So now I want to ask you!

Which of the Spy Series short stories is your favorite?

Were you surprised by Samuel’s choice in To Be a Spy?

Who do you think will win the heart of the Marquess of Evanshire?

Was Lady Emily a surprise? Do you love her or hate her?

And I’d like to say I’m sorry about To Be a Lady and what happens to Richard. But it needed to happen for the story to go on. Are you sad about it? Or do you understand?

What are you most anticipating from Once Upon a Page?

Join in the conversation and let me know in the comments below.

I don’t know what’s more exciting about this post:

1. The amazingly talented Rachael Beresford is currently hard at work on the audio edition of To Save a Viscount or…
2. I got to write SPRING in this post!

Yes, To Save a Viscount will be available in audio this spring, so if you’re like me and use any excuse you can to listen to audiobooks, set aside the cleaning for a few weeks and store up some cleaning time to listen to this Regency romance.  You won’t regret it!

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.

Coming July 18, 2016

Lady Emily Black is used to getting her way.  As the daughter of the Duke of Lofton, she’s grown accustomed to privilege and comfort.  So when an ordinary shopping trip turns deadly, Emily is forced to adjust to the truth of what it means to be the descendant of a family of spies.  But when such adjustment includes the Marquess of Evanshire, she suddenly finds it’s not quite so difficult even if the marquess is already taken.  Because Lady Emily Black always gets what she wants.  Always.

Check back on the book page for more details.

Yes, dear readers, the judges of the NJRW Golden Leaf contest have chosen Inevitably a Duchess: A Spy Series Novella as a finalist in the novella category.  For those of you who may be unfamiliar with romance novel awards (it sounds like an odd thing to say even to me!), the Golden Leaf “is awarded annually for excellence in romance fiction by authors who are NJRW members or in Romance Writers of America (RWA) Region One.”  It is such an honor to have Inevitably a Duchess listed among the fine works named finalists in this contest.  And I have you, dear reader, to thank.  For I would never have written Jane & Richard’s story without prompting from several readers asking, “When are you going to write Jane & Richard’s story?”  And so, I thank you ever so much.

For a complete list of the NJRW Golden Leaf Finalists, please visit the NJRW’s website.

To Save a Viscount

Coming August 27, 2014

When an assassin threatens England’s spy network, Lady Margaret Folton must find the killer before it’s too late.  But when Commodore John Lynwood is accidentally granted a title meant to be used as bait to lure the assassin into the War Office’s trap, Margaret must face the tragedy of her past and decide which is more important: the assignment or love?

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

These are real trees. They grow in the ground and sway in the air. They don’t grow out of cobblestone and sway in the smog. They chose to grow here. They were not placed here.
My window overlooks them at the back of the house, and I stand and watch them talking to one another. One will dip to whisper in the ear of another while another moves away, repulsed by what he’s heard. I wonder what they’re talking about.
“Supper is at five o’clock. I’m making meatloaf and potato salad, Miss Bell.”
The crooked woman might have smiled at me, but she looks too old and too worn to smile at anyone.
“Thank you, Mrs. Utz.”
She nods and closes the door behind her.
The trees are still talking when I turn back to them, but their conversation has lost its appeal. The lace of the curtains makes patterns of sunlight on the floor. I walk over to my carpetbag, destroying the neat rows of spotted light. One of my bags has not made it up and neither has my pelisse. They must still be in the foyer, but I don’t want to go down and get them. The bed looks smooth and soft. The quilt rests gently across the bed, and I don’t want to wrinkle it. I sit in the chair by the window.
Down in the yard I see two men, one long and thin, the other more thick and slightly shorter. They are working on a motorcar. What kind I cannot say. The shadow of the carriage house blots out the rear end and most of the body. It’s a pleasant green though, and the brass headlamps glint in the sun. The windowpane stops their conversation from reaching me. I’m too tired to unlock the glass and lift the panel. I pretend I know what they are saying.
I have started the chair rocking, and my eyes are no longer open. I remember how he did not touch me after I told him.

He sits there as I tell him.
The kitchen is warm and smells like soap. My hands smell of sulfur from the well water. I have just washed our plates. I do not know how to cook.
He thanks me for the soufflé and rolls.
I say he is welcomed.
I tell him again.
He thanks me for the nice fire.
I don’t know how to make a fire.
He tells me of the chores that need to be done. The fence in the outer pasture is down again. Coyotes maybe.
I nod in understanding.
He is wearing the charcoal pinstripe suit he wore to the station.
What is a coyote?
Will I milk the cows?
Of course, I shall.
Good. He stands up.
I tell him again, and he nods that he’s heard me.
How do you milk a cow?
I help him with his coat and hat.
He leaves the kitchen as I add wood to my fire.

I wake up, and my hand settles across my stomach. Something was wrong in the dream. He had been wearing a blue suit when I had first told him.
I feel better now, strong enough to go downstairs and bring up my pelisse and bag. I get up and lift the window to hear the men in the yard. It doesn’t help for the man is speaking German, and I don’t know what he’s saying. He’s angry at the motorcar.
The long man straightens and rubs the top of his head where his thinning hair tickles his scalp in the wind. He turns around as if he knows that I’m standing here. He sees me. He nods but does not call out. He’s of society then. The other man is not. He is still angry at the motorcar and mostly himself.
There’s water in the ewer on the dry sink, and I pour it in the bowl. The leaves etched into the porcelain fracture with the water lying over them. I splash my face and neck, dabbing it with a towel. The leaves are still broken when I hang the towel on the rod above the basin.
I look in the mirror. I don’t know why. I know what I’m going to see. Why do I still think someone else will look back at me? Because sometimes someone else does. I don’t like her. I don’t like the fear I see in her. I lock her in the closet and swallow the key.
The breeze from the window moves the hair against my neck. I get goose bumps and look around. I feel him watching me, but I know he’s not here.
I go back to my carpetbag on the floor by the bed. I remember my other bag has not made it up. I feel like I could get it now. I take my hairbrush from the bag and go back to the mirror. I look at myself as I smooth the strands into the knot.
You cannot tell just by looking at me.
My eyes are the same brown and my lips the same pink. My nose is still straight and small. My cheeks are still smooth and round. My jaw is still sharp, and my chin is still pointed. My neck is still long and too white.
You cannot tell. Why do I still squirm when someone looks at me too long?
The brush slips from my fingers and hits the wood of the floor. I bend to retrieve it but stop. I am afraid to look under the bed. There may be a monster lurking there.

By Jessie Clever

Purchase from:

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK  |  Nook  |  Kobo

In Book Two of the Spy Series, For Love of the Earl, two agents for the War Office in search of Alec and Sarah’s kidnappers boarded a ship for unknown destinations.  In Book Three, we find out what happened to them.  Katharine Cavanaugh, the Countess of Stirling, has always lived according to the expectations of her heritage.  American mercenary Matthew Thatcher has spent his life running away from every expectation he has for himself.  But when their latest mission from the British War Office goes wrong, trapping them behind enemy lines, they must decide if they dare to realize the greatest expectation of all: the expectation of love.