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About the Book

Lady Emily Black will do anything for redemption.

Haunted by a tragic mistake in her past that endangered her family and nearly cost the life of the only man she could ever love, Emily now lives a life of exile that just so happens to include sword play and stealth on the dark streets of London in an attempt to stop innocent people from coming to harm at the hands of seedy criminals. Caring not for her own safety, Emily embarks on a life of justice at all costs, if only to rid her mind of the ghostly image of her lost love.

Professor Xavier Mesmer will do anything for peace.

Haunted by the death of his friend, Xavier abandoned the research that led to his friend’s demise and now only undertakes endeavors for peace to honor the memory of his lost friend. So when a chance to serve at a peace conference at Kensington Palace arises, Xavier must push aside his dark memories of the attempt on his life and the bewitching debutante whose eyes still haunt his dreams in order to return to the city he swore never to step foot in again.

But when Emily overhears the plotting of Xavier’s murder, there’s only one thing she can do.

Save him, of course.

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Shadowing London Book 3

A Victorian Second Chance Romance

Ten years ago, if you had told her that her life would be forever changed from one moment in a book shop, Lady Emily Black would not have believed you in the slightest.

But it’s not as if one could schedule the moment when one might overhear the plotting of a murder.

Of the one person she held most dear.

Of the one person who had ever been able to touch her very soul.

The murder of Professor Xavier Mesmer.

In the six years of her self exile, she’d grown very good at not reacting. So as she stood in Barnaby’s Books of London, perusing a copy of Hector Lamire’s latest treatise on the refraction of light through concave lenses, she did not react in the slightest. Her breath did not hitch, and her gaze did not wander. Any passer by would think her thoroughly engrossed in the book opened in her hands.

But just then, Emily could not have read a single word of it if her very life depended on it. For she didn’t see the book at all. As soon as she’d heard his name — Xavier Mesmer — just the whisper of it, scuttled about in the quiet of a bookshop on Marlborough Street, it was enough to have her mind careening across time to that moment so long ago. A moment that should have faded with the passage of years, but no matter how hard she tried to will it, it cruelly remained as perfect and fresh as a newly laundered gown.

The moment when Professor Xavier Mesmer had saved her life.

The moment when she had fallen to the ground, her hands pressed to the wound in his leg to staunch the flow of blood. The crimson stream that bubbled up through her fingers, spilling over her hands and into the wet grass of morning.

That was all she could see when she heard the name Professor Xavier Mesmer, and so it was that she did not move. For she couldn’t. That was the power Xavier had had on her. Even through a fading memory, he could stop her dead.

She forced herself to blink, opened her senses to the space around her, pulling herself back from that long ago memory.

The sound of rain came first, crashing against the front windows of Barnaby’s, rushing to her ears like a swarm of startled birds. Then came the ticking clock. A monstrosity Mrs. Barnaby had acquired in Switzerland and which she’d foisted off on Mr. Barnaby for keeping time in his shop.

Then, oddly enough, a smell. A smell came to her next. The strong odor of wet wool and camphor. The wet wool she could explain as it was raining, but it was the mixture of the two that struck a wary cord deep in her memory.

But reality was coming too quickly now, and she couldn’t stop to ponder it. For now she heard the men who had been speaking. The men who conversed on the topic of murder.

As her family was plagued with spies for the British crown and detective inspectors for the Metropolitan Police, the mention of murder had little effect on her. It was as if someone had made a comment on runny eggs. So she turned a keen ear to the conversation and waited.

There were two men on the other side of the bookshelf from where she stood. This was the first disappointing aspect of the two men. They were standing in the section dedicated to home management. Quite an obvious blunder as it could be assumed they were hoping their conversation would go unnoticed. But instead, they stood in the one place to appear most suspicious should anyone notice.

And Emily had noticed.

Over the scent of wet wool and camphor came a more telling aroma: pitch and tar and salt. She could only make out their beaver top hats and not much else, but from their accents, she would have guessed they were well bred. This would exclude the profession of dockhand, and therefore, the smell could only mean these gentlemen had recently come off a ship.

But a ship from where?

“I should like the matter settled as quickly as possible,” the man on the left said.

He had a marked accent, vaguely European in nature, but every other word or so there was a slip, and the syllable would come out crisply British. How odd. Was the man attempting to hide his British roots or was he attempting to affect a British accent and failing spectacularly at it?

The man to the right responded. “Of course, my good man. His ship is to arrive at the end of the week, and my men plan to meet him at the dock. London is a dangerous town, you know. Wouldn’t want our dear professor venturing off the dock without a proper escort.” The sneer was audible in his voice.

Emily closed her book, placed it back on the shelf.

The gentleman on the left seemed unaffected by his companion’s obvious, sinister delight.

“Just see to it that it’s done.” The bell above the shop door tinkled as the man left.

Emily turned and swept around the bookshelf with no hesitation. The man she encountered there was frail and weak, the knobs of his elbows clear through his cutaway coat. He had a twitchy mustache and an alarming lack of eyebrows over the gold rims of his spectacles.

She had also clearly startled him as he massaged the head of a walking stick in both hands.

It was the walking stick that threw her.

Xavier carried a walking stick.

Now.

She swallowed, forcing her composure to steady.

“Can you recommend a good resource for the management of the household menu?” she asked, tilting her head the smallest of degrees as if to impart the need for assistance.

The weak man quivered under her gaze, and at her request, touched the brim of his hat and scurried away with little more than a garbled excuse.

She watched the door of the shop close behind him, the feeling of inevitability falling over her like a warm cloak.

It appeared it was now her turn to save Xavier’s life.

Shadowing London Book 2

A Victorian Romance

When her thoughts turned to arson, Jane Black knew it was going to be a very long season.

It was only the invariably delightful personality of Madame LeFevre that had Jane discarding ideas of burning down the woman’s dress shop as a means of escaping another season.

Or more specifically, the Marquess of Evanshire.

Unfortunately it was the dreadful incident at the Brownlow ball that had saved her from the previous season. And then it had only been a temporary reprieve. One captured at too great a cost.

Her eyes roamed over to her new sister-in-law, sitting as straight as her ever increasing stomach would allow as she surveyed the gowns Jane modeled. It was just short of a year since her brother, Samuel, had wed Penelope Paiget while the two had chased after the also invariably delightful Professor Xavier Mesmer after the professor’s assistant was murdered by an unknown entity attempting to steal the professor’s telescope discovery.

And Jane had been left in the care of the Marquess of Evanshire for safekeeping.

Austin.

She blinked and ducked her head into her shoulder as heat swarmed her cheeks. She darted a glance at her mother and Penelope, sure they saw the blush caused by her traitorous thoughts, but they chattered on about the Gigot sleeves and whether there should be covered buttons or pearl buttons gathering the cuffs. Jane heard none of this as the forbidden name ran around her brain.

Austin. Austin. Austin.

She believed she had done a rather fine job feigning disinterest in the man. Or at the very least, a polite amiableness. But her true thoughts had her pushing a hand to her stomach and ducking her head into her shoulder again.

“Miss Black!” Madame LeFevre snapped. “I cannot fix this sash if you will not stand still. Young ladies, isn’t it so, Mrs. Black?” This to Jane’s mother, Nora, who was momentarily distracted from her conversation with Penelope. “They are all atwitter for their young beaus.”

Jane squeaked, all eyes in the small sitting room turning to her. She pressed her hand to her stomach again, dipping her eyelashes in false demure.

“It’s just a little tight,” she said, running her fingers over the sash Madame LeFevre was so ardent about fixing.

Madame huffed. “Too many lemon squares at the balls, Miss Jane?” She tutted a finger at her. “You mustn’t let yourself get carried away. You must win a fine young man this season, no? It is your second season after all.”

Jane closed her mouth and looked away. It was her second season. Two seasons too many, but no one had asked her for her input. Or rather, they hadn’t listened when she’d given it without invitation.

She had already picked out a suitable man to marry. Mr. John Smith, a perfectly reasonable second son of the country baron who made his home not more than three miles from Eaton Park, her father’s estate in Kent. Mr. Smith had always been kind to her at the local assemblies. Asking her for the first dance. Fetching her lemonade. He had extraordinary insight on crop rotation and fertilizer that he planned to use when he became of age and inherited the parcel of land his grandfather had left him.

Jane had grown so comfortable around the man, she’d even revealed her terrible secret to him. That it was, indeed, herself who kept the accounts at the estate and not her father. Such an untoward thing for a woman to manage, but there was nothing about Mr. Smith that would suggest he would find disfavor in the thing. So she’d revealed it to him.

It was all very comfortable and…known. There was nothing about Mr. Smith and his agriculture ambitions that Jane could not surmise at the outset.

Not like when she looked at the Marquess of Evanshire.

Not when he cast that grin at her. The one that lit his brown eyes until the delicious pain in her stomach became too much to bear.

Not like when his hand slipped into hers, leading her onto a dance floor. Not like when he pulled her close. Not like when she could smell the vanilla of his soap. The mint on his breath.

She squeaked again.

“Really, Miss Jane, it is not at all that tight,” Madame LeFevre admonished, sitting back on her heels with another huff. “I should think that will do for today.”

Jane trailed a hand down the skirts of the gown, their luxurious fabric reminding her that this was all a terrible, unneeded expense. The money for her gowns could have gone into the building of Eaton Park’s gristmill, which would have been a far better investment. She eyed her mother but was met with the same stern expression she had since the first time Jane had balked at the idea of a season.

For Jane’s seasons were not at all about Jane. They were about her cousin, Lady Emily Black. Emily was beautiful and refined. Everything a gentleman would seek in a wife. Not at all like Jane.

The Black family returns in the Shadowing London series coming fall 2017 with the first three books to include:

• Sam and Penelope’s story
• Jane’s story
• Emily’s story

And I’m not telling you which one wins the heart of a certain marquess.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, make sure you read the Spy Series short stories before the first book comes out this fall.

Shake Down Your Ashes

A Historical Novella

She is an unwed woman traveling alone.  He is a widower trying to find the peace he’s never had.  Each carrying a secret of their own to the small inn by the lake nestled in the remote hills of upstate New York, Irene Bell and James Abernathy unexpectedly meet on May 25, 1900.  Having come to the inn to find nothing but solace, they find instead a confrontation of wills that ignites into something more when they witness an unsavory act by a fellow guest.  But when a stranger appears at the inn, both must face a reality neither has wanted to allow.

Purchase from:

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK  |  Kobo

Friday, 25 May 1900

If you spit on one side of the hill, it will end up in the Mississippi.  If you spit on the other, it will go north to the St. Lawrence.  So Uncle Perry told me twenty years ago when I first came down to Bear Lake from Buffalo.
I’ve spit on both sides of the hill and never made a ripple.  Maybe I just didn’t spit hard enough.
The hills watch the lake as the lake watches back.  A battalion of wetland trees stand guard around the perimeter, their exposed, rotting limbs prodding the sky.  They watch me.  I once tried to ask my wife, Meredith, if she felt it, too, felt the trees turn to see what it was you were doing there.  She told me not to be odd.
The water laps steadily against the shore, in no hurry to either arrive or depart.  Smaller rocks follow the drag back into the lake’s womb, disappearing from sight.
Some Canada geese have flown in to use the Utzes’ waterfront as a depository.  Joachim sometimes runs down the slope to yell at them in German.  I wonder if the geese understand him.  They fly away, so maybe they do.
The daffodils have already popped up along the road like a trail of breadcrumbs, but the trail only leads down to the swamp at the west end of the lake.
And the smell of sweet rolls from Mabel’s kitchen mixes with the odor of motor oil from Thomas’ new motorcar.  I can see him toying with it over by the carriage house with Joachim.  Whether they know what they’re doing with it or not, I have no idea.  But watching them is all I’m doing anyway.
Mabel is in the kitchen.  She does not want to make Joachim mad.
Memorial Day marks the beginning of the summer season.  There will be a parade on Wednesday in the towns around Bear Lake.  Brocton, Stockton, Cassadaga.  There are not enough people in Bear Lake for it to have its own parade even though there are more people here now than when Meredith and I first came down from Buffalo.  As I stand on the porch of the inn, I look at the scattering of cottages spread to the left and right of me that were not there the first time we came but have sprung up like the daffodils along the road.  But the cottages do not lead somewhere better than the swamp.  They just follow the quiet road.
The sound of clattering metal draws my gaze back to the carriage house and Thomas Bryant.  He has driven his motorcar across the state this year simply because he could.  He is what you might call a political manager in the City.  His grandfather’s name used to be O’Bryan.  His wife, Mercedes, will be following shortly.  She made a stop in Rochester to meet with Susan Anthony.  The other two rooms in the inn have been rented as well, but I did not recognize the names Mabel gave me.  Another family from the City and a young woman from Pittsburgh.  I wonder why she is traveling alone.
The road is empty, but the sound of voices carry along the water, deposits of nouns and adverbs, whispers and shouts.  At the cottage to the left and up the hill a ways from the Utzes’ inn, Mrs. Coachman’s bridge club is meeting on her porch again.  Mr. Coachman is conveniently missing again.  Up there, just along the bank, is the top of Mr. Dobbins’s hat.  His wife needs her flowerbeds mulched.  I am not sure what this process entails, but it has ignited a sudden urge in Mr. Dobbins to go find Mr. Coachman.  The young ladies of the girls’ camp across the lake are splashes of water mixed with bursts of giggles.  It sounds as if they are standing on the porch with me.  The water likes to carry their voices best.
“Get inside now and have a sweet roll, Mr. Abernathy.  Stop staring at everyone and everything.”
I turn to look at the dark shape that is Mabel in the screen door.  The one side of her hair has come undone from the bun and hangs like a drape, covering her forehead to her eyebrow.  There is a white spot of flour on the bump in her nose, and her yellowed teeth bite her lower lip as she stares at me with her sunken eyes.  Mabel was beautiful once.  I’ve seen the photograph.  It was taken before she met Joachim.
“I was not staring, Mabel,” I tell her, “I was watching.”
“Why don’t you come inside for a spill and watch something else then?”
“I believe you mean come inside for a spell.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”  She frowns at me through the mesh of the door, the movement drawing her ears up.
“Yes, ma’am.”  I pull myself out of the chair, letting the linen of my trousers slide down, catching along my garters.  I take off my straw as I come in the door, letting the screen smack behind me.  The hallway is darker than the outside, and I have to let my eyes adjust.   A suitcase rests at the foot of the stairs with a pelisse draped across it.  It wasn’t there when I went out for a walk that morning.  The young lady must have arrived from Pittsburgh.
I stand for a moment listening to the tick of the clock in the front parlor.  I turn my head slightly in that direction, but the billowing curtains from the front windows pull my attention.  The wind is picking up.
I move to the windows on the east side of the house where wind isn’t blowing inside to see the trees again.  The leaves are still turned down, relaxing in layers around the trunk and branches.  The rain will be a while.
By the time I reach the kitchen, Mabel is already adding sugar to a bowl with some yeast to start it rising.  Two pans of finished sweet rolls rest on the table by the open window through which I see Thomas and Joachim still tinkering with the engine of the new motorcar.  Joachim is speaking in German.  I move toward the window, but Mabel snaps the curtains closed.
“You want ice tea?”
“Iced tea would be lovely. Thank you, Mabel.”
There is a leftover speck of sawdust floating on top of the tea.  I pick it out while Mabel measures flour for the dough.  A floorboard creaks overhead.  I wipe my hand on my trousers and look upward.
“It’s a real young ‘un, Mr. Abernathy.”
“Oh yes, of course, Mabel.”
“Fresh in from Pittsburgh.”  Mabel leans across the table at me.  “Wearing very odd pants.”
She says the last word as if it was a bullet and will only be effective if she puts some air behind it.
“Pants?”
Mabel looks at the door to the hallway and makes the sign of the cross.  She nods and picks up a pan of sweet rolls to put in the oven of the wood stove.  Snatching the hook off the wall, she picks up the plates on the stovetop checking the fire inside.  Sweat drips from the spot between her thinning gray eyebrows, and her flat, colorless hair dampens along her brow.  The Utzes cannot afford one of those summer kerosene cook stoves.  The woods behind the house provide free fuel, where as kerosene would have to be purchased.  Mabel cannot even get Joachim to build an outside kitchen.  He says summer doesn’t last long in Western New York anyway, and Mabel can tolerate the heat, store it up to last all winter long.
Overhead there is a small thud as something lands on the floor.