Full of the seasonal spirit, I’m offering Hearts Beguiled free from today through Monday, December 18th, I hope those of my readers who haven’t yet encountered the gorgeous Marquis of Stratton will enjoy his courtship of poor, pretty little Felicity. Can she resist him, what do you think?

****

Ravishingly pretty, young and charming, Felicity Tremaine is the cherished daughter of one of the richest men in London. She lives in the enchanted world he has created for her, surrounded by laughter, love and plenty. Then disaster strikes; Mr Tremaine loses everything, and the elegant Marquis of Stratton steps forward to offer Felicity the protection of his name.

Yet Stratton is the man she blames for every misfortune that has befallen her father. How can she agree to marry the man she detests above all others?

Well, this is fun! A Spanish translation of Tides of Fire Book I: The Rebellion, or as we prefer to call it Mareas de Fuego Libro 1: La Rebelión is now available in paperback on Amazon. The e-book seems to be delayed. However, it is available on Apple, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and Scribd.

It was translated by a lovely young lady from Chile, which sounds like the first line of a limerick, and, although I don’t speak Spanish, I am told that the translation is very good. She was certainly great to work with.

So, if you have a Spanish speaking friend or relative, with a liking for fantasy, please pass this on. Andrea is so excited about her translation, she deserves some sales.

Amazon.com:Mareas de Fuego Libro 1: La Rebelión (Spanish Edition)
Amazon.co.uk:Mareas de Fuego Libro 1: La Rebelión
Amazon.de:Mareas de Fuego Libro 1: La Rebelión

Death Where Is Thy Sting? is on track to be published on Sunday, September 10, and so I’m offering the prequel The Captured Heart free for 4 days, beginning today.

*****

Cecily Danvers, poor, young and very pretty, seeks a position as a governess. Her qualifications for the post are limited—being merely a warm heart and a great deal of common-sense. Nothing can exceed her astonishment, therefore, when she is hired by a reclusive family as nursery-governess to little Lord Fanshawe at a salary three times higher than the situation merits.

Even more mysterious—Bobby Fanshawe must not walk outside the grounds without a stout male servant to guard him. Yet a child with a plethora of unmarried—and attractive—uncles surely should not be in need of any other protection than theirs.

Cecily finds her new home on the wild Lincolnshire coast a source of romance, mystery, danger and, eventually, a passionate love. But the man her heart clings to is surrounded by suspicion and scandal—is she right to trust him when a child’s safety is at stake?

Had a little blip with the publisher who was concerned that I might not own the copyright. Actually, I find this reassuring, I’m grateful that they care enough to check. Since I absolutely do own the copyright, because I wrote the darn thing, it was easily fixed.

Apologies, apparently there is a holdup in publication. I’ll let you know when the problem is resolved.

I was so close, only another 2,000 or so words to go, the cover commissioned and all systems go. Then we got one of those 3 am calls from America. Mother-in-law had a bad fall and is not doing too well. My husband feels he must support his sister in all the arrangements for her care that have to be made, and we can’t do that from Germany.

So publication will be delayed, I hope for not more than a month or so.

In the meantime, this is the first chapter. I think it’s fun.

One
The Lady Elizabeth Marlowe, mounted on her pretty chestnut mare,  trotted into the stable yard at Tatton Castle, flushed and weary from a day’s hard riding. Her hazel eyes sparkled with exercise and the joy of cantering around the countryside on her half-broken horse. Lady Elizabeth had been out, not with the hunt, but ahead of it, laying false trails to distract and confuse the hounds. For it was her oft stated opinion that fox hunting was cruel and stupid and she would not allow it on the Ridgeway lands.

Shooting, on the other hand, she permitted, for one must eat and she was herself particularly partial to a young pheasant.

‘But Milady how are we to preserve yer coverts if you dunna allow fox ‘unting?’ had pleaded her gamekeeper, almost tearfully.

‘Humane traps,’ responded Elizabeth. ‘See, I have drawn a diagram of how it might be done. Try it and see. But no must be no metal teeth; upon that I insist.’

Much to her gamekeeper’s surprise the traps did work, and her coverts suffered rather less depredations that other local landowners.

The coverts, the castle and indeed the entire estate were, in fact, not her property but that of her younger brother, the eleventh earl, currently enlivening the university with his volatile presence. However, since she was her brother’s guardian and trustee, and he took no interest in the estate, the country people treated Elizabeth as the Squire, and her word was law.

Now, after healthful exercise, Elizabeth was looking forward to a quiet evening working on her great history of the Dumnonii, a tribe of Britons who had inhabited Devonshire until the early Saxon period and had obligingly left remnants of a settlement on the Ridgeway lands. A short extract of this work, now in the hands of her publishers, was expected it to be released later that month.

Her aunt, Lady Timperley had been aghast when she heard of this latest project. ‘Do not, my dear Elizabeth, mention the matter to a soul. They will think you the bluest of blue stockings!’

Elizabeth had given her aunt an engagingly mischievous smile. ‘But that is what I am,’ she pointed out.

Her aunt merely sighed. She had given up arguing with her niece after the never to be forgotten day when she had visited Tatton Castle and found the, then nineteen-year-old, Elizabeth about to ride out wearing breeches. The poor lady had been obliged to take a dose of sal volatile as her niece calmly pointed out that breeches were actually much more proper attire for a lady to wear in the saddle as there was no possibility that, when she took a toss, her skirts would fly up around her head.

‘Moreover, do you not think, Ma’am, the side-saddle is a ridiculous contrivance for a lady’s use? In fact, all things considered I think it is gentlemen who ought to ride side-saddle. It would be more comfortable for them.’

Her aunt had fainted dead away at this and had to be carried to her room. Elizabeth was a kind-hearted girl, and when she saw how distressed her conduct had made her aunt she was truly penitent. In this mood Lady Timperley was able to wring from her a promise that she would never venture to ride outside the grounds of Tatton Castle unless properly clad in a riding habit, and never, ever to do so in London. To this promise, although it had been extracted ten years earlier, Elizabeth still scrupulously adhered.

As she brought the mare to a standstill at the stable door and swung her leg over the pommel, her groom came running out to take the mare’s head.

Elizabeth slid to the ground without his assistance and looped the long skirt of her severe, black, riding habit over her arm. ‘Thank you, Hutchins. Give her a good rub down won’t you.’

The elderly groom gave her a straight look. ‘Is it likely I need you to tell me that, Milady?’

She laughed. ‘No—I know you do not. Odious old man.’

He grinned, not at all offended. ‘Mrs Trundle’s been looking for you. The Grand Duke has just arrived.’

‘Grandfather? And I not here to welcome him! I must go to him at once.’

‘You’ll change your habit first,’ remonstrated the doughty groom. ‘His Highness won’t be pleased to see you with your hair all whipped about your face and mud on your boots.’

She looked down at her boots ruefully. ‘Very true.’ She crossed the yard with her rather mannish stride and entered the house through a side door. As she ran up the stairs an elderly woman poked her head out from behind a green baize door.

‘There you are, Milady. I’ve sent Mary up to your room with hot water. Best be quick for his Highness is mighty impatient, though I’ve given him a glass of the good Madeira and a plate of the drop cakes that he likes.’

Elizabeth thanked her and hurried on up a flight of stairs, along a series of draughty galleries, negotiated another flight of rather less grand stairs and eventually reached her bedchamber. Once there she stripped off her muddy habit, allowed Mary to relieve her of her boots, and prepared to make herself respectable enough to greet her formidable grandsire.

When, after about half-an-hour, she entered the drawing room, she was attired in a plain round gown of grey cambric, without trimmings, ribbons or flounces. This was partly due to the fact that she was still in mourning for her father, the tenth Earl of Ridgeway, who had passed away as the result of an apoplexy only six months earlier, and partly because of her own predilection for sensible dress. Lady Elizabeth despised fashionable fripperies. She wore her very pretty brunette curls brushed back in a severe chignon and disdained to wear so much as a locket around her throat or a ring on her finger.

Nothing she could do, however, served to disguise the allure of her slightly almond shaped eyes, the high cheekbones and lovely line of her jaw for these she had inherited from her mama, the Duchess Jelena Mihaela of Catamanthia.

This lady had, sadly, died giving birth to Elizabeth’s younger brother, leaving her ten-year-old daughter and baby son to the care of her heart-broken husband. The Earl had sought solace in scholarship, becoming yearly more reclusive and inclined to leave the management of his estate to his highly capable daughter.

When she entered the room she found her maternal grandfather, His Highness the Grand Duke Frederick of Catamanthia, pacing up and down with his pocket watch in his hand. He was a very upright old gentleman of about five-and-seventy, with a full head of thick, white hair, and very piercing grey eyes which looked at her with some severity.

This look softened a little however as Elizabeth swept a respectful curtsey and then came towards him with her hands outstretched. ‘Grandfather! This is a delightful surprise.’

‘Lisel, my dear.’ He allowed her to kiss his cheek and patted her hand. ‘How are you, child?’

‘Very well, I thank you, Sir.’

He said, as he had said many times, ‘It is lonely for you here with none but servants. You should have a companion.’

‘I cannot think of one that would not drive me distracted. I am very happy alone, I assure you. Besides, Anthony will be down for the Long Vacation at the end of June.’

‘That young scapegrace! Much company he will be to you.’ He glared at her. ‘What do you mean you are happy alone? No one should be happy alone. It is not natural in a young woman.’

‘Not so young, Grandfather.’

‘Pooh! Not yet thirty are you? You need a husband, my dear.’

‘Yes, Sir. So you have often told me.’ She laughed. ‘I do have one suitor you will be pleased to hear.’

He looked suspicious. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes indeed. He has purchased Haddington Hall and thinks that I would be an admirable chatelaine.’

The Grand Duke snorted. In his world land was inherited, never purchased.

‘Damned impertinence!’

‘Not at all. He is a nabob and vastly wealthy, though a little sallow from his years in the East.’

‘Good family?’

‘I believe so.’

‘You could do worse.’

‘I think not. He simply wants to be accepted by the Ton and thinks marriage with me would be the quickest route to attaining it. If he but knew how little of an asset I would be to him in that regard.’

‘It is your own doing. You could take your place in Society if you chose.’

‘But I do not choose. Besides, when I want society I will go to Catamanthia which is far more amusing.’

He made no answer beyond a ‘humph’ signifying agreement and turned to stare, unseeing, at the pleasant vista of new grass and spring flowers outside the drawing room window.

She was watching him in some concern and suddenly said, ‘What is wrong, Grandfather?’

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Natalija!’ he answered shortly.

‘Oh dear, what has she done now?’

‘She has run away.’

‘Again!’

The old duke sat down and rested his forehead upon his hand. ‘Yes, and at this important time. I do not know what is to be done.’

‘Can you not set it about that she is indisposed?’

‘Certainly; I have done so. If only I knew that she would be back in a day, or a week that would serve. But the Grand Duchess of Catamanthia cannot be absent from Princess Charlotte’s wedding celebrations for an entire month or more. Our negotiations with the British government are at a most critical stage. If she does not appear it will be an insult to our hosts. Only very serious illness could excuse it, and if we set such a tale about, that could, in and of itself, constitute a ruinous diplomatic crisis.’

‘True, Lord Liverpool might rather wish to conduct negotiations with the heir. Where is he by-the-by?’

‘Rupert is in Paris, but never doubt it, he will be here in a flash if he gets wind of her disappearance.’

‘Do you have any idea where she has gone this time?’

‘You know your cousin. She could be gallivanting with gypsy horse-traders or rubbing shoulders with artists in Montmartre.’

‘Gallivanting? What a lovely word. It describes Talia perfectly. She gallivants!’

He regarded her under beetling brows. ‘You find this amusing?’

‘Well, let us say it is not unexpected. Talia considers that, since she did her duty by marrying that very unpleasant Russian prince you thrust upon her, she is entitled to do as she pleases now that he has left her a widow.’

‘A royal widow.’

‘You must know that no one in Catamanthia is in the least shocked by her escapades.’

‘We are not in Catamanthia! What if she is found to be engaged in some disgraceful adventure here, in England?’

‘I really do not see that it is any of their business if the Catamanthians don’t mind.’

‘I had hopes of finding another husband for her, here. A close relative of the Regent has been, discreetly, approached.’

‘What? Not one of the royal brothers?’

Her grandfather laid a finger to his lips. ‘Hush, not a word.’

‘I see. I think I should forget about that if I were you, Grandfather. Talia married once for the good of her duchy. You will never get her to agree to it again.’ She pondered a moment. ‘Unless this gentleman is very handsome and—er—energetic, of course. But I do not think there is such a brother. Not one under fifty I believe.’

Amusement gleamed in the fierce old eyes. ‘What do you know about it, eh? Energetic indeed! An unmarried female should know nothing of such things.’

‘Well,’ she said, considering, ‘I don’t know very much. Only what I have read and what Talia confided in me. Her Russian prince was neither handsome nor—er—uxorious, apparently.’

The amusement died in the old man’s eyes. ‘That is neither here nor there. There is only one thing to be done. That is why I am here. I want you to come back with me to London and take Natalija’s place at the wedding.’

‘Ah, I thought that this was where we were heading. No, Grandfather.’

‘You dare say no to me? A Grand Duke of Catamanthia!’

‘We are in England now, Sir.’ She took his dry old hand which shook slightly. ‘It can’t be done. I am known in London, and besides, Natalija and I are not so much alike.’

‘If you were dressed like her and wore your hair the same way, there is enough of a family resemblance.’

‘Not enough to deceive her entourage.’

‘We have only the Countess of Trbovlje with us as lady-in-waiting, I packed the rest of them back to Catamanthia before I came down here.’

‘But, what explanation did you give?’

He looked at her, puzzled. ‘Explanation?’

‘For sending them away.’

‘They did as they were told. Explanation? Bah!’

Elizabeth looked at him affectionately, ‘What an old tyrant you are, Grandfather. What about the servants at the hotel? They may notice something and talk.’

‘Let them. Will they be believed?’ He was silent for a moment and then said, ‘There may be rumours, I allow, but better that than a diplomatic crisis that might ruin all.’

‘You are being very vague, Sir. Ruin what? What is so important?’

‘My child, I cannot tell you all, but believe me, the very future of Catamanthia as a separate Duchy is at stake.’

She was silent for a moment, looking out over the park to where the trees were just coming into bud in the home-wood. She had been looking forward to a quiet spring with her books and her writing. The fuss and botheration of a Royal Wedding was the last thing she desired. But her cousin Natalija was her only friend, and she had a deep love of the pretty alpine Duchy where much of her childhood had been spent.

She took a deep breath, resolutely turned her back on the peace and tranquillity out of doors and said, ‘Very well, Sir. I will do it.’

It’s always lovely to hold the book in your hand, and thanks to Lee’s beautiful covers, they make a very nice show on the bookshelf. Anyway, for those who still like the feel of a real book, Midsummer Masquerade is available now.

Amazon.com: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade
Amazon.co.uk: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade
Amazon.de: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade

Last night as we sat down to dinner (bruschetta,  spaggettini al forno, apple cake and cream), my husband who is in charge of the music department put on a CD of Handel’s Ariodante. As a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice rang out he said ‘that’s Dame Janet Baker.’ We both smiled fondly. We first met during a production of Werther at the English National Opera in which Dame Janet sang Charlotte, the female lead. She was a lovely person, charming to us mere plebs, even asking once if we  minded if she joined us as we sat chatting in the wings. But my principal memory of that production (apart from meeting the love of my life) happened about halfway through the run.

For some reason that now escapes me, the male lead had to leave to take up another engagement. That kind of thing happens a lot in opera. I happened to be standing next to the tenor who took his place on his first night in the role. I noticed that sweat was streaming down his face and he was shaking from head to foot. He glanced round and said in a desperately jokey way ‘It would help if I could remember the words.’ ‘Oh you’ll be fine,’ I assured him and he was so nervous that he seemed grateful even for my encouragement. I remember thinking , as he squared his shoulders and strode onto the stage, it was one of bravest things I’d ever seen.

I remarked to my husband over dinner that it was just like the ‘actors’ dream.’ I don’t know an actor who doesn’t have ‘the dream,’ although it takes slightly different forms of course. It is very obviously an anxiety dream and is usually recurrent. In my version I know I have to be on stage because my cue has been given. The only problem is that I can’t find my way. I run up and down stairways, along deserted passages, down into huge cavernous basements. I know it can’t be far away because I can hear voices and see the lights but I can never get there.

In my husband’s dream he, like the poor tenor, can’t remember his words but he knows that he will be okay if he can just look at the book (actor-speak for the script or prompt copy.) He wanders all over the theatre vainly searching for the book, asking everyone he meets if they have it, but no one does.

I wonder if other professions have their own particular dream. Do pilots wake in a cold-sweat because they can’t land their plane, or do surgeons dream they have killed all their patients? I expect they do. But, funnily enough, I have never yet dreamed that I can’t finish a book or I’ve written a really boring blog post.

Talking of finishing a book; Midsummer Masquerade is almost finished. I have a gorgeous cover for it. As you can see, my next heroine is a redhead. Meet Miss Ophelia Pitt, an actress who, according to her director cannot act to save her life but ‘she puts bums on seats, Laddie, bums on seats!’

As a babyboomer born only six years after the end of the war in Europe, my entire childhood was dominated by my parent’s war stories and the old black and white films like One of our Aircraft is Missing, The Dambusters, and Went the Day Well? And then there were the songs, beautiful, plaintive songs of love, loss and loyalty. This is my list of the ten most beautiful, poignant and romantic songs of the war years.

1) The number one has to be As Time Goes By as performed by Dooley Wilson in Casablanca. To be totally accurate it was written in 1931 but it is forever associated with Rick’s Cafe, Casablanca and Ingrid Bergman gazing into the past and remembering.

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

And when two lovers woo
They still say, “I love you.”
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by.

Moonlight and love songs
Never out of date.
Hearts full of passion
Jealousy and hate.
Woman needs man
And man must have his mate
That no one can deny.

It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.

2) Number two is nowhere near as famous. Perhaps because the circumstances of the song are very specific to the war years. The Lovely Weekend is a woman writing to her husband who has just returned to the conflict after a weekend leave.

I haven’t said thanks for that lovely weekend
Those two days of heaven you helped me spend
The thrill of your kiss as you stepped off the train
The smile in your eyes like the sun after rain

To mark the occasion we went out to dine
Remember the laughter, the music, the wine
That drive in the taxi when midnight had flown
Then breakfast next morning, just we two alone

You had to go, the time was too short
We both had so much to say
Your kit to be packed, the train to be caught
Sorry I cried but I just felt that way

And now you have gone, dear, this letter I pen
My heart travels with you till we meet again
Keep smiling, my darling, and someday we’ll spend
A lifetime as sweet as that lovely weekend

If it seems particularly heartbreaking and sincere it is because it is a real love letter written to a real soldier, who also happened to be a bandleader. He set it to music and it became an instant hit.

3) A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square – haven’t we all had the experience of falling in love and finding quite ordinary places become magical? I imagine the couple, both in uniform, walking hand in hand through the blackout.

That certain night
The night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

I may be right I may be wrong
But I’m perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me
A nightingale sang in Berkeley square

The moon that lingered over London town
Poor puzzled moon he wore a frown
How could he know we two were so in love
The whole damned world seemed upside down

The streets of town were paved with stars
It was such a romantic affair
And as we kissed and said goodnight
A nightingale sang in Berekeley square

How strange it was
How sweet and strange
There was never a dream to compare
To those hazy crazy nights we met
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

Ah this heart of mine
Loud and fast
Like a merry-go-round in a fair
We would dance cheek to cheek
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

The dawn came stealing up
All gold and blue
To interrupt our rendez-vous
I still remember how you smiled and said
Was that a dream or was it true?

Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing feet of astaire
And like an echo far away
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

5) Lili Marlene – well the Germans suffered, loved and lost too. A young soldier meets his love underneath a lantern outside the barrack gates.  He hears the bugle calling him away and kisses her goodbye. It is their last night together.

Underneath the lantern
By the barrack gate
Darling I remember
The way you used to wait
‘Twas there that you whispered tenderly
That you loved me
You’d always be
My Lili of the lamplight
My own Lili Marlene

Resting in our billet
Just behind the line
Even though we’re parted
Your lips are close to mine
You wait where that lantern softly gleamed
Your sweet face seems
To haunt my dreams
My Lili of the lamplight
My own Lili Marlene
My Lili of the lamplight
My own Lili Marlene

6) When They Sound the Last All Clear – okay, not a great song but so evocative of the  Blitz and the way ordinary people faced the pain of parting and never knowing when they would see each other again.

When they sound the last all-clear
How happy, my darling, we’ll be
When they turn up the lights
And the dark lonely nights
Are only a memory

Never more we’ll be apart
Always together, sweetheart
For the peace-bells will ring
And the whole world will sing
When they sound the last all-clear

We’ve got our troubles and we’ve got our cares
But as long as we keep smiling through
There’ll come a day
When the clouds roll away
And the sun will be shining anew

When they sound the last all-clear
How happy, my darling, we’ll be
When they turn up the lights
And the dark lonely nights
Are only a memory

Never more we’ll be apart
Always together, sweetheart
For the peace-bells will ring
And the whole world will sing
When they sound the last all-clear

7) We’ll Meet Again – for my parent’s generation this should probably be number one on the list.

We’ll meet again,
Don’t know where, don’t know when,
But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.
Keep smiling through,
Just like you always do,
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds, far away.

So will you please say hello,
To the folks that I know,
Tell them I won’t be long, 
They’ll be happy to know that as you saw me go
I was singing this song.

We’ll meet again,
Don’t know where, don’t know when.
But I know well meet again, some sunny day.
We’ll meet again,
Don’t know where, don’t know when.
But I know well meet again some sunny day.

8) The Last Time I Saw Paris – a love song to a city. I imagine a great many people felt this way when the tanks rolled in to their beloved Paris.

A lady known as Paris, Romantic and Charming
Has left her old companions and faded from view

Lonely men with lonely eyes are seeking her in vain
Her streets are where they were, but there’s no sign of her

She has left the Seine

The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,
I heard the laughter of her heart in every street caf‚

The last time I saw Paris, her trees were dressed for spring,
And lovers walked beneath those trees and birds found songs to sing.

I dodged the same old taxicabs that I had dodged for years.
The chorus of their squeaky horns was music to my ears.

The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,
No matter how they change her, I’ll remember her that way.

I’ll think of happy hours, and people who shared them
Old women, selling flowers, in markets at dawn

Children who applauded, Punch and Judy in the park
And those who danced at night and kept our Paris bright

’til the town went dark.

9) We’ll Gather Lilacs in The Spring Again – just beautiful.

We’ll gather lilacs in the spring again,
And walk together down an endless lane,
Until our hearts have learned to sing again,
When you come home once more.
And in the evening by the firelight glow,
You’ll hold me close and never let me go,
Your eyes will tell me all I want to know,
When you come home once more.

10) I’ll be Seeing You – Like so many of the war songs this is a song of reassurance to men and women far, far from home that they are remembered and loved.

I’ll be seeing you,
In all the old, familiar places,
That this heart of mine embraces,
All day through.

In that small cafe,
The park across the way,
The children’s carousel,
The chestnut tree,
The wishing well.

I’ll be seeing you,
In every lovely, summer’s day,
And everything that’s light and gay,
I’ll always think of you that way,
I’ll find you in the morning sun,
And when the night is new,
I’ll be looking at the moon,
But I’ll be seeing you.