The Bluestocking's Whirlwind Liaison, page 1
The Peveretts of Haberstock Hall
Meet the philanthropic Peverett siblings: unconventional, resourceful and determined to make a difference in the world.
Raised at Haberstock Hall, Anne, Thea, Thomasia and Rebecca know that they have the means and the knowledge to help those less fortunate than themselves. Each with their own mission, they won’t be dictated by the patriarchal confines placed on them. But is the world ready for the sisters to make their mark?
Generous in spirit and heart, can these women find men who will be their advocates rather than adversaries?
Meet the men worthy of these kindhearted women in:
Anne and Ferris’s story
Lord Tresham’s Tempting Rival
Thea and Edward’s story
Saving Her Mysterious Soldier
Thomasia and Shaw’s story
Miss Peverett’s Secret Scandal
Rebecca and Jules’s story
The Bluestocking’s Whirlwind Liaison
All available now!
Author Note
Becca and Jules’s story is about people finding their purpose. Becca has always known hers, while Jules has run from his, and both stances have shaped who they are. Together, Becca and Jules help each other rise to their full potential. They see each other differently than they see themselves. This is a story about opposites attracting, at least on the surface.
Becca sees Jules as dynamic and outgoing, at ease in a crowd—all the things that she is not. She never guesses that, on the inside, Jules is unsure of himself and struggling to give his life meaning. Jules sees Becca as brilliant and confident, well educated and sure of her path in life, a woman who has all he’s ever wanted, a woman surrounded by warmth and the loving support of her family. He does not guess at the insecurities that lie beneath. Together, they help each other face and discover their true selves.
The ophthalmoscope that Becca invents is as true to history as I can make it. The portable scope she sells to Jules was indeed invented in the mid-1850s and did revolutionize the doctor’s bag. The ophthalmoscope continued to be improved upon throughout the nineteenth century as technology advanced. There’s more about her inventive ideas and their historical origins on my blog.
BRONWYN SCOTT
The Bluestocking’s Whirlwind Liaison
Bronwyn Scott is a communications instructor at Pierce College and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, traveling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch via Facebook at Facebook.com/bronwynwrites, or on her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.
Books by Bronwyn Scott
Harlequin Historical
The Peveretts of Haberstock Hall
Lord Tresham’s Tempting Rival
Saving Her Mysterious Soldier
Miss Peverett’s Secret Scandal
The Bluestocking’s Whirlwind Liaison
The Rebellious Sisterhood
Portrait of a Forbidden Love
Revealing the True Miss Stansfield
A Wager to Tempt the Runaway
The Cornish Dukes
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
The Passions of Lord Trevethow
The Temptations of Lord Tintagel
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
For Apollo, most beloved of dogs. July 4, 2011–December 18, 2021. This was your last book and you sat with me the whole time as I wrote. I will miss you forever.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Excerpt from A Marquess Too Rakish to Wed by Liz Tyner
Chapter One
Haberstock Hall, Hertfordshire—Autumn 1856
Whir, click-click, whir, whish... Whir, click-click, whir, whish... These were the sounds of comfort, of order and predictability.
The little ballerina on her pedestal stopped in mid-pirouette. Rebecca leaned forward to wind her up again and sat back, watching the little figure bow and dance, raising her arms over her head as she turned. There was nothing as satisfying as a well-oiled machine whirring flawlessly through its routine: reliable, predictable. Safe. All the things the world was not. Except for here, in her cottage workshop. Here, there was order and calmness. This little space, with her worktable and tools, a fire in the hearth and a kettle on the hob, this was her retreat, where she could invent to her heart’s delight all sorts of things that would help others live better lives and keep their own chaos, their own helplessness at bay.
The little ballerina finished her dance and Rebecca pushed aside the temptation to wind it up again. She eyed the row of unpainted toy soldiers lining the shelf and pushed aside that temptation, too—the temptation to paint them instead of doing real work. She ought to be working on the pieces and parts of her latest project—a fused bifocal lens—which lay spread out on the table. A wind-up ballerina and toy soldiers were just that—toys—but a sturdy, reliable bifocal lens would enhance vision for people who felt they had to give up reading or close work as they aged because they had no choice. People like her. Rebecca took off her own glasses and set them aside.
She rubbed at the bridge of her nose out of habit more than an attempt to relieve discomfort. The little nose pieces she’d attached to the frame seemed to be working to reduce the friction against her skin. That was something, but it wouldn’t match in scope what she could achieve for herself and others if she could fuse the lenses. So far, she’d not been successful in working out how to do it.
She closed her eyes, letting her mind walk back through her past efforts on the lenses. What had she overlooked? The currently used bifocal lens was notoriously breakable, something she’d proven time and again. Perhaps fusion would work? Maybe there was a better way to conjoin the two lenses? Perhaps if she...
A knock on the cottage door intruded on her thoughts. Drat! She grimaced at the untimely interruption. She’d almost been on to something. She looked up as her mother entered, shaking rain droplets from the hood of her cloak. A visit from her mother wasn’t unwelcome, just unexpected. ‘What a surprise this is.’ Rebecca smiled. As interruptions went, this was of the more pleasant variety. Her mother usually gave her second-youngest daughter privacy, stopping by only on her way home from rounds in the village. But today was not a visiting day.
Rebecca’s smile faded, fearing the worst. ‘Oh, no, you’ve not come with bad news, have you? The girls are well? The babies are fine?’ The past two years had seen a flurry of weddings and births in the Peverett household. Her three sisters, two older, one younger, had all married, two had children now and one more niece or nephew was on the way—Thomasia’s second child was expected at Christmas. A more worrying thought came to her. ‘It’s not William, is it?’ Her brother was a doctor with the British Army in the Crimea and while the war was over, William was still there, insisting on tending those who weren’t well enough to travel yet.
Her mother set aside her cloak with a shake of her head and a laugh. ‘Everyone is fine. Did it occur to you that I might bring good news?’ She took a seat at the worktable. ‘It’s so cosy down here, I can see why you like it.’
The tension between Rebecca’s shoulders blades eased knowing her siblings were well, only to be replaced with a faint twinge of resentment. Good news meant one of those siblings had done something extraordinary. Again. They were all paragons of social work while she had nothing to show for her efforts. It was poorly done of her. Rebecca shoved it away and jumped up, determined to be more generous of thought. ‘I have tea. If it’s good news, perhaps we should celebrate.’ She busied herself setting out two chipped mugs she’d purloined from the Hall years ago when she’d first set up shop out here, seeking sanctuary from the busyness that marked the lives of her family. ‘I have a tin of biscuits, too.’ If she could just find them. She rooted around in a cupboard, moving vials and tins of other less edible items. Ah, there they were.
She set the tea things and biscuits down and poured the hot water. ‘So, tell me, who are we celebrating today? Let me guess. Anne is expecting? Or maybe William is coming home?’ Or maybe one of them was taking on Parliament again, healing the unhealable or any number of the amazing things Peveretts were raised to do. All except her, who preferred her quiet workshop.
Her mother calmly took a mug, her smile containing a hint of teasing smugness as she ke
Uh-oh. ‘That sounds ominous.’ The tension between her shoulders returned. She hoped ‘good news’ didn’t mean her father had a friend coming to dinner who happened to be in possession of an unmarried son. She was the last of the Peverett girls to marry—assuming she ever did, which was an assumption she and her mother disagreed on. She’d given up on marriage. She was quiet, unlike Thea. She was plain, unlike Thomasia and Anne. She would not settle for the sort of man who wanted a quiet, plain wife just to say she was married.
Her mother pushed an envelope forward. ‘This came for you. It looked important so I wanted to bring it right away. I think it’s the people you’ve been waiting to hear from.’
Becca slit open the letter, noticing the heavy, business-like weight of the paper. Her hand trembled in excitement as she unfolded it, her eyes quickly scanning the contents. It was indeed from Howell Manufacturing. She’d contacted them last month about her latest invention, a handheld ophthalmoscope. She noted the signature at the bottom, Winthrop Howell, head of acquisitions and productions. Her eyes went back to the top of the page and she forced herself to read slowly, once, then twice to make sure she understood. She didn’t want to get her hopes up. She’d applied for numerous patents before and been rejected each time until someone in the patent office had finally told her there was no chance of a patent being issued to a woman. She’d changed her tack after that, seeking to sell her device to a company and let them handle the patent. A man would get the patent, she was sure of it.
There was no mistake. She’d read it correctly. She looked up at her mother, incredulity in her voice. ‘They want to discuss a contract for the ophthalmoscope. They want to come for a visit in two weeks.’ Becca couldn’t stop smiling. It was going to happen, really happen this time. Surely they wouldn’t travel from Manchester for something they weren’t serious about. Her invention was going to be produced!
Her mother got up and hugged her. ‘That is wonderful, you’ve worked hard for this. I’m so proud of you.’ Her mother held her gaze and added seriously, ‘But I am always proud of you. I think sometimes you don’t understand that. Even if no one ever bought one of your inventions, you’ve still used them to make life for your neighbours better and that’s what matters: doing the most good where and when you can do it. You don’t have to be like Thea or Anne or Thomasia. You just have to be yourself.’
‘I know, Mother.’ Rebecca stepped back from the embrace, a little overwhelmed and a little embarrassed that her earlier thoughts might have been that transparent when it came to her siblings.
Her mother smiled and reached for her cloak. ‘We’ll celebrate tonight at dinner. I’ll have Cook find something special for dessert.’
Becca sank into her chair after her mother departed, reading and rereading the letter, relief filling her. At last, perhaps this meant her life could truly begin, that she wasn’t wasting her time in her cottage. She, too, could make contributions to the world. She admired and shared her siblings’ values of social justice, but she wasn’t like them. She wasn’t loud, she didn’t care to argue with others, which didn’t mean she couldn’t hold her own when she had to. She could argue if needed. Neither did it mean she didn’t want to be part of the fight. She just wanted to do with her inventions what her brother and sisters did with their words.
Her inventions would speak for her, they would be her words, if only she could find someone to listen. Apparently, she had. Howell Manufacturing had lent their ear. This was her chance. The invention had spoken for her as she had hoped it would. The only obstacle standing in her way now was the visit and what they would find when they came. Or, more to the point, who they would find. After her experience with patents, she’d not dared to sign her full name. Howell Manufacturing was expecting to visit R. L. Peverett. She’d deliberately not alluded to her gender in the letter, but she was not so naive as to believe they hadn’t assumed R. L. Peverett was male. She was also not so naive as to believe it wouldn’t matter. The question was, how much?
* * *
How long before his brother would go spare? Jules Howell leaned back in his chair on the guest’s side of the enormous, polished oak desk that signified the authority and power of the man who sat behind it, his none-too-clean boots propped on its pristine surface while he watched Winthrop’s face turn red, explosion imminent.
‘For heaven’s sake, Jules, get your feet off my desk. This isn’t one of those low-life taverns you frequent.’ Ah, there it was. It hadn’t even taken old Winnie a whole minute. His brother must be extra irritable today. Winthrop was only five years older than he was, but Win looked and acted at least a decade more.
‘Father’s desk.’ Jules couldn’t resist the correction, purposely making sure the heel of his boot bumped the white Carrera marble paperweight out of alignment with the inkstand as he swung his feet off the desk. That was for ordering him around. It was childish, he knew. But so was the way the family treated him. Was it any surprise he resented being summoned to the Howell Manufacturing offices when the family agreed he wasn’t capable of doing anything more than tramping around Europe, wining and dining clients whose business was all but assured?
‘What did you say?’ Winthrop glared and Jules’s short-lived satisfaction dissipated as Winthrop righted the paperweight.
Speaking of dissipated, Jules tipped his chair back on its hind legs and reached for the flask in his coat pocket. ‘I said, it’s Father’s desk.’ That would needle Winthrop more than nudging his precious paperweight even if it was only technically true. Winthrop sat at the helm of Howell Manufacturing these days, with their father taking a more distant role, coming by only to check that the coffers were still spilling over with riches. Jules twisted the cap off his pewter flask and took a long swig, grinning at the look of horror he’d managed to conjure on Winthrop’s face.
‘Lucifer’s balls, Jules, it’s not even noon.’ There, that was more like it. Lucifer’s balls was a real man’s expletive. He must really be getting to Win if his brother had forsaken his fussy ‘heaven’s sake’. There’d been a time when Winthrop hadn’t been so proper.
Jules winked and offered his brother the flask. ‘Want some?’ He laughed when Win shook his head. ‘Suit yourself, you’re the one that called an early meeting.’
Winthrop cleared his throat. ‘Yes, about that, we have business to discuss. We’re sending you to Hertfordshire to meet with an R. L. Peverett on the issue of acquiring production rights to a medical device he’s invented.’
‘Hertfordshire?’ Might as well as send him to the moon. It was just as desolate, just as wild. What the hell was an inventor doing living in Hertfordshire? The area wasn’t exactly known for its big cities. He took another long draught and swore. ‘Dammit, should have brought a bigger flask.’ He shook it in dismay. Four, maybe five swallows left. He’d need more than that to stomach this latest assignment. At least when they sent him to the Continent he knew all the good brothels.
Disgust crossed Winthrop’s face. ‘Watch your language, this is a place of business and you are the owner’s son. Try to act like it.’
Jules set his chair down with a thump and swept the office with an exaggerated glance. He leaned forward and said in a mock whisper, ‘I think we’re safe, there’s no one here but us.’ He waved his flask. ‘You sound like him, you know. Just like Father. I expected better from you, Winnie. You used to be a lot of fun.’
‘Don’t call me that. At least one of us has to be a credit to Father.’
That was it—the heart of every argument they’d had for the last five years. ‘Father needs you now? You’re still delusional, I see. Father doesn’t need anyone. We used to agree on that.’ They used to agree on a lot of things back in their twenties right up until Winthrop decided to be respectable, to grow up. Jules couldn’t quite forgive him for that. Winthrop had given him up in order to chase Father’s elusive favour.
