December news and a new release!

Compliments of the season! So we're at the end of the year. I wish we could interact in some way because here I am telling you all about what I do at this time of year, and I love to know what you get up to. My tree isn't up yet (above is a picture of last year's tree), but the room is full of boxes, so tomorrow I'll get busy. In more ways than one, because Tuesday this week is a big day for me. More about that below. I don't want to wham and pow you with all that, because you probably know. But I can share more news with you, about what's next and what I'm planning. I love this time of year, when it gets dark early. I know some people hate it, but winter is an awesome season. And then there's the movies - Meet Me In St. Louis is my favourite Christmas film, and I love an old Bette Davis movie, The Man Who Came To Dinner. All that to look forward to! And today is when Boundless comes out. The title comes from Romeo and Juliet, "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep, the more I give to thee the more I have, for both are infinite." Isn't that lovely? So when I came to write Livia's story and reveal the secret she's been hiding since the start of the Emperors of London, I had to give her a love that would surpass all her difficulties. It's an explosive secret that could destroy Livia and by association, her family. And it's tearing her apart. But there's sadness as well, because this is the last of the Emperors (for now) even though there are members whose stories haven't yet been told. One day... Next? Kensington have accepted a brand new series with new characters. More later, but the first book is in edits. It's set in the mid-eighteenth century (of course!) and the first book will be out in the spring. I promise to tell you more in the next newsletter, when everything is more settled. And next summer, I have a series coming out from Tule Publishing, a contemporary (don't faint!) trilogy. I used to write a lot more of those, and I'd love to do more.

New Release This month sees the release of Boundless. Recently the previous book in The Shaws, Dauntless, hit the number one in Amazon Regency, and I got the orange flag that says it's a best seller. I'm so happy about that. Good sales means an author can continue doing what she loves best. So thank you for supporting me and buying the books. The Shaws are one of Britain’s most influential, dynamic families, but one Shaw prefers to keep a low profile. Unfortunately, the limelight can shine behind-the-scenes . . . She’s the unlikely wallflower of the extraordinary Shaw family. A woman who will never marry, but not for the reasons you might think . . . Attacked on the streets of London, Lady Livia Shaw is relieved when a gentleman comes to her aid—and startled to discover her rescuer is Adrian, the Duke of Preston, a notorious rogue. But their association—and instant attraction—does not end there, much to the Shaws’ distress. For Livia was robbed of a memento—one that is both her most precious possession and a reminder of a shameful secret. It is a secret she knows will cause her to lose Adrian forever, yet he is determined to track down the thief . . . Adrian never wanted to be anyone’s hero, but now he’s finding the prospect as pleasing as he does Livia’s company, and her beauty. Certainly he wants her in his bed, but what surprises him is how much she comes to mean to him. Which is why the revelation of her scandalous past is nearly his undoing. Arrogantly, he had assumed only he had the power to shock. But it is too late to turn back, and now Adrian may have to risk everything for Livia, even his heart . . . Excerpt Adrian slumped against the squabs of the hackney cab as it set off from his house in King Street. Correction––Ophelia’s King Street house. He’d already had the deeds put in her name, but she’d generously given him another day to quite the premises. In the shadows of the vehicle, he grinned. A house was a small price to pay to rid himself of the exquisite, grasping, tediously mundane person Ophelia d’Arblay had turned out to be. Every man in London wanted Desiree for his mistress. Well, she was back on the market and they were all welcome to her. With a groan, he stretched his limbs. After a tough all-night session in the House of Lords, he’d repaired here to find Ophelia entertaining one of the few peers not in Parliament that evening. Truly, he should have guessed she was seeing someone on the sly. But what had surprised him the most was his inability to care. Her subsequent spectacular tantrum merely bored him. It did not move him. She had broken his one and only rule, and she must suffer the consequences. Exhausted, he looked forward to falling into his own bed and leaving the day behind. A movement ahead caught his attention. A woman stood at the edge of the road, her gown a flash of bright blue, swirling around while children scurried like rats around her. One skinny youth had his mouth open, laughing, catching her attention while the other––Adrian spied trouble. And where trouble lurked, so did he. Grabbing his cane, he rapped the roof of the carriage. “Stop! Stop now!” Before the driver had managed to haul the nag to a halt, Adrian had opened the door and leaped into the street. Turning only to toss a shilling to the cabbie, who caught it deftly, pocketed it and gave his horse the office to continue in one smooth move, Adrian faced the trouble. That blue silk belonged to a lady, although the gown had become sadly smeared with mud and torn in her efforts to escape her tormentors. Her face was obscured by the broad brim of her bergère hat, its pink ribbons askew and the jaunty bow on top crushed. For all that, this was a lady. The gown was good, the skirts too wide for this part of London, and her linen fine, the nearly sheer veil over her tantalizing bosom hinting at the pink flesh beneath. Despite his recent disappointment, Adrian’s mouth watered. All this he absorbed as he headed at speed for the unfortunate woman beset by street urchins. He kept his attention on her while he struck out with his cane, lashing out right and left, ignoring the ensuing yelps and protests. The woman whirled right into his arms, and Adrian found himself with an armful of warmth and silk. That made wielding his cane trickier. Rolling the woman to the left, he looped his arm around her waist and used his right hand to advantage. Battle heated his veins, sending a fire coursing around his body and rousing him from his ennui. He had not felt this alive for a long time. Although he was only one man against six youths who had learned to fight on the streets, he made a good account of himself. The trouble was, they kept coming at him from different directions. Catching one importunate boy a crack across his shoulders appeared to deter them. All but one, who darted around the other side of the female before shrieking. The one in front crashed into her and a sickening crack rent the air before he tightened his hold on her and dealt the boy a telling blow to the side of his head with what was left of his cane. The responding yelp warmed his heart. “Let me go!” she said. “You can’t fight like this.” She was right. Her voluminous skirts and the cloak around her shoulders were hampering him. He snapped, “Don’t go out of my sight,” before releasing her and settling in to the rhythm of the fight. Fully awake now, all traces of tiredness gone, Adrian swung his cane, wielding it more like a club than a delicate weapon. Sooner or later it would break, and then he’d have to resort to his fists. He looked forward to it. “Come on then, you cowards!” he yelled as one of the assailants ran off, screaming. Crouching into a fighting stance, he stood ready, his cane held before him, waiting for the next attack. His maiden stood where he’d told her to, the bright blue of her gown a flag in this grimy London street. She leaned to one side. Had that crack he’d heard a moment ago been one of her bones? And yet she didn’t move. As if someone had waved a gun, the boys turned tail and ran, scattering into the alleys feeding the street, like the rats they were. He flicked his gaze over the woman, scanning her disheveled appearance. Clearly she needed help. With the blood of war still thrumming through his veins, he drew a deep breath, savoring the sheer joy of being here, alive and healthy. Why would he not? His relentless pursuit of life all led to that wonderful feeling, better than a case of wine, better than the best French brandy. And for sure better than a night’s gambling. Better than spending a night in his mistress’s bed? Perhaps. Not the one he had just discarded, but this one…he might have found his new interest. A well-dressed young woman in this part of London would hardly be the kind he’d meet in the ballrooms of Mayfair. “They got my purse,” she said then. Although her voice was soft, it still trembled. She was more shaken than she cared to tell him. “Did they take much?” She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “A few guineas, an ivory comb, a fine linen handkerchief––no, not much.” Aha. Any woman who considered that haul “not much” had recourse to more. Gallantly, he offered his arm. “You are shaken, madam. May I offer you the hospitality of my house?” At least, it was his house until the morning when the new deeds came into effect. “You may tidy yourself up and recover from your ordeal.” From beneath the broken brim of her hat, she regarded him warily. “You speak like a gentleman.” “And you sound like a lady.” Without warning, she sagged, dipping forward, threatening to fall. Adrian caught her, curving his arm around her waist at the front and tilting her gently back to lean against his shoulder. “Can you walk?” he murmured, his mouth so close to her ear that her curls tickled his skin. She had blonde hair with a hint of red. He’d seen that shade before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where. She nodded, lowering her head to rest on his shoulder. If he had to, he’d carry her. To his relief, when he took a small, slow pace, she came with him. Although her feet dragged, he detected no sign of a stumble, or anything that would indicate she was hurt. If they took it at a snail’s pace, they could manage the distance. “The house isn’t far, at the end of King Street.” His hackney had almost reached Covent Garden. King Street abutted it. Since his mistress worked as an actress at Drury Lane, in fact was a star of the stage there, she liked the proximity. No doubt she would continue to do so. “I should not,” she murmured. Shock, he assumed. Tilting up her chin, anticipating the credit his good deed would accomplish, he gazed into her face. Damn and blast it. He recognized her. He would not be making this woman his mistress, sadly. But what was Lady Livia Shaw doing in this part of London, and on her own, too? ***** Buy Boundless Here: Publisher; Kensington Books  :  Amazon   :  iTunes  :  Kobo  :  Barnes and Noble Nook

News for October 2017

Happy October!
Frankie says hello!

This month is all about the books. At the very end of September, Entangled Publishing released all of the Even Gods Fall In Love series!
I am, of course, thrilled to bits to see this series back in print, and if you love it too, there's a prospect of more books to come! It has spiffy new artwork and I've updated my website to show it off.
In case you've forgotten, this is the series about the gods being reborn in eighteenth century Britain. The Titans, mortal enemies of the Olympian gods, want to restore the old ways, when the gods ruled the world with rods of iron, reducing the human race to slaves. The Olympians believe in free will. They want the human race to be self-governing, and they will fight to the death to achieve that.
Unfortunately, thirty years before the stories start, the Titans delivered what was nearly a mortal blow to the Olympians. When they gathered in an estate in England for a reunion, the Titans blew up the venue, and even gods die if enough explosive is put under them!
Reborn in new bodies, the gods must reassemble in order to save the human race from perpetual enslavement. Oh yes, and fall in love in the process. They're a passionate lot, the Olympians!
I loved writing this series. There are so many parallels between the myths of the Greek and Roman gods and the eighteenth century that they slotted together like a jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes they surprised me with the ease with which they did it. Sometimes I made amazing discoveries, such as when I created the Pantheon Club as a place for the gods to meet.
 

New Release and Excerpt

Even Gods Fall In Love

Where It All Began 1724, England Thunder rolled dully over the plain. Jupiter glanced up, mildly surprised because he hadn’t commanded thunder tonight. He shrugged. What else could he expect of such a godforsaken country as England? The great stones on one side of the road called to him, speaking of mysteries not his, a time not his. He ignored them. He would head back to Italy and the sun as soon as this meeting finished. What maggot had got into Bacchus’s head, to call a meeting here? And why did the man decide to become an Englishman? They didn’t even make their own wine, and since that was the one thing that kept Bacchus sane, his decision didn’t seem rational. He kicked his horse into a canter. You could never tell with Bacchus. Unpredictable to the last. The house at the end of his destination glowed with golden candlelight, every window gleaming in welcome. Hoping for a warm fire, Jupiter left his mount in the care of a groom, tossing him a coin in thanks. He strode up the shallow stone staircase to the open door. Better, much better. A fire blazed in the hearth, and Jupiter walked towards it, not checking his pace, a smile of satisfaction curling his mouth. The doors clanged shut behind him. He must be the last to arrive. People cleared a path for him, but he hardly noticed, because he was accustomed to the deference. One of the oldest of the gods left alive he was the original Roman incarnation of Jupiter. He’d seen much, lived through times strange to him, suffered the falling away of his support, but he continued. He felt good. Jupiter turned as a tray bearing a steaming mug of something fragrant appeared at his elbow. Bacchus bore the tray. Jupiter smiled in greeting and accepted the offering. “It’s good to see you again. It must be ten years.” Bacchus looked the same, but then, Jupiter expected him to. The gods never aged, unless they wanted to. The man wore his dark hair longer, tied back from his face in the current mode in a glossy queue, and was dressed a coat of deep red satin, embroidered elaborately in green and gold with a cream waistcoat underneath and breeches the same color as his coat. Bacchus grinned. “Ten years and more, sir.” Currently known as the Marquess of Stretton, Bacchus was one of the leaders of London society, which meant he was of the particularly debauched and half-crazed variety. It suited him well. This Bacchus was a lithe, clever man who managed his special gifts with skill and humour. A necessary and unfortunate result of being the god of wine and madness was to occasionally suffer madness oneself, but at least it was subject to his own will. Bacchus was far from mad today. Intelligence lit his light grey eyes and he amusement that was part of this man. Every vessel the god took added something of its own to the essential character of the god. Jupiter liked this one. People thronged around Jupiter, eager to greet the only one of the original Roman Pantheon left alive. Although immune to disease and aging, other factors could and did kill them, but they always reincarnated, their essence migrating to the nearest unborn child. The remaining gods searched for the babies, discovered and carefully reared them, showed them their attributes and taught them to conceal them. Men no longer wanted gods, and the Olympians had survived by realizing this and living among them unrecognized. Times had changed. Some would never accept that, but they weren’t here tonight, and wouldn’t be welcome. It had been a good life so far. Jupiter hoped it would continue in the same way for many years to come. He’d enjoy this reunion. So many of his kind had survived, despite opposition by The Ancients and fanatical humans. Time to savour their survival and celebrate it. A short distance away in Hill House, the Duke of Boscobel stared out the window of the Gold Salon at the fast darkening sky overhead. The festivities in the old castle must have begun by now. The building had been long derelict, but the central hall remained intact, and the cellars underneath. He’d had the house constructed in the ruins, a picturesque folly for parties. A perfect place for the private gathering of old friends. And a perfect place for murder. Boscobel had discovered the real identity of Jupiter quite by accident. Ironic that the very people he’d spent years hunting had eventually found him. The Italian nobleman had not recognized him as their old enemy Kronos, and after his first wariness, Boscobel had known himself safe from discovery. Jupiter showed all his old arrogance and superiority. This time it would be his downfall. Everything was in place and tonight would see the culmination of his carefully laid plans. Nothing could go wrong now. He wouldn’t allow it to. When he heard a female groan from the room above Boscobel grinned broadly. He glanced across the room at his friend Manningtree, who sat uncomfortably in one of the fashionable salon chairs. “Not long now.” “It had better not be,” Manningtree replied grimly, shifting in his seat. “One of mine has podded already.” Boscobel shrugged. Another cry came from above. “If they can hold on for half an hour longer the thing will be done and we’ll have at least half of them.” Cosgrove strode the room, like any eager, expectant father, except he’d personally impregnated three of the women in the bedrooms above. “God, you’re a cool one! Anyone would think your own wife wasn’t involved.” “She is there to serve the same purpose as the others,” Boscobel stared at the plasterwork ceiling above him as though he could see right through it. “If she doesn’t succeed, I’ll kill her. She knows that.” “Are you sure this will work?” Sulgrave asked, voice strained with anxiety. Boscobel turned on him, a sneer curling his thin mouth. “Yes of course. I’ve been planning this event for years. While you enjoyed your endeavours of nine months ago, there was far more to this than putting a few women in the family way. There’s no mistake. We will have them, gentlemen. For the glory of England.”  His fellow Titans had been only too willing to help him. “After all,” Manningtree had said, “If we’re wrong, we just have a few more brats to cope with.” Not long now. With the gods safely locked in their prison, and the pregnant women upstairs as receptacles for the new gods, at last Kronos would regain control. He should never have lost it in the first place. A practically clad middle-aged woman burst into the room, and without preamble addressed Boscobel. “Another one, your grace.” Ire rose in his breast. “Damn! Can’t you stop these women? Hold the babies in somehow?” The woman gave Boscobel a narrow eyed stare. “Your wife is in the third stage of labour, your grace. With any luck your heir will be born within the hour.” He turned away. “Good.” He hoped it would be, and his child would be in time to inherit. More power under his roof, more control. Sons were the very devil. In a previous incarnation, his son had taken everything from him. He’d never trusted them, but this time he’d control the child from the start. Make him his, instead of hiding him away and trying to destroy him. When he turned his back, he heard the woman leave in a soft shush of skirts. Kronos wondered how Jupiter would feel just before he died when he realized he’d betrayed his fellow gods. Not long now. The gunpowder he’d seeded under the castle would be primed by the grooms. They’d die with the explosion, since the slow matches he’d installed weren’t as efficient as he’d led them to believe. His watch still in his hand Boscobel consulted it once more, but as he did, a new light flashed across the sky, followed by a dull booming sound. Just like thunder and lightning. Very appropriate. Everyone in the room rushed to the windows to see a great sheet of golden flame arch up to the heavens, a cry for help, a cry of despair that no one would ever answer. He had done it.

You can find the details about Even Gods Fall In Love here;
Lynne Connolly site
LM Connolly site
Amazon US
Entangled Publishing

Samhain Closing

So Samhain is closing. That makes me sad. The contrast between Samhain and Ellora’s Cave, who used to be my two main publishers, is startling. Ellora’s Cave’s disdain for the people who made them money, ie the authors, became startlingly apparent at the end. The constant rejection of legitimate requests for returns of rights, the refusal to keep authors in the loop fostered despair and exasperation, as it was obvious they were playing games. The owners blamed everybody except themselves for the eventual failure.

On the other hand, Samhain trusted its authors and never disparaged them. They have paid me every month, and that is my base requirement for a publisher. That they live up to their side of the contract, while I live up to mine. They were always courteous and considerate. I sent them work I was really proud of.

I was with Samhain since the beginning. They published Richard and Rose, my first big success, and went on to publish others. I’m genuinely sad to see them go. Even when they were struggling I had no intention of pulling the bulk of my books. I was considering pulling a short series, but that was all.

With a simple announcement, a lot of my books will be pulled off the market. I want to assure you that they will all be reissued. They’ll have new covers, but I don’t plan to do any serious alterations to them, so they’ll be the same books. I’ve listed them at the end of this post. I’ll probably turn them around myself. I don’t plan anything but a simple announcement, because I want them to be available as soon as I can make it so. I’ll probably release them once a week until they’re all back out there, unless I can manage to get them ready at the same time.

When Samhain closes its doors, I’ll make the books dark on my website, but never fear, they will be back soon!

It’s all a bit of a blow, but I’m still there, and I can’t see myself stopping any time soon.

Here are the books that are involved.

The Richard and Rose series: Yorkshire, Devonshire, Venice, Harley Street, Eyton, Hareton Hall, Maiden Lane and Lisbon.

The Triple Countess series: Last Chance My Love, A Chance to Dream, Met By Chance and A Betting Chance.

The Secrets series: Seductive Secrets, Alluring Secrets and Tantalizing Secrets.

Even Gods Fall In Love: Lightning Unbound, Arrows of Desire, Forged By Love, War Chest and Her Quicksilver Lover

And the standalone novella, It Started At Waterloo.

That’s a lot of books!

New release, new series! Rogue in Red Velvet - Families fight with swords drawn!

Out today! The first in an exciting new series. Families feud and Pretenders have one last attempt at power. And men and women fall in love.
Buy the book at Kensington here, or at Amazon, or at iTunes.

If Connie loses her standing in society, she risks losing everything…except Alex.
When country widow Constance Rattigan finds herself in a notorious London brothel instead of at the altar, only one person can save her from the auction block. Alex Vernon walked away from Connie once before, when he discovered her engagement. Now that her fiancé has betrayed her, Lord Ripley doesn’t intend to leave her again. But Connie has other ideas… She won’t marry him until her name is cleared.
Alex decides to make Connie’s wishes come true, but it’s not that easy, even with the help of his powerful relatives known as the Emperors of London.

Extract: 

The Auction for Connie:

Tension knotted Alex's stomach and he only pretended to sip the wine one of the 'slave girls' had handed him.

He remained languidly draped over his chair, handkerchief held elegantly, every muscle, every nerve under rigid control.

The girl stared out at the audience but because her eyes were so dark, he couldn’t tell if sheer terror or drugs kept her rooted to the spot. She swallowed as the half-naked man playing the slave master sold her for three hundred guineas. Bidding was brisk and the girl went to Lord Tyrone, who would at least treat her with kindness. His for the night. She was not announced as a virgin.

Next, came the first declareded virgin, a fresh-faced girl who probably came straight off the coach. She was definitely drugged. Her eyelids drooped and she staggered.

Cratchitt caught and straightened her once more.

Alex held his fire and she sold to a man for five hundred.

The trouble with watching something like this was that he wanted to buy them all, or at least the drugged ones, and set them free. Someone had lured them into this. That would play perfectly into Dankworth’s hands. But he feared the man planned more.

Some ‘slave auctions’ were good-natured, lascivious fun, the girls willing, the virgins of the mock-maiden variety. This was certainly not one of those. It was disgusting, the girls drugged or scared.

Cratchitt hadn’t even tried to hide that some of the girls were drugged. They were here for dangerous play, the kind that could kill them.

Dankworth would not win.

The next girl on the block was definitely drugged, her steps sluggish, her eyes half-closed, and she was not advertised as a virgin. Had Cratchitt checked? Of course she had, the bitch.

She’d probably examined Connie, too. Infuriated, Alex shifted in his chair. He could only wait, get Connie out of here and then put events in train. The girl wore a shift, which drooped over her chest. She was skinny, with tiny breasts, her bones protruding, her skin stretched over them. If Cratchitt had any sense she’d have looked after the stock better than this. A servant girl, maybe, looking for honest work and finding this instead.

“What do I have for this handsome wench?” The slave master tucked his whip under the girl’s chin, forcing her head up. “Jest lookit her hair, gentlemen. Down to her backside. Your own personal harness to control her with!”

The room fell silent. Cratchitt nudged the girl and she yelped. Probably less of a nudge and more a pinch. “All scrubbed this morning. All the girls here are guaranteed clean inside and out!”

At last, Alex raised his hand. Costly lace fell back from his wrist.

The auctioneer saw him immediately. “A hundred, sir?”

Alex shook his head. “Fifty,” he suggested. “And I’m being generous.” He couldn’t bear it. This girl would die before too many days were out if she wasn’t attended to. He couldn’t let that happen.

Nobody else bid. The girls that had gone before had at least a chance and he would have a quiet word with their ‘owners,’ if he thought it necessary. He memorized the name of every man in the room. Alex let his lip curl in a sneer. Why not tell them what he thought of them?

Cratchitt brought the girl over.

Alex gestured a nearby chair. “Sit her there. I’ve not finished yet.”

The girl shot him a disinterested look then closed her eyes. Alex poked her. She was dangerously close to falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind people rarely woke from. She came to with a start and sat upright.

A buxom blonde followed, alert and chirpy, giving back what they sent her. A willing slave. She fetched a good price.

Then a woman, honey-colored hair trailing over her face in bedraggled tails. She wore a shift and a pair of blue brocade stays, cinched so tight that her ample bosom swelled with every breath.

Connie.

Normally Alex would find the quivering of such sweet flesh enticing. Not tonight. He felt every pinch of that tight lacing, every short breath she took as if it was his own. Look at me. I’m here. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.

The slave master grabbed a handful of hair and jerked up her head. Connie’s chin jutted out and her eyes, red-rimmed and watery, stared sightlessly into the room. All Alex’s muscles tightened as he resisted the urge to leap onto that damned block and grab her, cover her with his coat, hide her from the leering eyes of the crowd. Fury and sense warred and sense won. Barely and only for her sake. He had to get her out of here and if he tried violence, the room, rendered volatile by excitement and strong drink, would erupt.

The wine had its effect and the audience was yelling and hooting their approval. “That’s better!” someone cried. “I’ll give her something to wake her up!”

Alex would kill him.

Again, she wasn’t introduced as a virgin and Alex gritted his teeth, adding to the mental tally of what this Cratchitt bitch owed him. She’d had her hands all over Connie’s sweet skin. The slave master began his chat but calls from the audience almost drowned him out. They liked her.

Connie swayed as if she’d fall off the block. A tiny thread of drool slid out of the corner of her mouth but Mrs. Cratchitt took care of it with a rough swipe from a cloth. Connie flinched. If Alex had ever felt like hitting a woman, now was the time.

“Three hundred for Rattigan!” Dankworth cried.

Fury rose to choke Alex. How could he bandy her name like that?

The bastard was making sure everybody knew her name. Alex gritted his teeth and forced his temper down. He needed all his wits about him now.

Alex held his fire and let them bid. Occasionally Dankworth sent him a triumphant grin but Alex remained grimly silent, a supercilious smile firmly planted on his lips. He yawned again and shifted in his chair. Let them fight it out.

When the bidding had reached a pitch of intensity, but only in the hundreds he opened his mouth. “Five thousand.”

The room fell silent and the audience turned as a man and gaped at him.

He shrugged. “If we only have them for one night, we’d best get on with it, hadn’t we? With her, I’ll have my two.”

Murmurs followed his remark and a few “Hear hears,” too. Maybe they’d come straight from the debating chamber. But he’d made his point.

Nobody else wanted to pay more than five thousand guineas for the woman. After all, she was no virgin. They had Cratchitt’s word for that. When Lord Spinder opened his mouth and made a move with his hand, Alex met his gaze and let the smile drop. Gratifyingly, he received a shame-faced shrug and one man, standing at the back, nod in approval. An ally.

This wasn’t right and some of them knew it.

Thanks to Mother Cratchitt, no doubt coached by Jasper Dankworth, everyone in this room knew the name of the woman here tonight. Alex didn’t know if it was possible to recover from that. But she was barely recognizable from the woman he’d met at the Downhollands’. That could work in his favor.

Two bullies half-carried, half-dragged Connie off the block toward Alex. She staggered and stumbled, more asleep than awake.

He stood as they approached and swept her up, one arm under her knees and the other around her back, pillowing her head on his shoulder. Her hair straggled over the fine red velvet of his coat. The last time he’d seen it, she’d swept it up into a glossy knot, leaving a few curls to tease her shoulders saucily. He’d wanted her then. He wanted her now, God help him.

He nodded towards the other girl he’d bought. “Bring her,” he said curtly.

He strode from room, Mrs. Cratchitt abandoning her auction to chase him. The bully who’d shown him to his seat picked up the skinny girl as if she weighed nothing, which was probably not too far from the truth and followed him.

“This way, my lord,” the doxy crooned, gesturing to the stairs.

Alex spared her a scornful glance. “I think not.”

“Sir, you can’t take the girls out of this house. I bought them girls good and proper. You only get a night.”

Alex ignored her and headed down the stairs. Connie groaned and he took a moment to tuck her head more securely in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

“Sir, I’m warnin’ you—” Cratchitt’s accent grew less refined by the second.

He got to the bottom of the stairs and swung around, putting all his aristocratic hauteur into play. “I’ll warn you. Ask about me and who my friends are. Then try to make trouble.”

He was taking a risk because someone with influence and money had helped Cratchitt set this place up. “One peep from you and I’ll visit my lawyers. Abducting a respectable female could get you into more trouble than you want. And the other one?” He nodded at the skinny maid in the other man’s arms. “She’ll die if she isn’t cared for, I can see the signs. Do you want her dying here, or shall I take her to a hospital?”

“You can’t leave!”

“Watch me.”

He strode to the door and stood before it. The bully stationed there took a position before him and crossed his arms over his chest. Alex stared him out, his chin up, his eyelids lowered, looking down his nose at the man as if he meant nothing. Aristocratic hauteur often worked where swords wouldn’t. “Open the door,” he said quietly.

“Do it,” said the bully behind him. “This girl must have come in by accident, or somefink. She shouldn’t be here.”

At last, a man of sense.

The man in front of the door glanced over Alex’s shoulder. He must have received permission because he stepped back and flung the door wide. “And don’t come back!” Cratchitt shrieked after him.

Alex left the house with the other man at his heels, ignoring the madam’s shrieks that he should leave the other one behind. They raced down the steps and straight to the house next door.

The man stationed in front of it let them in without hesitation and slammed it in the faces of the pursuers.

 
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