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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.

Once Upon a Vow

Shadowing London Book Two

Visit the book page for buy links.

Jane Black is plain and smart, a combination sure to kill any prospects found in a London season.

Pretending her wallflower status is of no concern, Jane focuses on the quiet country life she’s planned even as she struggles with the vow she made to her grandfather to protect the family. But when she discovers her grandfather’s friend, Dr. Seymour, carries with him the secret to unmasking the traitor behind the attacks on the Black family, Jane knows it’s her duty to rescue the doctor from Bedlam and carry him to safety.

If only the Marquess of Evanshire will allow her to do so.

Austin Peregrine, the Marquess of Evanshire, avoids marriage at all costs, which is sure to kill the hopes of many a marrying mama.

Evanshire will do whatever it takes to avoid remembering he even had a family once. Having left his home at Peregrine Hall as the moment of his majority, he has sought danger at every turn until his life collides with Jane’s. With his attraction to her growing, he has no choice but to accompany Jane when she strikes out to rescue the doctor and hide him until his secrets can be revealed.

But can they keep the doctor alive long enough to uncover his dangerous secret?

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Once Upon a Vow

Shadowing London Book Two

Coming March 2018

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 LaFevre 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 lovely. Everything a gentleman would seek in a wife. Not at all like Jane.

But Emily’s beauty and her natural way of enticing the gentlemen meant she required extra chaperoning. That came by way of her plain cousin, Jane, and Jane had been forced to debut with Emily. Attend the same balls. Danced the same dances. Smile at the same gentlemen. All in hopes of keeping Emily in line.

But as Emily had become firmly affixed to the Marquess of Evanshire, Jane had had very little actual chaperoning to do as Emily’s attention was rather narrowed.

The pain in Jane’s stomach now had nothing to do with the memory of Austin’s grin.

Austin.

She bit her lower lip, swallowed the disappointment that rose up at the thought of Emily and the marquess, and stepped down from the dais where she had stood while Madame LeFevre adjusted the gown. It needn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. She was determined to marry Mr. Smith after all.

And the excuse of chaperoning Emily gave her leave to fulfill her other plan. A vow really. One she’d made in secret and was now struggling with learning how to bear.

“I will help you out of the gown, mon cherie.” Madame LeFevre pushed to her feet, brushing a strand of her silver hair from her forehead and back into the cap she wore perched high on her head. “With all the pins in the bodice, you are likely to get stuck like a Christmas pig!” The French woman’s laugh tinkled through the room, but Jane could hear the rasp of age under it.

Jane studied the woman more carefully, noting the lines around her dark eyes, the creases at her mouth. But more, the swollen knots that were her fingers.

Jane smiled, resting a hand on the woman’s arm. “I would appreciate your assistance, Madame.”

The modiste shooed away her attentions. “Of course, my child.” She turned to Nora and Penelope. “Would you like some fresh tea, my darlings? Perhaps another tray of the scones?”

Penelope pressed a hand to her rounding stomach. “Oh, lud. I am certain the baby would enjoy two more trays of scones with that decadent cream you have, Madame, but I’m afraid my dresses will just not forgive me for it.”

Madame LeFevre laughed her raspy laugh once more. “Oh my dear, but that is not at all a problem for me.” She swept the room with her splayed hands. “Merely step up on my dais, and I shall solve that little problem for you.”

Penelope laughed, her wide, almond-shaped eyes crinkling in her happiness, her hand massaging her belly. A twinge sparked in Jane’s chest, and she rubbed a hand absently at the spot. But when she hoped the pain would go away, her mind only saw the Marquess of Evanshire’s face. She turned, carefully picking up the skirts of her gown to retreat back to the changing room where Madame would help her into her regular things. Jane only had to remember her vow and get through this. It would all be over soon.

A knock at the door stopped her.

“Madame, the gentleman is here,” a young seamstress said with a curtsy to Madame LeFevre.

“Already?” Nora looked about her. “Whatever time is it?”

Jane’s hand clenched into the fabric of her gown. “Gentleman?”

Nora nodded. “Your brother sent Evanshire to collect us.” Her gaze slid to Madame and back. “After the excitement of last season, he wanted to exercise a certain degree of caution.”

Austin.

He was here.

Now.

Just on the other side of that door.

The pain blossomed through her chest and into her stomach, driving the air from her lungs. She dropped her gaze to the floor, shuffled her feet back towards the changing room.

“Come, child, before you ruin all of my hard work. We must get you out of that gown.” Madame LeFevre chased after her, shooing her into the adjoining room and snapping the door shut behind them with a sudden burst of unusual excitement.

This space was smaller but equally as appointed in lush fabrics and gilt mirrors. Jane’s regular things hung on hooks along the wall, and their familiarity and serviceable, plainness quelled the rush of emotion inside of her.

“I have never met a woman so fidgety, my child,” Madame LeFevre mumbled as she undid the back of the gown. She slid it away from Jane’s small shoulders and carefully eased it down her body until Jane could step free. “Just a moment, and I’ll get you back into your things, love.”

Jane stared at herself in the mirrors. She was too thin. Too tall. Her bones protruded from her unusually long limbs. Her corset hung loose about her. Even it was no match for her thinness.

Her nose was too big. Her forehead, too, but at least that she hid that under a generous spray of fringe. The spread of her petticoats made her appear as though she were a duster, ready to flail across the floor.

She was certainly no match for Lady Emily Black.

Jane ran her hands up and down her arms to abate the sudden chill that spread over her, letting her gaze move up the mirror to Madame LeFevre’s reflection to see where she was with Jane’s regular gown.

Her eyes froze on the reflection of the modiste. The woman held an indigo blue glass bottle in one hand and a rag in the other, dumping the contents of the bottle onto the rag while keeping her face carefully averted. Jane kept very still, her hands frozen on her arms as she watched the modiste set the indigo blue bottle back on a table, keeping her hand with the rag carefully extended away from her body.

“Just a moment more, child,” Madame LeFevre cooed. “And then we shall be all done.”

The modiste turned, keeping her eyes on the rag, and approached Jane from behind. Although much older than Jane, the woman was also much bigger. Taller. Wider. Thicker. Stronger. Jane’s hands clenched on her elbows. Her body preparing for flight as she knew she didn’t stand a chance at fight. Not like her father, the great spy for the War Office. Not like her brother, the revered detective inspector for the Metropolitan Police Force.

She was just little, plain Jane Black, who hoped to one day marry a farmer and live a quiet life in the countryside. But Madame kept coming closer, the rag held high. Three more steps.

Jane’s mind raced, searching for a way out. A weapon. Something that she could use to protect herself. The gown she had just tried on hung on a hook beside her, the soft light of the room glinting off the pins along the sash.

Two more steps.

Jane spun and plunged toward the gown, her fingers slipping over the pins before catching one. She wrenched it free and turned, her arm swinging where she thought the modiste had stood.

Flesh met flesh, and she heard the rasp of the woman’s cry just as Jane screamed the only thing she could remember.

“Austin!”

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Once Upon a Vow

Shadowing London Book Two

Coming March 2018

From the back cover…

Jane Black is plain and smart, a combination sure to kill any prospects found in a London season.

Pretending her wallflower status is of no concern, Jane focuses on the quiet country life she’s planned even as she struggles with the vow she made to her grandfather to protect the family. But when she discovers her grandfather’s friend, Dr. Seymour, carries with him the secret to unmasking the traitor behind the attacks on the Black family, Jane knows it’s her duty to rescue the doctor from Bedlam and carry him to safety.

If only the Marquess of Evanshire will allow her to do so.

Austin Peregrine, the Marquess of Evanshire, avoids marriage at all costs, which is sure to kill the hopes of many a marrying mama.

Evanshire will do whatever it takes to avoid remembering he even had a family once. Having left his home at Peregrine Hall as the moment of his majority, he has sought danger at every turn until his life collides with Jane’s. With his attraction to her growing, he has no choice but to accompany Jane when she strikes out to rescue the doctor and hide him until his secrets can be revealed.

But can they keep the doctor alive long enough to uncover his dangerous secret?

You can order your copy exclusively at Amazon.

About the Book

The most dangerous thing a lady can possess is a profession.

Ten years ago, Penelope Paiget promised she’d wait for Samuel Black. But ten years ago, she was only a genteel impoverished paid companion, forced into service after her father’s death revealed his insurmountable debts. Now she’s a successful novelist, posing as secretary to the Earl of Wickshire to hide her identity.

The most dangerous thing a gentleman can possess is a past.

Ten years ago, Samuel Black chose to go his own path instead of upholding his family’s legacy as spies. But now having fought for the formation of the Metropolitan Police Force, echoes of his past and his true origins remind him just how unworthy he is to call himself detective inspector. Let alone Penelope Paiget’s husband.

But when a dead body appears in the Earl of Wickshire’s drawing room, they have no choice but to trust each other with their secrets if they are to find the killer before it’s too late.

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London

March 1833

The day began much as any other day. With murder, of course.

From The Adventures of Miss Melanie Merkett, Private Inquisitor

Penelope Paiget was skilled at a great many things.  Hiding dead bodies was not one of them.

She had returned to Wickshire Place at half six that morning as was her custom after her regular half day off the previous day.  She’d spent her time as she usually did, in the company of Lady Delia Witherspoon, the woman for whom she had served as companion for nearly four years before accepting the position as Lord Wickshire’s secretary.  Lady Witherspoon continued to enjoy Penelope’s company, and as Penelope had no other family in London on whom to call and likewise enjoyed the rather flamboyant observations of Lady Delia, Penelope found herself spending her afternoons off in her former employer’s company. It was a pleasant and productive way for Penelope to spend the time as Lady Delia quite enjoyed speaking about Penelope’s other professional endeavors—the ones that most of society would think unusual and even unbecoming of a woman of Penelope’s refined reputation as the daughter of a well-respected country baron. It was something Penelope enjoyed most about Lady Delia.  The woman did not raise an eyebrow at others’ unusual proclivities.

It was this fascination with the unusual that had likely secured the position for Penelope at Wickshire Place in the first instance.  Lord Wickshire excelled at unusual proclivities.  A man who had earned the nickname Poison Peter was not likely to count a snuff box fetish as his most eccentric habit.  No, indeed Lord Wickshire did not.  He was an academic much like her father had been, and he was prone to eccentric rants on topics of natural history, his true passion running towards that of the chemical arts.

Really, if Penelope were to think of it, it was likely the combination of Lady Delia’s desire for eccentric acquaintances acquittances and her father’s academic pursuits that had nearly guaranteed Penelope’s secretarial position in the Wickshire household.  Lady Delia often had Lord Wickshire to tea, and it was through this occurrence that he had learned of Penelope’s assistance in her father’s endeavors.  A woman so skilled at keeping the notes of an academic as well as having intelligence herself was rare indeed, Lord Wickshire had professed, and offered her employment on the spot.  With Lady Delia’s blessing, of course.

Lady Delia had always said Penelope was far too intelligent to spend her days wasting away as a paid companion even if Lady Delia treasured her company.  It wasn’t the first time Penelope had heard such, but she had grown better at hiding how such a proclamation irked her.  It was with some marked measure of glee that Lady Delia handed Penelope over to Lord Wickshire, claiming he would never be disappointed in Penelope’s work.

And he hadn’t been.  Lord Wickshire, that was.  At least, not until that morning.

For as she stood on the threshold of the drawing room of Wickshire Place, the toes of her boots neatly aligning with the edge of the Abusson rug, its vibrant reds, blues, and golds now muted with a peculiar dampness seeping from the dead body lying atop it, Penelope was quite certain she would not succeed at whatever task Lord Wickshire was about that morn.

Penelope stood calmly, her hands folded over her reticule as she took in the sight of the deceased.  She had no reason for alarm.  That is, she was not frightened by the sight of a dead man.  Her own father had conducted autopsies of pigs and cats and dogs.  Sometimes even a goat when the opportunity presented itself.  She knew very well where meat came from, and how it was that physical anatomy worked.  It was nothing more than a bit of natural study.  And it wasn’t as if there was any messy blood with which to contend.  The man was quite intact.  Although, if she were being honest, she would have admitted a good splattering of blood would have made the scene far more interesting.  As it were, it was just a poor man lying dead on a bit of carpet.

She looked up and about the room.  Lord Wickshire enjoyed taking his morning tea in the drawing room where the light was best for reading the day’s newspapers.  Oddly, however, Lord Wickshire was absent.

Penelope took a small step back, angling the upper part of her body into the corridor where she heard the rustling skirts of Mrs. Watson, Lord Wickshire’s appallingly efficient housekeeper.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Watson,” Penelope called down the corridor.  “Is Lord Wickshire in residence?”

Mrs. Watson did not stop in her trajectory down the corridor, the basket at her elbow of burnt candle nubs bouncing against her bony hip.  “He is not, Miss Paiget,” she said.  “He was in the study when I departed yesterday, and that was the last I had seen him.”

“Are you aware there is a dead body in the drawing room then?” she called after the retreating figure.

Mrs. Watson did not stop.  In fact, she did not even slow her step as she made her way to the back of the townhouse, likely in pursuit of the kitchens.  “I do, indeed,” she returned.  “It’s making a terrible mess of the carpet.  It’s not as if we’ve nothing to do around here without his lordship making more work for us.”  The woman opened a door at the end of the hall and disappeared.

Penelope straightened.  Everything seemed to be activity as usual then.  The poor man on the carpet seemed rather at peace despite Mrs. Watson’s declaration of inconvenience to the carpet and the staff.  The gentleman was rather young, almost boyish in appearance, with unkempt hair and mismatched patches of stubble along his cheeks as if he were new to shaving.  Perhaps he had been.  Quite terrible, really.

And the rug was likely a loss now anyway.  Mrs. Watson need only worry about removing it from the drawing room and bringing a new one down from the attics.

She leaned back again, her head going around the doorframe to see the clock standing in the hall.  It was after seven now.  Lord Wickshire usually began his dictation at this hour.  Reciting to her any discoveries or ideas he had formed in the late hours he often spent in his laboratories in the extensive basements of the townhouse.  He kept his working rooms down there after a terrible occurrence with sulfur when he’d housed his experiments in his second floor study.  The fumes had seeped up to the servants’ quarters on the fourth floor, much to the glowering disapproval of Mrs. Watson.  Lord Wickshire had vacated immediately for the subterranean comfort of the basements rather than encounter Mrs. Watson in future.

But his dictation, that occurred in the main living areas of the house, usually in the second floor study where he had a desk installed for Penelope.  A lovely escritoire of glowing rosewood.  It was elegant while at the same time stately.  Magical, Penelope would have called it.  Perfect for a use of which she did not speak in polite circles.

She straightened once more, her eyes falling to the body, and released a round, deep sigh, her lungs collapsing in repose.  There was nothing for it but to wait.  At least, that was what she’d planned to do.

Until someone knocked on the door.

She looked over her shoulder at it, just down the corridor from where she stood in the entrance to the drawing room.  She peered the other way.  Mrs. Watson had either not heard the summons or had deemed Penelope close enough to see to the matter of a visitor.  It was likely the second option as it spoke most acutely to efficiency.  Something with which Mrs. Watson took uncomfortable pleasure.

Penelope stepped away from the drawing room, her boots loud against the wood floors of the foyer in the quiet solitude of a house just waking.  She pulled open the great front door and blinked into the increasing sunshine of what promised to be a beautiful spring day.

Her eyes settled on the gentleman standing on the stoop before her, her gaze falling directly to the bouquet of tulips clasped in his hand.  They were purple tulips not yet opened in bloom and streamed with promising bits of white along the edges of the petals.  They reminded her of hope and promise, and her fingers twitched against the strings of her reticule at the remembered feel of a quill in her hand.

“Good morning,” she said to the bouquet, a smile already coming to her lips before she raised her gaze to the caller.  “Oh, bloody hell,” she stammered when her eyes fell on Mr. Samuel Black’s familiar face.  She shook her head quickly at his stricken expression.  “Sorry,” she said.  “Very sorry.  It was just that I was not expecting you.”

His face crumpled into a frown.  “Yes, I’m incredibly sorry about the early hour,” he said quickly.  “My profession does not relate itself to normal calling hours, and the necessity for an early—”

She cut him off with a waved hand between them.  “I meant the year, Mr. Black.  Not the hour.  Wherever have you been?”

For more, visit the book page.

Once Upon a Page

A Shadowing London Book

Coming September 2017

The most dangerous thing a lady can possess is a profession.

Ten years ago, Penelope Paiget promised she’d wait for Samuel Black. But ten years ago, she was only a genteel impoverished paid companion, forced into service after her father’s death revealed his insurmountable debts. Now she’s a successful novelist, posing as secretary to the Earl of Wickshire to hide her identity.

The most dangerous thing a gentleman can possess is a past.

Ten years ago, Samuel Black chose to go his own path instead of upholding his family’s legacy as spies. But now having fought for the formation of the Metropolitan Police Force, echoes of his past and his true origins remind him just how unworthy he is to call himself detective inspector. Let alone Penelope Paiget’s husband.

But when a dead body appears in the Earl of Wickshire’s drawing room, they have no choice but to trust each other with their secrets if they are to find the killer before it’s too late.