Mélanie’s let me get back to work sooner than I anticipated – I wrote 5 k words the week between Christmas and New Year’s. But writing lengthy blog posts is still a bit of a stretch, so here’s another excerpt from Imperial Scandal. It’s the first scene between the estranged couple Cordelia and Harry Davenport, who both play important roles in the book. The except contains minor spoilers, but nothing that isn’t revealed in the cover copy for the book. I’ll again be giving away an ARC to one of this week’s commenters.

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The footman guided her along the edge of the ballroom and then held open a white-painted door. Cordelia stepped beneath the gilt pediment, feeling like Anne Boleyn on her way to her execution.
Oh, that was absurd. She wasn’t a fanciful girl anymore.
It was small room hung with cream silk and lit by a candelabrum and a couple of additional tapers. She caught a whiff of brandy in the air, overlaying the wood polish and lemon oil.
Harry stood on the far side of the room. Though his face was in shadow, she’d have known the mocking angle of his shoulders anywhere. For a moment she was a girl of twenty, her eye caught by the broody looking young man with disordered brown hair and intense blue eyes, hovering on the edge of the Devonshire House dance floor. A quadrille that had been all the rage that season had been playing, and she’d wanted to avoid dancing with Toby Somerton. How different would their lives have been, hers and Harry’s, if she hadn’t crossed the room to speak with him that night?
“Thank you for coming.” He stepped forward as she pushed the door to. The light from the candelabrum fell across him, and she saw that his face had hardened into sharper planes and angles and that lines she didn’t remember bracketed his mouth. He wore riding dress, not his uniform. His coat and breeches were splashed with mud and– Good God, was that blood?
“Harry–“ She crossed to his side in three quick steps, her hand extended. “Are you hurt–“
“No.” His voice forestalled her before she could touch him. “The blood isn’t mine. It belonged to a poor French bastard who was selling us information and got caught. At least that’s what seems to have happened.”
She let her hand fall to her side and clasped her gloved fingers together. “That’s why you’re back in Brussels.”
“Yes, in a round about way. I’m sorry, I don’t suppose you expected to see me.”
“I knew it was a possibility. But then we’re foolish to think we can avoid each other forever. At some point you’ll come back to England.”
“I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Perhaps it’s easier to see each other first here rather than in London with the ton staring at us like fish in a bowl. Was that why you asked to see me?”
“No.” He ran a hand over his hair, an uncharacteristic gesture. “Cordelia– Perhaps you should sit down.” He reached out a hand as though to take her arm, then let it fall to his side and instead pulled a shield-back chair forward.
There was something in his eyes that was suspiciously like pity. She jerked away from it and from the proffered chair. “For God’s sake, Harry, don’t be silly. I’m not some missish girl. Whatever it is you have to tell me say it straight out.”
Harry swallowed. She saw that beneath the grime and blood and the layer of tan from years in the field, his skin had gone pale. “I went to a château just outside Brussels this evening to warn Charles Fraser and this agent of ours that our communications had been rumbled. We were caught in a French ambush. It was only afterwards that we realized someone else had been in the château and had died in the crossfire. A woman.” His gaze fastened on her face with a gentleness she had never thought to see again when he looked at her. “It was Julia. I’m sorry, Cordy.”
For a moment the room swam before her eyes, a dark void she could not look into. A roaring filled her ears and a silent scream echoed in her head.
Strong fingers closed on her arms. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the cloth of his coat. The smell of blood and stale sweat washed over her, and beneath it a whiff of spice, a scent she had not smelled in so long it was half forgot.
His quick intake of breath stirred her hair. Then he steered her to the side and pressed her into the chair. A moment later he put a glass into her hand and guided it to her lips. She choked down a sip of brandy.
“You’re sure it was Julia?” Her sister’s laughing voice echoed in her ears.
“I’m sure.” He knelt beside her, his hand hovering near the glass in her hand.
“You haven’t seen her in four years–“
“Cordy, I’m sure. I don’t forget so easily.”
She darted a quick look at him but saw none of the usual mockery in his expression, only a sympathy that cut her to the quick. “I’d been trying to find her ever since I got to the ball. If I’d arrived sooner–“
His hand closed over her own. No doubt to keep the glass from falling from her fingers. “Guilt will get you nowhere.”
“She left the ball and went– What in God’s name was she doing there?”
“I don’t know,” he said. But she saw the flicker in his eyes, a shutter drawn closed over whatever he knew.
“You mean you won’t tell me.”
“Yes, I thought there hadn’t been enough tragedy tonight, I’d throw in some lies to top it off.” Harry sat back on his heels. “Whatever Julia was doing at the château, it had nothing to do with Fraser’s meeting with La Fleur, which was what took me there–“
“That doesn’t mean you don’t have more information.” She jerked her hand away from his and took a quick swallow of brandy. It stung her throat. All her senses came flooding back. “She was there for a rendezvous, wasn’t she?”
“Cordelia–“
“Oh, for God’s sake, why else would a woman slip off in the midst of a ball and go to a lonely château? After all I’m an expert in such matters. Don’t tell me you were avoiding the nasty truth to spare my sensibilities, that would be too rich.” She looked down into his face, closed now as a book in an unknown tongue. “It’s because of whom the rendezvous was with, isn’t it? Someone you think it’s too sensitive for me to know about.”
His gaze remained steady, but she could tell from the quick flash in his eyes that she’d guessed correctly. She could still read Harry well, for all she’d never properly understood him.
“Damn you.” She pushed herself to her feet, scraping the chair against the floorboards. “My sister’s dead and you’re covering it up like a good little soldier.”
He got to his feet as well. “It would seem that way to you, I suppose. Though I doubt any of my commanding officers would agree that I’ve ever been anything remotely approaching a good little soldier.”
He had retreated behind that caustic mask that had always driven her to distraction. One could never air anything with Harry in a proper fight. “Seem? Don’t play your word games with me, Harry. We’re talking about my baby sister. Or are you just as glad to have one less Brooke in the world?”
“I was smiling all the way back to Brussels. For God’s sake, Cordelia.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the words stopped her like a slap to the face. “Julia was–.” Memories cracked open the reserve in his eyes. “Julia welcomed me to the family. She was always kind to me.“
“A great deal kinder than I was.” The anger drained out of her, leaving a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “A pity for you it wasn’t me who died.”
Something jerked in his eyes that might have been anger. “Hardly. That would have entailed entirely too many complications.”
She shot a sharp look at him.
“I’ve never wished you harm, Cordy.” He swallowed. Harry had always been frighteningly honest. “At least not–“
“After the first few weeks?” she asked, the ashes of memory bitter on her tongue.
His mouth twisted. “It’s odd how angry one can be over commonplace trivialities.”
Cordelia swallowed the last of her brandy and clunked the glass down on the nearest table. “None of this changes the facts. My sister’s dead, and you’re under orders to cover it up for fear of embarrassing the army.”
“Quite. With Boney about to march, avoiding embarrassment is obviously Wellington’s top priority.”
“So he’s taking no interest in the matter at all?”
Harry leaned his hand on a chairback. “Wellington’s asked Charles Fraser to look into it. From what I’ve seen of Fraser, he won’t rest until he uncovers the truth.”
“And when he does uncover it?” She closed her fingers on her elbows, nails digging into the silk of her gloves. “Just who will be told this elusive truth?”
He met her gaze without flinching. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
“What you can.”
“You know I can’t promise you more, Cordelia.”
“I suppose if nothing else we’ve learned not to make false promises to each other.” She glanced into the empty depths of her brandy glass. “Does Johnny know?”
“Wellington told him himself.”
“And Johnny’s agreed to hold his tongue. Duty first, stiff upper-lip, lov’d I not honor more and all that. Does he know Julia had a lover?”
Harry’s gaze darkened. “He does now.”
“Poor Johnny. So perhaps love isn’t entering into it so very much.”
“No, I’d say Ashton’s grief for Julia’s loss overwhelmed all else. He reacted much better than I did in similar circumstances,” Harry added, as though he were speaking of someone quite disconnected to him.
“Well, if I’d died, you’d have had more incentive to be noble.”
His gaze moved over her face, sharp and probing. “Did you know, Cordy?”
“Know what?”
“That Julia had a lover.”
“We don’t confide in each other as much as we used to. I’m a bit too scandalous for Julia to be seen too much with me, though I have to say Johnny’s always been very kind– Oh, God.” She closed her arms across her chest as nausea welled up in her throat. “Where is she?” she asked, when she could force out the words.
He hesitated, though he did not pretend to misunderstand her. “We brought her back to Lisbon in a cart. It’s in Stuart’s stable at present.”
“I want to see her.”
He gave a curt nod. “I’ll take you.”
She’d been prepared for argument, but then whatever else he’d been as a husband, Harry had never been over protective. He moved to a door that led to the terrace and held it open for her. She swept past him.

Just after Mélanie was born, another of my historical romantic suspense novels, Rightfully His, was released as an ebook on Nook, Kindle, and All Romance Books. Good timing, as Rightfully His begins during the holiday season in 1822.

As my holiday post, here’s another teaser from Imperial Scandal. In honor of Mélanie’s birth, it’s a scene in which Mélanie/Suzanne, Cordelia Davenport, and Aline talk about motherhood. It occurs the day after the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, when the Allied Army has marched off to meet the French. I’ll draw the name of a commenter to receive another ARC at the start of the new year. And I’ll try to post a holiday Fraser Correspondence letter next week.

Warmest wishes for 2012!

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When the children were settled in the nursery with Livia’s and Robbie’s nurses, examining Colin’s toys, Mélanie took Cordelia down to the salon where she’d had coffee sent in.
“It’s good to see them playing.” Cordelia rubbed her arms. “I keep waiting for it to hit Robbie that Julia’s gone. Then I’m afraid it has, and he didn’t see her enough for it to matter as it should.”
“Your sister was–”
“Restless. She thought she knew what she wanted when we were girls. But once she had it, it didn’t make her happy. Then she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Sometimes I’m afraid having Robbie was like ticking off one more item on a list of things she was supposed to do. Whereas for me–” Cordelia shook her head. “Motherhood was a distinct surprise.”
“It was for me as well,” Mélanie said and then bit her tongue, her instinct to confide warring with every dictate of a trained agent.
Cordelia looked at her for a moment, the supposedly perfect wife who presumably would have been eager to give her husband children. Mélanie couldn’t be sure what Cordelia saw, but she had a dismaying fear that her carefully constructed defenses had slipped.
But instead of asking questions, Cordelia glanced out the window into the garden. “Livia’s been talking about Harry ever since yesterday.”
“That’s good surely.”
“Yes, but I can’t help worrying she’s met him only to–”
“Cordelia.” Mélanie went to the other woman’s side, biting back the obvious platitudes. “Even if she never sees him again, it’s better for her to have the one good memory.”
Cordelia nodded. The gaze she lifted to Mélanie held unimagined horrors. “I can’t bear the thought that last night was the last time I’ll see him. So commonplace. I’m sure women all over the city are saying that this morning.”
“Which doesn’t make it any less real.”
“Lowering to realize I’m just like everyone else. I’ve always prided myself on being an original.”
“War provides a sad amount of commonality.”
The door opened to admit Aline who came into the room with a determined step. “Valentin took my bags up. I told him there was no need to bother you. The streets were so quiet on the way here. Now the bugles and fifes and marching have stopped I could almost imagine it was a hideous nightmare. If Brussels weren’t so eerily empty.” She dropped down on the sofa and reached for the coffee pot. “I don’t think I slept a wink.”
“Nor did I.” Cordelia moved to the sofa. “Do pour me out a cup as well.”
Aline filled three cups letting loose the rich aroma of the coffee. “The Comtesse de Ribaucourt is organizing ladies to prepare lint this afternoon. I thought it might be good to feel one was doing something useful.”
“I never saw myself as the lint-scraping sort,” Cordelia said, “but I quite agree.”
Aline gulped down a sip of coffee. “People keep saying one can’t admit the possibility of defeat. But whichever way the battle goes, there are going to be wounded.”
Mélanie reached for her own coffee and took a fortifying sip. That was what she had told herself for years. People died in war. Different people might die because of her actions, but people would die regardless.
“Mélanie?” Aline said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, love. Just a bit-”
“Overwhelmed,” Cordelia concluded for her. “Commonplace or not it’s overwhelming.”
“I wish I’d paid more attention when Geoff was patching people up. At the moment those skills seem infinitely useful than solving quadratic equations.” Aline pushed herself to her feet. “Damn. I did so want to avoid this.”
“War?” Cordelia asked.
“Caring about people.” Aline strode to the window and stood staring out at the garden. “Oh, I’ve always cared about my family in the detached way our family does. But for years I thought I was above personal relationships. Or not worthy of them. Or something. Numbers always seemed so much safer. It wasn’t until last night I realized how very right I was.”
“Would you go back?” Cordelia asked. “Would you change any of it if you could?”
Aline turned round and shook her head at once. “Of course not.” Her hand went to her stomach. “I can’t imagine my life without Geoff. Or the baby, even though the baby still scarcely seems real half the time.”
Cordelia nodded and took a sip of coffee. “If you wouldn’t change anything, then you’re more fortunate than most. How soon can we start scraping lint?”

I’m also happy to report that I have a contract for two more Malcolm & Suzanne books, the first of which, The Princess’s Secret, I’ve been working hard to have a draft of before my daughter arrives (happily I’m close to my goal). It’s set in post-Waterloo Paris during the White Terror and returns to a number of the characters from Vienna Waltz as well as some from Imperial Scandal. The next book will either continue Malcolm & Suzanne’s adventures in Paris or take them back to London. Watch for more teasers from The Princess’s Secret as well as Imperial Scandal.

And now for this week’s Imperial Scandal teaser, which introduces another new character, Rachel Garnier. Once again I’ll be giving away a signed ARC to one of this week’s commenters (I’ll post the winner of last week’s contest tomorrow).

Also be sure to check out this week’s Fraser Correspondence addition – inspired by a story I heard on NPR, it’s Mélanie/Suzanne’s pre-Christmas “to do” list from December 1814.

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Charles strolled up the age-darkened oak stairs at the back of the common room and heard Davenport’s soft, sure treads on the steps behind him. At the head, Charles led the way down the passage and pushed open a door.
Davenport followed him inside and glanced round the neat, white-washed private parlor. “Is your contact invisible or late?”
“She’ll be here.” Charles picked up the decanter of red wine that stood on the round table in the center of the room and poured a glass.
Davenport dropped into a chair. “She?”
“Rachel Garnier.” Charles handed the glass to Davenport. “My best source in Brussels. She has access to a wealth of information.”
“A shopkeeper?”
“A bird of paradise.” Charles poured a second glass of wine and took a sip of the quite acceptable Côte de Rhone. “She’s employed at a house frequented by Belgians with French sympathies. Several of her regular clients are French agents. In fact there’s a small spy ring that uses the brothel for meetings.”
“But you haven’t taken them in because that would put a stop to one of your best sources of information.”
“Quite.”
Davenport took a sip of wine and studied Charles over the rim of the glass. “Your marriage appears to be more complicated than one would think at first glance. Or perhaps more commonplace.“
“Mélanie’s met Rachel.”
“Curiouser and curiouser. Do–“
Davenport’s words were cut short by the opening of the door. A slender young woman in a spring green gown stood on the threshold, a plumed hat set at a rakish angle on her auburn curls. She smiled at Charles. “I must say, I was quite pleased to get your message–“ She went still as she caught sight of Davenport.
“It’s all right,” Charles said, “he’s a friend.“
Rachel regarded Davenport, her dark brows tightly drawn. “Who says friends are to be trusted?”
“A good point,” Charles conceded. “But this friend is also a colleague without whom I might very well not have survived last night’s adventures. Mademoiselles Garnier, may I present Colonel Davenport?”
Rachel regarded Davenport with a frank gaze. “You’ll forgive my suspicions? One learns to watch one’s back these days.”
“The best way to avoid taking a knife between the shoulder blades.” Davenport got to his feet and gave a half bow.

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At last he and Mélanie were free to return to the house they had taken in the Rue Ducale. For the first time in their married life, they had a whole house to themselves. They could even, he supposed, have taken separate bedchambers, as was the accepted practice with most couples in their set. He’d wondered, fleetingly, if Mélanie would prefer that when they’d first seen the house. But she’d pointed out the bedchamber she thought could be theirs with just the faintest of questions in her voice and eyes. And he’d nodded matter-of-factly, answering her unvoiced question without addressing it, aware of an unlooked for rush of relief.
The truth was, it would be damnably odd not to have the warmth of her curled beside him, not to smell her scent and face powder when he stepped into the room, not to see lacy bits of her clothing strewn about. But of course he couldn’t say so. There were still certain boundaries they didn’t cross in their marriage.
They looked in on their son, sleeping peacefully in the glow of the tin-shaded nightlight in his room next door to their own. Difficult to believe Colin would turn two tomorrow–or rather today–Charles thought, twitching his son’s blanket straight. It seemed only yesterday he’d been kneeling by Mélanie’s bedside, holding a basin of hot water and holding on to his self-command for all he was worth. Nothing in his life had equaled the wonder of the moment when Geoffrey Blackwell placed the squirming baby in his arms.
When they stepped into the quiet of their bedchamber. Mélanie gave a sigh of relief, as though relinquishing her armor for the first time that evening. She dropped her gauzy shawl and ribboned reticule on the dressing table and began to peel off her gloves. Charles went to a side table that held the whisky he’d brought from Scotland and poured them each a glass.
Mélanie took the glass he gave her, perched on the dressing table bench, and waited for him to speak. Charles shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the damask armchair, then dropped down on the chair arm. He tossed back a smoky draught of whisky and stared into the glass for a moment. “I lost a man tonight. A French soldier who was a contact.”
Concern flashed in Mélanie’s eyes. “That’s whom you went to meet?”
“Wellington got a message from him at the ball. His name was La Fleur.” It was the first time he had mentioned La Fleur specifically to his wife. Even with her, his ingrained instinct to hold his contacts close to his chest held true.
“I’m sorry.” Mélanie got up and moved to perch beside him. She slid her arm round him and leaned her head against his chest. “But you must know it wasn’t your fault.”
“Did I say I thought it was?”
“No, but I can tell what you’re thinking. What you think when you lose anyone you feel remotely responsible for.”
He slid his fingers along the nape of her neck and into her hair. “He flung himself over me. Damned fool. If he hadn’t–“
She sat back, catching his hand in her own. “I’ll be forever grateful to him.”
He recognized the look in her eyes. He’d felt the same on more than one hair-raising occasion when she’d nearly been shot, knifed, drowned fording a river. Circumstances that, more often than not, she’d been in because she happened to be his wife.
“So will I,” he said. For a moment the prospect of Mélanie left alone in a foreign country, their son growing up without a father, hung starkly before him. It was an ever-present risk in this life they lived. “But that doesn’t lessen–“
“Guilt is singularly wasteful, Charles. I’ve heard you say so yourself on more than one occasion.”
“And you expect me to actually take my own advice?” He took another sip of whisky, but the pungent bite couldn’t wash away the bitter taste of the night’s events. Mélanie’s fingers tightened round his own.
“That wasn’t the whole of what happened tonight,” he said and went on to tell his wife about Harry Davenport arriving with the warning that the code had been broken, the ambush, finding Julia Ashton’s body.
“Cordelia Davenport’s sister?” Mélanie said.
He nodded. “And Harry Davenport’s sister-in-law.”
Mélanie’s winged brows drew together. “You know Cordelia Davenport arrived in Brussels tonight? That she was at the ball?”
Charles nodded. “You spoke with her?”
“She was trying to find her sister. Did she–“
“Davenport told her. And showed her Lady Julia’s body.”
Distress flickered through Mélanie’s gaze. “That can’t have been easy. According to Aline and Georgy Lennox, Cordelia and Harry Davenport haven’t seen each other in four years.”
“That’s more or less the story I got from Davenport.”
Mélanie’s frown deepened.
“What?” Charles asked.
“It’s just that Cordelia Davenport seemed more anxious to find her sister than one would expect if it was just a sisterly reunion. Almost as if–“
“She knew Julia was in some sort of trouble?”
“Precisely.” Mélanie fingered a fold of her seafoam gauze overdress. “When a woman slips away from a ball to visit an empty château, there’s an obvious explanation that springs to mind.”
“And apparently in this case the obvious explanation is the correct one.” Charles told her about Julia Ashton’s affair with the Prince of Orange.
Mélanie’s sea green eyes widened. “Oh, dear God. You know I’ve always been fond of Billy, but he does have the most astonishing knack for blundering in just where he can cause problems.”
“With a vengeance.”
Charles told her about the note the prince had received canceling the rendezvous and Davenport’s discovery that the note had been forged.
Mélanie stared into her whisky glass. “Someone went to a great deal of trouble to get Julia Ashton to the château alone.” She looked up at him. “Do you think she was the real target of the ambush?”
“That the shooters’ goal was to kill Julia Ashton and they were just shooting at Davenport and La Fleur and me for cover? I did wonder. Though it’s the devil of a complicated way to try to commit murder. Assuming someone wanted Julia Ashton dead.”
“Did her husband know about the affair?”
“He does now. Unless he’s a very good actor, I’d swear he didn’t know before.” Charles grimaced at the memory of John Ashton’s bewildered expression, like a man who has received a blow in the back from which he’ll never recover. “Poor bastard. I think he was genuinely in love with her.”
Mélanie looked at him for a moment. “It does happen between husbands and wives.”
He curled his fingers behind her neck and tilted her face up to his. “So I’ve heard tell.”
She pressed a light kiss against his lips, lingering for a moment. Her mouth tasted of champagne and marzipan. The bones of her face felt fragile beneath his fingers. “I need to not go on missions so I can make sure you eat at entertainments,” he said, studying the hollows beneath her cheeks, deeper than they’d been in Vienna.
He caught a flash of something in her eyes, then she gave one of her brilliant smiles. “And to think you’re the one who complains about being fussed over. One would think by now you’d have learned how study I am. Could Captain Ashton have sent the note because he was planning to meet his wife at the château alone and confront her about the affair?”
Charles ran his fingers through his wife’s carefully arranged side curls. “Again only if he has the abilities of an actor. Or an agent.”
“Which he isn’t?” Mélanie said, a faint question in her tone.
He tucked a curl behind her ear. “Have you ever heard me mention that he is?”
“No, but you don’t tell me everything. You’re much too good an agent yourself.”
“I try. But unless someone hasn’t let me in on the secret–which is entirely possible–Johnny Ashton isn’t an agent. Besides, if he’d wanted to confront Julia, one would think he’d have tried to catch her with her lover, not on her own.”
Mélanie turned her whisky glass in her hand, watching the crystal catch the candlelight. “Someone else who disapproved of the affair then? Who wanted to warn her off? But even if whoever sent the forged note planned to confront Julia Ashton, they didn’t arrive at the château.”
“Unless they arrived in the midst of the ambush and turned away when they heard the gunfire. Or got there after we left.” Charles went to the side table and splashed more whisky into his glass and Mélanie’s. “Relations are tense enough between the British troops and our Dutch-Belgian allies. Wellington’s concerned about the havoc the news of the affair could wreak on morale. Particularly if Ashton made an issue out of it, which I don’t think he will. One could imagine a Dutch-Belgian or British commander trying to warn Julia Ashton off if they knew. In many ways it’s the likeliest scenario.”
Mélanie scanned his face. “But you don’t believe it?”
Charles returned the decanter to the table, clunking it down a little harder than necessary. The crystal rattled. “Perhaps I’m so used to looking for plots within plots that my vision’s become warped. But it feels too easy. As though there’s a piece we’re not seeing.” He returned to the chair and slid his arm round his wife’s shoulders. “Can you get Cordelia Davenport to confide in you about her sister?”
Mélanie smiled. “I can try.”
“Good,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.

For this week’s post, another teaser from Imperial Scandal, a glimpse of Mélanie/Suzanne with her maid and companion Blanca.

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“I swear it’s as though mysterious deaths follow the two of you about.” Blanca Mendoza, Mélanie’s confidante, maid, and friend, added a yellow block to the gatehouse she, Mélanie, and Colin were building on the salon carpet in the Rue Ducale out of the blocks that had been among Colin’s birthday presents.
“I’d say that’s a function of our work.” Mélanie cupped her hand round Colin’s own and carefully helped him put a red block atop the yellow one, completing the tower over the archway.
Blanca shot a sharp look at her. “You can’t go on like this forever.”
“Who said anything about forever?” Mélanie watched her son pick up one of his new wooden horses and gallop it through the archway. The weight of the future pressed against her, as it had more and more of late. An iron band round her temples drawn ever tighter. “I’m just trying to get through one day at a time.”
“That’s what worries me,” Blanca said.
“No sense fussing. We’ve come this far. Careful, darling.” Mélanie stopped Colin before he could plow the horse into the blocks. “I don’t think the gatehouse could stand up to Mercury’s hooves.”
“You always say that,” Blanca said, “but this time–“
A rap sounded on the door. “Forgive me, madame.” Valentin, the footman they’d engaged when they came to Brussels (how odd to have a footman), stepped into the room. “You have a caller. A Lady Cordelia Davenport.”

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How is Mélanie/Suzanne’s relationship with Blanca different from Charles/Malcolm’s relationship with his valet Addison? What do you think are the challenges of writing valet and ladies maid characters? Any other questions about Imperial Scandal?

This week’s Fraser Correspondence letter is from Raoul to Mélanie/Suzanne.

One thing I noticed is that all three plays dealt with theater in a variety of ways. Saturday I saw Ghost Light, a fabulous, wrenching world premiere developed by Jonathan Moscone and Tony Taccone, written by Taccone, and directed by Moscone, It’s a wonderfully theatrical play both in style (moving back and forth in time, combining elements of dream and reality) and in substance, as the central character struggles to come to terms with his father’s assassination while directing a production of Hamlet. The scenes of the production team discussing how to handle the Ghost of Hamlet’s father, and of Jon, the central character, working with his acting students and auditioning actors are spot-on and at moments hysterically funny.

Saturday I saw a matinee of Julius Caesar, a play, as the production notes pointed, filled with theatrical references, from the assassins meeting in the porch of Pompey’s theater to the political theater of Marc Antony’s funeral oration (not to mention the fact that Antony’s scene where he seemingly makes peace with the conspirators just after the assassination is a brilliant piece of acting). That evening I saw Measure for Measure, another play where the story is largely played out upon the public stage (particularly in the denouement) while a key plot element involves one woman playing the part of another in a secret tryst.

During breaks between plays I was working on a sequence in my current WIP, The Princess’s Secret, (I recently posted a teaser) which takes place backstage at the Comédie-Française. I love theatrical references in books and plays. Actual scenes backstage and onstage become metaphors for the roles we all play – with different people, in different aspects of our lives. For the fine line between illusion and reality, for the difficulty of discerning truth amid artifice and the way that theatrical artifice can sometimes ring with truth. Reading Isobel Carr’s great interview with Joanna Bourne on History Hoydens last week about her new book The Black Hawk which concerns Napoleonic spies, I was thinking that a large part of why I love writing about spies is that like actors they too play many parts, though on a rather more dangerous stage. The sequence I was working on set at the Comédie-Française gave me lots of opportunities to play with the parallel, as it involves the escape from Paris during the White Terror of an actress who is also an agent.

Do you have favorite books that deal with theater, whether on stage or backstage? Does theater become a metaphor for other elements in the story? Writers, do you like writing scenes set in the theater? Do you get inspiration from plays?

I’ve just posted a new Fraser Correspondence letter from Aline to Gisèle, commenting on Charles/Malcolm and Mel/Suzette’s reactions to their wedding anniversary and her own changing feelings in light of her betrothal.

Thinking about Halloween made me think about masquerade balls. I’ve always loved them in books. Costumes allow characters to highlight their personalities or to masquerade as someone quite different. And masks allow for all manner of intrigue, romantic or otherwise. My mind tens to run to suspense when it comes to intrigue. My idea for The Mask of Night began with the image of a masked man floating, stabbed to death, in a fountain, and Mélanie in black Elizabethan dress, reaching a lace-cuffed hand reaching into the water to examine the body.

Masked balls were a frequent form of entertainment at the Congress of Vienna. In a city filled with dukes, princes, kings, and emperors, where rules of protocol and precedence hung over most public events, masquerades provided unexpected freedom. Not to mention an opportunity for sexual and diplomatic intrigue. A masquerade at the Hofburg Palace marked the start of the Congress. At another masked ball at the Hofburg on 30 October, 1814, a masked figure slipped Prince Metternich a note from his political and romantic rival, Tsar Alexander, concerning Wilhelmine of Sagan, a woman they both pursued.

Costumes at these masked balls followed a variety of themes. At a masquerade Mettternich gave in November at his summer villa (which is the setting for a sequence in Vienna Waltz), the sovereigns were told to wear black and ladies were asked to dress in regional costume. Peasant dresses swirled on the dance floor, many stitched with enough jewels to feed an entire peasant village for a month. Lady Castlereagh excited comment by wearing her husband’s Order of the Garter in her hair. At midnight, many of the guests exchanged masks, adding to the masquerade mischief. And despite the glittering guest list, not all those present were monarchs and aristocrats. Metternich sent Wilhemine of Sagan tickets for her maid Hannchen and Hannchen’s daughters and even suggested Hannchen and Wilhelmine could switch masks if they liked.

In January, yet another masked ball at the Hofburg followed a glittering sleigh rideto the Schönbrunn and back. Only Lent put an end to the endless round of masquerades, though not to the romantic and political intrigue.

Do you enjoy masked balls in books, as a reader or a writer? What do they allow that isn’t possible in non-masquerade party scenes? Any favorite sequences in books?

I’ve just posted a new Fraser Correspondence letter from Mel/Suzette to Charles/Malcolm on their anniversary in 1814, a companion piece to his letter to her last week.

And for my October teaser, I thought I’d dip into my current WIP, The Princess’s Secret. It’s set in Paris after Waterloo, a few months later than Imperial Scandal (which will be out next April). I’m having a lot of fun writing it, and enjoying the fact that the Paris setting lets me revisit a lot of the characters from Vienna Waltz.

Here’s a sneak peek of the opening scene:

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The hanging oil lamps swayed and gusted at the opening the door. The wind brought in the stench from the Seine. A man and woman stepped into the Trois Amis tavern and stopped just beyond the door. The man was lean and dark-haired and perhaps taller than he looked. He slouched with a casual ease that took off several inches. A greatcoat was flung carelessly over his shoulders. Beneath, his black coat was unbuttoned to reveal a striped crimson waistcoat. A spotted handkerchief was knotted loosely round his neck in place of a cravat.
The woman, who leaned within the circle of his arm, wore a scarlet cloak with the hood pushed back to reveal a cascade of bright red curls, brilliant even in the murky light of the tavern. Glittering earrings swung beside her face, though surely they must be paste rather than diamonds. Her rouged lips were curved in a smile as her gaze drifted round the common room with indolent unconcern.
The other occupants of the tavern glanced at the new arrivals. It was an eclectic crowd, a mix of sailors, dockworkers, merchants, women who plied their wares along the docks, a few young aristocrats in sporting dress. And soldiers, in the uniforms of Russia, Prussia, Austria, Bavaria, and England. These days, less than two months after Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeat at Waterloo, one couldn’t go anywhere in Paris without seeing soldiers.
After a moment, the crowd returned to their dice, drinks, and flirtation. The accordion player seated in the center of the room, who had paused briefly, launched into another lively air.
The couple moved to the bar, where the gentleman procured two glasses of red wine. While he was engaged with the barkeep, several men ran appreciative gazes over the lady. One went so far as to put a hand on her back. “How much?” he asked, his head close enough to her own that his brandy-laced breath brushed her skin.
The lady ran her gaze over him. Her eyes were an unusual color between green and blue. She brushed her fingers against his face and then put a gloved hand on his chest. She gave a dazzling smile. “More than you can possibly afford.”
The man regarded her for a moment, then shrugged and grinned. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he said, and moved toward a fair-haired girl by the fireplace.
The gentleman turned from the bar and put one of the glasses of red wine into the lady’s hand. If he had noticed the man making her an offer, he gaze no sign of it. He touched his glass to hers, and they threaded their way through the crowd to a table neither too obviously in the center of the room nor too deep in the shadows. Experience had taught them that the easiest way to hide was often to remain in plain sight.
The lady tugged at the cords on her cloak and let it slither about her to reveal a low-cut gown of spangled white sarcenet. The gentleman shrugged out of his greatcoat, slouched in his chair, and ran a gaze round the room.
“I don’t see anyone matching the description,” the lady said in unaccented French.
“Nor do I,” the gentleman agreed, in French that was almost a flawless.
“We’re a bit early.”
“So we are. But I’d give even odds on whether he actually puts in an appearance. He’s never been our most reliable asset.”
The lady tossed back a sip of wine. “Oh, well. At least we’ve had a night out.”
The gentleman grinned at her. “I can think of places I’d rather bring you.”
“But this one has a certain piquancy, darling. An evening without diplomatic small talk. Bliss.”
The gentleman lifted his hand to slide his fingers behind her neck, then went still, his fingers taut against her skin.
The lady had seen it too.
The man they had come to meet stood by the door, a short, compact figure enveloped in a dark greatcoat. He removed his hat to reveal hair that was several shades darker than its natural color. A good attempt at disguise, but nervousness still radiated off him.
“Well,” the gentleman murmured to the lady. “People can surprise you.”
The lady touched his arm. “I’ll take care of it, Charles.”
Charles Fraser caught his wife’s wrist. “Be careful.”
Mélanie Fraser turned to look at her husband. “Really, dearest, you’d think you didn’t know me.”
“Sometimes I wonder.” Charles pulled her hand to his lips, the gesture flirtatious to anyone watching, but his grip unexpectedly strong. “Remember, we’re in alien territory.”
She squeezed his fingers. “When are we not?”
Mélanie moved into the room, her spangled skirts stirring about her, and bent over the accordion player. He gave her a quick smile. A moment later, he launched into a lilting rendition of La ci darem la mano. Melanie began to sing, her voice slightly huskier than usual. She moved toward the nearest table and brushed her fingers against the face of the portly man who sat there, then bent over a young Russian lieutenant at the next table, her burnished ringlets spilling over his shoulder.
The buzz of conversation stilled. The dice ceased to rattle.
Charles allowed himself a moment to appreciate his wife’s skill, then picked up his greatcoat and glass of wine and strolled across the room to the corner deep in the shadows of the oak-beamed ceiling where the man he was to meet had taken up his position.
“My compliments, Rivere.” Charles dropped into a chair across from him. “I gave even odds on whether or not you’d actually put in an appearance.”
Antoine, Comte de Rivere, cast a quick glance about. “For God’s sake, Fraser, what do you mean coming up to me openly?”
“You were thinking we’d pass coded messages back and forth instead of having a conversation?”
“If we’re noticed–”
“My wife has things in hand.”
“Your–” Rivere stared at Mélanie, who was now perched on the edge of a table, leaning back, her weight resting on her hands, her skirt pulled up the reveal the pink clocks embroidered on her silk stockings. “Good God.”
“Yes, I don’t think you’ve seen Mélanie in action before. We’re both more accustomed to disguise than you are.”
Rivere looked from Mélanie to Charles. “Neither of you seems to have much sense of the need for secrecy. You’re both dressed to attract attention.”
“But the man and woman people will remember seeing tonight will seem nothing like Charles Fraser, attaché at the British embassy, and his charming wife.” Charles pushed his glass of wine across the table to Rivere. “You look as though you need it more than I do.”
Rivere took a sip of wine. His fingers tightened round the stem of the glass. “I pass messages. I don’t–”
“Indulge in this cloak and dagger business. Quite.”
“It’s all very well for you British.” Rivere twisted the glass on the scarred wood of the table. The yellow light from the oil lamps glowed in the red wine. “You’re protected by embassy walls and diplomatic passports. It’s getting more and more dangerous for the rest of us. The Ultra Royalists have been out for blood ever since the news from Waterloo. I sometimes think they won’t rest until they’ve rid the country of every last taint of Bonapartism. I’m not sure even Talleyrand and Fouché can hold them in check.” He grimaced. “Mon Dieu. That I’d ever be calling Fouché the voice of moderation.”
“If nothing else he’s survivor,” Charles said. “As is Talleyrand.” Prince Talleyrand, who had once been Napoleon Bonaparte’s foreign minister, and Fouché, who had been his minister of police, had both managed to survive in the restored Royalist government.
“Even they can’t hold back the tide,” Rivere said. “Look at la Bédoyère. The man just slipped back into France to say farewell to his wife and baby son, and they threw him in prison and executed him.”
“La Bedoyere was the first officer to go over to Bonaparte when he escape from Elba. You aren’t on the proscribed list.”
“Yet.” Rivere cast a glance about and leaned forward, shoulders hunched, voice lowered. “Fouché receives more denunciations every day. You’ve heard Royalists in the Chamber of Deputies clamoring for blood. Cleansing they call it. It’s the Terror all over again.”
Charles cast an involuntary protective glance toward Mélanie, who was tugging playfully at the cravat of a Prussian major. He looked harmless enough, but these days Charles’s every sense was keyed to danger. There was no denying France in the wake of Napoleon’s defeat was a dangerous place. Frenchmen clashed in the street daily with soldiers from the occupying armies of Prussia, Russia, Austria, Bavaria. And, Charles could not deny, England as well. Royalist gangs had ravaged Marseilles and Toulon and other cities. “It’s dangerous,” Charles conceded. “But that doesn’t mean you—“
“My cousin’s in the Chamber, and he wants me dead. My father got the title when his father was guillotined in the Terror. He wants it back.”
“There are legal avenues he could pursue.”
“But getting rid of me would be quicker. And it would be vengeance for his father. He’s worked his way into the Comte d’Artois’s set. It’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested.”
The Comte d’Artois, younger brother of the restored Bourbon King Louis XVIII, was known for his zeal in exacting retribution on those who had supported Napoleon Bonaparte. It has been easier when Napoleon was exiled the first time. After his escape from Elba and his second defeat at Waterloo, the Ultra Royalists wanted blood.
Charles studied Rivere’s usually cool blue eyes. “The irony being that while you served Bonaparte you passed messages to the British.”
“But there’s no way I can prove it, damn it.”
“We could help. But being a British spy isn’t likely to gain you favor with the French, even the Royalists.”
“Precisely. I’m damned either way.”
“You’re not generally one to talk in such melodramatic terms.”
“I don’t generally fear for my life.” Rivere cast another glance round the tavern. Mélanie was now standing on one of the tables, arms stretched in a way that pulled the bodice of her gown taut across her breasts. A whistle cut the air.
Charles reclaimed his glass and took another sip of wine. “What do you want, Rivere?”
“Safe passage out of France.”
“I can talk to the embassy—“
“Not through official channels. That will take too long. Get me out of Paris and across the Channel within the week. Once in England I want a pension, a house in the country, and rooms in London.”
“You don’t set your sights low, do you?”
“Do you have any idea how much I’m giving up leaving France?”
For a moment, Charles could smell the salt air at Dunmykel, his family home in Scotland, and hear the sound of the waves breaking on the granite cliffs. It wasn’t easy to be an exile. Even if one had chosen the exile oneself, as he had done. “We don’t turn our back on our own, Rivere.”
“No?” Rivere gave a short laugh. “What about Valmay and St. Cyr and—“
“I don’t turn my back on our own,” Charles said. Far be it from him to defend the sins of British intelligence. “But I can’t make you guarantees of that nature on my own authority.”
“Take it to Wellington or Castlereagh or whomever you damn well have to. But I want an answer within twenty-four hours.”
“You seem very confidant.”
“I am.” Rivere reached for the glass and took a long drink of wine.
A whoosh sounded through the tavern. Mélanie had jumped off the table and landed in the lap of a red-faced gentleman in a blue coat.
Rivere set the glass down but retained hold of the stem. “Tell your masters that if they don’t meet my demands, the information I reveal will shake the British delegation to its core.”
Charles leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. It was not the first time he’d heard such a claim. “It’s not as though the British delegation has never weathered scandal. And the behavior of most delegations at the Congress of Vienna rather changed the definition of scandal.”
“This goes beyond personal scandal.”
Charles pulled the glass from Rivere’s fingers and tossed down a swallow. “Enlighten me.”
“Oh, no, Fraser. I’m not giving up my bargaining chip. But mention the Laclos affair to Wellington, and I think you’ll find the hero of Waterloo is all too ready to accede to my demands.”
Charles’s fingers went taut round the glass. “What the devil does Bertrand Laclos have to do with this?”
Rivere’s brows lifted. “That’s right. I forgot you were involved in the Laclos affair. I think I’ve said enough for now. Just take my message to Wellington and Castlereagh. I doubt either of them wants to see England and France at war again.”
Charles kept his gaze steady on Rivere, trying to discern how much was bluff, how much was real.
“I may only be a clerk,” Rivere said, “but clerks are privy to a number of secrets. I didn’t just ask you to meet me because you’re Wellington’s best agent. I asked you because what I know about you should guarantee you’ll help me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—“
“For the sake of your family.”
“A bit extreme, surely,” Charles said in a light voice that sounded forced to his own ears. “My family are a long way from Paris.”
Rivere leaned back, holding Charles’s gaze with his own. “Given her varied career, it never occurred to you that she might have had a child?”
Oh, God. Rivere knew—
“Your sister,” Rivere said.
For a moment, the blood seemed to freeze in Charles’s veins. His acknowledged sister, Gisèle, was seventeen and safely in England with their aunt, where she had made her home since their mother’s death. Even given Aunt Frances’s penchant for scandal and his own absence, he couldn’t believe Gelly had had a child without his knowledge. So Rivere must mean–
“Yes.” Rivere reached for the glass and tossed down the last of the wine. “Tatiana Kirsanova.”
The blood roared in Charles’s head.
So that it took a split second for him to register the gun shot that had ripped through the tavern.

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Let me know what you think. I’ve also just posted a new Fraser Correspondence letter from Charles/Malcolm to Mélanie/Suzanne written on their wedding anniversary in 1814 after the events of Vienna Waltz.

Compare and contrast Suzanne and Malcolm’s marriage with Fitz and Eithne’s, from their reasons for marrying, to their secrets and betrayals.

I’ll give away another signed coverflat for Imperial Scandal to one of this week’s commenters.

RT Book Reviews gave Hide from Evil 4 1/2 stars and said “Anyone who says that romantic suspense is no longer a hot commodity hasn’t read Jami Alden. She’s quickly making a name for herself as one of the top writers in the genre. Her latest novel continues her streak of excellent, gripping stories and brings captivating recurring characters along for the ride.”

Here’s a bit about the story:

Sean Flynn should feel lucky he’s alive. But his betrayal by a close friend—and two years on death row—have left him feeling only numb. When his conviction was overturned, Sean retreated to a quiet woodland cabin, far away from prying eyes. There, he believed the past couldn’t come back to haunt him . . . until she showed up.

Overcome with guilt, Deputy Prosecuting Attorney Krista Slater can’t forgive herself for convicting an innocent man. But when another brutal murder reveals chilling, new facts about his case, she must turn to Sean for help. She’s ready to face his anger, but the desire in his eyes ignites a need she’s never felt before. Shadowed by danger, Sean and Krista uncover a twisted maze of deception and betrayal—all under the dangerous gaze of a cunning mastermind who will do whatever it takes to keep his evil secrets safe.

If you visit my blog, there’s a good chance you like suspense stories. What differences do you find between historical suspense and contemporary suspense? What characteristics are the same in the genre regardless of the period the book is set in?

I’ve just posted a new Fraser Correspondence letter from Mélanie/Suzanne to Raoul, written after the revelations at the end of Vienna Waltz.