1740
London

“Let’s just say, Your Grace, that I think this is a perfect way to move us out of our gin crisis, but it will have to be carefully executed,” Lord Berkshire said, smiling as he leaned back in the beige upholstered chair.

The Duke of Dorset appreciated that Lord Berkshire had done everything he could to make his presentation effective, including having it in his cozy but strictly business library. A low fire burned on the hearth between the Duke’s chair and the matching one in which Lord Berkshire sat. To Lord Berkshire’s right, his desk was clear except for a single candlestick, a small globe, and his writing set. The door leading to the rest of the townhouse was firmly shut in front of both of them.

“I have to agree,” the Duke of Dorset replied with the corner of his lip slightly curling upward. “Offering the populace tea as an alternative is ingenious. I also agree that simply lowering the current tax from 119% to only 12.5% will encourage even the commoners to purchase it. Did you come up with this all by yourself or did you work on it with others in Parliament?” The Duke couldn’t help glancing at the well-stocked bookshelves surrounding them. Lord Berkshire was a knowledgeable, well-read man—something hard to find among those like him who had taken their seat in parliament at a younger age. The Duke of Dorset leaned forward and raised a delicately decorated porcelain cup to his strong lips for a sip of the very thing they were discussing.

The Duke kept his blonde hair like he kept his own estate–neat and well-organized. Unlike other men, who curled the hair on the sides of their face, he tied all his back in a long braid to keep it tidy during any activity he might chose to do on a whim. Even so, the Duke was not prone to whims. That Lord Berkshire wore his hair neatly, in a similar style only made the man rise slightly higher in the Duke’s esteem.

When the Duke had first arrived at Lord Berkshire’s townhouse, he had been afraid the Earl would present an idea about yet another tax on gin to fix Britain’s current drinking problem among the masses. It seemed someone approached him nearly every day with that same idea. However, in his opinion as a young history buff, the past had shown that taxes were not the answer. In fact, he had only agreed to meet because Lord Berkshire had been so helpful on a bill he proposed last year. The Duke felt that he could not refuse to at least hear the Earl’s idea. He was charmed that this obligatory meeting had turned to one of pleasure with a fresh idea that had merit. Instead of taxing gin, they would subsidize tea. It would take a while for Parliament to accept any plan to lower taxes and lose any subsequent income from them while increasing money spent, but they would have to make it up somewhere else. The more the commoners consumed gin, the less work was accomplished and the more the economy would suffer.

“I must confess: I am only partially responsible for this plan,” Lord Berkshire began with a tinge of pride in his voice. “My new sister-in-law—”

A loud commotion began in the hallway and ended with a young lady of perhaps eighteen bursting through the door and interrupting the conversation. Her brown hair was drifting menacingly out of its cap like a storm cloud, while her blue eyes flashed lightning. The Duke was slightly shocked to see a woman in such disarray and passion, but at the same time he felt an odd pang of attraction that he quickly brushed aside as mere surprise.

“Oh, Marcus! You must do something about it! There are babies lying dead in the ditch near Fleet!”

“Beatrice! I am in the middle of a very important meeting right now with the–” Marcus chided as he flashed the Duke an apologetic glance.

“—I am very pleased to meet you, sir,” Beatrice interrupted as she dropped a hurried curtsy without taking her eyes off Lord Berkshire or truly acknowledging the Duke, “but whatever you are discussing is not as important as the fact that poor infants are being abandoned and dying from exposure. In fact,” she suddenly turned on the Duke as if she expected something of him, “if you are one of my brother-in-law’s cohorts in Parliament, it is imperative that you are also made aware of this tragedy so you, too, can aid him in resolving it, sir.”

Dante Francis Seymour Villiers, the Duke of Dorset, almost choked on his tea when the firebrand used “sir” for a second time. Never in his twenty-six years had he been so slighted. Had he previously mused that such a cut might occur in his lifetime, never would he have imagined that the insult would come from such a captivating agitator.

Dismayingly, when her gaze had shifted to him as she concluded her tirade, he found himself stifling a foolish grin. There was something about her intelligent eyes that drew him to her. Most young women were quite insipid–their interests lay solely in dresses and balls. This woman apparently cared more for His Majesty’s subjects. Perhaps that is why she did not fret over titles or stray hairs. He found it intriguing and repulsing at the same time.

“Are you listening to me, sir?” The question pulled Dante’s attention away from thoughts of Beatrice’s flaming eyes and what they held, but before he could respond in his more carefully thought-out manner, she had dismissed him with an impertinent sigh and returned to Marcus with her tirade.

Again, the Duke found himself in a new position. He could not remember a single person ever dismissing him so easily. The loss of title was a faux pas, but the embarrassment would be on her when it was discovered. However, being ignored pricked his pride. He had been pampered from childhood into believing he was a good catch even without the title. Most women tended to reinforce this view. He found it disconcerting that this young woman, who had dared to address him without a proper introduction, did not give him a second glance.

“… And I insist Parliament do something about it!”

“Well, my dear,” Dante said, entering the conversation ready to do battle before Marcus could reply, “Parliament has already done something about it. We have plenty of workhouses scattered throughout the city. If these women truly cared for their infants and had no other recourse, they could easily apply to one and receive health care, gainful employment, and three balanced meals each day.” Dante leaned back in his chair to study his opponent, crossing his arms.

“Workhouses!?!” Emily’s voice rose a notch as she turned and focused her ire upon him. “How can you call those factories of death an option? Have you ever been to one? Have you ever worked for those slave masters running them?”

With a smirk, Dante replied, “Have you?” At this, he allowed his eyes to travel down the spotless mauve dress that was of the latest fashion with its over-wide sleeves and lace trim. It parted on top to reveal a light pink floral bodice, came together at the girl’s waist, and then parted again showing her deep green petticoat. “You certainly don’t look as if you have visited one today. And although your manners suggest otherwise, I would guess that you have never in your life traveled to the areas of London that house them.”

Beatrice gasped and took a step toward him. “How dare you! I am certain that, despite the fact I am probably young enough to be your daughter, I have visited more of the sections of London in need of Parliament’s help than you.”

Dante’s eyes grew wide. The way this termagant said it, one would think he already had a foot in the grave.

“Beatrice! Shame on you!” Lord Berkshire stood and slammed his right hand down on his large oaken desk, nearly toppling the globe.

Again, this slip of a girl seemed to best Dante. He longed for a mirror to examine his face for wrinkles but knew that was out of the question. He also would not have a lower peer defending him. He could fight his own battles.

“Well, if that is the case, miss,” he began with slitted eyes, “I must beg your apology. I took you to be a woman old enough to be out. However, if you were, as you say, young enough to be my child, that would make you still in the schoolroom. I am surprised your nursemaid would allow an eight-year old to go wandering around the house, interrupting important meetings, but as a mature adult, I should have kept my thoughts to myself. After all, it is impossible to argue with children.”

Beatrice’s face turned bright red, and he could almost feel the sparks in her eyes strike out at him. Dante was sure Lord Berkshire’s mouth hung open. Acutely aware of his position in society, he normally kept his tongue in check, but something about this woman agitated him to the point he could not contain the set down. At that moment, the door to the library burst open, rattling some books on the shelves and Lord Berkshire’s new wife burst into the room.

“Beatrice!”

Dante’s eyes continued to war with Beatrice’s as they both disregarded the interruption. Although not a word had been said between them for half a minute, his breathing was still quick as if he had just finished racing his bays. The words between them were bitter, but for some reason Dante could not prevent his eyes from focusing on her rosy, pouting lips.

This book is meant to provide the background for my two Upsilon Andromedae serials: the sweet romance mashups and the cozy mystery mashups. Although the book is plotted, I want to do a collaboration on this one. It may take 1-2 years to complete.

This is the second book in the Histories of Eden series. It has been plotted out and the first chapter started, but unfortunately, my husband has not had the time to work on it. I am thinking about having him take a week off to write this year and see how far we can get. Even taking time off, it will probably take another 2-5 years for us to finish, though because he can only take a few weeks each year.

Rrrrriiinnnnggg.

“Hello.”

“You’ve got mail.” Click.

It happens the same every time. Why? I get into my email and click the box next to the untitled email. Without opening it, I change the title and forward it to the cryptic [email protected]. Where does it go? What is it? Like every other time, I get into my Paypal account. Sure enough the $500 deposit has been made. Where do they get the money from? Is this job really worth that much?

Long ago, I learned to stifle my conscious. It was a good job. The mysterious voice on the other end of the phone had contacted me six years ago after I posted my unimpressive resume on a job finding website. I was told by the voice that the job he wanted to hire me to do consisted of me having 100% availability by phone and email. I would receive the calls at any time of the day or night. I was to pass the emails on immediately after rewriting the title.

Like the Shakespeare study guide, I have embarked on creating an entire literature/language arts/math/logic curriculum based on works of literature that are mostly in public domain. These will target primarily homeschoolers but can be adapted to any classroom. I hope to have the full Kindergarten curriculum finished by summer of 2026.

The “theory of evolution” is currently being taught in schools today as “science.” However, it has been scientifically disproven repeatedly throughout history–stretching all the way back to Socrates. The simple fact is that every time evolution is shown to be false, scientists either ignore the truth or attempt to “tweak” the theory similar to religious “prophets” who proclaim some cataclysmic disaster on a specific date and none comes.