Ivy In A Man's World…

My Holiday Favorites Excerpt: When Ivy Met Simon

Ivy In A Man's World…

OUTRAGEOUSLY YOURS comes out this Tuesday (in print and all e-formats!) and I thought it would be fun to post some excerpts.

Below, Ivy Sutherland - disguised as young science student Ned Ivers – has just taken part in a competition, at Cambridge University, to become Simon de Burgh's new assistant, and now she's back at the dormatory relaxing with f her new "mates." Ivy finds it's not easy being a man – especially when her mission for the queen involves getting up-close and personal with the enigmatic man the students have dubbed, The Mad Marquess of Harrow…

Ivy is here, at St. John's College, Cambridge University

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"Ol' Ivers here drinks like my grandmamma. Down that claret, old boy, and then try a real man's drink."

A slap between her shoulder blades nearly sent the glass flying from Ivy's hand and the wine she had just sipped spurting from her mouth. Somehow she managed to prevent both small disasters, but upon swallowing she received another whack from her neighbor that threw her into a fit of coughing.

The backslapping continued in earnest, a joint effort now from the two young men sitting on either side of her at the small dining table. Their laughter filled her ears. Cheroot smoke curled before her face and made her eyes water until the grinning faces across the table blurred. Despite the cool autumn breeze flowing through the open windows, Ivy sweltered beneath her woolen coat. Her stomach began to roil.

"Ah, leave the poor bloke alone," someone yelled but to little effect, except to bring on louder peals of laughter.

Setting down her wine, Ivy thrust out her arms and shoved her well-meaning neighbors away. Still coughing, she pushed to her feet and stumbled to the nearest window. She found the frame and gripped it, and leaned out over the sill to suck in drafts of refreshing air. Dazzling sunlight lit the courtyard two stories below. A pedestrian turned his face up to hers, saluted, and kept walking.

With her throat already strained from her efforts to speak in a lower voice, the smoke and liquor only made matters worse. Gradually, the coughing subsided. The laughter behind her did not. Turning, she perched on the wide stone sill, caught her breath, straightened her coat and attempted to regain her dignity.

"Here, sip this." The host of the party, Jasper Lowbry, a handsome young man with intelligent eyes and a ready smile, pressed a snifter into her hand.

Bitter fumes spiraled upward to burn her nose. She would have much preferred water, but something told her such an option would never have crossed the minds of these raucous students.

"Go on," Jasper urged. "It'll help. And don't mind them. Making you the butt of their jokes merely means they like you."

Ivy nodded her gratitude and took the tiniest sip. Jasper returned to his half dozen other guests, who continued to gulp down spirits and shovel an assortment of hors d'oeuvres into their mouths. Their boorish table manners made Ivy cringe. Their uproarious conversation increased in volume while steadily decreasing in coherence, but thank goodness for that. A good portion of their language tended to scorch her ears.

Just as with the Marquess of Harrow, these Cambridge men had met none of her expectations. She had supposed university students to be well-mannered and scholarly, making use of every spare moment to study, contemplate, and debate. Ha! But for their costly attire, their apparent heedlessness when it came to their coin, and the opulence of Jasper Lowbry's rooms, which put Ivy's modest London townhouse to shame, they might have been brigands at any dockside tavern.

Still and all, these particular brigands, all fellow residents of St. John's College, had eagerly opened their doors to young "Ned Ivers," along with their liquor bottles, humidors, and snuff boxes. Ivy was finding that being a man taxed the body in ways she had never before considered. Blinking, she attempted to clear her throat but only ended up coughing again.

"I can tell you what's wrong with him," slurred Preston Ascot, the pock-faced son of a Foreign Office diplomat. Mr. Ascot had bulldog features and the heavyset bulk to match, offset by an affable sense of humor. With a slovenly grin he thrust an unsteady finger in Ivy's direction. "Poor sot's been poisoned. The Mad Marquess no doubt slipped him something lethal."

A gangly, bespectacled chap named Spencer Yates drew on his cheroot until the burning end crackled softly. In a billow of smoke he called out, "Wouldn't be the first time, from what I hear."

Another among the group murmured, "You're speaking of his wife, aren't you?"

"No, no," Jasper Lowbry interceded with a roll of his hazel eyes. "Pure rubbish, that. Harrow didn't do her in. But…" Still standing by the head of the table, he leaned in closer. The others went quiet and craned their necks to hear what he would say. Curious herself, Ivy hopped off the windowsill and rejoined the group.

"They say he's keeping her body somewhere in that manor of his."

The diplomat's son frowned at Lowbry's words. "What the devil do you mean, keeping her? Keeping her how?"

"Not sure, quite. Preserved somehow."

Revulsion rippled across Ivey's back and raised the shorn hairs on her nape. The others around her reacted with similar repugnance, swearing, quaffing mouthfuls of brandy or whiskey, and shaking their heads in disbelief.

"You needn't take my word for it," said Lowbry with a casual shrug. "It's common knowledge among the upperclassmen." Hunching, he propped his hands on the table and leaned low. "Generations of de Burghs are buried in Holy Trinity churchyard, but you won't find her there."

"Oh, but that's ridiculous," Ivy blurted. "She must have been buried with her own family then."

Lowbry shook his head. "The Quincys are all buried at Holy Trinity as well. Her father is a don of physics here."

"What on earth would the marquess want with his wife's remains?" Ivy shuddered.

Lowbry cast a grave, and in Ivy's opinion, dramatic glance around the table. "They say he hopes one day to…resurrect her. Like in that book. You all know the one I mean."

"You know, it's not that far fetched." Spencer Yates blew several smoke rings in succession. "Luigi Galvani's experiments on the nervous systems of frogs proved that movement is achieved by the confluence of electrical charges between the nerves and the muscles."

"Meaning what?" Ivy demanded. "Surely you're not suggesting that the stuff of fiction can be intertwined with legitimate scientific—"

"Meaning," the youth interrupted with an exaggerated pull of his mouth, "the heart is a muscle, and the Mad Marquess could very well be pumping electricity into his wife's heart in an attempt to make it beat again."

A chill slithered up Ivy's spine.

Mr. Ascot broke the heavy fall of silence. "Bloody hell."