Overview
As one of Queen Elizabeth I’s most trusted spies, the daring Crispin Foscari never leaves anything to chance. So, he’s surprised when he’s told he has two weeks to clear his name of treason, or his neck will meet the executioner’s noose.
Sophie Champion is a hero to women of London, dedicating her seemingly endless resources to free them from their bondage to men. But when her investigation into the death of her godfather places her in danger, she herself is liberated from danger by Crispin—also known as the notorious “Earl of Scandal.” Not that she would ever admit she needed his help.
Even as his mind warns him to stay away from the seductive siren, Crispin offers a proposal. By day, they will pit their equally sharp wits against a calculating enemy, and by night they will fight their searing mutual attraction. But as they grow closer to identifying the killer, they grow closer to one another. Unfortunately, that is only going to make it easier for their foe to finish them both off.
With peril, passion, and swashbuckling to spare, this fast-paced romantic adventure from “a writer to watch” is sure to keep you riveted until the thrilling climax (Publishers Weekly).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781626811935 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversion Books |
| Publication date: | 02/06/2019 |
| Series: | The Arboretti Family Saga , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 434 |
| Sales rank: | 931,748 |
| File size: | 6 MB |
About the Author
Most people's response upon hearing that I write romance novels is to glance furtively at my husband, lean close to me and whisper, "Where do you get your ideas?" The answer to that question is, of course, a professional secret, but the answer to the question that inevitably follows - "How do you do it?" - is not. For me, writing romance is enormously delightful and, at times, enormously difficult. In an effort to illustrate some of the gnarly dilemmas I encounter, I thought I would share some of the scenes that I wrote that did not make it in to my new book, The Water Nymph.
One of my constant struggles is to keep dialogue compelling, as this scene illustrates:
Crispin looked impatiently at the woman sprawled on the bed. "Come on, Sophie. we have work to do."
"Can't move," Sophie whispered, barely moving her lips. "Faint from hunger."
"You are not in a faint."
Sophie's eyelids fluttered and she gave a pitiful sigh. "Life...seeping...away..."
Crispin leaner over her, struggling to suppress a smile. "Sophie, you are not starving to death. you ate my entire breakfast."
"I did not!" Sophie's eyes snapped open, and color returned to her face.
"You did too."
Sophie sat up. "I did not!"
"Yes, you did."
"No I didn't. I barely got the crumbs." Sophie sucked in her cheeks and tried to look wan.
"Only the crumbs. Is that so?"
"That is so. You ate everything and left me only scraps."
"I did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too..."
I have set my books during the Renaissance because it is the period about which I know the most - I have studied it for over a dozen years - and because it is peopled with fascinating characters, like Queen Elizabeth and Shakespeare. But as with writing a book set in any historical period, there are difficulties with the language. In order to make my books interesting to modern readers, I do not restrict myself to Elizabethan English, but I do try as much as possible to use words that would have been current during the 1580's, especially in my dialogue. This has, on occasion, proven to be more difficult that I imagined:
Sophie smiled at Crispin with her mouth full of her third biscuit, then frowned as she looked down at the object in her hand. "What are you going to do about this?"
"First, I am going to wipe the crumbs from your chin. Then I am going to eat my breakfas — " Crispin reached for the platter formerly containing a steaming pile of biscuits, and found it barren. "My God, Sophie, when you said you were hungry, you were not
kidding (not introduced into English until 1811)
fooling (not in use in this sense until 1609)
joshing (1891)
prevaricating (1631)
pleasanting (1655)
razzing (1921)
overstating (1803)
jollying (1370, but sounds strange)
obfuscating (1650, plus it's a bit pedantic for the morning)
fantasticating (not a word)
masticating (not the right word)
jesting (1526! Hurrah! — oops, not in use in English until 1798)
My years in the library were good training for poring over historic word lists, but nothing about my academic training prepared me for the stylistic freedom of being a romance novelist, a freedom which can still make me giddy. Sometimes, caught up in a scene, my metaphors will creep away from me, assuming a life of their own, generally reflecting whatever is in my mind at the time.
He swung round to face her, and when he spoke, his voice was
sharp like a freezing wind
sharp like an Arctic (1391) wind
sharp like the wind off the Pyrenees (1555)
sharp like the knives wielded by the peasants of the Pyrenees
sharp like the whetstone used by peasants to sharpen their knives wielded by the peasants of the Pyrenees
hard like the whetstone used by peasants to sharpen their knives
hard like the whetstone of his cook
hard like the crust of his cook's bread
warm like the crust of his cook's bread
warm like the crust of his cook's chicken and mushroom pie
warm like the crust of his cook's apple pie with a dollop of caramel (1725) or rather, sweet cream, on it
warm like apple pie with iced cream on it...
The pleasure I get from writing is due in great measure to the challenges it poses for me. By far the largest of these is having to leave out some of the scenes that make me like my characters the most, scenes that they seem to write themselves.
Sophie pushed herself up on one elbow and looked down at Crispin as he slept. Moonlight played over his features, catching in his light hair, making shadows of the planed of his face. His beauty made Sophie's heart pound.
"Crispin," she whispered. He did not move.
"Crispin," she said again, this time louder. "Crispin," she pushed on his shoulder. "Crispin, are you awake?"
Slowly, as if being dragged from a great depth, Crispin sat up. His eyes were stil closed as he murmured groggily, "I know, I know. More biscuits. I will be right back." He moved to swing his legs off the bed but Sophie stopped him.
"No," she said softly. "I am not hungry."
Crispin, vaguely awake now, opened one eye and looked at her. "Not hungry? Didn't you just wake up?"
Sophie smiled shyly. "Yes, but it was not to ask for biscuits."
Crispin gave an uncomprehending frown as he resettled himself amongst the bedding. "It wasn't?"
"No. I...I just wanted to say 'hi.'" (1475, possibly)
"Hi?"
"Yes," Sophie paused, then rushed on. "And that I love you."
Crispin pulled her to his chest and held her as tightly as he could. "I love you too, Sophie."
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, SIX DAYS LATER
"Are you aware," the voice whispered into Sophie Champion's ear, "that your mustache is slipping?"
Sophie was having a very bad week. Her cook had quit, twice. Her beekeeper was hearing voices, in particular that of the queen bee suggesting that they run away together. She had been compelled to suffer through two balls to model Octavia's newest gown designs, which had led to three new marriage proposals. Her godfather, Lord Grosgrain, had been killed in a mysterious riding accident. Her upper lip was numb and her nose itched from the false mustache she had been forced to wear for two days in her desperate attempt to infiltrate the Unicorn — London's most exclusive, and exclusively male, gaming establishment — in the hope of tracking down the one man who possessed any information about the real cause of her godfather's death. Her attempts to look inconspicuous while she waited for that man had cost her a small fortune at the dice tables. And now, unless she misunderstood the tone of his comment, the individual next to her was threatening to undo all her efforts and turn her in as an impostor.
Sophie raised the dice cup to her lips, appeared to whisper a good-luck prayer to the ivory cubes, and let them fly across the table. Without waiting for the dice master to announce that she had lost, she tossed a silver coin onto the table, turned to the man who had addressed her, made a short bow, and spoke in her best Spanish accent. "Don Alfonso del Forest al Carmen, gentleman of Seville, thanks you for your interest in his mustachios, señor, and begs you not to trouble yourself about them further."
The man acknowledged her bow with a tilt of his head. "Very nicely done," he said, smiling slightly. "Pretending to whisper to the dice so you could fix your mustache, I mean. The accent, however, is atrocious." As he spoke, the man carelessly threw the dice across the table, gathered his winnings, and motioned her to follow him into a less populated corner of the chamber.
Sophie was furious. Not only was she not in the habit of following men around, but she had practiced her accent for hours and thought it quite good. When they arrived at their corner, she pulled herself up to her full height — which, she noticed with surprise and then annoyance, did not even bring her eyes level with those of her adversary — and addressed him. "Don Alfonso del Carmen al Forest —"
"— al Forest del Carmen," the man corrected helpfully.
"— will not stand here and listen to your insults, señor." Sophie bent her head back and glared at the man ferociously.
The man met her glare with calm silver-blue eyes. He studied her for a moment before he spoke, and when he did his voice was low, calm, and slightly menacing. "Perhaps Don Alfonso will listen to a message from his friend Richard Tottle?"
She was good, he thought as he watched her quickly suppress her surprise. He would have to ask her whether it was Cordova or Von Krummen who had trained her as soon as he had her well locked away.
Sophie's heart had begun to pound. This was exactly what she had been waiting for. She was so excited she almost forgot that she was furious, or that she was supposed to have an accent. "A message from Richard Tottle? What is it?"
Damn good, the man reiterated, and damn dangerous. "He wants to meet with you again."
"Again?" she repeated with only a whisper of a Spanish accent.
"Yes. Again. Right now."
Her tone, even through the accent, was different when she asked, "What does Senor Tottle want to see me about?"
"I am just the errand boy, Don Alfonso," the man said, pronouncing the name with only the vaguest hint of irony. "Most likely whatever you discussed before."
"Then I am afraid I cannot accompany you. Our conversation, señor, is over." Sophie began to turn from him, but was stopped by the man's hand on her elbow.
"I am afraid it isn't. At least as long as you do not want me to announce that Don Alfonso is a woman." There was no menace now in the man's tone or his eyes, but the words held their own threat. As Sophie was acutely aware, under the newest laws impersonating a man was a treasonable offense, carrying the punishment of hanging. The man let his first suggestion sink in, then leaned closer to whisper, "Or that he plays with loaded dice."
For an instant, Sophie's composure ebbed completely away, and her eyes grew enormous. How the devil did he know about the dice? She had been sure that no one would suspect anything. After all, what kind of idiot would play with dice that had been altered to allow her to lose every time rather than win?
"I have to say, the dice were rather ingenious," the man commended her. "They are probably the only thing that kept you from being seen for a woman from the beginning, because no one pays close attention to those who lose, only those who win. Nobody would bother to suspect a loser."
Exactly. That had been Sophie's exact surmise. And it had worked splendidly during the two days she had been loitering around the Unicorn, waiting for Richard Tottle to appear, worked without a flaw until ...
"Until you came along," she said aloud without realizing it. She looked up at her companion in the dim light, seeing him for the first time. He was undoubtedly the tallest man in the room, but despite his height he was not lanky. Instead, she noticed as she lowered her eyes from his face, his body was beautifully proportioned, from his broad shoulders, all the way down to the remarkable curve of his —
Satan's knockers, what was she thinking? Sophie Champion did not spend time ogling men, particularly not infuriating men who lied and used threats to coerce her to go with them. Nor men who criticized her Spanish accent. Nor men in general. Nor any man, ever. The paste Octavia had used to adhere the mustache had been making Sophie feel woozy for the past two days, but she had not previously realized that it was interfering with her thinking as well. It was, however, the only reasonable explanation for her unusual and unacceptable flightiness.
With that resolved, she addressed the man in as pronounced a Spanish accent as she could produce. "Señor, I have assessed my options —"
"Yes, I noticed you assessing," the man interrupted, laying extreme emphasis on the final word.
"— and have decided to accept your invitation to meet with Richard Tottle again."
The man only nodded his acknowledgment, and steered Sophie down the stairs to a wide mahogany door at their base. He watched with interest as his companion hesitated on the threshold, then put her fingers on the handle, took a deep breath, and passed through.
At first Sophie thought it was the effect of the deep breath, a sort of mustache-paste-induced hallucination, but then she saw it was real. Very real. And very dead.
Sophie had no eyes for the sumptuous decoration of the Unicorn's smoking chamber, the dark red brocade walls or the beautiful gold carpet that covered the floor. She did not notice the wall of tobacco-filled ebony boxes or the smoke that hung in the air. Only much later did she remember the sugared almond crushed into the carpet. At that first moment she saw simply the body of the man sprawled across one of the couches and the dark hole where gunpowder had scorched the satin fabric of his doublet.
"That is Richard Tottle," she said, and the man could not be sure whether it was a statement or a question.
"Yes. Or rather, was. He is dead." He observed her closely as she approached the corpse, then asked, "When you were here before, did Tottle give you anything?"
I did not see him before, Sophie almost said, but caught herself just in time, recollecting simultaneously her Spanish accent. "I cannot say, señor. I have never been in this room before." She was momentarily flustered, and became more so as the man said nothing and merely stood looking at her. Not only did Sophie Champion not ogle men, she did not permit them to ogle her. "What?" she demanded finally. "Don Alfonso al Foren del Carmest is not in the habit of being stared at."
"I am trying to decide which you are worse at. Lying. Or impersonating a Spaniard." He circled around her slowly, letting his eyes scour her, then faced her with their chests less than a hand's width apart. "I know you were here tonight. I know you met with Richard Tottle. I entered this room as soon as I saw you leave, and I found Tottle dead. The obvious assumption, Don Alfonso, is that you murdered him, but I am willing to forgo that if you can give me an adequate explanation. To begin, what did you take from Richard Tottle?"
Sophie was having a hard time marshalling her thoughts. It was becoming more and more clear that the mustache paste was dangerous stuff, because she could not remember either her fake name or her real one. All of which would have been unacceptable under any circumstances, but in the presence of the dangerous man in front of her, it was completely unthinkable.
He was playing with her, but she could play back. Let him ask all the questions he wanted, hundreds of them even. She was under no obligation to answer them, or at least, not helpfully. In fact, given his presumptuous behavior, it might almost be her duty to aggravate him. She had settled this definitively when he resumed his interrogation.
"Don Alfonso. I am waiting for your response."
Sophie cleared her throat, inhaled through her mouth — hoping to mitigate the effects of the paste — and said, "Suppose you are correct. Suppose I was in this room, tonight, with Señor Tottle."
The man examined her. "And? Did you take anything from him?"
"Nothing," Sophie replied in a fishily innocent tone.
"Where was he sitting?"
She gave a slight smile. "I cannot say."
"What did you and he discuss?"
"Nothing."
The man tilted his head back and regarded her through slitlike eyes. "Was he alive?"
"I cannot say."
"You will have to do better than 'nothing' and 'I cannot say' if you want to stay out of jail, Don Alfonso." As he spoke, the man moved away from her and toward the corpse.
She had clearly annoyed him, but Sophie did not feel any real joy at the victory. Her eyes kept returning to the body on the divan, the literal dead end of her investigation. Her godfather, Lord Grosgrain, had been on his way to Richard Tottle's the morning he died, carrying in his doublet a bill of credit for twelve hundred pounds and on his face more obvious signs of worry than Sophie could ever remember seeing. There had been something strange about the meeting, something that upset Lord Grosgrain terribly, something Sophie thought might be connected to his death, or at least might give a reason for it. Richard Tottle had been her only hope for information about what really lay behind her godfather's accident — which she was convinced was no accident at all — and with him gone she felt completely lost. Even more lost than she had felt that morning four days earlier when she saw her godfather's dead body being carried into the stable yard.
Lord Grosgrain had been both more and less than a simple godfather to her. He had been her whole family for more than ten years; but he had also been her responsibility. Not only had his death removed the only person she had ever entirely trusted, but she also deemed that it was, somehow, her fault. She should have stopped him, should have asked him more questions the morning of their last meeting, should have wondered more at his recent behavior. She felt at once desperately, achingly alone and horribly to blame.
She did not allow herself to wonder whether it was the echoing hollowness inside her or a rational quest for truth that drove her to question his death, because each time she wondered, she found herself biting her lip and swallowing back tears, as she was now. She was simply determined to find out what had caused his horse, a completely reliable and untempermental animal, to lose its footing on London's best thoroughfare and hurl her godfather headlong to his death. Now, with Richard Tottle dead as well, she had nothing to go on.
Except the fact that the annoying man in front of her, whose muscles showed through his leggings each time he moved, had used threats of exposure to force her into the smoking room with the corpse, apparently to interrogate her.
But Sophie Champion would not allow herself to be threatened. "Now it is my turn to ask questions," she announced in a voice that challenged him to deny it. "Why did you insist on bringing me down here? What did you hope to learn? Who do you work for? Why do you keep asking what Richard Tottle gave me?"
It was one of the man's professional axioms that you could learn more from the questions that a subject asked than from those they answered, and with this slippery specimen that was doubly true. She was not in the least disturbed by his threats — they seemed simply to make her mad — nor did she seem frightened. Indeed, it was only when he had ceased speaking that she showed any weakness at all, and then it had vanished almost as soon as it had come. Clearly getting her to give up the piece of parchment that he suspected she had removed from Richard Tottle's dead body was going to require unusually devious scare tactics. He was about to test her, to find out whether she would be more susceptible to force or cunning, when one of her battery of questions cut into his thoughts and gave him the answer.
"I cannot say," the man replied smoothly to her interrogation.
Pompous caterpillar, Sophie thought to herself, her irritation intensifying as the suggestion of a smile flashed across his lips. Sophie had made a fortune by trusting her instincts, and they now told her that there was more to that almost-smile than the mere pleasure of throwing her unhelpful responses back at her, something far more ominous and sinister. They also told her that she should leave as quickly as possible.
But she could not go and let this arrogant beetle of a man think he had intimidated her. The prospect of appearing to be bullied overrode all of Sophie's instincts. "I am not afraid of you," she told the man, standing with her legs apart and her hand on the hilt of the dagger at her waist.
The smile suggested itself again. She was reacting beautifully. "It is not I you have to be afraid of, Don Alfonso. I told you, I am just the errand boy."
"Who do you work for?"
The man shrugged. "I cannot say."
Sophie's irritation turned to anger. She had neither the time nor the energy to stand around trading evasive answers with a tick. The game they were playing was pointless, her mustache was itchier than ever, her godfather was dead, and between her grief and her investigation she had not had a chance to either eat or sleep for three days. She was torn by conflicting desires, to challenge the man in front of her to a duel, or to go home and eat a hundred of her cook's candied-orange cakes dribbled with honey.
But then she saw that flicker of a smile, and the choice was clear. Puffing herself up in her best Don Alfonso style, she announced, "I am a very busy man, and I am unaccustomed to chatter with mere messengers. You have smeared the name of Don Alfonso Al Corest del Farmen with your accusation of murder, and I demand satisfaction. Either explain yourself, or prepare to fight."
The man shook his head. "Both engaging offers, particularly the challenge to duel, but I fear I shall have to decline. Frankly, Don Alfonso, you are much too wily for me. The way you flit from one identity to the other, one accent to the other ... I dare not trust myself on the field against such an opponent. Indeed," the man went on, watching the play of anger over her face, "I rather find myself at a disadvantage here. I believe the time has come for me to take my leave. And while we are speaking of it, I should warn you that I am about to alert the authorities to Richard Tottle's plight."
"Is that a threat? Do you threaten to turn me in?"
The man shook his head. "On the contrary. I tell you so you may leave. I should not like you to confess anything to the authorities before you have confessed it to me."
"And if I decide to stay and cooperate with the constables?"
"Then I am afraid the next time I see you shall be on the gallows. Really, Don Alfonso, I should choose to talk to me rather than the authorities if I were in your shoes. Nice shoes, by the way," the man added casually. "Brooker?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Are they by Brooker? Did he make them? The shoes?"
"Yes," she said through clenched teeth. Sophie was furious now. Brooker was the most famous and selective of the shoemakers in London, but that scarcely seemed relevant in the context of their conversation. Because the shoe-obsessed man had just effectively told her that she had two choices: to speak to the authorities and hang within a few days, or to do what he said, to put herself in his power and, she thought bitterly, hang within a few weeks. Then, in a flash, she saw an option he had not named. "I am afraid, señor, that Don Alfonso is leaving England for good tonight."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Water Nymph"
by .
Copyright © 2000 Michele Jaffe.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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