The Lion's Den

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?

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

The Lion’s Den is a brief novella set in London of the early 1920s with the Bright Young Things. The returned soldiers of the Great War have settled uncomfortably into their lives.

Although this story is not part of a series, Filly and Jack were originally introduced in the 2^nd book of the Into Death trilogy, Christmas with Death.

This title was formerly published with a different cover.

I offer this novelette as a freebie through my newsletter. You can join the M.A. Lee Newsletter to receive your free copy of this novella through a Book Funnel link. To receive the link, email winkbooks@aol.com 

Purchase links at below.

The Lion’s Den

I

Hell and damnation.

Jack Portman lifted the pint of stout to hide his face and watched Filly Malvaise look around the pub. That had to be her fourth look, just as blind as the previous ones. Not all of them would be blind.

He hadn’t forgotten her, not a single jot. She’d changed, though. Up with the times, in one of those head-covering hats, her hair bobbed. The loss of her long brown hair hit him like a punch. She wore a shapeless serge grey jacket over a dress. The skirt revealed her calves. That skirt almost made up for her cut hair.

Jack had spotted Filly as soon as she entered the pub. She had threaded her way through the early Wednesday evening crowd of clerks and office jobsmen and a light sprinkling of women. A small table in the center caught her eye, and she slid onto the rattan-backed chair. No sooner had she planted herself than a man placed his hand on the other chair. Jack wanted to hit him. Brown eyes wide, Filly gave a decided shake of her head. The man dragged out the chair anyway. Her gloved hand shot out in a warding gesture. Whatever she said wiped the grin off the man’s face. He rejoined his mates at a larger side table and mouthed a word. Looked like married.

Which Jack knew was an effing lie.

He might not have seen Filly Bedamned Malvaise for three years, but he’d listened for information about her. He’d known when she moved to London and took rooms from the widowed Cecilia Arkwright before she became the married Cecilia Tarrant. He knew she’d found work at a dress shop.

Jack watched her give an order to the barmaid. Her upturned face caught the lamp’s glare. When the maid departed, she looked around the pub.

Something troubled her. Whatever had brought her to his local. The Gold Eagle Pub was far from her flat and her work.

They were up to five looks, still blind.

Occasionally, Filly ran with the other Bright Young Things, the racy ones who jumped in fountains with her cousin Tori or the Bohemian ones who talked around paintings and sculpture with her cousin Greta. Tori and Greta ordered around anyone in their circles. Filly didn’t take their orders, which put her in the outer sphere, for all the blood connection.

He’d like her from the start, that Christmas at Emberley, the Malvaise estate—although her father was second son and had inherited only a modicum of wealth. Still, a modicum was more than Jack had. Filly hadn’t panicked when Tony Gresham turned up murdered. She hadn’t tried to interfere with the investigation. Plucky thing had stood up to her cousins’ interferences.

Jack had thought her too young. His years in the sodding trenches aged him, mental years rather than physical years. He had a need to earn his pay rather than live off the Malvaise family.

Filly Bedamned Malvaise wasn’t effing married, though.

The barmaid returned with two pints, one for Filly, one for whomever she’d come to meet.

Married.

Shite. How had he missed that news?

She sipped the beer and grimaced.

Jack should leave. He had an early day tomorrow. His job required a clear head, clear thinking and quick reactions.

He stayed to see who came to her table. He didn’t see Filly seeking out a pub on her own. She fit a tea room.

She unsnapped her purse and withdrew a lace handkerchief. She dabbed her pinkened mouth to remove the beer foam. Jack drank his stout while she rummaged in her purse. She drew out a man’s pocket watch and opened it to check the time. Then the watch and the hanky returned to the purse, and she snapped it shut. She expectantly watched the door where thugs monitored who entered the Gold Eagle.

A man bumped past Jack. The man didn’t bother to apologize, just headed around the bar.

Jack took one look at the mustached profile, the smashed nose, and round spectacles under bushy eyebrows.

Oh, hell no.

Boggs. Thaddeus Boggs, the arsehole. Filly wasn’t in debt to him, was she?

Boggs came from the back, employees only. That made Jack rethink his choice of local. The arsehole wrapped his thick fingers around whoever he could then squeezed and squeezed until they choked up whatever he wanted.

And he plonked down in the chair across from Filly Bedamned Malvaise.

Hell and damnation.

She didn’t smile. Jack would have cursed aloud if she had. She could have ruined all his dreams with one sweet curve of her pinked lips. But she didn’t smile at Boggs.

She frowned.

Boggs grinned. His tongue touched his upper lip as he listened. Then he shook his head. Whatever he replied widened Filly’s brown eyes.

Then Boggs wrapped his fat fingers around the pint and stood. His other hand swept out, an obvious gesture for her to precede him. She hesitated. Boggs said something short. Filly’s dislike couldn’t be mistaken, but she stood and looked over at the bar’s corner.

Right at Jack.

His nearly empty pint of stout still hid his face.

Yet she wasn’t looking at him. She spied the swinging door behind him and started for it. Boggs followed, enjoying the view he had of Filly’s legs in low heels.

She passed within inches of Jack. Boggs came right behind her.

And Jack intended to find out what shady business Filly had with a moneylender like Thaddeus Boggs.

He waited until the barkeep shifted down the bar to pour a cluster of pints. Then Jack slipped back the half-yard needed to step against then through the swinging door.

The shadowed hall lacked the yellow glaring light of the pub. Light streamed around the door directly opposite, a kitchen by the sounds leaking through. At the hall’s end was a heavy door with two locks, the side door. On the way down to it were two more doors. Pubside would be the coze, no longer in use. Opposite it, a little further along, was another door.

Jack tried the knob to the coze. It turned easily. The door swung into darkness, street lights shining through the windows, the bottom halves blocked by curtains so the people in booths had privacy. He left the coze door ajar and soft-footed to the opposite door.

Pale light streamed under the door. He heard Filly before he reached the door.

“—gone up? Why has the price gone up?”

“I said it does. Fair market price.”

“Fair?”

Hell and damnation. Why had she gone to a moneylender?

“Bidding war,” Boggs said.

“You had a deal.”

“Like I said then, one time offer. Gone now. Price went up. And up again.”

“What do you mean? What do you mean by bidding war?”

“Someone else wants it. They’ve offered more.”

“How much more?”

“I want £400. From you.”

“Four—? I don’t have that much. I brought the agreed price. I don’t think we can get more.”

“We can make that the down payment. Sweeten the deal.”

Jack didn’t like that oily insinuation.

“Sweeten it how?”

“You. Now.”

Jack reached for the door.

“Or her. Tomorrow night. All the night. Matter of fact, I like that idea more.”

“She won’t agree to that.” Filly’s voice shook, fear or rage. “And what guarantee do we have that you will not raise the price again?”

“That’s a chance you take. Like I said, he offers more, the price will go up and up.”

“You are a monster!”

Ah, Filly¸ Jack thought, Boggs holds all the best cards. Don’t make him take everything. He wondered who the other bloke was, offering more money to start a bidding war.

Boggs laughed. “She tell you to say that? Let’s see what she says after tomorrow night.”

“How much is he offering?”

“I told you.”

“No, you said our price had gone up to £400. How much is he offering?”

“£350.”

“Do you have his guarantee that he’ll pay £350?”

“What do you care? You can’t pay that.”

“I can—I can pay £325. I have that much. £25 more than what you agreed to. All of it, right now, a sure thing.”

“He offered £50 more.”

“You don’t know he’ll pay £350. You don’t know he’ll pay anything.”

“He wants it, maybe more than she does. He’ll come up with it.”

“But you have no guarantee. £325 now and everything in my hand, and we’re done. A certain thing, Mr. Boggs, versus a chancy thing later.” Silence descended. Take it, Jack prodded, take it. Filly broke the silence with “See? £325. All of it. Right now, Mr. Boggs.”

“Just one problem, Miss.” Boggs’ voice did sound regretful. “I don’t have the packet here.”

“Where is it? We’ll retrieve it.”

Don’t go with him, Filly.

Or maybe she should. Jack would follow. He would ensure nothing happened to her. He would force Boggs to follow through on the deal instead of discovering a way to crook her again.

“It’s in a safe place.”

“Then we’ll go there now. You will get your money. I will have the packet. And we’re done.”

“I got a couple more meetings.”

“After them, then.”

A pause while Jack reckoned the arsehole Boggs stared at the money she offered now and weighed up a guaranteed profit versus a chancy future, as Filly had pointed out.

She could drive a bargain for him anyday.

“How long before these other meetings are over?”

“Couple of hours.”

“I’ll wait then.”

“Out in the pub? You? Two solid hours?”

“To ensure we keep our deal current, Mr. Boggs.”

More silence, then the man said, “Tell you what.”

Here it comes. Hell and damnation. The arsehole was changing the deal on her again.

“Two hours gives you time to get her down here. You fetch her. You get her to hand me the money, and I’ll hand over everything. Or is she too good to dirty her hands with payment for her own problems? You get her down here. She gives me the money herself, and we’ll make it a round £300, as agreed. Save yourself £25. But I want to see her smiling as she hands me the money and I hand her the photographs and the negatives and those letters. That’s our deal. Good until midnight.”

“£300. Until midnight.”

“And her pretty hands giving me the money. Her pretty eyes looking into mine. Her pretty mouth saying ‘Nice doing business with you, Mr. Boggs.’ ”

“You keep adding things.”

“We can leave you out of it, if you want.”

“No. No, I’ll come with her. And I’ll thank you now, Mr. Boggs, for agreeing to my offer.”

Jack heard chair legs scrape on the wooden floor.

“Sure. Why not? I’ll get me £400.”

“What do you mean?” Filly sounded close to the door.

Boggs laughed. “She won’t come. Not her.”

“Yes, she will.”

“No. Or she would have come now. She got you to come for her, never caring what you might face.” He chuckled. “I’d lay a bet on it.”

Filly didn’t answer, and Boggs laughed again.

Jack backed into the darkness behind the door as it opened. It swung wide into the hall and shut with a thud. Filly paused a second then headed for the pub.

Jack caught her as she passed the door to the coze. He slipped an arm around her waist, the other around her shoulder, his hand covering her mouth. She stiffened then jerked. An elbow hit his stomach.

“Filly,” he hissed in her ear, her bobbed hair whispering against his lips. “It’s Jack.” He took his hand away, hoping she wouldn’t scream.

She remained rigid. “Jack?” Her voice was the barest breath.

“Jack Portman.” Did she forget me? He’d thought their connection at Emberley was strong, but maybe she hadn’t wanted to remember anything about that ill-fated Christmas party. They hadn’t met since. Work had consumed him for a solid year, then too much time had passed to re-introduce himself to her. He kept hoping to meet her at her cousins’ parties, but she must attend the ones he didn’t. They always just missed each other.

“Jack,” she repeated, but she became pliant. “What are you doing?”

“In here,” he said and guided her by the shoulders to the coze. He pushed her inside then shut the door with the faintest of clicks.

She stood in a puddle of light from the street lamps. She had turned toward him, but he could only see her dark silhouette against the windows.

“Over here.” He headed for a booth in the corner, away from the light, out of the line of sight from the door, protected from any passersby. He let her pick the side against the interior wall, facing the room and the windows. He crowded after her, jamming her into the corner and not caring.

She scooted inches away, and Jack followed, using his bulk and touch to break any barriers she wanted to throw up.

Her protest was only a muffled sound, then “How safe are we in this room?”

“Keep your voice low. No one uses the coze.”

She nodded. She glanced at the windows then leaned away to face him. “Jack Portman. What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here, Filly? What are you doing making deals with Thaddeus Boggs? He’ll crook you right, left, and sideways.”

Her shoulders sagged. “As I have discovered.”

“Well?”

Filly bought a few seconds by placing the so-valuable purse on the table. She rested her gloved hands on it. Her breath huffed out. “It’s secret, Jack.”

“Not so secret that Boggs is not looking for a higher bidder. Sounded like he had one.”

She flinched. “How did you kno—? How much did you hear?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“Then you know what a monster he is. He is going back on his deal with Daphne.”

“He’s an arsehole, no mistake.” She flinched at the curse word. “Apologies. I forget you’re gently born.” She waved a hand, as if the word meant nothing, and he knew that was a lie. He also knew that was a lesser word than most she heard from her own cousins. “Who is Daphne, the one he had the deal with?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“You’ll have to if I’m to get you and her back here before midnight.”

“Jack.” Her pale face turned to him, the faint light catching in her dark eyes and creating a gleam. “You can’t.”

“You’re not coming back here without me. No, Filly, listen. Midnight is four hours, nearly five. That gives Boggs too much time. He’ll set up problems for you both. He has guards here. Thugs. Ready for whatever he wants.”

“I didn’t see any guards.”

“Out in the pub. Watching. Two at the entrance. Probably one or two in the side alley. You come back with your friend and the money, and what’s to stop him from taking more? What’s to stop him from taking it now?”

She sat very still, barely breathing. “Jack, you don’t mean—?”

“You heard him. ‘You now’,” he spat, “ ‘or her. All night.’ Why else do you think he’s willing to take £300 as long as she pays it herself. He’s a sodding shite.”

This time she didn’t flinch. She rolled his words around. “You mean, when we return, he takes what he wants in addition to the money.”

“With no guarantee that he’ll turn over whatever is in that packet. I would guess whoever gave him that packet gave him the idea. Who is your friend Daphne?”

“Just a friend. Oh, Jack, I didn’t think it would be complicated to help. Dear God.”

He thought that was a prayer, not a curse.

“How did you know? About me? About Boggs?”

“This is my local. I saw you come in. Damn, Filly, you cut your hair.”

“That’s what you notice?”

“Hell no. Noticed a lot more than that.” He flicked the bobbed curl beneath the brim of her hat, and his finger brushed her cheek. “You cut it for your job?”

“Yes. They wanted someone au courant, you see. Wait. You know about my job? Jack Portman, are you keeping tabs on me?”

She didn’t sound outraged or shocked. Pleased, maybe. “Wasn’t hard, Filly. Your cousin Tori chatters about the whole family, everything Emberley and connected to Emberley, including your side of the Malvaise crew. At one party a season, I keep up-to-date.”

She fiddled with her purse. “Are you and Tori still an item?” Her posh voice sounded flat.

“Not since that Christmas. Before then, really.”

And she knew which Christmas he meant.

“I didn’t see you attend her parties when I came to London.”

“I was working. Still am, but it’s easier to make time to attend the occasional do.” He ran a finger under his tight collar. The effing Malvaise didn’t have to have jobs to pay their way. They took jobs to have something to consume their time. Never had he felt the distance between him and Filly Bedamned Malvaise than at this moment.

Right after he was demobbed, flooding into England with the rest of the trench survivors, he hadn’t cared about any distance between him and the upper crust. He drank and danced and—well, more, all for the sensation of life. He took whatever he found, drunk on dissipation for months.

One night too many, with the sun making the world from black to grey, he dragged himself home. He had drowned himself in cocktails to forget the war … until the money ran out.

He dried himself out that December and January. In February he kept a headache; that’s when Filly came to London. He pawned his medals and played on his former colonel’s sympathies to get a job. Until he could afford digs again, he slept in the garage. But Filly didn’t need to know that.

“Look, we need to get to your friend, whoever she is, to make Boggs’ deadline.”

She gave him her profile. Pretty profile it was, too, all sharp angles, pert nose and decided chin. “I know two places she may be. A third, if we run late. She didn’t want to come here. She hates Boggs.”

“Friend that she was, she sent you,” his words making clear his view of that friendship. “And she’ll have to deal with him now—or lose this chance.”

“Will you come with us?”

“Filly. I’m not letting you come back here alone.”

“Then we better go. Can we leave without going back through the pub? You said he had guards out there. I want you to be a … surprise to him.”

He grinned at that.

“And we’ll need to change.”

“What?”

“Where we’re going—well, Jack, you will need a better shirt front and evening jacket. And then it’s a long trek from here to where she’ll be.”

Party, he realized. “What about you?”

“Hat, shoes, then I’m ready.”

A woman who dressed that rapidly was after his own heart. He’d known that about Filly for three years.

Why did I leave it so long?

“I can shorten the time,” he offered. “I’ve got an auto. Access to one.” He didn’t clarify.

She gripped her purse and scooted, but Jack didn’t move on the bench.

“Filly, you certain?”

“I committed to helping Daphne. I will help her.”

“Daphne?” The name came to him, then. He felt a fool for not placing it earlier. “Daphne Leicester.”

“Do you know her?”

Jack slid out of the booth. This was an effing shite storm. Daphne Leicester was one of many who had filled his first months after the great powers hauled him out of the mud-filled trenches, before he fell in with the Malvaise set and before he dragged himself out of the liquid trenches and began re-making his life. That first wildness after demobbing had left him. For Daphne’s set, the Bright Young Things, they only became wilder as the years passed.

He gripped Filly’s hand. He reckoned the next few hours would be the last ones she’d let him anywhere around her. “Keep quiet. We’ll leave through the kitchen.”

“Those guards will still see us.”

“Better than the pub, sweetheart.” Curse his tongue for slipping in the one word that had haunted him since that ill-fated Christmastide party three years before.

He’d take what he could this evening before Daphne’s recognition blew everything sideways.

Trailer https://youtu.be/qbx47Cmm7UY

Trailer audio of first scene https://youtu.be/_q5OgMIkUSQ

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08V4YNH34

https://books2read.com/u/47gQeE

 

The Key with Hearts

 In the midst of February’s frigid temperatures, I longed for the warmth of Spring. In August I shall be longing for the return of February.

Writing echoes these contradictory thoughts. We see the next new things as better, then a happy happenstance reminds us that the earlier is still great.

This year began with celebrations of a new venture, into the subgenre gothic suspense. Now we’ve reached the novel for April, and I’m reminded that The Key with Hearts, written in 2019, might be considered the actual starting point for that new venture.

The Key with Hearts has several classic gothic tropes: 1] the brooding hero, 2] the heroine that no one believes, 3] hidden mania, 4] unknown motives, and 5] a marriage based on convenience rather than love. It lacks the classic ghost and dangerous ruins.

The novel has the sensibility of the vintage romantic suspense that spanned 1955-1975. Before I started writing KwH, I had just re-read a favorite from my teenaged years: Victoria Holt’s The Shivering Sands. The old paperback tinged KwH’s atmosphere.

You can read the first chapter below the book description and links!

Married for money, not for love.

A convenient marriage inconveniently causes murder.

Six months ago, Beth Corbett married Greville Myers. Her money saved his estate. His nobility raised her station. The couple have achieved an uneasy relationship, tepid and uncomfortable.

Then Beth is nearly killed in a failed attempt at murder. Who wants her dead?

§  The woman who had expected to marry Greville?

§  The mother-in-law who hates her?

§  Someone unknown?

§     Or her husband? Does he want to keep her money and marry the woman he loves?

•       Who can Beth trust?

When the murderer strikes again and injures someone by mistake, how can Beth discover the truth? Or will she be the next victim?

The novel is available in paperback and ebook at these worldwide retailers:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07PBYZ9XZ

https://books2read.com/u/mvZrA2

View the Trailer here = https://youtu.be/JyDlvYQf8ow

Chapter 1

Friday, 3 September

Myers Montford manor and estate in Wiltshire, England

The little dog nosed along the edge of the bricked planters. His white tail wagged, excitement quivering through his whole body. He sniffed at every speck, dirt and leaf and twig. Brightly colored ribbons, tied tightly together to create a long leash, trailed over his back and the terrace’s paving stones.

His sniffing increased. He growled. His short nose swept across the slate-colored pavers. He retreated several steps as he tracked the scent, then followed it back to the grass. The clipped grass tickled his nose. He strained against the ribbon leash as he dug at the stones, as if the pavers were the edge of a cairn hiding a vicious rodent. Then his head popped up. Ears pricked forward. Dark eyes stared at the high hedge with its thick branches of boxwoods.

He glanced behind him at the woman holding one end of his tether. They had ended their walk by traversing the maze. Throughout their tour of the garden, she seemed distracted, barely attending to his tugs on the leash. Now her gaze focused on the drive that swept from the parkland. The gravel turned into a gentle curve as it approached the manor’s forecourt. The little terrier sniffed the air. Then he lunged forward.

The leash held him back. He strained against it then lunged again, but his paws didn’t find grass beneath him. His claws scrabbled on the pavers. He barked.

“No,” the woman said and hauled back on the leash. “No, Sparky. We don’t want another Incident with the Gardener.”

Sparky whined. Incidents with the Gardener meant running and digging, shouts and a game of chase that left him lying on cool grass, panting to cool off, and being carried back to the house by his mistress.

Liza chuckled. “Come, Sparky.”

He pranced back, his white patches gleaming against the brown and tan. She drew in the ribbon leash. When he pawed at her day gown, she picked him up and snuggled him close.

Sparky wiggled. He wanted down. He tolerated her snuggles, but he wanted to explore and dig and sniff out new adventures.

Liza felt the same way. Like Sparky, she often found herself restricted to the great manor, her activity confined to a Sparky-less stroll through the garden and maze, her curiosity limited to learning the people of Myers Montford and the village of Wellesbourne Montford. She had assumed none of the duties expected of the new wife of the lord of the manor. Her mother-in-law refused to cede even the pouring tea when the local families came to visit. After the business of her former life, Liza felt redundant.

Even the dinner parties hosted by the Myers offered her no enjoyment, for she barely knew their guests. And they watched her with avid eyes, eager to find mistakes by a commoner whose only grace was the wealth she brought into the marriage. Her adventures were staid rounds of visits to the sick and needy of the estate, monitored by her husband’s sisters who reported to their mother, that great lady who refused to call herself the dowager.

Liza sighed into Sparky’s coat. “I am bored,” she whispered to the little terrier. He wiggled about, trying to give kisses then settled for licking her hand.

Liza stared again at the long drive with its neat edging.

When she’d come out with Sparky, a gardener had raked the gravel disturbed when her husband rode to the village. The gardener ignored her and continued his work until he removed the last trace of her husband Greville Myers’ passage.

The whole estate was like that. Liza understood the need for everything in its place. Her own home, equal in size to the Myers Montford manor, had followed a strict routine and returned anything displaced immediately to its proper position. On her rounds carrying food and medicines to anyone sick or enfeebled, she saw well-tended fences, neat pastures and fields, all of which pleased her. The garden itself, allowed to decay at the fringes, had spent the summer months being restored.

Her husband had needed the marriage settlements she brought with her. He plowed the money back into the manor and estate. She had expected evidence of years of mismanagement, but only roofs and a few buildings needed obvious repairs. On the day she reached the estate, a month after their marriage, he hadn’t appeared, leaving the greeting to his mother and sisters. He had no excuse, for Liza had announced her arrival with a note sent on the previous day. Instead, he chose to oversee repairs to a mucked-up irrigation weir. Liza understood the demands of an estate.

Yet his absence still hurt.

Without him there as the bridge, greeting his mother and sisters had quelled her spirit. Their stiff welcome was no more than any visitor would have received.

Six months married, and she still barely knew her husband. Five months in residence at the manor, and she still felt like a visitor. “How long will everyone stare at me, Sparky?” Were they waiting for the wealthy but decidedly middle-class bride to prove they should continue to look down their noses at her?

“When age or death or—or something else removes me from the estate, what then, Sparky? Will they rake out my passage just like that gardener? Will anyone ever know I lived here?”

The terrier wiggled and squirmed.

Liza set him down. He bit the leash, but the hastily tied ribbons withstood his sharp teeth.

“You would miss me, wouldn’t you, Sparky?”

Busily biting a red ribbon, he ignored her, and Liza laughed at her silliness. She’d woken with a maudlin displacement. Something was wrong at Myers Montford. Is that something me?

To prevent another Incident with Mr. Potts the gardener, she had created the leash so she and Sparky could escape outside and thus avoid her in-laws. For two hours this afternoon she listened to Mrs. Myers describe in detail her plans for the upcoming fête to the sycophantic Victoria Pethbridge. The next hour she helped Cassandra select silks for a petit-point chair cover while Clarissa mulled over her watercolors. Liza desperately wanted this fresh air and sunshine.

Their walk successfully avoided another Incident with the Gardener, yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave the terrace. Sparky tugged at the ribbons . “You need a proper leash. Tomorrow, I promise, we’ll explore the gardens and the maze again.”

His tail wagged at the promised treat.

Liza crossed her arms. Lifting her face to the warm sun, she closed her eyes and tried to drift like a tuft of dandelion. Her thoughts spun, though, like a maple seed, whirling round and round.

The distant crunch of horse hooves on gravel opened her eyes.

The rider lifted a hand. A wide-brimmed hat hid his features, but she recognized the horse, her husband’s sorrel hunter, raw-boned but with a speed she envied.

Liza waved then wished she hadn’t displayed so much enthusiasm. She felt his gaze until he disappeared, following the drive around the house to the stables.

Did Greville question their marriage as she did? Did he have regrets? She couldn’t ask that. Except for his once-a-week visits to her chamber, they never met alone. They were husband and wife yet still strangers to each other.

Not for the first time she remembered the last Christmas party at her home in Sheffield. Gilbert Meaney had teased her with the suggestion that they elope. She had laughed and shaken her head. His apparent relief proved he wasn’t serious. With her mother ensconced upstairs and her grandfather in London, he’d dared to kiss her, but he hadn’t proposed again.

Then her grandfather returned, stuffed with pleasure because he’d found a husband for her, a gentleman who would elevate his own status. With a half-dozen mills churning out cloths and taxes for Britain, he wanted more to show for his efforts than coin. “No title but a blue-blood,” he boasted. “As noble as they come.”

She’d stared in horror as her fanciful dreams crashed around her.

Sparky whined then began barking. He strained at the leash. Nose to sky, he tugged at the leash then began hauling back, straining away from her.

“Sparky, what’s wrong, boy? Whatever has disturbed you?”

Liza knelt, trying to soothe him, but he bounded to the length of his leash. He continued to strain, planting his feet and scrabbling at the pavers. The barking stopped, replaced by a low growl she’d never heard before.

“Sparky! No!”

He lunged. The leash caught him. Like a rampant lion on a shield, he pawed at the air.

Movement caught her eye. Liza stepped toward the little dog and towed on the leash, but she glanced at the glass doors that gave access to the side rooms.

A dark shape moved behind the glass panes. The sun’s glare kept her from seeing more than shape.

The terrier gave a mighty lunge. The ribbon leash broke, and he plunged into the grass.

Liza sprang after him. She had to catch him before he dug up more of Mr. Potts’ plants.

A crash shook the ground. Stone fragments peppered her.

She whirled around.

Rubble and dirt with bright red geraniums and their green petals lay scattered over the pavers. The remains of a urn had shattered on the terrace. The mass of dirt covered the stone slab where she’d stood.

Exactly where she’d stood.

Where it would have crushed her. She recognized the urn, one of the large decorative planters that adorned the low parapet surrounding the manor’s roof. Mr. Potts and his boys had planted and nurtured the red cranesbill throughout the summer. “Six urns front and back, and six more each side,” she could hear Mrs. Myers say. “Mr. Potts plants them to my specifications each year. This year we have the species geranium.”

The world edged black.

Something whined and pressed against her leg.

Liza blinked.

Sparky whined and pawed at her skirt. She scooped him up and hugged him close. He had barked and fought the leash, trying to get her to move. Had he known the urn would fall? Had he seen it teetering?

“Smart dog! Oh, smart little dog. I love you!”

He wriggled and wanted to escape her arms.

Eyes still on the urn that would have killed her, Liza set him down but grabbed the much-shortened leash. The fall had destroyed the bright flowers and the urn’s graceful shape. She looked up, but the bright sun blinded her.

How had the urn fallen?

The novel is available in paperback and ebook at these worldwide retailers:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07PBYZ9XZ

https://books2read.com/u/mvZrA2

View the Trailer here = https://youtu.be/JyDlvYQf8ow

Perils in Lace and Hard Iron / Duology

 March is a month of transitions: winter into spring, cold into warmth, snow & ice into rain & more rain.

How did your March begin? Into like a lion, so it will leave like a lamb? Or in like a lamb, to roar out like a lion?

This year began with a celebration of a new novella venture, into the gothic suspense subgenre. January introduced the year with The Dark Lord while February added The Bride in Ghostly White to my new venture.

March focuses on the duology of those two novellas, offering them in paperback as well as ebook. This will be the only paperback version of these works.

Herewith Perils in Lace and Hard Iron.

Everyone knows there’s no such thing as ghosts. Someone needs to tell the ghosts.

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

The Dark Lord ~ A Regency Gothic Mystery

Something strange is driving servants from Feldstone Grange. Elizabeth Fortescue is too desperate to reject the offer of housekeeper, and Baron Harcourt is desperate to fill the position.

On her first night at the Grange, Elizabeth encounters two ghosts. One is the well-known Silent Lady. The other ghost persists in haunting 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? Or will the second ghost’s increasing hauntings drive her away?

Or lead her into death?

. ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ .

The Bride in Ghostly White ~ A Victorian Gothic Mystery

When Enid’s beloved cousin died while riding, she didn’t believe the simple tragic words of an accident.

Seeking the truth, she disguises herself as a lady’s companion to enter the household at Derlaston Manor.

Rumors do not just tell of trouble after the wedding of her cousin to the eighth Baron of Derlaston. Enid also learns of the baron’s need for money, of his late father’s unlucky death while riding, and of a mysterious mistress at the estate when her cousin died.

A black-haired vagabond lurks in a nearby woodland.

And a ghost haunts the manor, a ghost who looks very like Enid’s cousin.

Did the baron commit murder? Or one of his family? Or that mysterious vagabond?

The ghost knows … but the ghost isn’t telling.

Find the duology at these links:

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G2TNSCNC

Zon paperback https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G3WW9MX4

Books 2 Read https://books2read.com/u/3yjMBJ

Trailer https://youtu.be/S30xkJH4phk

The Bride in Ghostly White

Early in 2025, I was struggling to write fiction while juggling interviews and episode creation for The Write Focus podcast. Finally, I threw up my hands in defeat and dropped the fiction to concentrate on episodes.

When things with the podcast settled down, I should have returned to that novella I had started, but I had a bad feeling about it. I left it to pursue the novelettes that became Courting Trouble, the 1920s mystery trilogy, published last summer.

Finishing Courting Trouble in September meant I should return to that fictional novella. Starting from the first page, I found a great story hiding in repeated scen
es and swirling disconnections, all evidence of the chaos that was late January, February, and March. I revised and wrote new scenes and jerked out the disconnections. Before I knew it, I was a chapter from the end.

The Bride in Ghostly White published October 31, a fitting time for a Victorian gothic mystery with murder and a ghost.

Read below for the 1st Chapter.

Who murdered Enid’s wealthy cousin? The ghost isn’t telling.

When Enid’s beloved cousin died while riding, she didn’t believe the simple tragic words of an accident.

Seeking the truth, she disguises herself as a lady’s companion to enter the household at Derlaston Manor.

Rumors do not just tell of trouble after the wedding of her cousin to the eighth Baron of Derlaston. Enid also learns of the baron’s need for money, of his late father’s unlucky death while riding, and of a mysterious mistress at the estate when her cousin died.

A black-haired vagabond lurks in a nearby woodland.

And a ghost haunts the manor, a ghost who looks very like Enid’s cousin.

Did the baron commit murder? Or one of his family? Or that mysterious vagabond?

The ghost knows … but the ghost isn’t telling.

Links

Amazon   https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FWD67JNC

Books 2 Read https://books2read.com/u/49gqep

1st Chapter

The rain stopped drumming on the passenger box as the carriage negotiated the sharp turn from rutted road to smoother drive.

It rolled on. The mud-covered wheels flung mucky mire onto the sides of the carriage. When she no longer heard the clumps of dirt, Enid gave in to curiosity. Derlaston Manor must be near.

“A monstrosity of a manor,” her cousin Neris had named it in her last letter.

Enid lifted the heavy drape that had blocked the rain and mud.

The day looked as dreary as it had when the coachman had met her at the Lock and Key Posting House. A long grassy sward followed a gentle slope to a reed-surrounded pond. White flowering phlox drooped after hours of rain. Looking in the direction of the village, she saw dense trees, towering hardwoods mixed with understory trees.

The carriage turned with the drive, and the roofs of low-bricked buildings came into view, separated from the lawn by a painted fence. Horses grazed beyond the white-painted planks.

The drive turned more. The carriage wheels crunched as they rolled over rain-stained gravel, and Derlaston Manor entered her view.

Sunlight broke through the purpled clouds, but it didn’t grace the manor.

Greystone quarried from their own land, Neris had written, and the Benthams proud that their own stone had built such a solid house.

Solid was the only grace the manor had. The rain had washed the granite to charcoal. A brutish Gothic tower centered the long building. Four pinnacles cornered the tower, and matching pinnacles repeated above the massive entry that centered the main building. The wings had repeated bays of a window triad, tall and iron-braced, painted a sagey green that the rain had also darkened. Panes on top of panes would admit sunlight—if ever the sun cast its warm gleam upon the manorial pile. The cost of glazing alone would be prohibitive.With an ornate façade more imposing than welcoming, no wonder Neris had called the manor a monstrosity.

Her cousin had loved the clean lines of Neoclassical architecture. She must have wept internally when first she saw her grotesque new home, all gothic flamboyance without the open symmetry of the Rational era.

The carriage slowed as it turned onto the gravelled court before the entrance. Enid Travers, she reminded herself and touched her plain bonnet, ensuring her hair remained tidy underneath. I am Miss Travers of London, lady’s companion and never anything more. She tugged on her gloves then drew her cloak around her, the black color matching the gloom of the gothic manor and reminding her of Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto.

She didn’t seek supernatural interventions. She hunted a murderer.

The carriage jolted to a stop.

The box door jerked open. A man in dark green livery turned down the step.

Enid paused as she leaned out of the carriage. “I believe there’s a mistake. I am Miss Enid Travers, to be companion to the Dowager Lady Derlaston.”

“No mistake,” the footman said.

“But the servant’s entrance—.”

“No mistake,” he repeated. “The rain will start again soon, Miss.”

She accepted his hand and stepped down.

A second footman carried her bandbox through the entry, two paired doors of rain-washed oak, high and arched. Time had worn away the finer details of the carved shield serving as the keystone of the arch tip.

“Go on, Miss,” the footman urged then turned to accept the valise that the coachman tossed down.

“My trunk—.”

“Redger will carry it in from the back.”

Rain peppered down, destroying Enid’s hesitation. She hastened inside.

The deluge resumed. The footman closed the massive doors, shutting out the rain and blowing wind.

Enid stopped a few steps within the cold entry hall. A grand staircase of marble and ebony wood fronted her while dark panels covered the surrounding walls. Light came from a few dim sconces and highlighted the paler paints in time-darkened portraits. The painting of an austere man in Puritan lace captured her attention.

“Welcome to Derlaston Manor, Miss Travers.”

The warm voice countered the chilled hall, and she turned toward it.

A man of her age stood beside the staircase, in the opening to a shadowy hall that she hadn’t noticed. Though dressed as somberly as she, his smile reinforced his voice’s warmth. Hand extended, he approached. Candlelight burnished his blond hair and highlighted his sharply-cut features. “I am Ambrose Welloughbey, secretary to Lord Derlaston. I hope your journey was not too tedious. The agency noted that you were eager to leave London.”

The words harbored a question. Derlaston Manor’s slow country life would contrast sharply with London’s hubbub. Enid offered a smile of her own. “While my working life is recently based in London, I spent my early years in the countryside. London’s coal-grimed streets do not attract me. I miss green fields and wildflowers and singing birds. I am fortunate in my positions, for I am often in rural locales. In my last position I was three years abroad, traveling with a youth on his grand tour.”

“London’s constant busy-ness is certainly off-putting. Where did you spend your childhood?”

“Wales.” The word was no sooner spoken than Enid wished to recall it. She had intended to keep that part of her background unspoken. She must be cautious with every word.

“Our late mistress was from Wales,” he responded with sharp attention, making the connection she had hoped to avoid. “Welsh is not in your accent,” he continued.

“The late mistress?” Her emphasis would hopefully distract him.

“Yes, the late Lady Derlaston was Welsh. Neris Griffiths. Did you know her or her family?”

“No, I’m not familiar with that family name,” she had to lie. “Griffiths? We did have a Griffiths near our home village. One of those unpronounceable village names impossible to spell.”

As if expecting someone to descend, he glanced up the grand staircase. “Lady Derlaston is missed.”

Enid quickly jumped on the additional opportunity to distance herself from Neris. “Did she pass away recently?”

He shook his head. A lock of blond hair fell over his brow, and he impatiently thrust it back. “A riding accident late last year.”

She murmured the expected platitude even as she remembered how Neris had stuck to the saddle like a burr. Multiple jumps and rough terrain never unhorsed her cousin. “A hunting accident?” she added, hoping to snatch more information omitted from the lawyer’s letter to Uncle Griffiths. Here was Enid’s strongest suspicion about Neris’ death.

“She fell from her horse as she jumped over a brook.”

A brook? Enid tried to mask her incredulity. That explanation was senseless. A brook would be a slight hop for a tall hunter. Neris would have ridden one of the best horses in the stable, not a clod that landed in a shallow brook. Yet all Enid could say was “A tragedy for you all.” In her ears, that reaction sounded flat and callous.

“A double tragedy. She had announced only the night before that she expected the new heir. I had only just taken my position here. The former secretary, Mr. Hollister, knew her well. He was devastated. I believe the village still talks of the accident. The baron, however, does not often reference his late wife, and those of us here respect his wishes. Lady Derlaston’s death is not for idle gossip.”

That warning struck Enid more deeply than the shock of the new information.

“Now, I am remiss. You will wish to refresh yourself before you meet the Dowager. I must warn you,” Mr. Welloughbey’s smile flashed out, belying his warning, “she is eager for your arrival. James, will you escort Miss Travers to her chamber? When you are refreshed, come here again. I will introduce you to the Dowager.”

Enid controlled her jumble of emotions. “Thank you. I would not wish to meet any employer, however eager, in all my travel dirt.”

“Based on the glowing references we received from the hiring agency, I am certain all your employers are eager to meet you. James, if you will.”

“Yes, Mr. Welloughbey.”

He saluted her then returned through the side hall, his steps regular and assured.

She followed James up the grand staircase, desperate to sneak glances at the architecture and décor, landmarks that would help her find her way in the impressive manor.

At the first-floor landing deep burgundy draperies covered the tall windows, creating a shadowy gloom. The matching carpet with its paler flowers had faded and thinned. A grand clock centered the landing. Portraits decorated the interior paneled walls, this time lit by silver sconces. They depicted Tudor and Medieval men and women, this veiled lady displaying a large pearl set in a ring, that man with a pointed beard wearing a purple hat on his golden locks. The corridor stretched down the center of the manor, with deep chambers on either side. The landing split the house into two wings, and the footman pointed out the family wing.

The stair climbed on, but the footman said, “Servants’ stair,” and hooked a finger in a waist-height hole to open the door. The servant’s staircase was well-lit with sconces at each tight turn of the stairs. James didn’t look around when she hesitated, and Enid hurried to catch up. The servants would know her expected station in the manor. Apparently, she was to cross back and forth between family and servant realms.

They climbed a tight, steep flight where he pushed open another door, revealing the second story landing. From the landing, running front to back, she spotted two central corridors branching off into each wing, doubling the number of rooms available. The rooms would be smaller, without the depth of those on the first floor. Rain washed down the glazing, turning the outdoor view to a blur. These unlit walls were painted, and the windows had no drapery. The rug was a mere runner over darkly painted planks. Only sconces lit the corridors.

The staircase continued upward, but they did not. The footman turned into the front corridor which was above the family wing. The windows on his right admitted the only light. He pushed open the sixth door of the hall and carried in her valise and bandbox.

Her trunk had already arrived and steamed on the rag rug before the lit fireplace, already heating the room.

Although small, the chamber was larger than she expected. A narrow tester bed with dark green curtains dominated the space. Similar curtains covered the window, open now to overlook the gardens and distant woodland. The only furniture was a wardrobe, a table and hard wooden chair, a washstand with basin and pitcher and mirror, and an upholstered chair near the bed, separated from it by a little table centered with an oil lamp.

James left even as her word of thanks dropped from her lips.

When the door shut she allowed a gasp to escape. The lawyer’s letter had told her uncle and herself little about Neris’ death, just the bare information of when she would be interred in the family crypt at the ruins on the edge of the village. Her uncle had been too ill to attend. Enid veiled herself with heavy black lace and arrived minutes into the funeral ceremony at the parish church. She had walked behind the procession to the cemetery and stood at the edge of the sacred ground while her cousin’s silver-adorned black coffin was carried into the granite tomb marked with the name Bentham. She left on the next train.

Ambrose Welloughbey had surprised her with Neris’ newly announced pregnancy and the exact means of her death.

Had she lived, Neris would have recently delivered that baby, the heir, ninth Baron Derlaston. Or a little girl with dark curls like her mother.

Now Enid had an even greater incentive to discover the whole truth about her cousin’s death.

Vitally important was that no one discover her identify. She could not lose this opportunity.

Neris had married Theodore Bentham, the eighth Baron Derlaston, while Enid’s tutoring position had taken her abroad. That part of her story wasn’t a lie. She had returned to England only a week before Neris’ tragic demise.

The lawyer’s letter, granting her a portion of Neris’ remaining inheritance and containing too little facts, had precipitated her vow to find the truth hidden within his sparse words.

That plan needed months to set in motion. It also needed the complicity of her mentor Miss Boniface, who ran her employment agency with a steely gaze and an iron hand. On Miss Boniface’s advice, Enid used her mother’s maiden name. She brought nothing to betray her connection to Neris, only Grandmother’s locket with its matching drawings of Neris and Enid, captured in the months before Neris was launched into society and Enid left on that extended grand tour. In Miss Boniface’s safe-keeping were Enid’s most precious possessions, Neris’ letters sent before and after her marriage, dwindling closer to the end.

The plan’s success or failure would be on her shoulders.

I will not fail.

Grief must not consume her, not now.

Yet it flooded through her. Neris, here, alone. Expecting a child. Dying mysteriously. Enid had to steel her heart.

A peg near the wardrobe would hold her cloak, but it remained wet from the journey. She draped it over the hard chair to dry. Delving into the valise, she set about repairing the depredations from the long journey, the hours on the train, a lunch at the Posting House while rubbing elbows with all sorts, and a jouncing ride in the carriage. She rescued the valise’s contents from the wet that had soaked through the thick tapestry cloth and placed them on the table. The valise’s interior was good leather, protecting its contents, and she quickly unpacked into the wardrobe. The trunk would have to wait until this evening.

Her gown had survived the day of travel, with only the hem soaked. Its black color would hide the wet. A high-crowned bonnet had protected her hair. She tucked a few loose strands back into the chignon. Then she turned to the trunk, unlocking it with a key. The rain hadn’t reached inside. She had no other reason to delay.

She chose to take the grand stairs rather than the servants’ stair. Footsteps soon caught up to her.

“I’ve never seen you here.”

Enid placed a hand on the banister before she looked around.

A chill swept over her. Bright green eyes had a rakish glitter that aged the dark-haired man. He stopped on her step and flashed a winning smile that would have set many hearts to racing. Although she was of an age with him, she distrusted him on sight. She tried to reject her immediate dislike.

He chuckled as she remained silent. “I know who you are. My grandmother’s new companion. What is your name?” He snapped his fingers. “Trapping. Traggen. Travers. That’s it, Travers.”

“You are before me, sir, for you know my name, but I am not acquainted with yours.”

“That we must remedy, for we will encounter each other daily.” He sketched a bow. “Captain Nicholas Bentham, at your service. You will certainly enliven the ancestral pile.”

She primmed her lips. A younger lady might have giggled, flattered by his attention and his deprecating words about the impressive manor. She continued down the stairs, crossing around to the next flight.

“You do not think you will enliven our existence, Miss Travers? Trust me, we are heartily weary of each other here. A new face, especially a pretty new face like yours, is a welcome addition.”

Flattery again, with no reason except future persuasion. As a woman earning her own way, Enid distrusted flattery designed to soften her defenses.

Mr. Welloughbey was not present. A footman was, not James, but wearing the green livery of the house. Enid stopped to wait.

“Coming?” Capt. Bentham asked.

“My apologies, sir, but no. I was asked to remain here by Mr. Welloughbey.”

“That old prose. No spark in him. Well, your loss, Miss Travers.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his loose houndstooth jacket and strolled away.

Enid glanced at the footman who studiously looked over her head.

The delay gave her a chance to ponder Capt. Bentham’s words. His flattery she ignored. She wasn’t here for romance. As a companion, she would live between the status of family and servant, belonging to neither realm. She’d taken this position for that reason. Her cousin’s death, happening within the first year of her marriage to the baron Theodore Bentham, had shocked Enid. Daily interaction with the family had to be to her benefit. She would reach the truth of Neris’ death soon than she’d anticipated.

Enid had disrupted her life to find out that very truth. An accident while riding, the words written by the lawyer Mr. Costaigne, was far different from a fall while jumping her horse over a brook. Accidents did happen, even with superb riders, yet a fall during a simple ride—No.

Only the speed of a train enabled her to attend the funeral and interment. She had returned that evening to her temporary employment as secretary to a chemist. From that day, she fretted over her cousin’s loss. Soon she would find answers.

Her letter to Mr. Costaigne, asking for more information, received a brusque noncommittal reply. A Mr. Moakley answered her second letter, guising himself as the lawyer’s clerk. He claimed to have no particulars about the death of the late baroness.

When the chemist no longer needed her services, Enid had the rudiments of a plan which she presented to her mentor Miss Boniface. That lady had proposed a temporary position as companion and mentioned that the elder Lady Derlaston would need a new companion in a few months. The plan took shape. She had to wait, and in that time she worked out several questions to have answered.

Now she stood here, waiting for Mr. Welloughbey.

Rapid footsteps drew her attention, and she turned to see him, tugging at his jacket sleeves, as if he’d removed it to work.

“My apologies,” he said before he reached her. “I thought you would take longer. They will soon have tea. The dowager presides, and you will attend her. This way.” He waited for her to reach his side.

“What is your position here, Mr. Welloughbey?”

“Private secretary to the baron.”

“You have been here for how long?”

“Seven months. I had a few weeks of training by my predecessor, Mr. Hollister. He dared not turn over the reins to an academic.” He sounded amused.

Enid hid a wince. A latecomer to the house, he would have little to tell her. “You’re an academic?”

“I had planned to be. I’m awaiting an appointment to Cambridge. In the offing is a rather different position which utilizes my skills better, but I should not speak of that opportunity. Last year I would have preferred Cambridge, but more opportunity lodges in this other position, especially as the Cambridge position may not open for a decade or more.”

“Mr. Hollister is still here?” The old man would know about Neris.

“Semi-retired in a cottage on the estate. He offers his help twice a week. I do still need to reference him on a few arcane matters of estate management that arise. The baron currently lacks a steward and acts in that capacity himself. He prefers to do so although he sometimes sends his uncle Mr. Bentham to the far-flung properties.”

“Yet you need no help in your position?” she teased.

“Oh, I do need help,” he admitted, earning her admiration for his humility. “Many details of estate management still escape my knowledge, and the ways of the nobility are foreign to me. I am at a disadvantage, for I was raised in Canada. We are under British rule—hail to Queen Victoria—but we are not English, not at all.”

“I thought I detected an accent. Very slight, but there.”

“Mr. Hollister found it deplorable. Enough about me.” He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling, then intoned, “Those in the baron’s employ do not have a personal life.”

“Now you sound very like a private secretary.”

“Mr. Hollister’s words to me, said about once a month now. Said daily when first I came here. Almost hourly that first week. I should be explaining all these rooms.”

“Please do not. My head is spinning enough.”

“Yet you look calm, Miss Travers.”

That was acceptable flattery. She tried to hide her smile. “I have met one of the family, on the stairs. I hope I was right to use the staircase rather than the servant’s stairwell. I didn’t like it, for all that it is well lit. Very claustrophobic.”

“We’re caught, you and I, accepted in the family but still employees, still very like servants” he agreed, understanding the intent of her question about the staircase. “Unless we have guests, we are expected to be with the family. Once guests arrive, we may be relegated to behind the scenes, unnoticed and unseen. Who did you meet?”

“Captain Bentham.” 

His smile dropped.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Links for this Victorian Gothic Mystery are Here:

Amazon   https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FWD67JNC

Books 2 Read https://books2read.com/u/49gqep