Other Proper Romances

by Sarah M. Eden

Ashes on the Moor

Hope Springs

Longing for Home

Longing for Home, vol. 2: Hope Springs

Savage Wells

The Sheriffs of Savage Wells

Healing Hearts

The Dread Penny Society

The Lady and the Highwayman

The Gentleman and the Thief

The Merchant and the Rogue

© 2022 Sarah M. Eden

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain Publishing®, at ­[email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain Publishing.

This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.

Proper Romance is a registered trademark.

Visit us at ShadowMountain.com

Library of Congress ­Cataloging-­in-­Publication ­Data

CIP on file

ISBN: 978-1-63993-048-7

eISBN 978-1-64933-120-5 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of ­America

PubLitho, Draper, UT

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover art: MicroOne/Shutterstock.com;

Mott Jordan/Shutterstock.com;

Larisa1/Shutterstock.com

Book design: © Shadow Mountain

Art direction: Richard Erickson

Design: Heather G. Ward

To Emily King,
a fighter, an inspiration, and a
fearless defender of the vulnerable

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

London, January 1866

London was no place for the faint of heart. Fortunately for Barnabus Milligan, he’d stopped listening to that organ long ago.

He was a doctor, tending to the illnesses and injuries and difficulties of people from all walks of life. When not treating patients, he divided his time between writing penny serials about medicine, doctors, and related oddities and assisting in the secretive work of the even more secretive Dread Penny Society, a group of fellow “penny dreadful” authors who went about the city looking after the vulnerable and undermining the efforts of those who exploited them. His time was well and truly filled. He preferred it that way.

Barnabus stepped through the familiar blue door of the DPS’s headquarters, an outwardly unassuming London house. A meeting of the membership had been called, the second one that week. Their efforts on behalf of the poor and defenseless were being hampered by London’s most notorious criminal, the Mastiff. There was neither time nor room for hesitation.

Nolan, the Dreadful’s perpetually distracted butler, who tended to be either sleeping in his chair or perusing the Times, sat at his post in the entryway.

“Good morning,” Barnabus said.

From over the top of his newspaper, Nolan offered a flat-jawed smile, the sort that emerged when a person hadn’t many teeth left. Barnabus was well aware that most of London’s struggling population, and a good number of the well-off folks, spent a lifetime visiting the teeth drawers.

Nolan offered his usual dip of the head. The butler was not talkative, but he was loyal. All the DPS depended upon him to help keep their headquarters and activities a secret.

Barnabus set his etched penny, the calling card of all the Dreadfuls, on a narrow table, adding to the pile already there. As the coin snapped against the tabletop, Nolan reached out and pressed the center of a carved flower on the entryway wall. That triggered a low scraping noise, followed by a wall panel sliding open, behind which was the DPS’s meeting room, a small-scale replica of the House of Commons.

Countless voices echoed out, filling the sparse entryway. Barnabus tipped his hat to Nolan, who’d set down the newspaper, his eyelids drooping. The man’d be snoozing in another minute.

With a quick smoothing of his side whiskers and mustache, Barnabus stepped inside, the wall sliding shut behind him. Martin Afola, one of the youngest members of the DPS, stood nearby and greeted him as he passed.

Three tiers of chairs sat in rows on either side of the room with a throne-like chair in the middle used by Fletcher Walker, the acting head of their organization. Barnabus made his way down the second row, stopping at the third chair from the far end—his regular seat located between Brogan Donnelly and Stone.

The former of the two, a ginger-haired Irishman, greeted him with a grin, as was customary for him.

The latter, a Black man from America’s South, greeted him with a silent nod, as was customary for him.

Barnabus set his cane under his chair, followed by his top hat. He hung his overcoat on the back of the chair, then took his seat.

“How is your wife faring?” he asked Brogan, both out of personal interest—they were friends, after all—and professional. Brogan’s newlywed wife, Vera, was recovering from catastrophic injuries sustained during the last time the DPS had tussled with the Mastiff.

“She is better every day.”

That was reassuring. “And how is married life treating you?”

“Married life is marvelous,” Brogan said. “I heartily recommend it.”

“You’re wasting your breath, Donnelly,” Stone said. “Doc’s as confirmed a bachelor as this world’s ever known.”

That was more of an exaggeration than either of these men knew, but being the resident bachelor had served Barnabus well.

Fletcher stepped up to his “throne” and called the gathered DPS members to attention. “With me, gentlemen and lady.”

Squaring his shoulders, Barnabus joined in the recitation of the society’s pledge and guiding statement.

“For the poor and infirm, the hopeless and voiceless, we do not relent. We do not forget. We are the Dread Penny Society.”

When Barnabus had heard their motto for the first time at his first meeting with the DPS, he knew he’d found where he belonged. They had summarized succinctly the principles that guided his own life. He’d vowed fifteen years earlier, upon the tragic death of his mother, to never relent, to never forget, and to save everyone he possibly could.

“Our first bit of trouble,” Fletcher said, sitting casually in his very formal chair, “is the usual kind from the usual quarter: crime at the behest of the Mastiff.”

The room kept quiet, tension thick all around them. The Mastiff ran London’s underbelly with all the authority and precision of a general on the battlefield. He’d undermined the DPS’s efforts time and again. He’d nearly killed Brogan Donnelly’s wife. He held captive a woman the Dreadfuls were desperate to find and free. He threatened London’s street children and blackmailed people in the highest level of the government. He was dangerous and growing more so every day.

“The bloke’s suspected to have set another fire a few days ago,” Fletcher continued. “Two people were caught in it. He’s outmaneuvering us, mates. And people are dying.”

“Everyone we know of in his network has gone as silent as the grave,” Elizabeth Black said. She was one of their newer members, and no one outside of their membership knew the prim and proper headmistress of a school for young ladies was actually the reigning monarch of the penny dreadfuls, writing under the nom de plume of Mr. King. “If we can’t even get a whisper of what they’re doing, how can we possibly prevent these things?”

“The Mastiff is hiding his work better, but we’re refining our network as well.” Fletcher looked determined but not entirely confident. “Brogan’s father-in-law is proving to be a shockingly good source of information.”

Everyone’s attention turned to their resident Irishman.

“I’ve not the first idea how it is he knows so much,” Brogan said. “I’ve not even any clue where he’s been the last two months, only that he is fully sure he and the children he’s protecting would be in mortal danger if he weren’t in hiding—enough so that he missed his own daughter’s wedding. He sends me information regularly, so I’m hopeful he can discover what we, so far, haven’t managed.”

Mr. Sorokin’s connection to London’s underworld had been a source of great debate in the DPS. No one thought him a villain, but there was little else they were certain of.

Fletcher turned his attention to Martin. “Anything odd you’ve learned about this most recent blaze?”

Martin stood and tucked his hands in his pockets, not in a posture of uncertainty, but simply a trick for keeping himself more still than he usually was. “The Mastiff, assuming he is the one behind this, didn’t wait for the people to be out of their shop, as he’s done in the past. He set the premises ablaze with them still inside.”

“This fire wasn’t a warning,” Stone said. “It was punishment.”

Martin nodded. “Seems that way. He’s getting bolder. People are terrified, and rightly so. He had been threatening them into compliance. Now he’s just killing ’em.”

Slipping women free from the unrelenting grasp of madams and bullyboys was Barnabus’s particular emphasis in this organization. But a man who was heartlessly murdering people was everyone’s concern.

“Ought we to be holding off on our efforts with the public-facing organization we’ve started?” Brogan asked.

Barnabus had asked himself the same question. The two of them had been charged with creating a front for the society, an acknowledged charitable organization the members’ friends and families could be part of so the DPS needn’t tell quite so many lies. It also served as a distraction to those who might be paying a bit too much attention to what the penny dreadful authors of London were doing in secret.

The work they’d dedicated themselves to involved hampering extremely dangerous and often powerful people, thwarting their crimes, helping their victims escape. Sometimes, the work they did was not entirely legal. It was crucial for their safety, their freedom, and their ability to continue their work that their activities be kept secret from everyone outside their organization. Even their own families didn’t know of their efforts.

That secrecy, however, came with complications. Family members asked questions, pieced together unintended clues. Keeping the secret was becoming increasingly difficult. Some members had contemplated resigning from the DPS because they couldn’t continue the ruse needed to protect those they’d saved and those they loved.

And so the DPS had created a sister organization: the Charitable Authors League of London. In full view of all and with the knowledge, blessing, and participation of their families, they would be undertaking efforts throughout London to ease suffering and want. Running two organizations simultaneously was difficult, but the survival of so many depended on yet another deception: the lie that “CALL” was the only thing this group of writers was involved in.

But did they dare continue with CALL given the Mastiff’s growing threats?

“I think,” Barnabus said, “we’d actually do best to push ahead. CALL’s first charitable effort can be undertaken on the street where the fire occurred. We could do some good for people the Mastiff has terrorized, all while providing us cover for snooping around the ashes a bit, seeing what we can find.”

“Excellent idea,” Fletcher said. “And while we’re sniffing about, we’ll see if we can’t sort out what happened to the victims of the fire.”

“‘What happened to them’?” Elizabeth repeated in confusion. “They were killed.”

“Aye, that they were. Their bodies were recovered and then buried. But now those bodies have disappeared.”

A weight settled in Barnabus’s chest. Grave robbing was something every doctor was both familiar and uncomfortable with. It was a well-known secret that most medical school cadavers were obtained through the efforts of “resurrection men”; a bit of moral ambiguity most doctors struggled to make their peace with.

“Why would a resurrectionist bother with bodies that were damaged by fire?” Kumar asked. “No medical school or curious doctor would pay them for . . .” He let the commentary dangle, likely not knowing how to complete the sentence without sounding cruel or inhumane.

The whole group looked to Barnabus, he being the only doctor among them. Exhaling a tense breath, he offered some of the expertise he had on the matter. “If someone were studying the effects of fire, that person might be interested. There are, unfortunately, people with morbid interests and curiosities, but without true medical interest, who pay for bodies. Resurrectionists can also be employed for revenge. They also sometimes nip off with a body as a means of hiding something.”

“Could it be the Mastiff felt something about these two unfortunate people needed to be hidden? Perhaps some odd clue that might lead to his true identity or whereabouts?” Kumar asked.

No one seemed certain.

Fletcher shook his head, not in dismissal of the idea but in growing confusion. “What could possibly be kept hidden by stealing their bodies?”

“Seems a question that ought to be posed to the fella that did the resurrecting,” Stone said.

“I don’t have any personal connections to resurrection men,” Fletcher said dryly. “Do any of you?”

With a lump of apprehension, Barnabus realized he would need to make a confession he’d never intended to. “I do,” he said on a sigh.

They all looked at him with wide-eyed surprise.

“From your days in medical school?” Fletcher guessed.

“Not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?” Elizabeth pressed.

“I know someone who is familiar with that line of work and the people who undertake it.”

“How familiar?”

“Extremely.”

“And how well do you know this mystery person?” Fletcher asked.

“Extremely well.”

Brogan had that look on his face that always portended mischief. “How extremely well? A neighbor? A rival for some long-ago lady’s affection?”

Barnabus pushed out a heavy, tense breath. “None of those things.”

“Then how do you know him?” Fletcher asked again.

“I know her—”

That captured everyone’s attention. He was known among them as the eternal bachelor, the doctor who had no interest in love or connections.

“—because she’s my wife.”

The Bachelor and the Bride

the Bachelor
and the Bride

by Mr. King

Installment I
in which our Hero inquires of a Wise Woman and receives Instructions of a most unexpected nature!

Centuries ago, in a quiet corner of the border country, a young man of medicine by the name of Duncan worked tirelessly on behalf of those who placed their well-being in his hands. Not having the expertise nor the implements of our doctors today, the pull he felt to protect the people in his care often sat heavy on his heart and mind. He dedicated himself to healing and comforting, but, as was far too often the case in years gone by—and, alas, in our time as well—he found himself as familiar with the churchyard as he was with his own cottage.

As had happened far too often before, he found himself tired, discouraged, and heartbroken after a harrowing few weeks of looking after impossible-to-cure patients, an illness having ravaged his area of the kingdom. One patient remained in his care, her recovery entirely in question.

The young girl was now an orphan, Duncan having been unable to cure her parents of the very ailment that still threatened his patient. He had tried but failed in his attempts to cure the ill-fated family, and he had little hope of saving the child’s life. Duncan was not one to simply declare defeat when faced with considerable obstacles, but he was the sort who was willing to admit when he had exhausted his own knowledge.

And thus it was that Duncan Endicott, man of medicine, donned his best linen shirt and doublet, though both were several years out of fashion, and smoothed his Van Dyke beard and moustache, before placing his capotain hat on his head. Satisfied he would make a favorable impression, Duncan undertook the rambling walk through the nearby forest to the cottage of an aged woman known to all in the area as Granny Winter, or Geamhradh Seanmhair as she was called in the ancient tongue of Scotland.

It was widely believed—and Granny Winter had never disabused anyone of the assumption—that she was, in fact, the legendary Wise Woman, the Cailleach, the figure from ancient tales who had come into existence shortly after the dawn of mankind, making her younger than the salmon but older than the eagle. The Cailleach was the bearer of great wisdom, the holder of great secrets, the creator of the hills and valleys, the queen of autumn and winter, the bringer of storms, the overseer of life on earth. She was revered, and a bit feared. Whether or not Granny Winter was the Wise Woman of old, she was an old and wise woman.

Her cottage was not hidden, neither was it difficult to reach, but few people drew near it. Whispers and hushed conversations about the mysteries of this aging woman revealed that arriving at her doorstep was not a quest undertaken by the faint of heart.

Duncan Endicott had never been the least fainthearted.

He knocked at the rough-hewn door of the thatched-roof cottage, a sprig of wildflowers in his hand, hoping the offering would convey to Granny Winter that he had not come with ill intentions.

His knock was answered by a young woman who had lived with Granny Winter for a handful of years. No one knew her origins nor how she had come to make her home there. Duncan had not been born in the area and had even less idea of her origins than anyone else did. It was widely acknowledged that Miss Sorcha Báirbre and Granny Winter were not actually kin, and yet, they looked upon each other quite as if they were.

Sorcha was near about Duncan’s age. He had taken notice of her the first time he’d seen her after moving to this corner of the kingdom only two years earlier. He’d been struck by the sparkle in her deep-brown eyes and by the eagerness with which she undertook anything and everything. And he had hardly been immune to her soft and quiet beauty. Mystery surrounded her, yet she was clearly liked and embraced by the townspeople.

Seeing her at Granny Winter’s door lifted his spirits and fortified his courage.

“Geamhradh Seanmhair,” Sorcha called back into the cottage, “the doctor is here.”

From within came the craggy voice of the old woman. “Call him in, lass. He has come on an important matter.”

It was moments like this, when the wise woman seemed to know things she ought not know, that solidified the belief that she was more fairy than human.

“She has been expecting you,” Sorcha told him in her soft and reassuring way. She even smiled, which Duncan found particularly pleasing.

He removed his hat and stepped inside, allowing his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior. He approached the chair near the fire where Granny Winter sat watching him through her stringy silver hair. He presented his handful of flowers to her. For a moment, she didn’t move. Was she displeased? Was his offering not acceptable enough to find favor with her?

At last, she spoke, but not to him. “Lass, take the offering and hang it to dry.”

Acute relief passed through the young doctor. He had come to ask a favor; being deemed welcome was of utmost importance.

Sorcha accepted the flowers on the old woman’s behalf. Voice lowered, she said to him, “Do not lose heart. She’d not have let you in if she didn’t intend to hear you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d not wish to make a nuisance of myself.”

Again, she smiled.

Again, the sight buoyed him.

“Sit yourself down,” the old woman said, motioning toward a three-legged stool. “Tell us what it is you have arrived to ask.”

He moved to sit, his long legs bent at awkward angles as he lowered himself down. He faced her, his posture penitent and his expression humble.

“We have endured a string of illnesses of late, Granny Winter,” he said. “I have done all I can, but my knowledge is limited, and my cures are insufficient. I have in my care a young girl, Donella. Her parents succumbed to the same illness their brave daughter fights fiercely all day and all night, clinging to life with ferocity. My heart aches to think her fire might extinguish despite my great efforts to save her.”

Granny Winter nodded slowly. She spun in her hand an old and battered hammer. Beside her was a small stack of firewood. The cottage smelled of herbs and earth. There was something in the scene that was at once inviting and disquieting.

“What is it you wish for me to do for the lass?” Granny Winter asked.

“I have come to ask if you, in your wisdom, know of something that might help her, something I might do for her. I know I am presumptuous in asking you to give of your knowledge and time. Were I asking merely for myself, I would not do so. But I wish for the girl to live. I wish to see her restored to health.”

“You have asked well,” Granny Winter said. “That you inquire not to elevate yourself but for the sake of another speaks well of you.”

“Will you help me save the girl?” Hope bubbled as it had not in weeks.

“Alas, I have not the answer you seek.”

His heart fell to his feet. He knew not where to seek knowledge if she did not have it.

“Pick your face up, lad. I do not mean there are no answers, only that they will not come from my lips. The answers to your questions must be sought at Loch Dreva.”

On the other side of the cottage, Sorcha took in a quick, audible breath, something very near to a gasp. Loch Dreva was unknown to Duncan, but he hadn’t a doubt Sorcha knew it well and not through pleasant recollections.

But if that was where he would find the answers he needed, then that was where he would go.

“I’m willing to make any journey, however long, however treacherous,” he said. “But I do not know where Loch Dreva lies, nor do I know how to reach it.”

Granny raised one bent and bony hand and waved Sorcha to her side. “Sorcha knows this land well. She lived her earlier years as a vagabond, traveling often and traveling far. She knows the mountains and valleys, the streams and meadows.”

“Will you give me instructions on how to find this loch?” he asked the lovely young woman.

“It cannot be found by being told,” Sorcha said. “One must be shown. But, be warned, Loch Dreva is a place frequented by fairies and monsters alike. Certain death awaits the ill-prepared traveler.”

“I confess,” he said, “I am quite ill-prepared for fairies or monsters or anything of their ilk.”

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!