I Like Big Dukes 🤣
Sep 15, 2023 1:31 pm
Hello Dear Readers!
Much like Prince Humperdinck in The Princess Bride, I am swamped! Unlike Prince Humperdinck my to-do list is more physical therapy appointments, kids dentist appointments, writing a book, revising another, and launching a third. And audiobooks and German translations--oh my!
(We started in The Princess Bride and ended up in Oz... welcome to my brain 🤣)
So this week I'm going to let the books speak for themselves.
Enjoy a particularly long excerpt from His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness in which Lady Cordelia, our heroine, is meeting with the staff of her burgeoning charitable art school, and said staff is suggesting they stop teaching watercolors.
(Also, there's some amazing books listed down below this excerpt, so keep up that scrolling!)
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“Absolutely not,” Cordelia said.
“But the children misuse the paint, use much more of it than necessary,” Mrs. Aimes the watercolor instructor replied.
“But they are the ones who most need us.” They were Cordelia’s purpose in life, her way of paying back the man who had helped her, a means, as well, of easing her guilt. For years, she’d done nothing but mourn and paint and sculpt and write. She’d been as good at mourning as she’d been bad at the others. But no more. Not ever again would she be a drain on someone’s coffers. She would be an independent woman, and she would give others the chance to develop skills that would grant them independence as well. “We will find funds by whatever means necessary. When I started this scheme two years ago, it was with a singular mission, and I will not give up on it.” She shook her list of possible financial backers in the air. “Do any of you have new names to add here?”
The eleven assembled teachers of the future Waneborough Charitable School of Art shook their heads.
“Right. Excellent.” Not excellent in the least, but best to be positive when leading the others. She tapped her various lists into order on her lap. “Does anyone have any lessons scheduled today?”
Miss Williams raised a hand, as did Mrs. Aimes.
“I hope your students prove more talented than I.” Cordelia’s grin returned, and the others chuckled.
They had all, at one point or another, been paid by the late marquess to teach her, to hone talents she did not possess. They had watched her journey into artistic discovery and viewed it not as failure, but as the making of her, no matter how nonexistent her skill. Like her, they loved art. Like her, they knew the myriad ways it could save a soul. It could help widows smile again and give children confidence. And the skills learned did not have to be reserved for art galleries alone. Teaching a mud lark how to draw court scenes could save him from a watery grave in the Thames. Teaching a mother of ten to embroider might earn her a few extra pence for fancy work with the dress shops.
She stood. “I believe we’re done for the day.”
They began to pack up.
She tried not to let her voice waver. Confidence was key. “Please do keep in mind that I cannot remunerate you for your work until we have more paying clientele.” The twenty-three paying patrons they had so far covered, barely, the cost of the paints and other supplies they needed for … everyone.
Her instructors grumbled their assent.
“And also remember that if Lord Theodore should grace us with his unexpected presence, you are to—”
“Hide,” eleven voices said at once.
“Precisely.”
Mr. Spencer ambled over and cleared his throat. “We should do something about him, my lady.”
“We are doing something about him. As soon as he realizes I can pay for the house through my own endeavors, he’ll leave us be. I’ll buy the house. Or rent it.” More likely. Though it should have been hers. The old marquess had promised her. The solicitor she’d visited after Lord Theodore had announced intentions to turn her out had said the old marquess had often talked of signing the house over to her but had never actually done it. A shadow rose up before her, but she put her back to it. Nothing to do but move forward.
“He’s a brute,” Mr. Spencer said. “I do not like to think of him importuning you at any given moment night or day.”
“He only shows up during calling hours, Mr. Spencer. Thank you for your worry, but—”
“He’s here!” Mrs. Barkley screamed from the hallway in the loudest of tones, transforming the milling group of artists into statues. “The gargoyle’s here! Knocking on the door right now!”
What in heaven’s …? She sighed. He never did ask permission. Just dropped by whenever he pleased. And what could she do? Deny entrance to the man whose brother owned her house? Made her want to stomp his foot. While wearing spiked boots.
Mr. Spencer gulped. “See. What did I say? He’s not just a nuisance, he’s a danger to you.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Spencer,” Cordelia whispered. “Now out the window with you.”
“Pardon me?” he hissed.
“Out the window with all of you!”
They grumbled, but they complied. Not quickly enough, though. She heard Mrs. Barkley and a man arguing in the hall. Blessed Barkley, distracting him so they could escape.
“Hurry, hurry!” Cordelia pushed them toward the window, opened it, and nudged the first instructor, Mrs. Bellfry, over the edge and onto the street. Then Mr. Spencer and eight others.
“Thank goodness we’re on the ground floor.” Miss Williams sniffed as she sat on the window ledge and swung her legs over it.
“Do hurry,” Cordelia begged.
“I think you should just tell Lord Theodore. He may be able to help.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Bootsteps echoed outside the door. Hinges creaked. Cordelia’s heart gave up working at a normal pace and ran for its life about her body. He would catch Miss Williams.
Not if Cordelia could help it. She nudged the other woman. Just a tiny nudge. And the violin instructor went flying, her legs arching toward the sky, her gown falling toward the ground, her body making a soft thunk against the grass, and—blast. The violin case still rested on the window. Cordelia chucked it.
And swung around to greet Lord Theodore, scowling in the doorframe. “Good afternoon, my lord. Have you come to ask me to be your mistress?”
His cheeks turned cherry, and his attention flew skyward. She heard a loud exhalation that almost resembled a whistle through clenched teeth. “Lady Cordelia, why did I just see a woman’s legs and a violin case fly past that window?”
She pulled the curtains closed and waltzed toward him. “I’ve no idea. Perhaps you should speak with a doctor about it. Now, since you’ve not addressed my question, should I take that as a positive answer?” She winked.
His cherry cheeks burned a deeper rose shade. “No. I’ll never ask you to be my mistress. I don’t keep one.”
Likely not enough funds to keep one, and if she didn’t change the subject, he’d tell her so and she’d feel guilty, and he’d have the upper hand and—
“I don’t have the funds to satisfy a mistress.”
There it was. Also there, however—a way to tease him with the word satisfy. But she would have mercy. She sighed. “So pretty but no brains. Such a pity.” She flopped into a chair. “Why have you come, Lord Theodore?”
He sat slowly, precisely, in the chair across from her, his face composed of chiseled granite. “Why did I hear your butler calling me a gargoyle?”
“Oh.” She laughed, a fake thing she knew he’d never believe. “He wasn’t calling you a gargoyle, he …” She searched her brain. Nothing. “He was calling you a gargoyle. Because you have a stony face. Particularly when you scowl. And you always scowl.” She grinned, bright as the sun, she hoped. “Why have you come? I’m busy.”
“Why was a woman and a violin case jumping out of your window?”
Because Cordelia had pushed her out, to be honest about it. And she’d pushed her because the woman had dared to suggest Cordelia tell Lord Theodore the truth about her plans, about the school.
“You first,” Cordelia said.
“My brother has received an offer on this house.”
Cold ice ran through her veins. “Will he sell it?”
“Yes. The buyer is offering triple what it’s worth, but only for a month’s time.”
“I have a month?” The words barely made sense on her lips.
“Do not worry, though. I have a patron for you.”
She jumped to her feet. “You do not!”
He leaned back in the chair and stretched out his very long and thickly muscled legs, folding his blunt-nailed fingers together across his taut abdomen. “I do. The dowager Baroness Balantine. She’s a particular friend to my brother and his new wife. You should remember her. You met her once.”
She’d followed Lord Theodore about one day because his brother had gone missing, and she’d wanted to help, needed to, really. The late marquess had loved his children more than anything, had kept small silhouettes of all six of them in various pockets so that he crinkled when he walked. He’d have been heartbroken to find his son in trouble, and she’d needed to feel useful to the man who had helped her so much.
She touched the necklace at her throat, the small, goldwork bird that hung always about her neck, a gift from her father. The only thing that remained of her former life, and sometimes it filled her with sorrow, with memories that seemed almost unreal, of a time when she’d been a pampered earl’s daughter with parents who loved her. Many times, she’d shoved it into a dark drawer, but of late, she’d clutched it tight. Birds took flight, after all, winging above gray clouds and rain to find sunnier climes.
She would be that bird. She wanted to live with that hope.
Before her father had died, she’d been a dependent in need of a husband. After her father’s death, she’d been a future wife with no family connections to bring to her marriage. And after her betrothed had abandoned her, Lord Waneborough had taken her in, protected her, given her hope. But under his protection, she’d become an empty canvas to fill up with artistic skill. None of the paint he attempted to apply there took. Slid right off. Leaving her just as dependent on the men in her life as she’d ever been. As all women ever were.
Her school would change all that—give her purpose and independence, a means to care for herself and for others.
But Lord Theodore wanted her to be dead weight once more, an unneeded companion to a charitable woman when she was trying to prove herself useful. She would prove herself useful, fly above the shadows of his disapproval and make a new life for herself.
She folded her arms with military precision behind her back. Did she have any other choice than to continue being the burden she’d always been?
“Lady Balantine,” she said. “The woman who disappeared and forged all the art?”
“She merely paid for the forgeries, and she’s no longer in that sort of business.”
“You wish to connect me with a woman who has a nefarious past?” Not that it mattered. Everyone believed her own past to be quite nefarious. The old marquess’s by-blow or his mistress? The question kept her instructors debating for days, weeks, months.
Lord Theodore shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what her past is as long as she wishes to support you in the present. And the future.”
“Support me doing what, Lord Theodore?” The man truly had nothing in that brainbox. When he moved, if you got close enough, you could likely hear things rattle. “You’ve seen the extent of my talents. I’m useless. No one wants useless.”
His stone face cracked with a fleeting flinch before it set once more into hard lines. “She doesn’t care. Lady Balantine has a soft heart. She’ll let you play companion if you like.”
“I do not like.” She marched toward him, stood above in what she hoped appeared an intimidating pose, legs wide, hands on hips, wearing her own Thames-wide scowl. She let passion, not prudence, guide her words. Because while she had nothing of value to offer anyone, she knew she did not want to sit by the side, an observer of everyone else’s lives. “I have my own plan, my lord, and I do not need your help.”
He straightened, bringing his face closer to hers, then he pushed to standing so that he towered over her. “Oh? Your own plan? To join the demimonde?”
“No.” She should never have said that when she’d not truly meant it.
“What is your plan?”
I think you should just tell Lord Theodore. He may be able to help, Miss Williams had said.
Cordelia wanted to shove that idea out the window alongside Miss Williams, but she’d run out of options. Someone wanted to buy her house. Only one option remained: tell Lord Theodore her plans and hope he supported them.
“I wish to buy this house,” she said, “and open an art school. For everyone. Not just for those who can pay but for those who need it.”
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Happy reading!
Charlie Lane
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