The Dark Lord, animated

 

New Year, Another Direction

Back in 2020, that year of disruptions, I published the last novel in the 12-book series Hearts in Hazard.

The Hazard with Hearts was intended to be the last time I touched the Regency period. Well, that didn't happen.

In that book I conceived an authoress Miss Beale, who wrote Gothic style mysteries: ruins and decaying castles, mysterious and brooding heroes, sweet damsels in distress as heroines. I listed the titles she had published.

That list was a mistake. I began to consider the stories behind those titles.

The Hazard with Hearts was intended to be the last time I touched the Regency period. I’ve now written a novella and a short story in the Regency period.

And a new series is now born: Miss Beale Writes, stand-alone stories, each from a different historical era of Britain.

Between 2020 and 2022 I ventured into other stories, yet soon the first Miss Beale novel demanded to be told. The Dark Lord, a Regency novella, published on 28 February 2022.

Everyone knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.

Tell that to the two ghosts haunting Elizabeth.

~ Regency England ~ the Northern Moors ~

Elizabeth Fortescue comes to Feldstone Grange seeking the position of housekeeper. She expects the Baron Harcourt to claim she’s too young and pretty for the position, even though she’s qualified and has excellent references.

Yet the baron is desperate to hire someone, having lost five housekeepers over the past six months. He doesn’t know what drove them away.

On her first night at the Grange, Elizabeth encounters two ghosts. One is the well-known Silent Lady; none of the servants know anything about the other ghost.

Over the next week, her connection with Lord Harcourt becomes more than servant to employer. She likes her position and her employer. He also appears to like her, wanting to meet with her daily.

One ghost, though, persists in its haunting of her, enticing her to follow it.

Is it a real ghost? Is a fellow servant attempting to terrify her? Or does someone have a wicked reason to haunt the new housekeeper?

Elizabeth doesn’t know the answer—but she has more incentive to stay than leave.

Will she remain at the Grange? Will the second ghost’s increasing hauntings drive her away?

Or lead her into death?

Read the first chapter below.

The Dark Lord is available as a single title in ebook format.

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09TQ22DNC

Worldwide Distribution (B&N, Kobo, Apple, libraries, and more) https://books2read.com/u/38yprZ

In February will be the second Miss Beale title ~ which means I have properly started a new series. The Bride in Ghostly White is a Victorian mystery. The Regency / Victorian duology will be the focus for March. The duology is also available as a paperback. 

 

The Dark Lord ~ ~ Chapter 1

“You’re not to look at `im.”

That order about meeting her future employer certainly surprised Elizabeth. “I beg your pardon?”

The whiskered withered man did not himself look at her. He hadn’t stopped or even hesitated as he led her along the back hall. The dark paneled walls absorbed the light from the few sconces. On a sunny day, windows would admit the radiant sun and warm the shadowed interior. On this rainy day, the wind created a chilling numbness, and gloom dominated, oppressive and unwelcoming.

“He don’t like being gawked at,” the older man said. “You keep your head down, eyes on the floor.” He muttered something else.

“My apologies,” Elizabeth was forced to say, not daring to let anything slip in her quest for a new position. She’d traveled up from London, jounced along in badly sprung coaches, squeezed between smelly passengers, her savings eking away at every overnight stop. The service agency hadn’t guaranteed a position. Apparently, Baron Harcourt wished to interview any potential employee. “I did not hear what you said, good sir.”

“I said ‘It’ll be lucky if’n you last the first week’.”

“I am stronger than I appear.”

“Aye, well, that’s to be seen. The others didn’t last.”

“Do all servants follow that rule, sir?”

“The ones that want to keep their positions.”

That certainly depressed her. Keeping her eyes down constantly—she didn’t know if that were possible. She’d never followed such a rule. Indeed, her father had always warned her and her mother to keep their eyes up and open, watching fellow wayfarers for potential trouble, spying the land for potential ambuscadoes. Following the drum had entailed heightened caution, and since she’d entered service five years ago, she found that the wiser course.

A housekeeper would be expected to assume her responsibilities quickly. “What is the number of staff?”

“His lordship will tell you.” The man stopped before a door with matched panels, triple circles carved inside each square. He didn’t knock, just opened the door and stepped back. “His lordship will be up from the stables momentarily. Stand before his desk. Don’t touch nothing!”

He’d shut the door before she gained the rug.

Eyes down, she shivered. Rain had seeped through the dove-grey redingote she wore like a uniform. The fire behind smoked a little, but the heat didn’t penetrate her wet clothes. She dreaded to think what her hair looked like. She could feel tendrils plastered to her neck and her cheeks. The old man had taken her boiled wool cloak and her soaked hat, its shape lost to the steady rain. Without the cloak, she had immediately chilled.

A half-hour passed, tolled by the great clock in the entrance hall. The fire’s heat started to penetrate her clothing. Elizabeth no longer shivered incessantly. And she had memorized the rug’s pattern.

She peeked around her.

Bookcases covered any wall space that wasn’t devoted to the hearth, to windows, or to the large map behind his lordship’s desk. She read York and Sheffield and guessed that it depicted the north of England. The wealth of books in this isolated corner of the moorland surprised Elizabeth. The bindings looked weathered by time and many hands.

A long table occupied the floor beneath the window wall. The rainy panes gave a blurred view of the desolate moor rising behind the house. Behind her was the cheerily dancing fire that fought the room’s chill. The desk before her was cluttered with three open ledgers and spills of spindled paper, a neat stack of foolscap to the left of the blotter. In the baron’s chair, a grey cat licked its paws.

The cat couldn’t be bothered to examine her.

But a greymalken! For the strangest reason, that cat gave Elizabeth hope.

Little else about this opportunity gave her hope. The agency’s director had doubted she would be acceptable. He’d presented her detriments: too young, too pretty, too well-dressed, too quick with her opinion. She could change only the last of those, and she refused to rid her wardrobe of perfectly suitable clothes.

Then the director had presented Feldstone Grange’s detriments: too remote, too unfriendly to Londoners, too detailed with his requirements for the housekeeper position. Elizabeth didn’t intend to remain long-term; once her father and brother returned from the war, she would keep their lodgings. Until then, she needed work to occupy her, and the salary at the Grange would build a tidy nest egg. She didn’t inform the director of her plans.

Until the coach dropped her in Widderby and the wagon trundled over a long road to the Grange, she hadn’t really understood the word remote. The old Greystone manor perched on a rising hill before the massive moor. Should the baron refuse her employment, they would have to offer her supper and breakfast and a place to lay her head before sending her back to Widderby. The land around the Grange looked well tilled, with pastures of cattle and sheep.

The moor brooded over everything, rocky and barren of all but heather. On this early spring day, frigid wind blew from the heights. The slaty clouds hinted at snow.

That old man had taken one look at Elizabeth without her rain-draggled bonnet and judged her incapable of the housekeeper’s position. She hoped Baron Harcourt would not be so hasty.

She had inquired in London before she set out and again at Sheffield, York, and Thirsk, but little could she discover about the baron. The family had held Feldstone Grange and the region for centuries. Burnt-out ruins lay closer to Widderby. “New manor,” the carter had declared once the ruins came in view.

She had studied the blackened walls, the towers at the corners, reminiscent of the Tower of London. The pub host had said the Grange would be the grey-stoned building after the ruins. After the fire, the family had returned to the old Grange, with its sturdy stones.

Long and stolid, windows scattered along its breadth of the building. Multiple chimneys smoked at one end while no smoke drifted from the others. The Grange would be a nightmare for a maid to clean. Half-flights of stairs must access twisted passages. Damp rooms had hearths that would barely dissipate the cold. The unused end of the building would still need to be checked regularly.

Once inside, the entrance hall removed many of her fears about the house. Square and dominated by a stair with one landing, its painted walls held the weapons that often decorated old houses. Banners and family portraits brightened the entrance. Vividly painted doors led to four other rooms. She had looked around with obvious enjoyment. Several sconces and candelabra cast away the day’s gloom. While the flagstones looked dull and heavy, painted panels beneath the stairway led to a crossing for a back hall and more vividly painted doors. The stairs led to a well-lit open salon with corridors to either wing.

The décor would be the influence of the current baron and his father, perhaps his grandfather. Elizabeth had learned that the current Lord Harcourt had served king and country for several years, leaving the Grange to the tending of his steward. His father’s death in the previous year had recalled him to England. He’d spent the following Season in London, searching for a bride, only to return without one. He had no siblings, just a cousin. Beyond that, she’d discovered nothing about her potential employer.

She could assume, however. Whatever Lord Harcourt was like, he’d obviously been desperate for a housekeeper. The agency director complained that she would be the sixth in as many months. He had no explanation for their departure. That whiskered old man had claimed she wouldn’t last a week. She wished to prove him and the agency director wrong.

The grey cat jumped onto the desk then to the floor. It prowled close to Elizabeth without nearing her then curled up before the fire.

A boy came in to renew the fire with coals. He started when he spotted her then ducked his head. He didn’t look at her again. He lighted a lamp at the desk then scurried out.

Gawking, the older man had said. She must remember to avoid that.

Full dark came. The rising moor looked a blacker bulk against the starry night.

Then the door opened once again.

Elizabeth straightened her spine. Mindful of a good impression, she stared at the rug.

“Hicks,” the man shouted into the hall. He waited, then footsteps approached. “Has she been standing here this whole while? I daresay she was soaked through when she arrived.”

“Aye, your lordship, she were.” The voice belonged to the whiskered man.

“Did you think to give her hot tea? Fetch a pot. Bring something sustaining.”

“Aye, your lordship.”

Mr. Hicks left, his steps quickly muffled. The baron passed her with quick strides, speaking as he neared. “My apologies. They did not inform me that you had arrived until I came in from the fields.” He sat in his seat.

“I have not waited that long, Lord Harcourt. An hour and a little more, that is all.”

“Nevertheless—.” He didn’t complete that. In the upper edge of her vision, she saw the ledgers shifted. Papers rustled. “Miss Elizabeth Fortescue. You are applying for the housekeeper position?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You do not look old enough to have worked in five different households in five years. You must have started very young.”

Her gaze lifted before she could control it. She saw a long narrow face, a flash of dark eyes, and a faded scar slashing down his cheek, a sword cut, obviously gained in battle. Long dark hair, the ends still wet, flowed over his wide shoulders. His white linen shirt looked stark against his tanned skin. Handsome, except for the scar. From her days following the drum, she knew the nature of sword wounds: garish red and inflamed for several months, even after the fever left.

Lord Harcourt didn’t catch her look, for he was staring at the papers that the agency had sent, the one with her qualifications, the second with her recommendations. Elizabeth quickly returned her gaze to the rug and answered his comment about her age. “I entered service as a housekeeper at fifteen, my lord.”

“Fifteen!”

“My father’s man-of-business gave me shelter when I returned from Portugal. His household was woefully mismanaged. When the housekeeper left, I assumed the management of it, and he proceeded to pay me.”

“That is Mr. Severest? His recommendation is glowing. I assume the housekeeper didn’t like your attempts to correct her mismanagement. Why did you leave his employment?”

“His wife returned from Ireland. She’d spent several months there, assisting her elderly parents.”

“You stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Francis Beauchamp for ten months.”

“Until her confinement ended and she was able to resume management of their household.”

“The Tremaines give an adequate recommendation, certainly not glowing.” He glanced up, catching her peeking. She saw his mouth twist before she dropped her gaze.

“Lady Tremaine dismissed me after a few months. My interactions with her family were … difficult, shall we say?”

“A son?” he hazarded.

“No, my lord. Their children were too young to have any interactions with me.”

“Tremaine himself? Sir Henry Tremaine?”

She didn’t respond. Sir Henry Tremaine’s attentions were not worthy of mentioning—although she did not encounter difficulties from Lady Tremaine until she asked that she not take orders from him. Lord Harcourt did not need to know that.

When he realized she wasn’t going to answer, he asked, “Lady Millingrove? I see the agency listed you were there over a year and a line is here from a Chesterton, yet her ladyship does not provide a recommendation.”

“She is deceased, my lord. Last quarter. At her solicitor’s request I remained in employment there until the house was purchased.”

“You did not wish to work for the man that purchased the house?”

“No, Lord Harcourt.”

He settled back into his chair, his gaze assessing. She could clearly envision what he saw. A woman of 20, rain-bedraggled, her red hair still darkened by the water, her skin pale and lightly freckled. Her youth he’d complained of. What else would he find to reject her application? Not her qualifications, certainly.

“Where is your family?”

“My father and my brother are both in Portugal. My father is a field officer.”

“Major Fortescue? I believe I have heard of him.”

“He recently received a promotion to major, my lord. My brother is a lieutenant on Colonel Wellesley’s staff.”

“Where is your mother, Miss Fortescue?”

“No longer with us, my lord.”

“The occasion of your return from Portugal?”

She nodded without answering. He returned to studying the agency’s letter. “Lord Harcourt,” she thought it wise to say, “I am more than qualified for this position. I managed our household in Portugal after my mother fell ill. You see my recommendations here in England. Please do not prejudge me based upon my youth. I will say frankly that I need this opportunity, and apparently you need a housekeeper.”

His mutter sounded like something her brother Alexander would say.

The door opened, admitting a maid with a tea tray. “Here,” he said, “on the desk,” and he dropped the ledgers to the floor. She winced at the loud thuds.

The maid slid the tray onto his desk. A ceramic teapot with steam coming from the spout, two cups, two small plates, and a larger plate with an array of sandwiches. Her mouth watered. A fresh chill shivered her. The maid went out. She’d kept her eyes on the tray the entire time. Not once had she looked at her master.

“You be mother.” Lord Harcourt sounded more like an old friend than an employer. “Use that chair,” he pointed to the wingback before the desk. When both sat with teacups, the heat wafting into the air and the aroma tantalizing with its promise, he cleared his throat.

Her gaze came up and encountered his dark eyes. He didn’t berate her, and Elizabeth wondered if the order for a lowered gaze came from him.

“We’ve had trouble with our past few housekeepers.”

“The agency informed me. I would be the sixth in as many months.” She sipped the hot brew and felt the welcome heat begin to warm her. “What occasioned their leaving?”

He looked down at his tea then sipped before setting cup and saucer on the blotter. “The last three gave no reasons. The first two—I must say that I had problems with them. Problems not related to their position.” His color heightened.

Perhaps attractive young men of rank and wealth had problems similar to young and attractive housekeepers. She decided to sidestep that issue. “I am well acquainted with managing various types of household, Lord Harcourt. Granted, my paid positions were in London. In Portugal, we had a quartermaster from whom we could requisition supplies. Here, I would need to coordinate with your factotum to request supplies.”

“That would be Hicks, whom you’ve met. Factotum, butler, whatever I’ve needed. He survived my father and grandfather as well. I assume, in London, that the staffs you managed were not large.”

She tallied the servants for him: the footmen and maids, upstairs and down, the cook and her helpers, the errand boy, the occasional handyman. She didn’t coachmen or gardeners, rightly guessing those additions wouldn’t impress him, even though she’d often given them orders from her employers.

The numbers of servants that he listed surprised her. The household servants were scant while the kitchen staff had one maid too many. She had no idea of the gardening or stable staffs or the fields, but those would not be her purview. When she pointed out the lack of house servants, he frowned, his first true one. “I do not entertain, Miss Fortescue. Managing the house staff, running the Grange, these are your sole duties.”

“My lord, my chief concern will be your continued comfort.”

That answer received no response from him. He picked up a ledger from the floor and found a page near the back. Leaving the ledger open to that page, he transferred it to the fore of the desk. A sheet of foolscap followed, then the quill and a silver embossed inkwell. “There remains, Miss Fortescue, only proof that you can keep accounts.” The ledger page was for four months ago. He pointed to the left side. “Tot up this column,” he challenged.

Elizabeth hoped her inhalation was not as sharp as it sounded in her ears. Her ciphering was impressive; she’d always bested her brother Alexander. She seemed on the verge of winning the position.

As she leaned over the desk, she caught the scent of clean sweat mixed with bay, of leather and horse. That was no reason for her heart to race.

The numbers varied. Most were simple addition; a few needed multiplying. At the bottom of the column, to the right, was a greater number. The household tally, she guessed. The items included household goods, bought in quantity. Kitchen items: salt, flour, spices, wine, three kegs of ale, another of—. She stopped her survey and touched the un-inked quill to the item. “Six kegs of beer, but the total is multiplied for eight.” Her gaze lifted and looked directly at him, also leaning forward. “Do you wish me to correct or factor the incorrect total?”

The lantern cast an amber glow over the strong bones of his face. He’d missed a spot while shaving. “The number as intended,” he rumbled, which was no reason for her toes to tighten in her damp shoes.

Totting up numbers did not pose any difficulties. She wondered at the former housekeepers. Had they been unnumbered? The lord’s factotum, Mr. Hicks, was he illiterate, and that portion of his position fell to the housekeeper? Someone had obviously intended to steal from Baron Harcourt.

She glanced up once and found him watching, sharp as a hunting hawk.

Elizabeth wrote her figures in her decided hand, two tallies and a third that listed the difference in amount. She stared at the numbers for scant seconds then handed the sheet across the desk. Since she’d already broken Mr. Hicks’ injunction not to look at the lord, she kept her eyes on him.

He drew a sheet from underneath the stacked foolscap, additional figuring which he compared to hers. Then he gave a brief nod and set aside the sheets. “You’re quick and accurate.”

She returned the quill to the inkstand. The nub needed sharpening. She’d tend to that if he hired her. “The agency did not mentioned counting work as part of my duties, Lord Harcourt.”

“You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it.”

Is that growl an attempt to frighten me? Starvation was far more frightening. Yet those words did take a step further to hiring her. “Yes, my lord.”

“Hicks will give you my instructions. You will convey any matters needing my attention through him.”

Ah, the sticking point. “No, my lord,” she said quietly but firmly.

“No?”

“No.” She met his dark eyes directly. “At the Tremaines, the butler had an animus to me. He refused to present my concerns and questions to Lady Tremaine. He gave them to Lord Tremaine, and issues were not addressed in a timely manner. I asked repeatedly to report to Lady Tremaine. She was rather languid, but I merely needed a yes or no to my proposed solutions.” She realized she twisted her hands and drew them apart, curling her fingers over her knees. “The whole household, from family and through the staff, was most contentious.”

Lord Harcourt winced. He pushed back from the desk and stood up. Giving her his back, he stared at the large map behind his desk. “Doubtless Harry Tremaine created opportunities to meet with his pretty, young housekeeper. He was a rattling loose screw when I knew him. I daresay he hasn’t changed his ways. You are well out of that household.”

“Yes, my lord. I much preferred my time with Lady Millingrove.”

“You’ve no desire to return to Portugal?”

“I would love to return to my family. My father refuses to allow it. He says that Lord Wellesley will only increase his attacks against the French army. Until Napoleon is defeated, I must do more for my upkeep than subsist on the funds dispersed from my father’s man-of-business. My father has not lived in England for many years, my lord. He does not understand the cost of things.”

“Few do.” He turned. “You are unsuitable in many respects, Miss Fortescue.”

“Trust me, my lord. Granted I am young, but I will manage your household to keep you in comfort. I meet your qualifications, including the ability to maintain accurate ledgers. And I do not have designs upon your person.”

He laughed, a short bark, then shook his head. “The gossips will say that I have designs upon you, Miss Fortescue.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Then we shall prove them wrong, Lord Harcourt.”

He sank into his chair. “Continue to laugh at the gossip, Miss Fortescue, and we will survive the first month. Ring the bell.”

She found it beside the hearth, as expected, then came back to her former position on the rug. “Am I hired then, my lord?”

“You are. Woe betide those who question it.”

Mr. Hicks scowled when informed that Elizabeth would be the new housekeeper. He goggled when Lord Harcourt added, “You and she will see to the supplies. Miss Fortescue will keep the ledgers. And she will report any of her concerns directly to me.”

“My lord, that’s not how it’s been done.”

“A minor change, Hicks. Cook can also convey his problems to her. That will relieve you of that burden.”

The man didn’t quite know what expression to put on. He settled for muttering, “Obliged, my lord.”

Those dark eyes returned to Elizabeth. “Shall we say Monday and Friday mornings for our conferences? You will bring the household ledgers at those times.”

She curtsied and stepped back, feeling herself dismissed.

But Lord Harcourt had one final word. “Keep your humor, Miss Fortescue. You will need it.”

Remember, purchase links are above.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

 Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

I hope your holidays started wonderfully.

At Thanksgiving, my holiday season began slow and easy, yet this week turned hectic. How does that happen? I plan for low-stress, and then the busy-ness crowds into these last few days.

We have the 12 Days of Christmastide before us, which will end on Epiphany, January 6.

Let’s start your Christmastide with my annual gifts, three for the three Wise Men who will appear on Epiphany.

 The Newest

Here’s the short story I finished on Monday before life became busy-busy: “A Wintry Light.”

The story features the lockpick Vic, five years after his first entrance into my story world. The story captures him in London when he reaches 16 and an unexpected crossroad.

December 1819 disrupts Vic’s place with his chosen family.

For five years Vic has ignored his criminal past in Liverpool. Life in London offered family warmth and a hopeful future.

Then a drastic change in the Hoppack household disrupts his life. The only solution he can think of requires him to strike out on his own. He’ll need money for that.

Desperate, he offers his lock-picking skills to the boss of London’s underworld—only to discover the boss has been waiting for an opportunity to exploit Vic.

Here’s the Book Funnel link: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/fa7ra3paz7

 

The Earliest

My earliest short story, written as a challenge for myself, is properly called a novelette. “The Lion’s Den” was intended to be 7,000 words; it finished at over 17,000. 

It surprised me and taught me and changed my view of short fiction.

Escaping the Lion’s den needs more than a warrior angel.

Jack Portman had never forgotten Filly Malvaise.

Then she walked into his local pub and into the clutches of a loan shark.

Can he rescue her before she falls victim to evil?

Find this story on Book Funnel: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/zjnmxoc3rb

 

A Favorite

With “Three Yule Feasts for the Faeries” I’m hiding as a collaborator with my other pen name, Edie Roones. This short story is a historical fantasy in my Wild Sherwood series and is in my first collection of short stories, Into Wild Sherwood.

After all the cooking I’ve done this week, I thought I would share a Medieval cook with you. I hope the ending is a surprise.

Will the cook become the final dish?

Yule, the worst time of year for Ellen Best. Few buy her breads at Market. No one will hire her for their Winter Feast.

Then a Faerie knocks at her door. Two dinners, he proposes, and a final feast for his duchess. After each, she’ll receive three purses, copper and silver and gold.

What did the Faerie mean by final feast?

Find it on Book Funnel: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/vdrreau7sr

 

Enjoy your Christmas gifts throughout the 12 Days of Christmastide.

In January I resume the on-going share of my publishing journey, one title per month since the start of 2024 … and now we’re entering 2026. Still going. Still writing. Still fun.

 Please feel free to share these stories and their links with family and friends.

 I wish you Happy Holidays and a wonderful winter wonderland.

 

All the Best~

M.

A Game of Hearts / Celebration with Gratitude

      Devious Deceptions to Destroy Love and Life

Welcome to A Game of Hearts, where red-blooded commoners find the doors of the blue-blooded haut ton difficult to open.

Two Hearts, Shadowed by their Pasts

Self-made financier Rafe Lockhart needs a titled wife. His beloved daughter Connie dreams of a society debut. A quick marriage to Lady Margaret Symonds, widow of an earl, seems the answer to his problem. Her beauty and wit sweeten his plan.

After twelve years in an emotionally abusive marriage, Maggie Symonds  hesitates to enter another marriage, especially to a man whose wealth is the sole reason that society accepts him. Yet financial difficulties and her own budding attraction to Rafe drive her to accept his proposal.

Neither expects passion to fire up their marriage. Yet even as they discover each other, two blows deal wounds to their blossoming love.

Two Hearts, Crossed by Circumstance

Falling in love with his employer’s daughter Connie is not Roger Denby’s biggest mistake. No, the first mistake was giving her a taste of passion. When he hesitates, she pursues a blue-blooded gentleman who will eventually inherit a title. Can he trust that Richard Malbury will give her everything she wants?

Connie Lockhart knew the walls between her and Roger Denby. She was as far out of his reach as marriage into nobility was out of hers. When Roger rejects her, she turns her attentions to Richard Malbury, all to make Roger jealous. And revenge on the snobbish society darlings seems especially sweet. Besides, marriage to a titled nobleman is preferable to a fruitless love of Roger.

Deal in the Unexpected

Mix in a courtesan and two rakes, all out for mischief … and murder, bloody and foul.

When Rafe is suspected of murdering a valuable employee, this Game of Hearts turns more dangerous than Rafe & Maggie and Roger & Connie ever anticipated.

Read on for the 1st Chapter ~

1811 ~ Friday, 13 September

Eadings, a Country Manor

As Maggie alighted from the carriage, her cousin-by-marriage emerged from the manor. “At last. You have arrived most fortuitously, Lady Symonds.” Her round-toned voice carried easily across the crunch of gravel. “My numbers for dinner this evening will not be off. We had almost given you up.”

Maggie hid her wince at the oblique rebuke for a circumstance she could not control. Nor did she remind Althea that she had agreed to attend the Bertrams’ late summer party only if Cousin Carlisle restored the money she had loaned him. She merely offered up the smile that had charmed the ton during her London debut sixteen years ago. “The host at the Crossed Keys Inn said the mail coach was not above two hours late.”

“Two hours late means that you missed an introduction at tea to the ladies who have come to my country party.” Althea, an Osgood to her bones, sniffed her disapproval. “I do not know why you must travel in that shabby way. A public coach, packed with the rabble.”

The grand entrance to Eadings was not the place to remind Althea that Maggie needed her cousin Carlisle to repay his debt so that she might afford to travel in better style. If she had arrived in a hired carriage, then Carlisle, Lord Bertram, would have the excuse to say that her need for the money was not desperate. Although her fingers clenched on her bandbox, Maggie brightened her smile. “I fear I would still be standing in the innyard had your coachman not transferred my trunk himself.” She glanced at the Bertram coach, but it had begun rolling to the carriage houses behind the stately manor. “I did intend to thank the man.”

“Nonsense.” Althea took her arm and propelled her inside.

The marbled entrance hall offered a cool respite from the late September sun. Portraits of her cousin Carlisle and his wife Althea faced each other from above the doors to either wing off the central hall. Cluttering the walls were smaller portraits of their children, intermingled with landscapes. More portraits of the Bertram lineage ascended the curving staircase that Althea ushered Maggie toward. She could see none of the redecorations that her cousin-by-marriage had been planning last Christmas. That news had prompted Maggie to closet herself with Carlisle. He had sworn to repay her loan before Easter. Easter had bloomed, summer had arrived, and autumn loomed, and still no money. But also no redecoration.

Maggie glanced around as she followed Althea, but she could see no changes. If Carlisle had given in to his wife, she had repeated the colors now stretching back to his grandmother’s day. No one since that worthy dame had dared risk her ghostly return by choosing other colors.

Her hostess paused halfway up the stairs. “Margaret,” Althea deigned to use the familiar when servants were not nearby, “did you bring evening attire? Nothing too passé, I hope?”

Her brown velvet and an equally outdated red wool had earned stares at Christmas. “Perhaps not new this season, Lady Bertram, but presentable.” Maggie knew better than to return the familiarity. She had dared so once, at her wedding breakfast sixteen years ago. Newly made Lady Symonds of Mallow Hill, she had considered her elevation to countess entitled her to address her cousin-by-marriage as an equal. Lady Bertram may have stooped to marry a mere baronet, but her Osgood lineage stretched back twice as far as the Bertrams. Althea’s chilling snub was not her only disappointment before June of 1795 ended.

“I knew you had not lost your eye for fashion, even buried in that small hamlet. If your gowns are too much crushed, you must borrow one of mine.” She ran an assessing eye over Maggie’s slimmer form. “Or one of my Ianthe’s. You are much of a size.”

No offer of more fashionable attire had occurred last Christmas. Althea obviously now hosted very important guests. A horrid suspicion awoke in Maggie. “Lady Bertram, how many other guests do you have? You mentioned only the Malburys and the Westovers.”

“Twenty-six. It is a country party.” She turned and continued her ascent. “You may expect my particular friends, Mrs. Goodridge and Mrs. Bainsborough and their husbands.”

Her heart sank as she climbed. Her Christmas visit had become increasingly uncomfortable. She had started a delightful flirtation with one Lord Chevington, only to break it off when he overstepped on a walk to the village. She had escaped his clutch only by slapping him. He responded with an oily comment: “I didn’t expect the kissable Maggie Bertram to become the prudish widow Symonds.” Maggie thereafter had involved herself with the children until the twelfth night when she could leave. Now she hoped Althea did not plan another matchmaking attempt. “Twenty-six guests? Lady Bertram, I only wished to speak with Cousin Carlisle. I could have delayed my visit—.”

At the top of the stair, Althea drew herself up and looked down her long Osgood nose. A half-dozen years older and management of the great house buttressed Althea with additional authority. “Bah! You must return to society, Margaret. Why, your mourning ended three years ago. You need not fear that you will meet complete strangers. You know several of our guests. You are to enjoy your time here and not worry yourself with Angelshold.”

“You chose to delay my visit to have an even table?”

“Your letter arrived with Lady Westover’s. She wrote of her intentions to bring a cousin, Sir Marcus Tremaine. One usually needs an extra man. How could I refuse her gracious offer, even if it did upset my table? Then Bertram informed me of your request. Just the extra lady I needed to round out my table.”

Even for Althea, a stickler for the forms of etiquette, this stretched too far to be credible. Maggie suspected more matchmaking and inwardly sighed. She did not know a Marcus Tremaine. Complete strangers were sometimes easier than people who had known her as Lady Margaret Symonds, wife of the late earl of Mallow Hill, or the wild debutante Maggie Bertram. For years she had suffered the ramifications of her only London season. At Angelshold she had hidden from both reputations. Christmas had proved she could not escape gossip from sixteen years ago. Lord Chevington had begun as a complete stranger and became too familiar too quickly. Someone at Eadings had shared her reckless past with him.

“You do not need tea, do you? Did the host of the Crossed Keys give you a room to freshen in? I did order that for you.”

Maggie felt more overwhelmed than in need of a bolstering cup of tea. Althea would not share her reasons for adding a titled widow with a stained reputation. “He did. It was most kind of you to order it.”

“Good. He must know we butter his bread. Eadings is the chief house in the district.”

“Who are your other guests?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“I mentioned the Westovers and the Malburys, the Goodridges and the Bainsboroughs. Lady Susannah Carrington—you must remember her from Christmas.”

“And Lord Chevington?”

“He declined, but the Russell Collinses also brought an extra man. Some sort of businessman. Bertram assures me he is wealthy. Not that it matters. He is a cit.” Althea walked briskly to the south wing. “I have you over here, my dear. We have quite filled the house. Let’s see, the John Davenports arrived two days ago.”

“I am well acquainted with them. Mrs. Davenport and I met in London before my marriage. Is Amelia’s brother here?”

“Yes. Owen Pettigrew, Lord Symonds.” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, bah! I did not think. That shall be awkward.”

“You mean when we are addressed as Lord Symonds and Lady Symonds? Not at all. I think the age disparity will make evident our lack of connection. My man of business tells me Symonds is currently at Cambridge. I suppose you have several young people here?”

“Of course. It is primarily for Ianthe that I arranged this country party.”

Maggie bit her tongue on a malicious question about Ianthe’s third season. She had not come to antagonize her cousin’s family; she needed her loan repaid. Were Carlisle to fork over the principle alone, she would forego the promised interest.

Halfway along the hall, Althea opened a door. One of the smaller guest rooms, it was still larger than the guest chambers at Angelshold. Faded curtains had seen far into the past century. A narrow bed dominated the space, but Maggie spied a table and a chair beside the sole window. Blue sky and green trees drew her to the window. Her room overlooked the maze and the carriage house beyond it.

“I notice you did not bring your maid.”

“No. I did not intend this as a pleasure trip.” She did not add that a personal maid was a needless expense.

“Ah, you have gained a tongue, cloistered on your farm with sheep and chickens. I am glad to see that, Margaret, although your late husband would not have approved.”

Althea had had little contact with Maggie’s late husband, but the older woman had managed to acquire had a good reading of Lord Ivor Symonds. “He approved of very little.”

The door opened to admit a footman with her trunk and a maid clattering behind him.

Over the noise of their arrival, Althea said, “I should tell you the other guests. Malbury’s son Richard and his friend Alex Westover. One of the Armitage sons, I cannot remember his Christian name. Georgette Carrington, well past her seasons. And the Wilton sisters.”

Her heart jolted. “The sisters are here without their parents?”

“Did I neglect to mention Derry and Silly? They are here. First to arrive.”

“Did the dowager Scotton come with them?”

“Oh, yes. I believe she is permanently attached to her daughter.”

Althea rattled on about her guests’ arrivals, but Maggie was heartily wishing she had remained home. The Wiltons had been Ivor’s chiefest friends. They had not liked her before the marriage, and they relished feeding Ivor’s bitterness after the disastrous honeymoon. Lady Scotton had sniped at her even before the wedding. Once her husband allowed his friends to know his bride had disappointed him, they had joined in his undermining ridicule.

Maggie had spent the past four years of widowhood overcoming the wilted wife that twelve years of marriage to Ivor Symonds that trodden her into. The Wiltons and Lady Scotton would not return her to that faded ghost.

Althea had continued with her most recent arrivals. “Mr. and Mrs. Collins. He is the younger son of the Earl of Thorston. They are accompanied by Mr. Lockhart.” She glanced at the maid unpacking Maggie’s trunk. In a conspirator’s voice she added, “My husband expects to have a particular business with him. I will tell you of it, but I must prepare for dinner. As you have no maid, I will send Rush to attend you as soon as she has dressed my hair. I daresay you can be a little forward with your attire before Rush arrives.”

“That will not be necessary, Lady Bertram.”

The mistress of Eadings looked appalled that a maidservant would not be needed for dressing. “You must have someone.”

“Bess can serve me.” Surprised at hearing her name, the maid stopped her work. Maggie smiled at her. “It is Bess, isn’t it? You helped me at Christmas.”

The girl curtsied. “Yes, m’lady.”

“If you must then,” Althea sniffed and left.

The little maid had stars in her eyes. “Oh, Lady Symonds, ya ‘membered me.”

“How could I not, when you took such good care of me?” She remembered another snippet. “Have you been elevated from the scullery?”

“Yes, m’lady, I be maid of all work, now.”

“Well, you shall be my dresser while I am here. If that doesn’t add too much to your already busy day.”

“Yes, m’lady. I mean no, m’lady. Lady Bertram, she did hire women from ta village fer daily work. Mrs. Casper thought ya might be needin’ a maid. I’ll have me other chores, but I can help ya first. Mrs. Casper says.”

The housekeeper Mrs. Casper was one of the holdovers from the old dowager’s day and as such loyal to anyone of Bertram blood, which included Maggie. She cast off her rosy traveling pelisse. “Lady Bertram said I am the last guest to arrive.”

“Oh, yes, m’lady. Which dress will ya be wantin’ for this evenin’?”

Althea would never forgive Maggie if she appeared on her first night in the black silk. She had planned to wear the pale periwinkle with its higher collar. She had not intended to arouse any complaints from her hostess. Yet the presence of the Wiltons and Lady Scotton demanded a gown that ruled the room. “The blue silk, Bess.”

The maid lifted it from the trunk. “Oh, m’lady, ‘tis a blue bluer than the sky be.”

“You like it? My first and only extravagance when I cast off my widow’s weeds. I’ve worn it only once. You don’t think it’s out of fashion?”

“Oh, no. Ya should call on Rush, m’lady. She has a right hand with Lady Bertram’s hair. She can put those Lunnon maids, the ones what came with t’other ladies, to shame.”

“We will manage, Bess. Do they still dine at eight o’clock? Did you find my Bible?”

“I put it by your bed, the way you had it at Christmastime.”

“Thank you, Bess.” She glanced around the room. “I think that is all for now. Come back to me at seven, please.”

The little maid curtsied and disappeared.

Maggie returned to the window. She had to speak with Carlisle, but her late arrival precluded any conversation this evening. Before Monday morning she must get her money back. Her cousin had used various excuses: an investment that tied up her funds, his son’s gambling debts, and then Ianthe’s third season. He would not put her off again.

She had to have the money. Last winter her steward’s request for a new bull to stud the cows had seemed a want rather than a need. Then the dairy barn burned in early March. When the manor’s roof began to leak in June, the return of the loan became a necessity. Carlisle had ignored several letters. Desperate, she asked to visit, and Althea had suggested this weekend. Three nights and a houseful of guests. She must find an opportunity to wrest her money back from him.

A roof, a barn, a bull. She would have to keep saying it to him.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Rafe Lockhart turned when someone tapped on his door. He bade the person enter and was not surprised when Russell Collins came in.

Collins gave his easy smile. “My wife has banished me from our room. She informs me that I am more hindrance than help with her gowning. I came to see your view. We overlook the weedy south garden.”

“I have the maze.”

“Ah, the famous Eadings maze.” He looked down over the boxwoods where gardeners busied themselves in the paths. “Still maintained, I see. Didn’t think Bertram would let that grow over. It’s one of the talking points of the house. They say Queen Elizabeth herself drew the plan for the maze.” He touched the curtains, frayed along the edge. “These need replacing.”

“More evidence of his need of money.”

“More and more evidence, beyond what he has told me. I am merely his man of business. Why should I be concerned with the finances of the estate?” Collins spoke facetiously. On several occasions he had discussed Lord Bertram’s financial troubles with Rafe. His solution had brought Rafe to Eadings for this country party.

The younger son of the Earl of Thurston, Russell Collins must make his own way in the world. Unsuccessful as a solicitor, he was drowning in bad investments until Rafe encountered him in a business deal. Rafe liked his honesty, his willingness to deal with a London cit who had re-created himself through hard-earned wealth. Collins often gave him valuable advice about the unspoken rules of the genteel class as the businessman moved into more exalted spheres.

He liked Collins, but he wasn’t sure the man’s advice this time would solve his problem.

Collins left the window with its shabby curtains and dropped into an upholstered chair.

“What does the most excellent Lord Bertram know of my visit here?” Rafe asked.

 “Nothing. I don’t shoot my shot before I load it.”

“You would be one of the few gentlemen who does not.”

Collins grinned at the praise.

Rafe turned to look down upon the maze that offered up its secrets to him. He wandered in his own maze, with no clear view of his goal and uncertain of the right path. He had stepped in months ago, when his daughter Connie expressed her wish for a society debut. Her school friends were having theirs. On the fringes of genteel society, she was invited only to intimate teas or on shopping excursions, never to the evening excursions where a middle-class financier’s daughter would encounter the upper crust. Rafe knew that rejected feeling and dealt with it, but that was not a comforting answer for a seventeen-year-old with the world’s promise spread before her.

“Having second thoughts, Lockhart?”

“And third and fourth. On paper it’s a logical plan. I have a daughter who wants entrée to the best of society for her debut; the Bertrams are the best of society. They have a marriageable daughter, but debts hinder her chances; I have a fortune and the need of a wife to manage my daughter’s entrée.”

“You hesitate?”

“Meeting Lord Bertram at your party last May did not awaken my admiration. He enjoyed too much wine for his card-play. And the wife seems a battle-axe.”

“Ianthe’s no harridan, if that is why you are hesitating. The family’s finances are public knowledge. Arabella thinks it was Bertram’s insistence on a substantial marriage settlement that hurt the girl’s chances in her first season. She will be officially on the shelf if she’s not soon betrothed. Bertram’s a good name; goes back to the 1400s. Eadings has been the family seat since the eighth Henry. They have the rank and social status you want.”

“And their debts will force them to accept a cit as a son-by-marriage.”

At Rafe’s deprecating description of himself, Collins began a protest. “Lockhart—” only to stop when Rafe made a cutting gesture.

He dropped into the chair across from the gentleman lawyer. “Look, Collins, we discussed that the best choice for my wife would be a genteel lady already ‘on the shelf’ or widow with few funds remaining or even the poor relation of a high-ranking family. Someone who can open doors even as she gives my Connie the guidance she’ll need for a first season. A reasonable lady, not a flibbertigibbet; a woman who would understand that this marriage is a business arrangement.”

“You need someone who moves with assurance through the haut ton; that will not be a poor relation. Besides, fashionable widows of good repute are a little thin in the weeds right now.”

“How desperate is Bertram?”

“Pretty desperate. His creditors have been petitioning me since early spring. In my letter to inform him that you would accompany us, I did mention that I had a proposition that might successfully balance his finances.”

“If the man’s any wits, he’ll put that information together with my arrival and any interest I show to his daughter.” Rafe hid a grimace, for Collins had shot his shot in advance. “I don’t like showing my side of a merger before I can review the other side’s information, Collins. I bought a business in shambles once, only once, early on. Since then, I haven’t walked into a business deal not knowing what all sides have for negotiation.”

“Don’t worry, old man. Bertram’s wits don’t stretch that far.”

“His wife’s wits might.”

Collins considered. “True, true. Althea has the Osgood nose for sniffing out a chance.”

“How substantial a marriage settlement will be needed to make them accept a cit?”

For the first time his partner looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”

“What are his debts?”

Looking pained, he closed his eyes. Rafe waited. At length, Collins named a sum.

“Double that, then, as a marriage settlement, with good Papa keeping the bulk of it ‘in trust’ for his daughter.”

“Quite possibly.”

“That will put a substantial dent in my personal account.”

“Your businesses have more than enough to cover the cost.”

Rafe shook his head, firm on this point. “I won’t tap the business funds, Collins.”

“Then you’ll be stretched for a few years. Ianthe Bertram has another mark in her favor. She’s young enough to give you several children, sons to inherit the fortune you’ve built.”

Sons. Sons to inherit.

From Connie’s first toddling steps, he had taught her the hows and wherefores of business and finance, but he had to admit that a strong son at the helm had been his wish. Connie had the head to run the business, but a man as the public face would keep his competitors away. He had tapped Roger Denby to step into that position when age forced him out, but a son—.

Rafe shrugged. Connie would continue his success. Her inexperience was with the world at large, with life itself, with youth—when people took foolish steps that had ramifications for years afterward.

He knew that because his own past sins still burdened him.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

London, Bedford Square

Connie Lockhart pretended not to care when her father left on his business trips, but she looked up eagerly when the door to the small withdrawing room opened. Roger Denby, her father’s chief clerk, appeared, looking handsome in a plain dark coat and breeches, attire that would not have caught her admiring eye were it on another young man. “Oh, it’s you.” She bent back to her stitchery so he wouldn’t realize how attractive she found him.

“Were you expecting some gallant to appear?”

“No gallants today. I should have expected you would check on me today. Papa has scarce been gone two days, and here you are, a dutiful clerk performing his sole duty.”

“You are not my sole duty, Miss Lockhart. I have many obligations to fulfill.”

She tossed her head, the loose waves of her dark hair slipping around her slim shoulders. “I would prefer to hear that I am not a duty or an obligation, Mr. Denby.”

“I have offended you.”

“How could the truth offend me?”

“I should leave.”

The thought of spending another evening alone spurred her to speech. “When you have barely arrived? Now that would offend me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or go, if you wish. I will not tattle to Papa. If other obligations are more pressing, then you must fulfill them.”

“And risk your wrath?”

“Oh!” She cast aside her embroidery and jumped up. “I told you that I would not tattle to Papa, and I will not. I am not a child that must be entertained whenever it leaves the nursery. Nor do I wish to inconvenience you, Mr. Denby. Leave if you must.” She walked over to the spinet. She wanted to dig her fingernails into his flesh; instead, she ran her fingers over the painted lid.

“May I stay? Evans promised tea.”

She whirled around to catch his arch look. “You are teasing me!”

“Since I angered you, it seemed only right to balance it with a laugh.”

“I was not angry.”

“Miffed? Disquieted? Distressed? Milkwater words. You would have cheerfully boiled me in oil for calling you a duty.”

“I wouldn’t have boiled you.”

“No, only imagined it with great relish.”

“I do have a vivid imagination. Mrs. Bannerby despaired of my controlling it.”

They grinned at each other. She liked the way his brown eyes glittered when he smiled. They seemed to get a caramel light.

He swept her a bow then straightened, tall and lean and handsome. “My apologies, Miss Lockhart. I will not again call you a duty.”

“To my face. You forgot to add that you will not call me a duty to my face.”

“Ah, I will not again call you a duty to your face.”

“Much better,” she approved as the door opened. Gregory Footman bore in the china tea service she had purchased yesterday. “Mr. Denby, do join me for tea.”

“I shall gladly do so, Miss Lockhart. I missed tea at the office and hoped you would offer it to a poor starving clerk.”

“Hardly starving. Hardly poor. I know the wage my papa pays you. And I doubt you ‘missed’ tea. You skipped it and came here because our tea is vastly superior to what Mr. Weathersby provides. We have sandwiches and biscuits.”

“Guilty.”

He accepted the plate of sandwiches she handed over. He bit into an herbed cheese sandwich and closed his long-lashed eyes as if in bliss. Connie briefly forgot the pot in her hand as she watched him enjoy his first sandwich. The teapot’s weight quickly recalled her. She poured her own tea quickly. The last thing she wanted was for Roger Denby to catch her staring. She placed a sandwich and a macaroon on her own plate then sat back to enjoy Cook’s talents.

“How are you doing?”

“Fulfilling your duty?”

“No. I do care, Miss Lockhart. You have been at school and may not realize how often Mr. Lockhart travels.”

“He did not go many places this summer.”

“In early fall we will make circuits of our stations. He is often away for a fortnight.”

“Leaving you in charge of the office as Evans is in charge of the house. I shall be fine, Mr. Denby. I do not need other people to amuse me, and I have friends who reside in London.”

“The giggling Wilton sisters.”

“Yes, but they are not here this weekend. They are at the country party my father attends. The grand estate of Eadings in Kent with the baron Bertram and others.”

“You should have gone with your father.”

She shuddered in sympathy for the hostess who had to cope with an unexpected female. “No, indeed I should not have. He was a last addition. I would have thrown Lady Bertram’s numbers off. Some hostesses are sticklers for that. Besides, I would severely hamper his chief purpose in hobnobbing with aristocrats. He is on a wife-hunt.”

“He is truly going ahead with that plan?”

“Do you have reservations?”

“He’ll be distracted from business for a long time. He is very much a hands-on boss.”

“I suppose that will depend on how long it takes him to find a suitable candidate who meets his criteria: noble, of good reputation, and willing to lower herself to marry a cit whose daughter has pretensions of entering great society.”

“There will also be the distraction of your debut in the spring.”

“Yes, but all will be well, for he has you, Mr. Denby. More sandwiches?” He held his plate, and she re-loaded it, adding two macaroons. She looked longingly for another one of her own but refused to add it to her plate. “Do you hate his plan of marriage?”

He shrugged. “It matters little to me except as it affects my work and my duties—including you,” he added with a grin. “Have you no reservations?”

Sipping her tea, she considered his question. “Only that he will stick to his criteria and settle for someone rather than try to find a true match. He will be tied to this woman for years. I do not want him to be unhappy.”

“As long as you also have your society debut in the spring.”

“Of course.” She bit into a macaroon.

View the Trailer here:  https://youtu.be/rht6hMctbGI

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Courting Trouble ~ Available Now

 

Publication on September 23

1925. Murder in New Orleans and Texas.

Money. Bribery. Sabotage. Fraud. Blackmail.

And a Hurricane.

Courting Trouble

Three Invitations from Death

3 Novelettes that are a Side Series to the Into Death Series

Spanish Moss ~ A Death, a Will, and a Way

“Poison” is one of the last words Nedda Courtland’s wealthy employer speaks in the hours before his death.

With no evidence of murder, she can only fulfill Mr. Ingram’s last wishes as the executrix of his will and wield her proxy to disrupt the negotiations with an oil company.

She never expects another murder.

Here’s the Opening to Spanish Moss:

https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2025/07/spanish-moss-opening-and-links.html

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Texas Sun ~ Method, Means, and Opportunity

The grime of a working oil field draws together people at odds with the summer heat and with each other.

In the heady flush of a new romance, Nedda tries to ignore the blazing tensions, yet troubling shadows have gathered.

Then Death makes his entrance, and the grim pressures erupt.

And the Opening to Texas Sun:

https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2025/08/texas-sun-opening-and-links.html

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Gulf Storm ~ Bribe. Conspire. Death.

A hurricane threatens to disrupt the wedding festivities of Nedda and Hank.

With the approaching storm are a whirl of human crimes, and an accusation of a past misdeed rages from the shadows.

Will the hurricane’s landfall shred Nedda’s dreams, or will Death wreak its lethal destruction?

And the Opening to Gulf Storm:

https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2025/08/gulf-storm-opening-and-links.html

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

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Gulf Storm ~ Opening and Links

 "Gulf Storm"

• A Novelette that continues the Courting Trouble series
• Publishes on August 23
• Pre-order Available Now!

Courting Trouble titles ~ "Spanish Moss", "Texas Sun", and "Gulf Storm"

Bribe. Conspire. Die.

A hurricane threatens to disrupt the wedding festivities of Nedda and Hank.

With the approaching storm are a whirl of human crimes, and an accusation of a past misdeed rages from the shadows.

Will the hurricane’s landfall shred Nedda’s dreams, or will Death wreak its lethal destruction?

Read on for the Opening to the Story. Links follow.

~ 1 ~

Nedda dangled her legs off the sun-silvered dock. Her toes grazing the water, she exchanged glances with the alligator floating yards away, its yellow eyes and armored crown skimming the surface.

She sat in tree-cast shade, on the edge of the blazing sunshine. Two bands of greyish clouds filled the southeast horizon. Birds barely sang through the heat. A heron crept forward on her right, the bank of the bay marshy there and filled with stiff cattails.

She didn’t look away from the `gator. Fresh in memory was its supper last evening, an unwary spoonbill. The frantic flapping wings before the alligator submerged to drown its victim still gave her chills.

A sweet soprano drifted over the bay waters. She leaned forward and spotted the canoe on the inland edge of Back Bay. Mr. Culpepper rowed while his wife in her wide-brimmed straw hat sang “Alice Blue Gown” to the silent birds. Nedda smiled, for her bridal gown looked like some depictions of that. Tomorrow evening she would wear the champagne gold frock. Pearl beads adorned the gossamer lace attached to the chemise bodice. Beneath a silk banded waist, the gossamer lace repeated in decorative scoops over the gathered skirt. The sheer lace and light silk were perfect this late summer season.

Bare feet struck the dock, coming toward her. The alligator sank. She lifted her legs onto the hot dock, the heat quickly drying her skin.

A lanky figure in a white shirt and baggy cut-off khakis dropped beside her. “You’ve missed another argument,” Colfax said.

Draping the pleated skirt of her tennis dress, Nedda wrapped her arms around her knees and scanned the youth. He’d changed over the summer, less skinny boy and more wiry young man. The sun had kissed his blond hair to flax and tanned his pale English skin. The weeks in west Texas had changed him mentally as well. Attempted murder of someone in a close circle had sobered his childish bents. His grandfather’s death in the late spring hadn’t really registered with Colfax until Rhode Tabbert was shot. His enthusiasm for pranks had vanished then.

She leaned her head on her knees, blocking the sun from directly entering her eyes. “Another argument?”

“You missed the one at breakfast?”

“I returned upstairs,” she reminded him. “I had to change. I didn’t think we would play tennis this morning.”

“Too hot for this afternoon.” He glanced at the Culpeppers. “Too hot for boating. This shade’s nice.” He stretched out beside her. “It’s as hot as it was in Oman.”

“Who was arguing this morning?”

“Same as who’s arguing now. Hank and Ray.”

“Two arguments in the same day?”

“Yep. And one yesterday. Makes me wonder if they’re truly friends.”

She eased out a breath, hunting a diplomatic way to relate her fiancé’s assessment of his old friend. “Hank did say Ray could be difficult.”

Colfax snorted. “Did Hank forget what difficult truly means?”

He had wisdom beyond his peers. Had traveling the world granted that discernment? Or had he aged in his scant two months at the Sacred Heart Academy? He was a stranger there, his classmates and masters completely unknown to him, the culture of a Catholic boarding school in northern Louisiana alien to an English prep-school boy.

A splashing caught her attention.

Mr. Culpepper was rowing out into the bay, avoiding the marshy bank to avoid tangling in the cordgrass and saltgrass and duckweed. Mrs. Culpepper leaned over the canoe, peering into the water.

This weekend would be a moneymaker for the Bells, owners and hosts of the Back Bay Inn. Nedda, Hank, and Colfax had arrived late Thursday afternoon. Waiting on the porch, watching them unload suitcases, was Ray Anderson, Hank’s best man. The men had attended university together. Their friendship deepened in war. Yet her whiskers twitched as she shook his hand, limp ice. His yellowed eyes and the heavy bags that sagged onto his sallow cheeks betrayed dissipation.

Ray sidestepped Hank’s question about his early arrival at the inn. In west Texas, a saboteur had avoided answers by asking more questions. Nedda learned from her late employer never to trust a man who wouldn’t answer a direct question.

Ray had then introduced them to his date for the wedding, one Pearl Lawrence, a brassy blonde whose scooped blouse and tight skirt displayed her assets. Hank had taken a deep hissing breath, but he held his tongue. “I work in Galveston,” Pearl announced then introduced them to her employer at the dance club, one Al Rogers, natty in a slim-fitting pin-striped suit with narrow lapels. Rogers offered a jolly smile that didn’t crinkle his eyes. A diamond flashed on his finger as he shook their hands.

Watching from the corner was the quiet giant “Mr. Jerry Phillips. He drove us. He was a boxer,” Pearl added, a bit of pride in her voice.

Mr. Phillips’ broken face testified to his years in the boxing ring. He wore a dark double-breasted suit that strained over his broad shoulders. He measured Hank and Colfax then dismissed Nedda with a single glance, not knowing her Webley weighted her fold-over clutch.

The first argument between Hank and Ray started at dinner. Ray claimed that Hank said he could bring a date; Hank declared that he’d never promised that. The petty dispute ended with the arrival of the dessert when both Mr. Rogers and Mr. Phillips vowed they didn’t expect an invitation to the wedding. “We plan to fish, isn’t that right, Phillips?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rogers.”

Silent throughout the argument, the Culpeppers shared over coffee in the parlor that they were happenstance guests. “We booked our cottage in May. We never expected a wedding. I’m excited about it.”

“Thank you. We hoped to have a small wedding,” she shared with the couple. “Hank found this inn when he came to Chambers County for his work.”

“You’re English,” Mrs. Culpepper gushed, and Nedda had to answer a multitude of questions about the royal family and the future monarch. Eventually, the woman asked the reason Nedda had chosen a wedding at the Back Bay Inn rather than in Houston.

“My only requirement for the wedding was tranquility. Hank promised that this was the perfect place. It is beautiful here by the bay, everything green and lush.”

Now Mr. Culpepper allowed the bay’s current to catch the canoe. It pivoted and skimmed toward the inland shore. His wife resumed her dreamy song, muted by a gust of wind.

Nedda returned to Colfax’s talk of arguments before her thoughts had distracted her. “What started the second argument? I saw the bruise on Hank’s cheek. I never expected fisticuffs.”

“What? Oh, that.” He stirred. The sun had cast over enough to burn his foot. Colfax levered up his leg and rubbed his reddened toes.

“You did bring up the arguments.”

He grinned and returned to his supine position. “Something about Texas Petroleum and Refining. I didn’t stay to listen.”

“But Hank receives a bruise on his cheek.”

“You should see Ray’s black eye.”

“I thought you left.”

“I stayed for the fisticuffs.”

“Is Ray with Texas P & R?”

“I don’t think so.”

The oil industry had more dry wells than gushers and mineral licenses that they let lapse, but the companies pumped vast amounts of cash into the pockets of its owners, investors, and workers. Nedda had worked with Hyatt Ingram, a global venture capitalist in petroleum, and she inherited enough shares in his company to stay abreast of the industry. In her home of England, the status line divided blue-blooded nobility from red-blooded workers. In Texas, that line divided the booming oil industry from everyone else. Background didn’t matter; oil did.

For its proximity to the famous Spindletop gusher, Houston had boomed, but the state’s entire east coast had had a roaring economy for over two decades. West Texas had lagged behind the east, but the Buzzard No. 3 well in Hartman County promised to kindle a boom out there.

Was his old friend Ray pushing Hank about Texas P & R? Did he have any fingers in the petroleum pie. If not, he would backpedal into obscurity while his friends rolled in black gold. Those friends headed here, a groomsman for Hank named Paul Jackson, married to Hank’s sister, and Boone Galvin, a war buddy who served as TP&R’s president.

Had Hank considered any of that when he asked Ray to be his best man? No. He remembered the war, when they had each other’s backs during battle, and he harked back to their college days, when their futures shone brightly.

One worked for the black gold. The other aimed for fool’s gold.

That drove Ray’s resentment.

“No doubt,” she offered mildly, “we’ll hear the reason for both arguments before dinner.”

Colfax grunted. He threw an arm over his eyes. “Let me nap, Nedda. Haven’t played tennis in months.”

The sun peeked through a wide arc of clouds and glinted on the bay waters. A dragonfly buzzed over the youth. He didn’t stir, and the flyer passed over. A spoonbill flew past, white wings widespread as it soared above the waves, restless as the tide came in. Oaks on the distant shore created a lush green backdrop. Nothing moved, the bay waters tranquil, a stronger breeze cooling the perspiration on her arm, all quiet and peaceful. The atmosphere she wanted for her wedding. After four years of global jaunts with her former employer Hyatt Ingram, this settled peace lured her.

Hank had known the perfect spot for their nuptials.

She closed her eyes and remembered the long drive here. Only in the last few miles had the land drawn her. Piney woods enclosed the hard-packed dirt of the road to the back bay area. A planked bridge crossed a little silver creek that separated the island from the country propre. Their tires had rumbled across the bridge, sending birds into the air at the unusual thunder. When the road swung away from the bay waters, the trees opened back to reveal the white-washed Back Bay Inn. Columns supported three stories of porches. A riotous garden bordered the front porch and framed wide steps. Nedda had sighed at the glory of star pentas, zinnias and salvia, backed with globe amaranth.

In the cooler shadows inside the inn, zinnias graced the check-in desk of the entryway while three bouquets decorated the long dining room table, open to the hallway. She discovered later that the host’s wife Mrs. Bell freshened the flowers daily while her two daughters-in-law ran the maids and the kitchen.

Bootsteps hit the planks of the long dock. She lifted her head and gave a smile to the younger of the Bell sons. “Hello, Eddie.”

Colfax stirred, proof that he hadn’t been asleep. He sat. “Going fishing in the twilight?”

Eddie grabbed the line for a dinghy bobbing alongside the dock and began towing it to shore. “Bringing the boats in. Storm’s coming from the Gulf.”

Wide bands of clouds swirled to the south, white and puffy in the outer bands, greying toward the southeast.

The wedding! “When is the storm expected?” Nedda rolled to her feet and brushed off her tennis dress.

“Landfall’s tonight or early Saturday. The wee hours.”

Landfall was an odd term to use for a storm.

“Will it be gone by Saturday evening?”

“Should be pushed through by then. Dad has better answers for you, Miss Courtland. I need to get these boats in.” He dropped into the water’s edge and began towing the red dinghy onto the bank.

“I’ll give a hand,” Colfax volunteered. “All these boats, Eddie?”

“All of them. Thanks for the help. We need to get them past the trees.”

The youth measured the distance from the dock, a good 30 feet although the bay’s bank was only six or so feet. “That’s high.”

“Might have a storm surge twice that. Grab this.” He tossed a rope to Colfax then reached for the blue dinghy nudged in the cattails at the bank.

Nedda waited until they had wrestled the blue dinghy up the bank then started for the inn.

An engine’s putter drew her attention to the road.

Bright yellow flashed through the piney woods then emerged. A new Cadillac Phaeton rolled slowly over the dirt so it didn’t stir up dust. Two people sat in the front seat, and Nedda added a spurt to her step to meet them at the inn.

The Cadillac stopped before the steps as the inn door opened. The senior and junior versions of the Bells came onto the porch. The engine cut. A man slipped out and headed around the hood as Nedda reached hearing distance.

“Welcome to the Back Bay Inn,” Mr. Bell said. “Junior, help them with their luggage.”

The man opened the passenger door. A woman slid out. Her hat came into view, a cream-colored cloche with a dark ornament. She wore a cream dress covered with polka dots. The man offered his hand then led her up the steps while Junior opened the trunk, American for boot. He lifted out a valise and two suitcases.

Mr. Bell ushered the couple inside. “My wife will assign your room. What’s that? Oh yes, they arrived late yesterday,” and Nedda realized who this couple had to be. “Mr. and Mrs. Paul Jackson” was the name she’d written on the envelope, but Mrs. Jackson was Hank’s sister Flo, and the man had to be his groomsman and work colleague Paul Jackson.

She bypassed the luggage and approached as the man bent to sign the desk ledger. “Florence Jackson?” she ventured, extending her hand. “I’m not quite certain where Hank is. I am Nedda Courtland.”

The woman turned. Only then was Nedda certain, for she looked upon a feminine version of Hank: tall, slender rather than lanky, with those startling blue eyes and high cheekbones. “Call me Flo.” Her handshake was firm but gentle and quick. She had Hank’s drawl, and humor sparkled in her blue eyes. “I’ll have words with my brother later. He is an atrocious correspondent, and his telegrams are worse. He never mentioned that you are English. Or how you met. Or the reason he didn’t bring you to visit. One telephone call from a god-forsaken place in west Texas, then in another call he’s tells me that he’s found his woman and she wants me to be her maid of honor.”

“Hartman County in west Texas,” Nedda supplied, “and it is god-forsaken. Less so now that oil’s come in.”

“Buzzard No. 3,” her husband added, joining their conversation.

“You men do not know how to name oil wells. Miss Courtland, this is my husband Paul.”

“Hello. Flo, I do regret that we had no time to visit. Until Monday we were in west Texas. Tuesday he spent at Texas P & R headquarters—.”

“Yes, Paul saw him there. And that’s all they did, see each other in passing.” She gave a wry grimace.

Her husband’s eyes twinkled. “He was in meetings with Galvin. I was meeting with our engineers.”

“Men have no accounting of what is most important. My brother’s fiancée is more important than test patches and drill samples! But Hank could have brought you to me on Wednesday.”

Nedda shook her head. “That was not at all possible. You see, I needed a bridal gown.”

“Oh, yes! What did you—?”

“Flo, honey, let’s delay this a bit,” her husband interrupted. “Once you start talking about the wedding, an hour will pass.”

“Oh, Paul! But I am that interested. An hour on the wedding, an hour on your first meeting with my brother, a third hour on his proposal. Give me fifteen minutes to freshen up, Nedda.”

“Would you like tea? Or lemonade? We can have it in the parlor.” She glanced to Mrs. Bell for approval.

That woman was avidly listening. She tapped the desk bell four times. “Lemonade and cookies, yes?”

“Perfect, Mrs. Bell.”

“Find that brother of mine,” Flo urged. “I need to bend his ear about the proper treatment of his bride.”

“Clarrie.” Mrs. Bell handed a key to her oldest granddaughter. “Second floor, Room H.”

As the Jacksons started behind Clarrie, Junior Bell came with a suitcase in one hand, a valise tucked under his arm, and a train case in his other hand.

Nedda leaned over the desk. “My key, please, Mrs. Bell. I should freshen up before tea with my future sister-in-law.”

“Lemonade and cookies will be waiting in the parlor when you come down, Miss Courtland.”

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

 Although the windows were opened to admit the breeze, the plantation shutters were closed, shadowing the parlor. The slats were angled to diffuse the light. Remembering dreary summer days of her childhood, Nedda gloried in the Texas sunlight, brighter than London’s had ever been.

The promised tray—with a pitcher, glasses, and a tray of cookies—rested on the coffee table before the lengthy Chesterfield sofa when Nedda reached the parlor, fresher through the swift use of soap, water, powder, and a slimming handkerchief frock with a diamond print. She entered as the sleek-suited Al Rogers swiped cookies from the tray.

At her appearance he smiled. His eyes still didn’t reflect anything. “Caught with the goods.”

“Please, help yourself to some lemonade, too. I can ring for more glasses. Mr. Phillips,” she knew he was there but she had to look over her shoulder to spot him in a dimmer corner, “do have some cookies. Do you want lemonade?” She rang the metal bell resting on the mantel. A crewel-worked bell pull hung to the mantel’s left, but she doubted it still connected to the servants’ call board. “Shall I bring you a plate of cookies?” She laded four onto a plate as she asked.

“No, ma’am. Miss. None for me, Miss.”

“A shame. These are lemon, too, I think. Quite refreshing in this heat, don’t you think so, Mr. Rogers?”

He dusted cookie crumbs from his fingers with an embroidered handkerchief. “Quite refreshing,” he echoed, mimicking her accent.

Nedda gave him a sharp look.

Mrs. Bell appeared. “These gentlemen would like lemonade and cookies as well, Mrs. Bell. Is that possible?”

While she shot a glance at Mr. Rogers, the older woman avoided looking at Mr. Phillips’ ruined face. “Of course, Miss Courtland.” She retreated, and in seconds they heard the desk bell ring out several times.

“A ring for each grandchild?” she mused aloud

“That would account for it. Did I hear you right, Miss Courtland? Your wedding is Saturday?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Rev. Thomas—he dined with us last evening—.”

“Before Ray Anderson stuck his oar in.”

“Um, yes? Rev. Thomas will perform the ceremony.”

“And Anderson’s still best man?”

“Yes.” Nedda elongated the word, her whiskers twitching again. She glanced at Mr. Phillips, but he remained stolidly stoic.

“Know what you’re in for, marrying an oil man?”

“I do not have on blinders, Mr. Rogers.”

“You like horseracing?”

The question almost seemed a non sequitur, but a wary whisker warned that it was not. “Steeplechases.”

“That’s where they jump.” He nodded. “Higher risk. Higher bets. Your bet must be pretty high on your man. He’s got secrets, though. My friend Anderson knows what they are. It’s dangerous when somebody knows your secrets. Even more dangerous when those secrets get shared with a loose-mouthed girl like Pearlie.”

Voices stopped him, then Flo entered the parlor, talking over her shoulder to her husband.

And Hank.

Hank was here, scowling when he caught sight of Al Rogers and Jerry Phillips. Does he know these two men from Galveston, or is he merely displeased at their presence in the parlor?

Nedda hated herself for wondering. Tomorrow she would marry Hank. Critiquing his acquaintances before she’d had more than a couple of hours in their presence seemed disloyal.

Mr. Rogers stood, buttoning the slim-fitting jacket with its bold pinstripe. “Good day to you, Miss Courtland.” He walked out. Jerry Phillips followed.

Flo cast herself onto the sofa. “Tell me everything! How you met my brother. When you met him. How he won your heart. How he proposed. When he proposed. When you decided on this weekend for your wedding. How you planned a wedding from all the way over in west Texas! And how you bought a bridal gown in one day. One day! I took weeks to decide on my gown. I want to know everything!”

Her husband groaned. “Beware, Miss Courtland. My wife will ask questions until she has all the answers.” He palmed several cookies. “Where’s your roadster, Hank? I didn’t see it.”

“Needed more space. I’m in the Packard Touring Car.”

“The green one? Nice. Come see my new Phaeton.”

Hank swiped a handful of cookies and left with Paul Jackson.

“How you met my brother,” Flo prompted. “When and where and how and why.”

Nedda launched into the story that began in New Orleans with poison and death.

She didn’t remember her conversation with Al Rogers until much later.

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