Exclusive Excerpt from The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg

For your reading pleasure, a teaser from my newest release. Enjoy!

* * * *

            With no warning before they collided, and both moving at a fair pace until the moment of impact, they were caught in a vortex, his strong grip closed tightly around her. It was almost like being spun in a dance— a very rowdy May day dance where everybody had too much cider.

            Persey could have sworn her heartbeat stopped completely for those few seconds as she swung through the air with the stranger's arms around her.

            "Pardon me, ma'am," he wheezed, setting her down again on the grass.

             Thick, muscular and browned by frequent exposure to sun, his limbs had taken possession of her for those few, startled seconds, and she was not at all sure whether it was the force of the strike, the sudden sensation of being airborne and flung about, or the powerful grip of one arm— which remained around her waist for several pulse beats longer than its partner— that caused her to stumble a second time.

            Their equilibrium regained, he took a step back, finally releasing her.

            Persey sheltered her eyes from the sun with one hand to get a better look at her assailant. His hands were well-used, the fingernails dark with grime. A black marking circled his wrist as if it were drawn upon the skin with ink. His chest and shoulders were broad, barely contained by a sweat-dampened, linen shirt and a simple flannel waistcoat. Above that came a thick neck and a face unshaven, but young. Dark hair, tied back in a simple tail. Brown eyes with a touch of reserved caution in the way they assessed her.

            Persey prided herself on knowing the name of every worker on the estate, and always took time to learn about their families, maintaining a lively interest in births, weddings, and courtships. And she had certainly never laid eyes on this one before. But he must be a laborer who had worked long hours in the outdoors.  In the next moment, it occurred to her that since his face was unfamiliar, he must be one of the new men brought in by that over-paid, pretentious idiot who fancied himself a "garden designer". Albert had mentioned she might see some of his workers about the place.

            "Pardon me, ma'am," he said again, this time with a quick bow.

            "You should look where you go, young man," she chided, quickly checking that she had lost no flowers from her trug. A few were crushed, but most had survived. Like her.

            "Well, so should you, I reckon." He smiled. "I'd say it was your fault as much as mine, wouldn't you?"

            She stared up at him. Apparently he didn't know who she was. But then, she reasoned, how could he? She wore no jewelry, just a simple, midnight blue muslin gown with a stained pinafore over it — her usual attire when working in the garden. Perhaps it was a good thing if he mistook her for one of the household staff. This could be her chance to find out a little more about her new enemy by way of interrogating one of his minions.

            So rather than make comment on his impudent remark, she swung her flower-filled trug against her hip, blinked her lashes and said, "Where might you be going in such haste?"

            His eyes looked confused for a moment as he tilted his head to one side, studying her face, and then he gave a bit of a smile as he scratched one shoulder, before resting his knuckles on his hips. "To find the secret garden hidden yonder beyond all these hedges. I hear its well-tended." He glanced at her worn leather gauntlets. "Would you be one of the maids responsible?"

            "I... do tend the garden, sir."

            "Perhaps you'd be good enough to show me to it then? Since you know your way around the maze."

            "You have an interest in gardens?"

            With one hand he brought the loose end of his neck-cloth to his brow and mopped up the sweat that glistened there. "Aye. I have an interest." A slow grin bent his lips, a little apprehensively, she thought. "Especially if you show me. I wouldn't want to get lost, would I?"

             Biting her lip, she considered. "I suppose I might spare a minute or two."

            "Or half an hour." His gaze swept her with more heat than the sun, but then he quickly looked away, as if he felt burned. "I don't like to rush my way around a garden. I prefer to take my time. Don't like to miss anything."

            She raised a hand to her neck, where a lock of loose hair stuck to her perspiring skin. "I have my duties to tend for the mistress."

            His eyes returned for a longer look, their curiosity following the trail of her fingers. "I promise I won't keep you too long." Then he smiled. It began cautiously, unassuming, even a little quizzical, but once that smile reached full strength, it felt as if the sun dazzled her. Although his voice was calm and steady, his body rippled and pulsed with dangerous vitality beneath that shirt and waistcoat. And as he stood before her with his feet apart, head cocked, the sun shining on his hair, the Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke was suddenly aware of a long dormant, now reawakened ... feistiness.

            Persey hadn't blushed in front of a man since she was eighteen. She had forgotten what that felt like, until now. Tread with caution, she warned herself. "You're a new face."

            "Just arrived." He reached over their heads, his fingers toying with a leaf from the arbor, very casual, as if he thought she would be accustomed to so much masculinity in a state of bold undress. Close enough to touch. The proximity raised her temperature another ten degrees, but he didn't seem bothered by it.

            "You must work for that fancy garden designer." She took a step back.

            His lip quirked. "Fancy?" He stepped toward her again. "What does that mean?"

            "I hear he plans to dig the place up and ruin everything that generations have built, change the place so it doesn't look like itself anymore, and all in the interests of vanity and fashion."

            A soft laugh tumbled out of his mouth, and surprise lifted his brows. "Word gets about. I just saw a stable lad who said, more or less, the same."

            "'Tis true, is it not?"

            "Who told you that? The meddlesome old goat from the dower house?"

            Persey caught her breath and looked down at her trug again while she composed her face. "Don't fret that I'll tell. A stable lad already informed me of the rumors she's planting about my... " He paused and when she looked up he scratched irritably at the side of his neck. "...My master. And we were warned by the marquess." He shrugged his wide shoulders. "Old folk just don't like change. But Radcliffe will manage her. He doesn't stand for nonsense when it gets in the way of his vision."

            "How will he do that then?" she enquired nonchalantly. "How will he manage her?"

            "You'll see." He gestured with his hand for her to lead on. "Aren't you going to show me this hidden garden? We'd best get on if you can't spare me much of your time."

            So she turned and walked ahead of him, crossing to the gravel path, glad of the chance to hide her expression. Meddlesome old goat, indeed!

 

* * * *

 

            Well, this was a delightful surprise, he thought, watching the enticing sway of her walk as she led him under the bowers of greenery and through a sun-dappled tunnel. He hadn't been thinking about women at all. Working too hard, building his name and his future, Joss rarely had a chance to let his mind stray in that direction.

            But there she was, popping up in his path like the first spring snowdrop, gladdening his sight after a long winter. One look at her, one hand against her back, one breath of her scent, had reminded him that this was the time to come out of hibernation. It was the time for skipping lambs, wildly frolicking rabbits in the meadows, and birds frantically gathering sticks for their nests. He began to feel a little of that urgent spirit himself. Perhaps it had something to do with the delightful press of her body forced against his when he put his arms around her. He'd have to be a dead man not to appreciate those warm curves, not to feel a quickening.

            "What's your name?" he called to her, lengthening his stride to catch up. She was a fast walker, or else she had long legs under that gown

            "Why do you want to know? You won't be here long enough to get much use out of it, young fellow. Not if the dowager marchioness gets her way."

            He chuckled softly. "Planning on being rid of us, is she? Inciting the staff to rebellion against the newcomers already? She must distrust every man before she's even met him."

            "Her ladyship, my mistress, cares greatly for the grounds of the estate and won't see them brought to ruin. She will defend Holbrooke with everything she has."

            He could have told her that he was that "fancy" garden designer her mistress so despised, but then, in fear of upsetting the old lady, she would run off and leave him there. Joss really wanted to find this secret garden. And he wanted her to show him through the maze. Those well-worn leather gauntlets, the grass and mud-stained, torn pinafore, and the much-abused hat all told of a woman who spent much of her time in the garden— that she was comfortable there and knew her way around. He recognized a fellow enthusiast when he saw one.

            But if she knew who he was, she would probably get him lost in the maze deliberately, for there was a hot spark of mischief in her gaze and those lips had a habit of turning up at one corner in a semi-smirk that suggested a reluctance to smile and an impatience to bite.

            "Tradition is important in a place like Holbrooke," she added. "My mistress keeps the grounds as her husband liked them and as his father and grandfather had them before that."

            "The old lady can stop gnashing her teeth," he exclaimed. "Radcliffe has no evil intentions toward the place. Sounds to me as if the lady likes to make a storm in a tea cup. Perhaps she does not have enough to do with her time. In which case, we'll have to find something to keep her busy and out of Radcliffe's way."

            She looked askance. "Such as?"

            "Embroidery? Jam-making? What do old ladies like to do, when they're not poking their nose into other folk's business? If she plans to make trouble for Radcliffe, she'll soon find he can make just as much for her."

            "I wouldn't advise anybody to cross her ladyship, young man."

            "Yes, I suppose she's a formidable old crone, but Radcliffe can be equally difficult."

            "I do not know that anybody would describe the dowager marchioness as a crone."

            "Not to her face, I'm sure. But since I set foot on the estate everybody has warned me about her. It's clear she's a wretched old curmudgeon and they all know it."

            "You're awfully free with your words and opinions, young man. I might tell her what you just said."

            "Don't care if you do. She's a spent force. What can she do to me? I'm no wide-eyed stable lad to be frightened with tales of corpses in the rose garden. Neither is Radcliffe."

             The woman quickened her pace between the hedges, and he hurried after her again. Perhaps he'd gone too far in the things he said of the old dowager, but he never could abide an interfering woman— of any age— and if her words had already set this interesting creature against him, then he truly had cause to be angry.

            Eventually she said, "How long will you be here then? It can't take too much time to dig a few holes, throw some muck about and make a general mess of the view. Moles manage it well enough and they're blind."

            "My master takes great care with his projects. I could be here for months." He snatched some lilac from her basket and sniffed it. "So there, you see. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other. I'd like to call you by your name. If you'd permit it, of course."

            She pursed her lips and stared straight ahead, her profile defiant.

            "Otherwise I'll have to make up some other name to call you, shan't I?" he teased. "Sweet Lips or Blue Eyes or Buttercup." As he reached for another bloom, she moved her basket aside, tidying the contents as if they were in some special order he'd disturbed.

            "Call me whatever you like. I shan't have to answer to it, shall I?"  She walked on.

            He leapt around in front of her and gave a little bow, one hand to his heart. "Well, my name is Joss, and I will always answer to your call. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. See? If I can do it, you can."

            She licked her bee-stung lips and surveyed him haughtily for a moment. Her long lashes wafted down and then up, languid as if they were heavy. Her eyes, like windows through which he could see an even more glorious spring sky, remained cool.

            "Oh, for pity's sake! Folk call me Persey." And as she gave a grandly mocking curtsey, he was suddenly rendered breathless by a teasing glimpse of rounded bosom, nestled within her muslin bodice and caressed by a transparent white fichu. Again he thought of sporting rabbits, their fluffy, bobbing tails, wide eyes, twitching noses on high alert, ears...pricked. The long, dew-speckled grass, glittering as they dashed through it, leaving a darker trail in their wake.

            "Have you worked for your master long?" she asked, setting off again at her brisk pace.

            "Many—" he caught a breath, as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low arch of a rose arbor, "many hard years."

            "Not that many surely. You're too young."

            He laughed. "I am eight and twenty."

            The light dimmed a little under her lashes as she shot him a sideways glance. "Then you are young. I thought so." She shook her head and recounted her flowers.

            "I'm old enough."

            "Old enough for what?" She laughed lightly, dismissively. "Solid foods?"

            Joss stopped her path again, squared his shoulders and rested his knuckles on both hips. "I'll have you know, Persey, I've been in gardens for ten years." That was what he preferred to call it: Being in gardens. Some used the term "landscaping", but he did not care for it. Sounded too grand, when it was really a case of helping nature do her work.

            "An entire ten years," she muttered, sounding amused. "A man of eighteen is barely out of the cradle." There went the lop-sided bend of her lips again.

            And suddenly, there, in the dancing jade shadows of the labyrinth, he knew he would kiss that smirk right off those skeptical lips. Soon. Yes, he was definitely feeling the warmth of Spring in his parts. It happened rarely that a woman caught his notice and never had one captured it quite so zealously.

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copyright Jayne Fresina 2017

 

(image above - Lady in a Garden by Frederic Leighton)

 

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Where do I get my wretched ideas? And why can't I be stopped?

The Peculiar Folly of Long-Legged Meg-

Persephone "Persey" Foyle, the Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke, leads a happy, busy existence, tending her garden, overseeing her charitable missions, feuding with her stepson's wife and vetting potential suitors for her stepdaughter. As far as this lively widow is concerned her life lacks nothing.

But when a young, famously-talented designer is hired to "improve" the grounds of Holbrooke estate— a task she has managed for eight years— Persey's comfortable world is threatened. It doesn't help that he's hired by her nemesis, the new marchioness, or that his talents are all the mode among England's Georgian aristocracy. He has no chance of impressing Persey. No chance at all.

Josias Radcliffe has worked hard for his success, and although he's been warned about the dowager, no "meddlesome old crone" will stand in the way of his latest triumph. Until he runs into a pretty maid on his first day and talks her into showing him through the Holbrooke maze. Soon his course is altered, his plans changed forever.

Because the dowager has secrets and Joss is the one person who could expose her as a fraud. He knew her when she was Long-Legged Meg— a scullery maid who spun tall tales, and, so it is rumored, used her knowledge of herbs and plants to dispatch her enemies. Folk say she used those long legs to carry her away from the gallows.

But have they carried her far enough?

(copyright J. Fresina 2017)


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My inspiration for this story began with one picture (right) - by Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot (circa 1850-1855).

People often ask where I get my ideas. Well, they often spring from just one picture, or a dream I had, or something I watched. This intently reading young girl immediately conjured, for me, the story of Meg, a soul who wants something more for herself than the life others believe she's entitled to have. Her skies are grey, but there is a light on her face that suggests she might soon emerge into sun. And I think she has stolen a moment away from her work to sit outdoors and read her book - possibly a forbidden pleasure, definitely something her employer would never encourage if they caught her at it. Her expression is quietly absorbed, but I can't help feeling there is much going on inside her mind - a great deal of story plotting, perhaps?

In the second picture, I see another Meg quite grown up and with a bit more "spit and polish".  Would you still recognize her? She hopes not.

You can find out more about Long-Legged Meg on June 28th. Happy reading!

Jayne

(Painting on the left is of Emma, Lady Hamilton by George Romney 1782)

On Sale!

For this weekend only you can grab a copy of LAST RAKE STANDING for only 99cents!

This was one of the very first novellas I wrote when I decided to try my hand at romance and novellas in one strike. If you're looking for a quickie read this weekend, here is your chance to pick up a bargain.

LAST RAKE STANDING (But for how long?)

In Victorian London, Emma Hale leads two lives. As Le Petite Oiseau, in corset and pink feathers, she's the reigning queen of the music hall; offstage she's a meek theatre seamstress. For years these two women have shared one body out of necessity; now they share something else—forbidden love for a man who could end their masquerade for good.

William Craven, Duke of Penhale, wants Le Petite Oiseau as his mistress, but he's also sworn to hunt down and revenge himself on the hazel-eyed girl who once shot at him with a dueling pistol. He's about to be surprised when he crosses paths with both women on the same night. And suddenly he faces a dilemma.

So which woman does Will want? The fiery, passionate actress or the quiet "mouse" hiding in her shadow?

Perhaps this notorious rake wants them both. 

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Character Showcase - Prospero "Smokey" Piper

Prospero "Smokey" Piper is a self-made man who rose from poverty by way of a bourbon distillery and he is now a very wealthy businessman, a widower with three grown daughters to manage. His main hope for them is that they will make good marriages and provide him with grandchildren of whom he can be proud. He also wants them to be happy in life and has raised them to have confidence in themselves - to know that Pipers never give up.

As he tells Epiphany, his middle daughter, "There's always another way to conquer the mountain, girl. If someone gets in our way, we go around them and over them, and we don't pay them no more mind. We're adventurers and speculators by nature."

He fears - rightly so, as it turns out - that he might have been a little lax in his daughters' upbringing after their mother died. This is never more evident than when Epiphany ("Pip") causes a scandal that rocks Boston society and makes it necessary to pack her and her sisters off into exile abroad until the furor blows over. Not knowing what else to do, he hands the girls over to his sister Queenie to chaperone in England, then sits back and hopes for the best. Perhaps they'll find titled husbands to help raise his own status in America and stop certain "high and mighty types" from looking down their noses at him.

But like all the best laid plans this one will soon run into problems.

His eldest daughter is soon engaged to the son of a viscount and Prospero is so delighted and relieved that he proceeds with the arrangements immediately, on the urging of his sister and his daughter. He's not a man who knows much about etiquette and has a warm trust in his sister's ability to spot an opportunity. As Queenie often says, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

When a series of unfortunate events (no spoilers here!) leave his daughters stranded and unchaperoned in England, Pip, his wayward middle daughter, suddenly finds herself having to step up and assume the responsibilities she always thought she wanted and could manage. Meanwhile, many thousands of miles away Prospero realizes that this plan to launch his daughters into London society was, perhaps, not his wisest idea ever. But it's not the first time he's made an error or missed his aim. He has lost and won back a fortune several times over and life is, as he knows only too well, nothing if not unpredictable. Without taking a little risk once in a while, a man may as well be dead. Without rolling the dice, no game would ever be won.

Now, with all fingers crossed, he must hope that his daughter stays strong under pressure. Fortunately , he knows she's no fading lily and can protect herself.

"Mr. Prospero "Smokey" Piper, of Louisiana and various other parts unknown and best unmentioned— a man who believed that when one ran out of opportunities one simply made more— was the first ambitious and wealthy American businessman to think of this idea, not that any history book or self-professed "expert" will tell you that, because...well, just like that first attempt at building a still behind his family's outhouse as a young boy, this plan didn't exactly turn out the way he expected either.

And although explosions were inevitable, it was not his grandmother's drawers in danger this time."

Copyright Jayne Fresina 2017

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 (Picture of Washington's Still)

 

An excerpt from Damon Undone

            Pleasanter, less aggravated faces could be found before feeding time at the zoological gardens in Regent's Park, she mused. He reminded her at once of Master Grumbles, an Irish wolfhound her father once owned. That gentle giant of a dog had followed her everywhere with a misleadingly depressed expression, as if the onerous responsibility of looking after her was almost more than it could bear, despite the fact that they always had a great deal of fun together and nobody had ever told the dog it must be her companion.

            "Sir, your foot." Pointing the end of her fan downward, she gestured to the item that kept her prisoner. "If you don't mind."
            "My foot?" he snapped impatiently, his mind clearly on other matters he deemed more important. Perhaps he was thinking of a bone he'd buried and trying to remember where. "What? What about it?"
            "It's on my shawl."
            His irritable gaze finally shifted to the marble steps as he swiveled partially around. "For pity's sake! Why the devil do women need all these blessed... attachments?" he growled at the lace shawl, holding it up to peruse the large, dirty hole he'd rendered there. "Something this flimsy has no practical service whatsoever and merely gets in the way."
 

           As she too assessed the damage, her heart sank. Merrythought had only lent her the shawl because it was the general consensus, as they exited the carriage, that Pip's gown showed a grievous amount of shoulder and bosom— something nobody had noticed before they left the house because she was late coming down, dragging her feet. Pip seldom studied herself in a mirror, so little interested in what she wore that she was most likely reading a book, writing a letter, or playing solitaire while being hoisted, laced and primped into her clothes by her aunt's dutiful, but not terribly sensible maid.
            The wolfhound growled onward under his breath, "Too many frills and furbelows dangling off you. As if all the hoops and petticoats aren't enough to keep us at bay. I believe the soldiers at Agincourt wore less armor."
            Before he got any more dirt upon her sister's shawl, she snatched it from his over-sized paw and draped it over her arm. "I quite agree. I'd be more content in my drawers alone, but I suspect this society would be outraged by the sight. Believe me, I've considered it more than once, even if it was only to liven up the proceedings."
            About to dismiss her by turning away again, instead he pivoted fully around, his gaze sharpened, those cool, gun-metal grey eyes inspecting her thoroughly. She stood before him, pinned to the spot, feeling as if invisible, commanding fingers gripped her face and held it to the light. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded.
            Where does one start, she thought wryly. But, of course, she must keep up appearances, for her sisters' sake. "I cannot imagine what you mean," she replied with all necessary hauteur. "There's nothing wrong with me. At least I'm in marginally appropriate dress for a ball." He, on the other hand, was not. Surrounded by gentlemen in crisply groomed evening attire, he stood out in his top boots, riding breeches and tweed coat.
            His thick hair was damp and tousled enough to suggest a very recent ride through the rain, in great haste and hatless. The state of his boots and breeches— for he wore no spatterdashes— also revealed the muddiness of the streets through which he had traveled. Apparently he cared little for the impression he made in the grand entrance hall of Lord Courtenay's town house and had as much concern for his appearance as Pip had for her own. The mud specks across his face— which she first mistook for freckles— told her that he, unlike most gentlemen on the staircase, had not consulted any of the mirrored panels on the wall. The skewed sideways knot of his neck cloth, smudged with the same grimy prints as the fingers of his gloves, hinted at the frequent tugging of an angry, frustrated hand. Everything about him suggested disdain for convention and so much impatient haste that it seemed as if he moved at speed, even while he stood still before her. And she must be moving with him, for her heart raced and all the other people on the staircase became mere blurs of color.
            Most young men she met struck her immediately as uninteresting, their minds sluggish and as little predisposed to anything beyond their own uncomplicated, immediate pleasure as plump cats on a sunny veranda. But this man's face was guarded and clever, his eyes lit with the restless, hungry, throbbing gleam of a hungry, bustling internal life. It drew her in; made her curious and challenged at first sight. Made her want to wipe away the remaining mud spatters for him, even at the risk of being bitten.
            He squinted hard at her. "There is something wrong with you." Moving up to join her on the same step, the man persisted, "You speak... strangely."
            "Do I?"
            "Yes, there is something the matter with you."
            "I can't think what you mean."
             And then his eyes flared, "You're a bloody American."
            She drew a quick breath, standing as tall as she could— which, in her mind, was six foot at least, and in reality was a little over five feet and two scant inches. Allegedly. She was certain the measuring stick lied. "Yes," she said proudly, "I am American."
            "Why didn't you say so then?"
            Eyebrows raised, she replied, "I beg your pardon. I didn't think that was what you meant by there being something the matter with me. Something wrong with me."
            He huffed, apparently amused in an arrogant way. "Didn't you indeed?" Shaking his head, he added, "Americans at the Courtenay's spring ball. Whatever is the world coming to? Still, I suppose it's a comic novelty for the luridly curious. Last year I heard they had acrobats and a fortune teller. Lady Courtenay once rode in on a unicorn, so they say." He flicked a finger across his nose, disposing of several dried mud flecks, as he exhaled a curt sigh. "It must be exhausting coming up with a diversion nobody has yet thought of. But Americans? I didn't realize old Courtenay had such a riotous sense of humor."
            Pip smiled brightly in a manner that would have fooled nobody who knew her. "Just you wait. In a year or two we'll be all the fashion and everyone will want one. Even you."
            "I wouldn't make a wager of it." His eyes narrowed, fingers paused in the process of fidgeting with the knot of his neck cloth again. "What are you doing here in any case?"
            Now that was an odd question, she mused. "Why does one usually attend a ball?" But when answered by his silence and another thorough perusal that could only be described as darkly suspicious and slightly indecent, she added, "I'm a spy, of course. Why else would I be here amongst you miserable people? Certainly not likely to have any fun, am I? Somehow your countrymen manage to take the pleasure out of everything with all your stifling, petty rules of etiquette. You wouldn't know a good party if it ran up and slapped you. I have already been warned that I must not, under any circumstances, laugh out loud in this society."
            "A spy?" he muttered. "I might have guessed."
            "Our government sent me to understand the workings of that." With her fan she pointed up at his mouth, almost touching it, "English Stiff Upper Lip."
            He did not flinch away from her fan, but looked at it and then at her again. "And what have you discovered?"
            "That it keeps you all in a state of pompous and frigid inflexibility, so confined by your traditions, unwelcoming to foreigners and outraged by anything different or new, that you dare not move forward."
            "I can see you have your advantages as a spy, being so... short of stature. Indeed I barely knew you were there." With airy nonchalance, hands behind his back, he added, "Until you began to make noise."
            She laughed. "Oh, I may be short, but I have ways of bringing men down to my size. I wouldn't underestimate me, if I were you, sir."
            Once again he had begun to turn away, but then stopped. "And how, precisely, do you imagine you'd bring me to my knees?"
 
(copyright Jayne Fresina 2017)

* * * *

Find out how Miss Epiphany "Pip" Piper brings Damon Deverell to his knees in DAMON UNDONE - out now!

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(Image above is a beautiful detail from "Portrait of a Young Woman with a Lace Shawl" by Adelaide Salles-Wagner c. 1850)

Character Showcase - Queenie Du Bois

In DAMON UNDONE, the heroine and her two sisters are sent to England by their wealthy father to escape scandal and, hopefully, gather a little elegant sophistication -- not to mention a few titled, landed husbands. The lady chosen to chaperone the sisters on this adventure is their aunt, a colorful, lively lady who has traveled extensively and, in the words of our heroine, is "well versed in the art of marriage and husbands, having disposed of several herself. Not all of them her own."

Queenie Du Bois likes to let everybody know that she is still grieving her last husband - a charming wastrel who died in debt - and she has no intention to marry again herself, but that doesn't stop her eagerly matchmaking for those three nieces in her charge. She takes this mission very seriously, but it's an uphill task, particularly when unsavory rumors manage to follow those young women across the Atlantic and into London drawing rooms.

Along with her brother Prospero she was born into poverty in Louisiana. Since those early days, they have both gained and lost fortunes several times over, but they possess a certain stubborn resiliency that soon helps them back on their feet and smiling after every defeat. They are never without resources for too long and will use whatever method they find at their fingertips to raise their status in life. 
For the past few years Queenie has lived a full and luxurious existence, restlessly skipping about Europe and, basically, relying on her wits. Occasionally - when necessary - she has accepted her brother's financial assistance, and now she wants to repay that debt by getting his daughters married into the aristocracy. For the time being Queenie has settled in England, where she considers herself an expert on Society  and manners, "even going so far as to speak, at times, with a frighteningly inept semblance of an English accent. Nobody had yet told her how bizarre it sounded."

Queenie is a determined lady, with a practical eye and a severe distrust of poets and lawyers. She is not averse to fighting dirty, as our hero discovers when he steps beyond his boundaries with one of her precious charges. But even he can't help admiring her fearlessness. Damon Deverell has squared off, undaunted, against some of the most vicious delinquents and cunning rogues from London's underbelly, but Queenie Du Bois could put them all in the shade.

As her niece likes to say, "One could take Queenie Du Bois out of Hog's Flank, Louisiana, dress her up and give her airs and graces, but one could not quite take the Hog's Flank out of Queenie."

DAMON UNDONE arrives Wednesday, April 26th, 2017. Happy Reading!

Jayne

copyright Jayne Fresina 2017

(Painting: A Portrait of Francisca Carolina Gonzaga de Braganca by Franz Xavier Winterhalter c. 1850)

DAMON DEVERELL is about to be undone

Is it a battle of the sexes, a comedy of errors, or a chemical reaction? Perhaps a little bit of all three...

Coming on Wednesday April 26th, DAMON UNDONE (The Deverells Book Five).

            "We're not going to get along, you and I, are we?"

            "Good god, I hope not."

            Thus begins the acquaintance of Damon Deverell and a young woman he finds under his feet one evening, at a ball to which he isn't invited She reminds him instantly of someone he knew before, but that would be impossible, of course, because she — the girl from  his past—was entirely a construct of his own imagination. Wherever this disturbingly real woman came from, he's determined to maintain a cautious distance. But when he's hired to keep an eye on her, Damon's resolve to keep it "merely business" is soon threatened by some fresh-baked muffins, a pair of ankles he wishes he'd never seen, and a certain bold, independent American woman who boasts of a "very efficient right hook".

            Miss Epiphany "Pip" Piper has been sent into exile abroad, where her father hopes she'll learn to cool off her hot temper, acquire some elegant manners, and, hopefully, find a titled husband.  Mr. Prospero "Smokey" Piper, of Louisiana and various other parts unknown and best unmentioned, claims to be the first ambitious and wealthy American businessman to think of this idea, but just like his very first boyhood attempt at building a whiskey still behind the family outhouse, this plan doesn't exactly turn out the way he expects either.

            And although explosions are inevitable, it's not his grandmother's drawers in danger this time.

            When these two stubborn young people— Damon the "merciless shark" of a lawyer, who likes his world in order, and the utterly disorderly Miss Piper, a "despicable girl of whom nothing could be made"- find themselves thrown together by mischievous fate, it's not just a battle of the sexes or even a comedy of errors, it's a chemical reaction that will change both their worlds forever.