Mr. Darcy Steals a Kiss, Cover Reveal

Hello, everyone! If you’re just catching up to this, my alter-ego Alix James (she’s the one with the short attention span who’s always trying to juggle fifty balls in the air) has a new story coming out! Check out Chapter One if you missed it, and then read on for the official blurb, Chapter Two and the cover reveal!

My family is about to be ruined, and the only person who can help me is a burglar whose kisses make me forget my own name.

Elizabeth Bennet

My father is a fraud. There, I’ve confessed it. Jane and I are the only ones who know that he fakes “ancient Greek vases” and sells them for exorbitant sums to keep our mother in pin money. I don’t even have time for flirtations and courtships like other girls because I’m so worried that someday, he’ll sell one of his fake artifacts to the wrong person.

But I never thought it would go this badly.

His latest brilliant scheme is to sell a “rare and valuable” sculpture to someone whose name starts with “Prince,” (yes, that Prince!). And that’s just the beginning of the trouble. Now, we have a burglar on the loose, a “ladyship” who wants to squeeze into the action, a pompous fool who wants to marry me just to get his hands on my father’s collection, and a royal who will not think any of this is funny.

It’s pretty sad when the most trustworthy person of the whole lot is the burglar.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Things I have never done (until this week):

1. Broken into a house. (But I sort of had permission.)
2. Split my head open. (Totally not my fault.)
3. Pretended to be a burglar. (In my defense, it was to save a lady’s reputation.)
4. Kissed a stranger. (It didn’t affect me at all. Mostly.)
5. Paid a king’s ransom for a sculpture that may or may not be genuine. (I panicked. See above.)
6. Agreed to steal said sculpture to keep my neck out of a noose. (I’ve got nothing.)
7. Kissed a…

Perhaps she’s not a stranger anymore.

Chapter Two

Elizabeth

“His name is Bingley, and he comes from the North. They say he has a large fortune, and he is bringing a party with him of seven gentlemen and two… my dear, are you even listening to me”

Papa raised his listening trumpet to his ear and squinted. “Oh, indeed, Mrs. Bennet. Seven ladies and how many gentlemen did you say?”

“I did not say! Rather, you have got it quite backward. Oh, I do not know why I even bother! Jane, you heard me properly, did you not?”

Jane hid a smile. “Indeed, Mama. Seven ladies and two gentlemen.”

“Far too many ladies,” I added.

“Seven gentlemen! Can no one hear a word I say?” lamented Mama.

“It’s this dratted paraffin in my ears,” Papa said, too loudly for the size of the room. He twisted his listening trumpet as if screwing it into his ear. “There, that is better. What is this you say about Ringling?”

“Bingley,” Mama shouted at him. “B-I-N-G… Oh, what is the use? You will forget it the moment I say it.”

“Would that I could, my dear, but tragically, I recall everything you tell me. Why, just the other day you described to me the great excess of lace on Mrs. Purvis’s daughter’s friend’s sister’s wedding gown, and just after that, I had the pleasure of learning everything there never was to know about Lydia’s newest embroidered handkerchief.”

“My dear, you underestimate the importance of a well-embroidered handkerchief. It is a lady’s first signal to her amour that she… Mr. Bennet! You are not listening again!”

“Quite so, Mrs. Bennet. And if you will excuse me, I intend to not listen from my library, where my chair is comfortably worn and the walls do not shout at me.”

I turned in my chair as Papa rose and gave him a scowl. The unrepentant rascal. He merely winked at me, and then at Jane, who was giving him the same look.

“Mr. Bennet, you have no compassion on my poor nerves! I daresay when Mr. Bingley arrives in town you will not even trouble yourself to greet him, and your own daughters will suffer for it.”

“Far be it from me to let my girls suffer. If he is the sort of cad who cannot sniff out their beauty from Netherfield, I daresay he does not deserve them.”

Jane and I exchanged glances. Papa could keep me laughing all the day long, but his treatment of Mama was growing tiresome. He felt no shame for it, of course, and it was worse that I could hardly keep a straight face when he riled her up. But it truly troubled Jane.

“Oh!” Mama put her handkerchief to her breast and fluttered it as Papa left the room. “He would scamper off to his cursed library, and just when I was about to tell him the most important thing!”

“What is that, Mama?” Jane asked.

“Well! Mrs. Long had it from Lady Lucas who got it from Mrs. Brown, who heard it from her housekeeper that there is a thief in Meryton!”

“A thief?” I asked mildly. “Oh, goodness me. There is always someone willing to pick the pockets of the careless.”

“Nay, for this is no ordinary thief. They say he broke into Mrs. Marcus’s larder and stole an entire ham, and then he took all her silver spoons.”

“Spoons!” I ejaculated. “How is she to stir her tea?”

“Indeed, it is a hardship! And there is another report that he pinched a fine tapestry from Lady Trenton in Halstead and a necklace from Mrs. Howell in Raleigh.”

“How do we know these are all the same person?”

“Oh, by his own actions, to be sure. He scarcely bothers to sneak in. Rather, I believe he hopes the lady of the house will catch him so he can rough her up a bit as he robs her blind!”

Jane stiffened. “Surely not!”

“And the worst of it,” Mama continued, “is that he is apparently so charming that the lady declines to put up the hue and cry. Lady Trenton reportedly swooned when he left her. She was that overcome.”

A smile tugged at my mouth. “So you are saying there is a scoundrel going about kissing ladies in their own homes and cozening their finer possessions before they have quite come to their senses? I believe I should like to see a man of such talents.”

“Lizzy, you do test my nerves so! As bad as your father, you are, but you will see this is no laughing matter when he accosts someone you know. I’ll not have him slipping into my house and compromising my daughters, I’ll not. I’ll have Hill sleep in the drawing room if need be. Heaven knows I cannot depend on your father to hear an intruder before he causes mischief.”

Jane looked at me and sighed, shaking her head. I pointed up, very subtly, and she nodded. We’d have a long chat upstairs.

***

Darcy

“A Mr. Charles Bingley to see you, sir.”

“Bingley? There’s a surprise. Send him in, please.” I flicked closed the pages of the peerage book I had been leafing through. This Mr. Bennet of Longbourn had a strange family history, but it could wait. I stood to button my jacket.

Charles Bingley, two years my junior and son of a woolen mill tycoon, was an old acquaintance from Cambridge. We had never been close, owing to the rather significant gulf between our stations and social circles. However, I had always found him an amiable chap with no faults of character or taste. He had a tousled mop of fiery red hair and the freckles to match, but he had the good sense to pair them with such a genial aspect that none could object to his less-than-dignified appearance.

He entered the study wearing a smile as wide as my desk and put his hand out. “Darcy! Thank you for seeing me.”

“Of course. Won’t you sit down? Tea?”

“Yes, thank you. I hope not to take too much of your time. I shan’t wish to impose.”

“Not at all. Dobbs, will you ring for tea? And close the door, please. What can I do for you, Bingley?”

“Well, it is probably quite silly. Actually, I am not certain I ought to have troubled you at all, but as I was in the neighborhood—”

I gestured. “Please.”

He released the breath he was holding. “Very kind. Well, as you recall, my father sold the mills several years ago and had intended to purchase an estate upon his retirement, but he got the itch to travel instead. The golden Orient, the Coliseum in Rome, the Pyramids at Giza; he quite wore out his boots.”

“Indeed? I did not know. Where is he now?”

“Northampton. In the family vault.”

I was reaching for a tin of fine cigars to offer him, and I froze. “I am sorry. I did not hear.”

“‘Twas about a year ago.” He shook his head when I offered the cigars, and I put them away. “He had got so far as Turkey when he died, and they sent him home in a box. But I am being rather morbid. I am sorry, Darcy.”

“Quite all right. My condolences. How can I be of help? I take it you mean to carry out his wishes and purchase an estate?”

“Purchase? Not at all. No, no, far too much bother. But I should like to try it for a time, as he was persuaded that owning an estate was the pinnacle of all life’s charms. I have recently taken the lease on a fine property, not half a day’s drive from London.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you. We’ve nearly all the details sorted and I am to take up residence in a fortnight, but there is the bother of the house’s furnishings.”

I tilted my head and crossed my arms. “The furnishings? Ah, here is Dobbs.”

We paused our conversation as the butler held the door and a maid pushed in the tea tray. Bingley took more cream than tea in his cup, while I had mine served nearly black with no sugar. He stirred his tooth-decaying froth as I took the first sips of my proper tea and leaned back in my chair.

“I am afraid I know little of furnishings—chairs and tables and what-not,” I said at last. “I suppose they are all shabby and the landowner is exacting tuppence for wear and tear during your lease? What you want is a broker. I am happy to give you a name.”

“No, no, it is not the chairs and tables. The house holds a fair bit of fine art.”

“Does it? Well, perhaps I can be of help, after all.”

“I hoped you might. The landowner is retrenching and selling whatever he can that is not owned by the estate and destined for its heirs. The rest, he is valuing at far above what they are likely worth, in case something is broken.”

“Indeed. Troublesome, but not altogether a rare tactic.”

“Yes, and I was hoping to seek a second opinion on certain items. There is also some confusion in identifying one or two pieces, as no one seems to be able to find out where they came from. I believe the owner wishes to sell them, but he cannot prove they do not belong to the estate. One record says one thing, while someone else presents a contrary statement as to both their origin and their worth.”

“And you would like me to help you settle any disputes? I am happy to.”

Bingley’s smile grew wider. “Capital! There is just one problem. I cannot have it known that I am bringing in my own adviser—not just yet, anyway. I fear it might give unnecessary offense, and if nothing is truly found amiss, I would not wish to muddy the waters, so to speak.”

“I quite understand. How would you wish me to proceed?”

Bingley toyed with his teacup. “You could come merely as my guest. We say you have come to enjoy the autumn shooting. Hurst, my brother-in-law, is coming, and I’ve invited Soames and Watterson. It would not look odd, I do not think.”

I clucked my tongue. “That depends on how careful you wish to be. To anyone who cares about such things, I have something of a reputation as an expert in fine art.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. That will not do at all. And if there is anything to know, I ought to know it before I move my slippers in.” He sighed. “Well, what if I get you into the house on the sly, perhaps, before I am to take up residence?”

“Quite possible. Where is this estate of yours?”

“Hertfordshire, about four miles from the town of Meryton.”

I blinked and set my cup aside. “Meryton? As it happens, I have business there anyway. When did you wish to leave?”

Bingley’s face glowed. “As soon as possible. Tomorrow?”

I narrowed my eyes in thought. “Tomorrow. Yes. That will suit.”

Our two lovebirds are on a collision course! I can’t wait for you to read the rest of this story. But, wait I must, because it launches on the day after Christmas. I updated the cover on Amazon, but I’m posting it first for you. Isn’t it just like a little sugar cookie? Delish!