Ashford was the gentlewoman the Mercers had engaged to help launch their daughter into society. A spinster relative of a recently deceased dowager Viscountess, Lady Warefield vouched for the woman’s respectability. Which, given his cousin’s financial incentives, was not entirely reassuring.
Why had this Miss Ashford not married? Poverty was not, strictly speaking, a complete bar to matrimony if the other party had funds. She was pretty even now, and couldn't be more than thirty, if that. In her salad days, she must have been beautiful, and she was clearly a lady.
Perhaps her failure to wed had something to do with that sharp eye of hers. Perhaps she'd been discriminating. Perhaps she was not as big a fool as Miss Mercer’s father, seeking to marry a child to the most dissolute peer in the kingdom. If Miss Ashford exercised that same care with the girl, then Thomas's match was in trouble.
The churning he felt in his stomach he identified as guilt. In the past year, Thomas’s finances had become so dire, marriage was the only solution. Finding a bride for his nephew felt like looking for the Passover lamb. Happiness would not be part of the arrangement. The title of countess would come at a steep price, especially if her new ladyship was a delicate young girl.
The next evening, in the tiny guest room she'd been allotted, Liliana tucked one last hairpin into an errant curl. She'd spent the afternoon with Katie, going over the names and pedigrees of the most likely attendees at the night's ball.
Mrs. Mercer had felt well enough to go down for dinner. Tonight, she and Mr. Mercer would discuss with Katie the arrangements they'd made for the girl's betrothal. Mrs. Mercer had apologized for excluding Liliana's helpful presence.
She hadn’t needed to say it was Mr. Mercer’s wish. Smart tradesman that he was, he’d seen through Liliana’s compliant façade. And if he expected objections from her, the match was a bad one.
Liliana had barely touched the dinner delivered to her room. The worry that had merely simmered within her was now at full froth. She’d felt this much worry the night of her own and her brother's undoing.
Not that either of them could have been dissuaded from rash action. She’d been blinded by love, and he—well, the moment he came of age, he'd thrown himself into the life of drinking, gambling, and the worst women. And of course, those rogues he ran with.
And who was she to cast fiery stones? She'd fallen head over ears with one of those rogues, in a garden, at a ball much like the one they were attending tonight. Her own foolishness had driven her brother right out of England.
After that, even without Cousin Alice’s harangues, she'd resolved to never ignore the trembles, flutters, and ripplings of intuition. Not even now, when acting upon her instinct might cast her into a life of cheap lodgings and penny pies. That stirred her fear also, but she must be brave.
Mr. Mercer had hired her to make sure Katie fit into the world of the ton, and lucky she was for the position.
Mrs. Mercer expected her to make sure Katie was happy in this life. Given Mr. Mercer's aspirations, that would be a challenge.
Never mind. She would accompany Katie to the ball tonight, assess this lordly suitor, and remind the girl that she could say no.
A knock at the door stirred her from her reverie.
"I'm just ready now. You may come in." She was fixing the clasp of her mother's amber drop necklace, but stopped when she saw the maid's face. "What is it?"
"Miss Mercer is crying."
Oh dear. Her insides trembled. The match must be as bad as she feared. She gathered her things and found Katie's maid struggling to finish the girl's coiffure and Katie shaking with quiet sobs.
"Liliana." Katie reached for her hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. You will tell me my eyes will be red, but I cannot help it. And we are late. Papa has already sent a servant up twice to tell us that there will be such a crush of carriages on the street that he wishes to leave early, and that I must hurry."
The poor dear had descended into blubbering. "Has he?" Liliana took the maid's comb and nudged her out of the way. No one had come to tell Liliana to hurry—she might have been left behind.
Her nerves prickled. Mr. Mercer must be as upset as his daughter, and might turn his anger on someone outside the family. And who better than an outsider inside his own household?
"Gertie, will you go find us some very cold water and a clean flannel? And tell Mr. Mercer we will be along presently and in good time, please."
Once the door closed, Katie expelled a large sigh. "I am to marry the Earl of Hackwell." She bit her lip. "Did you know, Liliana?"
Liliana's heart kicked up. She recognized the name Hackwell from the scandal sheets, though she couldn't retrieve any particulars. "No. I didn't know the name of your suitor."
"The settlements have all been arranged, Papa said. All negotiated. The earl must just look me over and agree, and I must say yes." She squeezed her eyes tightly.
Katie was reaching for self-control. Liliana must help her grasp it.
She combed through a curl and pinned it in place. "That is how these things are usually done."
"I must say yes, Papa said. Must. It is not only that his daughter must be a countess, but that this earl has..." she waved her hand wildly, "ore, or whatever, on his estate."
Katie's doomed desperation flowed into Liliana. She had underestimated Mr. Mercer. She had thought the marriage had been just a matter of pride. But a shrewd business maneuver? Yes, that explained much, including why he’d refused to tell her the name of Katie's intended the one time she'd had the temerity to ask.
"Will you share with me what your mother said?" she asked smoothly.
Fresh tears welled.
Fingers shaking, Liliana slid in the last hairpin and took the girl's hands in her own. "Deep breaths."
Katie shuddered, her lower lip trembling.
"You are a lady, Katie, even without a title. Even if you don't marry an earl and never become a countess."
Her eyes widened, and she took a long breath. "Mama told Papa that she had not loved him when she married him, but that she had liked him. She said that if I do not like the earl, then Papa must give me time to know him better. That I must at least like him before I am forced to marry him. That he had promised her not to force me."
Liliana released a tensely held breath and felt her shoulders relax. "There, you see? All will be well."
"Papa's face went very red. He was very angry. I cried. He is...he is a rake, Liliana."
Liliana's mind stumbled trying to keep up. Katie meant the earl, not her father.
Katie waved a hand around. "But, Papa said I would make the earl a good wife and settle him down."
She rested a hand on Katie's shoulder. A piece from a scandal sheet came to her, a sordid tale about the Earl of Hackwell and a disreputable party.
"And...and he is so old."
She squeezed the girl's hands. "Listen to me. You must not be alone with him tonight."
Shame curled through her. She'd made that mistake, and compounded it with a letter her brother tried to steal back. "If he asks you to walk on the terrace, or slip into a quiet chamber, you will say no. Do not be afraid to say no. You have as much beauty and goodness as any debutante in attendance tonight. And—I will speak plainly—you have far, far more in the way of dowry. You are a prize in every way. If you do not want him, you must not let him carry you off. We have talked about this before, haven't we? I will stay very close. I will be the most hideous, formidable, wart-faced chaperone Lord Hackwell has ever encountered."
By the time Liliana opened the door for the maid, she had coaxed a smile. A few applications of cool compresses and a brushing of powder hid the evidence of tears.
"There now," Liliana said. "You're as good as new."
Available in paperback and Kindle from Amazon
Bella’s Band
A 2015 RONE Award Finalist
Soul Mate Publishing
Saddled with his brother’s title and debts, nothing about this new life makes the Earl of Hackwell
want to stay—until he meets a lady with a secret that can change everything.
Chapter One
On these London streets, a lady with lads in her keeping needed the sharp eye of a military scout.
The damp December greyness seeped through thick woolens, sent chills into the skin, and settled over dangers. Yet Annabelle Harris could see very well, and she had spotted the gentleman on horseback a block earlier. That he’d kept pace with them, his eyes burning her back, proved the need for her watchfulness.
“That swell, Mum.” The finger poking out at the man had a coating of grime as thick as the boy’s accent. She’d fetched Thomas from chasing the cat in her small garden and dusted him off. Somehow he’d managed to get dirty again.
And lose his gloves. Annabelle captured the chilled hand. “We do not point, Thomas, especially with a finger this dirty. And how cold you are.”
“Aye, but he’s starin’. An’ I’m too old for hand-holdin’.”
“Nevertheless.”
Curse her stubbornness. She should have taken Rosalyn’s offer of transport. “Come now. Her ladyship is expecting us. Robby?” She gripped the smaller boy’s hand. “My two handsome lads, let’s walk a little faster.” Away from the curious gentleman.
This world was not always kind to handsome boys. This world needed climbing boys, and beggars, and pickpockets, and . . . and others.
She’d learned about the others from a girl who’d handed over her brother, a boy no older than five, before their so-called father could sell him to work in a den far fouler than any conventional brothel.
Annabelle had not wanted to believe such places existed. Mr. Quarley, the vicar who came to tend their abandoned sheep—and chase her friend Rosalyn Montagu—had listened, shocked, and, without confirming or denying, had bidden Annabelle to speak no more of it.
The memory still made her bristle. She was no addlepated woman, no weak-kneed silly young lass who fainted at the mention of body parts.
The clop-clop of that horse brought her back to the present. A fine handsome animal it was, like the man riding it, she’d seen that quickly enough. His coat and cravat and hat spoke of privilege. The wrinkles in the fabric, the flop of the neckcloth, and the skew of that fine beaver at this hour? Ah, he’d been up all night drinking, gambling, and whoring. A very fine gentleman, indeed.
At the corner, she dared to look again. Too close, her eyes fixed on the still-gleaming boots, the skin-tight breeches that swelled with firm muscle, and the wide span of his shoulders. Bleary blue eyes lifted from Robby and met hers with speculation. Annabelle stiffened and stared back until his lips curved and he saluted.
Robby lifted his hand and waved. Those bleary eyes brightened, the handsome face creased in a wide grin, naughty, and almost innocent.
He stopped and waved her on. She rushed the boys across the street.
Shouting erupted in front of a shop on the next block. Three urchins whirled out of nowhere, one of them bumping Annabelle and careening off Thomas.
“You sod.” Thomas yanked out of Annabelle’s grip and was off like a shot.
An apron-wrapped man pushed his way around a gawker. “That’s ‘im.”
The man was pointing at Thomas.
The crew of wee filchers scattered past him like the balls in a billiard game.
Like the infantry in full retreat.
His blood quickened. Steven Beauverde, Earl of Hackwell, wheeled his battle-trained bay and followed the blond head that was close on the heels of a tattered dark boy.
Shouts of “Grab him” and “Stop, Thief” pursued them. The blond boy, quick as a harrier, tackled his larger quarry in the street. They rolled, punched, and growled foul obscenities.
The fair-haired boy had bottom. If they were allowed to finish, Steven would lay odds on him.
Steven eased closer, the crowd dodging out of the way of his mount. The pummeling had stopped and a workman had each of the boys by the scruff.
“That’s ‘im.” A thin man in an apron pushed his way closer and pointed at the blond lad. “Nicked a coin, he did.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Did not.”
“What’s this one?” The captor shook the dark boy.
“Him, too,” the shopkeeper said. “Together, they are.”
A woman pushed through the crowd, another blond boy perched on her hip.
Ah, it was she, the dark-clad woman escorting the boys. When she reached for the fair-haired captive, the man holding him pulled him back.
“Release him this instant. He is with me.”
Her cultured tones and air of command silenced the crowd and sent a ripple of admiration through Steven. Plainly dressed and well-covered, she passed for an upper-floor servant. But a housekeeper would not have a cockney boy in tow, and a nursemaid would not speak so well. A governess—well, the little one in her arms was too young for a governess.
The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes at her. “I seen him.”
She drew herself up taller. “You are mistaken. He was walking with me. Now hand him over.”
The man bristled. “The watch will—”
“Hand him over to the lady, there’s a good man,” Steven said.
All eyes turned up to him, but it was the pair of grey ones that snared him.
He knew this look. He’d seen it in Spain, in the eyes of the liberated. Not defiant anymore, she was taking his measure. Friend or foe?
He raised an eyebrow and held her gaze.
Yet in his peripheral vision, he saw that the rest of them watched also.
It was the aggrieved shopkeeper who spoke first. “The Watch—”
“Fine, fine, keep the dark one for the Watch.” Steven flicked a spot of dust from his coat. “The fair-haired one you will turn over to the lady. He was holding the lady’s hand when you were robbed.”
“He was running—”
“Because that one”—Steven pointed at the other boy— “assaulted his lady. Were you also robbed, Miss?” Or Madam?
She patted her clothing in several interesting places.
“I was not, sir.” Her attention went to the crowd. “And there you have it. A witness.” She reached for the boy and this time they released him. “Come along then, we’ll be late.”
Steven watched her and her two charges hurrying off toward the wealthiest section of Mayfair.
The section where Hackwell House stood. Where he was currently encamped.
The lady owed him a thank you. He wondered just how hard it would be to identify her and collect on her debt of gratitude before he turned his horse.
For now, he also was late.
Available on Kindle from Amazon
Rosalyn’s Ring
2014 Book Buyer’s Best Winner,
Novella Category
Soul Mate Publishing
When a young woman is put up for auction in a wife sale, Rosalyn Montagu seizes the chance to rescue her—and to recover a treasured family heirloom, her father’s signet ring. Her plans are thwarted by the newly anointed Viscount Cathmore who finds her provoking beauty, upper crust manner, and larcenous streak intriguing. Her secrets rouse his jaded heart, including the truth of her identity. But more mysteries swirl around Rosalyn’s past, and Cathmore is just the man to help her uncover the truth.
Chapter One
Rosalyn Montagu had calculated there would be dangers on this increasingly madcap mission of mercy, but she never expected to be sitting in opposite seats from one them, and in his snug, well-appointed, private coach, too.
It put her at a disadvantage, it did. The weather, all grey sky and arctic wind with the smell of snow, had halted her public coach at the last staging inn. A private coach waited there for the two silent gentlemen who had joined them that morning, ready to carry the gentlemen onward to the Village of Glen Murray.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Rosalyn had begged a ride for her and her maid. After all, a woman’s future—her dignity, her safety, maybe even her life—were at stake
, though Rosalyn did not feel compelled to share the particulars.
Lord Cathmore and Mr. Logan, they were Not young, not old, for men. Possibly thirty, and both quite handsome. Lord and steward, or Lord and secretary perhaps.
Unfortunately, his lordship was silent no longer. After she and Nelly had settled on his cushioned seats, he had begun a polite campaign to get at those particulars.
“I live in London,” Rosalyn answered him, omitting the precise neighborhood, “with my mother’s elderly cousin. She was kind enough to take me in after my father’s death.”
It was only a small lie. Almost true. Her cousin and benefactor, Abigail Crompton, had died after Christmas last year. This would be Abigail’s first Yuletide spent underground, rolling probably, at the misuse of her monetary bequest.
Lord Cathmore raised only one wicked eyebrow.
A padded little elbow poked her rib. She gasped, and quickly covered the sound with a cough.
“Are you all right, Miss Crompton?” Hooded eyes peered down a noble beak, daring her to squirm.
Miss Crompton? Oh, yes, she had lied about her name, too. Another poke to her side.
“Yes, my lord, I am quite fine.” She turned her head to her maid. “What is it, Nelly?”
“Nothing, Miss. Only the bumps in the road.”
Nelly smiled happily at the men, flirtatiously, even. Cousin Abigail had warned Rosalyn to manage her maid. But Rosalyn understood. Nelly’s advanced age, almost thirty, weighed on her maid’s mind. That was why she was sometimes a bit fresh.
Besides, Nelly was all that Rosalyn had left of her childhood and Brockton Manor.
“Are you warm enough, Miss Crompton?” Lord Cathmore asked.
She could not discern any emotion in the dark depths of his eyes, but his thin upper lip curved up at one corner, bringing the full lower one with it into a smirk, like naughty little Tommy at Miss Harris’s orphanage.
Rosalyn shivered, then heated, and barely retrieved some composure.
The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 30
