Cover art by Mitxeren
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He wasn't meant for a quiet life.
Philip Winthrop, Viscount Soulden, is a fop. An idle popinjay with nothing more on his mind than how to best knot his cravat. He definitely doesn’t spy against the French. Or arrange hasty weddings. Or occasionally commandeer the navy. And he certainly doesn’t seek out mortal danger in order to combat his pervasive ennui. It’s all just a big misunderstanding when he’s shot by a French intelligence officer during a merry riverside chase. And what a wonderful bit of quick thinking to pretend to be a corpse in order to get himself taken to the local surgeon's autopsy cellar. The French will never find him there. If the French are even looking for him. Which they’re not. Now he just needs to locate a way out before this surgeon fellow attempts to dissect him. He'd rather deal with the dead than the living. Surgeon Edmund Fernside does his best to heal the living, but in truth, he'd much rather look into the gaping chest cavity of a corpse than into the startling blue eyes of a...corpse that just climbed off his autopsy table. Well then. Lord Soulden is clearly a man with some complicated secrets. But with the French in hot pursuit and a rather brutal gunshot wound, Soulden’s not going anywhere anytime soon, and Fernside discovers that he enjoys the pleasure of his company. In more ways than one. Now, trusting each other could mean the difference between life and death. As Soulden learns to be still for the first time in his life, Fernside wonders if perhaps it’s time to spread his wings a little. They can only hide from the outside world—and from their pasts—for so long before the secrets they’ve uncovered about each other strain the growing attraction between them. Each man must decide whether a life of comfortable lies is preferable to one full of difficult truths. And whether the sanctuary they’ve created together is something worth fighting for. A Sanctuary for Soulden is the fourth book in the Lords of Bucknall Club series, where the Regency meets m/m romance. The Lords of Bucknall Club can be read in any order. |
"I can’t wait to see what happens next in this series. There is pathos and humor and just a lot of lovely details that keep me coming back for more. Highly recommended for wonderful plot, prose and romance."
- Love Bytes Reviews
- Love Bytes Reviews
An excerpt from A Sanctuary for Soulden:
Several hours and several rounds of billiards later, Soulden was more than ready to leave the club. He’d let Crauford win a game to restore the pride his sister had bruised; Lightholder had offered commentary on their play and insisted on challenging both the winner and the loser; and then Vaughan had stumbled over to offer Lightholder some tips and ended up putting a five-inch gouge in the baize. Idiots, all of them. Before Soulden could slip out the back, he caught sight of Lord Christmas Gale, on his hands and knees, searching under a table in the near-empty Green Room. This was a bit unusual, even for Christmas. Soulden walked stealthily over and stood behind him, then boomed, “Joy to the world.”
Christmas started, banging his head on the table. One hand pressed to the injury, he glared up at Soulden. “Pip,” he gritted out.
“What is it this time?” Soulden asked, trying to rein in his laughter. “Kidnapped child? Stolen artefact? Another secret passage, here in our very own club?”
Gale climbed slowly to his feet. “I’m afraid it’s the rather mundane case of where I left the monogrammed handkerchief recently gifted to me.”
“You’re calling it a case?”
Gale waved a hand. “Ben insists on using the term to annoy me, and I’m afraid it causes the occasional slip of the tongue on my part.”
Soulden nobly refrained from any sort of joke about where Gale had recently been slipping his tongue and focused on what truly mattered. “Ben?”
“I am concussed. Forget I said anything.”
Soulden raised his brows.
“Chant was so very pleased when he gave me the handkerchief, and so I do make it a point to use it in front of him—I tried the old ‘But it is so nice I hate to get it dirty,’ but that seemed to hurt his feelings—and now I’ve lost the bloody thing. If he finds out, he’ll think I lost it on purpose.”
“Did you?”
“Would I be crawling around here like a dog if I had?”
“How is your dog, by the way?”
“She’s Chant’s dog, and she eats and shits like any other.”
“And your newest sister?”
“Do not call her my sister.”
Ah, but Gale’s mouth twitched even as he said it. Soulden grinned slyly. “She is well, then.”
“As well as a recently orphaned child living in a house full of Gales can be.”
“How many is that, now? Sisters, I mean?”
“Chant says six. I say a baker’s dozen. And my mother says there are hordes out there that I still don’t know about. I’m starting to suspect she is older than the nine-and-twenty years she claims.”
“Your deductive skills truly are beyond compare. So you are attempting to solve a mystery of your own making to avoid hurting the feelings of a man who gave you a monogrammed handkerchief you do not even like?”
“And you are offering fully funded Scottish holidays to lovestruck young men with more ribbons on their hats than thoughts in their heads?” Gale lowered his hand from his own head. “Warry is so furious about it that Hartwell intends to buy him the horse he wants from Lord Stratford just to placate him.”
Soulden clapped his hands, delighted. “That fool would buy young Warrington an entire planet if he could.” He left his questions unspoken: And you? Would you buy your “Ben” a planet if you could? Is the whole world going mad around me? Pitiable, really, what a decent man might let himself be talked into in some desperate bid for eternal companionship. Gale, at least, had always had a good head on his shoulders. Soulden hoped that was still true.
“Mmm,” Gale replied.
Soulden plucked a non-existent bit of fluff off his coat. “Young Warrington made his displeasure known to me some hours ago. I suggested the two young men in question ran away and married for love. A sweet story, is it not?”
“You must be bored indeed, Pip.”
That hit Soulden rather harder than he’d like to admit. He was bored of late. So long as he was in London, he was bored. So long as he was attending routs and balls, he was bored. So long as he was listening to Crauford blather on about whist, he was bored. He almost missed the two little gnats he’d sent off to Gretna Green. “They’d have ended up dead or the subject of an opera, or both, if I had not intervened.”
“Mmm.”
“And I suppose I have been a little...bored.”
“If you like, I shall endeavour to put myself in another scenario that requires you to commandeer the Navy. Though I’m afraid the most interesting thing I have going on right now is finding this bloody handkerchief.”
“Kind of you to offer, though.”
They paused as the chronically shy Lord Stratford, hurrying through the room as though he’d just recalled his coach would turn into a pumpkin at midnight, mumbled a good night to them both, which they returned.
Gale continued, “You were shot at less than a week ago. What, precisely, do you require in order to consider life exciting?”
Soulden wished he knew. “How did you hear about that?”
“There is nothing I do not know.”
“Except where your monogrammed handkerchief is.”
“You are vicious, Pip.”
“When shall I expect my invitation to your wedding?”
Gale’s murderous stare was far more convincing than Warry’s. “When Hell has frozen cold as your heart. I shall never marry, and well you know it.”
Soulden caught a flash of movement in the doorway. A waiter. “Well, I wish I could stay and help you search. But I must take a long, ruminative walk along the river.”
“Ah, I did that just this morning. The sun shone as I walked, and I kept my head down and a bitter scowl on my face...it was perfection.”
“I prefer to look jaunty as I walk, and as though there is naught between my ears but air.”
“You do manage it well.”
“I know. I have a wonderfully vacant face.”
“I even stopped at Fernside’s and we cut open a chest cavity together. A delightful afternoon all around.”
Soulden made a face. “Fernside? That body-snatcher fellow?”
“Surgeon. He lets others do the snatching for him. And it is only bodies no one else wants.”
Soulden shuddered. He loathed corpses. Reminders of his own mortality or some such, he supposed. “Where was Ben in all of this?”
“Rehearsing a pageant with my sisters. Don’t ask.”
“I shan’t.”
“Enjoy your walk. If you see my handkerchief, let me know.”
“Perhaps it blew into the water, and I shall have to call the Navy.”
“We can only hope. Go on then, Pip. Go find some excitement along the river. You poor bastard.”
“At least I am not the one on my hands and knees for a man I shall never marry.” He gave a little wave.
It was always best to escape Gale when he’d delivered a winning blow in their verbal spars; it happened so infrequently that Soulden had learned to take the advantage when he could.
He bumped into the waiter as he passed, and the young man murmured an apology. Soulden brushed it off, feeling for the letter the fellow had slipped into the inside pocket of his coat in a smooth manoeuvre that would have made every pickpocket and cutpurse in Town applaud, had they seen it.
He set off for the river, whistling.
All in all, an excellent night. Most excellent.
Three hours later he was forced to reevaluate his position when he was shot in the back.
Several hours and several rounds of billiards later, Soulden was more than ready to leave the club. He’d let Crauford win a game to restore the pride his sister had bruised; Lightholder had offered commentary on their play and insisted on challenging both the winner and the loser; and then Vaughan had stumbled over to offer Lightholder some tips and ended up putting a five-inch gouge in the baize. Idiots, all of them. Before Soulden could slip out the back, he caught sight of Lord Christmas Gale, on his hands and knees, searching under a table in the near-empty Green Room. This was a bit unusual, even for Christmas. Soulden walked stealthily over and stood behind him, then boomed, “Joy to the world.”
Christmas started, banging his head on the table. One hand pressed to the injury, he glared up at Soulden. “Pip,” he gritted out.
“What is it this time?” Soulden asked, trying to rein in his laughter. “Kidnapped child? Stolen artefact? Another secret passage, here in our very own club?”
Gale climbed slowly to his feet. “I’m afraid it’s the rather mundane case of where I left the monogrammed handkerchief recently gifted to me.”
“You’re calling it a case?”
Gale waved a hand. “Ben insists on using the term to annoy me, and I’m afraid it causes the occasional slip of the tongue on my part.”
Soulden nobly refrained from any sort of joke about where Gale had recently been slipping his tongue and focused on what truly mattered. “Ben?”
“I am concussed. Forget I said anything.”
Soulden raised his brows.
“Chant was so very pleased when he gave me the handkerchief, and so I do make it a point to use it in front of him—I tried the old ‘But it is so nice I hate to get it dirty,’ but that seemed to hurt his feelings—and now I’ve lost the bloody thing. If he finds out, he’ll think I lost it on purpose.”
“Did you?”
“Would I be crawling around here like a dog if I had?”
“How is your dog, by the way?”
“She’s Chant’s dog, and she eats and shits like any other.”
“And your newest sister?”
“Do not call her my sister.”
Ah, but Gale’s mouth twitched even as he said it. Soulden grinned slyly. “She is well, then.”
“As well as a recently orphaned child living in a house full of Gales can be.”
“How many is that, now? Sisters, I mean?”
“Chant says six. I say a baker’s dozen. And my mother says there are hordes out there that I still don’t know about. I’m starting to suspect she is older than the nine-and-twenty years she claims.”
“Your deductive skills truly are beyond compare. So you are attempting to solve a mystery of your own making to avoid hurting the feelings of a man who gave you a monogrammed handkerchief you do not even like?”
“And you are offering fully funded Scottish holidays to lovestruck young men with more ribbons on their hats than thoughts in their heads?” Gale lowered his hand from his own head. “Warry is so furious about it that Hartwell intends to buy him the horse he wants from Lord Stratford just to placate him.”
Soulden clapped his hands, delighted. “That fool would buy young Warrington an entire planet if he could.” He left his questions unspoken: And you? Would you buy your “Ben” a planet if you could? Is the whole world going mad around me? Pitiable, really, what a decent man might let himself be talked into in some desperate bid for eternal companionship. Gale, at least, had always had a good head on his shoulders. Soulden hoped that was still true.
“Mmm,” Gale replied.
Soulden plucked a non-existent bit of fluff off his coat. “Young Warrington made his displeasure known to me some hours ago. I suggested the two young men in question ran away and married for love. A sweet story, is it not?”
“You must be bored indeed, Pip.”
That hit Soulden rather harder than he’d like to admit. He was bored of late. So long as he was in London, he was bored. So long as he was attending routs and balls, he was bored. So long as he was listening to Crauford blather on about whist, he was bored. He almost missed the two little gnats he’d sent off to Gretna Green. “They’d have ended up dead or the subject of an opera, or both, if I had not intervened.”
“Mmm.”
“And I suppose I have been a little...bored.”
“If you like, I shall endeavour to put myself in another scenario that requires you to commandeer the Navy. Though I’m afraid the most interesting thing I have going on right now is finding this bloody handkerchief.”
“Kind of you to offer, though.”
They paused as the chronically shy Lord Stratford, hurrying through the room as though he’d just recalled his coach would turn into a pumpkin at midnight, mumbled a good night to them both, which they returned.
Gale continued, “You were shot at less than a week ago. What, precisely, do you require in order to consider life exciting?”
Soulden wished he knew. “How did you hear about that?”
“There is nothing I do not know.”
“Except where your monogrammed handkerchief is.”
“You are vicious, Pip.”
“When shall I expect my invitation to your wedding?”
Gale’s murderous stare was far more convincing than Warry’s. “When Hell has frozen cold as your heart. I shall never marry, and well you know it.”
Soulden caught a flash of movement in the doorway. A waiter. “Well, I wish I could stay and help you search. But I must take a long, ruminative walk along the river.”
“Ah, I did that just this morning. The sun shone as I walked, and I kept my head down and a bitter scowl on my face...it was perfection.”
“I prefer to look jaunty as I walk, and as though there is naught between my ears but air.”
“You do manage it well.”
“I know. I have a wonderfully vacant face.”
“I even stopped at Fernside’s and we cut open a chest cavity together. A delightful afternoon all around.”
Soulden made a face. “Fernside? That body-snatcher fellow?”
“Surgeon. He lets others do the snatching for him. And it is only bodies no one else wants.”
Soulden shuddered. He loathed corpses. Reminders of his own mortality or some such, he supposed. “Where was Ben in all of this?”
“Rehearsing a pageant with my sisters. Don’t ask.”
“I shan’t.”
“Enjoy your walk. If you see my handkerchief, let me know.”
“Perhaps it blew into the water, and I shall have to call the Navy.”
“We can only hope. Go on then, Pip. Go find some excitement along the river. You poor bastard.”
“At least I am not the one on my hands and knees for a man I shall never marry.” He gave a little wave.
It was always best to escape Gale when he’d delivered a winning blow in their verbal spars; it happened so infrequently that Soulden had learned to take the advantage when he could.
He bumped into the waiter as he passed, and the young man murmured an apology. Soulden brushed it off, feeling for the letter the fellow had slipped into the inside pocket of his coat in a smooth manoeuvre that would have made every pickpocket and cutpurse in Town applaud, had they seen it.
He set off for the river, whistling.
All in all, an excellent night. Most excellent.
Three hours later he was forced to reevaluate his position when he was shot in the back.