A Private Collection - excerpt #1

From the first portrait - Lina (Engraved)

April, 1888

It was a bright, dewy, spring day when she watched Randolph Blackwood die and saw Hell freeze over. Like any vision worth its salt, it took her by surprise.

Evangeline Phillips didn’t believe in fairy tales, pixies, witches, or ghosts. She was, in fact, a very level-headed woman, practical and never burdened by too many wistful ideas. It was, therefore, often a great irritation to her when she saw something that wasn’t there or hadn’t happened yet.

Whoever gave her this talent never bothered to leave instructions on what she should do with it, so most of the time she simply ignored the visions. Unless they told her which horse was about to win the three o’clock at Newmarket, of course. That was self-explanatory.

But the visions weren’t always convenient or useful. More often than not, they were trouble. This particular one pushing its way into her mind on an innocent Monday morning was surely a warning. In her garden flinging damp linens over the washing line, she was thinking about nothing in particular, generally minding her own business. And then she saw it happen.

Randolph was in a favorite old chair by his library fire, a book spread over his knee. Beside him a small table held a glass of port, a half-eaten slice of pork pie, a wedge of waxy cheese, and a dollop of his housekeeper’s pickle. The curtains were drawn and the gas lamps on as if he’d sat there since the night before. His head leaned against the scarred leather, his fine mane of pure white hair blowing very gently in a sly breeze through the open window. His lashes twitched, his lips cracked open to expel one last breath and then his long fingers, splayed over the arm of his chair, tightened into a claw, nails digging in as if they had one last task to fulfill. A task for his sons, no doubt. Everything he did was for them, he’d told her once. Intensely proud of all three sons, he never showed it, fearing it would make them weak.

Now it was too late. A new, deeper stillness settled over his face, only those snowy curls occasionally dancing against the leather chair back. The gas lamps puttered quietly and a coal fell in the hearth, tumbling with a soft crackle among the cinders of last night’s fire. Above it, a glass-domed skeleton clock with spinning brass balls whipped time onward, with no one to watch it, no one in the room to need it anymore. As she watched, a strange frost sparkled on the smooth glass dome. It sprouted sharp fingers that stretched across the face of the clock. The air in the room grew colder and thinner by the second.

The body of Randolph Blackwood wouldn’t be discovered for another few hours, but he was gone. Evangeline Phillips, with her eyes closed, felt the naughty little devil leave.

On his mantle, the glass dome cracked and ice spread through his walls.

The vision cleared and she was back in her garden, new grass rustling at her feet. Jade green shoots pierced the rich, dark earth; sprouting buds peppered every tree and bush, so pleased with themselves they couldn’t wait to burst open and show off. The air was fresh and vital, not yet too warm, but slightly heavy with damp and the sickly sweet perfume of blossom. It was a good day to learn of an old friend’s passing. Had it been rainy or overcast, it might have depressed her, but on this day, with rebirth all around, she didn’t mourn for Randolph.

In any case, residency in this world was temporary and she’d always suspected his spirit was an unwelcome squatter. That somehow he’d slipped into the world with one intention—to create havoc. He got away with as much as he could, before he was found out and sent back where he belonged.

Turning slowly, empty basket under one arm, she walked back across the lawn and then stopped, remembering.

The painting. What would happen to it now? A little spark of panic burned in her belly.

She was young and nervous when she posed for Randolph in nothing but her stockings and a hair wreath of orange blossoms, but she needed money and he had plenty of it. Mysterious wealth, gained, as many claimed, through illicit means. And Randolph could charm the bloomers off a nun.

She laughed. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she worried one of her neighbors might hear her amusing herself like a fool on a Monday morning washday. Giddy merriment certainly wasn’t something to which she often succumbed. Her first husband used to complain her American manners were too casual, too unguarded, and she laughed too much. Well, he soon broke her of the habit. In two years she went from her father’s pampered daughter and society belle to a penniless ghost, an unhappy wife, abandoned in a foreign country, all her youthful illusions shattered. She supposed, in some ways, he did her a favor, shook her out of her silly, romantic imaginings and made her grow up.

Her second husband, Dr. Eustace Phillips, was a somber fellow who married her, she suspected, because his mother had died and he couldn’t find a good housekeeper. Once again, laughter, if it ever came accidentally to her lips, was out of place, not wanted. As he would say in his grave, dreary tone, seeing so many sick and dying in his lifetime took the urge to jest out of him. Then she felt guilty for finding any amusement when he couldn’t partake of it. Her second husband could make her wilt with one disapproving glance until she no longer wanted to experience the smallest uplift of joy, in case it might prove her to be, in his eyes, a selfish wanton.

Today when she laughed her first instinct was to swallow it down, deny it. Then she remembered neither husband was there to chide her. She was alone and could do as she pleased.

Almost.

A woman living alone, an American no less, with two dead husbands to her credit and a talent for palm-reading was an easy target for gossip and speculation.  

Now Randolph, her one remaining true friend, was gone. His sons would descend like vultures to pick over their father’s belongings for anything of value.

Oh! She touched her warm cheek with a cold hand.

Adam.

He would see the painting, inevitably, and draw his own bitter conclusions. This was not good for her, not at all.

Randolph promised her that the portrait was for his private collection only, but what would happen now? His sons would have the house cleaned out in a matter of days. And if she went there to ask for one of their father’s paintings, they would want to know why. She couldn’t afford to buy it from them, which meant she must rely on their charity.

Charity? From one of Randolph’s self-centered, hard-hearted sons? She was kidding herself. Might as well stand in the way of a wild herd of stallions with the scent of blood in their nostrils.

And she couldn’t go there because then she would see Adam, the last man she ever wanted to see again.

Boy, she corrected herself hastily, not man, boy. After all she’d been through, she knew the difference. Once, she was young and merry and thought the world was her oyster. But that all ended the day she married a man she thought was in love with her, a man who wooed her with roses and lies, because he wanted her father’s money. Then reality slapped her hard in the face and knocked the mist out of her eyes.

If reality had not yet slapped Adam Blackwood, he was lucky. He’d been spoiled, but sooner or later he’d learn a person couldn’t have everything that caught his eye, every pretty thing he wanted. In any case, pretty things were deceptive.

Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her in the portrait. After all, it was painted more than ten years ago and she hadn’t seen Adam in more than five.

She studied her lily-pale face in the window and watched a lock of her dark hair slyly unwinding from its respectable, braided knot.

Again, when she closed her eyes, she saw the threads of gleaming frost take possession of the glass clock dome on Randolph’s mantle, spread a glistening claw and shatter it.

Oh yes, it was a warning.

Lips set firm, she walked quickly into the cottage, her heartbeat so uneven she was almost dizzy. Inside it was cooler, the light dim. She set her basket down and made her way along the flagged stone passage to the parlor where a pack of Tarot cards waited face-down on the embroidered tablecloth. Somewhere a clock was ticking, but it couldn’t have been in her house for she hated the sound and never kept one near.

She stole a calming breath and spread the fingers of one hand.

Fate was irreversible. No one knew that better than she did. There was nothing she could do to stop it. She simply wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was coming.

Finally she picked up the cards and dealt them carefully.

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell, Adam Blackwood, when I let you into my bed.”

And the conceited young cub had looked at her over one shoulder, his eyes very dark. “I daresay we’ll soon warm it up again.”

Read more about the Blackwood Brothers and their father's muses in A PRIVATE COLLECTION, available here.

Jayne

(painting by Angelo Asti 1847-1903)

Faces from the Past

I've been thinking a lot lately about what inspires me and I realize that much of my story inspiration comes from art. I love to find my characters in portraits. There is something about a face staring solemnly out of the canvas that always gives me a bit of a shiver down the spine. I don't even need to know who the person is -- in fact it's probably better that I don't, as that takes away some of the lovely mystery.

I've always enjoyed art. I think my interest probably began when, as a child, I watched my eldest sister sketch faces with pencil on a large sheet of paper and I thought it was magic. How could somebody create something like that, just with their fingers and a bit of lead pencil? How did she make it look so real? I was thrilled and awestruck by her talent. And I still am.

Although I like landscapes too, I definitely gravitate the most toward portraits. Primarily, it's faces that draw me in. I could stand for hours looking at the paintings in the National Portrait Gallery in London.

Indeed, two friends and I missed our train home once on a school trip because we spent so long wandering around the gallery, absorbed in all the faces. (Yes, we got home safely eventually, despite getting on the wrong tube train too at one point! - ah, the adventures of a misspent youth.) I tend to find photographic portraits less interesting than sketches or paintings - not sure why, but somehow a painting comes alive for me in ways that a photograph never does. An oil painting of a face - anonymous or famous  - seems to hold secrets, whisper ideas, and suggest a deeper emotion, a story begging to be told.

It's hard to choose a favourite artist, but two that come to mind immediately are Johannes Vermeer and Tamara De Lempicka - two very different styles, but both I find very calming and intriguing at the same time. (I loved the movie "Girl with a Pearl Earring", despite Colin Firth in that hideous, long, curly wig. In my humble opinion it's Scarlett Johansson's best film to date, apart from Lost in Translation -- but I digress)

 

I suppose it must be this fascination with portraits (and faces) that inspired, in part, my Victorian trilogy "A Private Collection"-- the story of an eccentric amateur painter and the three muses who pose for him. There are three romances (Engraved, Entangled and Enraptured) woven together through the story, with three heroes and three heroines, so at its heart it is a romance, of course.

But there is also a hint of mystery and a touch a magical mischief, which is, to me, what I see every time I look at a portrait.  Especially those that portray somebody working quietly, absorbed in the job at hand, as if they don't even know the artist is there -- sort of like a character in a novel, who is completely unaware that some unseen hand is the author of her fate.



By the way, if you haven't read "A Private Collection" yet, you can find it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and all the usual sites, as well as here, on Twisted E-Publishing's own site. Over the next three days, I'll be posting excerpts from this book, which is one of the very first I had published and still one of my favourites. Below is the blurb to whet your interest.

When the estranged sons of wealthy eccentric Randolph Blackwood return home for his funeral and discover he has left them a private collection of three amateur oil paintings, they have no idea how this simple bequest will change their lives. The notorious Blackwood brothers are not known for their appreciation of fine art, but they are familiar with their father's love of elaborate pranks. Yes, the old man is still laughing at them from beyond the grave. For in order to collect their share of Randolph's fortune, they must return— in person— the three scandalous, nude portraits to the women who once posed for him. And that turns out to be a little more complicated than a simple delivery.

Once they were Randolph Blackwood's muses; now they've moved on with their lives. Lina is widowed and trying to lead a quiet, harmless life, while hiding a dark secret about her true desires; Daisy struggles to manage a respectable hotel against family opposition and overwhelming debt, and Claudine runs the 'Whitechapel Improvement Committee', a mysteriously busy charity home for handsome young men, funded by some of the most elegant and unhappily married ladies of Victorian London.

As the three Blackwood brothers set out to complete their task, they only have business on their minds and no intention of being distracted. But their father knew them better than anybody and he chose these three ladies for a very special reason. The true inheritance this mischief-maker leaves to his sons is neither the paintings nor his fortune. It is something far more valuable.

As always, I'd love to hear from you. Contact me via my FACEBOOK Author page.

Jayne

(Paintings here are by Tamara De Lempicka and Johannes Vermeer, of course)

The Deverells - A Dynasty of Scandal

My historical romance series The Deverells follows the exploits, fortunes and misfortunes of a family dynasty founded by a self-made man who names himself True Deverell. If you've read TRUE STORY, you'll know why he gives himself the name "True", so I won't spoil it here for those who have not yet read the first book in the series.

True's story begins with his birth and abandonment on a Cornish beach in 1798, and continues on through the adventures of his many sons and his daughter. Beyond that, the Deverells saga will reach into future centuries with other branches of the family tree, stretching in all directions.

In my mind I see True's children and grandchildren running rather wild - taking over the story and smashing furniture with as much aplomb as a rock band in a fancy hotel.

If you are a follower of the series you will also know that I promised the story would sometimes move sideways, as well as backward and forward. In fact, in the latest portion of the story it does a little of both!

You may wonder how and where PUMPYMUCKLES fits into the saga. Well, I gave this book the subtitle of "A Deverell's Story" rather than a number in the series (you may have noticed), because I wanted readers to know that it is separate, but also connected to the family. In other words, although it's not necessary to read this one to enjoy the full series, you will find your enjoyment of the entire saga enhanced by this unique story.

In later books you will find out where and how Gabe Hart's extraordinary tale fits in, so if you've read PUMPYMUCKLES you'll have an "ah ha" moment later on, I promise you!

I love to give my readers those little moments when they find how the parts fit. The Deverells saga is built like a jigsaw puzzle. Some of the pieces will fit smoothly. Some parts will leave you puzzled and intrigued, which, I hope, makes the read all the  more pleasurable once you figure it out. In other words, I plan to make the Deverells series an experience that's quite different to the usual historical romance series I've penned in the past. A story you can really sink your teeth into.

After all, I think we'd all prefer a gooey slice of layer cake to a dry, predictable scone!

I hope you're finding this series memorable and exciting. I want my readers to feel as if they live alongside the Deverells, as part of the family - laughing, crying and loving along with them. I'm certainly having a lot of fun writing it!

So stay tuned for more. Who knows where the story will go next? Which branch will it follow? Perhaps it will go back to those adventurous roots and explain a little more about the enigmatic man who created a fortune, a world and a name for himself.

Which leaf of the family tree will sprout next spring and which will fall? Which Deverell is the grandfather of Gabriel Hart and what, exactly, happened to him?

More of True's sons have yet to make their mark (coming up next year DAMON UNDONE) and True himself is not yet done telling his own story.

Indeed, you might find yourself popping up in one of their tales now that you're part of the family too. Keep reading!

Jayne x

Images - paintings by Eastman Johnson and in this order: Christmas Time (1864); The Old Stagecoach (no date); The Boyhood of Abraham Lincoln (1868) and Barn Swallows (1878)

Pumpymuckles

The following is an excerpt from PUMPYMUCKLES. Enjoy!

            Where was the harm in one little peep? Everybody was out and the staff must have gone below stairs again. And she'd been told to explore while he was out. Nobody said anything about staying out of the master's study.

            Taking a deep breath, she walked into the room and let the door stand ajar behind her. To close it would definitely make it seem as if she was up to no good in there, but it was all perfectly innocent, wasn't it? She was simply looking around, making herself familiar with the house.

            Hands behind her back, she strolled to the fire and felt the caress of warmth gently touch her face. If it was not tended, the fire could soon go out. Surely Mr. Hart would welcome a good fire when he came back to the house. But having reached for the poker, Ever paused, shook her head. Not hers to worry about. She put her hands behind her back again. If a maid came in and found her interfering with the fire they might not appreciate it. Not her place. Not her concern. Perhaps it had been left to go out deliberately.

            If she stirred it up, they would know she'd been in here.

            Besides, Mr. Hart hadn't even thought about a decent room for her and had entirely forgotten she was coming until the last minute. He didn't care if she was cold and uncomfortable.

            Ever sensed she wasn't going to like her employer very much. What sort of man would hire a woman without references and then forget to inform his housekeeper until the morning of her arrival?

            Scattered, inconsiderate, arrogant. Forgets promises and leaves havoc in his wake, but thinks it all very amusing to keep other folk "on their toes".

            Poor Mrs. Palgrave looked up to him because she was the old-fashioned, loyal servant, abiding by her master's wishes, whatever they might be. Forgiving his eccentricities. Making excuses for his behavior. Protecting him from "trollops". As if he couldn't manage that himself, if he wanted to. If being the operative word.

            Her roving gaze now alighted on a brown-top riding boot discarded by the fire. The twin had been abandoned likewise on the other side of the hearth, where it lay half under a chair, kicked off with evident impatience. Both boots bore the shiny, polished patina of "brand new", and the box sat upon the chair cushion, the lid proudly proclaiming the bespoke makers 'Peal & Co.' and boasting of their royal patronage. Expensive. Yet the boots had been rejected by their new owner.

            Restless. Aspires to be...well...doesn't really know what he wants. Hard to please.

            Something whispered through her, like a subtle draft through her body. Again she looked over her shoulder to confirm that she was quite alone.

            Her pulse had picked up its pace as if to warn her and yet there was nobody in the room.

            Turning to the fire again, she impulsively reached for the coal scuttle and tossed another shovel of coal onto the fire. There, she would take the high road and see to his comfort, even if he did not do the same for her.

            Smiling to herself, she replaced the fire screen and then continued her tour of his study, absorbing all that she could about her employer while she had this chance to explore unobserved. She ran a fingertip across the ornately painted globe inside its brass and wood frame, assessed the cut glass decanters in the Tantalus, and then admired the untidy, bulging library of books, stacked and queued behind leaded-glass doors. There seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to the way the books were placed— travel guides beside poetry, and astrology beside wine-making. Subjects on anything a person could possibly think up.

            Yes, that further substantiated her idea of him not knowing yet what he wanted.

            Ever would have loved such a collection of books at her disposal when she was a child, for she always had so many questions running around her brain. Her father used to say he'd never seen such an insatiable thirst for learning.

            A row of trophies and tall cups decorated the mantle, gleaming in the soft, wavering light, like Aladdin's treasure trove. All of these won with the power of a man's fists and the shedding of blood. Appalling, really, when one thought about it. Of course, there was nothing new about blood-sport for the spectator. The Romans had their gladiators at which to cheer and gape. Human sacrifice for entertainment.

            Fearless. But was it bravery or bravado? Or the sense of having nothing to lose?

            The walls of his study were covered in tournament posters and framed sepia photographs, showing various circus performers and fairground acts with a backdrop of striped canvas tents. She studied them closer, but among the costumed figures could pick out none that matched the vision she nurtured of the mysterious Mr. Hart.

            The largest piece of furniture in the room, and the most ornate, was his desk. With thick legs intricately carved, it was medieval in style— something at which an Archbishop, or another ecclesiastical dignitary, would once have sat to cast fear and awe into the hearts of the humble peasantry. A wide leather chair crouched in readiness behind it, two plump, well-worn arms poised in wait. And there, on the blotter, beneath the oil lamp, she spied a pewter paperweight in the shape of a seahorse. Three small words were inscribed upon its body: Death, Love and Dreams. Tempted to pick it up, she satisfied herself instead by trailing her fingers over the curling shape, from the elegant head to the spiraled tail.

            She'd read somewhere that seahorses cling with their tail for stability in the same way that babies cling to offered fingers. It was also true, apparently, that when they found their mate, seahorses entwined tails and danced together at least once every day, to maintain their attachment. And they mated for life. Somewhere in the vaults of her mind there lived the image of painted wooden seahorses spinning around and around in the breeze through an open window. But the memories from her very early childhood were nothing more than dashes of light that came and went through a lace curtain. Of late those memories had become even more faded.

            Suddenly feeling an inexplicable hollow of sadness in her heart, she moved away from the desk and the seahorse.

            Now there was no further avoiding the black cloth, and whatever secrets it held custody. The thing that had lured her into the room was before her, filling the corner like a dark altar. Saved till last.

            Ever scratched the side of her neck with anxious fingers, feeling constricted by the tight lace collar that suddenly chafed her skin. Glancing over her shoulder, she checked the room again to be sure she was alone. The door was still ajar, the coals in the fireplace wheezing softly.

            It was only a peep and if a man was vain enough to have himself sculpted in the nude, he surely ought to be prepared for unladylike curiosity. So she gripped the soft velvet between thumb and forefinger. Another breath. Another beat skipped within her heart.

            And slowly she lifted the cloth.

            "It's not a patch on the genuine article, you know."

WANT TO READ ON? PUMPYMUCKLES E-Book out now!

 

copyright Jayne Fresina 2016

 

 

Character Showcase - Heath Caulfield

Heath Caulfield had always been a serious soul, even as a child. If asked, he would have described himself as a cautious pessimist, because to march through one's life with too much optimism struck him as a certain way to hard disappointment. And to show outright enthusiasm for anything was likely to leave a man looking foolish.

Born the "superfluous" third son of the Duke of Ormandsey, Heath has spent most of his adult life attempting to escape the tyrannical shadow of his father. After a short career in the cavalry, he now works for the Bow Street Magistrate as one of their new "improved" officers, fighting against crime and the ruthless criminals who try to rule the streets of Regency London. His father does not approve, but Heath long since ceased to care for the Duke's good opinion.

Heath prefers to remain as anonymous as he can be. He wants no advantage given to him because of those family connections. Having turned his back on the aristocratic life in which he was unhappily raised, Heath has dropped his tell-tale noble surname "Beauspur", preferring to be known as plain Mr. Heath Caulfield, using his middle name for his last. As he tells the Chief Magistrate for whom he works, "I would prefer to achieve something worthwhile, sir, on my own merit. That is why I'm here. I want to make a positive difference in the world while I am in it."

 

It is Heath's opinion that, "Every man should work for his money. A man's worth should be measured, not by the title he was granted merely for being born, but by what he achieves in his lifetime."

He grew up sheltering his deaf and mute sister, Clara, from their father's temper and she remains his first priority now. Since their father has disowned them both, Heath provides for his sister, protecting and guiding her as best he can. He lives simply, in very modest lodgings above a tavern near the notorious "Seven Dials" district, so that he can afford to provide a governess/guardian for his beloved sister and comfortable lodgings for her, outside the city. 

 

He is a man of few words, but many good deeds - for which he wants no fanfare.

 

There is not much he considers beyond his capabilities. After all, as he's fond of saying, he once wrestled for Eton. However, when he decides to purchase a new bonnet as a gift for his dear sister, Heath Caulfield soon finds himself on ground rather more treacherous than he expected. This staid, solemn, hard-working young man, who never falters in the face of danger - never trembles in the company of the most bloodthirsty villain - soon discovers that he does have a weakness after all.

 

For a certain reckless, clumsy, unpredictable and independent young lady whose sole purpose in life appears to be falling on him, from a great height, at every opportunity.

 

Read more about Heath in THE DANGER OF DESPARATE BONNETS (Ladies Most Unlikely - Book Two) OUT NOW

Image above is a self-portrait by Carl Joseph Begas (c. 1820)

Pumpymuckles is coming to get you....

Sometimes a nightmare is just a love story in the dark...

 

 

Ever Greene was just six years-old when she vanished into thin air from the end of Cromer Pier.

Four months later, she reappeared, safe and sound, on the doorstep of her parents' house, more than eighty miles away. The child had no recollection of where she had been or with whom she had spent the time, but in her hand she clasped a silver and enamel brooch intricately fashioned in the image of a seahorse...

 * * * *

Ever Greene's childhood was haunted by nightmares and plagued by mysterious events. Now, as a grown woman, she hopes to put all that behind her and lead a purposeful life. She answers an advertisement for the post of governess— a perfectly respectable position for the dignified Edwardian lady.

This attempt to lead an ordinary life seems destined for chaos, however, when she finds herself working for an extraordinary bachelor. Gabriel Hart wants her, not to teach those sweet-faced children she'd envisioned as her pupils, but to transform him into a proper gentleman. A task of no little undertaking and far from what she'd anticipated.

And then  Ever’s troubled life takes an infinitely more disturbing turn when the monster she called Pumpymuckles, who once chased her through those childhood nightmares, now stalks her waking hours instead.

But Ever Greene isn't that little girl afraid of the dark anymore.

Indeed, the darkness should be afraid of her.

 

 

 

Want to read more? COMING December 21st, 2016.

Keep in touch with me via FACEBOOK

Exclusive Excerpt from THE DANGER OF DESPERATE BONNETS

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)