The first Derringer was manufactured in 1825. This author took poetic license and back-dated the idea of the small pistol forty years for the one produced for Lady Minerva.
The gravity flow plumbing was an innovation that took hold in the early eighteenth century.
Gas lighting in the streets of London was first introduced in August 1807, when Golden Lane Brewery and a portion of Beech and Whitecross Streets were illuminated by its means. The authentic Gas, Light & Coke Company obtained their charter in 1810, and lamps outside their offices in Pall Mall so lit, but progress in this direction was slow, and the old oil lamps died hard.
The Gas, Light & Coke Company did supply gas lighting to customers in the Westminster area upon contract in 1813. Lighting was supplied mainly during the hours of dark. At the time of this book, they indeed had a monopoly. By 1817, London theaters were being illuminated by gaslight.
The duke’s Great Britain Gas, Light & Coke Company is a figment of my imagination for the purposes of this novel, although there were competitive gas light companies but not by this particular name.
With the passage of time, there was competition with the advent of gas for stove cooking. In subsequent years, gas was supplied full time.
As for the exotic Star Gazer Lily, it was not a tuber from India. It just sounded more romantic to write it so. The hybridization took place in California, U.S.A. in 1974, and revolutionized the lily and cut-flower industry by producing what has now become the most popular oriental lily in the world. The name was given to this lily because their blooms gaze up at the sky yet prefer their roots planted in the fertile earth.
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Above all, happy reading. Enjoy the spice of life with sensual seduction and swagger.
Au revoir! Until we meet again.
If you enjoyed One Night with a Duke, you’ll want to watch for the next book in the series. Here’s an excerpt:
The Blue-Eyed,
Black-Hearted Duke
by
Sandra Masters
The Duke Series, Book Six
Chapter One
London, 1825
An ominous chill snaked up the Duke of Tremaynes’s spine—a warning. He stood at the open Palladian window of his London townhouse, his heart hammered, and worked to summon control. He studied the scene, in an attempt to identify the source of his anxiety; the two footmen who assisted his older sister, Camille, out of the conveyance and the young woman who followed. Her hooded cape concealed her hair, but nothing worldly could obscure the violet color of her eyes. The hairs on his arms and neck lifted. She was Jacklyn Moray—his ward, daughter of his best friend who’d died at his side at the conclusion of the Napoleonic wars. He scanned the view with the eyes of a raptor, gazing to the right and left for any untoward movements. The instinct that served him well before now clenched his gut.
Morally indebted to the man who’d saved his life on the battlefield years before, he promised his compatriot to raise and protect the young girl since her mother had abandoned the eight-year-old child to run away with another man.
True to his word, the duke sent Jaclyn to an elite finishing school, and she was to make her ‘coming out’ this Season presumably to find a suitable husband. His sister was sponsoring her with his permission. He had not seen her for ten years since he escorted the frightened girl to an educated way of life.
His majordomo took the cloaks of the ladies. Tremayne remained in his study prepared for the momentous event. Camille was the first to speak in an attempt to calm the young woman, “Don’t be nervous. My brother may have a reputation, but underneath all the bluster dwells a kind man.”
Jaclyn’s voice held the lilt of an angel, “I know, my lady. He’s written me often. In school, we’ve heard about his bravery in the war.”
Tremayne overheard their words. The rustle of silk skirts signaled they would soon greet him. He turned from the window, hands behind his back, standing tall in his dark blue jacket and ivory breeches, a fluff of white at his throat, eyes narrowed, his head cocked toward the door.
Camille was first to enter. “Morning, Radolf. We had a good trip, and we are happy to see you.” She went to him and gave him a kiss, and pointed to the young woman. “This is Jaclyn Moray.”
Jaclyn curtsied, lowered her head, and said, “Your Grace, I am privileged to meet you at long last.” The fire roared to a crescendo and then reverted to a lesser warmth. As she rose, she placed a hand to her lips, “Oh!” Sunlight now streamed through the room as before as if in welcome.
Camille and the duke turned to her. “Are you unwell?” his sister asked.
Jaclyn blushed but managed to speak and point to the window. “The sunlight on His Grace’s hair flamed and he reminded me of a stained glass portrait at the school chapel which depicts an angel with copper hair and a red wolf by its side. I apologize if I offended, but the likeness startled me.”
“An apology isn’t necessary.” Tremayne took strident steps to the desk and sat in his worn chair. His smile was cool and unfathomable. “Perhaps you were unaware that my family commissioned the stained glass piece in the eleventh century. The red wolf was a rare extinct breed synonymous with my name, Radolf, and is the emblem on our coat of arms. The rumor is that my ancestor raised and protected them on his properties.”
“I should have known. Thank you for your clarification.”
“Be seated,” his ruffled wrist gestured toward a straight-backed chair. Jaclyn sat, but his gaze never left her as a waft of her fragrance scented the air. A connoisseur of female perfumes, he guessed it was lilac with a hint of distinctive clove.
His smile remained distant. Camille chatted about the trip and the pastoral scenes they traversed, but Tremayne studied the young woman. The London fashion these days lent itself to heaving bosoms, tight corsets, and almost indecent low décolletage with nothing left to the imagination. Jaclyn’s dress was angelic, clothed from neck to foot in a form-fitting silk dress with a high collar and long sleeves, without an ounce of skin showing except for her long manicured fingers, and of course, her fair-skinned face. In short, she was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen, and he had seen too many.
Yanked from his thoughts, Jaclyn spoke softly. “I thank you for your letters these past years. They mean a great deal to me since I have no relatives. I cherished your stories about my father and yourself. I feel I know you well, even though we are strangers. Would it be permissible if I regard you as a substitute father since you are my guardian and I have no one else?”
Tremayne blanched since his thoughts about her did not portend fatherly images. He was quick to add, “That honor should be in memoriam for the man who sired you. You may address me as duke or Tremayne. You are most welcome in our home,” a faint smile escaped.
“Thank you,” her voice now timid, she rested both hands in her lap. “This is so like a fairy-tale. I don’t know where to look first.”
The duke’s smile softened. In his thirty-seven years, he’d never been so impressed with a female on such short acquaintance unless their bodies were wrapped around each other.
“Camille, have the servants show Miss Jaclyn to her room. Her trunks should be waiting for her. After she’s settled, come down and visit with me a moment. I have matters to discuss with you.”
They both excused themselves and climbed the curved oak staircase to the second-floor bedrooms. In apparent awe of the portraits that lined the stair-wall, Jaclyn stopped at Tremayne’s picture. “That’s His Grace’s portrait. Oh, my, he’s handsome, but his expression is stern.”
Camille answer
ed. “It was commissioned after he returned from the war. I often look at his picture myself and wonder what stories are behind those blue eyes. He does not speak of the horrors he saw. I only know the gentle, loving side of him.”
It occurred to Tremayne that Jaclyn Moray now became a significant distraction to his serenity. The one thing he hadn’t expected was an eight-year-old child to have blossomed into an eighteen-year-old innocent beauty. Camille soon entered his sacrosanct study and smiled at him. “She is so lovely, Radolf. Much like a harbinger of spring’s scent after the winter storm. Now, what did you wish of me?”
“Have you made plans for your shopping expedition for her gowns and fripperies?”
“Yes, I thought we would start tomorrow morning. Poor Jaclyn is in wonder of all this luxury and her head is spinning. Will you allow us the use of your ducal coach? That always impresses the bystanders.”
“I’ll do better than that, Camille. I’ll accompany you. I’d like to approve the selections. Not that I would question your impeccable judgment, but I’d find it an amusement. When they see me escort Jaclyn around to purchase gowns, dresses and the like, tongues will wag until they find that she’s my ward. I would relish the salacious gossip for I find it difficult to maintain my blackened reputation.”
“Brother, at times you do vex me.” She turned to leave.
“Camille?”
“Yes?”
“Jaclyn is never to be alone with any man.”
“Does that include you, my brother?
“Yes.”
Camille frowned quizzically. “Your wish is my command. Be careful, Wulfie. Her honor is in our hands.”
At the sound of Camille’s pet name for him, a smile rounded his lips. He rose from the comfortable leather chair. “If you use that name in front of anyone, sister or no, I’ll have you drawn and quartered or burned at the stake.”
Camille turned toward him and ran to give him a kiss on his forehead. “I love you, too, Brother. You just have a strange way of demonstrating your feelings.”
Tremayne pushed her away with a gentle touch. “Now be gone with you, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Wulfie,” she laughed as she ran to the door. He made the gesture of running after her to chastise as they did when they were children. Of course, he allowed her to escape.
If there was any woman he trusted, it was she. Fate had dealt her a blow, but he would protect her with his life. He touched the chair Jaclyn had occupied and became aware he had encountered true innocence, such a novelty.
He glided his fingers over the antique desk where as a lad of fourteen, he’d taken the virtue of a servant girl who left screaming. When his father called him to the study, Tremayne expected punishment. Instead, he was shocked when the duke clapped him on his back. “That’s my boy. I’m proud of you. I began to wonder where your proclivities lie.” The older man handed him a Simeon North M1816 pistol as a reward.
And like this, he began and upheld the former duke’s history of debauchery. His morals decayed. Girl by girl. Woman by woman. Sin by sin. In retrospect, he questioned if his evil father had a hand in placing constant temptation in his path since his pistol collection grew by leaps and bounds.
Jaclyn would tempt the most resolute men. It would be best to marry her off quickly before he performed an act he might regret—or enjoy. He opened his desk drawer, took out a locket and flipped it open. A smiling girl with dark hair and seductive violet eyes peered at him.
An unfocused gaze brought into sight the container of black roses he cultivated residing on the left side of his desk. Imported from Halfeti, Turkey, they were his pride and joy. Somehow he knew Jaclyn would be the white rose that took him down.
Now he was to endure the supreme test; the devil had sent him a saint.
A word about the author…
From a humble beginning in Newark, New Jersey, with a short stay at a convent in Morristown, NJ, to the corporate world of NYC, Sandra Masters retired to the rural foothills of the Sierras and traded board rooms for ball rooms. Her business world was left behind, and she never looked back.
Sandra lives in Coarsegold, California with her husband, Ron, who is her plotster, and their two dogs, Silky and Sophie. When not writing, she’s busy cooking way too much rustic Italian food for friends and family. She loves bears of all kinds and prefers to collect them in paintings and wood carvings.
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