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Blythe:
I also liked Sophie and her family. At the beginning of the book, the following
sentences had me LOL: Linda: Yes, I snickered at that, too, and my hubby kept asking me what was so funny. What I really liked was that she made Aunt Violet eccentric, but never went over the line into slapstick and she was so endearing that I could easily see why Sophie loved her and wanted to protect her. Sophie is a wonderful heroine with brains and spunk.” To read the discussion in its entirety, visit www.allaboutromance.com. :: (posted 2.10.03)
When he awoke on the morning of May 28, Mick Dunbar was not a happy man.
Today was
By late that afternoon, after getting a black eye from a drunken aristocrat,
a stern reprimand from his superintendent, and several less-than-amusing
birthday pranks played on him, Mick knew he'd been right. A very long day.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Half past four. He was supposed to
meet Billy and Rob at the pub for his birthday in half an hour. He hadn't
eaten all day, and his mouth watered at the thought of an underdone beefsteak,
a plate of chips, and a pint of ale, but he couldn't tolerate the idea
of leaving his desk in a mess. As he worked to put things back in order,
the sounds of the voices in the crowded room floated by him, but he didn't
really pay attention until a soft, West End, very feminine voice penetrated
his consciousness.
". . . and I really feel that it is my public duty to report this.
Being detectives, you'll know better than I how to resolve this situation.
I have no experience with this sort of thing myself. Murder, I mean."
Mick lifted his head at the mention of murder and saw a young woman seated
in front of Fletcher's desk, a woman who seemed ludicrously out of place
in the offices of Scotland Yard. He saw the profile of a slender figure
in a froth of pale yellow silk. Dozens of tiny, dark green bows trimmed
her dress, and many of them were untied. Long, untidy tendrils of chestnut
brown hair had come loose from beneath the unfashionable, wide-brimmed
straw hat she wore.
"After all," she said to Fletcher, "I saw the poor man
lying there, bloody, and dead as dead can be. I'm certain you'll be able
to do something."
Mick raised an eyebrow. Quite a startling statement from a woman who looked
as soft as whipped butter. This might be a case worth investigating.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned her head in his direction. When
she caught sight of him, her dark eyes widened with what appeared to be
complete astonishment. Fletcher began asking her the questions customary
to any police report, and she answered them without taking her gaze from
Mick's. "Haversham. Miss Sophie Haversham. 18 Grosvenor Mews, Mayfair."
Fletcher wrote down that information, then asked the very question that
was going through Mick's mind. "Now, what would a young lady such
as yourself know about a murder, Miss Haversham?"
"I think perhaps it would be best if I spoke with you about this,
Mr.--umm--" She broke off and glanced at the brass nameplate on his
desk. "Inspector Dunbar,"
she amended. As she sat down, Mick caught the delicate fragrance of her
perfume, something spicy and exotic, a scent he didn't recognize.
Though her clothes were expensive, her frayed cuffs told Mick the dress
was not a new one. Genteel poverty, he guessed. There were dozens like
her in the West End. She was nervous, twisting her gloved fingers together
and apart as if gathering her courage. That was understandable if she'd
found a dead body. Silent, she continued to stare at him with a sort of
apprehensive fascination he couldn't fathom.
Mick was accustomed to the attentions of women. He was a big man, tall
and dark, with blue eyes and a brawny body that many women found attractive.
He didn't get too swell-headed over the attention, though, because most
of the women he met were working-class girls who thought any unmarried
man with straight teeth and a steady job was a good catch. But this woman
wasn't that sort, and he found it odd that she was staring at him so intensely.
It bordered on rudeness.
Not that he minded. He stared right back and enjoyed the view. She had
thick-lashed brown eyes, and the soft, pampered ivory skin typical of young
ladies within her class. But when his gaze reached her mouth, Mick caught
his breath. There was nothing ladylike about that mouth. It was a wide,
generous cupid's bow with a plump, delicious bottom lip that would give
any man, including Mick, lustful thoughts and wicked intentions. It took
an effort for him to bring himself back to the business at hand.
He pushed aside a stack of files and reached for a pencil and notepaper. "You
said you've come to report a murder?"
She continued to stare at him in silence for several seconds, then suddenly
she shook her head as if coming out of a daze. "I'm sorry for staring,
but I'm a bit rattled, you see," she said, her trembling voice validating
the truth of her words.
"Murder is rather disconcerting, isn't it?"
Without waiting for an answer, she rushed on, "Oh, I've dealt with
a bit of crime here and there. Petty theft on the part of servants, and
merchants who try to cheat you by putting too few herring in the barrel
or shortweighting the flour, that sort of thing. And there are those street
urchins who look so innocent when they swarm around you and ask for money,
then there you are without your reticule or a farthing in your pocket.
Dealing with a murder, I'm afraid, is beyond my experience."
She paused for a quick breath of air, but not long enough for Mick to
get a word in. "Of course, there was the time that Mrs. Archer hit
Mr. Archer over the head with a frying pan. Cast iron. He died, but she
never meant to kill him, I daresay, just cosh him on the head, and
that's not the same thing as murder at all, is it?"
Mick stared at her, a bit stunned by the rapid stream of words. His carnal
imaginings about her lovely mouth were forgotten as she continued rambling
on about Mr. and Mrs. Frying Pan, and he wondered if she ever intended
to come to the point.
"I didn't ever dream such a thing would happen," she went on, "and
even if I had, I'm not certain I would have done anything to prevent it.
Archer was a cruel man indeed, and even though he was her husband, I still
say she was defending herself." Miss Haversham's nose wrinkled with
distaste. "He drank, and men who drink can be unpleasant, even violent." She
gestured toward Mick's face. "But then, you already know that."
Mick sat up straighter in his chair and felt a tingle along the back of
his neck. It was a sensation with which he was very familiar, a sensation
he usually got just before entering an opium den in Limehouse or turning
down a dark alley in Whitechapel after midnight. A sense that he'd better
watch his step and pay attention. "What do you mean?"
"Well, didn't a drunken man hit you?" she asked. "I'm getting
quite a strong impression that's how you received that black eye." Before
Mick could ask what had prompted her to such an impression, she spoke again,
a tiny frown drawing her brows together.
"Of course, I could be wrong. So many possibilities swirling around, and it's
difficult to sort it all out. I get muddled sometimes."
"Well, I didn't actually see it with my eyes, but the impressions
are so clear that I might just as well have witnessed it." Her frown
deepened. "I must confess, it's a difficult cross to bear, knowing
the things that I know."
Mick didn't have the slightest clue what she was talking about. "So
you have seen a murder?"
She lifted her head, looking at him with those pretty, chocolate-brown
eyes. "Of course. Isn't that what I've been telling you?"
There was no answer to that question. He tried again. "Where did
this murder occur?"
"I'm not exactly certain." She closed her eyes and tilted her
head to one side, causing a broken ostrich feather on her hat to fall forward
across her face. "I knew the police would want to know that, and I've
been trying to figure it out. I could clearly see greenery--trees, grass,
and such. There was a border of rhododendrons and a bronze statue, though
it had gone to verdigris, and those green statues are so hard to see amidst
the shrubbery, aren't they?" She opened her eyes and pushed back the
feather. "Of course! It was Robert Burns. So there you are."
Mick stared at her, feeling a bit dazed. He didn't know what Robert Burns
had to do with anything, especially since the fellow had been dead for
nearly a century. "I don't understand."
"The statue I saw was of Robert Burns. So the murder must be in the
Victoria Embankment Gardens."
"Must be? Don't you know where you were when you saw this murder?"
What did meeting him have to do with anything? A dull ache began between
his eyebrows. He tried another question. "Did you see a body?"
"Oh, yes." She gave a shudder and recoiled slightly in her chair. "I'm
so sorry to be the one to tell you about this."
"Oh, no, no, you misunderstand me. The murder hasn't happened yet,
thank God. If it had, you and I would not be having this conversation.
You see--"
"How could you possibly see a dead body from a murder that hasn't
happened yet?"
She took a deep breath and met his gaze across the desk. "I saw it
in my mind."
He didn't need this. He didn't need one of the loony ones today. He was
tired, he was hungry, and he was getting a headache. Rubbing his forehead
with the tips of his fingers, he thought with wistful longing of his steak
and chips. "It's lack of food," he muttered to himself. "I
should've eaten that pasty."
"But you hate mutton, don't you?"
"What?"
Mick lifted his head and stared at her, feeling again that little tingle
along the back of his neck. What on earth had made her ask that? How
could she know he hated mutton?
An explanation came to him at once. Billy and Rob. It had to be. His two
best friends were behind this. They had hired this girl to come to him
to report some incredible, silly, made-up crime. Another birthday joke.
She was a damned fine actress. They'd probably found her in some rundown
theater off Drury Lane. Now that he understood what his friends had done,
Mick's good humor began to return, especially when he began plotting how
to get them back. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at her. "How
much?"
She stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"How much did they pay you?" When she didn't answer, he went
on, "I'll tell Billy and Rob that this time they got me good and proper." His
smile widened.
"But I will get my revenge."
"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head in confusion. "I
have no idea who Billy and Rob are. Whoever they may be, they haven't 'gotten
you yet', as you put it. That's still to come, unless we can prevent it.
You see--"
"Really?"
he interrupted, laughing. "You mean there's more to their little joke?"
"Joke?"
Her confused expression changed to one of consternation. "I should
hope you don't find murder amusing. I don't, and I doubt you will either
once I tell you about it."
"No, wait." She rose as well, eying him in dismay. "I haven't
finished."
"Don't worry. I'm seeing the lads in just a few minutes, and I'll
be sure to tell them what a fine job you did." He pulled his jacket
from the back of his chair.
"Goodbye, Miss Haversham. If that's really your name."
He started for the door leading out to the courtyard, ignoring Fletcher's
grin as he passed the constable's desk.
"Wait,"
the woman cried, jumping up to follow him. "Please, listen to me.
I have to tell you the most important part." She caught up with him
just before the door and grasped his sleeve, desperate to stop him. "I
have to tell you who is going to die."
"Luv, I don't care if it's the prime minister." He shook off
her restraining hand and walked across the huge foyer to the entrance doors
of Scotland Yard.
She sounded so desperate that Mick gave in. Maybe she had to tell him the whole story or she wouldn't get paid. "All right, then," he said, laughing. "Who is going to be the victim of this murder in your mind that hasn't happened yet?" She put a hand on his arm and stared at him with what seemed to be compassion. "You are."
END OF EXCERPT. LIKE IT? ORDER IT!
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO NEXT?
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After
two American settings in a row, I decided to return to England for my
next book. All I knew was that I wanted to do a Scotland Yard detective
named Mick. I was thinking 1890's London, gaslights, fog, mystery. That
sounded good, but what sort of heroine did this Scotland Yard detective
really need to make his life hell?
"A psychic," I thought. The rational side of my mind shot that down at
once. I don't write paranormal fiction, I told myself. The only sort of psychic
I'd write would be a con artist, and I couldn't do that, since I'd written a pickpocket
in my last book. Nonetheless, the idea of a psychic heroine kept running through
my mind, again and again. The real thing. Visions of the future, telepathy, all
that stuff. And I knew Mick was going to be one of those logical, cynical, dot-the-i's-and-cross-the-t's
heroes--you know, the kind of man that would be driven crazy by a heroine who talks
about murders that haven't happened yet. I hope you enjoy Not
So Innocent.
“Excitement
and sexual tension mount with each turn of the page…keeping the passion
high and the reader riveted.” 
London,
1897
She
didn't answer. Instead, she stood up and circled Fletcher's desk, leaving
the bemused constable staring after her, his question still hanging in
the air. She came straight to Mick.
Mick
was not surprised. If there was an actual crime somewhere in all this,
he wanted the facts as quickly as possible. "Tell me about this murder
you saw."
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