For All of Ever: The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time Novel (Book One)
Sometimes to find your future, you must look to the past… Katherine dreamed of her knight all her life, yet how could she know she’d be thrown back into the past? Nothing prepares Riorden for the beautiful vision of a strangely clad ghost appearing in his chamber. Centuries keep them apart, but will Time give them a chance at finding love?
Only for You: The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time Novel (Book Two)
Sometimes it’s hard to remember that true love conquers all, only after the battle is over… Katherine has it all, but settling into her duties at Warkworth is dangerous to her well-being. Consumed with memories of his father, Riorden must deal with his sire’s widow. Torn apart, Time becomes their enemy while Marguerite continues her ploy to keep Riorden at her side. With all hope lost, will Katherine and Riorden find a way to save their marriage?
* * *
A Knight To Call My Own
When your heart is broken, is love still worth the risk? Lynet of Clan MacLaren knows how it feels to love someone and not have that love returned. Ian MacGillivray has returned to Berwyck in search of a bride. Who will claim the fair Lynet? The price of ensuring her safety will be high. The price to win her love, still higher.
* * *
To Follow My Heart: The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time Novel (Book Three)
Love is a leap. Sometimes you need to jump… Jenna Sinclair is dealing with a horrendous break up with her fiancé when she finds herself pulled through time to twelfth century England. Fletcher Monroe has spent too much time pining away for a woman who will never be his until a strangely clad woman magically appears. Torn between the past and the present, will their growing love survive a journey through Time?
* * *
Hearts Across Time: The Knights of Berwyck (Books One & Two)
Sometimes all you need is to just believe… Hearts Across Time is a special edition box set that combines Katherine and Riorden’s stories: For All of Ever and Only for You.
* * *
Under the Mistletoe
A new suitor seeks her hand. An old flame holds her heart. Which one will she meet under the kissing bough? When Margaret Templeton is asked to act as hostess at a Christmas party she did not think she would see the man who once held her heart. Frederick Maddock, Viscount Beacham never forgot the young woman he had fallen in love with. Will the two finally put down their differences and once again fall in love?
A Suitable Husband
Chapter 2
Hollystone Hall, Buckinghamshire
18th December 1812
“Excuse me, miss.”
Cedrica did not have to look up from her writing desk to recognize the person who had interrupted their meeting. It was Mrs. Pearce’s assistant cook this time.
Two hours ago, she had been taken away from her inconspicuous supervision of the house party’s first breakfast service by Monsieur Fournier’s senior kitchen maid. Yesterday, amidst the hustle of arrivals, no fewer than five inter-kitchen battles had broken out and needed mediation. And four the day before. And six the day before that.
Since Monsieur Fournier and his coach-loads of ingredients and equipment had taken up residence five days ago, the troubles between the two kitchens had been Cedrica’s biggest headache, dwarfing her concerns about bedchamber allocation, seating plans, and spreading the services of the team of maids and valets among those who had arrived without servants.
“Oh dear,” commiserated Grace, Lady de Courtenay. “Another shot fired in the kitchen war?”
“I am sorry, miss. It’s the large soup tureen, miss. Mrs. Pearce says she needs it, and that Frenchie, he has it in his kitchen and won’t give it up, never so.” Aggie Wilkins nodded firmly, her message delivered.
“We are almost done.” Lady Sophia Belvoir blotted the paper on which she had been neatly writing notes about the day’s activities. “I shall report to Aunt Eleanor, ladies. Shall we check with one another here at,” she consulted her notes, “two of the clock?”
Sophia had been right that the three of them would have the most work of all. Each led a team of volunteers to manage some part of the party: Sophia in charge of all the casual activities that would be available for guests to enjoy, Grace the many more formal events, and Cedrica the domestic matters such as food and bed linen. They had all arrived early to have the house in readiness, and every day, they would meet several times to make sure the organization was, as Her Grace insisted, both invisible and seamless.
Grace patted Cedrica’s hand. “Cedrica, do you need help?”
Cedrica smiled, grateful for the offer. “I can do it.”
In truth, Cedrica would rather be managing the kitchen staff than the grand ladies and gentlemen who fell into Grace’s and Sophia’s purview. She could talk easily with those below stairs and resolve their arguments, too. Cedrica was a veteran of the 1809 war between Widow Siddons and Miss Martha Ridley over the flower arrangements for the Easter ceremonies. Monsieur Fournier and Mrs. Pearce were child’s play compared to those two ladies.
“One wonders whether the man’s talent is worth his temperament,” Sophia observed.
“After last night’s dinner?” Grace asked.
Sophia acknowledged the point. “It was exceptional, was it not?”
“To be fair,” Cedrica told them, “Mrs. Pearce is as bad. She has originated at least half the quarrels. Come, Wilkins, you shall tell me all about this soup tureen on the way below stairs.”
The tureen lived, apparently, in one of the service pantries that the two kitchens reluctantly shared. Mrs. Pearce decided that the massive piece, which sat on its own warming burner, would be ideal for the potato and leek soup, served with crusty fresh bread, that would be one of the dishes offered in the less formal of the two dining rooms during the afternoon.
But the maid sent to fetch it returned empty handed, and further investigation disclosed that Monsieur Fournier had chosen it for the crème de champignons soup that was on the menu for dinner. He found it first, he said, and Mrs. Pearce would have to choose another tureen.
“But it’s the spirit lamp, miss, see?” Mrs. Pearce explained. “Could be two hours that soup will be out, ’cause they don’t all come in together, do they? Many of the ladies will sleep in and come down around noon, and some have broken their fast already, and won’t want to eat till later. Most of the gentlemen have gone out for birds, and they’ll want summat hot when they come in. Could be any time.”
“Are there not other tureens with their own warmers? Or stands with spirit lamps you could put other tureens on?”
Mrs. Pearce reluctantly agreed there might be, but then rejected those they found. These were too small, and would lose heat too quickly. Those did not fit properly together. And that lot were not what she’d like to see in a duchess’s dining room, and that was a fact.
“The big tureen is perfect, miss. And he don’t need it, not really.”
Cedrica sighed. “I shall go and see this wonderful tureen for myself, Mrs. Pearce. No, you do not need to come with me. I shall return and let you know what I have decided.”
When she entered Monsieur Fournier’s kitchen, he pretended to ignore her, though his gaze slid sideways and met hers for a second. Very well, let him carry on instructing some hapless undercook in the correct way to bone a swan. She was not waiting on his attention like a supplicant.
The disputed tureen was on a table on the far side of the room. He would notice her soon enough if she picked it up and started to carry it off! Not that she could even if she wished to. It was nearly large enough to bathe in and would need two people at least to lift it. She pushed at one handle, put her strength behind her hand, and managed to hoist the monstrous piece an inch or so.
It was a fine piece, she had to admit—fluted and curved, edged with scrolls and plaits of silver, polished to a mirror finish, and rearing majestically from the tiled warmer platform with not one but
three burners to keep the soup hot.
But her eyes began to twinkle as she considered actually using it as part of a dinner service.
“Something is amusing, Mademoiselle?”
Monsieur Fournier had moved up beside her, the soft slippers he wore making no sound on the slate floor.
Cedrica blinked rapidly, determined not to show she was startled. “I came to solve your problem, Monsieur.”
He gave a theatrical shrug, his hands widespread. “I have no problem, Mademoiselle. La Pearce has a problem. Not I.”
“You are in the right, Monsieur. You were first to the tureen. It will look magnificent full of your wonderful mushroom soup. Only…” She allowed her voice to trail off and bent over to examine the platform more closely. Were the feet lion’s paws? She rather thought they were.
Monsieur Fournier’s hand appeared in her view, tapping on the table. He had long, rather elegant fingers, with neatly trimmed nails. He said nothing, but Cedrica could wait him out. And he proved no more immune to silence than a naughty choir boy caught with a broken window, an angelic smile, and a sling in his back pocket.
“You say, ‘only’, Mademoiselle? You will not judge in my favor despite your grand words?”
“Oh no, Monsieur. I cede you the tureen. If you wish to use it. Only…”
“‘Only’ again? Bah! What is this ‘only’?”
She turned to lean against the table and smiled at him, trying to keep from laughing aloud. “Monsieur, it is very heavy, and we have fifty-six to dinner tonight. More, perhaps, if all those who are promised for the next two days arrive. How will you convey to them their soup? It is heavy even empty. Once it is full of soup…”
Monsieur Fournier’s mouth dropped open, and he looked aghast at the magnificent tureen.
“I know,” Cedrica said wickedly. “We could put it in a wheelbarrow, and the footmen could take it from guest to guest so that—”
She got no further. The chef’s face darkened, and he roared, “A wheelbarrow? A wheelbarrow? You mock me, Mademoiselle!” He glared at the tureen. “A wheelbarrow, indeed!” He blinked, and his lips twitched. “The footmen could take it from guest to guest…” He began to chuckle and could barely get the last word out, “…in a wheelbarrow!”
The kitchen servants stopped what they were doing to stare as Monsieur Fournier roared with laughter, and Cedrica could not hold in her own amusement, until both of them were clutching the table with tears rolling down their cheeks.
At last, Monsieur Fournier collected himself, using the corner of his apron to wipe his eyes. As Cedrica used a kerchief for the same purpose, he asked, “And will you propose a wheelbarrow to Mrs. Pearce, Mademoiselle?”
“It is a different case, Monsieur. The monster here can be set up on the serving board ahead of time and filled with hot soup from buckets. Then the guests will go to the tureen themselves as they come to find sustenance a few at a time. For the dinner, though, we want something altogether grander, do we not? Four matching tureens, perhaps, each carried by a footman to a different part of the table, and the soup served from there. Or eight, marching in procession. Can I find you eight matching tureens, I wonder?”
Monsieur Fournier bowed elegantly. “Mademoiselle, you are as wise as you are beautiful. Let Madame Pearce have this monster. I, Marcel Fournier, will present the most delicious crème de champignons that England has ever tasted in a procession of eight tureens.”
As Cedrica left to search the storerooms for matching tureens that would be worthy of the finest mushroom soup ever made in England, she heard the chef chuckling to himself in between barking orders at the undercooks. “Wheelbarrows! Was there ever such a woman?”
Artemis
By Jessica Cale
About Artemis
By Jessica Cale
Actress Charlotte Halfpenny is in trouble. Pregnant, abandoned by her lover, and out of a job, Charlotte faces eviction two weeks before Christmas. When the reclusive Earl of Somerton makes her an outrageous offer, she has no choice but to accept. Could he be the man of her dreams, or is the nightmare just beginning?
Prologue
Apollo Rothschild sat in his box at the theater, his gaze fixed on the vision crossing the stage. It was the fifth time he’d seen Charlotte Halfpenny as Antigone, and she improved every night. Her conviction tempered with despair, she was the very picture of strength against the odds, a heroine sacrificing her own life to honor her brothers. More than once, he caught real tears sparkling in her eyes, brighter than any stars he’d had the good fortune to see.
He clung to every word she said, his heart breaking with her even as he admired her bravery. He had seen her in dozens of plays over the years, but this one was more moving, more acutely personal than the others.
After all, he knew a thing or two about honoring a dead brother.
“Last of all shall I pass thither, and far most miserably of all, before the term of my life is spent. But I cherish good hope that my coming will be welcome to my father, and pleasant to thee, my mother, and welcome, brother, to thee; for, when you died, with mine own hands I washed and dressed you, and poured drink-offerings at your graves.”
He felt the prickle of tears at the bridge of his nose and blinked them away. Though he had shed many tears for his family in the years they had been gone, it would not do for an earl to shed them in public, no matter how stirring the speech.
An ill-bred snicker distracted him from Charlotte’s final monologue. Irritated, he focused on the stage, entranced by the play of light and shadow on her remarkably expressive face. As she passed before a torch, the light illuminated her glorious red hair from behind like a stained glass Madonna.
“And now he leads me thus, a captive in his hands; no bridal bed, no bridal song hath been mine, no joy of marriage, no portion in the nurture of children; but thus, forlorn of friends, unhappy one, I go living to the vaults of death. And what law of Heaven have I transgressed?
“Why, hapless one, should I look to the gods any more—what ally should I invoke–-when by piety I have earned the name of impious? Nay, then, if these things are pleasing to the gods, when I have suffered my doom, I shall come to know my sin; but if the sin is with my judges, I could wish them no fuller measure of evil than they, on their part, mete wrongfully to me.”
“Amen,” he whispered under his breath, drawing a gloved hand to dab a single tear.
A stirring behind him in the shared box interrupted his reverie, and he was horrified on Charlotte’s behalf when his neighbors guffawed. He shot them his look of reproach that had been rumored to freeze running water.
Unperturbed, the chaps continued their conversation in lowered voices. “Out on her ear. Marksby gave her a week, to hear some tell it. The future Lady Marksby’s none the wiser. He ought to put this one on a ship before she catches on and cries off.”
Apollo’s spine stiffened at the mention of the profligate Baron Marksby. It was common knowledge that Charlotte Halfpenny had been his mistress for some time. How the man had held her attention for so long was anyone’s guess. If all that was needed to engage a mistress was ready funds, Apollo would have tried to make off with Charlotte the first time he laid eyes on her in King Lear.
“She won’t be here for long, unless she loses it. Talk is all well and good as long as it draws crowds, but they’ll send her on her way before she damages their reputation.”
Apollo smirked to himself. The company was no stranger to scandal. Charlotte couldn’t do them any real damage short of attending Court in the buff.
He sighed to himself as he pictured just that.
“She’ll have to catch a new one, if she can. Won’t be long before everyone knows, one way or another.”
Apollo frowned at the ominous tone to this statement, and the disturbance clung to him through the end of the play. As they stood to leave, he nodded to the gentlemen who had been gossiping. He lowered his voice. “I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help but hear your conversation. Has somet
hing happened to Miss Halfpenny?”
They laughed good-naturedly, and Apollo fought the urge to slap them. The younger of the two responded, “She’s enceinte.” He gave his eyebrows a lurid wiggle. “Watch yourself, sir.”
“Indeed.” Apollo cast a longing glance toward the empty stage. Seized with what was almost certainly a terrible idea, he collected his hat and went in search of his driver.
Chapter 1
“There are two ways to look at everything.” Charlotte paused for dramatic effect, curling blue fingers over the side of the bridge. “All beginnings are endings in disguise. Place of arrival or means of escape; will I find my end at the bottom, or fall clear through the other side?”
The wind swallowed her famous voice and carried it away, taking the last thing she had of any value. It was the ice in the air that had caused her voice to shake, she reasoned. She was far too cold to feel the fear lurking in her heart, insulated as it was by dread and resignation. It was too dark to see anything but a great growling blackness over the side, but the smell assured her she had reached the right place.
“It’s only a river,” she reassured herself, though the observation brought her little comfort. Ravenous beast or churning waves, it would swallow her just the same. “Would it be better to drown or be devoured?”
She turned to face her audience, but they paid her no mind. Not ten paces away, they shuffled their wings, dark feathers gleaming in the moonlight like polished knives as they pecked at a murky spot beyond. The play had been over perhaps an hour, and now she couldn’t even command the attention of crows.
Holly and Hopeful Hearts Page 19
