A Baron for Becky (31 page)

The Bluestocking Belles have chosen the Malala Fund
as the charity we support, and to which we donate communal
royalties. Periodically, we take on projects intended to directly
support this cause, which exemplifies our personal values and
intentions: the right of girls and women to do whatever they choose
with their lives.

For more
information about the Malala Fund and the founder, Malala
Yousafzai, winner of the 2014 Nobel Peace Prize, go to
www.Malala.org

Published books

When Viscount Avery comes to see the best invalid
chair maker in the southwest of England he does not expect to find
Minerva Bradshaw, the woman who rejected him three years earlier.
Or did she? Older and wiser, he wonders if there is more to the
story. 

For three
years, Min Bradshaw has remembered the handsome guardsman who
courted her for her fortune. She didn't expect to see him in her
workshop, and she certainly doesn't intend to let him fool her
again. Even if he is handsomer and more charming than ever.

Rede believes he has
turned his back on compassion and mercy. But he is distracted from
the hunt for those who killed his family by his growing attraction
for Anne. His feelings for her are a weakness. Or could they
instead be a source of strength?

Anne protected
her family from scandal and worse by changing their identity. Can
she keep Rede from discovering who they are? Can she give him her
heart without trusting him? Can she trust him when he has closed
himself off to love?

When their
enemies link forces, Rede and Anne must face the past in order to
claim the future.

(Excerpt below)

When Alex Redepenning comes to the funeral of Ella
Melville’s mother-in-law, he does not expect Ella to turn up in his
bedroom, seeking help. They have met twice in the last ten years:
once when she married one of Alex’s fellow officers under dubious
circumstances, and once when she arrived too late to attend her
husband’s deathbed. They parted rancorously each time.

After what he
said at their last meeting Ella had hoped never to see Alex again,
but an overheard clandestine conversation leaves her with nowhere
else to turn.

Danger follows
them; Ella’s in-laws want her confined to Bedlam, and someone wants
Alex dead. Joining forces is sensible. If they can survive their
enemies, the only risk is to their hearts.

David and Prudence, operatives for one of England’s
shadowy spymasters, are sent to investigate a spying ring that
blackmails aristocrats for access to secrets. Both find friends and
family too close to the investigation for comfort, including
David’s brothers (the legitimate sons of the duke who sired
him).

After what
happened last time they worked together, both David and Prue are
determined they won’t surrender to the strong physical attraction
between them. They’re professionals. They’ll find the blackmailer
and the spy behind him, and part again.

It is not until
the danger that lurks in Bristol takes Prue that David realises
what she means to him. But finding her again may mean choosing
between his country and his woman.

On inheriting from a distant cousin who had no sons,
Anthony Simon Wentworth, the new Earl of Danwood, finds his
predecessor had a unique way of stacking the odds so that a
grandson of his would one day be Earl. Tony has inherited the title
and the entailed land, but has no way to support it. To win the
non-entailed wealth, he must marry and have a child with one of the
former Lord Danwood’s eight daughters.

The legitimate
daughters live at Danwood Castle in the North York Moors, and in a
nearby coastal village, the former Earl had a second family by his
wife’s sister. The eldest daughter, Sophia, keeps life on an even
keel for her two sisters and two brothers, despite a lack of money
and the general disapproval of the village.

Tony thinks he
will settle the by-blows somewhere out of sight and marry one of
the legitimate daughters. But he is distracted by the need to
rescue his baseborn relatives from smugglers, the coastguard, an
angry farmer or two, the machinations of their aunt—and his growing
appreciation of the feisty Sophia.

Farewell to
Kindness
—excerpt

London, 1801

George was drunk. But
not nearly drunk enough. He still saw his young friend’s dying eyes
everywhere. In half-caught glimpses of strangers reflected in
windows along Bond Street, under the hats of coachmen that passed
him along the silent streets to Bedford Square, in the flickering
lamps that shone pallidly against the cold London dawn as he
stumbled up the steps to his front door.

They followed
his every waking hour: hot, angry, hate-filled eyes that had once
been warm with admiration.

He drank to
forget, but all he could do was remember.

One more flight
of stairs, then through the half-open door to his private
sitting-room, already reaching for the waiting decanter of brandy
as he crossed the floor.

He had a glass
of oblivion halfway to his lips before he noticed the painting.

It stood on an
easel, lit by a carefully arranged tree of candles. George’s own
face was illuminated—the golden shades of his hair, his intensely
blue eyes. The artist had captured his high cheekbones and sculpted
jaw. “One of London’s most beautiful men,” he’d been called.

He stalked to
the easel, moving with great care to avoid spilling his drink.

Yes. The artist
had talent. Who could have given him such a thing?

As he bent
forward to look at it more closely, something whipped past his
face. With a solid thunk, an arrow struck the painting, to stand
quivering between the painted eyes.

George dropped
his glass as he started backwards, flailing to keep his balance,
and trying to turn at the same time to see behind him. There. In
the shadows behind the door. A silent gowned figure with another
arrow already nocked and ready to fly.

“Who are you?
What do you want?” The drink thickened his voice. “If I shout, I’ll
wake the whole household.”

“The household
are all either below stairs or well above. And you will have, at
most, one shout before I put this arrow between your eyes. I have
demonstrated I can.” It was a woman’s voice, low and
determined.

George glanced
back at the arrow, and swallowed.

“You won’t
shoot me. You’re a woman.”

“I will shoot
you with pleasure, if I must,” the woman said. “But shooting you is
not my first choice.”

He pulled
himself straight, glaring. “You won’t get away with this. Don’t you
know who I am?”

“Do you not
know who I am? I am the woman you owe a future to. And I mean to
collect. You will give me either my future or my revenge.”

He took a step
towards her, leaning forward to peer into the shadows. She lifted
the arrow point fractionally, saying, “No closer!”

He stopped. “I
don’t even know who you are. What crime have I supposedly
committed? What do you want from me?”

She gestured to
the chair by the fire with the point of her arrow. “Sit,” she
commanded, and once he’d complied, she moved out into the light.
“Now do you know who I am?”