Pumpkinnapper

By Linda Banche

EPIC Ebooks Contest Finalist in Historical Romance

Ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and geese that go bump in the night!

Geese?

Henry, Baron Grey, called Hank, might have found ghoulies and ghosties as he lay in the dirt on this cold autumn night watching and waiting for pumpkin thieves. With widespread food shortages in 1816, this Year Without a Summer, pumpkinnappers—pumpkin kidnappers or pumpkin thieves—have threatened his friend Emily’s pumpkins. Instead, he got a goose. A big, mean goose who “watched” him in a very embarrassing place. Repeatedly.

Any sane man would give up. But Emily is here—Emily, the special playmate of his youth. He could never let anything endanger her. Ten years ago when they last saw each other, they might have become more than playmates. Perhaps now they can pick up where they left off—if her pet goose ever stops damaging him.

The widowed Mrs. Emily Metcalfe reluctantly allowed Hank to try and catch the would-be pumpkin thieves, partly as an apology for accusing him of being the pumpkinnapper. But that may have been a bad idea. Her pet goose will warn her of any villains and he intensely dislikes Hank. And then there is Hank himself, the lost friend of her youth, and with whom she would like more than mere friendship.

He’s unwed, and she a widow. Can a flame from so long ago once more burn bright? Or will the pumpkinnappers and the goose thwart them?

A sweet, traditional, drawing room not bedroom, Regency romantic comedy with paranormal elements. A new version of the previous work, expanded and completely rewritten. 31,000 words, about 120 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Banche
• Release date: Sep 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463180143

Linda Banche

Tired of the same old, same old? Then... Welcome to My World of Historical Hilarity! Regency drawing room, not bedroom, romantic comedies with nary a rake or royal in sight, sometimes spiced with paranormal, fantasy, mystery or science fiction. But comedy is my love, and I've created my own wacky blend of humor and Regency with stories that can elicit reactions from a gentle smile to a belly laugh. I'm a two-time EPICON finalist. I live in New England and I like ducks. So, laugh along with me on a voyage back to the Regency era. Me and my ducks. Quack! Visit me at my website http://www.lindabanche.com for more information.

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Pumpkinnapper

By Linda Banche

Published by Linda Banche at Smashwords

COPYRIGHT 2009-2018 by Linda Banche

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Start of Book

Author’s Note

Discover Titles by Linda Banche

Connect With Me!

About Linda Banche

End

Titles by Linda Banche

www.lindabanche.com

The Feather Fables

Goosed! Or A Fowl Christmas

Lord Lovely

Love and the Library

A Similar Taste in Books

A Mutual Interest in Numbers

A Distinct Flair for Words

The Regency Star Travelers

A Gift from the Stars

Single Titles

Lady of the Stars EPIC EBook Contest Finalist

Pumpkinnapper EPIC EBook Contest Finalist

Mistletoe Everywhere

Gifts Gone Astray

An Inheritance for the Birds

Chapter 1

Lindsell, Essex, England

Late September, 1816

You—you—pumpkinnapper!

Henry, Baron Grey’s, jaw almost sagged onto his chest.

The lovely lady before him had marched down Lindsell’s main street directly toward him. Short, her pink dress outlining her shapely form, with wisps of silky blonde hair curling around her perfect oval face—and vaguely familiar—she was a male fantasy come true.

Or would be, if those eyes, the crystalline blue of the autumn sky above, weren’t sharp enough to skewer him.

He’d thought this was his lucky day.

So much for that.

With those knives in her eye, the lacy reticule dangling from her wrist probably contained rocks with which she intended to crown him.

He snapped his mouth shut, and then curved his lips into his best smile, the one that always charmed the ladies. Pray the smile worked its magic now. Madam, I have been called many things, but never a pumpkin—pumpkin—

Pumpkinnapper.

And what, may I ask, is a pumpkinnapper?

You know very well. A pumpkinnapper is a pumpkin kidnapper—a pumpkin thief. Which is what you are! Last night you tried to steal my pumpkins. And I have proof. She waved a folded handkerchief in his face. This is yours!

He rescued the white linen square from her flailing hand. Picked out in black thread, the HG of his monogram, the right upright of the capital H fused with the left side of the capital G, filled a corner of the fabric. The handkerchief I lost yesterday. Where did you find this?

In my garden, after you failed to steal my pumpkins.

I did not steal your pumpkins.

Of course not, because I chased you away before you could pilfer one.

Why would I want your pumpkins?

For the same reason you bedeviled me when we were children. For the sheer pleasure! She batted her eyelashes, and her mouth arched into a smile too sweet for humor. Handkerchief.

Behind him, the Honorable Mr. Philip Lawson snorted. ‘Handkerchief’? Did the lady call you ‘Handkerchief’?

Only one person had ever called him that almost forgotten, supremely annoying nickname—Miss Emily Browne. I thought you looked familiar. By Jupiter, the skinny, annoying weed had blossomed into a gorgeous flower.

I am happy to see you, too, Emily. And I could not possibly try to steal your pumpkins since I arrived only yesterday, and I know not where you live. Please, do not remember the even worse nickname.

Come now, Hanky, you can do better than that.

Philip sputtered. Hanky? This little discussion just gets better and better.

Heat rose into Henry’s cheeks. His luck was incredibly dismal today. My manners. Let me introduce you. Miss Emily Browne—

Mrs. Metcalfe.

My mistake. Mrs. Emily Metcalfe, Mr. Philip Lawson. Philip, my childhood friend, Mrs. Emily Metcalfe.

An appreciative gleam in his eye, Philip kissed Emily’s hand. No lips brushing air here, but a real kiss.

Henry clenched his fists, tamping down the unexpected—and totally horrifying—urge to knock that glint out of Philip’s eyes. But the street is no place for this discussion.

Grinning, Philip released her fingers.

Slowly, Henry loosened his hands. Emily was his friend, and he’d always protected her, but never had such blinding possession swamped him. May I call on you this afternoon, Emily, and we can discuss the matter?

No need, I am fine.

Please, I want to find out what happened.

Her features softened a tad. Turnip Cottage on Beech Lane. Then, with a final smile for Philip but none for him, she turned and stalked back the way she had come.

Henry frowned. What was she talking about?

Yes, Handkerchief, what was she talking about? Philip quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed, do tell...Hanky."

Henry blew out a breath. A play on my name. ‘Henry’ is popular in my family. My father was Henry, my older cousin, Harry, and I, as the youngest, became Hank. And since I always lost my handkerchief, she gave me the nickname ‘Handkerchief’. When she was really angry, she called me ‘Hanky’.

She must be furious today.

Furious she might be, but she remembered him! His little Emily—how lovely she was, even from the rear. She was no longer in the first blush of youth, but rarely had a more fetching beauty come his way.

Alas, all too soon, her bobbing bonnet disappeared among the passers-by and she was gone.

But not for long. He would see her again later. His heart leaped.

The handkerchief she’d returned fluttered in the wake of a nearby pedestrian. Not dirty, as the scrap must have been after lying on the ground, but washed and pressed. She couldn’t be too angry if she had laundered this.

He gripped the fabric tighter. She’d held the handkerchief, too. Some essence of her must remain on the cloth.

His mouth curved. He would enjoy his visit with Mrs. Metcalfe.

And what does that grin signify? Philip clapped him on the back. A tale is in the offing, one I cannot wait to hear. He waved at the tavern behind them. Come on, I will stand you to a drink.

Now, at the noon hour, laughing, talking men wearing workmen’s smocks filled the scarred tables in the noisy, smoke-filled main room.

Philip tapped Hank on the shoulder and pointed to a small, unoccupied table in the corner.

Hank nodded, and they made their way through the crowd. They seated themselves, and Hank beckoned to the owner at the bar.

In a moment, the man placed two foaming tankards before them.

Philip took a long pull from his tankard before setting the drink aside. Now tell me about the delightful Mrs. Metcalfe. Eyes bright, he tapped his clasped fingers on his lips as if he would hang on Hank’s every word.

Hank’s hands fisted again. He really must stop that. Despite that glint in his eye, Philip didn’t have any designs on Emily. And he better not have. Not much to tell. We were childhood friends. But I last saw her ten years ago, when we both were little more than children. I heard she had wed and moved away. Indeed, her presence here surprised me. He took a long swallow from his own tankard. If he were lucky, that sketchy explanation would appease Philip and he wouldn’t have to go into details.

He traced a gouge on the table with his finger. Yes, she was married now. She’d been fourteen and he, seventeen, when he left Lindsell for Oxford. Then she was too young for anything except children’s games, but she would have grown up by the time he returned. And then, maybe…

Three years later, he swaggered back, all mature and a man of the world—or so he thought—cock-sure she’d be waiting for him and everything that adulthood entailed.

Well, she wasn’t. A lucky seafaring man had snapped up the vicar’s pretty daughter.

He uttered a silent curse. The arrogance of youth. Your own fault, you gudgeon.

"What, Baron Grey missed an opportunity? Tsk, tsk. Now what could have caused that?"

So much for deflecting Philip. And what brings you to this part of the country? Hank licked foam from the corner of his mouth. Try, try again.

Philip’s eyes narrowed at the abrupt change of subject, but then his lips curled into a knowing smile. On my way to the Earl of Lindsell’s house party. Since your estates march together, surely he invited you. As for the lovely Mrs. Metcalfe, you were young and foolish then. I would love to hear the particulars of that juvenile adventure, though. He relaxed back in his chair and picked up his tankard. "But, I daresay you have improved with the years. You certainly did not miss anything with the delicious Miss Clark. In truth, I am astonished she let you off her lead long enough for you to come here without