The Art of Deception 40

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice


This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar. Alice came clean to her best friend in the last installment. She’s about to take her leave in this one.

The maid curtsied again and said in a loud voice, “Ma’am I must be about my duties.” She turned to leave and immediately ran into Mr Edward Spode; he and two militiamen had quietly been listening in the background.

“Got you,” He nodded to his two assistants, “Take her to the gaol … careful, now, French spy, you know; devilishly hard to catch this one, and be careful – she can throw a mean punch … put my friend in the hospital with it.”

“Sir, we will,” They saluted and marched Alice off between them.

Edward continued, “I need that missive.”

“It’s personal, from a good friend.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” He snatched it from Sally and started to read.

Mr Mapleton objected, loudly, “I say; that’s not done; You do not read my fiancée’s correspondence.”

Edward ignored him; then he looked up from the letter, “That woman, who is she?”

“Alice Green, Lady Green’s daughter; there’s simply no way she could be a French spy.”

Now that you’ve read my hackery, please see the talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

My apologies for creative punctuation.

Still working on a cover idea – hard even though I’m a dashed good photographer (if I say so myself). That and editing the manuscript to put more description/reaction into it. (not to mention a few thousand words).


Oops, a mistake has been made, but not by me.

This is another Gilray cartoon and it is thought the man slipping is the artist himself.  The English have long had an interesting comic tradition as this Giles cartoon shows.



Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstein’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

Like poor Cecelia, ” The Curious Profession of Dr Craven” is back from the dead.

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

The Art of Deception 39

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice


This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar. Last time Sally and her fiance met a strangely assertive maid in the Avonside garden (which I should call the parade). The maid didn’t leave, and she had good reasons not to.

“Didn’t you hear me; you may go; please go; now.”

Instead of leaving, the maid stood her ground and said, “Sally, Don’t you recognize me?”

“Alice, what are you doing in that get up?”

“I can’t stay long; I’m desperately sorry for last night.”

“You should be; that was rude; have you grown so above us?”

“No, it’s just, I’m tracking a French spy and you nearly gave the game away.”

“A spy, how exciting; isn’t it exciting Robert?” Sally’s eyes glowed at the idea.

Mr Mapleton said, “I suppose it is; too dashed exciting for me.”

“In any case,” Alice continued, “before I leave, you both have my best wishes; seeing you last night together, I can’t imagine a better match – for either of you.”

Now that you’ve read my hackery, please see the talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

My apologies for creative punctuation.

Still working on a cover idea – hard even though I’m a dashed good photographer (if I say so myself).

The militia (Shown here in Gilray’s cartoon “repel all invaders”) will soon make an appearance. Great Britain is on a war-footing with that Corsican monster just miles away over the channel. Mind you the monster would have said kilometres, and his ‘Million man’ army was significantly smaller than a million soldiers (about 100,000 strong). Whatever Napoleon was, and he was many things (mostly bad), he was a master of publicity.

Nearly all the men in England were enrolled in their local militias – but the militias were not anywhere as well organized or skilled as the regulars. Jane Austen’s villain Mr Wickham would have fit right in with them. How he would fare when promoted to the regulars was another question.

Gilray’s cartoon shows typical upper class condescension (in the modern meaning) about the rest of the country. The sorry-looking militia men are all tradesmen (a cobbler, a mason, a painter (Gilray himself?), a tailor, a barber), and they’re led by a baker.

Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstein’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

Like poor Cecelia, ” The Curious Profession of Dr Craven” is back from the dead.

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

The Art of Deception 38

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice


This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar. Last time things came to an unseemly head on the floor of the assembly.

In the morning, Sally and her fiancé, Mr Mapleton strolled together in the lower Avonside garden, “Alice said she’d meet us here; I can’t believe she would be so rude, as cold as she was last night.”

“It certainly was unlike her; I suppose she’s jealous of us.”

“Even so, we were the best of friends; it was almost the cut direct; has she grown so high and mighty as to forget mere gentleman’s daughters?”

A servant girl approached them and curtsied, “Ma’am?”

“Yes, what is it?” Sally struggled to keep the annoyance from her voice; it wasn’t this poor maid’s fault that she’d had words with her former best friend last night.

“Ma’am, I was told to give you this,” She gave Sally a folded letter, “It’s from my mistress.”

Sally snatched it and broke the seal, “It’s for me; you may go.”

The maid stayed.

Now that you’ve read my hackery, please see the talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

My apologies for creative punctuation.

It’s time for cover designs. Arggh.


Most of us don’t have servants (indeed many of our ancestors were servants). So one thing we tend to not appreciate is their ubiquity. A maid could go anywhere without much comment. They saw things that “polite society” would miss. Rather useful for a spy, don’t you think?

Like poor Cecelia, ” The Curious Profession of Dr Craven” is back from the dead.

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

The Art of Deception 37

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice


This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar. Last time Alice was more or less “outed” by a friend from back home. Roderick acted in a less than gentlemanly manner. This week, Alice overreacts in a less than lady-like manner, using the skills she so painstakingly learned at Mrs Hudson’s academy.

Alice had little choice. Her gown was both too long and too clingy for a solid kick and a slap to the face was unsatisfactory, so she bunched one of her fives and smashed with all her weight into Roderick’s mid-riff. He toppled over with a satisfying, at least to her, crunch, and slid along the polished floor. She hurriedly whispered, “The lower garden, Avonside, tomorrow morning,” to Sally. Then she disappeared, weaving her way through the crowd with startling ease.

Sally said to Mr Mapleton, “The garden, Avonside? What could she ever mean by that?”

“I should think she desires us to meet her there in the morning.”

Mr Spode looked up from trying to aid his friend, and noted their conversation.

Now that you’ve read my hackery, please see the talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

My apologies for creative punctuation.

Tempers are flaring in this and the last post.

They’re not the only inflammable thing in the late Georgian/early Regency. The shift from wool, good domestic, “Make Britain Great Again” wool to imported cotton had consequences. One we forget about today, when nearly all cloth is treated to be flame-resistant, was fire. Getting rid of an interfering chaperone or mother-in-law, as Gilray suggests, is an added benefit.

There were others (at least if you were male).


Like poor Cecelia, ” The Curious Profession of Dr Craven” is back from the dead.

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

The Art of Deception 25.

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice


Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors.   This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar. Last week, after service, she escorted ‘her charge’ Lucy to visit Mr Spode and delivered the details of a proposed trip to Bath. Roderick and his companion await them in Bath. They’re staying in the Pelican, a “historic” coach inn even in the regency. The great Doctor Johnson had stayed there. Hopefully, they’d changed the sheets since then.

“Roddy, old chap, we can afford a much better place than this; it’s old and out of the way.”

“I know, which is precisely why I chose it.”

“But I can’t entertain Miss Haytor here,” Edward stated his real objection.

“True, hire a parlour at the York or the Bell if you want, or simply take her to the pump room.”

“Have you tasted the waters?”

“Thoroughly disgusting and therefore good for you.”

“You are not being helpful, Lord Fitzpatrick.”

“Seriously, Edward; this is for the best; you don’t know anything about the lovely Lucinda; if her companion weren’t so dashed smoky I’d gladly push your case.”

“She’s a sweet, lovely innocent-”

“Accompanied by a skilled French spy; I hope, for your sake, she’s been duped by the dashing Miss Mapleton or Miss Green … if either of those are her real name, which I doubt; because otherwise she’s for the drop.”


Now that you’ve read my hackery, please see the talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

My apologies for creative punctuation.

1090242The Pelican was not fashionable. This picture, from the 1920’s, shows the stables. It was relatively inexpensive, and out of the way on the London side of town. Fashionable people stayed at places like “The York Family Hotel” or “The Christopher.” The Christopher was rebuilt after those dashed Germans bombed it, but is now out of business. You can still stay in the York. The Pelican survived into the twentieth century but was demolished before world war 2.

Like poor Cecelia, “The Curious Profession of Dr Craven” is back from the dead.

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

The Curious Profession of Dr Craven. #Mondayblogs #free #romance

FREE TODAY (4/25/16) 0.99 the rest of the week.

For a taste, here’s chapter 1. Anyone know where I found the names Garth and Craven, and why I might have chosen them? (A prize for the first correct answer!)

The Resurrection Men.

The vicar intoned the familiar words from the Book of Common Prayer while the family mourned their loss. She died quickly, almost overnight, and now being placed in the family crypt.

FORASMUCH as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.

That night, the four resurrection men met the verger in the dark churchyard. They carried shaded lanterns and intended to retrieve the ‘vile body’ before it became too vile for their client to use. They wore scarves over their faces to mask their identity. Grave robbing, while technically just a misdemeanour, was a serious offense so they made sure to leave nothing to chance. Still, the money they earned was good, and the likelihood that they would be caught was small.

Elias, the verger, pocketed the four crowns the oldest resurrection man had given him. Then he led them to the Patterson family crypt and put the key in the lock on the barred, iron gate and gave it a turn. He pushed on the gate, and as it creaked open, he turned and said to the resurrection men, “She was just put in here this morning. Should be fresh.”

“That’s what the doctor wants.”

“Take care, this hasn’t been a quiet one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought I’d heard noises.” They all listened and other than the distant “goo-de-who” of an owl it was quiet.

“Elias, you daft bugger. You’ll have us jumping out of our skins. Which one is it?”

Elias led them to the newest coffin. There hadn’t been time to etch a metal plaque for its occupant. A temporary paper label attached to the top said, Cecelia Jane Garth 1790-1810. Resting in Peace with the Lord.

He pointed, “That’s her. The poor lass, she was just engaged to a rich suitor. She faded so quickly, and even Sir William Knighton couldn’t save her. One day she was happy, and then she was gone.”

Then he anxiously looked at the four resurrection men, “Do I have to watch?”

“Nay, man. Not if you don’t want. Why don’t you keep an eye out for the curate?”

Elias stood at the door to the crypt and kept watch while the resurrection men pulled the coffin off its shelf and lowered it to the floor. They opened it and gazed at the contents.

“Aye, Dad,” the youngest said, “She was a beauty. Pity to anatomize her.”

“That’s how we stand the nonsense, Lad. Up with her, and careful. The doctor wants them unblemished.”

“She’s not stiff, and a touch warm.”

“Maybe she’s not as fresh as Elias said. Starting to rot mayhaps.” The senior resurrection man turned to the verger and said, “Elias, are you sure this is the one?”

Elias looked, “That’s her. Miss Cecelia Garth. God rest her soul.”

The four resurrection men stretched her body on the hard ground of the crypt. It was wrapped in a winding sheet for burial, with ties to bind her legs and arms together. A bandage around her head held her mouth shut. Then they put rocks in the casket, resealed it, and replaced it in the crypt. In the process, the paper label ended up on the inside of the casket.

Then they carried her out of the crypt and into the dark churchyard.

The gate creaked again as Elias shut it. There was a faint gasp at the same time as he turned the key in the lock.

“Did you hear that, Da?” the youngest resurrection man asked, shocked at the noise.

Elias said, “That’s what I mean. She hasn’t been a quiet corpse.”

Jonas, the eldest resurrection man, spat and then said, “What a lot of superstitious buggers you are. It’s just the wind.”

Together they carried the body to a waiting cart. It was tied to the kissing gate at the church, and the sorry looking excuse for a horse waited patiently to take up his labours. Since the body had been a beautiful young woman, they carefully laid it in the back. They pulled a blanket over it and then covered that with straw. It wasn’t often they encountered the watch, but it was just as well to be prepared. They hopped onto the cart, and Jonas held the horse. They clumped off into the night at the fastest pace the horse could manage.




Elias pulled the four crowns from his pocket and carefully examined them. The pound they summed to, equivalent to almost half a month’s work was a welcome addition to his meagre wages.

He said, “Just hope I don’t get caught,” to the wind that was whistling in from the dark of the night. He pulled the gate to the graveyard shut with a loud creak, then latched and locked it. The noise seemed to echo forever in the distance so he listened for the footsteps that would presage a hue and cry. All he heard was that bloody owl.




“Dad,” the youngest resurrection man said, “where are we bound?”

“We’ll drop these two lads off at the Red Lion. Then you and I shall take the young miss to her final destination.”

“Jonas, you said.”

“Now shut your gob. I’ll pay thee. No reason to risk us all getting run in by the watch. Now is there?”

“Reckon not. Still, we should be there when you meet the anatomist. How do we know you’re not trimming us over the price?”

“Listen Lads, the less you know, the safer you are and the safer he is. The safer we all are. I’m only taking my boy because I need his muscle. Gettin’ old. ‘Sides which, he’s family and we’ll both hang together, any road.”

“It’s not a hanging offense, is it?”

“No, but it’s a fine and prison if we’re caught.” While not technically a death sentence, a long stay in prison wasn’t exactly good for the health. Scanty, poor quality food and the lack of light or ventilation in a crowded building tended to eliminate prison overcrowding.

The wagon pulled up to the pub, and the two unnecessary resurrection men jumped down. Jonas passed them a crown each, “More for you tomorrow after I’ve been paid. Now keep your blubbers shut.”

An hour later, Jonas pulled the wagon up in front of the old tithing barn in Streatham and tied it to a hitching post. An ancient building left over from the dissolution of the Abbey under King Henry; the barn was a massive stone building with high narrow windows that discouraged the curious. The tall arched roof still kept the rain out, at least most of it. While it was far enough from the centre of the village to avoid prying eyes, it was also slowly falling into disrepair. Dr. Richard Craven used it for his private laboratory.

The massive door squeaked as he opened it and greeted them, “Jonas, what have you for me tonight?”

“Just what you wanted, a young woman, fresh.”

“Excellent. Now bring her inside.”

“You’ll be paying me now. Like we agreed?”

“Ten pounds. I have it here.” Dr. Craven pulled a note from his coat pocket.

“Ten, nay man, twenty.”

“Twenty? You said ten before.”

“Twenty or we take her straight back.” Twenty pounds was almost a year’s wages for a skilled labourer.

Dr. Craven was in no place to argue. He needed a woman to continue his studies, and there she was almost close enough to touch. She was just another cadaver, on her way to returning to the common clay.

“Twenty it is, you rogue.” He handed Jonas two banknotes.

Jonas nodded to his son, “Bring her lad.”

The boy uncovered their cargo and shouted, “she’s moved Da’. She’s moved.”

“Nonsense boy. Must have been shifted by the roads. Now stop yer yammering and bring her in.”

“Da’ alone, by myself?”

“She’s a light one. Not like some of them.”

Light or not, a body is hard to carry one handed. The boy staggered under the weight. He followed his father inside with the good doctor. Once there, he asked, “Dad, can you help?”

Together they laid her out on the cold stone floor.

Dr. Craven inspected the body, gave it a sniff, and then nodded. “She looks to be in good shape. Smells fresh. Did you want the winding cloths?”

“Of course, and it has been thirsty work. Bringing her here. Deuced thirsty.”

The doctor sighed, “I’ll get the brandy for you.”

Then he walked to the far end of the barn where he kept a small store of run French brandy. Jonas, a man with a nose for the spirits that was only matched by his capacity for imbibing them, followed him. The dark shadows hid the debris of the doctor’s studies, the prepared examples, the bottles of preserved organs, and the strange retorts of his research from their view. A chorus of squeaking rats from the cages at the far end of the building only added to the atmosphere. What little Jonas could see through the flickering candlelight was disturbing enough, even for a hardened resurrection man.

Jonas tugged on Dr. Craven’s sleeve, “You will take the brandy from the right cask, won’t you? Not one of these odd spirits and poisons?”

The doctor laughed, “Of course, I need a dram myself. It’s been a cold night.”

In the meantime, the boy undid the bandage that held the woman’s jaw shut tight. As he pulled it off her, her mouth opened and she gasped for air.

He ran to his father and the doctor, shouting, “I tell you, Doctor, she’s alive!”

Jonas and the doctor walked back to him, carrying a decanter of the brandy with them.

Dr. Craven said, “Can’t be, Lad. That must have been gas escaping from the body. They do that, you know, as they decompose.”

The elder resurrection man nodded, “I’ve seen it before, many times.”

“So have I Dad, but this wasn’t that. She gasped for breath when I undid the bandage.”

Dr. Craven said, “I’ll prove she’s dead. Put her on the table.”

The resurrection men lifted the body from the floor and put it on the examining table. It having once been a delicate young female, they were gentler with it than they were usually. The doctor gave his hands a quick rinse. Something he did more for superstition than any rational basis, and then he proceeded to examine the body.

“She is warmer than I’d expect. The decomposition must be advancing rapidly. I’ll need that ice.” He paused. It, no not it, she breathed. It was a gasp, a weak one at that, but a breath.

“Brandy!” He shouted, “and be quick about it, man. She’s alive.”

The youngest resurrection man ran for the decanter and returned as fast as he could. “Here, sir.”

The doctor took some and moistened the woman’s lips with it. She gasped again and stirred. “She’s cold, bring a blanket and a warm brick.” He immediately unwrapped the winding bandages from her body and untied the bindings on her legs and arms. “Come man, rub her legs. We must get the blood flowing.”

Between the warmth, the brandy, and the commotion, the woman’s eyes suddenly opened, and she sat up. She saw this handsome dark-haired man looking at her. His concern for her was evident in his face.

“Is this Heaven?”

“No. England.”

“Close enough.” Then she lay back and closed her eyes again.

In London, waiting. #Fridayreads

An excerpt from the Curious Profession of Dr. Craven. Available at fine bookstores everywhere (Actually just Amazon).  This excerpt is from about halfway through the story. Cecelia (Henrietta) has recovered her memory and has been spirited away to the Village and out of the company of the good doctor.


Impatient for the settlement, Lord Patterson insisted that the family take up residence in London as quickly as possible. Barely a week later found them ensconced in George, Baron Clearwater’s townhouse. The elegant building, which had come with his wife, had been more than large enough for the two of them. Now with Lord Patterson’s less than temperate behaviour, and Cecelia’s sulks, it seemed far too small.

“Ellen, my love,” George said one morning as they walked down the front steps for a morning perambulation, and to get away from their relatives. “As much as I love and respect my father, I wish he could be more sensible.”

“I find him amusing.”

“His singing didn’t wake you last night?”

“Was that him? I thought it was one of those balladeers or hurdy-gurdy men. He’s missed his calling in life.”

George smiled at Ellen. Her willingness to see the humorous side in his dreadful family was one of the reasons he loved her. That, and her good sense. “I’m glad you found it amusing. Still, what are we going to do about my sister? That Sharpless fellow is due any day now, and she can’t meet him with weeping eyes.”

“I wish she’d forget about that doctor. It’s a pity the season hasn’t started yet because she’d soon lose herself in balls, dancing, and officers.”

“I suppose you’re right. I’d like to get her out of the house, would you like an expedition to the orchards in Kensington?”

“Watch the harvest?”

“It’s better than staring at the walls, and the air might remind her of the country.”

“Good idea, and while we’re out, let’s stop at a bookseller and find a copy of ‘The Picture of London.’ There’s bound to be something she’d like.”

“Just like a woman, Ellen, finding an excuse to shop. We’ll look like silly noddys doing that, green fellows just up from the country, but it’s all for a good cause.”

A few minutes after George and Ellen left the townhouse on their mission of mercy, or at least on their mission of relief, Cecelia dashed down the steps. She carried a folded and sealed letter. It was addressed to Mary Bridges in Streatham, but intended for someone else’s eyes. She walked until she found a red-coated postman who was ringing his bell. Giving him a penny, she quickly kissed the letter and handed it to him. Always pleased to bear missives from young ladies, he smiled at her, nodded, and put it into his satchel. The letter was on its way, first to the General Post Office in Lombard Street, and from there to the mail coach, and eventually the Pied Bull in Streatham. There it would be picked up and taken to Dr. Craven’s house where Mary would pay for it and deliver it to him. It expressed sentiments that were dramatically different from the last letter she wrote.

She returned to the townhouse and quietly slipped up the steps. Her caution was in vain, she met her father, Lord Patterson, standing in the open doorway. He was waiting for her, clearly annoyed with her digression.

“What was that about, girl?”


“Are you disobeying me and sending that doctor a letter?”

“It wasn’t addressed to the doctor.”


“No. Rather, it was to a friend of mine, Mary Bridges.”

“Oh, not that doctor then?”

“Absolutely not. Now I should like to come in and finish my breakfast.”

Lord Patterson moved to the side of the doorway to let his daughter enter. He noticed that she had a touch of spring in her step, a spring that had not been there before. “If you’re lying to me girl, it will go badly for you.”

Cecelia thought that it couldn’t go much worse than it had been. She hadn’t exactly been lying, just not telling the entire truth.

“I’ll send you to stay with your Aunt Augusta, in far off Glossop, if you’re not mindful of my strictures. After a few months with her, out in the wilds where a month seems like a year, you’ll be begging me to bring you back.”

“I like the country.”

“Morning prayers my dear. I never could stand my sister’s strident piety. I doubt you’d find it enjoyable.”

“It doesn’t matter; I’ve lived with that before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should like to finish my meal and then my book.”

Dr Craven is on Choosy Bookworms Read and Review program. It’s buried, which is somewhat appropriate given the subject matter, about half-way down the page. If you’re willing to review it, you can get a free copy.You can read the first chapter here.


A Formulaic Romance 2 #amwriting #Fridayreads #wip

Another gosh darned book, Second Chapter

I often put the beginnings of books on my blog. They don’t always make it to the end, but I find it helpful. This is another Regency Romance. This time without grave robbing or financial dealing and legal chicanery.

This is the second chapter. Rachel, Lady Hayforth had an accident in the first. It stranded her, for the moment, deep in the country and in the company of an odd, somewhat unsociable, young man.

I’d love to hear what you think. The title is an allusion to the hero’s interests. There’s another one in the story, but you’ll have to know your chemical history to get it.


An Unexpected Visitor and a Proposition.

In keeping with the country hours she was accustomed to, Lady Hayforth rose early in the morning, and after Lucinda’s ministrations searched for breakfast or at least a nuncheon to tide her over until the mid-day. Eventually she found a parlour, where Lord Hartshorne was restoring his tissues in preparation for a day in his laboratory.
He rose and bowed politely when she entered, “Lady Hayforth, did you sleep well?”
“Exceedingly. Thank you for your hospitality. I don’t know what we would have done had you turned us away. The weather still hasn’t let up.”
“It is wet.”
“Indeed, wet.” Rupert looked away. There seemed little more for him to say. He started to leave.
“That won’t cause you any problems, in your laboratory, will it?”
His workshop, safer ground for a conversation, he replied, “It shouldn’t, but I shall have to be careful. Avoid stray drops of water.”
“Really, why?”
“I told you I was extracting metals from salts last night.”
“You said something like that, although I didn’t understand what you meant.”
“Would you like to understand?”
Rachel studied his expression, it was like a new puppy, all excited and desiring to please. It made him almost look handsome. “If you could, but I am sadly ignorant about natural philosophy. It’s not something my parents … approved of. At least not my learning it.”
“That’s awful. At least did they let you learn the classics?”
“No, enough reading for Fordyce’s sermons and the arithmetic to see how much my servants were cheating me. They didn’t want to tax my constitution with too much mental work, not even reading novels. You know how it is with females.”
“I don’t. My mother was my father’s most enthusiastic assistant, or maybe he was hers. They published papers in the Royal Society together. Though she used a pen-name.”
“So you approve of educated ladies?” This was a novel idea.
“Very much so. I must attend to my experiments, but tonight, if you’re still here I can tell you about them.”
“I’ll look forward to it. If our carriage isn’t repaired. If it is, will you be in London this season?”
“I have a presentation to make, so I shall. The Royal Academy meeting.” He paused, then strode to a cabinet and pulled out a small jar full of oil and what appeared to be a hard cheesy substance within it. “Let me whet your appetite with a demonstration. If you’d pour some water in that bowl.”
Rachel poured a small amount of water in a delicate china saucer. Then Rupert used a knife and a spoon to remove a small amount of the ‘cheese.’ “This is sodium metal. I made it last month. The oil … Well you’ll see why I keep it under that in a moment.”
He put the lump into the bowl. It sputtered for an instant, then burst into flame. After the metal finished burning, the small amount of oil that adhered to the metal burned as it floated on the surface of the water and then went out.
“Natty isn’t it? Have to keep it dry or it burns.”
Rupert’s enthusiasm was catching, or at least Rachel caught it. Not unlike the sodium her face lit up, although in fairness she didn’t have an orange glow. “That is. I suppose you couldn’t do it again?”
“Let me dry the spoon first.”
Rupert was about to lower the next lump into the water when one of his footmen interrupted him. “Sir?”
“What is it this time?”
“A gentleman has come to see you, your Uncle Beddlington.”
“Tell him to hurry in. He won’t want to miss the spectacle.” He nodded to Rachel, “I hope you don’t mind the delay.”
A minute later a neatly dressed young man joined them. “Gas old man! More of your black arts?”
Rupert laughed, “Just entertaining my house guest, Lady Hayforth, with a little chemical demonstration. A foretaste of my talk in London.” He dropped the metal into the water. Whether it was a larger lump of sodium, or more pure than the last sample, this time, for some reason, the reaction was more vigorous and with a crack the saucer shattered.
The man said, after he’d restored his calm, “Wasting your inheritance again, Rupert?”
“Just a saucer, Uncle.”
“Uncle?” Rachel was surprised, “You look younger than Lord Hartshorne.”
“Old Gas? I am. His grandfather married again in his dotage, hence yours truly. Caused no end of bad feelings between my father and his. Not to mention his step-grandmother.”
Rupert frowned at his uncle. “George, what brings you here?”
“Not much. I was on the road and thought I’d drop in. This woman, dashed unusual of you.”
“Oh, Lady Hayforth, May I introduce my Uncle George, Lord Beddlington?”
She curtsied, “Enchanted.”
“I say,” George said, “That carriage on the main road. Not yours by chance?”
“It is. Broke down, but fortunately your nephew,” she paused at the thought of might have happened, “took my companion and me in. He even paid the carriage-wright to hurry our repairs.”
“Did he?” George surveyed his nephew. “Interesting. Gas old boy, don’t you like the company? Dashed handsome one, you know.”
Rupert gave him a hard stare, “I have my experiments. Lady Hayforth, George, I shall see you later.”
Mrs Hobbes knocked at the door, which delayed his departure. “Lady Hayforth? Miss Holloway has been airing the contents of your chest. The rain and muck entered them and she desires your guidance. If you’d follow me.”
Rachel sighed, then curtsied, “I must make my excuses. Undoubtedly I’ll see you later today?”
George bowed, “It will be my pleasure.” Then he watched his nephew, and reminded him, “Take your leave, Gas, like a polite gentleman.”
Rupert bowed to Rachel while she smiled at him in her curtsey. “I should like to hear more about your research tonight, if I may?”
He nodded, reluctantly, “I suppose. Don’t know that you’ll understand it.”
“Then you’ll just have to explain it carefully.”
Rachel turned and followed Mrs Hobbes. As she followed her down the corridor, Rachel asked, “How bad is the reckoning?”
“It is more a question of what can be saved. The chest cracked when it was dropped in the road. We’re hanging what we can on the clothes horse in the kitchen.”
“Dash it. I need that, for the trip to London. I barely have enough of the ready at it is, and that’s with staying at my cousin, Lord Bromly’s town-house.”
“Lady Hayforth, if it’s not an impertinence, may I ask you why you are in such a hurry to visit London?”
Rachel stopped midstride, and carefully formed her response. “I have the use of my father’s estate, or maybe the curse of it, until I’m twenty-four. Next year. Then I’m cast adrift. So …”
“You’re trying your hand at the marriage market?”
“It’s either that or the flesh trade, a governess or companion. I don’t want that and what would happen to Lu- Miss Halloway, my best friend.”
Mrs Hobbes nodded, and said nothing, but stored the information to discuss with Mr Brindle that evening. After a few moments she said, “Let’s see what can be done with your gowns, Ma’am. I should think all is not lost. If you don’t mind, we’ve hung them on the clothes horse in the kitchen.”


Meanwhile, George accompanied his nephew to the laboratory.
“You’ll have to leave once I start the process,” Rupert said, “but you can wait while the salt comes up to heat.” He stirred a coal fire into life below a crucible, then bent over and blew into it. “It will take a few minutes, and I presume your visit isn’t simply a social call.”
“It is, and it isn’t. You can be the first to give me felicitations.”
“Or as head of the family I could forbid it. Melody, I presume?”
“Charity, Melody was last year and I’m sorry to say we didn’t click. Lord Broughton’s new wife, now. I suppose I should have said ‘glad to say we didn’t click.’ Charity’s much nicer than Lady Broughton.”
“I suppose I can approve. You’re not expecting me to attend the wedding?”
“Ah, well … it would be generous. Indeed, somewhat expected of you. Show good form and what not. And Mother sends her greetings. Wishes you all the luck at continuing your experiments.”
“You know, when she visited here last year, she spent her time measuring for curtains and counting the spoons.”
“It’s your own fault, Gas. If you’d make a push and break the entailment, it would be a big weight off my shoulders. As much as I love her, my dear Mater can be trying at times.”
Rupert didn’t reply so George continued, “You’re not still pinning for what’s her name?”
“Antonia? … No, not really. But I swore not to let myself be hurt like that again. I’m done with females.”
“I see, and this pleasant young chit, you have staying here?”
“Her carriage broke down last night. I couldn’t turn her away, could I?”
“I suppose not, but you seemed to enjoy her company this morning. What was that stuff you put in the saucer?”
“Sodium … Don’t read more into it than you have. I’ve offered the carriage-wright a hundred pounds to finish repairs today. She’ll soon be off to London or whatever. Good riddance.”
“I see.”
“What are you hinting at? That I ought to marry her just to cut you out of the inheritance? She’s a pretty enough chit, I’ll warrant you, but ignorant and untutored. Not only that but …” Rupert couldn’t finish his sentence.
“But what? Besides if it’s just ignorance, you can fix it. She’s not dull, is she?”
“I wouldn’t know … she did enjoy my demonstration. The salt’s almost molten again. You really must leave now. These gases, they’re not good for you.”
“I know. More to the point I can see the effects on you. That blonde streak is dashed attractive, but your face and that hoarse cough.”
Rupert ignored the persiflage and after donning his goggles and then his coat, opened a window. George shivered in the cold breeze. “I’m going to connect the voltaic pile. Best if you’re not here George.”
“As you say Gas.” George turned to leave.
“And I wish you wouldn’t use that name. My name is Rupert, in case you’ve forgot.”
“I don’t know.” George sniffed the fumes that were beginning to emanate from Rupert’s apparatus. “Gas seems so fitting. Don’t kill yourself, nephew.”
“I won’t.”
After he left the room, George quickly found Mr Brindle. “Edward, can you send a page to the carriage-wright?”
“Sir?” Mr Brindle’s austere tone of voice reflected his disapproval of George’s over-familiarity. If he noticed it, George ignored it.
“Rupert said he’d paid the man to finish as soon as is possible. I’d like to delay that if I may.”
Edward gave him one of his rare smiles, “I see, Sir. It will be my pleasure. Mrs Hobbes and I were speculating last night. Are you certain you don’t wish to inherit this house?”
“Good Lord no. I have enough to manage as it is, and … to be honest, there are better ways to restore harmony in the family than waiting for Rupert to die. I mean, dash it all, he looked after me when we were at school together. Can’t let him keep making a hash of things.”
Edward bowed, his continence restored to its usual impassivity. “I’ll see that the carriage repairs are delayed, My Lord. You’ll advance the needful?”
“Of course. Thank you, and I suppose it is unnecessary for me to suggest that you converse with Mrs Hobbes? See if there is some way for her to encourage this gift of providence. Even if they don’t click, which granted is highly unlikely, I hope we can get him thinking about marriage again. At least out and about – meeting members of the fair sex.”
“I shall attend to it, Sir. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Edward bowed, and then made his way to the servant’s quarters in a rapid, but surprisingly dignified pace.
George watched him depart, and then went to the library in search of writing material. Charity would be waiting to hear from him. He felt the gift or maybe the curse of poetry coming upon him. He found a writing desk, pulled out the chair and sat on it. As he looked up at one of the stuffed birds for inspiration he said, “Pity there aren’t many words that rhyme with Charity. Where she named Jane, Susan or even Mary, I could really spread myself. Still, I think she’ll be pleased to hear that good old Gas agrees to our wedding. Even if it will take blasting powder to get him there.”
He started writing, then paused and added, “Not that it would have mattered if he’d objected.”


At mid-day, Rupert was still electrolysing his salt, but Lord Beddlington sought a repast. His poetic meanderings were dashed exhausting. Still, he thought, Charity would approve of his doggerel, as long as it was addressed to her. At least he hoped she would, and not criticise his construction, spelling and how the verses scanned.
He was joined by Rachel and Lucinda. Never one for subtlety he asked, “Lady Hayforth, may I inquire about your station in life?”
“Do you mean my estate? My father left it heavily mortgaged, and under an unusual entail.”
“Yes, I have only a short time to live there, unless I’m married. Then it goes to my second cousin. He’ll get it anyway if I die without issue.”
“I see. It is unusual, to leave it to a female. So I presume there is some impetus for you to marry.”
“You might say that. I hope you aren’t …”
He backed away, “No, no, my dear lady, I’m happily engaged. Just getting the head of the family’s approval … and checking up on him. That said.”
“No. I know what you’re hinting. I barely know him and he seems such a strange, shy man.”
“Dreadfully sorry, I think you misunderstand me. What do you know of Rupert’s history?”
“Nothing. Until yesterday I was completely unaware of Lord Hartshorne’s existence, and I’m certain he had never heard of me. Why?”
“Ah. There is a side to him that you are unaware of. He cut quite a dash about town … until, um, he met Antonia Green. She swept him off his feet and left him in the gutter. Found someone even richer. Pity rather, but he’s well out of it.”
“So? What is my concern in this?”
“He hasn’t looked at a young female since. Retired to the country and pursues his chemical experiments. Alone in splendid isolation.”
“Surely you’re not proposing that I do something improper?”
“Not at all. It’s just if you could befriend him … This is dashed awkward, but I understand you’re not exactly flush with the ready.”
“No. I have five hundred pounds and expect little more.”
“And you hope to find a husband on that? It is a long shot, my dear.”
“I know. But there isn’t much of an alternative. It’s not enough to live on and won’t make my life as a governess or companion any easier. So for better or ill, a husband it is.”
George nodded his head. This chit had her priorities straight. “Well, then, I have a very simple proposition for you. Befriend my nephew, and get him to London. Help me to turn his head to thoughts of ladies and marriage. In return I shall, ah, grease the skids as it were.”
“I see. You aren’t expecting me to do anything … improper, compromising? I still desire marriage, although not with Lord Hartshorne.”
Lucinda had sat silent through this exchange, “Miss Rachel, please. This isn’t becoming and I’m afraid you’ll live to regret it.”
“I know Lucy, but to be honest, Lord Bromly warned me that I was cutting it too fine when I first wrote to him.” Rachel stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then at Lord Beddlington. “On the understanding that I shall simply be a friend, or at least do my best to be a friend, I’ll accept your offer.”
“That’s the spirit. You won’t regret it, and my Charity will be pleased to see her new nephew at Almack’s. Get her mother to show you the town.”
“Why not yours?”
“Ah, well, she prefers that Rupert not get married. Afraid he might break the entail. Though what we’d do with his estates is beyond me. It’s one thing if he doesn’t produce an heir. Entirely another if he doesn’t try.”
“I see. There is a complication, Lord Bromly expects me this week.”
“Not a problem, I’ll frank your letter. Um … I have one of my own to send to the city, so if you write yours quickly, I’ll see that it gets sent today.”
“To Charity?”
“Why would you write … I’m sorry, mine’s to her.”
“As it should be. Where did you find paper?” Rachel rose, followed immediately by Lord Beddlington.
“The library, in a desk below a stuffed eagle.”
“All those creatures, I’m not sure I’ll feel comfortable writing while they watch.” None the less, Rachel found her way to the library and ignored the animal’s unblinking stare while she wrote a short letter to her sponsor, to let him know that she would be later than expected, but would arrive, in style, escorted by a member of the ton.


Dinner was a great improvement over the last nights. Rupert’s cook exerted herself since she now had an audience that might appreciate good food, and whose taste buds and sense of smell, unlike Rupert’s, actually functioned. This isn’t to say the food was up to the standards of Claridge’s, White’s or even Brook’s, but cabbage boiled out of all recognition did not feature on the menu. Instead she’d found a lamb, roast with game birds, a timbale of parsnips, and a fish of an unknown origin but decidedly palatable taste. Even George, who was something of a gourmet and used to excellent chefs in the Village, pronounced himself satisfied with it. Rachel, whose now-dismissed cook was known for her skill at charring or ‘blackening’ her productions, enjoyed her meal. She said, “This is one of the best I’ve eaten in a long while.
George replied, “My poor girl, I shall have to take you to a proper place when we get to town, or maybe Gas will.”
“I’ll do what?” Rupert asked.
“Take Lady Hayforth to a decent sluicery in London.”
“We’ll see. I’ll be busy at the Royal Academy.”
Rachel smiled at him, and added, “Would you? It would be ever so nice.”
Rupert looked away.
At the end of dinner, Rupert rose when Rachel did. He said, “You must excuse me for a small rudeness, but my experiment should have cooled down by now. I need to see that everything is in order and update my notes.” He bowed to them, “But I hope I will be finished before you retire. George, you’ll see that the ladies are entertained?”
“If you insist, but you’re shirking on your duties as a host.”
“I am, but I shouldn’t be long.”
Rupert hadn’t finished by the time they retired. The rain, which had been threatening all day, settled in for the evening. The wind-blown drops accompanied their evening reading with an occasional staccato drum beat.

A Formulaic Romance #amwriting #Fridayreads #wip

Another gosh darned book.

I often put the beginnings of books on my blog. They don’t always make it to the end, but I find it helpful. This is another Regency Romance. This time without grave robbing.

I’d love to hear what you think. The title is an allusion to the hero’s interests. There’s another one in the story, but you’ll have to know your chemical history to get it.

An Interruption.

“That’s bloody torn it!” Miss Rachel Heppleworth, the youngest and only surviving daughter of Lord Hayforth, was rarely moved to rough language, but her ancient carriage finally failed on her way to London. On her one chance to join society and find a suitable, rich, and hopefully reasonably good looking or at least good mannered, husband. Preferably, not vicious, a non-smoker, though she approved of snuff, at most a moderate gambler, and willing to squire her to the occasional assembly. It would be an extra bonus if he were discreet in his affairs and sensible in his conversation. She and her maid stood while the rain soaked through their pelisses and trickled down their backs. They surveyed the wreck of their carriage. One postilion had ridden ahead to find help.
Lucinda, her maid, companion, and confidant replied, “Miss?”
“It’s raining, almost snowing, the thoroughbrace broke and the weight of the carriage body snapped the rear axle. We’re stuck, here in the middle of nowhere, and worst of all we were due in London by the end of the week.”
“Miss we can always send a letter. Lord Bromly would understand.”
“If the post runs out here.”
Lucinda shivered, the cold and damp had already penetrated her pelisse. Miss Rachel did not fail to notice the chill, nor did she ignore her maid and companion’s discomfort. She pointed to a massive pile of bricks and spires in the distance. “We could see if there is anyone living in that pile of stones. There seems to be a fire and lights.”
Lucinda followed her mistress’s gesture, and gasped, “It’s a mile off, at least. Down a muddy lane.”
“We’ll warm up on the way. You’re already blue from the cold, and there’s nowhere else we could go. I’ll leave a note in the carriage.”
A few minutes later, they started down the mucky lane. It wasn’t heavily travelled, which was a benefit. The mud was just mud and not that mixture of mud and manure the polite world referred to as slough. Still, it was slippery and stuck to the hems of their gowns. Their steps squelched in the mire. Rachel slipped and fell. When she arose, she was covered in the brown gooey slime. She smiled at Lucinda and said, “I hope they’ll send for our trunks.”
“I hope they’ll let you have hot water.”
Shortly after that, Rachel and her maid stood in front of the front door. The building was larger than it had looked from a distance. It was an ancient building that some recent owner had tried to refit into the Georgian style, with mixed success. It was a far more impressive building now that they were finally standing in front of it than it had appeared from the main road.
Rachel quailed at the thought of knocking on the door. Then she steeled herself and said, “Ready?”
Lucinda nodded, and Rachel pulled the bell. A dull ring echoed from the depths of the hall. It finished echoing and there was no response. Rachel pulled on it again. This time the door opened almost immediately. What had been a dull ring became unpleasantly loud.
A tall, gaunt man answered the door. He examined them, from head to foot, and then from foot to head, taking in the details of their dress and its apparent cleanliness. Finally having decided that they were less than genteel, he said, “Yes, Miss? We do not make donations or give alms from this house. The servants entrance is around back if you are desirous of employment. Though we do not need a scullery maid at present.”
“I am Rachel, Lady Hayforth and this is my companion, Miss Holloway. My, our carriage broke on the main road and we wondered if there were some shelter from this inclement weather. Common manners would suggest that we should be welcome.”
The man slowly nodded, and then said, “I see, Ma’am. If you will accompany me, I shall see what the master says.”
He opened the door and lead the two women into the dark hall, and then into a side parlour. One lined with books, books that appeared to have been used. A plethora, a veritable ark of stuffed animals decorated the room. This only added to its melancholy. After saying, “Please wait here,” he turned and slowly made his way off into the dim recesses of the building.
Lucinda turned to her mistress and said, “This is just like a Gothic romance. I’d not be surprised to find a skeleton behind that curtain.” Behind her water streaked down the windows. The storm had decided that rain was in order and now the heavens had opened. The darkening skies made the room grow ever more dim and full of shadows. Lucinda shook from the cold, her teeth chattering as her body tried to warm itself.
“Nonsense Lucinda. This is England, 1816 and not some strange foreign land.” Rachel strode to the curtain, looked at her maid, and pulled the curtain aside. “What did I tell you?”
Lucinda gasped, and Rachel looked. There was a skeleton, a human skeleton mounted as an anatomical display. She quickly pulled the curtain closed with a snap.
“I just hope they are open to visitors and not in deep mourning. I’m so famished that I’d gnaw on these bones.”
“I hope they have a good laundress. Your gown, Miss.”
“Not to mention my face. At least we’re out of the rain and the cold.”


Rupert was deeply into his latest experiment, electrolysing a molten salt to see what metal he could recover, when he was interrupted by a knock on the laboratory door. The windows in the laboratory were open to disperse the thick yellow gas that rose from one electrode, and a cold wind blew through the room. The thick coat he wore, because of the cold, concealed a wiry yet muscular frame. His dark hair was partially bleached from the caustic fumes which gave him unusual blonde streaks. The fumes had also bleached his face, giving him a ghastly white pallor. He wore goggles to protect his eyes. Without looking away from his apparatus, he said, “Edward, what is it, now?”
“Sir, there are two women at the front door. They asked for refuge from the storm, their carriage having had and accident on the main road.”
“You know my opinion about visitors. Send them away.”
“One of them is uncommonly pretty, sir. She would be a diversion.”
“I don’t want to be diverted, but,” he paused, “Are they suitable company?”
“One claims to be Lady Hayforth, the other her maid. They are young.”
“Suggesting something again, Edward?”
“I wouldn’t take that liberty, Sir. Still, may I remind you about the entail?”
“Yes, I know, I shall marry, sometime, if I ever meet the right woman.” Rupert shrugged, “Which seems rather unlikely. My experiment is at a critical stage. See that they are warm and send someone for their bags. I’ll be ready at the regular time for supper.”
“Sir.” Edward bowed. Then he shuffled off.


A few minutes afterwards, with Mrs Hobbes, the housekeeper behind him, he shuffled into the hall.
“Lady Hayforth,” he wheezed, “the Master says that we are to see to your comfort. Mrs Hobbes will escort you.”
Mrs Hobbes curtsied to Rachel, “Lady Hayforth. If you would follow me. We shall see to that gown.”
Lucinda asked, “Our baggage?”
“We’ll send a cart.” Mrs Hobbes smiled, “Don’t worry, the Master is friendly enough. At least when he’s not cooking something up in his laboratory. Follow me.”
She led them upstairs, “Lady Hayforth, this is your room. I’ll see that warm water is sent up.”
Not many minutes later, with her face, arms, and hands, cleaned and her gown drying by the fire, Rachel smiled at her maid from a warm bundle of blankets. “I think we’ve landed on our feet.”
“I don’t know Miss Rachel. This ‘Master’ seems to command almost oriental obedience from his servants.”
“And I don’t?”
Lucinda gave her mistress a playful tap on her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, and believe me, I know you’d walk into the flames for me. Still, Lucinda, I can’t imagine inspiring such awe in you or any of my servants.”
“I just wish, Miss Rachel that we hadn’t broken down on the road. If it costs you your chance at a London season, that old carriage was a poor bargain.”
“What else could we have done, Lucy? There wasn’t enough of the needfull in that legacy to be worth investing in any other way and we couldn’t waste it until we get to the City. It will work. I’ll find a stupid rich young man who is tolerable and break the entail. Or failing that support us in the manner to which we are accustomed, if not better.”
“If you say so Miss.”
“You know, Lucinda, that I’ve never had much choice in the matter. Had my parents lived, they’d have sold me to the highest bidder. This way I get something of a say in who I marry. I intend to pick someone who is conformable to my wishes.”
“Yes, Miss. I still think this adventure is ill-fated.”
“Five hundred pounds in the four-percents would give me twenty pounds a year to live on. That’s barely enough to keep body and soul together, not enough to support a genteel life, let alone make me attractive to any sensible man. My, our, only hope is to find someone who thinks the manor is worth the cost of marrying me before the entail takes effect and we lose it. Failing that, at least some man I can tolerate, who isn’t too stupid, lazy or poor. And who, when he strays, is at least discreet about it.”
Lucinda’s response was delayed by a knock on the door. When she answered it, Mrs Hobbes entered, bearing a gown.
“Lady Hayforth. The cart that we sent for your baggage is stuck in the lane. Supper will be served within the hour.”
“Oh. My gown, it’s not dry and we’ve only scraped a little mud from it. I can’t be seen in my stays.”
“I thought as much. This gown, if you would, it was my Mistress’s, and I’m sure she would lend it to you were she still with us.”
“Your mistress’s”
“The Master’s late mother. She was about your size, and I sure if Miss Holloway would assist, we could fit you before your trunk arrives.”
“And in time for supper?”
“That too, My Lady.”
Between them, Mrs Hobbes and Lucinda had Rachel dressed in record time. The gown, while old-fashioned, was made of a fine blue silk. The colour complimented Rachel’s eyes, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she said, “I wish I had the raven black or dashing auburn hair, this gown requires. Not this mousey brown.”
Mrs Hobbes stood back from her creation and said, “My Lady, I’d say it becomes you. My Mistress herself, before her illness, wore this gown to great effect.”
“Swain’s falling at her feet?”
Lucinda said, “Do be serious Miss Rachel.”
Mrs Hobbes attracted their attention, saying, “The Master does not like his supper delayed.” Then she pointed to the door, and added, “Shall we?”
The Master was waiting for them when they arrived. Having removed his goggles and the thick coat he wore in his laboratory, he was elegantly dressed.
He looked at Lady Hayforth in surprise, and said, “Mother?” before catching himself. There were no such things as ghosts, and in any case, his mother would never stoop to haunt her son’s home. It would have been so unbecoming and simply beneath her dignity. His late father, on the other hand would have enjoyed it, but then he would never have appeared as a female.
Mrs Hobbes curtsied to him and said, “Rupert, Lord Hartshorne, may I present Rachel, Lady Hayforth?”
He bowed and said, “Enchanted. I see Mrs Hobbes has seen to your needs. Mother’s dress becomes you.”
Rachel curtsied to him, and blurted out as she rose, “Your eyes, what did you do to them?” Then she blushed and said, “I’m sorry. That was impertinent of me.”
“Not to mention impolite,” he chuckled, “You most likely have noticed the rings from my goggles. I wear them in the laboratory to protect my eyes.” He paused, and then added, “From the fumes.”
Lucinda’s nose wrinkled at the sharp odour that emanated from him. She could not help but ask, “What’s that smell?”

“A product of my research. You get used to it.” Neither Rachel nor Lucinda was sure she wanted to get used to it.
“Is that what happened to your hair?”
His hair had a peculiar bleached look, blonde streaks among the dark black of his natural colour. It was offset by his deeply coloured eyes and eyebrows, which having been protected from the fumes, gave him a piercing glare.
“Well, yes. Rather dashing, don’t you think?” Then remembering his manners, he offered her his arm and said, “I presume you are hungry. Would you care to dine? You and your companion.”
“Miss Holloway.”
“Miss Holloway, then.”
They turned to enter the dining room, and were promptly interrupted by one of the Master’s footmen. “Sir,” he said, “there is a person. He wishes to talk with Lady Hayforth. About her carriage.”
“Ma’am?” Lord Hartshorne said, “I do not like to be delayed.”
“Sir, I should attend to this. May I?”
“If you wish.”
Rachel followed the footman. Lord Hartshorne, uncharacteristically, decided to delay his repast and followed her.
The footman did not exaggerate, ‘a person’ somewhat described the local carriage-wright. Even Lord Hartshorne, his nose immune to many smells from its exposure to the less appealing aspects of the chemical arts, wrinkled his nose at the odour. It steamed off the man and filled the front hall with a distinctive miasma.
“Miss Heppleworth. That carriage of yours, it’s fair broke.”
“The brace snapped, then the body landed on the axle. Snapped one.”
“Close on fifty pound to fix. Almost as much work as building a new one.”
“Fifty pounds!” There weren’t fifty pounds to spare in Rachel’s calculations. Maybe, if she were lucky, fifty shillings, and in reality more like fifty farthings.
“Aye, if that little. Be a week at least before we can get to it. Have to wait out this rain. It’s well stuck in.”
Lucinda turned to her mistress, “What are we going to do? We’re due in London. Lord Bromly expects us.”
“If I may,” Rupert interjected himself, “is that all it will take? Only fifty pounds.”
Rupert looked at the two young women, one was decidedly pretty, dashed pretty at that, but still a distraction for his serious endeavours. “One hundred pounds, if you’re done tomorrow.”
The carriage-wright stared at him. Fifty pounds was an opening shot across the bows, in hopes that the price wouldn’t be bargained down to a more realistic twenty-five or even less. “One hundred, sir?”
“Only if the carriage is ready tomorrow. Next day, seventy five.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Sir.” For one hundred pounds, he’d undertake to move the mountain to Mohammed, with a soup-spoon.
“Excellent. Now Lady Hayforth and Miss Holloway, would you care to join me in our repast. If it isn’t too cold.”
Dinner was surprisingly simple, only one course, of a roast duck. That and little else, a few potatoes and some green mush that had once been a cabbage. The duck and potatoes smelled excellent. Their host expertly carved the duck. “Sorry, we weren’t expecting visitors. If you’re still here tomorrow, I’m sure my cook will be delighted to make something better. I’m such a spare eater that she seldom gets to exercise her talents.” After serving most of the duck to his guests, he took a small piece for himself. The green mush sploushed and splashed when he served it with a spoon. Rachel carefully moved it away from her duck to avoid contaminating it.
Rachel replied, only after consuming her portion and everything bar the green mush, “I see you know your anatomy. That skeleton-”
“The one in the library? My father’s. He was a great one for natural history. My interests tend to the chemical.” He coughed, “Unfortunately, I’ve been making a few fumes and gasses in my latest work.”
“Is that really what happened to your hair?”
“Oh, yes. My mentor, Sir Humphrey Davy discovered a new element, Sodium, by electrolysing molten lye. I’ve been exploring other salts … to see if there are other metals. Isolate a new element if I can. One of the products is a corrosive gas that will whiten almost anything. My hair, as you can see.” He gave a slight cough, “That’s a side effect of the fumes, Sir Humphrey thinks the gas is chlorine, but I’m not sure.”
“Is it dangerous?”
Her host shrugged, “Probably, at least if you’re not careful.”
“But you are careful, aren’t you?”
“Most of the time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have results to write in my logs.” Instead of allowing the females of the party to withdraw while he had a glass of port, he left.
“How very odd Lucinda. It’s as if he isn’t interested at all in us, in people.”
“I think he’s shy, and”
“You could do worse.”
Rachel’s stare indicated that she thought she could do much better. “Lucinda, please don’t indulge in these fantasies.”

The Curious Profession of Dr. Craven – Another ******** book promo #freebook

Dr Craven is on Choosy Bookworms Read and Review program. It’s buried, which is somewhat appropriate given the subject matter, about half-way down the page. If you’re willing to review it, you can get a free copy.You can read the first chapter here.

What is a poor anatomist to do? Twenty pounds, wasted, up in smoke when a beautiful young woman wakes up on the dissection table. Someone has made a ghastly error. Dr Richard Craven, an ethical doctor, has but one choice, to nurse the girl back to health and restore her to her family. That’s when his troubles start. She can’t remember anything, only her first name, and she isn’t even sure about that. As his household helps her to recover her strength and her memories trickle, then flood back, their mutual attraction buds into a flowing passion.

Unfortunately one of the things she’s conveniently forgotten was her arranged engagement to a vulgar, but wealthy son of a Northern industrialist. Not only that, but there is some deep dark secret about Dr Craven that her father believes makes him completely ineligible.

Resolving the resulting tangle in this sweet historical romance takes the combined efforts of the doctor’s once profligate brother, the Earl of Craven, a displaced French Royal, le Duc de Bourbon, and the visit of a mysterious French Baron to the sacred floor or Almack’s.