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Authors: L. L. Muir
Tags: Romance, Historical
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be talking about having a woman murdered. ”
“ Not murdered. Put down. Taken out of the picture—or the Capital Journal at least. ” Monty leaned in and lowered his voice. “ The only way to control a woman these days, gentlemen, is to marry her off. ”
Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, “I was afraid you would say that.”
Callister stepped into the library with a small box tied with string. North nodded his butler over and reached for the package, but the old man shook his head.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen.”
Something yawned and stretched inside North ’ s breast, something that had been sleeping for years. Usually, when it woke, he drugged it with Brandy until it slept again. He wasn ’ t sure, but it might have been his soul. And with some sort of premonition which he ’ d never been known to possess, he suspected that thing within him would somehow be affected by Stanley ’ s box.
He watched, as did they all, as Stanley slowly pulled the tails of the string, as if they expected a cat to jump out of it any second.
The string fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it aside. He frowned, looked at North, then reached inside. He pulled out a pair of spectacles and a bubble burst in North’s chest.
He laughed. Stanley didn’t seem to understand.
“ Who did you tell about this meeting, Viscount F ? ” Monty had to raise his voice to be heard.
North laughed harder. Watching Stanley ’ s face as realization dawned, struck him as particularly amusing. Or maybe it was the joke played by the Scarlet Plumiere.
“Poor eyesight.” Harcourt laughed. “I say, she’s a clever minx.”
North agreed. The woman was clever. And she might have just won over his heart, if not his very soul.
CHAPTER TWO
Capital Journal, Fiction Section, February the Third
A wild tale is spreading like the black plague through ladies ’ parlors at this very hour. Supposedly, the men of Londonberry, or at least those allegedly eligible for marriage, have held a meeting in the honor of a particularly talented writer and drawn lots to see who among them is the lucky so-and-so who must not only ferret out the identity of said writer, but must marry her in order to control her…uh, plume…thereby removing the threat to his fellows ’ reputations that might very well be the last resort for some women to find justice in this world.
Bravo, Mr.Lott! Did you think of this scheme by yourself? I cannot imagine a sweeter justice than for the man who imagined such a lottery to be its first selected victim. I say “ first ” because after you fail at your task, sir, undoubtedly there will be a few boisterous fools who think they can succeed where you are about to fail.
And you’ve boasted you can find me by Valentine’s Day? Bon chance!
If you ’ d like to read more about North and his search for the Scarlet Plumiere, visit my website www.llmuir.weebly.com and you ’ ll find Blood for Ink on the Regency Book page.
SOMEWHERE OVER THE FREAKING RAINBOW
CHAPTER ONE
“You’re such an idiot.” Jamison shook his head.
Ray grinned as he watched his paper airplane glide out the glassless window and into the darkness. “You love me.”
Jamison didn’t know whether it was his imagination or the glow of white paper that his eyes followed, arching off to the right, then lodging in a corn stalk twenty feet below the old tree house. He itched to turn on the flashlight, to see if it had landed where he thought, but that would screw up their little stake-out.
The tree was enormous, nearly five feet in diameter, and the ancient clubhouse was so insanely high people forgot it was there. Built thirty or forty years ago, before people knew better than to pound railroad stakes into living trees, a dozen three-foot boards were nailed to the side of the trunk, creating a ladder. Not realizing it had been
“ Not murdered. Put down. Taken out of the picture—or the Capital Journal at least. ” Monty leaned in and lowered his voice. “ The only way to control a woman these days, gentlemen, is to marry her off. ”
Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, “I was afraid you would say that.”
Callister stepped into the library with a small box tied with string. North nodded his butler over and reached for the package, but the old man shook his head.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen.”
Something yawned and stretched inside North ’ s breast, something that had been sleeping for years. Usually, when it woke, he drugged it with Brandy until it slept again. He wasn ’ t sure, but it might have been his soul. And with some sort of premonition which he ’ d never been known to possess, he suspected that thing within him would somehow be affected by Stanley ’ s box.
He watched, as did they all, as Stanley slowly pulled the tails of the string, as if they expected a cat to jump out of it any second.
The string fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it aside. He frowned, looked at North, then reached inside. He pulled out a pair of spectacles and a bubble burst in North’s chest.
He laughed. Stanley didn’t seem to understand.
“ Who did you tell about this meeting, Viscount F ? ” Monty had to raise his voice to be heard.
North laughed harder. Watching Stanley ’ s face as realization dawned, struck him as particularly amusing. Or maybe it was the joke played by the Scarlet Plumiere.
“Poor eyesight.” Harcourt laughed. “I say, she’s a clever minx.”
North agreed. The woman was clever. And she might have just won over his heart, if not his very soul.
CHAPTER TWO
Capital Journal, Fiction Section, February the Third
A wild tale is spreading like the black plague through ladies ’ parlors at this very hour. Supposedly, the men of Londonberry, or at least those allegedly eligible for marriage, have held a meeting in the honor of a particularly talented writer and drawn lots to see who among them is the lucky so-and-so who must not only ferret out the identity of said writer, but must marry her in order to control her…uh, plume…thereby removing the threat to his fellows ’ reputations that might very well be the last resort for some women to find justice in this world.
Bravo, Mr.Lott! Did you think of this scheme by yourself? I cannot imagine a sweeter justice than for the man who imagined such a lottery to be its first selected victim. I say “ first ” because after you fail at your task, sir, undoubtedly there will be a few boisterous fools who think they can succeed where you are about to fail.
And you’ve boasted you can find me by Valentine’s Day? Bon chance!
If you ’ d like to read more about North and his search for the Scarlet Plumiere, visit my website www.llmuir.weebly.com and you ’ ll find Blood for Ink on the Regency Book page.
SOMEWHERE OVER THE FREAKING RAINBOW
CHAPTER ONE
“You’re such an idiot.” Jamison shook his head.
Ray grinned as he watched his paper airplane glide out the glassless window and into the darkness. “You love me.”
Jamison didn’t know whether it was his imagination or the glow of white paper that his eyes followed, arching off to the right, then lodging in a corn stalk twenty feet below the old tree house. He itched to turn on the flashlight, to see if it had landed where he thought, but that would screw up their little stake-out.
The tree was enormous, nearly five feet in diameter, and the ancient clubhouse was so insanely high people forgot it was there. Built thirty or forty years ago, before people knew better than to pound railroad stakes into living trees, a dozen three-foot boards were nailed to the side of the trunk, creating a ladder. Not realizing it had been
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