social ruin.

Sir Dennis Fairplace, knighted war hero of Crimea, has had enough of England and family. Overwhelmed by Christmas Day celebrations, he flees his family’s home to board a train northward, but a run-in with brawlers interrupts his plans.

Blanche Badnarrow, cloistered ward of her uncle, the cruel Bishop Badnarrow, secretly plans to elope with her lover to Scotland. But at the last minute, he abandons her at the station. That leaves the bishop determined to make someone—anyone—wed his “ruined” niece.

Enter Dennis, who stumbles into the bishop’s private rail car while trying to avoid a brawl, and finds himself a captive bridegroom.

Blanche and Dennis must escape their prison before her uncle grows tired of their reluctance to wed and throws Dennis from the moving train. As they plot their getaway, the couple begin to wonder—would marriage to one another be so bad after all?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DGFGQTSZ

Anne Knight has been writing stories since she was three years old. Before she could read or write, she followed her parents and babysitter around, begging them to dictate her words. Eventually she learned the alphabet and began writing herself. She sneaked her first romance novel when she was thirteen, but did not become an avid reader or writer of the genre until after college.

Anne lives in Arkansas with her real-life swoony hero, four children, and two cats. The cats are named Cyrano and Ivanhoe.

 

Fated meetings on WIP Wednesday

 

I have a preorder link for A Lyon’s Dilemma! So I thought I’d share an excerpt, since it will stop counting as a Work-In-Progress in a little over three weeks, on July 30th.

***

The half-sisters had never been friends, though only a few months separated them in age, and they had been raised in the same nursery. Adaline supposed she could not blame her father’s wife for being resentful, but it was not Adaline’s fault her father kept a mistress, nor that he brought his love child into his own house after her mother died giving birth to Adaline.

Emmeline’s resentment was copied from her own mother, and had been given further force because Adaline and Emmeline resembled one another so much. Emmeline, even though she was the younger by four months, had held a childish belief that Adaline had copied Emmeline’s looks to spite her. According to Emmeline, that justified wearing Adaline’s clothes to play naughty tricks on the governess and other servants.

Adaline had suffered many punishments for things she hadn’t done, and for lying about her guilt. And then Emmeline was caught in the act, and Adaline was sent away to school. “For your own sake,” her father had said. Adaline had enjoyed school well enough. But it was an exile, nonetheless.

Her own childhood experiences made her all the more determined to ensure that Melody never had cause to doubt that she was loved. Sad to say, that goal had been aided by Richard Beverley’s death. He had been a poor choice as a husband, as it turned out, though better in the circumstances than none at all. He had been shaping up to be a miserable father, and none at all was definitely preferable.

“Are any of the gentlemen going to be my new father?” Melody asked. The schoolroom party was taking advantage of today’s fine weather to walk to the pond to feed the ducks, and Adaline had elected to join them. She looked around to see if anyone else had heard the question, but Melody and Adaline had dropped behind the rest.

“I do not think so, darling,” Adaline said. “But remember I told you I have seen a matchmaker who will be looking for a husband for me.” Not Kempbury. Damn Kempbury, for invading her mind and setting her pulse beating just for him, as it had once before, long ago.

Melody frowned, thoughtfully. “I do not think I would want someone else to choose me a husband,” she said.

Adaline had certainly not done very well on her own, but she kept that thought to herself.

Ah! Here was the pond. Oh dear. And here was Kempbury. He had obviously come here for some privacy and solitude. He had a propensity for going off on his own—Adaline remembered that about him. She almost giggled at the thought of his dismay when his refuge was invaded by ten children of assorted ages, four nursemaids, two governesses and Adaline.

He nodded to her with distant courtesy, and then turned his gaze on Melody. All thought of laughter fled. But no. He would not guess. Melody was only a child. And even if he wondered, he could not be certain.

Besides, what could he do? Melody was legally a Beverley, and Adaline was her mother.

He narrowed his green eyes, while Melody stared back at him, her head to one side, her own very similar green eyes alight with curiosity.

“Might you be Miss Beverley?” he asked.

“Melody, make your curtsey to the Duke of Kempbury,” Adaline prompted. Melody, her most winning smile to the fore, curtseyed. “I am Melody Beverley, sir,” she said, “and this is my Mama.”

His expression, which had warmed while observing her daughter, chilled again as he looked at Adaline. “Mrs. Beverley and I were acquainted a long time ago,” he said.

“A very long time ago,” Adaline agreed. “Before you were born, Melody. Look, Miss Winchard has bread for the ducks. Get in line for your share, my dearest.”

Melody bobbed another curtsey, briefer than the first and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” then rushed off before he could reply.

 

 

Tea with a baker, and the story of a stolen crown

 

Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford, stood in her parlor, admiring a new addition. A fine, large round mirror, edged in an ornate gold frame, adorned with painted gold leaves. As she surveyed her well-dressed form, the mirror seemed to shimmer.

A second later, a young woman stood behind her.

The Duchess gasped and turned around. “Who are you?”

The woman jumped, a hand darting to her mouth. “I… I…” She looked around. “My name is Bronwyn Blakenhale and… I’ve been here before.”

“My word. I recognise you. So you have.” The duchess blinked. “What on earth are you doing here?”

She remembered the young woman, a maidservant in her late teens to early twenties. Not overly tall, but an average height, with long blonde hair and light eyes.

She opened her mouth to dismiss the young woman immediately for appearing so suddenly in her parlor without being invited. But something about her was peculiar. No, make that extraordinary. She recalled strong intelligence and a fierce determination to seek out the truth. She rather liked the young woman, and a part of her was glad to see her again. The other part wondered how on earth she had appeared in her parlor, but good breeding and proper training ensured she made no mention of it. Instead, she raised her head and said, “I remember you. You came here before, quite unexpectedly. What brings you back?”

“I do not know. One minute I was hiding a crown, and the next, I was here.”

“Hiding a crown? Oh my dear, you simply must tell me about this. Come, sit, and we’ll have tea.”

The duchess walked over to the fashionably decorated wallpaper and tugged on a cloth bell pull. In minutes, a servant knocked and entered. “You rang, Your Grace?”

“Tea for two. The green, I think.”

The servant glanced at the young maidservant, but wisely did not comment. Instead, he bowed and left, closing the doors behind him.

“Sit, sit, Mistress Blakenhale. Tell me why on earth you were hiding a crown.”

“Well… “ Bronwyn followed the duchess’s direction and took a seat on a finely upholstered sofa, perched at the edge of the fine cushions. She sat awkwardly, as if ready to flee at any moment.

“Speak, Mistress Blakenhale.”

Bronwyn nodded, looking around the room. She glanced at the duchess watching her and cleared her throat. “I was in the empress’s camp, in Lincoln.”

“Oh yes, I remember. There was a famous battle there in the twelfth century, wasn’t there?”

Bronwyn cocked her head. “Was it famous?”

“Hmmm.” The duchess pursed her lips. She had the benefit of knowing the history and what happened; this young woman did not. How much could she say to a future dead woman? “Tell me what happened.”

Bronwyn nodded, and was quiet as at that moment the servant brought in a tea tray, complete with a piping hot silver tea service and two dainty white bone china cups and saucers.

The duchess politely poured tea for herself and her guest and dismissed the manservant. Once they were alone, she passed Bronwyn a cup of tea. “Do be careful, it is hot.”

Bronwyn blinked. “Thank you.” She blew on the tea and set it down, resting her palms on her knees. “I… It all started after the battle. I was with the empress’s camp, and we were attacked.”

“You were? Oh my…”

“Yes. The empress and my friend, Lady Alice, were fine, but a good and honest lady in waiting, Lady Eleanor, is dead. She was kind.” Bronwyn said, a note of regret in her voice.

“Was it an accident?”

“I do not think so. But worse, the empress’s crown was stolen.”

The duchess’s eyes widened. “Stolen? The history books make no mention of that.” She tapped a finger to her chin, trying to remember her history lessons from her governess.

Bronwyn shrugged. I believe it is a plot, meant to disturb the empress’s plans.”

“What do you mean?” The duchess asked and sipped her tea.

“The empress plans to be crowned queen at Westminster. But how can she without a crown?”

“She wants to be… But we know from history that di–” the duchess paused. She remembered that lesson, for it stuck in her mind, even as a young woman, bored with her lessons. To learn about the intrepid woman, Empress Maud, in a fight for the English crown against King Stephen and his wife, Matilda… For a young woman like Bronwyn to be living during such a time would be a tumultuous experience. “Never mind. But wait, you said you were hiding a crown. Does that mean you found it?”

“Not exactly. My friend, Lady Alice, sort of did. But she didn’t steal it.”

“I see. Then how did it come into your possession?” the duchess asked.

Bronwyn held the china teacup carefully and took a hesitant sip. “This is good.”

“Mistress Blakenhale… The crown,” the duchess prompted.

“Someone put it in her things. I suspect another lady in waiting, out to hurt her reputation.”

“I see. Surely the empress has advisors, trusted men, to look into this matter.”

“She does. But she asked me, too. She wants it kept quiet.”

“Understandable.” The duchess drank more tea and made an observation. “My dear, are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You are. Now, why is that? Is one of the men your sweetheart?” The duchess’s face lit up in a smile. “Who is it? The empress’s military commander, the duke?”

“No, certainly not. He’s old.” Bronwyn turned her head, unable to stop the creeping blush along her cheeks. “But he has a squire… Theobold.”

“Aha, I knew it. Do you fancy him?”

“No. But he keeps annoying me. He is the most arrogant, obnoxious, rude, self-serving squire I have ever met. He’s nothing like Rupert.”

“And just who is Rupert?”

“Another squire. He’s loyal to King Stephen and the queen.”

“I see.” There was no mistaking the softness in the maidservant’s voice as she spoke of Rupert, the duchess noticed. “And which side do you support, Mistress Blakehale?”

“I couldn’t say. I never thought my life would be so different. I always thought I’d live and stay in Lincoln and now…” She sipped her tea, drinking down the hot liquid, almost sloshing it over the teacup. “I don’t know where my family are, or if they are even still alive. We all got separated during the battle of Lincoln, you see, and…”

“Come, stand up.” The duchess ordered.

Bronwyn set down her teacup and stood. “Your Grace?”

The duchess led Bronwyn to the mirror she’d been admiring before. “Look into the glass.”

“It is a very fine mirror, Your Grace.”

“Yes, yes, but look at yourself. Do you know what I see?”

“Your Grace?” Bronwyn cocked her head at her hostess.

“I see a young woman, smart and capable. Do your best to do what is right. Even if your family hasn’t survived the battle, I know they would be proud of the honourable young woman you have become.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. That is very kind.”

“And I trust that in due time you will choose which side you are on…” The duchess blinked and looked in the mirror.

Bronwyn was gone.

“Mistress Blakenhale? Girl?”

The duchess looked around. Had she been hallucinating? No, there were two teacups on the little side table, and one was mostly empty. She hadn’t been imagining things. She breathed a small sigh of relief.

A servant entered the room. “Your Grace? Did you need something?”

“That girl I was just talking to. Where did she go?”

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace. Are you hiring for a new position? One of the cooks or butlers could help if you prefer…”

“No, no. I’m fine.” The duchess looked back in the mirror at her reflection and felt a chill run through her. “Actually, now that you mention it, I’ve decided I don’t like this mirror after all. Get rid of it.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“And bring me a book on the history of the anarchy in the twelfth century. I want to know what happens.”

Winter’s Crown

Having just narrowly escaped from the battle of Lincoln, fierce baker Bronwyn Blakenhale is a refugee who joins the camp of the invading Empress Maud. But when an attack on the camp leaves her running for her life, Bronwyn stumbles across dead bodies in the empress’s tent. Not only that, but someone has stolen the empress’s crown.

To prove her innocence, Bronwyn is tasked by the empress to find out what happened and must work with Theobold Durville, a handsome squire known for his flirtatious manner. As if keeping her head alongside such a man weren’t difficult enough, Bronwyn still fancies the squire who served in the false king’s court—and who’s courting the spy-turned-friend she met before the fall of her hometown. Seeing them together breaks her heart, but there’s a killer on the loose, and with a civil war brewing, no one is above suspicion in Empress Maud’s court.

The empress will not tolerate subterfuge in her camp, but she must have her crown to become Queen of England. Can Theobold and Bronwyn find the missing crown and a killer, and will working together lead to something more?

Buy link: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0DX3YK8ZC?ref_=dbs_m_mng_rwt_calw_tkin_1&storeType=ebooks

About the author

E.L. Johnson is a member of the Hertford Writers’ Circle and won the Sci-Fi London Film Festival’s 2014 48-hour Flash Fiction challenge. When not penning stories, she is an avid reader of fiction, a decent epeé fencer, and lives with her husband and cat Arya, named after the Game of Thrones character. E.L. Johnson also runs a chatty book club in London.

Twitter: @ELJohnson888 or https://twitter.com/ELJohnson888

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/theELJohnson/

Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/eljohnson_writes/?hl=en

Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@alecto99

Follow me on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/eljohnson

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18090432.E_L_Johnson

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/e-l-johnson

Spotlight on Verity’s Choice

 

A man with a past could change her future.

Having failed to win the hand of the woman he loves, William Cole returns to his childhood home the same vain, shallow gentleman who relies too much on his charm and good looks. He wants to join the military, but his father decides William should take over the reins from the retiring vicar and—while he’s at it—marry the vicar’s daughter.

Unlike William, Verity Lockhart has changed in the five years since he saw her last. While he might remember her as a quiet, mousy sort of girl, she has developed opinions and habits deemed unsuitable for a young lady, the worst of which is a fascination with science and—gasp!—insects. No man, says her mother, would want a wife who is always running off with a butterfly net.

William and Verity can agree on one thing only: they have no desire to marry each other. They will have to encounter an utterly shameless rogue, an unusually honorable gentleman, and a very real war to form a love so deep, it could be the best choice either has ever made.

Buy Link https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F3JYY2LX

Verity’s Choice is Book 3 in the 5-book “Ladies of Munro” series.

Ladies of Munro
1) Sophia’s Letter
2) Ellena’s Secret
3) Verity’s Choice
4) Jillian’s Wild Heart (Due for release in September)
5) Irene’s Fall (Due for release in December)

Note: This series is part of Dragonblade’s Sweet Dreams line, so this is a sweet, wholesome Historical Romance where passion beyond the bedroom door is left to the reader’s imagination.

Tropes you’ll love:
Reformed rake
Bluestocking heroine
Small village romance
Family expectations vs. personal dreams
Sweet slow-burn romance
Redemption arc & emotional growth

What begins as a mismatch may just become the love story neither of them dared to imagine.

A sweet Regency romance filled with wit, warmth, and the quiet courage to choose love on your own terms .

Read in Kindle Unlimited!

About the Author

Elizabeth Donne writes award-winning sweet Regency romance, a natural outpouring of a lifelong love affair with English literature.

She has spent most of her life in Cape Town, South Africa. In 2015, Elizabeth moved to Iowa with her husband, their two children, two cats, and their African bush dog.

 

Old acquaintance in WIP Wednesday

I’ve just received the preorder link for The Lyon’s Dilemma. It’ll be published at the end of next month, so I’m celebrating with a work-in-progress excerpt.

***

Felix arrived at Viscount Stillwater’s country manor in time to change for dinner, or so said his hostess. In fact, from the looks on the faces of the guests waiting in the parlor, dinner had been held back to allow him time to wash and change.

He looked around the room. Knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater were attempting to find husbands for their two daughters, he had expected the flock of maidens who looked as if they had only recently learned to walk creditably with their skirts down. He would not find his duchess among them.

Despite his dislike of social events, he could not avoid them all, and Mrs. Stillwater was a notable hostess. He recognized many of the guests, and knew which were married and which were widows with roving eyes. No duchesses there, either.

“You will be able to recognize your prospective wife,” Mrs. Dove Lyon had insisted. “Mrs. Beverley will be one of the maturer young ladies—she will be thirty years of age at her next birthday. She was widowed seven years ago and has been living a quiet life with her daughter. Her husband left few funds, and she has been supporting herself. I shall let her tell you the details.”

There were three possibilities. Perhaps four, but the fourth lady was turned away from him, so he was only judging by her back. As Mrs. Stillwater gave the signal to go in to dinner, she turned around, and Kempbury knew her immediately.

No! It can’t be.

It was, though, and if he had had any doubts at all, they would have been put to rest when she saw him, paled, thenflushed bright red, and turned determinedly away.

Somehow, he managed to offer his arm to his hostess, lead her into dinner, and even carry on something of a conversation with her. All the while his mind was reeling and his heart was a pit of despair. Adaline Fairbanks.

Surely, Mrs. Dove Lyon did not think to match him with that lying jade. She had said “Mrs. Beverley,” but that was not reassuring. In a decade, Adaline might well have married, had a child, and been widowed.

He needed to find out, so he did something he usually found too difficult to contemplate. He engaged his hostess in conversation, asking about each of the guests with whom he was not personally acquainted.

He retained enough self-possession to ask about both men and women, but he doubted that small amount of camouflage fooled Mrs. Stillwater for a moment. She was much more informative about the ladies than the gentlemen.

One by one, her mini-biographies eliminated each of the ladies he’d marked as possibles. One was married. One betrothed. One was a devoted social butterfly committed to life in London, which would not suit Felix. Besides, she had turned down every proposal she had received in her eight years on the Marriage Market. “She has a private fortune,” said Mrs. Stillwater. “She declares she has no intention of marrying.” She shook her head at the thought.

“Then we come to Mrs. Beverley, who is a widow, Kempbury. She is attending with her daughter, who must be ten years old, or close to it. Our governess says she is a delightful child. That’s Mrs. Beverley sitting between Baron Thornwick and Mr. Thompson. I understand she has been a widow for seven years, and that she runs a business, which is very enterprising of her. I do not know much more about her. I sent her an invitation at the request of a friend, but have found her to be a very pleasant guest.”

Mrs. Beverley. Adaline Fairchild. One and the same person. Did she really have a child of ten? If so, the child must have been a baby when they were betrothed, so that had been something else she had hidden from him all those years ago.

There was no point in him being here, but it was too late now. He would not insult John Stillwater, his charming wife, and the viscount his father by cutting his attendance short. Still, he would write to Mrs. Dove Lyon tonight and tell her that Mrs. Beverley was not a possibility.

***

The Lyon’s Dilemma

Felix Seward, Duke of Kempbury, does not want to be at a house party. Any house party, particularly one attended by her. Adaline Beverley. His nemesis. His Achilles heel. The one woman put on God’s earth to lure him from his duty. But Kempbury’s purpose is strong. Nothing she can offer will tempt him from his chosen path.

 

 

Spotlight on Just My Spy

An adventurous widow and a fugitive spy are thrown together in an international train journey where their attraction for one another is as dangerous as the vengeful enemy spies on their tail.

Buy link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DWM1RMN8

Meet Anne KnightAnne Knight has been writing stories since she was three years old. Before she could read or write, she followed her parents and babysitter around, begging them to dictate her words. Eventually she learned the alphabet and began writing herself. She sneaked her first romance novel when she was thirteen, but did not become an avid reader or writer of the genre until after college.

Anne lives in Arkansas with her real-life swoony hero, four children, and two cats. The cats are named Cyrano and Ivanhoe.

1600+ romance books free in one day book blast

Journeying in WIP Wednesday

I’m rewriting Maggie’s Wheelbarrow, a newsletter subscriber short story, into a Christmas tale for the next Bluestocking Belles Christmas collection. Here’s a snippet with Maggie and her children, poor as church mice, trying to make their way through England to find Maggie’s mother-in-law.

Maggie shook her head. Ma and Pa had been all the family she had. Both were orphans and both were gone, Ma of a fever in Portugal four years ago and Pa at Salamanca the following year. She and Will had been courting when Pa died, but he’d not received permission to marry. With Pa’s death, they went ahead without permission.

“If Will’s family don’t want me, at least I’ll know,” she said, more to herself than to the other woman. “I can make a life for myself and the children, but I need to know what happened to their Daddy.”

The baker stood up. “Wait here.” She bustled off along the street and disappeared into another shop. A few minutes later, she came back, smiling. “You and the children will sleep here tonight, Mrs. Parker. You can have my brother’s room.” Her eyes filled with tears, which she blinked away. “He died at Talavera, he did, and I know he’d want me to help a fellow soldier’s wife.”

She gave a decisive nod. “And then, in the morning, the carter will take you on your journey. He is not going far, but he’ll save a days walking, I reckon.”

Maggie accepted, and tried to offer money for bed and board, but the baker said that Will had fought to save England, and the least she could do was help out his little family. The carter said the same. “I was in the Peninsula, ma’am. If I cannot help the family of one of our own, what is the world coming to?”

Furthermore, when their ways parted, he left her with an innkeeper’s son who had been in his company in the army, and the son insisted that his family would be glad to have her and the two little ones to stay for the night.

In the morning, a friend of his drove her north, but he proved to be not quite so charitable, and in the end Maggie had to produce the pistol that her father had given her long ago. It was not loaded, of course. Loaded guns could not be carried in pockets and were, in any case, not safe around children. Maggie judged that the man would not know the difference, and she was right. He unloaded her wheelbarrow and her possessions from his cart, called her some unpleasant names, and went on his way.

And so it went through the following weeks. Maggie and her children found safe refuge some nights and on others slept outside under the stars. Sometimes they were offered lifts and sometimes they walked. Twice more, Maggie had to use her pistol to discourage someone with quite the wrong idea about camp followers.

Backlist Spotlight One Perfect Dance

Join me on Dragonblade Publishing Book Club on Facebook this week to talk about the books I publish through Dragonblade, and particularly One Perfect Dance, the second in the series, inspired by Cinderella.

One Perfect Dance

https://amzn.to/3RMDcmI
Elijah was the man Regina could never forget. Now he is back in England, but someone wants to kill him.

Regina Paddimore puts her dreams of love away with other girlish things when she weds her father’s friend to escape a vile suitor who tries to force a marriage. Sixteen years later, and two years a widow, she seeks a husband who might help her fulfil another dream—to have her own child.

Elijah Ashby escapes his abusive step-family as soon as he comes of age, off to see the world. Letters from his childhood friend Regina are all that connects him to England. Sixteen years later, now a famous travel writer, the news she is a widow brings him home.

Sparks fly between them when they meet again. Regina begins to hope for love as well as babies. Elijah will be happy just to have her at his side. However, Elijah’s stepbrothers are determined to do everything they can—lie, cheat, kidnap, even murder—so that one of them can marry Regina and take her wealth for themselves.

Love and friendship must conquer hatred and spite before Elijah and Regina can be together.

Yet another beginning on WIP Wednesday

I’ve made a start on the last Dragonblade novel for this year. The Night Dancers is due to the publisher on 31 August. Guess the inspiring folk tale!

***

Melody Blackmore knew within minutes of entering the marquess’s study that the rumours were true. He was a terrible man. Had the investigation he wanted undertaken been the real reason she was here, she would have found some excuse and left again.

Although, from what he was saying, it was already too late. “You will move in immediately. You have one week to complete your investigation. At the end of that time, if you have not discovered my sons’ secret, my men will take you out, beat you, and hand you over to the navy press gang.”

This was a further escalation. Of the previous four investigators, the first had been dismissed, the second dismissed with a buffet or two from footmen, and third and fourth beaten each more heavily.

She would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Two weeks. We shall write it into this contract.” She handed it to the bullying lord. “You will see that my daily charge is five guineas, plus expenses. Since you expect me to live in, you will be responsible for my keep for the fortnight. And, of course, we have yet to discuss my success fee.”

He stood and leaned on the desk, looming over her as she sat facing him. “You are not in a position to dictate terms, Mr. Black.”

“And yet you need my skills, Lord Teign,” Mel pointed out, maintaining her calm facade. “My success rate is second to none. And you have discarded so many investigators so violently that word has gone out in the fraternity. It is me, or no one.”

The argument got through to him. With a visible effort, he subdued his rage and sat down. “You are an arrogant young man,” he accused.

Mel had been lying about her identity since she first donned men’s clothes to undertake her first investigation. Without a blink, she accepted the accusation and replied, “My arrogance is justified. Within a fortnight, my lord, you shall have an answer. If we come to terms. Otherwise, I shall leave, shooting my way out if necessary.”

The last statement got his full attention. “Shooting? Damn it, man. I am a marquess. You’d not get out of here alive.”

“My reluctance to shoot you, my lord, is less than my reluctance to be beaten and pressed. And if you are dead, you shall not be able to deny whatever story I tell.”

Given the reception she was likely to get from the sailors when they discovered she was a woman, she would rather die trying to escape the marquess’s house, than die miserably in a ship’s hold after the sailors made a plaything of her.

If those were her choices, she’d be certain to send him down to hell before she breathed her last. But with two bad choices before her, she’d try for a third way.

“We do not, however, need to be at odds, my lord. You wish to find out how your sons are managing to remain fit and well without adequate food, and going through dancing slippers without any way of leaving their tower. I wish to survive this engagement and be paid for it, so I am highly motivated to discover their secret. That is my only interest, Lord Teign.”

“You are remarkably calm,” Lord Teign commented, frowning. He pulled the contract toward him and began to read it. Mel expressed her relief in a single long respiration. In. Out. Relax but remain alert. Remember your purpose.

Having made up his mind to accept her terms, Lord Teign spent little time reading the contract, and indeed, it was simple enough. He did not haggle over the two week term, the daily payment, the bonus for success, not any of the other terms, but simply read the contract through and signed both copies.

Within twenty minutes, her copy in her pocket, the butler was leading her to what he called “the young lords’ tower” through a maze of passages—servants’ passages, which might have been a deliberate affront.

The butler had searched her bag and her person, missing the false bottom in the bag and most of the weapons she had about her person. He had found the decoy gun she had in her pocket, but not the real one worn in a harness in the small of her back under her coat. Nor did he find the gunpowder and bullets in the heels of her boots.

On the whole, Mel was not dissatisfied. Nor was she discouraged by the butler’s pompous recitation, as she accompanied him through the house, about the impregnability of the tower—its thick walls, barred windows, and single door, which was both locked and guarded.

After all, ten spoilt lordlings could come and go as they pleased, evading the tower’s defences, their father’s servants, and the surveillance of four men who specialised in solving the problems of the haute ton, and uncovering their secrets. If they could do it, so could Mel.

All she had to do was discover their secret, and meanwhile carry out her real mission.

They turned a corner and began traversing a long hall with windows on both sides that looked out over roofs on one side and on the other, down into a stableyard. Two-thirds of the way to the other end, bars blocked their passage. Two sets of bars, in fact, each containing a gate.

The butler unlocked the first gate, then handed the key to one of the two footmen who had been escorting them through the house. The footman stayed outside and locked the gate. The same process saw Mel and the butler on their own at the end of the hall, with two locked gates behind them. Clever. The young lords would not be able to escape even if they overwhelmed whoever came into their chambers.

Mel’s respect for them went up a notch. Perhaps they were not so contemptible after all. It didn’t matter. They were not her main purpose her.

Next came a locked door, which let into an antechamber. The butler handed Mel his lamp and said, “Ring the bell and wait here for Lord Kemble,” He then shut her in. She heard the key turn in the lock.

Bell. There it was, a large handbell, on a table against the side wall of the chamber. There was another door opposite the one she’d entered by, and another table on the fourth wall of the room. And that was all. Just bare stone walls and a wooden floor, a plain ceiling, the two tables, the two doors, and the bell.

Very well, then. Time to meet the sons of the Marquess of Teigh. Mel put down her bag on the floor and the lamp on the table. What would they say when she told them why she was there? Not the whole of it, of course. Just their part of it. There was one sure way to find out. She picked up the bell and rang it.