by L. L. Muir
“You mean it? You can stand here in front of God and good whisky and say such things? Good lord, man. Perhaps I do not know you at all. Perhaps you could actually do the deed yourself!” Stanley straightened his waistcoat as if preparing to leave in a huff.
“Oh, I would rather not do the deed myself, of course.” Ashmoore frowned and scrubbed a finger back and forth across his mouth.
North could take it no more. He tossed up his hands. “I surrender as well, Ash. What are you thinking? You cannot be talking about having The Scarlet Plumiere murdered.”
“Not murdered. Put down. Removed from power—or The Capital Journal at least.” Ash leaned in and lowered his voice. “The only way to control a woman these days, gentlemen, is to marry her off.”
Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, “I’d rather plan a murder than a wedding.”
Callister stepped into the library with a small white box tied with crimson ribbon. North nodded his butler over and reached for the package, but the old man shook his head.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen.”
Something yawned and stretched inside North’s breast, something that had been sleeping for two years. Usually, when it woke, he drugged it with brandy until it slept again. He was not sure, but it might have been his soul. And with some sort of premonition which he had never been known to possess, he suspected that thing within him would somehow be affected by Stanley’s box.
He watched, as did they all, while Stanley slowly pulled a crimson tail, as if he expected a cat to jump out.
The ribbon fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it to one side. He frowned, looked at North, then reached into its depths. He pulled out a pair of spectacles...and a bubble burst in North’s chest.
He laughed.
Stanley did not seem to understand.
“Who knew about this meeting, Viscount F?” Ash had to raise his voice to be heard.
North laughed harder. Watching Stanley’s face as realization dawned, struck him as particularly amusing.
“Untrustworthy eyes.” Harcourt’s grin widened further than the confines of his face. “I say, she is a clever minx.”
North agreed. The Scarlet Plumiere was clever. And had he a heart, she might have just won it over with her wit alone.
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Blood For Ink
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About the Author
L.L. Muir lives in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. Like most authors, she is constantly searching for, or borrowing pens. She manages her characters in a waiting room in her head where fights often break out over whose story should be next in line.
If you like her books leave a review—all the Muir Witches will be most appreciative.
She loves to hear from readers. You can reach her through her website—
www.llmuir.weebly.com.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINTEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Excerpt from GOING BACK FOR ROMEO
Excerpt from BLOOD FOR INK
About the Author
