Lady of the Flames
Lady of the Flames is part of a multi-author series of Regency romances. To learn more about this series, click this link:
A Most Peculiar Season "Loved this story…with its magic and paranormal happenings nestled in a Regency setting." – Eileen
"I love historical romances but add in the paranormal aspect and it is perfect."– Caissy "Loved the hobgoblin Cuff." – Nicole |
Lady of the Flames is a Regency with Magic. What's it about? Perfect lady, disgraced lord, traitor, spies, magic with blades, magic with fire, and love (of course).
Magic is fraught with peril—but so is love. Lord Fenimore Trent’s uncanny affinity for knives and other blades led to knife fights, duels, and murderous brawls. Five years ago, he faced a choice: marry Andromeda Gibbons, the woman he loved, or find a safe, peaceful use for his blades by opening a furniture shop—an unacceptable occupation for a man of noble birth. The choice made itself when Andromeda turned to another man. The furniture shop prospered, but now Fen’s partner is accused of treason. In order to root out the real traitor, he faces another unpalatable choice—to resort to the violent use of his blades once again. Once upon a time, Andromeda Gibbons believed in magic. That belief faded after her mother’s death and vanished completely when Lord Fenimore, the man she loved, spurned her. Five years later, Andromeda has molded herself into a perfect—and perfectly unhappy—lady. When she overhears her haughty betrothed, the Earl of Slough, plotting treason, she flees into the London night—to Fen, the one man she knows she can trust. But taking refuge with Fen proves to mean far more than getting help—it means learning to believe in love, magic, and the real Andromeda once again. 
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Here's an excerpt from Lady of the Flames.
Andromeda shoved down her rising panic and edged into the alley, feeling her way. A rat scurried underfoot. She muffled a yelp of fright and bumped into the gate at the end. It was unlocked, thank God. She stumbled through into a walled yard.
Through heavy, aching eyes, she took stock of her surroundings. A shed stood tucked by the wall, a pile of rags and debris beside it. Ahead, two wagons were drawn up by a pair of closed gates. At the rear of the building, a bump-out addition spanned the entire width of the ground floor. The windows above it were dark. If Lord Fenimore dwelt here and had returned from the ball, he had already gone to bed.
She sank onto her haunches at the back of the bump-out and brushed her hair away from her face. Theoretically, she could shin up the drainpipe—she’d done it at home as a child—but peering into a dark window would tell her nothing. Anyway, she was exhausted. The accomplishments of a perfect lady didn’t include running alone through the streets of London in the wee hours, fleeing traitors and spies.
And yet, she’d done it. She allowed herself a tiny, triumphant smile. She had arrived, and soon she would speak to Fen and be safe. For now, she wanted nothing but to fall asleep. She settled herself on the doorstep, about to close her eyes, when a long snore, broken by a grunt, jerked her wide awake.
Her heart in her throat, she scanned the dark yard, turning her head slowly, trying to find the source of the sound.
By the shed, the pile of rags shifted. She stared, and the rags moved again, followed by a yawn. One stretching arm appeared and then another. It was a man! She froze, forcing herself to remain utterly still. The pile of rags stilled, too. There was a long moment of utter silence.
Whoever he was, he’d spied her. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt their malevolent stare. She shuddered at the thought of using the knife again. She took it between her teeth, grasped the drainpipe, and hauled herself up hand over hand.
He lunged across the yard toward her, spewing curses. Terror gave her strength. She clambered over the gutter and rolled onto the top of the bump-out. She let go of the knife and gasped for breath.
“There now,” growled a rough Cockney voice from below, “you’ll not escape old Diggs so easily!”
Andromeda’s every muscle shook. Desperately, she closed her hand around the hilt of the knife.
Behind her, a candle glowed. The window opened with a groan and a rattle. The knife slipped from her clutching hand and landed quivering on the roof.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Lord Fenimore said.
~ * ~
Fen pushed the window full open, and Andromeda burst into tears. Oh, hell. He climbed out onto the roof.
Diggs, the beggar who habitually slept in the yard, called from below. “You want I should fetch the Watch, my lord?”
“Unnecessary.” Fen pulled the sobbing Andromeda to her feet. She gasped as if in pain, and tears streamed down her face. Her hair lay in a tangle on her shoulders, and her slippers were torn to ribbons. Had she walked all the way here in footwear suited only for dancing at a ball? What in hell was going on?
His mind raced through the possibilities of what her arrival just before dawn, exhausted and distraught, might mean. She wasn’t wearing the same gown as before--probably because she’d spilled her wine on it.
A knife on the roof beside her was making its presence known. Be still, he told it. Was that blood on the blade? “Damn.” Confound it, he’d cursed again, but he couldn’t afford to have a woman on the premises. It just wouldn’t do, and especially not this woman, and especially not now.
“Don’t usually see visitors of the female persuasion here, my lord.” Diggs sounded amused. Everyone knew about Fen’s past reputation, even though he’d been discreet for five years.
“That’s not about to change. She’s just a friend who’s gotten herself into a spot of trouble.”
Diggs snorted, and Andromeda gaped at Fen with wide, tear-drenched eyes. What if she really were with child? He hoped she wasn’t such a fool, but he didn’t intend to let it become his problem.
He pushed her gently toward the window. “Go inside and wait for me. I’ll take you straight home.”
“No!” squeaked Andromeda. “Please, you mustn’t. It’s—it’s life or death, Fen.”
“Go inside,” Fen said through gritted teeth. “Now.”
Andromeda hiccupped on a sob and got a hold of herself. She hiked her skirts, hobbled to the window, and hitched one leg over the sill. Her gown rode up, revealing shapely legs. She sagged inward, raised the other leg, and would have toppled inside if Fen hadn’t grabbed her by the arm and bum and let her down slowly.
He made a point of not noticing the soft plumpness of that bum.
He padded across the roof of the bump-out, got down on his haunches, and spoke quietly to Diggs. “Go back to sleep, and keep your mouth shut about this. There’ll be a shilling for you in the morning.”
“Right you are, my lord.”
Fen watched the beggar amble back to his pile of rags. What had happened to Andromeda between an hour ago and now? Why had she come to him? Why didn’t she want to go home? And what the devil was he going to do with her?
He pulled himself together; he would get the story from her soon enough. The knife came eagerly to his reaching hand. He climbed in the window, shut it, and closed the curtains. Andromeda was huddled on the hearthrug, eyes closed, her knees drawn up to her chest, racked by great, convulsive shudders.
He set the knife on the dressing table, examining in the candlelight the dark stains on the blade. He put one fingertip to the sticky blade, then sniffed it. Blood indeed.
Something terrible must have happened to drive Andromeda here, and she was clearly in a state of shock. He knew an urge to take her in his arms, to hold and comfort her, but dismissed that as insanity. He had almost ruined his life once for Andromeda; never again.
He lit the branch of candles on the dresser. “I’ll start a fire, shall I?” he said briskly. “Get you warmed up.”
She opened her eyes and stared at him, teeth chattering. “Y-y-you’re stark naked, Fen.”
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Andromeda shoved down her rising panic and edged into the alley, feeling her way. A rat scurried underfoot. She muffled a yelp of fright and bumped into the gate at the end. It was unlocked, thank God. She stumbled through into a walled yard.
Through heavy, aching eyes, she took stock of her surroundings. A shed stood tucked by the wall, a pile of rags and debris beside it. Ahead, two wagons were drawn up by a pair of closed gates. At the rear of the building, a bump-out addition spanned the entire width of the ground floor. The windows above it were dark. If Lord Fenimore dwelt here and had returned from the ball, he had already gone to bed.
She sank onto her haunches at the back of the bump-out and brushed her hair away from her face. Theoretically, she could shin up the drainpipe—she’d done it at home as a child—but peering into a dark window would tell her nothing. Anyway, she was exhausted. The accomplishments of a perfect lady didn’t include running alone through the streets of London in the wee hours, fleeing traitors and spies.
And yet, she’d done it. She allowed herself a tiny, triumphant smile. She had arrived, and soon she would speak to Fen and be safe. For now, she wanted nothing but to fall asleep. She settled herself on the doorstep, about to close her eyes, when a long snore, broken by a grunt, jerked her wide awake.
Her heart in her throat, she scanned the dark yard, turning her head slowly, trying to find the source of the sound.
By the shed, the pile of rags shifted. She stared, and the rags moved again, followed by a yawn. One stretching arm appeared and then another. It was a man! She froze, forcing herself to remain utterly still. The pile of rags stilled, too. There was a long moment of utter silence.
Whoever he was, he’d spied her. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt their malevolent stare. She shuddered at the thought of using the knife again. She took it between her teeth, grasped the drainpipe, and hauled herself up hand over hand.
He lunged across the yard toward her, spewing curses. Terror gave her strength. She clambered over the gutter and rolled onto the top of the bump-out. She let go of the knife and gasped for breath.
“There now,” growled a rough Cockney voice from below, “you’ll not escape old Diggs so easily!”
Andromeda’s every muscle shook. Desperately, she closed her hand around the hilt of the knife.
Behind her, a candle glowed. The window opened with a groan and a rattle. The knife slipped from her clutching hand and landed quivering on the roof.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Lord Fenimore said.
~ * ~
Fen pushed the window full open, and Andromeda burst into tears. Oh, hell. He climbed out onto the roof.
Diggs, the beggar who habitually slept in the yard, called from below. “You want I should fetch the Watch, my lord?”
“Unnecessary.” Fen pulled the sobbing Andromeda to her feet. She gasped as if in pain, and tears streamed down her face. Her hair lay in a tangle on her shoulders, and her slippers were torn to ribbons. Had she walked all the way here in footwear suited only for dancing at a ball? What in hell was going on?
His mind raced through the possibilities of what her arrival just before dawn, exhausted and distraught, might mean. She wasn’t wearing the same gown as before--probably because she’d spilled her wine on it.
A knife on the roof beside her was making its presence known. Be still, he told it. Was that blood on the blade? “Damn.” Confound it, he’d cursed again, but he couldn’t afford to have a woman on the premises. It just wouldn’t do, and especially not this woman, and especially not now.
“Don’t usually see visitors of the female persuasion here, my lord.” Diggs sounded amused. Everyone knew about Fen’s past reputation, even though he’d been discreet for five years.
“That’s not about to change. She’s just a friend who’s gotten herself into a spot of trouble.”
Diggs snorted, and Andromeda gaped at Fen with wide, tear-drenched eyes. What if she really were with child? He hoped she wasn’t such a fool, but he didn’t intend to let it become his problem.
He pushed her gently toward the window. “Go inside and wait for me. I’ll take you straight home.”
“No!” squeaked Andromeda. “Please, you mustn’t. It’s—it’s life or death, Fen.”
“Go inside,” Fen said through gritted teeth. “Now.”
Andromeda hiccupped on a sob and got a hold of herself. She hiked her skirts, hobbled to the window, and hitched one leg over the sill. Her gown rode up, revealing shapely legs. She sagged inward, raised the other leg, and would have toppled inside if Fen hadn’t grabbed her by the arm and bum and let her down slowly.
He made a point of not noticing the soft plumpness of that bum.
He padded across the roof of the bump-out, got down on his haunches, and spoke quietly to Diggs. “Go back to sleep, and keep your mouth shut about this. There’ll be a shilling for you in the morning.”
“Right you are, my lord.”
Fen watched the beggar amble back to his pile of rags. What had happened to Andromeda between an hour ago and now? Why had she come to him? Why didn’t she want to go home? And what the devil was he going to do with her?
He pulled himself together; he would get the story from her soon enough. The knife came eagerly to his reaching hand. He climbed in the window, shut it, and closed the curtains. Andromeda was huddled on the hearthrug, eyes closed, her knees drawn up to her chest, racked by great, convulsive shudders.
He set the knife on the dressing table, examining in the candlelight the dark stains on the blade. He put one fingertip to the sticky blade, then sniffed it. Blood indeed.
Something terrible must have happened to drive Andromeda here, and she was clearly in a state of shock. He knew an urge to take her in his arms, to hold and comfort her, but dismissed that as insanity. He had almost ruined his life once for Andromeda; never again.
He lit the branch of candles on the dresser. “I’ll start a fire, shall I?” he said briskly. “Get you warmed up.”
She opened her eyes and stared at him, teeth chattering. “Y-y-you’re stark naked, Fen.”
Buy now!
Amazon for Kindle
Barnes & Noble/Nook
Kobo
iTunes
Amazon UK
Amazon Canada
Amazon Australia
