While I won’t post two or three times a week in the future, I’m keeping my fingers in the writing pool while I take a few days off from novel writing. (I had a minor fall a couple of days ago that has left me in enough discomfort to be distracting but not seriously hurt.) However, since I need to write in some capacity to salve the guilt of not doing what I should be doing, I’m writing a couple of random blogs like this one.

Several weeks ago, I discovered a writing contest sponsored by reedsy. One prompt caught my eye, so I decided to enter which was simple. All entries must be between 1000 and 3000 words, the entry fee was $5, and the prize was $250. While I never expected to win, this contest was a good place to test my Regency writing chops so I did. First, I was pleasantly surprised my excerpt from an upcoming novel was accepted. Then I was pleasantly surprised several people “liked” my entry. I’d passed my self-test which wasn’t about winning the contest or how many “likes” I received. It was about seeing if my entry was read at all.

Since my blog is about writing, I thought I’d share my entry for fun. I used two prompts of the five or six prompts given. The first prompt involved an unexpected event occurring and the second prompt involved a character saying, “I didn’t see that one coming.” Now, on with the story:

1811 A.D.  London, England

Tossing the calling card in his hand on his desk Barrington Monck made a face. After giving his butler permission to show their guest to the library, he murmured “I didn’t see that one coming.” to an otherwise empty room. Rising to his feet, he heard the faint whisper of kid slippers gliding across marble as he awaited his uninvited guest. Not just uninvited, but unexpected, if not exactly unknown. He had been formally introduced to Lady Clarisse during her first season. He’d even danced with her several times. However, all of that was before The Incident when she was still a diamond of the first water.

While something of an acquaintance in the past, he felt he knew her far better now that she laughed in the face of propriety. Many in Town felt that way. It was rare they found a bona fide Adventuress in their midst, and even rarer that one survived the poisoned tongues of the ton’s self-appointed purveyors of virtue. However, the Tipping chit had. Survived. She was incorrigible and she wore her disrepute like a badge of honor. While annoyed to have his work rudely interrupted, he would confess to a mild curiosity where this fast woman was concerned. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a respectable miss taking the marriage market by storm. However, that was before P.W. Nance published her first tawdry gothic romance.

Not that the ton knew one of their ranks was Nance, even one fallen so far. Most didn’t. If they did, the scandal would be complete. The only reason he was thus informed was his silent partnership in her publishing firm. Thanks to her editor, he knew she’d quickly produced three smoldering bestsellers no decent woman would admit to reading. However, that didn’t mean those novels weren’t hidden between mattresses or within secret drawers in writing desks. Nor did it mean that her fourth novel soon going to print wouldn’t break previous sales records. It likely would. Laughing softly, Monck decided that was reason enough to meet the woman without the rest of the story.

***

Gathering her thoughts, Clarisse ignored the faint slap of her olive slippers on the pristine marble flooring. Awed at the luxury surrounding her, she wasn’t surprised the townhouse was as opulent as she’d heard. Watching the butler silently open the doors to announce her, she stepped into the magnificent library much larger than Uncle Horace’s before starting at the faint click of the doors closing behind her. Stepping forward, Clarisse watched Aloysius Barrington Monck sign a document before setting the paper aside.  

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” The Duke rose from his desk. “And the risk of destroying both our standings?”

“Desperation.” Clarisse stared him down with more confidence than she felt. “And the need to  collect on a note of hand.”

“Note of hand?” She ignored the disbelief on his face. “I owe you no note of hand.”

Removing her Parma violet capote bonnet to expose riotous Titian curls, Clarisse motioned to one of the two claw & ball oak framed tub armchairs.  

“By all means.” While his first instinct was to toss the comely want-to-be-extortionist out on her ear, something urged Barrington Monck to hear her out instead. “Make yourself comfortable while you tell all.”

Watching the giant of a man settle back against the edge of his desk, Clarisse lightly caressed the royal blue leather. Carefully draping her olive shawl over the arm of the second chair, she sat on the edge of her seat and took a deep breath. Nodding, she reminded herself that Emma would be ruined if the Duke refused to fall in line. More importantly, their three younger sisters’ prospects would end before they ever began.

“Do you remember Lady Cecilia Northrup’s house party on the twelfth of October two years ago?” Clarisse spoke calmly as though making idle pleasantries. “If you don’t, I can refresh your memory.”

“I remember it well.” He agreed. “I tried to make Horace divulge his Claret supplier and failed miserably.”

Northrup served the finest Claret in Town.

“I may be able to help with that.” Whether she would divulge such a closely held family secret depended on the outcome of their conversation. “In the meantime, we have more important things to discuss.”

“This mysterious note of hand.” The Duke nodded. “I fail to see how such a thing can exist since we danced have but three or four single sets after our introduction.”

 “Oh, we’ve done more than that.” Clarisse snorted lightly. “We had amorous congress in Aunt Cecelia’s library on her new ponceau silk sofa that October night according to the Tête-à-Tête.”

“We did no such thing.” Deep in thought, the Duke walked around his desk to sit in his leather armchair. “Dear God, you were the mysterious auburn-haired Lady C. seen leaving the library in the sumptuous, torn pea-green gown?”

He tended to ignore on dits, but he’d listened to that one. Once he’d confirmed the woman in question wasn’t his ladybird, Augusta’s locks were more gold than red, he never thought about the matter again. It was so much taradiddle. He would have known if another woman were present in the library with them.

“You jest?” Her raised eyebrow spoke volumes. “You didn’t know?”

“I do not.” The Duke shook his head. “And I did not.”

“That isn’t possible.” It couldn’t be.

“It most certainly is.” The Duke sniffed haughtily. “I thought the whole matter a Banbury tale spread by Cochran’s brat for giving her the direct cut for sniffing about my heels.” He answered honestly. “I never believed she saw a woman leave the library.”

Augusta departed another way.

“But she did.” Clarisse’s laugh was ugly. “One who fled the library a few minutes before you did, and one who’d torn the sleeve of her gown in her haste to escape before she was seen by its other occupants.”

“You?” None of this made sense. “How is that possible?”

“Easy.” Clarisse shook her head. “I fled to the library to escape Sir Harry and witnessed an unholy event from the ladder while getting a novel from the fourth shelf.”

“Again, how is that possible?” His tone was puzzled. “The door was locked.”

“I have a key.” Clarisse shrugged. “Uncle Horace allows me to use his wonderful library whenever we’re in Town.” Much to her parents’ despair, her maternal uncle had nurtured her bluestocking tendencies for many years. “Since we both know the library is always locked, the bigger question is how did you get in there?”

“The secret passage.” The Duke reluctantly admitted. “The one I assume only family knows about.”

“The secret passage?” Clarisse was the only person outside her Aunt and Uncle who knew there were secret passages connecting the library and the bedrooms to a hidden external exit. “How do you know about that?”

“I spotted a familiar inconsistency in Northrup’s floor plan.” Unlike most of Horace’s guests, the framed drawing proudly displayed over the study fireplace had caught his interest. “Great-grandfather had a similar passage added to Amberly when the townhouse was built. I should think the Great Fire was still fresh on both of their minds when the construction was done.”

“Probably.” Clarisse nodded. “I hadn’t thought about the drawing.”

She should probably suggest that her uncle move the revealing plan to a more private location. Surely Albemarle wasn’t the only guest capable of making such a deduction. It wouldn’t do to have family secrets fall into the wrong hands.

“Now, let’s get back to this note of hand.” The Duke absently tapped his fingers on his desk. “You wish to lay your fall from grace at my door simply because you stumbled upon my tryst with Lady Jermyn?”

“Yes.” Clarisse nodded not sure she liked her situation being likened to forgetting to leave one’s card after a morning visit. While a serious faux pas, that could be rectified. Being ruined, not so much. “I believe Jemima Cochran wished to settle the score for cutting her by hurting your lover. Unfortunately, she maligned the wrong woman.”

While not what she’d originally believed, she believed that now. The fact he didn’t know it was her in the on dit from that dreadful night changed everything.

“Or perhaps it wasn’t a mistake and she meant to better her odds of making a suitable match by destroying a diamond of the first water.” The Duke rejoined. “Cochran’s brat is an unpleasant, hatch-faced chit with the wit of a bumble bee.”

“Yes, she is.” Clarisse shook her head thinking the situation was worse than she’d thought. “If you are right, what happened to me was worse than innocent scandal-mongering.”

“Is scandal-mongering ever innocent?” The Duke stared her down. “As for the note of hand, I can do nothing to restore your reputation.”

She’d been branded an adventuress, a Cyprian, and worse, years ago. If those sins weren’t bad enough, her forays into gothic romance weren’t necessarily as much of a secret as she thought. She wouldn’t be so successful if they were. While they smacked of the tawdry, from what his cousins said, she spun a delightfully wicked tale.

“No, there isn’t.” Clarisse leaned forward. “It’s too late for me; but not for my sisters.”

“Lady Emma?”

“Lizzy,” Clarisse shook her head. “and my younger sisters. Emma is already in trouble.”

“Eason?” So even the most detached rake at Court noticed her sister’s folly. “He’s a disreputable buck.”

“Howard.” Clarisse corrected. “Before the banns were read.”

“He’s been a busy man.” The Duke snorted softly. “The latest on dit is that his bride is in a delicate condition as well.”

And seemingly far enough along to raise eyebrows.

“Has the fop been told?” The Duke’s tone was derogatory. “If he has, it didn’t go over well or you wouldn’t be here.”

“He doesn’t believe her.” Clarisse ignored the nasty words tripping through her head. “He denies their encounter happened. I suspect he called her a few rude names though Emma denies any such a thing.”

“Do you believe her?” The dirty look was expected. “It was a masquerade.”

“Emma was heavily pursued by several young men that night including Howard.” Clarisse’s voice was soft as she realized Howard must have resumed Eason’s pursuit of her sister when the other man moved on to easier prey. “I saw him flirting with her and told her there was talk of a secret betrothal. It seems she did not listen.”

“I see.” He had yet to see how her sister’s pickle had anything to do with him. “As for this imaginary note of hand, what do you expect me to do about your sister’s dilemma?”

Surely she wasn’t cork-brained enough to think he would wed the girl? Then again, it wouldn’t surprise him. He was clod-pated to listen to her in the first place.

“Find Emma a worthy husband.” Clarisse forced the words past her lips. “She is truly a diamond of the first water and her dowry is generous.”

At least in looks, if not behavior. 

“I see.” The Duke walked around his desk to stand in front of her. “You wish me to find a suitable match willing to overlook your sister’s intimate faux pas and accept her by-blow as his own?”

She sounded beyond addle-pated when the Duke put it that way.

“Yes.” Clarisse nodded. “You can’t save my reputation, but you can save Emma’s.”

“All you ask is that I find the one saint among the sinners,” Clarisse bristled at his mocking tone. “And you will consider this note of hand satisfied?”

“Yes.” Clarisse nodded again.

“I see.” The Duke laughed. “I should send you packing and ensure this scandalous visit by the unchaperoned Lady C. of the Parma violet pelisse becomes the latest on dit, but I won’t. I like your sister. I will help you instead. There is a gentleman who was quite smitten with Lady Emma at the beginning of the season. He left Town for the countryside soon after he realized his affections weren’t reciprocated.”

“What of this gentleman?” Clarisse couldn’t bear the thought of her niece or nephew being mistreated. “Will he accept the child?”

“As he already has an heir and a couple of spares, Emma’s child will be just another chick in the brood.” The Duke snorted at the thought that Lord Roderick was more of a mother hen than any woman he knew. “The child will be fine one way or another.”

Clarisse nodded not sure his answer was acceptable.

“Stop.” The Duke decided to put her out of her misery. “Roddy is a widower and a devoted family man who prefers long walks through the village with his beloved to rubbing shoulders with the beau monde.”

He would adore Emma’s child and raise it as his own.

 “A country gentleman?” Her family spent as much time in Town as they did at the Hall. “I’m not sure Emma will take to living in the country.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” The Duke walked back around his desk. “We are done for now. I will send Roddy a letter and share his response at Lady Haversham’s ball. If he agrees, an introduction will be arranged.”

“I’m not invited to Lady Haversham’s ball.” Clarisse shrugged knowing she wasn’t admitting anything he didn’t know. “I only attend Aunt Cecilia’s balls because no one recognizes me beneath my domino.”

“You only attend your aunt’s balls because no one will risk getting cut by a leading hostess for backbiting her beloved niece if they do.” The Duke said what she wouldn’t.  “Besides, we both know your reputation wasn’t destroyed that night.”

Her character was slowly assassinated over the following days and weeks until all possibilities of making a suitable match on the marriage market were shattered. That’s when she’d decided to mail her first novel to the bestselling Lilly White’s publisher with a letter of introduction from the retired author. Fortunately, she had already met the elderly bluestocking over one of Aunt CeCe’s intimately casual afternoon teas. Lilly graciously offered to read her novel. She’d taken her under her wing soon after.

By the time she fell from grace, her novel was ready. Thanks to Uncle Horace’s tutelage, her offering was well received and royalties favorably negotiated. The publication of her third gothic romance last month along with her Uncle’s wise investments on her behalf ensured she was a woman of independent means. To this day, few knew she was P.W. Nance, and hopefully, no one ever would.

“You’re right.” Clarisse agreed. “I learned of my shame when I was turned away at Almack’s and discovered my voucher revoked three days after Aunt Cecelia’s ball.”

While Aunt Cecilia had attended the ball determined to get to the bottom of the situation, she’d returned home to scour the newspapers. It hadn’t taken long to locate the toxic insinuations in Tête-à-Tête or to realize who was behind it. While Aunt Cecilia’s favor had ushered her mother to her place within the ton, many in their ranks still referred to her as that vulgar lady Joscelyn behind her back.

However, their feelings for the mother didn’t extend to the daughters. It wasn’t wise. Her father was an exceedingly wealthy, popular man and his daughters held great promise of being comely breeding stock, especially the eldest. Clarisse snorted. It hadn’t taken much to take her from diamond of the first water to social pariah. Just an unfounded rumor whispered by a sneaky whey-faced poltroon hiding behind her cackling mama’s skirts.

“If you want my help, meet me at Lady Haversham’s ball.” The Duke’s gaze conveyed that was non-negotiable. “If I were you, I’d wear a sumptuous Pomona green gown.”

Nodding, Clarisse felt the hair rise on the back of her neck as she rose to her feet. Barrington Monck was up to something, she knew it. But her suspicions were neither here nor there. All that mattered was getting Emma’s delicate situation resolved. She would agree to almost anything to see that done including gatecrashing Lady Haversham’s ball to discover what the Duke of Albemarle had up his sleeve. While her appearance was unlikely to affect his standing, it was social suicide for her. Oh, that’s right, she was already dead to the ton so she had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Hopefully, that included the priceless introduction between the mysterious Lord Roddy and her sweet Emma that would change both of their lives forever.

Placing her bonnet on her head, she smirked daringly, “Then, until we meet again at Lady Haversham’s ball.”

Thank you for reading. Until next time,

Tori