John and Emma: The Umbrella Chronicles, #4

By Amy Quinton

A serious-minded, scientific man of learning seeks a complex and chaotic practitioner of all things superstitious who will upend his well-ordered life.

England, January 1815

Dr. John Edward Hartwell needs assistance, though not quite the kind of help he might think. True, he is well-organized, tidy, and pathologically set in his ways—a more serious-minded man one might never find. But in his ways, I have determined, lies misery.

Enter Miss Annie Merryweather—a woman who is as lovely as she is chaotic. She is the perfect candidate to complement our man of numbers and logical focus, bringing sunshine and superstition to redirect him away from a future of certain wretchedness.

Oh, aye, I said superstition.

And now that she has been categorically convinced that they are destined to be together—the signs, you see—no one can stand in her way, for she is as tenacious and optimistic as she is beautiful. And none can resist her smile.

If I have anything to say about matters, and I always have something to say about matters, the signs will point the way.

They already have.

With warmest regards, etc…


Lady Harriett Ross

Self-proclaimed Motley Meddler

Mistress of Destiny

Wielder of the Infamous Umbrella

I'm just an old woman with opinions. On everything.

*John and Emma's story originally appeared in Valentines from Bath, a Bluestocking Belles Collection. This new standalone version has been edited and updated with never before seen deleted scenes and is rated for mature audiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Quinton
• Release date: Sep 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201156824

Amy Quinton

Amy Quinton is an author and full time mom living in Summerville, SC. She enjoys writing (and reading!) sexy, historical romances. She lives with her husband, two boys, and three cats. In her spare time, she likes to go camping, hiking, and canoeing/kayaking… And did she mention reading? When she’s not reading or traveling, she likes to make jewelry, sew, knit, and crochet (Yay for Ravelry!).

Book preview

One

5 January 1815

21 Blanchard Street

Oxford

Dr. John Edward Hartwell narrowed his eyes at the loose thread poking out from his slippers, then gripped his coffee cup, his knuckles briefly turning white, before taking a sip. He’d have to send his man for a new pair soon—bloody rotten timing.

A commotion out in the hall had him setting his cup gently on the table beside him. He nudged the cup, so the handle was perfectly aligned for his next grip. As he dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin, the door to his study burst open, and in walked his sister, Clara, waving a paper in the air.

John didn’t bother with a greeting, knowing his sister as he did, and she didn’t disappoint when she began speaking before she’d even taken two steps into the room. John what is this about a lecture at Lady Harriett Ross’s house? You? Leave your books and your comfy chair and your warm fire to travel? In the middle of winter? Clara laughed, as she glanced around his library while continuing her march across the room. She stopped before him; her lips turned down in a frown. Tuesday is only three days away. She glanced pointedly at his unraveling slippers. You’re not even ready to depart. Clara narrowed her eyes. Did you know about this?

He carefully folded his napkin and placed it on the table, aligned with his cup. No.

Clara waved the paper before him, effectively gaining his attention, and he pushed his glasses up his nose.

It really wasn’t any wonder he avoided family gatherings.

She huffed. "Oh, go on, John. Read it. I know, I know… it’s from The Teatime Tattler."

John frowned. That gossip rag—

Clara thrust out the paper. Just humor me, John.

John carefully took the broadsheet and ran his fingers along each side, smoothing the creases, all the while eyeing his sister. She rolled her eyes at his obvious care and patience, then huffed out a breath of air as her gaze settled on the roaring fire in his fireplace.

She completely missed his smile.

John pushed up his glasses once again and focused on the words before him, scanning and dismissing the text until he found a letter from Lady Harriett Ross.

John’s brow rose; his lips twitched as a second, involuntary, smile threatened.

Dear Readers,

It is with great honor I announce that none other than the reclusive Dr. John Edward Hartwell has agreed to give a lecture on Mathematics and Sir Isaac Newton’s Laws of Classical Mechanics as well as discuss his own theories, recently printed, with regards to chaotic tendencies in orderly systems, at my home near Bath on Monday the 9th of January.

Perhaps, after I attend his lecture, I will understand what, precisely, all that means.

In the meantime, my guests and I await with bated breath, the arrival of our mysterious genius. Never fear, dear readers, for you will be the first to hear all the delicious details regarding this elusive man. Here. In the Teatime Tattler.

My Umbrella is at the ready.

Signed,

---

Lady Harriett Ross

Self-proclaimed Motley Meddler,

Mistress of Destiny,

Wielder of the Infamous Umbrella,

I’m just an old woman with opinions. On everything.

John folded the paper in half and glanced up to find his sister staring.

He handed her the Tattler. Rubbish.

She snatched it back and crossed her arms, the paper crumbling at her side. His efforts to smooth the pages, destroyed. John fought back a frown.

Well, of course, it’s rubbish. She glanced pointedly at his slippered feet again. You’d be required to put on actual shoes.

He flexed his toes and noted, once again, the loosed thread taunting him. He frowned at their worn-out state, then quickly reminded himself he had five more pairs in the exact same size, style, and color.

But then I’d have an odd number.

But you must. Go that is.

John’s head snapped up, and he grimaced at his display of alarm. He snatched a quick breath, composing himself. Pshaw, was all he managed.

John, Clara bent forward now, her hands braced on the arms of his chair, the Tattler crumpling further in her hand. In answer, he casually crossed his legs. "You must go."

He removed his glasses and pulled out a flannel, taking his time to clear the glass of smudges. He blew hot air onto one lens, then rubbed some more. It took a supreme amount of effort to keep from smiling in the face of his sister’s earnest intensity over the situation.

No.

John, Clara’s voice became urgent. She could ruin you with a word.

John paused in his task and glanced up and into Clara’s worried face. This is manipulation, plain and simple.

I know how upsetting your routine bothers you, but you’re too young—

He cut her off with a warning look. Yes, he was only thirty. His prime. They’d covered this argument many times before. And still, it was irrelevant.

She sighed. Lady Harriett is well known for her progressive stances. You might meet—

Same conversation, different day. John replaced his glasses. Clara, you know I cannot marry if I’m to accept the position at Oxford. There are rules—

She threw up her hands and paced away. Ha. You don’t even really want that stupid position.

Don’t I?

Clara spun around, facing him once again. All right. Sure. You’ve wanted this for years. He could hear the skepticism in her tone, never mind the fact that she’d recrossed her arms. "But for all the wrong reasons. Just to best him, John—"

Ha. He had very good reasons for wanting to best him, the him in question being Dr. Alan Altman.

It wasn’t a matter of want, in fact. More like a need. Or a civic duty. To mankind.

Perhaps, a touch of revenge. A miniscule component, all told.

John frowned. Revenge wasn’t really in his nature.

Clara continued. All right. Forget about the why of it. You know you cannot possibly pass on an opportunity to secure a sponsor. There will be prospects at Bloomfield Park, including Lady Harriett—

A knock at the door interrupted what was sure to be a full-blown lecture. Clara and John stared at each other as he called out, Enter.

Pardon, sir, but a letter has just arrived for you, his manservant George said as he crossed the room.

Still staring at his sister, John accepted the message and broke the wax seal, then took care to straighten the paper.

Clara turned and paced away once again.

He glanced down and scanned the brief missive, then refolded the note, carefully, running his fingertips over the edges and re-pinching every crease. The contents of the message, their discussion, all of it launched his mind into a dark pool of unwanted memories, to a very specific day more than two years ago. October 22nd, 1812 to be precise. A day of betrayal. Unforgivable duplicity. From a friend, now an ex-friend.

Damn him.

He crumpled the note and tossed it in the fire.

Once finished, John stood and adjusted his sleeves, then picked up his coffee, carrying it to a nearby sideboard where he fortified his drink with a splash of whisky.

He turned and noted that Clara had paused in her pacing, her brow raised. He didn’t often drink, and never this early in the day.

When he didn’t speak right away, she held out her arms. Well?

He took a sip of his doctored coffee and answered, The board at Oxford have narrowed the field to two candidates. The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

You.

John dipped his head.

Clara briefly closed her eyes and shook hers. And Dr. Altman.

John cleared his throat. Yes.

Of course. Clara threw her hands up and resumed pacing, her movements even more agitated than before. He adored her for her outrage on his behalf. It’s not enough that he stole your life’s work, passing it off as his.

"Yes, well. One