A Trip to Shondaland

I'm very lucky to be one half of Ellie Curzon, the pen name under which Eleanor Harkstead and I write bestselling WW2 sagas for Orion. If you'd like to know how we make a shared pen name work, click here to pop over to Shondaland - home of Bridgerton - to find out our secrets!

The Codebreaker Girls: Out Today for 99p

I'm thrilled to announce that our new WW2 saga, The Codebreaker Girls, is out in eBook and audiobook today. For a limited time only, the eBook is just 99p! 

‘Saga lovers will really enjoy this book and i look forward to more’ NetGalley reviewer

‘What a fantastic read. This book pulled me in from the get go, so naturally was finished in one sitting’ NetGalley reviewer

1944. Rosie Sinclair is full of pride to be doing her bit for the war effort as a driver at Cottisbourne Park – the secret heart of Britain’s fight against Germany, where a team of brilliant and eccentric codebreakers are battling to save the country.

But when she’s given a new mission to drive Major-General ‘Bluff’ Kingsley-Flynn down to Cottisbourne, Rosie finds herself on the frontline of a new battle – to uncover a possible spy at the Park who is jeopardising their vital work, and to resist her own growing attraction to the dashing Bluff himself…

As the threat to her fellow codebreaker girls grows ever stronger, Rosie realises her country needs her more than ever. Can she save the day without losing her heart?

A heartwarming, funny and utterly charming World War II saga, perfect for fans of Kate Hewitt, Jenny Holmes and Annie Murray.

The Wives of George IV: Out Now

I'm thrilled to report that my new book, The Wives of George IV: The Secret Bride & the Scorned Princess, is out now from Pen & Sword Books. It's available from this link, or your favourite bookshop!

In Georgian England, few men were more fashionable or more eligible than George, Prince of Wales. Wild, glamorous, and with a penchant for beautiful women, the heir to George III’s throne was a very good catch – or so it seemed.

The two women who married him might beg to differ. Maria Fitzherbert was a twice-widowed Roman Catholic with a natural aversion to trouble. When she married the prince in a secret ceremony conducted in her Mayfair sitting room, she opened the door on three decades of heartbreak. Cast aside by her husband one minute, pursued tirelessly by him the next, Maria’s clandestine marriage was anything but blissful. It was also the worst kept secret in England.

Caroline of Brunswick was George’s official bride. Little did she know that her husband was marrying for money and when she reached her new home in England, she found him so drunk that he couldn’t even walk to the altar. Caroline might not have her husband’s love, but the public adored her. In a world where radicalism was stirring, it was a recipe for disaster.

In The Wives of George IV: The Secret Bride & the Scorned Princess, Maria and Caroline navigate the choppy waters of marriage to a capricious, womanising king-in-waiting. With a queen on trial for adultery and the succession itself in the balance, Britain had never seen scandal like it.

History Hack

 I had a wonderful time chatting to the folks from History Hack about the mistresses of George I and II. From rumours of murder to ghostly ravens and the grumpiest kings Hanover ever saw, it's all here!

Jane Austen Made Me Do It

 It's my pleasure to welcome Zoe Wheddon, with a charming tale of Jane Austen's best friend.

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‘Jane Austen made me do it’ is a refrain that we may have heard before, but in my case, it really is true. In the summer of 2017, the bi-centenary year of Jane Austen’s death, book benches designed and painted by local artists were dotted around my Hampshire home as part of an art trail that encircled various places where Jane Austen had once walked before us. Amongst other things following the map to each bench spawned a reading frenzy about our beloved authoress, the like of which I had never embarked upon before. Why had I never made the most of the opportunity to find out more about our local heroine in the past? I could not answer, but I read every biography I could get my hands on.  

With the end of the Summer would come the end of my obsession – or so I thought, but instead I fell headfirst down a very beautiful rabbit hole as I stumbled upon the chance to volunteer both at Jane Austen’s House and ‘the Great House,’ Chawton House. It was as I spent time in these beautiful places the following Spring, the words of talented biographers weaving their way through my mind and mingling with the images and objects of her affection all around me, that a thought struck me. I will not forget that moment (one that anyone who has ever followed a creative impulse will recognise.) A question loomed in on me...who is this Martha Lloyd? She flitted in and out of my peripheral vision, almost like a ghost, her name would sometimes appear and then disappear, there were whispers of her on the wind here and there – who really was she and why, if she had spent so many years living with Jane, had no-one said anything about her before? My feelings began to stir and I realised I felt more than a little passionate about this, ‘If Jane had been married you can bet your bottom dollar, we would know about it’ I quietly ranted in my head, thinking of the many films and tv series that this would have inspired over the years. Yet this friend, who apparently cooked for Jane and lived in a little room just along the upstairs landing from her bedroom was barely ever mentioned. The thought would not shift, I began to turn it over and over in my mind, I had to find out more. So, I began and it was as if Jane was nodding at me now, encouraging me along to find out more, she wanted Martha to be talked about too.

Why would Jane want the world introduced to Martha I wondered? Could it be that her story was so unique that Jane wanted it shared? Perhaps. Was it that she had inspired one of the characters in Jane’s novels? Possibly. Slowly but surely, it dawned on me it was about the uniqueness of their friendship, a friendship that had been so very important to Jane - Jane the person as well as perhaps Jane the novelist. I realised that I wanted to tell this story more than anything, because Martha knew Jane as only a best friend can, just as Henry knew her as only a brother could and James Edward as only a nephew could. This, this was a completely different perspective, one with more meaning and interest to Jane’s followers than a male relative’s view of her, one that would reveal more of the person that Cassandra so touchingly depicted in her own eulogy letter to her niece. Here was a way for us to peep behind the curtain into Jane’s homelife and see her as another young woman might have seen her. This was too special an opportunity to pass by, too rare a glimpse not to be sought after with every effort and using every possible source available. This was a dream come true – the dream of everyone who has ever read a Jane Austen novel or seen an adaptation and wished with all their heart that they could carry on the conversation with the author herself. This was surely a narrative for our time, and with the resurgence of the female voice through campaigns such as the #MeToo movement it seemed even more important, more relevant than ever, that we should seek a clearer picture of Jane Austen the woman. For in doing so we might not only indulge our dreams of being Jane’s friend but also reveal a more authentic view of Jane and thus with it a deeper understanding of her messages to us in her novels. 

The book written, I took a trip to Jane and Martha’s Chawton home and sat on the beautifully carved commemorative stone bench. I imagined them both coming and sitting with me as we gazed out upon verdure. I felt truly grateful for the many hands of friendship offered to me throughout the research and writing journey, especially to Catherine the very first to reach out and encourage me.  ‘Friendship is certainly the finest balm’ not just for ‘disappointments in love’ as Jane pointed out, but also for our hopes and dreams, those really quiet ones that we perhaps flick away like flies or that lay hidden deep within our hearts. Learning about Jane and Martha’s friendship taught me to have faith in my own creativity. It unearthed the realisation that I, as we all do, have a contribution to make to life through love and connection with others. 

Hidden in Jane Austen’s Best Friend: The Life and Influence of Martha Lloyd there is a challenge implicitly issued to every reader - what would Jane have YOU do? In writing this book I have found she would have you be your truest and fullest self, to find a way to bring your dreams into the light, and to give your own ‘darling child’ a lease of life. She would encourage you to let the spark catch, to start where you are, to find your own small group of supporters and to begin to carve out moments, to mould your time to do your bidding. She would acknowledge that you need to dredge up the gumption and put in the hard work even though that work be difficult or imperfect because in letting forth this fountain, this force, you will know, as Jane did, the thrill that only the expression of yourself can bring and you will, in that moment, know how to value yourself as you should. 

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A native of Jane Austen's beloved county of Hampshire, Zoe lives in a North Hampshire village, on the outskirts of the town that she and her husband Matt both grew up in, with their 3 grown up children and their cat Leia. When she is not researching or writing, Zoe can be found in the classroom teaching Spanish and French or singing ABBA songs loudly in her kitchen.

JANE AUSTEN'S BEST FRIEND: THE LIFE AND INFLUENCE OF MARTHA LLOYD is a heart-warming examination of the 'recipe for friendship' between Jane Austen, (with whom all Janeites are best friends in their imaginations,) and Martha Lloyd. In looking back somewhat longingly at Martha and Jane's strong and enduring bond we can examine all their interests, including the hits and misses of their romantic love lives, their passion for shopping and fashion, their family histories, their lucky breaks and their girly chats.

Through an examination of the defining moments of their shared lives together, the book gives readers an insight into the inner circle of the famously enigmatic and private authoress and the life changing force of their friendship.

Jane Austen's Best Friend at Pen & Sword

Jane Austen's Best Friend at Amazon

Sophia: Mother of Kings in Paperback

I’m thrilled to announce the paperback release of my new biography, Sophia: Mother of Kings. Sophia was famously the mother of George I but she was much, much more than that. As Stuart, Hanoverian and the Winter Princess, it’s been a real privilege to tell her story and I hope you'll enjoy reading it!

Buy it now

Sophia: Mother of Kings

Sophia, Electress of Hanover, was born to greatness. Granddaughter of James I and mother to George I, she was perhaps the finest queen that Britain never had.

As daughter of Frederick V of the Palatinate and Elizabeth Stuart, Sophia emerged from an impoverished, exiled childhood as the Winter Princess, a young woman of sparky intelligence, cutting wit and admirable determination. Once courted by Charles II, Sophia eventually gave her heart to Ernest Augustus, at whose side she became the first Electress of Hanover and the mother of the first Georgian king of Great Britain.

Sophia: Mother of Kings, brings this remarkable woman and her tumultuous era vividly to life. In a world where battles raged across the continent and courtiers fought behind closed doors, Sophia kept the home fires burning. Through personal tragedy and public triumph, Sophia raised a family, survived illness, miscarriage, and accusations of conspiracy, and missed out on the British throne by a matter of weeks.

Sophia of Hanover became the mother of one of the most glittering dynasties the world has ever known. From the House of Stuart to the House of Hanover, this is the story of her remarkable life.

Sophia: Mother of Kings £1.99 sale

The ebook of Sophia: Mother of Kings is currently just £1.99 from Pen & Sword. Sophia, Electress of Hanover, was born to greatness. Granddaughter of James I and mother to George I, she was perhaps the finest queen that Britain never had and she loved a bargain, so she'd appreciate this special offer!

Buy it now

The Ghost Garden Award Nomination News!

I'm thrilled to announce that  The Ghost Garden has been shortlisted for the RNA’s 2020 Romantic Novel of the Year Awards. Awarded each year by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, the RoNAs are the romantic fiction equivalent of the BAFTAs. And yes, we’re very pleased and very excited!

A Tyrant and a Demon

It's a pleasure to welcome Lucienne Boyce, author of Death Makes No Distinction, for a tale of two women from different worlds.

---oOo---

A Tyrant and A Demon

In Death Makes No Distinction one of the subjects I was particularly interested in was the relationship between the rich and poor. One of the ways I explored this was by looking at the relationship between two fictitious women writers – Louise Parmeter, a bluestocking who had been mistress to the Prince of Wales – and Agnes Taylor, her protégée. 

Their relationship is inspired by the story of Hannah More and Ann Yearsley. Both women were born in Bristol. Hannah More (1745–1833) was brought up in comfortable surroundings. Her father, a school teacher, encouraged her to pursue a wider education than that usually allowed to girls. He taught her Latin, and she also learned French, Italian, and Spanish – though he did draw the line at too much mathematics, which was not considered appropriate for a girl. 

After her wealthy fiancé, William Turner, jilted Hannah, he compensated her by settling an annuity on her which gave her financial security and independence. She became a renowned playwright who moved in bluestocking circles, counting Dr Johnson, David Garrick and Elizabeth Montagu amongst her friends. She also befriended William Wilberforce and supported his campaign against slavery. 

Unlike Louise Parmeter in Death Makes No Distinction, however, she was strict in her own morals – and in the standards she set for others. She wrote several books exhorting women to lead virtuous and Christian lives. She later turned her moralising and evangelical attention to the working classes, setting up charity schools for poor children and lecturing the poor on their duties in a series of tracts.

Ann Yearsley (née Cromartie) (c1753–1806) was also born in Bristol. Her mother was a milkwoman, and it was from her that Ann learned to read and write. Nothing is known about her father. She married a labourer, John Yearsley, and they had six (some sources say seven) children. In 1784, the family was destitute and living in a stable in Clifton. A Mr Vaughan rescued them from near-starvation. Ann then worked as a milkwoman, selling milk from pails she carried about the streets. Hannah More and her sisters were running a school on Park Street at the time and it was their cook who showed Hannah some of Ann’s poetry. Hannah was so impressed she took Ann under her wing, taught her grammar and spelling, and collected subscribers to fund the publication of a book of poems. 

Ann Yearsley (British Library on Flickr, No Known Copyright Restrictions)

However, it was not More’s intention that Ann should give up selling milk. She was very careful to ensure, as she pointed out in her introduction to Ann’s Poems, on Several Occasions, published in 1785:

“It is not intended to place her in such a state of independence as might seduce her to devote her time to the idleness of Poetry….as a wife and mother, she has duties to fill, the smallest of which is of more value than the finest verses she can write: but as it has pleased God to give her these talents, may they not be made an instrument to mend her situation, if we published a small volume of her Poems…?...if I did not think her heart was rightly turned, I should be afraid of proposing such a measure, lest…by exciting her vanity, [it should] indispose her for the laborious employments of her humble condition…” 

Hannah More, A Prefatory Letter to Mrs Montague. By a Friend, Bristol, 20 October 1784 

The power structure was very clear: Hannah was Ann’s patron and Ann must know her place. And to keep her control over the poet known as Lactilla, More tied up the profits from her writing in a trust fund to which neither Ann nor John had access, and only doled out so much money as she thought was appropriate. Worse, Hannah would not return Ann’s manuscript poems to her, and told her they had been burned at the printers. 

When Ann protested, Hannah accused her of being insane or drunk. It was a painful situation for both women, with Hannah More disappointed by what she saw as the working woman’s ingratitude, and Ann infuriated by Hannah’s attempt to control her. 

But Ann was in the unusual position of being able to tell her own story. In 1787 she published her version of the quarrel, claiming she had been rushed into signing the Deed of Trust: 

“I had not time to peruse [the deed of trust], nor take a copy; and from the rapidity with which this circumstance was conducted, I feared to ask it…My feelings were all struck at – I felt as a mother deemed unworthy the tuition or care of her family…Even the interest was not allowed me, but on the capricious terms, that she should lay it out as she thought proper…”

Ann Yearsley, To the noble and generous subscribers, who so liberally patronized a book of poems, published under the auspices of Miss H More, of Park-Street, Bristol, the following narrative is most humbly addressed, in Poems on Various Subjects, 1787. 

The two women parted company, Ann found a new patron, Frederick Augustus Hervey, the earl of Bristol, and the trust funds were later made over to her. She used some of the money to set up a circulating library in Hotwells, Bristol. She published more poems, a play and a historical novel. After the death of her husband in 1803, she moved to Melksham, where she died in 1806. 

In spite of all Hannah More had done for Ann Yearsley, she ended up being accused of being a “tyrant”. As for Ann, from being Hannah’s “meritorious woman” she changed into a “Demon”. For Hannah and Ann, it was a sad end to a relationship that, as Yearsley suggested, could never develop into true friendship because of its deep-rooted inequalities. The same tensions underpin dealings between Louise Parmeter and Agnes Taylor in Death Makes No Distinction – but it’s up to Bow Street Runner Dan Foster to decide if they have any connection with Louise’s murder.  

Contact:

Website: www.lucienneboyce.com

Twitter: @LucienneWrite

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LucienneWriter

Blog: http://francesca-scriblerus.blogspot.co.uk/

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6437832.Lucienne_Boyce

Buying Links:

Death Makes No Distinction is available in paperback and ebook.

Amazon  

Amazon.com  

SilverWood Books  

Barnes and Noble
Books Depository  
AppleBook
Kobo
Nook 

For more information see my website. 

Sophia: Mother of Kings - OUT NOW!

I’m thrilled to announce the release of my new biography, Sophia: Mother of Kings. Sophia was famously the mother of George I but she was much, much more than that. As Stuart, Hanoverian and the Winter Princess, it’s been a real privilege to tell her story and I hope you'll enjoy reading it!

Buy it now

Sophia: Mother of Kings

Sophia, Electress of Hanover, was born to greatness. Granddaughter of James I and mother to George I, she was perhaps the finest queen that Britain never had.

As daughter of Frederick V of the Palatinate and Elizabeth Stuart, Sophia emerged from an impoverished, exiled childhood as the Winter Princess, a young woman of sparky intelligence, cutting wit and admirable determination. Once courted by Charles II, Sophia eventually gave her heart to Ernest Augustus, at whose side she became the first Electress of Hanover and the mother of the first Georgian king of Great Britain.

Sophia: Mother of Kings, brings this remarkable woman and her tumultuous era vividly to life. In a world where battles raged across the continent and courtiers fought behind closed doors, Sophia kept the home fires burning. Through personal tragedy and public triumph, Sophia raised a family, survived illness, miscarriage, and accusations of conspiracy, and missed out on the British throne by a matter of weeks.

Sophia of Hanover became the mother of one of the most glittering dynasties the world has ever known. From the House of Stuart to the House of Hanover, this is the story of her remarkable life.

The Captain and the Theatrical

The Captain and the Theatrical, our Regency romcom drag extravaganza, is out to buy today!

Buy it now or read on for an extract.

When Captain Pendleton needs an emergency fiancée, who better to turn to than his male best friend? After all, for Amadeo Orsini, life’s one long, happy drag!

Captain Ambrose “Pen” Pendleton might have distinguished himself on the battlefield at Waterloo but since he’s come home to civvy street, he’s struggled to make his mark.

Pen dreams of becoming a playwright but his ambitious father has other ideas, including a trophy wife and a new job in America. If he’s to stand a hope of staying in England and pursuing his dream, Pen needs to find a fiancée fast.

Amadeo Orsini never made it as a leading man, but as a leading lady he’s the toast of the continental stage. Now Cosima is about to face her most challenging role yet, that of Captain Pendleton’s secret amour.

With the help of a talking theatrical parrot who never forgets his lines, Orsini throws on his best frock, slaps on the rouge and sets out to save Pen from the clutches of Miss Harriet Tarbottom and her scheming parents.

As friendship turns into love, will the captain be able to write a happy ending for himself and Orsini before the curtain falls?

Excerpt

Summer 1817

As Captain Ambrose Pendleton strode through the gates of Vauxhall Gardens, he didn’t see the crush of people or the lights in the trees, or hear the music. He was thinking only of seeing his friend Orsini once again.

But first there was the show, which Orsini had raved about in his letter. Cosima was from his stable of talent, and Orsini had been insistent that his friend watch the most remarkable, exquisite and well-formed young lady to grace the continental stage.

And her adorable performing parrot!

Ambrose entered the pavilion where Cosima was to perform. He took his seat and, as he waited for the show to begin, found himself enjoying the hubbub of ordinary people around him. How nice it was to be back among the throng of humanity, without the smell of gunpowder or the roar of cannon or the parade-ground shout. He glanced about the audience, wondering if his friend was there, but Orsini was nowhere to be seen.

The quartet struck a note, and applause rang through the pavilion as the velvet curtain was drawn back. The woman who emerged was tall and slender but, as Orsini had promised, well-formed. Here in a summer London, her diaphanous gown and tumbling curls transported Ambrose instantly back to his youth in Italy, to a world of classical myth and striking women, yet none that he could recall were as striking as the creature who now tripped across the stage, one slender arm outstretched for the bright blue parrot that perched upon her pale wrist, the yellow and red feathers beneath its wings and at its breast shimmering.

A woman in Roman dress and a parrot… It was very Orsini, if nothing else.

There was likely nothing else quite like it in London that night as the magnificent Cosima ran through her repertoire of silly stories—just the right side of bawdy—and Italian songs, sometimes accompanied for the sake of comedy by the bird and sometimes, for the sake of entertainment, by the quartet. Every man in the audience was enraptured by her, enchanted by each flick of her auburn curls, each sly aside, and every woman became a confidante, laughing behind ladylike hands at some wry comment from the performer on the stage.

Wherever had Orsini found her? Ambrose wondered, though he knew instinctively that some of this material must belong to his friend, for it had that same devilish mischief so beloved by Amadeo Orsini. They claimed that she was his sister but Ambrose knew better, for he had met Orsini’s numerous siblings and none of them were La Cosima.

Yet she certainly could have been family.

The show ended with rapturous applause, Cosima curtseying to her admiring audience as the parrot took a small, proper bow. Reluctantly, Ambrose followed the crowd out of the pavilion and back into the balmy summer air. He would happily have watched Cosima and her parrot perform all evening, if not for his promised reunion with Orsini.

Off he went toward the Cascade, where they had arranged to meet. But he couldn’t see Orsini anywhere. Where was the young man Ambrose remembered, always decked out in silks? He certainly would have noticed him among the crowd—unless, and Ambrose thought it most unlikely, the great impresario had adopted a somber guise.

But wouldn’t he notice Orsini’s dancing eyes, and his knowing smile, and his—what the devil?

“Now, madam, please stop that!” Ambrose laughed politely—as politely as a man could with a woman’s hands over his eyes. He could smell her perfume and feel the lace of her gloves and hear her giggle. “You must have confused me for your husband, or your sweetheart!” Or a paying customer, but Ambrose thought it best not to voice that.

“Captain Pendleton,” came the singsong-voiced reply from close to his ear. “The great Orsini begs your indulgence, but, alas, he is detained by matters feminine. He asks that I escort you to supper tonight!”

Ambrose clenched his jaw. Matters feminine? Was Orsini involved in some sort of intrigue with a lady?

And why did he recognize the woman’s voice—but of course!

“Cosima!”

He turned quickly and took her hands as they fell from his face. There she was, standing before him, the leading lady of Orsini’s show, a dazzlingly red shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders. As much as he’d longed to see his friend, what an honor it was to be favored by such a performer—and the parrot too, who perched on her shoulder like a little admiral.

“How excited I am to make your acquaintance!” Ambrose bent to kiss her gloved hand. “I very much enjoyed your show this evening.”

The parrot administered a sharp peck to Ambrose’s hair and Cosima exclaimed, “Pagolo! Captain, forgive my little chaperone, he is so very protective of his Cosima and his applause!”

“I enjoyed your performance too, Pagolo, of course.” Ambrose grinned as he gave the imperious parrot a bow. “How very remiss that I did not congratulate you, as well.”

“His career has been long and celebrated.” Cosima tapped her finger gently against the parrot’s beak and he cocked his head to one side. “He might teach all of us how to improve our performances, he thinks! Now, sir, what delights might the gardens offer an innocent Italian girl and her escort?”

“We are stood before the marvel of the gardens, dear lady. The Cascade! Now watch carefully, for I think it is due a performance.” Ambrose offered Cosima his arm as the crowd swelled around them.

He couldn’t hold back his smile as the curtain lifted and Cosima’s elegant fingers gripped his sleeve, her mouth falling open in an expression of perfect wonder. Before them the night lit up bright as fireworks illuminated the heavens and the gasps and appreciative murmurs of the audience greeted the scene of bucolic splendor. As the artificial metallic water cascaded down, a mill wheel gently turned, the intricately rendered bridge in the center crossed first by a coach and horses, then a whole troop of soldiers, strolling ladies and ambling gentleman. It was magnificent, Ambrose knew, but he took more pleasure in his companion’s wonder than the mechanical marvel he had seen a dozen or more times.

“How is it done?” Cosima laughed, shaking her head in utter wonder. “What a thing engineering must be, it is all sorcery to me!”

Ambrose knew, but only because his father had told him, for he had an acquaintance who had known the fellow who had devised it. Even so, it still didn’t make much sense to Ambrose, which gave him pause—how would he ever follow his father’s wishes and turn industrialist now that he had left the Army?

“Cogs and wheels, I believe. Gears and pulleys.” Ambrose wafted his hand, as if it was all thoroughly familiar to him and actually rather dull. “And such things of that nature. Now, may I offer you a refreshment? You must be in need of one after your performance.”

“Cogs and wheels,” Pagolo agreed, pecking at Ambrose’s hair again. “Cogs! Wheels!”

“You should not pay him any heed.” Cosima slipped her arm opportunely through Ambrose’s own. “I confess, sir, I am of a mind to dance!”

A dance with such a lady as Cosima? Ambrose nodded, quite unable to form a coherent reply. His evening was not turning out quite as he had expected, but how lovely to lead Cosima toward the first dance floor that presented itself, and witness at close hand the glee leaping in her eyes.

“See? Is not Vauxhall Gardens the most splendid of places, Cosima? Have you ever known the like?” They stood, arms linked, on the edge of the dance floor and watched the couples in the set.

“Cogs,” decided Pagolo somewhat archly, earning himself a sharp look from his mistress. She turned her gaze back to the dancers, tapping one silk-slippered foot lightly in time to the music as she twirled an auburn curl around her finger.

With Cosima absorbed by the dancers, Ambrose had a chance to see her unobserved. She was a dazzling lady, quite unlike the women Ambrose was used to, the daughters of ambitious parents keen to see their charge wed to a captain of industry’s son. None of those girls had Cosima’s grace, or her easy elegance, and certainly none of them could have put on a show such as Cosima had that evening.

The more Ambrose looked, the more he saw something oddly familiar about her. The large hazel eyes, for one, but perhaps that was not unusual among Italians. The rather prominent nose, but it wasn’t shaped quite the same as Orsini’s. Even so…

“Gosh, I hope you shan’t think me an impertinent sort of fellow, but are you not—tell me now, if my dear friend Orsini had a sister, would she be you?”

“Alas, he does not have a sister, though the world thinks it is so.” Cosima turned her head just a little, then dropped her voice to a whisper and asked, “Wasn’t that a riotous night in Florence, Pen? You and that saucy old creature in the wimple, your eyes nearly popped out of your head!”

Ambrose Pendleton’s eyes nearly burst from their sockets again as he realized his error. Unless Cosima was an exceptional mimic, but—

“Orsini! My dear friend!” He clapped the elegant lady on the back and pumped her arm up and down with eager enthusiasm. “As I live and breathe!”

They were now the object of some amusement, for what sort of a gentleman behaved like that to—as far as anyone else knew—a lady? Ambrose felt a blush rise to his face and the parrot glared at him from his perch on Cosima’s shoulder.

“Unhand me, sir,” Orsini—for it was he—teased in that delicate voice, the pretty young man of just a few years ago barely visible beneath the construct of Cosima. “Did you really not know your old friend? I take that as an exceptionally fine review of my work!”

“I own that I did not!” Ambrose offered Cosima—Orsini—it was confusing—his arm again. “I had thought there was something familiar about Cosima. Her humor on the stage, for one. And—” Ambrose cleared his throat. He tore his gaze from his friend and watched the dancers skip by instead. “And her eyes.”

“Amadeo Orsini was simply one more pretty young actor in a sea of pretty young actors.” Cosima pouted softly. “Cosima was merely intended as a party piece and yet her star soon eclipsed mine, and I could never hold back a beautiful young lady!”

“When you wrote and told me you’d given up the stage for the role of impresario, I had no idea that—” Entranced, Ambrose found himself gazing once more into the large hazel eyes of his friend. “My goodness, but you do make a very pretty lady.”

“I have devoted myself instead to producing and managing the career of the dear, mysterious Cosima,” he told Ambrose. “It allows me to see two rather different views of the world, I can assure you!”

“I’m not surprised!” Ambrose smiled to himself, rather pleased to have Cosima on his arm. “And I wager there must be quite a fight for your hand from king and emperor alike.”

“All remain disappointed, for Cosima has yet to find the fellow who might claim her heart.” He blinked, long eyelashes batting as he teased, “Perhaps that has changed tonight, kind sir!”

Heavens, what a thought!

“That depends—I have no title, but I do have a very wealthy father!” Ambrose patted Cosima’s hand. A note of sadness came into his voice. “Alas, I believe that Father has found a wife for me—not that he has told me so, but what else can I assume when a young lady is so frequent a visitor to our house?”

“Oh!” Orsini sounded genuinely surprised by that revelation. “Tell, Pen. Who and what?”

“There is an industrialist, by the name of Mr. Tarbottom—”

Orsini opened his eyes very wide, then blinked as though he had something in his eye, the blinks growing more frequent until, with a hoot of noise, he broke into a fit of hilarity. He patted Ambrose’s arm daintily and threw back his head, his laughter filling the air as Pagolo joined in for good measure.

“Yes, really—Mr. Tarbottom.” Ambrose tried to narrow his lips in disapproval at his friend’s reaction, but the gray cloud that had followed him in recent weeks began to dissolve in the face of such unbridled laughter. “Where was I? Yes—Mr. Tarbottom is an American industrialist, and he happens to have both an open position in his mines and a daughter of marriageable age. If I know my father, he will believe my fortune is set.”

“A position?” Orsini nodded, his smile fading a little. “He must have mines in England then, yes? I am to remain here for a time, Pen, so I shall visit your mines and entertain the workers if you wish!”

“If only that were so.” Ambrose’s gaze passed slowly over the revelers and the pavilions, the garlanded trees and the musicians and dancers and tumblers. “I very much doubt I shall ever return, alas. The position Mr. Tarbottom would offer me is in America.”

Orsini’s chin dipped, his gaze falling away to the floor. He said nothing for a few moments, but gave Ambrose’s arm a little squeeze. “You must be very excited, Pen.”

Ambrose stared ahead, over the dancers, not really seeing anything, even though he knew that he was unlikely to visit Vauxhall again. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

“If Waterloo wasn’t bad enough—I only want some peace and blasted quiet! Father is so desperate to impress the Tarbottoms, and he cornered me, saying ‘Little Harriet has taken quite a shine to you, Amby! You could do with a wife, and think of all the money I’ve spent to raise you as a gentleman, and don’t think I’ll let you sit about here on the fruits of my labors. I don’t care what you got up to at Waterloo, you’re not a hero now!’ Father’s intentions are all too obvious, do you not think?”

“I am so very sorry, Pen, for I know how you dreamed of the theater, and I had never thought a fellow like you might be on the battlefield, let alone in industry.” Orsini sighed and stroked his finger down Pagolo’s feathered back. “Can you not say no, thank you, Father, for the theater life is the one for me?”

“How can I not accept?” Ambrose gaped at his friend in surprise. No matter how odious the proposition was, the thought of rebelling against his father’s will had to be dismissed. “Father decided my profession for me while I was yet in my cradle. I owe him my duty as his son—I cannot refuse his wishes.”

The Captivating Captains

As we prepare for the forthcoming release of our Regency romcom, The Captain and the Theatrical, what better time to get to know some other captivating captains?

For a limited time, you can snag the swoonsome first book in the series, The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper for just 99c/p. Follow the links below to get started… the captains are waiting!

Pride
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A Late Summer Night's Dream

We’re super excited to announce that our newest novella, A Late Summer Night’s Dream, is now available worldwide! Read on for more details and an excerpt.

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Among Oxford’s dreaming spires, can a widowed professor and a wide-eyed scholar make their own dreams of love come true?

Simeon Shakespeare is living his academic dream. As an Oxford scholar, he spends his days in libraries and whiles away his nights at the theater. A mix-up over a seat number leads to a very awkward first act, but that’s nothing compared to what happens when the lights go up.

Professor Anthony Meadows is finished with love. Shattered by the death of his husband, he divides his time between his book-lined study and Oxford’s theaters. The last thing he needs is an annoying research student bickering with him over who should sit where.

When Anthony and Simeon discover they have more in common than a shared love of the Bard, it looks as though the stage is set for romance. Yet with the memory of Anthony’s lost love keeping the professor from moving on, can Simeon’s love mend his broken heart?

Excerpt

Simeon pulled the ticket out of his pocket as he ran up the steps of the theater. Thanks to the bloody traffic in town, he was almost late for curtain up. He checked his seat number again and hurried through a door from the foyer into the busy auditorium. The house lights went down almost as soon as he found his row.

“Excuse me…sorry.” His seat would have to be right in the middle of the row, wouldn’t it? Best seat to have, but not if you turn up late.

With only the green glow of the emergency exit lights to guide him, Simeon found his way to the empty seat. He squinted at the ticket and—someone is in my seat!

A tall someone who Simeon could barely see in the dark.

Music began to fill the auditorium, an overture before the play began. Through the strings and brass, Simeon hissed, “You’re in my seat!”

Someone tutted, perhaps the lady who was craning to peer around Simeon at the stage. Why was she so keen anyway? The curtain was still down—she was hardly missing the action.

At Simeon’s words, the man who occupied his seat peered up at him through the gloom and asked in a cut-glass whisper, “I’m sorry?”

Simeon wafted his ticket at him—not that he’d be able to see it in the darkness. “You’re in my seat.” Something in the way the man had spoken made Simeon add, without a hint of sarcasm, “…sir.”

“Sit down,” the lady hissed, patting Simeon’s arm with her rolled program. The interloper in his seat reached out one hand and tapped his finger on the empty seat beside him. His seat, the seat he should be in, not Simeon’s central seat.

“Sit down,” the man echoed in that same plummy whisper, dismissive and disinterested. “I’m in my seat.”

Simeon sighed in annoyance. “You’re not—you’re in mine! I chose it on purpose, and you’re sat in it!”

“What number seat are you looking for?” He asked it as though Simeon was the most unimportant creature in the universe, with the same throwaway condescension of his worst undergraduate professors. His hand remained on the empty seat and he said, “This is seventeen.”

“Yes—seventeen! That’s my seat. Look—look at my ticket, for heaven’s sake!” Simeon held it closer to the man’s face.

His nemesis tapped the empty seat again and he told Simeon, “This is seventeen, I’m in sixteen and—”

“Fifteen,” the woman snapped, patting him a little more forcefully with her program. “Now sit down, you bloody hooligan!”

Simeon popped forward the collar of his denim jacket, a move he had learned long ago from old films. “Hooligan? I merely wish to sit—”

Shit.

Simeon dropped down into the empty seat and looked at his ticket again. His was seventeen, and that was definitely the empty seat.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “How embarrassing—but it’s so dark, I…”

Yet his neighbor didn’t offer him so much as a glance, merely gesturing with one hand, a flick of the wrist that commanded silence. A faint glare of light reflected for a moment from the jeweled cufflink that peeped out from beneath the sleeve of the man’s jacket, then Simeon’s attention was caught by the curtain which, thank God, was finally beginning to rise.

This isn’t going to be an awkward three hours at all, is it?

Not at all.

Simeon was soon carried into the play. The scenery was gorgeous, and he overlooked the unimpressive acting because whoever was playing Theseus—if only Simeon had had time to grab a program—was a thoroughly delicious silver fox. As he settled into seat seventeen, Simeon became aware of a scent from somewhere nearby—a very pleasant cologne. The kind that Theseus would wear, in fact. Manly. Distinguished. The cologne of a mature man, who—

Christ, it isn’t the grumpy sod sat beside me, is it?

Simeon peered at him from the corner of his eye.

It wouldn’t be him. He had the voice and manner of an old-school toff. Lord knows this city has enough of them, and none of them wear cologne like that. Oh, for his own Theseus wearing that cologne.

Simeon forced himself to concentrate on the play, even though the energetic young actors didn’t hold much interest for him. But with any luck, Theseus would turn up again as Oberon, King of the Fairies.

A man can dream.

Before Simeon had time to lament the departure of Theseus too much, the curtain fell and the house lights came up. The interval. He really could do with a drink. Perhaps he should do the decent thing and apologize to the man who hadn’t been in his seat?

“Look, sorry—I don’t suppose you’d like to—?”

He glanced round at the man who’d sat so quietly beside him in the dark and held his breath as he looked at him.

The woman who had weaponized her program shot Simeon a pointed, disapproving look before bustling from the row. It was only then that he realized the couple weren’t together at all. In fact, as the woman departed, the man in seat sixteen was gazing fixedly at his program and clearly trying to pretend that Simeon didn’t exist.

Bloody hell, how could I have been so stupid?

The man in seat sixteen was gorgeous.

A head of thick blond hair, stranded with silver, and a strong jaw. Tall. Nicely dressed—far more nicely than Simeon. The man in seat sixteen seemed to have made an effort for going out to the theater, with a shirt and tie and three-piece suit.

And he was wearing that damn cologne.

Simeon turned in his seat and grinned him. “Mate—look, I’m going to grab a drink. Do you—can I get you something by way of apology? Least I can do.”

The Captain's Cornish Christmas

I'm so thrilled to our brand new short story, The Captain's Cornish Christmas, is out today! Will a lonely lifeboat captain and the king of Cornish Noir find love by Boxing Day? A bit of sauce, a lot of snow and a matchmaking cat... perfect for a winter night!  

mybook.to/cornishcaptain 

For a lonely Cornish lifeboatman and an author who’s more used to crime scenes than love scenes, this Christmas is going to be very merry indeed!

When Jago Treherne agrees to man the Polneath lifeboats one snowy Christmas, he knows he can forget turkey and all the trimmings.

Yet when he boards a seemingly empty yacht and stumbles upon sexy Sam Coryton enjoying an energetic afternoon below decks, Jago soon realizes that he might be unwrapping a very different sort of Christmas gift this year!

The Scandal of George III's Court

It's no secret that I love a good scandal, so I'm thrilled to announce that my new non-fiction book, The Scandal of George III's Court, is available now. Even better, you can snap it up with £4 off by visiting Pen and Sword at the link below.

https://www.pen-and-sword.co.uk/The-Scandal-of-George-IIIs-Court-Hardback/p/15548

From Windsor to Weymouth, the shadow of scandal was never too far from the walls of the House of Hanover. Did a fearsome duke really commit murder or a royal mistress sell commissions to the highest bidders, and what was the truth behind George III's supposed secret marriage to a pretty Quaker?

With everything from illegitimate children to illegal marriages, dead valets and equerries sneaking about the palace by candlelight, these eyebrow-raising tales from the reign of George III prove that the highest of births is no guarantee of good behaviour. Prepare to meet some shocking ladies, some shameless gentlemen and some politicians who really should know better.

So tighten your stays, hoist up your breeches and prepare for a gallop through some of the most shocking royal scandals from the court of George III's court. You'll never look at a king in the same way again...

Buy it now from the publisher

Buy it now from Amazon

Buy it now from Book Depository (free worldwide delivery)

The Real McCoy and 149 other Eponyms

It's an absolute delight to welcome Claire Cock-Starkey to the salon today to chat about her wonderful new book, The Real McCoy and 149 other Eponyms.

Claire's books are always a delight and this no different! A pocket-sized treasure trove of wonders, this little gem is bursting with unusual tales and thrilling facts. some of these are well known, some less-so, but all of them are hugely entertaining and you'll find your eyebrow raised a few times too.

This book really is wonderful, it should be peeping out of a fair few Christmas stockings this year!

You can follow Claire on Twitter!

Without further ado, let's avail ourselves of a cardigan for autumn!

Limited Time Sale: The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper

The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper ebook is currently on special offer at 99p/99c. What better way to spend an autumn evening?

The book is discounted at all retailers, and Amazon and Pride links are below!

Buy It Now
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As the Great War tears Europe apart, two men from different worlds find sanctuary in each other’s arms.

Captain Robert Thorne is the fiercest officer in the regiment. Awaiting the command to go to the front, he has no time for simpering, comely lads. That’s until one summer day in 1917, when his dark, flashing eye falls upon the newest recruit at Chateau de Desgravier, a fresh-faced farmer’s boy with little experience of life and a wealth of poetry in his heart.

Trooper Jack Woodvine has a way with strong, difficult stallions, and whispers them to his gentle will. Yet even he has never tamed a creature like Captain Thorne.

With the shadow of the Great War and the scheming of enemies closer to home threatening their fleeting chance at happiness, can the captain and the cavalry trooper make it home safely? More importantly, will they see peacetime together?

What Reviewers Are Saying
"If you're a fan of historical romance, soldiers in uniform, beautiful English prose, then I highly recommend this book." - CF White

"This is wonderful, a haunting tale of love found in the most unexpected and dangerous places between two characters, who are sensitive and courageous. " - Frankie Reviews

"The book was remarkably written, funny, witty and full of unique and interesting references to the period. The dialogue was quick, flirtatious and intriguing and the descriptions were beautiful." - Ruby Scalera

Extract

Northern France

1917

The wagon carrying Jack Woodvine bumped and jerked along the poplar-lined lanes, a fine spray of mud rising up each time the huge wooden wheels splashed through a puddle.

He had given up checking the time and, even though the journey was far from comfortable, tried to doze as he passed along under the iron-gray sky. A chateau, they’d said. Different from the barracks he’d been in when he was first deployed. Doubtless it would be a dismal old fortress, but was it silly of him to hope for bright pennants fluttering from a turret?

Finally, the wagon drew up at a gatehouse of pale stone. As Jack climbed out, dragging his kitbag behind him, sunlight nudged back the clouds and turned the gray slate of the roofs to blue.

“You the new groom?” A soldier appeared from the gatehouse. His cap was so low over his eyes that Jack couldn’t make out his expression.

“Yes—Trooper Woodvine. Jack Woodvine.” He took a letter from his pocket and held it out to the man. “I’ve been transferred from another battalion. This is the Chateau de Desgravier?”

“Yes, Trooper! Turn left at the bottom of the drive for the stables. Quick march!”

The last thing Jack wanted to do was march, quickly or otherwise, but he shouldered his kitbag, jammed his cap onto his head and marched down the tree-lined avenue.

It was thickly leaved, but through the branches he could see the white stone of the chateau ahead. He rounded a bend in the driveway and he saw it—Chateau de Desgravier.

An enormous tower rose up in front of him, its roof reaching into a delicate point. Jack sighed, the spots of mud on his face cracking as he smiled. It might not have had pennants floating from it, but it was exactly like something from a fairytale. Beside the tower were the stone and brick and filigreed windows of what looked to Jack like a palace. Who would ever think that the front was only a few miles to the east?

Quick march!

Jack continued on his way, turning to his left just as he’d been ordered. The path here bore evidence of horses—straw, manure, the marks of horseshoes. Ahead, an archway, figures at work. A lad of Jack’s age maneuvering a wheelbarrow, another leading a horse out to the paddock.

This wouldn’t be so bad. It seemed to be a peaceful place, and easy work for a lad like Jack. He raised his hand and grinned at the grooms as he headed under the archway and into the vast stable yard.

Then he heard singing. In French.

Jack dropped his kitbag and looked round. The voice was that of a man, yet heightened slightly, giving it a teasing, effeminate edge, and Jack couldn’t help but follow it like a sailor lured by a siren, pulled along the row of open stables toward that lilting chanson. Inside those stables young men labored and sweated, brooms swept and spades shoveled, yet one of the boxes at the far corner of the yard seemed to have been transformed into an impromptu theater.

Jack hardly dared glance through that open door, yet he couldn’t help himself, blinking at the hazy darkness of the interior where half a dozen grooms lounged in the straw, watching the chanteur in rapt silence.

Right in front of Jack, his back to the door, was the figure of a young man, clad in jodhpurs, polished riding boots and nothing else. No, that wasn’t quite true, because he was wearing something, the sort of something Jack didn’t really see much of in Shropshire. It was some sort of silken scarf, a shawl, perhaps, that was looped around his neck twice, the wide, dazzling red fabric decorated with intricate yellow flowers. They were bright against the pale skin of his naked back, as bright as the tip of the cigarette that glowed in the end of a long ebony cigarette holder that the singer held in his elegant right hand. He gestured with it like a painter with his brush, making intricate movements with his wrist as he sang, his voice a low purr, then a high, tuneful trill, then a comically deep bass that drew laughter from his audience.

He moved with the confidence of a dancer, hips swinging seductively, head cocked to one side, free hand resting on his narrow hip and here, in this strange fairytale place, he was bewitching.

The singer executed a near-perfect pirouette yet quite suddenly, when he was facing Jack, stopped. He put the cigarette holder to his pink lips, drew in a long, deep breath and blew out a smoke ring, his full lips forming a perfect O.

“Well, now.” He sucked in his pale cheeks and asked, “Who on earth have we here?”

Jack blinked as the smoke ring drifted into his face.

“Tr-trooper Woodvine, reporting for Captain Thorne. I’ve been transferred—I’m his new groom. I don’t suppose—”

The words dried in Jack’s throat. As enthralling as this otherworldly figure was, with his slim face and high cheekbones, there was an unsettling glint of mockery in his narrow blue eyes.

“Sorry.” Jack took a half-step backward. “I interrupted your song. I should…”

The singer moved a little, just enough that he could dart his head forward on its slender neck and draw his nose from Jack’s shoulder to his ear, breathing deeply all the way. They didn’t touch but the invasion, the authority, was clear. However lowly their station, Jack had wandered innocently into someone else’s domain.

When the young man’s nose reached Jack’s ear he threw his head back and let out a loud sigh through his parted lips, arms extended to either side. Then he finally spoke again, declaring to the heavens, “I smell new blood!”

Behind him, his small audience tittered nervously and his head dropped once more, those glittering blue eyes focused on Jack.

“Trooper Charles, sir!” He executed a courtly bow, the hand that held the cigarette twirling elaborately. “But you’re so darling and green that you may address me as Queenie. Aren’t you the lucky one?”

Jack reached for the doorframe to casually prop himself against it and essay the appearance of calm. Queenie?

“You may call me Jack.”

He extended his free hand to shake. A handshake showed the mettle of a man, his father was always telling him so. A good, firm hand at the market and a fellow would never have his prices beaten down.

Queenie’s narrow gaze slid down Jack like a snake and settled on his hand. He didn’t take it, didn’t move at all for a few seconds as the silence between them grew thicker. Then, in one quick movement, he placed his cigarette holder between Jack’s fingers and said, “Have a treat on me. Welcome to Cinderella’s doss house!”

Jack brought it hesitantly to his lips, smiling gamely at the grooms who made up Queenie’s audience. He pouted his lips against the carved ebony and inhaled.

The cough was so violent that Jack nearly dropped the holder, but an instinct in him born of a lifetime on a farm of tinder-dry hay meant he clamped it between his fingers. As he heaved for breath, he stamped on the nearby straw, suffocating any sparks that might have fallen.

The other grooms laughed and Queenie’s head tipped back to emit a bray of hilarity as a strong hand walloped Jack’s back.

A friendly Cockney burr chirruped, “Cough up, chicken—there’s a good lad!”

“We have a new little chicky in our nest,” Queenie told his audience, turning to address them. “I want you all to make him terribly welcome, or he might burn down our stables and then where would your Queenie sing?”

The stocky lad who had rescued Jack from his coughing fit was a head shorter than him. He pulled a face that could have been a smile or a sneer and took the cigarette holder from his fingers. He passed it to Queenie, all the while fixing his stare on the new arrival.

“Trooper Cole. Wilfred, that’s me. You’re Captain Thorne’s new boy, aren’t you?”

He laughed, then turned his head to spit on the floor, pulling a skinny roll-up from behind his ear.

“I’m Jack Woodvine. I mean…Trooper Woodvine.”

“I s’pose me and Queenie better take you to your quarters?”

“That would— But…oughtn’t I to introduce myself to Captain Thorne?”

“I’d say that’s a bit difficult, seeing as he’s not here at the moment.” Wilfred picked up Jack’s kitbag as easily as if it were spun from a feather. “Come on, soldier. Your palace awaits!”

“Captain T is an angel.” Queenie draped one arm sinuously around Jack’s shoulders and walked him back across the stable yard, his naked torso pressed to Jack’s rough tunic. “You’re going to have a bloody easy war, he’s soft as my mother’s newborn kitten.”

He glanced back at Wilfred and asked, “Wouldn’t you say so, Wilf?”

“Not half!” Wilfred laughed, striking a match to light his cigarette. “You couldn’t find a nicer bloke in the entire regiment.”

Jack grinned as they headed up the creaking wooden stairs above the stables. New quarters and new friends, and he wouldn’t have to rough it in a tent. Maybe there’d even be warm water for a bath.

“Well, that’s good to know. The officers were a bit…brusque at my last place.”

“Brusque?” Wilfred raised an amused eyebrow. “That’s a fancy word for a groom!”

“Ignore our lovely Wilf. Strong as an ox, bright as a coal shed.” At the top of the stairs Queenie turned to address Wilfred and Jack, his pale hand resting on the crooked handrail. “Thorny is adorable, not brusque at all. Welcome to our little slice of heaven!”

With that he lifted the latch and threw the door open, directing Jack to enter with another low bow.