James and Annie: The Umbrella Chronicles, #3

By Amy Quinton

Prodigal duke seeks professional matchmaker for matrimonial assistance. Prefers foolproof plan in 10 parts. Magical solutions accepted. Missteps likely.

Christmastide, England 1814

His Grace, James Quill, will not be a bachelor-in-poor-standing for very much longer. For I, Lady Harriett Ross of the Infamous Umbrella, have avowed to orchestrate his betrothal to his former best friend, Miss Annie Merryweather, whether either of them wishes it.

Surprisingly, His Grace has agreed to my proposed 10-step plan.

Not-so-surprisingly, Her Soon-to-be-Grace is determined to resist the notorious prodigal son.

Will they find love and forgiveness this holiday season?

Time will tell.

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.

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*James and Annie's story originally appeared in the Bluestocking Belle's 2018 Holiday Boxed Set: Follow Your Star Home. This new standalone version has been edited and updated with never before seen deleted scenes.

Rated for Mature Readers

This book is a delightfully bite-sized short story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Quinton
• Release date: Aug 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201514044

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

CHAPTER 1

THE YOUNG MAN

1805

Mobley, Sussex

Lord James Quill, 8 th Marquess of Mobley and heir to the Duchy of South Warkshire, first fell in love with his best friend, Miss Anne Merryweather, when he was ten. And she had loved him, too.

Until she didn’t.

He supposed the withdrawal of her affections was his fault, rather, it was their fault, but mostly his. All right, it was all his own bloody fault. Probably. Maybe not the first time, but definitely the second.

The first time, he had been eleven. She, nine. That time she’d sent him a note stating she did not love him any longer for she had transferred her affections most decisively to her dancing instructor. It was quite considerate of her to do it in private. Less threatening to a young man’s confidence.

The second time? Well, certainly, no one in their small town of Mobley, Sussex blamed her for ending it all with a punch to his nose. In the middle of Whey Street. During the town’s May Day celebrations for all the world and their siblings to witness. Six years made a big difference in how a girl behaves. She was all of fifteen then, a girl on the eve of womanhood.

Honestly, he had been on his way to join her for their daily morning ride. Then, Lady Priscilla Langford had crossed his path. Lady Priscilla was sixteen and beautiful and needed everyone in town to notice that fact. And, oh, did it work; he’d noticed. Priscilla knew just how to turn a boy on the cusp of eighteen’s head so he would forget his duties, his name, his daily ride with his best friend, and remain by her side to serve her with complete gaiety and thrall.

Yea. He learned much about trust and the nature of women that year.

Or so he’d thought.

Annie. It was just a quick sketch.

Annie said nothing as she glared out over the River Aire. The bright light of the sun refracted off the surface of the water causing her eyes to sparkle in their narrowed ferocity.

James clutched his sketchbook to his chest, his knuckles white where they curled around the edges of his book. Her hair was loose, a riot of red curls dancing in the light breeze. As she reached up to tuck a few strands behind her ear, he felt the overwhelming urge to draw her in all her fearsome glory. As if he hadn’t already drawn her a dozen times over the years.

Hell, he could draw her from memory at this point. And had.

But he daren’t now. Not while she was this angry; she’d likely snatch his sketchbook and toss it in the river.

James cleared his throat. She needed my help.

This time, Annie barked out a laugh. You. Are. An. Idiot, Jamie Quill.

Jamie.

She was the only one who called him Jamie.

That she did so now made him smile; she was still his best friend. A small fraction of the tension forcing his shoulders to his ears loosed along with a short exhale of relief.

He closed the brief distance between them, then settled next to her and reclined against the tree—their tree.

He pulled a pencil from his pocket and began sketching the riverbank which lapped lazily at their feet.

Aye, he agreed, All men are idiots.

His right hand froze when rather than reply with some saucy quip, she merely swallowed.

He waited a beat, two, then nudged her gently with his elbow. "Annie."

"Jamie."

He bit his lip as he stifled a laugh. Most ladies aren’t as self-reliant as you.

He’d almost said no ladies, which would have angered her for different reasons.

Annie snorted again. "Lady Priscilla is the furthest thing from helpless."

James carried on sketching. You can’t expect everyone to be so capable—

Jamie. She is only pretending.

That’s a rather unkind—

Annie leapt to her feet and barked out, Don’t.

The led in his pencil snapped.

She drew in a deep breath, and quietly, but no less angrily said, Don’t patronize me, James Hugh Sullivan Quill. Considering her temper, he understood how hard it was for her to state this with such calm.

James dropped his pencil and dragged one hand down his face as he climbed to his feet. I’m not—

You are, she cut him off.

Annie, love. Just because you don’t need anyone—

Don’t need? Ha!

He glared at her. Ha!

Arms folded, she glared back.

But then her face fell and sadness—no, more like, desperation—flooded her eyes and folded the corners of her mouth. Softly, so softly, such that he barely heard her, she said, "More like, why would anyone put their trust in you."

CHAPTER 2

THE ADDICT

1813

(8 Years Later)

Constantinople

He thought of her every damn time he drank the black water. Of course, he did. James Quill scratched at his unkempt beard and tried to shake off images of an imaginary, idyllic life with Annie Merryweather. His logical mind, what was left of it, knew these visions were false. He didn’t really see her running beside him, or someone who looked an awful lot like him, though quite a bit less slovenly, in a field of wildflowers just outside the nearby grimy window.

Quill rubbed one hand down his face and repeated his mantra of the past year:

There is no field.

In truth, he was in a dark and dank run-down den where the opium was so strong on the air one could taste it. Opium dusted the floors, laced the drinks—even the ale, and choked out the smell of the nearby Golden Horn.

Quill shook his head again.

There is no field.

In a moment of clarity, rare these days, he glanced at the cards in his hand, ignoring the dirt beneath his nails and malodorous stench emanating from his own body, possibly. He sniffed. Eh, probably.

Regardless, as always, the cards were on his side.

James smiled. Take a look at this, gentleman…

He laid down a Royal Flush much to his opponents’ displeasure. Several groans and the gnashing of rotten teeth ensued, followed by the sound of cards being tossed faced down on the table.

Ah. He’d won. Again. Of course.

James reached across the table with both arms to round up his winnings, which consisted of little actual money and quite a lot of objects of questionable value, and was surprised by the gummy feel of the dingy table against his stomach. Looking down, he found his shirt open down to his trousers and his cravat, waistcoat, and jacket…missing.

Dammit, his valet would be pissed.

Er…Actually, no. He wouldn’t.

James, in another rare moment of clarity, recalled his valet had quit more than a month ago, and James hadn’t gotten around to finding a replacement.

He shrugged and returned his dubious concentration to his winnings, picking out what he thought might be worth taking.

A lady’s comb missing all but two of its teeth? Worthless. He tossed it over his shoulder.

A single spur for a boot of uncertain size? Pass.

A half-eaten loaf of bread? Really? He sniffed it. Eh, maybe; he put it in his pocket, which didn’t exist, so the bread fell to the floor, already forgotten.

A bronze dragon statue he was convinced had changed poses several times during the game? Definitely.

And a ring. A man’s ring with a star etched on it, to be precise. At least it looked like a star. When he squinted.

For certain it was way too small, but definitely worth selling, so yes. James picked up the ring, surprised to find it warm—almost hot—despite being out on the table for the better part of an hour.

Damn opium.

Curious, he held it up and watched in disbelief as the ring increased in size.

He ran a hand down his face. He needed to lay off the pipe. He knew this. He just—couldn’t.

James slipped the ring on his right hand while trying his best to ignore his misshapen fingers and the horrific memories of battle which had shattered the bones there and taken…everything.

The sounds and foul smells of the opium den disappeared; his fellow patrons vanished. In their place, he heard the unmistakable sounds of battle—men screaming, cannons blasting, arrows whizzing.

And the pain. Always the pain. Pain only the laudanum could subdue.

On instinct, he threw