Lady of the Flames
by Barbara Monajem
Series: A Most Peculiar Season
Genre: Regency Historical Paranormal Romance
Release Date: March 23, 2015
From the desk of....Barbara Monajem
Past and Present
I owe the British Secret Service an apology. Not the present day service, of course, of which I happily know nothing, but the equivalent of two hundred years ago. I made them pretty inefficient in Lady of the Flames, but is it really likely that two amateurs (the hero, Lord Fen, and his Cockney business partner) would do a better job of catching traitors and spies? Is it likely that a pampered society beauty would hold her own in the world of danger and intrigue?
Probably not. But this is fiction, and there’s magic, too, which puts the ordinary spy-catchers at a disadvantage.
On the other hand, Lady of the Flames realistic in some ways. Back in the day, the authorities didn't look far when someone was accused of a crime. If you were seen driving a cart with escaping French prisoners, it wouldn't occur to them that you might be an innocent dupe. If you were of a lower class, like Fen’s partner, you didn't stand a chance. They would throw you into prison and execute you forthwith.
The pampered society beauty didn't have it easy either. She was likely to be pushed into marrying for all the wrong reasons: wealth, status, family obligations, and so on. Andromeda in Lady of the Flames is lucky—she finds out her betrothed is a traitor before she has a chance to say I do.
One of the things I love most about writing historical romance is the contrast between present and past—as well as the ways things stay the same. We have far better methods for solving crimes—and yet even today, innocent people sometimes go to prison for crimes they didn't commit. Class distinctions are becoming more and more blurred—and yet, too many people still marry for materialistic reasons and regret it later.
(But not in a romance, where happy endings are the rule!)
Would you like to have lived two hundred years ago? Do you think we’re really better off now? What if you could be transported two hundred years into the future? What will be different, and what will be just the same?
Magic is fraught with peril—but so is love.
Lord Fenimore Trent’s uncanny affinity for knives and other sharp 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 has been accused of treason. In order to root out the real traitor, he may face 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.
Years ago, Andromeda had felt no need to talk when with Fen, but now it was uncomfortable, like conversing with a stranger. She took a sip of coffee and ate a sausage roll. She sipped some more coffee. She gazed around the room and finally found something to say.
“Did you carve the figures on your looking-glass frame?” she said. As a boy, he had whittled constantly. “They seem so…familiar somehow.”
“They should,” he said with a sudden smile. “I carved it from my memories of the fairies and hobgoblins back home.”
“Fairies and hobgoblins?”
“At your father’s estate,” he said. “Surely you remember Cuff the bedchamber hob, and Heck the buttery spirit, and all the rest.”
“My mother told stories about them,” Andromeda said, nostalgia filling her again. “I must say, I like the way you've imagined them.”
Fen frowned at her, his smile fading, his eyes perplexed. “I didn't imagine them,” he said. “I saw them.”
Andromeda rolled her eyes. “That sounds like something my mother would have said.”
“Because she saw them, too.”
Andromeda began to be annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fen. She made up stories based on tales she was told as a child.”
Fen shook his head. “You saw them when you were small. You saw Cuff and Heck and the others. We both did.”
“No,” Andromeda said. “We saw movement out of the corners of our eyes and said they were fairies, but we were just playing games.”
Fen’s expression was pained. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“There’s nothing to remember,” she insisted, wolfing down another cream puff. “As a matter of fact, that happened to me this morning. I had the impression that one of the creatures on the looking-glass winked at me, but of course it didn't really do so.”
“What a pity,” Fen said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you've forgotten. That wink was Cuff’s way of saying good-day to you. He’s somewhere hereabouts. He’s the only one I didn't have to carve from memory, because he came with me when I left home.” He glanced toward the tin cup and plate by the wall. “He ate the bread and milk I put out, and I gave him the rest of your brandy, too.”
She couldn't stand any more of this. “Fen, stop this nonsense! We’re in danger from traitors and spies who murder people, and all you can talk about is hobgoblins.”
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. “I wondered why he came with me when I left, but it’s because he enjoys human company.” He grimaced. “Your father and aunt aren't his sort of humans. I thought you were, and so did your mother, but evidently you’re not.”
That struck her like a blow. “What do you mean, my mother thought I was. Was what?”
“She had a sizeable amount of fairy blood, so she thought you must have some, too—but perhaps she was wrong.” He paused. “I know I have some. It’s not uncommon for children to see fairies, but I didn't lose that when I grew up. Not only that, it’s their magic that guides my knives and tools, and inspires me when it comes to furniture design.”
She couldn't bear it. “Stop it! You’re as—as mad as my mother was.”
“She wasn't mad, Andromeda.” He sighed. “And whether or not you see the fairies, they’re still here.”
She put her hands to her ears and shut her eyes. After all the chaos of yesterday, this was too much. When he said and did nothing, she opened her eyes again. “Why did she discuss me with you?”
“Who else was there to speak to? Your father and aunt, although worthy people, wouldn't have understood. They already found her far too strange.”
This was true—but it was because Mama’s mind was unbalanced.
“She knew I cared for you,” Fen said.
His eyes were kind but dispassionate; his use of the past tense meant that he didn't care anymore, except perhaps as an old friend. Why couldn't she become accustomed? Every single reminder hurt.
“You believed in them at the time your mother died,” he said. “She gave you that heart-shaped locket, didn't she?” It still hung at her breast, but she resisted the urge to clasp it in her hand.
“I was nine years old. I believed in many foolish things then,” she retorted. Such as magic, but a household run by her aunt was no longer vibrant with promise or belief in anything much at all. And then, when she was seventeen, Fen had destroyed what little belief remained. She didn't try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I learned soon enough what utter nonsense it all was.”
He watched her, head cocked to one side, as if she were some strange, incomprehensible creature. “As a matter of interest, when did you stop believing?”
How dare he ask such a personal question? “What business is that of yours?”
“None, I suppose.” He shrugged and stood. “Stay away from the windows. I’ll see if my valet has found you something to wear.” He took the last of the beignets, set it on a saucer, and left it on the floor by the wall.
As if prying into her business wasn't enough, now he was mocking her. Did he seriously expect her to believe that a hobgoblin would eat the beignet? Anger stirred and grew within her. “If you must know, it was at the same time I gave up other foolishness, such as believing in love!”
Fen stared at her, his expression incredulous. He left the room, slamming the door behind him. By what right was he upset? Not content with playing stupid games with her, did he really not remember what he’d done to her five years ago?
“Did you carve the figures on your looking-glass frame?” she said. As a boy, he had whittled constantly. “They seem so…familiar somehow.”
“They should,” he said with a sudden smile. “I carved it from my memories of the fairies and hobgoblins back home.”
“Fairies and hobgoblins?”
“At your father’s estate,” he said. “Surely you remember Cuff the bedchamber hob, and Heck the buttery spirit, and all the rest.”
“My mother told stories about them,” Andromeda said, nostalgia filling her again. “I must say, I like the way you've imagined them.”
Fen frowned at her, his smile fading, his eyes perplexed. “I didn't imagine them,” he said. “I saw them.”
Andromeda rolled her eyes. “That sounds like something my mother would have said.”
“Because she saw them, too.”
Andromeda began to be annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fen. She made up stories based on tales she was told as a child.”
Fen shook his head. “You saw them when you were small. You saw Cuff and Heck and the others. We both did.”
“No,” Andromeda said. “We saw movement out of the corners of our eyes and said they were fairies, but we were just playing games.”
Fen’s expression was pained. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“There’s nothing to remember,” she insisted, wolfing down another cream puff. “As a matter of fact, that happened to me this morning. I had the impression that one of the creatures on the looking-glass winked at me, but of course it didn't really do so.”
“What a pity,” Fen said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you've forgotten. That wink was Cuff’s way of saying good-day to you. He’s somewhere hereabouts. He’s the only one I didn't have to carve from memory, because he came with me when I left home.” He glanced toward the tin cup and plate by the wall. “He ate the bread and milk I put out, and I gave him the rest of your brandy, too.”
She couldn't stand any more of this. “Fen, stop this nonsense! We’re in danger from traitors and spies who murder people, and all you can talk about is hobgoblins.”
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. “I wondered why he came with me when I left, but it’s because he enjoys human company.” He grimaced. “Your father and aunt aren't his sort of humans. I thought you were, and so did your mother, but evidently you’re not.”
That struck her like a blow. “What do you mean, my mother thought I was. Was what?”
“She had a sizeable amount of fairy blood, so she thought you must have some, too—but perhaps she was wrong.” He paused. “I know I have some. It’s not uncommon for children to see fairies, but I didn't lose that when I grew up. Not only that, it’s their magic that guides my knives and tools, and inspires me when it comes to furniture design.”
She couldn't bear it. “Stop it! You’re as—as mad as my mother was.”
“She wasn't mad, Andromeda.” He sighed. “And whether or not you see the fairies, they’re still here.”
She put her hands to her ears and shut her eyes. After all the chaos of yesterday, this was too much. When he said and did nothing, she opened her eyes again. “Why did she discuss me with you?”
“Who else was there to speak to? Your father and aunt, although worthy people, wouldn't have understood. They already found her far too strange.”
This was true—but it was because Mama’s mind was unbalanced.
“She knew I cared for you,” Fen said.
His eyes were kind but dispassionate; his use of the past tense meant that he didn't care anymore, except perhaps as an old friend. Why couldn't she become accustomed? Every single reminder hurt.
“You believed in them at the time your mother died,” he said. “She gave you that heart-shaped locket, didn't she?” It still hung at her breast, but she resisted the urge to clasp it in her hand.
“I was nine years old. I believed in many foolish things then,” she retorted. Such as magic, but a household run by her aunt was no longer vibrant with promise or belief in anything much at all. And then, when she was seventeen, Fen had destroyed what little belief remained. She didn't try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I learned soon enough what utter nonsense it all was.”
He watched her, head cocked to one side, as if she were some strange, incomprehensible creature. “As a matter of interest, when did you stop believing?”
How dare he ask such a personal question? “What business is that of yours?”
“None, I suppose.” He shrugged and stood. “Stay away from the windows. I’ll see if my valet has found you something to wear.” He took the last of the beignets, set it on a saucer, and left it on the floor by the wall.
As if prying into her business wasn't enough, now he was mocking her. Did he seriously expect her to believe that a hobgoblin would eat the beignet? Anger stirred and grew within her. “If you must know, it was at the same time I gave up other foolishness, such as believing in love!”
Fen stared at her, his expression incredulous. He left the room, slamming the door behind him. By what right was he upset? Not content with playing stupid games with her, did he really not remember what he’d done to her five years ago?
Paperback
Thank you for posting about Lady of the Flames. :)
ReplyDeleteGreat pleasure Barbara. All the best.
DeleteI love the cover of this book, it just compells me to read it.
ReplyDeleteThis is such a great book!! I would love to go back to the Regency period. Whether I'd want to remain, would be a determination I'd have to make later. Shared.
ReplyDeleteLynelle, I'm so glad you like the cover. The artist did a fantastic job.
ReplyDeleteElla, thanks so much. I feel the same way about going back 200 years--I would need the option to return.
Thank you for being a stop on the LADY OF THE FLAMES Blog Tour - and we agree, Barbara has one "hot" cover!
ReplyDelete