Exclusive Excerpt #3

From BESPOKE (the first book in a new Victorian series).

....

            Deverell lit a candle with a Lucifer match and took his clean shirt into the tiny adjoining cupboard. With the door shut he had just enough room to wash himself with the cold water from the ewer and then change into his fresh shirt. It was a tight squeeze, but quicker and more convenient than going to his lodgings several streets away, where the nosy landlady insisted on inane conversation before she let him pass her on the stairs, and his damp room (one shilling and sixpence a week) was so depressing and bare it physically hurt to enter it. Yes, it was even emptier than his "office".

            "Is this your family, sir?" she called out through the door. "In the photograph?"

            He banged his elbow on an empty shelf and winced, caught a curse before it escaped his tongue.

            She took his grunt for agreement. "And are they here too?"

            "No."

            "They stayed in London?"

            His throat felt tight. He pulled on his waistcoat over the clean shirt and buttoned it quickly. "They died," he said flatly. "Both she and the child."

            The child.

            At night, when Deverell closed his eyes, he saw their grey, bloated faces again— Emmaline's long, stringy hair stuck to her brow, matted with the floating detritus of the Thames. The child was still in its mother's arms when they found her, its limbs tangled in a woolen shawl.

            "We'll have a good life, don't you worry," Emmaline had written in the short note she left. "Truth is, she is not your daughter to bring up, but you were handy at the time and willing...I thought you would have guessed by now..." and the haunting words, "We need more than you can give to us."

            Apparently Tolly Deverell had, at first, promised a more stable existence than the real father of her child, and so she married him, letting him believe an egregious lie. Having sought that immediate sanctuary for herself and her daughter in his sheltered port, Emmaline then waited until, weary of what little entertainment his safe place afforded her, she went searching for the excitement of danger, leaving behind a curtly worded letter, addressed to him and set upon the chenille table cloth beside a cold plate of ham and potatoes.

            As Miss Greenwood said, men did not have to be in love. But they could be fools of hope too, driven by a sense of duty. And find themselves led by it into a dark, dark corner.

           "I am so very sorry," said Miss Greenwood. Her face was flushed when he came out of the cupboard in his shirt and waistcoat. "How dreadful that they are both...gone." At least she did not ask him the hows, whys and wherefores.

            He tied his cravat and then hurriedly shrugged back into his jacket. "Such events are not uncommon in this world," he said. No need to tell her more than that.

            He probably kept that photograph on his desk to punish himself, he thought grimly. There could be no other reason why he made himself look at it every day.

            Lucy Greenwood was still watching him with large, sorrowful eyes, but Deverell did not want pity, so he directed the subject back to Lady Isolda's secret. "Even Doctor Barraclough, the family doctor for forty years, knew nothing about her ladyship's disability."

            "I am not terribly surprised at that. I do not think his expertise goes much farther than leech-craft. I'm sure he has no formal qualifications. But you must not think we are backward here compared to London. The new young doctor at Quipsey Thorpe is very well educated in all the most recent advances in medicine. Doctor Fielding is his name. He is much better informed than old Barraclough," she said proudly. "And he stays awake when one talks to him. He's quite charming."

            "Oh?"

            "Handsome and very polite."

            He sniffed. "That's nice." Yes, Doctor Fielding probably did not wash his basics in a cupboard by candlelight. Probably had good clothes, well maintained and a comfortable, non-obtrusive housekeeper. Must have women queuing up to sew on his buttons and rescue his drooping coat hem.

            "If I were you I would ask him about prosthetic limbs and such. I suspect there is very little he doesn't know. He's just one of those people who makes his patients feel secure and in good hands. He has that way about him. Bedside manner, do they call it?"

            "He sounds like a paragon of the medical community."

            "He is incredibly clever. I think he's from Cheshire."

            "Oxfordshire."

            She looked surprised. "Oh?"

            "Doctor Fielding and I met yesterday when he assisted at the post-mortem. Doctor Barraclough refused to participate."

            She pursed her lips tightly and then they flew open again to demand, "Why did you not tell me? Why let me blabber on about the man, if you'd already met him?" Very prim, she put up her chin. "Another of your jokes at my expense, I suppose."

            "You seemed to enjoy yourself describing his charms. I wouldn't want to suspend your pleasure, madam. I know how you young women can be."

            "How we can be?"

            "About the cherished subject of your latest, unhinged romantic fancy."

            She got up and came toward him with a determined look upon her face. "The only fancy I cherish is enrobed in fondant." He flinched, but to his surprise, she walked by and into the cupboard, where she picked up the lint brush. "You must come to the shop and try one. It's based on a French petit four. Actually I got the idea from Mary, who is always trying to sneak a bite of cake without being caught. One of my fancy Fondant Dainties, being much smaller, leave no crumbs."

            A second later she was sweeping the lint brush across his shoulders with firm strokes. He did not know how he felt about this unsolicited assistance, but Miss Lucy Greenwood in motion was a force with which one simply did not argue. Before he could get away, she turned her attention to his cravat.

            Apparently he had not tied a good enough knot. Not to her standard, in any case. She would be particular, of course, her own appearance being so smartly styled and tailored.

            It was a long time since a woman put her hands on his clothes—when he was still in them, in any case.

            His fingers curled into loose fists at his side and he focused his attention over her head.

            That fragrance, sweet and delicate, but just a little spicy too, drifted up from her scarlet gloves. Her touch was light, swift no more than the brush of scattered dandelion seeds blown through the air, but it was enough to waft away every last, lingering speck of annoyance he'd felt that morning. Lucy Greenwood was there before him and everything changed. When such a woman entered one's life and fixed the knot of one's neck tie, taking command so smoothly and naturally, it was highly unlikely she might ever walk out of one's life again without leaving an indelible mark.

            Did she know this, or was it merely a casual gesture prompted by her creative and demanding eye for appearances?

            "You'll have to try one of my Fondant Dainties on your next visit," she said.

            "Hmm." Deverell looked down at her from beneath half-lowered lashes as she stepped back and gave a quick nod of smug approval for her own handiwork. "Now that you've corrected that pressing matter," he muttered gruffly, "there is something else you might do for me, since you're here, madam."

            "Oh?" Her eyes widened again as she gazed up at him, and he felt himself in danger of drowning in caramel. A curious death. Definitely preferable to being shot at or stabbed. As he should know, having suffered both.

            She held out his coat, and he slid his arms into it. "I'd like you to come with me to the morgue and identify a body, Miss Greenwood. If you feel able."

            "A body?" Her expression was full of curiosity. "Lady Isolda's?"

            "Another body we found early this morning at Welford Hall. Hidden under a bed." He liked arousing her curiosity, he realized in that moment. Enjoyed seeing her eyes widen, little stars sparking to life within them. Far better that than her sympathy for a widower or pity for a man who couldn't bear to study his reflection long enough to tie his own knot. "Chopped up into several pieces. That's if you're not squeamish, of course, Miss Greenwood."

    

        "I told you I'm not," she exclaimed. As she patted down his coat, her hands alighted on a pocket bulge and before he could stop her she had slid her bossy, prying fingers inside. "What's this? Meat pie? Do you often walk about with pie in your pocket?"

            He scowled. "I saved it from my supper last night, in case I found the Welford Hall scullery maid on the street. She's missing. Poor mite must be hungry by now."

            "Well, unless you want every dog in York taking chase, I suggest you leave it behind for now." She set the little bundle on his desk. "Make haste then, Deverell. Take me to the body pieces." She was already heading for the door. "See? I knew you'd need my help. Thank goodness you put your intolerable pride aside long enough to ask me. Didn't hurt that much, did it?"

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Go on, I dare you - you know you want to read more. Take a chance on a copy of BESPOKE now available as an e-book from all the best online stores and soon to be in print. Please leave a review -- they are always appreciated by a hard-working author!

(Image: Portrait of a lady reading a book, by William Oliver II 1823)