Magic is fraught with peril—but so is love.
Lord Fenimore Trent’s uncanny affinity for knives and other sharp blades led to duels and murderous brawls until he found a safe, peaceful outlet by opening a furniture shop—an unacceptable occupation for a man of noble birth. Now Fen’s business partner has been accused of treason. In order to root out the real traitor, he may have 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 plotting treason, she flees into the London night—to Fen, the one man she knows she can trust. But taking refuge with him leads to far more than preventing treason.
Can she learn to believe in love, magic, and the real Andromeda once again?
About the Author:
Award-winning author Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. She published a middle-grade fantasy when her children were young, then moved on to paranormal mysteries and Regency romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes.
Barbara loves to cook, especially soups, and is an avid reader. There are only two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding and succeed at knitting socks. She knows she can manage the first but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the second.
This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia.
Excerpt from the book:
After learning of a treasonous plot, Andromeda fled into the London night to get help from Lord Fen, the man she once loved. They’re now having breakfast the next morning.
“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’d been 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?”
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