Hi all

I’m in the process of changing servers. The one I’ve used for years, Mad Mimi, closed a few days ago, and though I sent out a newsletter to all my subscribers before the closing date, most people didn’t get it.  And I’m assuming you won;’t get the blog sent to you either.  But I’m hoping to get the new one up and running soon. It hasn’t been easy.

So I’m sending a snippet of Clarissa’s story from THE HEIRESS’S DAUGHTER to entertain you. It starts when Leo, the hero of the previous story, asks Race to look after Clarissa, who is Leo’s ward.

“I know how much you dislike society events,” Leo had continued, “so I won’t expect anything of you there. I’ve told her chaperone, Mrs. Price-Jones, to be especially vigilant for any lurking fortune hunters. I’ll deal with them when I return from my honeymoon. Clarissa’s fortune makes her a target and according to her sister, she’s too softhearted for her own good. I wouldn’t put it past some plausible rogue to persuade her into an elopement. So if there are any problems, I’ve told Mrs. Price-Jones she can call on you for assistance in my place. I hope that’s all right.”

Of course Race had agreed, and so now here he was, on the front step of Leo’s aunt’s home, where Clarissa lived, facing Lady Scattergood’s butler.

“I’m sorry, Lord Randall, but Lady Scattergood is not at home.” The ancient butler delivered the message in a sonorous, faintly smug voice.

Race frowned. “Dash it all, Treadwell, Lady Scattergood is always at home.” The old lady had been housebound for several years, and on the rare occasions she ventured out of her home it was inside a covered palanquin with all the curtains drawn—the very palanquin he could see sitting in the hall, unoccupied.

The butler repeated without a blink, “My lady is not at home.”

He made to shut the door, but Race shoved his boot in to prevent it. “Then be so good as to inform Miss Studley that Lord Randall is here and wishes to speak to her.”

“Miss Studley is not at home.”

“Her chaperone, then, Mrs.—” Race couldn’t recall the chaperone’s name, blast it: something Welsh and hyphenated.

“Mrs. Price-Jones is not at home.”

At that moment the sound of female voices followed by a gust of feminine laughter floated from somewhere behind the butler.

“Damn it, Treadwell, I can hear the ladies. They are at home.” It was too early for morning calls, which for some unknown reason invariably took place in the afternoon, so who else could it be but the ladies of the house?

Through the butler’s granitelike mien, a faint smirk was allowed to escape. “Perhaps, my lord, but not to you—ever.” He closed the door in Race’s face.

Race stared at the door, resisting the impulse to kick it. Not to be admitted, ever? Had the butler gone mad? Or was it Lady Scattergood? She was, and always had been, eccentric. 

*****

I confess, I do love eccentric old ladies.