Never Cross A Wallflower: Revenge of the Wallflowers, #2

By Sydney Jane Baily

Take one wallflower and thoroughly disgrace her.

Add an earl who thinks a jest is always in good fun.

Stir together with a spark of romance.

Sprinkle with the bon ton.

Bring to a boil with passion and vengeance.

Simmer through the London season.

Let cool with a breeze of regret.

Finish with a deliciously happy ending.

 

A Regency romance with wit, passion, . . . and cats!

Miss Evelyn Blythe is content with needlepoint and rescuing cats, intending no one a whit of harm – until the moment she is publicly humiliated for spite and sport. Game on!
 

Lord Percy Barrett, the fun-loving Earl of Flintshire, thinks his friend's sister is delightful exactly as she is. Quiet, yes, but she can take a joke or jest as well as any man. Then a prank goes too far!
 

Transforming from wallflower to wildflower, Evelyn dazzles the bon ton, all the while exacting her revenge. Becoming increasingly like the ladies she has always scorned, with her heart set on vengeance, will she lose the man of her dreams?
 

Engaging characters, attention to period detail, and passionate romance with a touch of intrigue – you'll find it all in the stories by USA Today bestselling author Sydney Jane Baily.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cat Whisker Press
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781957421230

Sydney Jane Baily

USA Today bestselling author Sydney Jane Baily writes historical romance set in Victorian England, late 19th-century America, the Middle Ages, the Georgian era, and the Regency period. She believes in happily-ever-after stories with engaging characters and attention to period detail. Born and raised in California, she has traveled the world, spending a lot of exceedingly happy time in the U.K. where her extended family resides, eating fish and chips, drinking shandies, and snacking on Maltesers and Cadbury bars. Sydney currently lives in New England with her family — human, canine, and feline. At her website, SydneyJaneBaily.com, you can learn more about her books, read her blog, sign up for her newsletter (& get a free book), and contact her. She loves to hear from her readers. To be notified of her new releases, please follow Sydney on BookBub or Amazon. Or you can connect with her on Facebook.

Book preview

Chapter One

December 15, 1829, London

Evelyn heard something between a yell and a curse. Since it was a man’s voice, and the only male she knew in the vicinity was her brother, she felt a frisson of alarm. Wondering what Graham was up to, she set aside her needlework on the sofa cushion with a thump of annoyance.

"Oh!" she exclaimed when a cat sounded its own annoyed hiss. Evelyn had entirely forgotten that one of their many rescues was nestled beside her. The ginger malkin protested her setting the lightweight needlepoint frame on its back, despite how she was stitching the likeness of a cheeky kitten on the piece of fine linen.

Setting the project on her other side, she stroked its head. I am dreadfully sorry, puss-puss, but I had best see if something’s amiss.

Much as Evelyn relished all aspects of the peaceful, solitary process of needlework, as well as embroidery and netting, even knitting and knotting, she felt it her duty to investigate.

In their fatherless home, with a somewhat distracted mother and Evelyn’s brother, Graham — the titular head these past three years — being still in the wilding stage of a man’s life, there was occasionally a reason for concern.

Sometimes, her brother came back to Berkeley Square exceedingly late, smelling of strong drink. Less frequently, he gambled at a club, although not enough to worry Evelyn or her mother.

Just doing what young men do, the Dowager Viscountess Shelby said.

Fortunately, Graham was capable of handling the estate he’d inherited, as well as the household accounts in London and their country home in High Wycombe. But he took too many chances with his safety.

He had fallen from his horse the summer before while racing his best friend, the young Earl of Flintshire, through Hyde Park in the morning mist. Luckily, he hadn’t been injured. But more recently, in autumn, Graham took a tumble while hillwalking along the path of Hadrian’s Wall, returning home with a bandaged ankle and a grinning Lord Flintshire.

The latter also slid down the loose rocks, suffering a scrape to his forehead that made the earl appear even more dashing, as far as Evelyn was concerned.

The masculine cry that had echoed down the stairwell from the upper floor of their London home could have been from their butler or one of the footmen, she supposed. Yet she doubted it, and thus, she hurried toward the staircase.

More rescued felines were either resting on stair treads or, if the mood suited them, racing up and down, chasing one another’s tails.

Evelyn ignored the furry minxes in all colors and varying states of stoutness and slinkiness. Heading straight to Graham’s office, she entered without announcement since the door was open.

She stopped at the sight of her brother’s best friend. How had she not known Lord Flintshire was under their roof? A familiar fluttering in her stomach’s pit was followed by the tight tying of her tongue.

Evelyn dropped into a curtsy, looking at the Persian carpet. She noticed Marmalade, their large, golden-orange, long-furred cat, resting under her brother’s desk.

Evelyn, her brother snapped, making her raise her glance to his, looking at eyes as deep blue as her own. His tone was not harsh, and a smile played about his lips. "Stop that appalling show of deference to Flint, or I shall lose my lunch. One of your cats nearly did him in, not that I would have lifted a finger to help him had it succeeded."

Did him in? Finally, she let her gaze settle upon the pleasing face and figure of Percy Barrett, Lord Flintshire, her brother’s lifelong friend and an earl in his own right.

Not because his father had died prematurely, however, like their own dear Papa. Lord Flintshire’s family possessed one of the oldest baronies in England, and his father preferred it to the earldom, thus, titled as Lord Singleton, while the son was ... a heavenly, chestnut-haired Adonis. Lord Flintshire!

Ever since she was old enough to take note of the coarser sex, Evelyn had noticed this particular divine example of it. Their interactions were nothing more than dining together at her family’s table, usually separated by a number of seats, or passing the earl in the hallway of her home when he visited her brother, or coming upon him unexpectedly like today.

In years, they’d exchanged a minimum of words, nothing more important than what was on the evening’s menu — fish or fish? he’d asked because their cook prepared a lot of it — or how the weather had been that day — cloudy with a little rain or cloudy with a little sun?

No matter whether he was teasing, she could recall every discourse, always wishing she didn’t feel like a ninny whenever he was near. He, on the other hand, was always flawlessly glib. When her brother and Lord Flintshire were being sociable, they might remain in the drawing room playing chess, while Evelyn and her mother did needlework or read — and listened to the men’s banter. Lord Flintshire and Graham poured gossip water as hot as any old women.

Today, Lord Flintshire was leaning his tall frame against the wall beside the window overlooking their back garden. At her entrance, he slowly straightened and uncrossed his arms. He didn’t hurry. As usual, he seemed unflappable, except she now knew it was he whom she’d heard yell.

And she knew why. One of his hands was bleeding into a handkerchief that was wrapped around it.

Regardless, he looked calm as ever. Good day, Miss Blythe. He fashioned a polite inclination of his head.

If only a skilled knot-worker hadn’t got hold of her wretched tongue.

I vow, Blythe, Lord Flintshire quipped, not taking his gaze from her, you have the quietest sister in all of Christendom.

Her brother sighed in exasperation, probably frustrated by such an awkward sibling, but it was Lord Flintshire to whom he spoke.

You know you should call me Shelby! Most of Graham’s other friends and acquaintances had made the switch from his family name to his titled name, but not his oldest friend.

You’ll always be plain old Blythe to me, be you a viscount, an earl, or even a duke! Then his merry, brown gaze turned back to Evelyn, and he raised an eyebrow at her continued silence.

Evelyn felt her cheeks heat. Speak, she ordered herself.

Good day, my lord. How were you done in? By a cat, I mean. How did the cat do you in? Sweet Mother! She should have stayed mute and been thought a fool rather than to have spoken and been confirmed one. Besides, perhaps he was not truly injured, merely playing another prank.

Wishing she had the aplomb to cross the room, take his large hand in both of hers, and tend to him — or reveal the wound to be red dye were it a prank—she shivered at the impossible yearning currently trickling down her spine.

A cat as huge and as golden as your pretty hair, Lord Flintshire explained.

Marmalade, Evelyn murmured, touching a wayward curl, both astounded that he made mention of her hair and suddenly perturbed that she was dressed so informally for staying at home.

Pardon me? the earl asked.

The cat. She pointed toward her brother’s desk, hearing her voice break awkwardly. His name is Marmalade. More orange than blonde but Evelyn didn’t mind the comparison. He was a beautiful boy.

Is it? Lord Flintshire nodded as if she’d said something worthwhile. Seems too sweet a name for the beastie who darted from under that chair just as I was crossing the room—

"Toward my brandy," her brother interrupted.

The earl let out a laugh that Evelyn felt resonating in her chest. A perfectly masculine chuckle.

True enough, he agreed. Before I could reach the French elixir, the great and ferocious Marmalade tripped me, and I reached out to break my fall. He stepped aside, revealing a broken pane of glass in the lower sash. I nearly toppled out the window.

Evelyn gasped. His hand might be slashed to ribbons under the crimson-stained cloth. Yet her brother merely shrugged and poured two brandies.

Sit, Graham ordered his friend, handing him a glass.

I cannot, Lord Flintshire said evenly.

Why the deuce can’t you? her brother demanded. Just push the animal off the chair.

Sure enough, Rory, a handsome black-and-white cat, was curled into a tight ball on the chair closest to Lord Flintshire.

The man gestured at Evelyn with his head, causing his thick hair to lift and fall back. Sable, a dark mink, her dun horse, one of her favorite cats — all the brown pelts came to mind, and her fingers twitched to touch his locks, desirous of discovering whether his hair was as soft as it looked.

Lord Flintshire cleared his throat, and her brother made an exclamation of disgust.

If you’re staying, dearest sister, then sit. Otherwise, my wounded friend may keel over from loss of blood and splay himself upon my newly cleaned rug, all while playing the gentleman for your sake.

Evelyn sat abruptly due to Graham’s startling words, more than because she had intended to stay, which she had not. Luckily, there was a chair behind her, or she might have been the one outspread on the floor. Also, fortunately, she didn’t squash a cat.

Don’t look like that, Miss Blythe, Lord Flintshire said. My injury is not terribly severe. The glass sliced my palm. Stings like the devil’s pr— ... like a wasp sting, I suppose. Still, he did not sit. Here, you look like you need this more than I do.

To her chagrin, the injured earl approached her and held out the glass of brandy.

Wordlessly, she took it, relishing the whisper brush of his fingers. How fortunate that he’d removed his gloves and that she had not been wearing any. Thrilling, in fact! She felt his touch like a searing brand. Not for the first time, she imagined what it might be like to kiss such a Corinthian male. Lord Flintshire was all the go and more, as far as she was concerned.

Her brother poured another drink for the earl. Finally, after using his good hand, holding the glass, to give Rory a nudge off the seat cushion, Lord Flintshire took both a chair and a long sip.

Delicious! Lord Flintshire proclaimed. Except I managed to get fur in the brandy already.

I think that’s why we are the best of friends, Graham said. We know when we go to one another’s homes, there will always be a good drink waiting, fur or not.

My home lacks something yours has, Lord Flintshire said. Something better than brandy.

Evelyn was tasting the amber liquor when she realized he was staring at her. Naturally, she choked, beginning to cough in an unladylike display, waving her hand around, thumping her own chest.

Her brother ignored her. "Better than brandy? As if such a thing were possible."

Lord Flintshire asked, Are you well, Miss Blythe?

Yes, she croaked, with her lungs aching and her throat seared by the fiery brandy.

Well, Flint? her brother demanded. What could be better than French gold?

Evelyn held her breath, which was difficult to do when she still wished to cough.

Lord Flintshire continued to watch her. Then he grinned and his disarming, single dimple made an appearance, snagging all her attention. "Your home has a veritable herd of cats," he said.

A clowder, she corrected without thinking.

A nuisance, her brother added, but he was fond of many of their rescued felines. Often, he allowed one to climb onto his lap.

The black one, Mr. Whiskers if she wasn’t mistaken, although it could be his brother, also Mr. Whiskers since they were as alike as two peas, chose that moment to come out from under her brother’s desk.

He stretched languorously and then sprang onto the burnished oak top, scattering a few papers as he did.

Graham made another noise of exasperation, but he reached out and gave the cat a fond chuck under its chin.

Lord Flintshire laughed. There is no other nobleman’s home in London where you can be sent flying across the room by one feline and have your important contracts sent dashing by another. And what did you call them, Miss Blythe? He wrinkled his brow. Chowder? I thought your cook had made some interesting fish stews, but don’t say cat chowder was also served to me.

Oh no, my lord, she said. "A clowder is simply a word for a group of cats. It’s from clodder and clutter, I believe, late 1700s."

Is that so? He appeared truly interested.

I assure you, we don’t eat them, she added. Not ever.

He was teasing you, Evelyn, her brother said.

Oh! She peered at Lord Flintshire. But his expression was not the least bit unkind. He had said his jest in good humor, not to belittle or mock her.

Your brother is correct, the earl confirmed. While I hadn’t heard the term before, I was fairly certain your good cook would not harm a hair on any cat’s head.

Silence fell again. Both men were staring at her. She realized she had barged in, and they weren’t going to continue their business until she left. Downing her drink with her best gracefulness, without choking or spluttering, she rose once more. Both the gentlemen followed to their feet, her brother somewhat reluctantly, but he couldn’t have his manners shown up by his friend.

Shall I have a maid come up with a bowl of warm water to clean your cut and some salve, too?

That is most kind of you, Lord Flintshire said. Thank you.

Don’t baby him, Graham said. Next thing you know, he’ll want to stay for dinner.

Evelyn fervently hoped he would, even if she did nothing more than watch him eat and converse with her mother and brother.

Not if you’re having cat chowder, the earl said, offering a friendly wink. Evelyn curtsied again and hurried to the kitchen to locate supplies to aid him, although she was not brave enough to return to her brother’s study. It might be too obvious that she had an interest in Lord Flintshire. If her brother thought so, she would never hear the end of it.

HOURS LATER, AFTER she had taken great care with her choice of gown — from which her maid, Joan, had dutifully brushed the cat fur — Evelyn entered their dining room. Often, when her brother was out, dinner was only she and her mother at a table grown too large in a room now too quiet.

As she approached the dining room, however, she heard her mother laughing. It was a beautiful sound, not heard often enough since Lord Shelby had passed away.

Entering, she spied the cause — Lord Flintshire. He was seated to her mother’s left, and he was laughing, too. It occurred to Eveyln while she took in his handsome visage that he was often in such a state of merriment. More so than her brother.

Both reputed pranksters at school, Lord Flintshire was an incorrigible Lord of Misrule all year round. She’d witnessed some of it over the years. Once, he had put a live bird under the large glass cloche on their dining room sideboard in place of the roast chicken. Her father had still been alive then, and he had laughed as loudly as anyone, although Cook had to be restrained from grabbing Lord Flintshire by the ear as though he were a naughty child.

Another time, the earl had tied one of Evelyn’s bonnets, left carelessly in the foyer, onto their most docile cat, and she had discovered it seated atop the piano. And once, Lord Flintshire had pretended he was going to make an introduction of a young lady purportedly interested in Graham. Yet the spirited brunette with large eyes turned out to be a filly he brought to the front door. Graham had laughed so hard he’d cried.

When she entered the dining room, Evelyn was exceedingly glad that she’d gambled on the earl dining with them and had taken extra time with dressing.

Don’t stand there, her brother said, rising from his seat. We’ve been waiting for a quarter hour. Now, I see why. You needn’t have polished yourself to such a shine. Not for old Flint here.

Evelyn felt her cheeks grow warm and probably redden, too. Her brother knew better than to thoughtlessly bring attention to her.

Lord Flintshire, who had also stood, circled the table and drew Evelyn’s chair out for her.

She glanced at his hand, which was bandaged but with no more evidence of blood. Knowing she ought to ask how he was or whether he might need stitching up, Evelyn said nothing simply because she could not.

When he pushed her chair in close, however, she would vow Lord Flintshire sniffed her hair before backing away.

Preposterous! She must have imagined feeling his breath close to her ear. But she certainly didn’t imagine his next words.

Miss Blythe was well worth the wait, he declared, startling her gaze up to lock on his kind coffee-colored eyes. The earl wasn’t laughing at her. Of that, she was certain.

My daughter is exceptional, her mother said, and Evelyn’s cheeks heated again. She need not wear her finest for her beauty and grace to show. Then she turned to Evelyn. But I like seeing you dressed up a bit, poppet.

Mortified, she wanted to sink beneath the floor. Her mother was making her brother’s remark worse by compounding the oddity of her appearing in something other than her day dress.

Graham made a sound of exasperation. If we have all finished fawning over Evelyn, who does look lovely — but then, she always does — let Flint continue his story.

You’ve heard it before, Lord Flintshire pointed out while the footman started to pour the wine.

But Lady Shelby has not. Have you, Mother?

Indeed, no.

There, Graham said. I can tell my mother was delighted with the beginning. And my sister will enjoy it, too. You may as well start over.

Good naturedly, Lord Flintshire did as requested, and soon had them all laughing. Graham had been correct in noticing their mother’s delight and in wishing for it to continue unabated.

Their father had passed unexpectedly, without even a long illness. He complained of blinding headaches one day and was gone the next. Evelyn and her brother would do anything to amuse their mother and lighten her heart.

Are you ladies attending the Yule ball? Lord Flintshire asked over a dessert of sweet, raspberry jam spongecake with thick rum custard.

Evelyn stared at him, fascinated by a little bit of the spongecake that had adhered to the side of his mouth, just above his upper lip. She ought to tell him, or gesture at the very least. Her brother would never notice, and her mother was too polite.

Feeling useless, anxiety tangling up her thoughts and her emotions, she could but stare, willing him to pick up his napkin and dab at the offending crumb.

He didn’t.

Finally, he noticed