Dear Readers!
A little treat for you today - an excerpt from my newest release. Enjoy!
"Miss Good—"
She slipped
and tumbled forward, dropping her basket and all the contents. The gentleman,
fortunately, had speedy instincts and saved himself from being bowled over the gate
by grabbing her around the arms.
"Oops,"
she exclaimed, her heart's rhythm scattered like pins, and any attempt to
restore it further disrupted by the sudden heat and heaviness of his hands upon
her.
"Miss
Goodheart!" He was very slightly flushed, his brows drawn together in a
cross scowl as he set her back on her feet. "Do have a care, madam."
She
realized at once that her sleeve felt loose. The seam had torn again. And thus she
remembered where she'd seen him before. It came to her with a jolt and the snap
of her stitches.
I am an officer of Bow Street, madam,
entrusted by the magistrate to keep the peace and apprehend criminals. I must explain to you, the peril that can
befall a member of the fairer sex, especially when she is left untended and
happens to be of a venturesome, foolhardy spirit.
"This
lane is steep and in a treacherous condition," he lectured her today,
"you should take this path with more caution, madam, or you could suffer
injury."
"Sir, I
know this lane as well as I know the back of my hand. I could run the distance with
my eyes closed."
"I
wouldn't recommend it, but if you must, kindly wait until I am not in your
path. Or anywhere within five miles. I'd prefer to remain upright and—"
"And I
know who you are," she exclaimed, breathless.
Mr. Caulfield
belatedly removed his hands from her person and now held the left one, fingers
spread wide, against the front of his waistcoat. "I...have an interest in history
and architecture. Kingsthorpe Park is Plantagenet era, is it not?" he
said, as if she had not spoken.
"You
lied to me in the stagecoach, sir!"
"I beg
your pardon?"
"You're
an agent of the Bow Street Magistrate. At first I did not recall where I'd seen
you before, but now I remember."
"You
must be confused, Miss Goodheart."
"Indeed
I am not. We have met before, and you knew it yesterday on that coach. Why did
you not say when I asked? Instead you lied and said it was
highly improbable that I knew you."
He looked
away from her, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "I wonder, Miss
Goodheart, if I might prevail upon you to keep the information you have about
me to yourself. At least while I am here. It will not be for long."
"Why?"
He was suddenly slightly more interesting. "Are you here on official
business?" she demanded eagerly. Since he still looked away over the
fields, she stepped closer and tugged on his shirt sleeve. "If there is
anything amiss going on, we ought to be informed. My father is the Justice of
the Peace in this county, so any such matter should be brought to his attention.
Are you on the trail of a despicable criminal who has left a dozen victims in
his wake? If so, I could be of help to you."
He looked
down at her fingers. "No."
"Oh."
She released his sleeve, and her shoulders sank slightly. "Why are you
here then?"
He ground
his jaw, dabbed that bead of sweat from his forehead with the folded
handkerchief again, and replied, "I came into the country for my health. The
physician thought it would be beneficial."
Melinda studied
him thoughtfully for a moment. "I know illness and the incapacitated male,
sir, for we've had a few in our family. And you are not one." He felt
solid when she ran into him. Certainly, his grip was firm enough to tear her
clothes. Again. And she'd seen him scale the side of a stagecoach as if it were
nothing. "You are much too... robust. Which suggests you're lying to me again."
He said
nothing, his expression utterly blank.
Blood from
a stone, she thought grimly.
"I will
not be the only curious soul, sir. Strangers are a rarity in Kingsthorpe, and there
is bound to be speculation about your purpose here. You'll need a better excuse
than fruit."
Still no
reply, just a soft, measured sigh and an almost imperceptible narrowing of his
eyes.
"You
want me to keep your profession a secret and yet you give me no reason why I
should." With an arch of her eyebrow, she added, "Your smug face
annoys me immensely, and you've already lied to me at least once."
Finally his
lips parted. "I see I expect too much of you, when I ask for prudence and discretion.
I cannot expect such consideration from an irrational creature. It is probably
not in your nature, being a young, silly thing who likes to talk. So you must
do as you wish with the information you possess about me. As for my face, Miss
Goodheart, I have never been fond of it myself, but it is adequate for my
purposes, and anything finer would probably have been a hindrance. It would,
most certainly, have been wasted on me."
Well, when
he
did speak he certainly had plenty
to say.
"If one
wants a favor," she said pertly, "one ought to be pleasant to the
person who can grant it, don't you think? And not imply that she is an absurd
chatterbox."
"Since
you had no qualm in telling me, with blunt candor, what you thought of my face,
it would seem neither of us give compliments for the sake of it."
Melinda
watched him tucking that folded handkerchief away into a small pocket in his
waistcoat, his movements very precise and tidy. Clearly he would tell her
nothing more about his reason for being in Kingsthorpe. Perhaps he chased
her, she mused. What had she done now?
"So
you will not tell me your purpose here."
"I'll
let you speculate, madam. I suspect that would be more entertaining for you
than the plain, unexciting truth." He knew that about her already, she
mused. It was rather infuriating to be read so easily, while he kept his own
pages tightly shut.
"How
funny it is that we keep running into each other, sir."
"Funny
is not the adjective I would choose."
She laughed.
"Vexing then."
"With
that I can agree." Suddenly he hunkered down and began to put all the
fallen items back in her basket. He still wore leather gloves, which looked odd
beside bared forearms and rolled up shirt sleeves.
Melinda let
her gaze travel over his strong arms and wide shoulders. "If you
were on the trail of a dangerous
highwayman, I might have been of use to you in apprehending the villain. I am
quite without fear. You have, after all, seen me in action."
"Indeed,"
he huffed. "Thrice."
"
Thrice? How so?"
He looked up
at her, his eyes half shut against the sun. "That was me in your hat shop
three days ago. The man you crushed to the floor, and who was then beaten
severely by an angry lady wielding a parasol."
Now she was
even further amused.
That was him
too? The lovelorn fellow? No wonder she had sensed a familiarity with
his...aura, she supposed one could call it...when he entered her shop. A
recognition from some sense deeper than the customary five.
"Hattie
was right then, after all. You
are crossed
in love."
"I beg
your pardon?"
"Lady
Clara Beauspur. The young lady for whom you came into my shop. You left her
portrait and her address behind when you departed in haste, so I delivered a
bonnet to her on your behalf. Did she not tell you?"
"Ah."
His hands paused in the process of refilling the basket. His shoulders went rigid.
"I hope
you are not offended."
He squinted
up at her. "Too late now if I am, is it not? Like meddling in other folk's
business, do you?"
"I
object to the term
meddling, sir. You
wanted a bonnet for your young lady, and I delivered it."
"My
young lady? What exactly did she tell you?"
"You
needn't be so wary. She told me how hard you work, how you never rest, and how
much she adores you."
"She
did?" His expression was dismayed.
"Lady
Clara worries about you and waits patiently for your visits. She agreed with me
that love should conquer all and nothing should stand in its path."
Melinda wanted to pat his shoulder to comfort, but perhaps that would be too
forward. Then he moved again, in any case, and continued repacking her basket.
"Lady
Clara," he muttered, "enjoys her mischief."
"Well,
I wanted only to help your state of affairs."
"My state
of affairs? Do tell me what that is? I am quite at a loss."
"It's
obvious. She is a titled lady— an aristocrat's daughter— and I suppose her
family does not approve of a match with an officer of the police. Worry not,
these problems can be resolved, if one is determined."
Melinda
heard a low groan and, for a long moment, feared she might have gone too far in
her eagerness to do a good deed. But when he looked up at her he seemed to be
mulling something over. At last, in a calmer voice, he said, "I wondered
where I'd misplaced the miniature."
Relieved, she exclaimed, "Lady Clara is delightful. I liked
her very much."
"Did
you?"
"I saw
no mischief in her. Indeed, she was very well behaved and proper." She
smiled. "Nothing like me at all."
"I would
hope not." He finished reloading the basket and stood.
"If
you confide in me, I might be able to advise you."
He looked doubtful.
"Your expertise reaches beyond bonnets, does it?"
"I do
know a man in love when I see one."
His
narrowed gaze moved slowly over her upturned face. "Do you?"
"You
must love her dearly to go to all that trouble. A ladies' bonnet shop is
clearly not your province."
But his
expression gave nothing away. It remained a closed box, inscrutable.
"Evidently,"
she said firmly, "you need my help."
"Miss
Goodheart, all I require from you is the assurance that you will keep my profession
to yourself while I am here."
Melinda
gave a heavy sigh and reached for her basket, but he held it away from
her.
"Well,
madam?"
She put her
hands behind her back. "It would quite enliven things, if you
were here on business. It would even make
you interesting. Slightly."
"Miss
Goodheart, I hate to disappoint you, but I am a very ordinary,
uninteresting, humdrum fellow." Tucking
her basket under one arm, he added, "I can, however, promise you that
whatever else I may or may not be, I am a gentleman. While I am here, I will
allow no harm to befall you."
"Oh,
lord." She rolled her eyes. "Just as I feared."
"You
would rather be in harm's way, madam?" He looked puzzled.
She shook
her head. "A hint of danger would not go amiss. No woman wants to be assured
that nothing exciting will ever happen to her."
Want to read more? OUT NOW!
THE DANGER OF DESPERATE BONNETS
(image: Painting by Edmund George Warren)