Love and Larceny Launches!

I’m delighted to announce that Love and Larceny, Book 5 in the Lady Emily Capers, is now out as an e-book. This story follows Daphne Courdebas, the last of our intrepid friends, alas, to find a beau.

But even an Amazon can fall hard.

Daphne Courdebas is known for her daring. So when her former teacher now countess Lady Brentfield asks her, her sister Ariadne, and their friends Lady Emily Southwell and Priscilla Tate to return to Brentfield Manor to investigate things that go bump in the night, Daphne is ready. But once again, things are not as they seem at Brentfield, especially when it comes to Daphne’s new friend, Wynn Fairfax. Wynn is determined to prove himself to the lovely Amazon. What’s a lady known for saving the day to do when she finds her own heart in jeopardy?

Here’s a snippet:

Daphne climbed into the secret passage beside Wynn. “Which way tonight?”

He seemed surprised to see her, which was silly given the fact that he had come to find her. Who else did he think would answer his knock?

“Daphne,” he said, tone somber, “I didn’t come to explore. I have something I must say to you.”

“Can you say it while we walk?” she asked, pushing past him. “I have a terrible urge to move.” She lifted her skirts to clamber up the steps to the main passage.

Immediately, the darkness closed around her, and she realized Wynn and his candle had remained behind. Glancing back at the glow below, she called, “Wynn? Is something wrong?”

“No.” She could hear the sigh in his voice. The space brightened as he climbed up to join her.

“I can refuse you nothing,” he said, and for once he didn’t sound all that pleased about the matter.

“That’s because you’re a good friend,” she assured him, reaching out to take the candle from his grip. “Perhaps we should remain here in the west wing, as that is where Emily is concentrating her efforts.”

“Indeed,” he said, still with that defeated tone. “Lead the way. You can count on me to follow. That seems to be my role.”

Daphne frowned at him, then held out the candle. “Do you want to go first? You can have the light.”

“No,” he said. “I need to find the light inside me.”

Daphne shook her head. “You’re in an odd humor tonight. Perhaps we’ve stayed up too late. I’ll try to get you back by a reasonable hour.”

“I’m no invalid,” he snapped.

“Well, certainly not.” She turned and raised the candle high so they could both see their way. “But everyone needs a good night sleep now and then. You can’t expect to be at your best if your brain is muddled.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with my brain either,” he said behind her. “What I seem to lack is conviction.”

“About what?” she asked, remembering to lower her voice. They were passing over her mother’s room, and she doubted she could be convincing as a dream two nights in a row. Then she felt Wynn’s hand on her shoulder, pulling her to a stop.

“The only place I lack conviction is about you, Daphne.”

Balancing carefully, she turned to face him. “About me?”

In the candlelight, she could see that his dark brows were down, those sea-green eyes intent on her face. Indeed, every part of him seemed tense, as if he were about to jump a fence or shoot a bow.

“Daphne,” he said, “there is so much I want to tell you, but I know how difficult it can be for you to stand still and listen. Perhaps it’s better if I show you.”

He pulled her close and kissed her.

Once again her world exploded, and she found herself trembling with the sheer wonder of it. The sweet pressure of his lips, his arm stealing about her waist, made her head spin in the most delightful way. Was this how all young ladies felt when they were in love?

Wait. She wasn’t in love. This was Wynn.

She broke from his embrace and shoved him away from her. “What are you doing?!”

He teetered on the beam, off balance and leaning hard on his bad leg. As she watched, horror dawning, he toppled to one side and crashed through the plaster to disappear into the darkness below.

When the daring Daphne first appeared in A Dangerous Dalliance, the original version of Secrets and Sensibilities, I knew I wanted to tell her story someday. It’s taken years (a lot of years!) to finally have the opportunity. I hope you’ll agree her story was worth waiting for.

Find it at

Smashwords  

Barnes and Noble  

Amazon  

On Being the Toast of London

You may have heard the phrases in stories set in the early nineteenth century--the toast of London, the belle of the ball, an Incomparable, a diamond of the first water.  What sort of young lady do those phrases describe?  Well, real-life examples vary, but here are some characteristics to consider:

• She is invited to all major social events and may indeed be the first person on the hostess’s guest list.
• Her drawing room is constantly filled with fawning gentlemen and giggling lady friends because how could they possibly pass the day without a moment of her company?
• She receives the coveted vouchers for Almack’s, London’s famous ladies’ club, without any manipulation or begging on her part.
• She garners more than one offer from an eligible bachelor for her hand in marriage within a short time frame.
• Her very name is synonymous with good taste, elegance, and sophistication.

Rather tall order to fill, isn't it?  Yet Priscilla Tate, the best friend of Lady Emily Southwell in Art and Artifice (formerly La Petite Four) masters each of these traits within the first month of arriving in London. She has to. You see, Priscilla must go big or go home.  Her family is punting on tick, about to end up in debtor’s prison, if she doesn't marry well.

But the toast of London is about to get burned.

Priscilla is well on her way to wringing a proposal out of the Season’s most eligible bachelor, the Duke of Rottenford, when blackmail notes start arriving, threatening to expose a dark secret unless she ceases her pursuit. It’s up to Emily and her dear friends Ariadne and Daphne Courdebas to help her uncover the mastermind before disaster strikes. But more than one secret is waiting to be revealed, not the least of which is Priscilla’s growing attraction for a most unlikely ally, Nathan Kent, the duke’s personal secretary. But will Nathan, no, no, the duke, understand if her secret comes out?

Here’s an excerpt:

Nathan Kent set his top hat on his head and descended the steps of the town house with an unwelcome feeling of defeat. He glanced back with a frown. Lady Emily, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Emerson, seemed such a levelheaded young woman. He had been quite impressed by the way she’d regained her composure after the contretemps at her debut ball a week ago. Between her personality and her place in Society, Lady Emily would have made an exceptional liaison for His Grace the Duke of Rottenford. A shame her interests obviously lay elsewhere.

He allowed himself a sigh. He was running out of suitable matches, which meant Miss Priscilla Tate was going to be a problem. Oh, there was no doubt she had the presence to make an excellent duchess. And no man alive could complain of her looks.

He supposed if he searched in Belgium or Flanders he might find a woman whose hair was as golden or possessed of such luster and vitality that it begged to be touched. It was possible some Irish lass might have eyes a more vibrant shade of green and capable of exuding the warmth that beckoned a man like a fire on a cold winter night. The women who had modeled for the classic Greek sculptors could have had figures that rivaled the one Miss Tate showed to advantage in her stylish gowns.

But somehow he doubted any other woman in England combined those traits with such cunning and will as he had seen in her. She had thrown her considerable armament against the wall of His Grace’s bachelorhood, determined to capture the duke’s affections. Nathan could not allow her to succeed.

He turned to the front again, his duty stiffening his spine, and found the very woman he’d been contemplating standing in his way. Nathan blinked.

Miss Tate blinked.

For a moment, he almost thought he was mistaken in her identity. Stripped away were the polished airs, the coy smiles. The color in her cheeks came from high emotion or exertion, not rouge. The downturn of those rosy lips spoke of dismay.

He put his hand to her elbow before he thought better of it. “Miss Tate. Is everything all right?”

He watched as the woman withdrew behind the mask. Her gaze brightened, her lips lifted, her lashes fluttered.

“Why, Mr. Kent, how nice to see you.” She glanced pointedly around him as if he could have hidden his tall employer behind him. “Is His Grace with you?”

“Alas, no,” Nathan replied, trying to recapture her gaze even as he dropped his hold of her. “Uneasy lies the head that wears that coronet.”

Her smile was no more than polite. “Of course. I admire a man who takes his duty seriously.”

Did she? Somehow, he doubted she would admire him for doing his duty, especially when that duty meant keeping His Grace away from fortune hunters like her.

He tipped his hat. “Then you will not mind if I return to mine. Good-day, Miss Tate.”

She inclined her head. Had he been the duke, she would have dipped a curtsey with effortless grace and humility. As a mere personal secretary, he had not warrant such a response. Indeed, she turned from him so quickly it seemed he did not even warrant her attention. Given the tasks he needed to complete before returning to His Grace, Priscilla Tate did not warrant Nathan’s attention either.

But as he reached the street, he could not help glancing back one last time. She had reached the door to the town house and lifted her hand to the brass knocker. Her back was straight, her head high. The pink satin pelisse was a mastery designed to outline her curves. She was the epitome of a fine London lady.

Yet the hand that reached for the knocker was trembling.

What had happened to so discompose the redoubtable Miss Tate? And why, when he was certain she was a clever fraud, did he feel compelled to help her?

Buy now from

Amazon 

Barnes and Noble 

Smashwords 

Stories That Won't Let Us Go

It seems an odd thing to say, but some stories simply won't let go of an author, even after those books have been published.  Authors are some of the only people who are generally not deemed mad for listening to the voices in their heads.  Books haunt us, calling, beckoning, until we give in and dive in.  It's the same for passionate readers.  And then we're never sure how the book, and our very selves, will turn out in the end.

Such was the case for my 2008 young adult novel, La Petite Four.  I know some of you were first introduced to my writing through that book, and I've received a number of lovely e-mails from readers about it.  But the thing was, I was never entirely satisfied with it.  No, that's not quite true.  I was glad to see it published.  Lady Emily wasn't entirely satisfied with it.

Lady Emily, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Emerson and the heroine of La Petite Four, remains the loudest character I have ever written, even after finishing more than 25 manuscripts for publication.  It isn't that she runs about shouting.  She tends to have a great deal more class than that.  But she speaks in my mind so clearly that I could swear she was standing right next to me.

Here's the first thing she ever said to me:  "I despise pink.  It neither makes the bold statement of red nor whispers the purity of white, yet I am convinced that I would make my father the happiest of all men should I dress in nothing but that color.  Pink, he thinks, is singularly feminine.  It is simply not me."

Opinionated much?

She wasn't content to recite narrative or dialogue.  During the process of completing La Petite Four, she argued quite strenuously with me over certain parts of the story my editors felt were very important.  For instance, the editors wanted a more exciting first chapter.  Sounds reasonable enough; good advice, actually.  I was on my third revision, struggling, fighting with Lady Emily every step of the way, when she said, purely out of spite, I might add, "I want to run away."  So, in the version of La Petite Four that saw publication, I had Lady Emily run away from her boarding school to reach her father before her betrothed so she can change the duke's mind about her having to marry.

Lady Emily was not amused.

When the rights to the story were returned to me, I decided to revise the story to her liking and reissue it along with its prequel, the former A Dangerous Dalliance and now Secrets and Sensibilities, where Lady Emily first learns her sleuthing skills.  Here was her chance, her opportunity to tell her story, her way.  Did she cooperate?

"I am tired of being rewritten," she complained, pointed nose in the air.

I promised her this was the last time.  And so, in hopes of finally doing Lady Emily's story justice, this week I published the ebook, Art and Artifice, a retelling of La Petite Four that I am happy to say Lady Emily endorses heartily.  Perhaps that's because this time I let Bow Street Runner Jamie Cropper say a few words as well.  He's a gentleman, for all he's been raised in poverty.  He wasn't nearly so strident about how he was portrayed, but then, he likes to have a little fun.

Have I finally silenced Lady Emily?  No.  Now she won't let me be until I finish the sequel, Ballrooms and Bribery.  That will have to wait until next spring. 

This time I get to listen to my own voice for a change.   

Amazon http://amzn.to/1fCJzAE

Barnes and Noble http://bit.ly/1aqxGvA

Smashwords http://bit.ly/1bvGfGD

The Lady Is Entitled

Have you noticed that many times in books the young lady is angling to marry a title, but the gentlemen all want a wealthy heiress? That’s because, sad to say, very often the lady’s title, if she even had one, couldn’t be passed to the next generation. It couldn’t even be shared with her husband. If Miss Annabelle Pretty married the Duke of Studley, she became Lady Studley. But if Mr. Studley married Lady Annabelle, he stayed Mr. Studley and she became Mrs. Studley!

She could, if she were very high in the instep (read conceited), continue to be called Lady Annabelle, but she would never be Lady Studley. The lady’s rank rose or fell to that of her husband.

If you weren’t married yet and your father was a duke, marquess, or earl, you were entitled to call yourself Lady Firstname. That’s why Lady Emily, the heroine of La Petite Four, is Lady Emily Southwell, not Lady Emerson (her father is the Duke of Emerson and Southwell if the family’s last name). Daughters of other titled fellows might be the Honourable Miss Lastname, such as Persephone and Penelope Leland in Marissa’s Bewitching Season, but the term “honourable” was usually only used in formal correspondence.

Your father’s rank gave you a few other privileges. A young lady took the same precedence as her eldest brother. So, if, as Marissa mentioned Tuesday, your papa was a duke, and his first-born son held the courtesy title of a marquess, than your “Lady” was equivalent to a marchioness (the female version of marquess). That meant that in social situations, you sat below the marchionesses at the table but quite a bit above your younger brothers. (Look for more on this whole precedence thing in a future post.)

Once in a rare while, you might also have your own title. The title of duke and baron could go to a daughter, if she had no brothers. If she had sisters, they all took the title (duchesses or baronesses), but they couldn’t act on it until the reigning monarch settled which one was considered the title holder. That didn’t have to be the oldest sister. But in no case in the 1800s could a lady take her seat in the House of Lords, and in many cases the responsibilities that went with the title had be to undertaken by her husband. That didn't change until 1963.

So, I guess the lady wasn’t very entitled after all!

Introducing Lady Emily Southwell of La Petite Four!

Well, here we are…Marissa and Regina are off being serious and writerly as usual and have left me, Penelope Leland, in charge of their blog today. But that doesn't mean I can't have fun and get to know a new friend whom I know you’re all dying to meet as well…so may I introduce Lady Emily Southwell?

Lady Emily, how do you do? For some fortuitous reason we seem to be able to chat even though we live in different times. Can you tell me a little about when you are? England has just been through some interesting times, I believe.

A pleasure to meet you, Miss Leland! I graduated from the Barnsley School for Young Ladies this April 1815, and yes, it is an interesting time. My father, His Grace the Duke of Emerson, has just returned from the Congress of Vienna in rather a hurry. Here England thought they had the madman of the century safely locked away, and what does Napoleon do but escape and rally France into a furor once more! But you don’t have to worry about that in your time. You can focus on the Season. I believe you and your sister Persephone are on your first Season too.

Indeed we are. You and my sister Persy share an quality unusual in most young ladies--dedication to something other than tracking down the perfect (a) hat (b) dance partner or (c) flavor of bon-bon at Gunter’s. In Persy’s case it’s magic…what’s your obsession?

Painting. Truly, I don’t know whether it was the heady tang of turpentine or the feathery touch of a brush that first seduced me, but some of my happiest times have been behind an easel.

Well, all young ladies with any aspirations to culture dabble in water-colors, don’t they? What’s different about your view of art?

My dear Miss Leland, we’ve only just met so I shall forgive the grave insult you just gave me. I do not dabble, and I outgrew water-colors when I was eight. I use oils, bold strokes, dark colors; I bring to life important subjects like the tragic deaths of heroes and glorious, blood-drenched battles. My scenes are so real I fancy I can feel the beat of the drummer calling the march, hear the roar of canons in the distance. When I paint, I quite forget that any other world exists.

Oh, please forgive me--I had no idea! But as a serious artist you must surely aspire to join the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. That group and its guardian dragon, Lady St. Gregory, sound a bit intimidating. Do you think you’ll be permitted to join?

Well, I quite agree with you that it is intimidating. Artists of the Royal Society are patronized by the Queen and the Royal Princesses, the works admired far and wide. I would be the most fortunate of mortals if I were allowed to join them. I shall have to create the perfect painting, a feast for the eyes, the epitome of beauty and grace, and all before Lady St. Gregory comes to view it at the Ball!

You and your best friends from the Barnsley School for Young Ladies have been given a rather amusing nick-name--won’t you tell us about it and how you earned it? What are your friends like--are they artists as well?

Miss Pritchard, our literature teacher, actually gave it to us. She said we were always together like the little iced cakes the Prince Regent’s French chef Careme created—petit fours. So, Priscilla, Daphne, Ariadne, and I are La Petite Four. And no, sadly, none of my dear friends progressed beyond those insipid water-colors. They have other traits to recommend them. There is nothing Priscilla does not know about Society, including how to deal with young gentlemen. She has only to bat her lashes, toss her golden curls, and they fall at her feet in abject devotion. Ariadne reads everything, from The Times to the handbill on the slave rings of the far east, handed out outside Hatchard’s lending library. She will always have an answer to any question. And Daphne, well, I will only say that I wish I had her seat on a horse and her skill with a fireplace poker.

And what’s this I hear about your social plans for the season? A ball to put all others in the shade--that sounds like quite the event! Tell us about it, please!

It is a wondrous creation, the stuff of dreams. Only Priscilla could have succeeded in such an event. The theme is an enchanted garden, and we’ve rented the Elysium Assembly Rooms and grounds near Kensington Palace. There will be dancing of course, tantalizing treats, and excellent conversation. Priscilla’s already ordered a thousand crimson roses. She was considering having live goldfish in streams meandering down the buffet tables, like the Prince had at the dinner for the Allies last season, but you see his died. I told her that rotting fish, belly up, would do little to set the sophisticated tone we all sought. But she merely said she doubted our fish would be so vulgar as to die before the second set.

Now if you’ll permit me, I should dearly like to ask you about your non-artistic pursuits…more specifically, pursuits of the two-legged variety with elegantly tied cravats and dashing manners. Or maybe “pursuit” is the wrong word…

In my case, pursuit is exactly the right word, as my friends and I have been forced into following Lord Robert Townsend all over London to try to learn his secrets. You see, I was determined to spend the Season securing my place among my fellow artists, and of course I would not forego the ball! But Lord Robert simply could not let matters alone. We’ve had an understanding since we were children, but we haven’t seen each other for ten years. So now he has the audacity to claim undying devotion and demand that we marry at once and rusticate in Devonshire? He must be up to something. He can be charming above all, but I can see through those stunning smiles. I will grant you he is kind on the eyes. He quite puts me in mind of James Cropper, with russet hair the color of the sky at sunset and eyes like the stormy clouds above. Odd how we keep bumping into him. It’s almost as if he were following Lord Robert too.

Or you? Is that a blush I see?

Did you have other questions for me, Miss Leland?

Only one: how can we learn more about your friends, your adventures, the mysterious Mr. Cropper, and the Ball to end all balls?

I do believe Regina Scott has captured our adventures rather well in her book La Petite Four, which is available now from fine booksellers and lending libraries everywhere.

Thank you for chatting with me, Lady Emily. And may I remind readers that all commenters on blog posts this week will be entered in a drawing to win an autographed copy of La Petite Four?