Love by the Letters: A Regency Novella Trilogy

by Kelly Bowen

  Though he remembered every touch and taste of his dream, he was very unsure of how she had ended up in his bed. Everything inside his head was foggy, but he couldn’t say that. “Nothing—of consequence—happened. Nothing.”

  The bold sprite he’d befriended this past year looked faint as she shifted her hands to her temples and then back to catch the falling covers. Despite her efforts, the blankets dropped to her knees offering another view of her shapely limbs and hips that did her nightgown proud.

  “Lord Hartwell, I’ve come to know you…not biblically… I mean, I respect you as a person, but I don’t believe you. But you’re not looking at my face. We must be compromised.”

  What man would stop at her pretty face, when there was a waist and curves to view? “Compromise denotes henpecked stupidity. Neither of us is that.”

  Wrapping the blanket about her like a butterfly’s cocoon, she hopped and paced, hopped and paced. “What are we going to do?”

  The noise of footfalls was outside his door. The duke’s housekeeping staff must rise early.

  Miss Burghley stilled, her eyes wide as tea saucers. “Papa will say this is my fault. He’ll say you should marry me.” She started hopping again. “What am I going to tell him?”

  “Don’t mention that M word or the compromise one, either. I’m not ready to duel your father. He’s reportedly still a good shot. Perhaps he’d rather fence. I’d win at that.”

  “Must you tease, Hartwell?”

  He put his back to the bed frame. “Teasing is your specialty, Miss Burghley. Or it had been.” She’d been different these past few months.

  “I can’t tell my father. I’ve been careful.”

  “To not get caught?”

  The look she cast him—hurt, appalled, almost disgusted—made his mouth dry. What was left of his soul hurt for her. “I’m sorry.”

  She hopped again, muttering to herself. He wasn’t sure if she’d requested the devil to take him but Jasper sort of agreed. He’d taken her flirting as worldliness, and her sudden disinterest as a new lover preoccupying her, but this hopping butterfly seemed more innocent and insecure than he’d ever seen. He was more interested in her, but still cautious. “We haven’t been compromised, Miss Burghley. I’m not ready to miss the decorations and plum pudding at Yuletide because of an early demise. So no talk of duels, compromise, or marriage.”

  “Marry you? No. No. No.” She took a quick peek beneath the bedclothes. She sighed. “You haven’t seen me, have you? Tell me you haven’t.”

  There was that naive tone again, and for all the teasing he’d endured from the minx and had missed receiving these past three months, he wanted to point out that he was in a worse state of undress.

  Shirt and waistcoat hanging on the post.

  Dancing slippers and formal pantaloons on the floor.

  One knock on the door, and she paled. “I can’t be caught with you. Lord Hartwell, you have to help me.”

  The last time she’d uttered those words it was for him to retrieve her gloves and a Gunter ice. His heart saddened for her. There was no hint of flirtation in her voice—just fear.

  “Miss Burghley, at least I am confident that you did not intend to compromise me.”

  “Certainly not. Never you.”

  Another knock. This one rattled the door.

  After checking beneath the blanket again, she moved as if she’d answer. “Just a moment.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I won’t come in.”

  Miss Burghley turned to Jasper. “That’s Martica. She’s my maid. She can help. She’s loyal.”

  Still gritting his teeth at the never-you comment, he put up his hand. “Stop.”

  She froze like she’d become a snowball, as if her feet had become ice blocks.

  “I need to be dressed before that door opens. What do you mean, never me?”

  “Not you or anyone. You’re too— No…no marriage created by scandal. Can you hurry?”

  “This is my room, Miss Burghley. I should’ve answered.” He pulled on his wrinkled shirt and pantaloons at a pace just shy of a horse’s last stroll before being put to pasture.

  “Will you. Lord Hartwell… Naked chest.” The girl’s face fevered bright and shiny like a torch, then she spun in the other direction. Her worldly facade crumbled, exposing a fragile innocence. That was very unexpected from a courtesan’s daughter.

  Now he hurried, if only to keep her from bursting into flames from another refreshing blush. Scooping up his shoes, he came up behind her. Though she was tall, very tall for a woman, his six-foot-four height towered over her. “Butterfly, I’m dressed.”

  She covered her eyes and spun to him. “You sure?”

  He pulled her hand down and hooked his coat on her finger. “You could’ve hidden in the closet. And…you’ve set us up to be caught.”

  “I sleepwalk sometimes, especially after a fright.” She went to the window. Her blanket dropped, giving another eyeful of the lithe woman—one more demure than he’d assumed.

  “Hartwell. You. Out the window.”

  “What?”

  The knocking picked up.

  The minx Burghley pointed outside. “Hurry.”

  “Ma’am,” the maid said. “Miss Burghley, the duke is coming.” The voice, scared, respectful, desperate, surely came from a sympathetic servant on the other side of a pleased-be-locked-door. “He’s seen the broken window in your room, ma’am.”

  Broken window? Miss Burghley was in danger? Jasper turned, heading to the door. “Where’s your room?”

  Miss Burghley caught his arm. “Down the hall, the opposite side. But you can’t go. You and I can’t be seen leaving this room together.”

  She was right. He let her tow him to the window.

  He put a hand to her shoulder and felt her trembling. The unflappable Miss Burghley seemed fragile—fragile and frightened. “Woman, who’s threatening you?”

  She wiggled away and threw open the locks of the window. Then she tossed his coat outside. “Leave.”

  Arguing with her when her mind was set was a losing battle. Another lesson he’d learned this past year as her erstwhile errand man. Sighing, he put one leg out the window. The cold November wind chilled his bare feet, and looking down, he saw frost. “Butterfly. Just tell me.”

  A frown, deeper than the one she’d worn at her father’s wedding, marked her lips. “A man came through my window last night, Lord Hartwell. He’s determined to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “Out out out.”

  He climbed through the window and balanced on the ledge. This woman was going to make him climb down the trellis. Lord, he hoped it would hold. “Miss Burghley, we have to discuss—”

  She shoved him until he almost fell off the ledge. “Later, sir. Much later, perhaps when time freezes.”

  The window slammed shut, and the curtains closed before he could offer another complaint, but he’d not stop asking questions, not until he found out who’d tried to hurt her.

  He dropped his shoes, and they landed with a thunk onto the frosted grass. If he caught a cold…

  Burghley.

  Beautiful Burghley. The Duke of Simone’s Burghley.

  The Butterfly. Only she could land him in such trouble. Well, she, and his daughters.

  Jasper shook his head, sounding too much like his brother, grousing over the antics of females.

  His brother and sister-in-law had also stayed at Downing last night. They might be able to help him figure out what was going on and how much jeopardy he and the Butterfly were in.

  Yawning, barefoot, his toes chilling, Jasper climbed down then jumped the last few feet, thankful the trellis and ivy vines had held his stocky limbs. Hopping like Burghley the Butterfly, he started around Downing Hall, yanking on stockings and dancing slippers, looking for another way in.

  The duke’s crazed dogs, two large bloodhounds, growled at him. Their bark was so loud everyone at Downing would awaken. Oh, he and the Butterfly were in such trouble. O
utrunning the stretch of the rope holding the dogs in place, Jasper headed to the rear of Downing, looking for the broken window.

  Aside from their almost-compromise, Frederica Burghley feared for her life, and Jasper wanted to know why.

  Purchase your copy of The Butterfly Bride!

  C Is for Charlie’s Angel

  C is for Charlie’s Angel

  By Kelly Bowen

  Prologue

  To Lord Henry Blackmore,

  I have in my possession a missive addressed to you that requires your prompt attention. Thus, the honor of your presence is requested in my offices at the time and date noted on the enclosed card. Please confirm receipt of this letter at your earliest possible convenience.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  William Carruthers

  Chapter One

  London, April 1819

  * * *

  “This is unacceptable.”

  Henry Blackmore frowned at his mentor, certain he hadn’t heard the man correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “These drawings – this design— is unacceptable.” John Nash studied the top-most drawing that lay between them on the wide table, his fingers drumming against the polished oak.

  “With all respect, Mr. Nash, I believe that this is some of my best work.” Henry moved around Nash and smoothed his hand over the edge of the paper. “I’ve utilized both symmetrical and asymmetrical elements while avoiding the Gothic detailing that the client abhors and—”

  “I can see very well what you’ve done, Blackmore,” Nash interrupted with impatience. “And I do not contest that this new manor illustrated here is most pleasing to the eye. Excellent juxtaposition, balance, composition.”

  “Then I don’t understand what the problem is.”

  Nash ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. “The problem, Blackmore, is that a manor already exists—”

  “It is not a manor, it is a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “—that has been in the Chattonham family for eight generations,” Nash continued as though Henry hadn’t spoken. “And the current earl— my client— has no interest in reducing his family’s seat into a pile of stone to be carted off and used in barns and fences.”

  Henry straightened, trying to keep his teeth from grinding. “Then the current earl should know that the beams are rotting—”

  “Beams can be replaced.”

  “The stonework is crumbling—”

  “Which is why we have skilled masons in our employ.”

  “The manor is three steps away from a ruin.” Henry crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers digging into the sleeves of his coat. “It’s only a matter of time before the entire thing comes down on his head. Demolish it and replace it with something new. That’s Chattonham’s only option.”

  Nash considered Henry’s drawing of the sprawling manor before him, complete with gardens and fountains. The seconds ticked away. Finally, he clasped his hands behind his back and levelled his gaze at Henry.

  “Listen carefully, Blackmore, because I am only going to say this once. You are a very promising architect, one of the best I’ve seen in a long time. You’re ambitious and clever and innovative. But you will never work for me and you will never find success on your own if you remain…” Nash seemed to search for a word, “one-dimensional.”

  “One-dimensional?”

  “You need to be able to restore as well as replace. Find solutions for problems that go beyond reducing everything to dust and starting again. As architects, we are not only charged with creating beauty, but preserving that which already exists. Chattonham Manor possesses a storied history within each of its walls that cannot be replaced and should not simply be erased.”

  Henry uncrossed his arms and strode to the far side of Nash’s office, staring out the window. Heavy clouds sat low, the streets and buildings sodden and gloomy. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. The manor as it stands right now is too dangerous—”

  “I’ve been to the manor,” Nash sighed. “I’ve seen the work that needs to be done, and I’ve seen the potential for repair and redesign. It will require some creativity, but it is by no means impossible as you continue to insist. Especially given the earl’s deep pockets and his commitment to this commission. I asked you to present me with plans and drawings for the restoration and rejuvenation of Chattonham Manor. You have failed to do so, and as such, I am removing you from this project. And dismissing you from my employ.”

  Henry spun. “You can’t do that.”

  “I don’t want to, but I see no other recourse.”

  “I’ll rework the plans—”

  “This is far from the first time you’ve refused to tender restoration designs when I’ve asked, and I do not have the time nor the inclination to weather your recalcitrance again in the future. You simply cannot raze everything in sight because it’s old. Or because it’s easier. Or for whatever reasons you seem to have stuck in that otherwise brilliant head of yours.” Nash sighed again, rolling up Henry’s drawings and replacing them in their long, leather tube. “Until you can prove to me that you are able to do more than ravage and rebuild, I cannot endorse your work and keep you on my team. I’m sorry, Blackmore.”

  “But my work on the Marine Pavilion in Brighton—”

  “Is excellent but again, the pavilion is new construction. I need more.”

  Henry forced himself to swallow the angry words that rose hard and fast. Temper would do him no good here. Until he had the experience and the capital to establish his own firm, he needed John Nash. The experienced architect had essentially become the prince’s personal architect, the array of commissions he had received from the Crown dizzying in their opulence and profile. Regent Street. St James Park. And most importantly, the Marine Pavilion in Brighton.

  More than anything, Henry wanted to remain on the Brighton project. It was new, it was novel, and it was unlike anything ever built on the shores of England. It’s completion also promised to launch any contributing architect into a celebrated career where exceptional and lucrative commissions would continue to come from the upper echelons of British society.

  “How?” Henry demanded through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry?” Nash had already returned to his desk and was sorting through a stack of documents.

  “What will it take to prove to you that I am capable of doing what you ask?”

  Two bushy brows rose, and the architect rubbed his eyes wearily. “I don’t know. Find yourself a commission to restore something old and crumbling to its original glory. Impress me.”

  Henry seethed. “No one will hire an architect on their own who doesn’t yet possess an extensive portfolio.”

  “Your father might.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You have the distinct advantage of having a duke for a father. Surely you can ask him to assist—”

  “Absolutely not.” Henry hadn’t spoken to his father in over a decade and another decade would be too soon. He hadn’t accepted a penny from the man in just as long, and he wasn’t about to start now. He’d rather throw himself into the Thames than petition his father for favours, and he was quite sure his father felt the same way.

  Nash set the documents down. “I don’t know what to tell you then, Blackmore. But you’re a very smart man. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Chapter Two

  “Think of something Miss Maeve,” Mrs. Thorpe shrieked.

  The housekeeper of Greybourne House stood pinned in the far corner of the kitchen, clutching a wooden spoon to her ample bosom, her face white beneath her cap.

  Maeve Murray hovered on the far side of the massive wooden table that sat centered in the kitchen watching the monstrous creature that was snuffling its way around the room. On any other day, had she been asked, she would have said that she was rather fond of Greybourne’s wiry-haired, sharp-tusked boar. Though on any other day, Hamlet, as the porcine monolith was named, was safely ensconced in its enclosur
e and not rooting through the kitchens of Greybourne House.

  “I only left the door open for a minute,” the housekeeper wailed. “Just to take the laundry out.”

  “Not your fault,” Maeve assured her. “You couldn’t have anticipated this.”

  Ruined remnants of meat pies and at least two loaves of bread were scattered across the floor, victims of the rogue boar. The beast had since turned his attention to the low shelves under the table top, sending a stack of empty platters and bowls crashing to the flagstone. With an absurd daintiness, Hamlet picked his way over the broken crockery and helped himself to a tray of eggs.

  Maeve cursed under her breath. It was bad enough the animal had eaten her dinner. Now he was working on her breakfast.

  “Get it out of here,” Mrs. Thorpe howled. “Hurry, before it eats us all.”

  “It’s not going to eat us,” Maeve replied. She couldn’t say the same for everything else in the kitchen. And there was no simple way to convince a forty-stone animal to move somewhere it didn’t want to go.

  Hamlet continued to chew.

  Slowly Maeve eased out from behind the table, reaching for one of the tin platters on the floor. Holding it in front of her like a Viking shield, she crept toward the boar. The beast finished the eggs and continued its investigation of the low shelves, yolk still dripping from its tusks.

  “Let’s just go back outside, shall we?” Maeve said to the boar. “There’s really not enough space for all three of us in here.”

  Hamlet ignored her and sent another stack of crockery crashing to the floor in an effort to reach the large basket of dried apples that had been shoved further back.

  “Oh, no, no, no, no,” Maeve said angrily. “You can’t have those too, you oversized pot roast.” The apples were the last of the crop from last year, and Maeve was damned if a pig was going to cheat her out of her those. Maeve tossed the platter to the side and dove under the table, yanking the apple basket away.