Quarantinechef: Chocolate chip chewies

If you follow me on Instagram (why don’t you follow me on Instagram? @sarawrites), you’ve seen my efforts to stay well-fed during quarantine. Today’s recipe: my grandma’s famous, delicious, entirely binge-worthy chocolate chip chewies.

The best part about this recipe: it’s a bar cookie, which means you don’t have to drop 60+ cookies onto sheets, bake the sheets 1-2 at a time, and wait forever. Mix it up, bake for ~18min, and you’re good to go.

The other best part about this recipe: it’s so addictive that you would swear there’s cocaine or something in it. My gram had some tricks up her sleeve, but I don’t think cocaine was one of them.

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INGREDIENTS:

- 1 c white sugar
- 1 c brown sugar
- 2/3 c butter, softened
- 3 eggs
- 1 tsp vanilla
- 1.5 tsp salt
- 1 tsp baking powder
- 2 c flour (I use gluten free)
- 1 12oz package chocolate chips (I use Ghirardelli)

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INSTRUCTIONS:

Step 0: preheat oven to 375

Step 1: cream together 1 c white sugar, 1 c brown sugar, and 2/3 c butter. I use a hand mixer for this, then use a spoon to make sure I’ve creamed all the little bits of brown sugar.

Step 2: add 3 eggs, 1 tsp vanilla, and 1.5 tsp salt. Mix to combine.

Step 3: Add 1 tsp baking powder and 2c flour. I usually add my flour in 1/2c increments to make it easier to mix in.

Step 4: fold in chocolate chips

Step 5: grease a baking sheet (I use butter but you can use nonstick spray) and spread the batter evenly across the sheet.

Step 6: bake for 15-20min at 375 (I almost always bake approx 18mins, until the top is brown but not burned)

Step 7: let cool for a few minutes, then cut and enjoy!

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PRODUCTION NOTES:

• Leave a comment after you realize that you can’t stop yourself from eating an entire row just to ‘even out the pan’

• These freeze super well - let cool, cut into whatever size you want, and bag them up. This enables you to have a cookie any time without the compulsion to ‘even out the pan’ and eat the whole gd batch in one go

• In Colorado, this expands a bit at altitude. Use a slightly bigger cookie sheet or put a sheet/foil under it to prevent it from dripping over the edge. I haven’t bothered to adjust the recipe for altitude - the taste is still perfect

• Gluten free flour is basically indistinguishable from regular flour in this recipe. I use the Cup 4 Cup flour (French Laundry’s gf flour) and don’t have to tweak anything else

Release giveaway for Duke of Thorns!

Duke of Thorns came out on November 12, and I'm celebrating by giving away giftcards to your favorite ebookstores. Enter below - sweepstakes closes on November 20. Please note that the giveaway is US/Canada only due to varying regulations in different countries - but if you're in the US or Canada, you can enter as much as you want :)

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DUKE OF THORNS sneak peek!

I'm excited to announce that Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games #1) is coming in the next two weeks. This book features Gavin, the Duke of Thorington, who starred as the villain in The Earl Who Played With Fire. He meets his match in Miss Callista Briarley, one of the last heiresses of a scandalous family who is about to create an entirely new scandal of her own. I'll post buy links as soon as they are available, but to whet your appetite, you can read the first chapter below. Enjoy! And I can't wait to share the rest of the story with you in the next couple of weeks!

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Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean - February 1813

She was going to die.

And when Callista Briarley found her watery grave, as her father had six years earlier, she would deserve it.

The rasp of blade against bone drew her attention as soon as she entered the officers’ dining room, new and horrifying enough to bring it to the fore over the firing of twenty-four pounders and hoarse, shouted orders from the deck above. Callie swallowed.

Briarleys always died pursuing something stupid. Callie should have known this voyage would kill her.

Captain Jacobs had assured her it would be an easy victory, a matter of minutes. The merchant ship they were trying to capture was outmanned and outgunned. But he hadn’t anticipated the appearance of a British warship. That’s when he had ordered her below, sending his cognac with her. As though she was cargo, and not the ship’s owner.

It was her fault the man was here. It was her fault they were all here. If she survived the battle, she would have to fix it.

She waited until the surgeon had finished, not wanting to distract him with her presence. Callie’s maid, Mrs. Jennings, and two cabin boys held the injured sailor down in case he awoke before the butchering ended. She swallowed again as the saw slid through the last bit of flesh. The surgeon grunted as he caught the arm, then handed it to the cook’s mate, casually, like it was a shank of lamb instead of a man’s limb.

She took a breath and joined her maid at the head of the table. “How can I help?” she asked.

“You shouldn’t see this, miss,” Mrs. Jennings said.

“No one should. But since I am here, I may as well do something.”

The surgeon ran a knife through the flame of the lamp, heating it until it was red hot. She forced herself to watch as he pressed it against the stump of the man’s arm. She didn’t bring a handkerchief to her nose as the smell of burning flesh overwhelmed her. The sailor stayed blessedly unconscious, but Callie watched it all, bearing witness.

She had agreed to let her men become privateers. Captain Jacobs’s persuasive nature, so like her father’s, had convinced her.

But this…

The sizzling stopped. The cannonfire continued.

The surgeon ordered one of the cabin boys to swab and sand the floor in preparation for more patients. The cook’s mate and the other cabin boy carried the sailor off to a berth. Callie waited until they were gone, then started to pace again.

“Don’t even think of going above, Callista Briarley,” Mrs. Jennings warned.

Her lady’s maid, who had been her nursemaid as a child, knew her too well. “I want to do something,” Callie said.

“You have to learn someday that you cannot fix everything,” Mrs. Jennings said. “This is something you cannot fix.”

Callie stared at her for a moment. Mrs. Jennings somehow looked serene, even with blood splattered over the apron she’d quite sensibly donned before assisting the surgeon. Her hair had greyed a bit since she’d left England with the Briarleys nearly twenty years earlier, and she’d added at least two stone of weight to her short, formerly slender frame. But she was just as imperturbable as always.

Callie, by contrast, was perturbed. Very perturbed. And she was sure she looked wild enough to give her emotions away.

“I will fix it,” Callie said. “I will fix all of it.”

“You can’t very well fix that poor man’s arm,” Mrs. Jennings said gently. “Nor can you decide whether we drown. You’d do much better for yourself if you had a bit of whisky and waited for this to be over.”

Sometimes Callie hated how well Mrs. Jennings knew her.

“Captain Jacobs gave me cognac,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t think I have the stomach for cognac and whisky both.”

“I’m sure you would if you tried. You can stomach more than a lady should.”

“Are you encouraging my hoydenish ways now?” Callie asked. “If I’d known a sea battle was all it took, I would have done this years ago.”

“Hoydens are more useful in sea battles than ladies are,” Mrs. Jennings said frankly. “Drink your cognac, and we can discuss your manners in the morning.”

Callie smiled. But she didn’t take her maid’s advice. She paced instead, waiting.

It felt like an eternity, but it must have been only another five or ten minutes before she heard a most welcome sound. The shouting above turned, in an instant, from battle cries to celebration. And Callie realized the guns had stopped.

She rushed out of the cabin and scrambled up the ladder-like stairs before Mrs. Jennings could remind her to behave herself. The deck teemed with men — most of whom appeared to be whole — and was partially shrouded with fallen sails. She looked instinctively to the mast. Her colors still flew.

She whooped — a scream of vicious, victorious joy that a woman wasn’t supposed to feel, let alone give voice to. If she were gentler, more ladylike, she would have immediately thought of the loss of life and limb, of the brutality of men and their warlike ways. She probably should have fainted, or at least pretended to.

But despite all her misgivings, she still liked to win. And the fact that her men had won — and against the British in the bargain — gave her swift, sharp delight. If she’d remembered her hat, she would have tossed it in the air.

She would put a stop to their privateering. But she understood the appeal of victory.

Captain Jacobs was too observant to miss the moment when her voice joined the din. “Ahoy, Miss Briarley,” he shouted from his post near the wheel. “I give you His Majesty’s Adamant.”

He gestured grandly toward the ship next to them. It had suffered more than her own Nero, which was a rather stunning fact. Nero was a sloop, designed more for speed than direct assault, and had been refitted for battle only a few months earlier. Adamant had been purpose-built for combat, but had somehow been outgunned despite its superior strength.

Some of her men had boarded Adamant and were herding the British sailors below decks. She watched the proceedings for a few moments, her pleasure slowly cooling. By taking a British frigate in his first engagement of the cruise, Captain Jacobs would be more convinced than ever that privateering was their destiny.

She picked her way over the ropes and rigging to join him near the wheel. “You must be pleased with yourself, Captain Jacobs,” she said as soon as she could talk without shouting.

The captain laughed. “Cognac settled your nerves, did it? Always knew you’d come around. I told you this would be over within minutes. Nero can prevail against all but the worst enemies.”

Even though he had just won a great victory, Callie privately doubted that Nero was as good as he boasted. Nero had started as a merchantman, part of the fleet her father, Lord Tiberius Briarley, had won at a card table in Jamaica in ’05. The man he’d won it from had shot himself as soon as he’d sobered up and realized what he’d lost. Lord Tiberius had relocated with alacrity to Baltimore, taking Callie but leaving her mother’s grave behind.

She’d never quite forgiven him for that. Not that it mattered. Tiberius did what Tiberius wished to do.

And when he had wished to seek out a new fortune in the Orient in ’07, Callie had stayed behind in Baltimore. She’d left enough homes behind. At seventeen, she was more interested in refurnishing the Baltimore house than she was in smuggling opium.

At eighteen, when she got word that he’d gone down with his ship, her desire for a home only grew.

But homes required money. And the only money she had was tied up in Tiberius Shipping. In the last five years, Callie had grown it into a thriving business, with Captain Jacobs ostensibly at its head. His wife had chaperoned her, rather ineffectually, and they had both let her have her way with the enterprise. Between Callie’s business sense and the captain’s knowledge of the ships under their command, Tiberius Shipping had become a significant part of Baltimore’s maritime economy.

The war, though, had changed everything. And with the embargoes against American commerce in Europe and the British blockade descending around Baltimore, there was more money to be made from privateering than from commerce.

Provided, of course, that one didn’t think too closely about the danger of such endeavors.

She wished Jacobs would have confined himself to their agreement, looking only for easy targets. “It’s a shame you had to shift your efforts to the frigate instead of taking the merchant prize,” Callie said.

Captain Jacobs grinned. He was in his early forties and had spent nearly his whole life at sea, adding deep grooves to the corners of his eyes and a dark tan that Callie might match if she kept forgetting her hat. But for all the discipline and difficulty of life on the water, the captain still had a sense of humor.

“I didn’t say I failed to take it,” Jacobs said. “I merely forgot to present it to you.”

He gestured starboard. At a distance of nearly half a league, the merchantman should have been able to escape them while they dealt with Adamant. But she had been completely unmasted and now floated, helpless, waiting for capture.

Callie held out her hand for Jacobs’ eyeglass. She brought the ship into focus and saw men standing, rather glumly, along the rails, watching Nero for their next maneuver.

“How did you take them both?” she asked.

“That ship, Crescendo, must have the worst luck. She could have escaped when Adamant arrived — we’d only exchanged two or three volleys, suffering no injuries ourselves, but we had to turn all our efforts to Adamant. But the fools didn’t take their opportunity. And then Adamant, in one of the worst displays of gunnery I’ve ever had the privilege to witness, overshot us completely with their first round and took Crescendo’s mast clean off. If the captain isn’t courtmartialed for it, the British have gone soft.”

“And where is the captain of Adamant?” Callie asked.

“Surrendering his sword to my first mate, if he knows what’s good for him,” Jacobs said. “My first mate will take Adamant to Havana for the prize court to distribute, if it’s not too damaged to sail. And we’ll continue there as well, either towing Crescendo or sinking it if we need to set a faster pace. Once we’re all safely arrived there, you can buy passage on to England as you planned.”

They were still a week out from Havana, with any number of hostile British ships between them and their destination. Callie looked across to Adamant again, using Jacobs’ eyeglass this time. As he’d said, the British captain was surrendering his sword, looking deeply chagrined. He had a smudge of soot across his cheek that looked utterly out of place with his crisp officer’s coat and sharp, patrician features. Whatever he was saying to the first mate looked like it was meant to be a threat, but the first mate just laughed it off and tucked the sword under his arm before gesturing the captain toward the hold.

Adamant’s captain looked over at Nero. She dropped the eyeglass. Seeing the man’s face in such close relief didn’t bring her pleasure. But at thirty yards, the set of his shoulders made his anger obvious. He shaded his eyes to look at Captain Jacobs, as though memorizing whatever he could of the man who had beat him. Then his gaze swept over her, contemptuous. He’d already dismissed her.

She handed the eyeglass back to Captain Jacobs. “You’ve made yourself an enemy there,” she said as the British captain went down into the hold of the ship he’d lost. “I’m sure he expected to be given his sword back after the surrender ritual.”

“Cowards don’t deserve their swords,” Jacobs said. There was no humor in his voice as he said it. “He disabled Crescendo and struck his own colors well before they were at the point of going under. He won’t be on the seas enough to trouble me if that’s the best he can offer.”

“I’m beginning to reconsider our arrangement,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to court such dangers.”

Jacobs laughed. “That ship has sailed, if you’ll pardon the joke. If you want to tell the crew they’re to stop earning prizes when they’ve just succeeded, you’ll need more than me at your back. And I won’t be there — I’ll be leading the mutiny against you.”

He still sounded jovial. Nothing would prick his mood that day. But there was steel in his voice.

And she couldn’t do anything about it. Not when the men would listen to their captain instead of their owner.

He continued as though he hadn’t threatened her. “You should go below again, Miss Briarley. You’ll grow cold up here once the excitement wears away. No need for your services until we assess the value of Crescendo’s cargo, and that will have to wait until we set ourselves to rights. We’ll find you a pretty bauble in their hold. You’ll feel better about all of this when you see your share of the prize.”

She didn’t obey immediately. But he didn’t expect her to. He just left her standing where she was, rooted to the deck.

The unfairness of it all held her pinned. She nibbled on her thumbnail, a habit she returned to when she forgot her gloves. Capturing merchant ships and striking her own blow against the British had seemed like a decent enough plan. The American government was willing to grant privateering licenses to supplement its inadequate navy, and it felt like half the ship owners in Baltimore had become privateers since the war had begun. Jacobs was happier than she’d ever seen him, putting his old battle skills from the British Navy into better use. He’d never been much for business. He’d been content enough letting her manage the sales and manifests while he sailed his own ship and acted as a figurehead.

But when she’d agreed to his plan to turn her ships into privateers — naïvely, she could now admit — she had thought they would only take commercial vessels. She hadn’t expected to go up against the very British Navy that her captain and half her crew had deserted from over the years. Not that she had any pity for the Navy — if they insisted on mistreating their sailors so dramatically, they deserved to lose them.

The Navy wouldn’t see it that way, though. If they captured her British-born sailors, they would immediately press them back into service. They needed warm bodies to fight Napoleon, and their brutal discipline would force obedience. They would imprison the Americans, letting them languish in horrid conditions while waiting for a prisoner exchange.

And, she supposed, there was a possibility she could be imprisoned as well. Even more unlikely, since no one in the Navy would believe a woman capable of running a privateering enterprise. And she was technically British, not American. But that wouldn’t make it easier for her to sleep at night.

Callie sighed. She went below, reluctantly. It felt cruelly unfair to leave the victory to the men while she hid in the shadows, pursuing a more clandestine strategy. But she would follow through with her plan.

When she reached her cabin, Mrs. Jennings was there. “Did you fix everything?” her maid asked.

“You are not setting a good example for my tongue,” Callie said. “Don’t you always say sarcasm is unbecoming?”

Mrs. Jennings smiled. “You may pretend it wasn’t sarcasm if you’d like to answer the question.”

“Then, as a matter of fact, I did fix everything. Not the poor man’s arm, of course. But Captain Jacobs took two ships. We aren’t in danger of drowning. And I’ve decided to wear my hat and gloves for the rest of the voyage.”

Her maid looked more shocked by the last statement than the first. “Have you taken ill, Miss Briarley?”

“No,” Callie said. She smoothed a finger over her ragged thumbnail. “But I have the Briarley name to think of.”

“You have never cared for the Briarley name.”

“Of course I haven’t. But if I’m to become the Briarley heiress, I must maintain appearances.”

Mrs. Jennings’s mouth dropped open. “I thought you weren’t going to accept. You said we were going to England to wait out the war.”

Callie had refused every offer to return to England after her father had drowned on his final, quixotic voyage. Lord Tiberius Briarley had been a conniving charlatan — but he had also been the youngest son of the Earl of Maidenstone. Her grandfather had insisted, repeatedly, that she move to England, but she had declined. Her father often lied, but his hatred of his father had seemed genuine.

She should have refused the most recent invitation as well. The old man was dead now, leaving terms that seemed purpose-built to make her and her only remaining female cousins fight over Maidenstone Abbey and the rest of the estate. The man her grandfather had left in charge of settling this farce — Ferguson, the Duke of Rothwell and her closest male relation on her grandmother’s side — had invited her to a summer house party at Maidenstone.

It wasn’t a party, though. It was a matchmaking opportunity, with a single goal in mind — whichever girl made the best match, according to Ferguson’s judgment, would inherit the estate.

It was ludicrous.

She had very nearly turned it down. She didn’t want a husband. From what she’d seen, husbands were only good for kissing and making babies. If she married, the man would want her to keep his house and follow his lead until he buried her.

She’d far rather run a shipping company and sacrifice the kissing, if it meant she could follow her own lead.

But with the war escalating, she’d felt she had no other choice. She wasn’t wanted in Baltimore, either. Her father had never bothered to become an American, and some factions in the republic’s government wanted to see British citizens like her removed from major ports like Baltimore, no matter her allegiances.

Callie saw the writing on the wall. Captain Jacobs wouldn’t bow to her command, not when he had bloodlust and prizes dancing through his dreams. The American government could order her removed from the coast at any moment, costing her the comfortable, if lonely, life she’d built in Baltimore. She thought she could bribe the authorities to let her stay, but if she could not, the alternative was untenable.

She had nowhere to go.

Callie didn’t give a fig for the Briarley legacy, or for Maidenstone Abbey. But the idea of winning it, of having something permanent…

She liked the sound of that. Even if it meant marrying someone she didn’t particularly care for. This business with Captain Jacobs had reminded her, cruelly, of her place. She couldn’t rely on a friendly business agreement to control her company, or her life. She needed a husband, preferably one who could be trained — one who would let her use his name for her own ends. If she became a widow, even better.

She was already a privateer. She may as well become a mercenary. It was a good plan, if she ignored the morality of it — and what marriage to an unloved stranger might mean.

Callie pulled on her gloves like they were gauntlets. “Find me a hat, Mrs. Jennings. I must find the most easily managed husband in England. And I must look the part of a lady if I’m to do it.”

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The Earl Who Played With Fire release and giveaway

I'm so thrilled to announce that the fourth book in the Muses of Mayfair series, The Earl Who Played With Fire, is out now! You can buy it on Amazon, B&N, Google Play, Kobo, or Apple. To celebrate, I'm giving away several giftcards - see the Rafflecopter below. And I'm also making a special offer to those of you who read the book early - if you buy The Earl Who Played With Fire before December 17, you can receive an exclusive extra epilogue!

To claim your special gift:

• Buy The Earl Who Played With Fire from any retailer before December 17
• Forward your receipt (either the email or a picture of your receipt) to giveaways@sararamsey.com (please black out any sensitive information - I don't want your credit card number!)
• Check your email on December 21 for the extra epilogue

Thanks for your support, and I hope you enjoy Prudence's story!

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The Earl Who Played With Fire - Preview

THE EARL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE is the fourth book in the Muses of Mayfair series. Check the purchase page for buy links, or read the first chapter below.

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London, March 1813

Miss Prudence Etchingham was expected to admire the paintings. Instead, she covertly admired the man standing across the room. His back was to her. She preferred to see his face, but this angle had its own charms. His shoulders were broad, capable of carrying something heavier than the burdens of an earldom. His dark hair could have been wild if he weren’t quite so proper. The tails of his coat obscured his backside, but they accentuated his well-toned legs.

Not that Prudence should have noticed his legs. She shouldn’t have noticed anything about him. But after years of secret study, she knew every curve of his smile, every line on his face.

And when she let herself daydream — as she often did — she could pretend that he had given her his love, not just his charity.

“Fascinating exhibit, don’t you think?” her friend Ellie said.

Mr. John Soane’s townhouse had some of the best artifacts in London, and he regularly allowed others to attend public viewings of his collection. Prudence turned to her friend and strove for an innocent expression. “It is vastly intriguing.”

The marchioness laughed and lowered her voice. “I may be married now, but I haven’t lost all my observational powers. When do you plan to tell Salford of your feelings?”

Prudence glanced back at Alex — the Earl of Salford, if she was being proper. There were enough people between them to dampen Ellie’s voice, but not enough to block the view. “If he wants me, he knows where to find me.”

She had lived in his house for months. Her mother, Lady Harcastle, had attempted to arrange a marriage for Prudence the previous summer, but the engagement had died before it was announced. If Alex’s mother hadn’t offered Prudence a position as her companion out of pity, Prudence’s care would have been foisted off on a cousin instead.

Her mother didn’t have the money for another Season, particularly when Prudence was such a bad investment. She only had enough funds left to move between relatives and snipe at Prudence for her failures.

Ellie leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Men can be quite stupid. It took Nick a decade to come to his senses and come home to me. If you can help Salford to realize his feelings sooner, it’s better for both of you.”

Prudence shook her head. “Nick knew he loved you. He merely had to act upon it. Lord Salford has made no such overture.”

“Men,” Ellie pronounced. “I think he is besotted with you.”

Prudence glanced toward Alex again. This time, she caught him watching her instead of the paintings.

She knew why myths and Biblical tales featured so many fools who looked back and died because of it. She’d never been able to ignore the temptation of looking at him. But today, his gaze killed her. He stood under a skylight, seemingly lit up just for her. She would always remember him like that, half-turned toward her, his body poised halfway between seeking her out and stepping back into the shadows.

Her breath caught. She met his eyes. She always met his eyes, hoping to see something there that would give her an answer.

The beam of sunlight was blotted out by an errant cloud. His eyes dimmed. Prudence dropped hers, not needing to watch as he turned back to the paintings.

She had to stop looking, stop searching for the heart he would likely never give her. She focused resolutely on Ellie. “If he is so besotted, he can tell me. I’ve better things to do with my time than wait for him.”

Ellie was gracious enough — or perceptive enough — not to ask what those things were.

Or perhaps she would have asked, if given time, but they were interrupted before Ellie could continue her campaign. “Lady Folkestone,” the newcomer said, bowing over Ellie’s hand. “I thought we had lost you to that uncultured man you married. You must stop in to my shop and select a wedding present.”

Ellie laughed. Her new husband, the Marquess of Folkestone, was a wealthy trader who had unexpectedly inherited the title. “I’m not lost. Our honeymoon didn’t end until a week ago. Still, you should be careful not to insult my husband to his face or he might run you out of business.”

“I trust you’ll disarm him,” Ostringer said.

It was odd banter — but then, Ellie knew everyone in the ton and half the people outside it, and she seemed to share some private joke with all of them. Her smile was supremely satisfied. “No need to disarm him,” she said. “The ton will never believe it, but marriage suits us.”

Prudence felt a little kick of jealousy — just enough to hate herself for it. Her three closest friends had married wealthy, titled men in the past year. All of them had been love matches.

She was still enough of her old self to be ashamed of how jealous she was. But her new self had bigger problems.

And one of those problems stood in front of her, pretending to be a stranger. Ellie turned to Prudence. “Miss Etchingham, may I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He owns an antiquities shop of some renown.”

Prudence held out her hand as though she and Ostringer had never met. “How do you do, Mr. Ostringer?”

“Charmed, Miss Etchingham,” he said, bowing over it and betraying nothing.

“My dear friend has a passion for antiquities,” Ellie said to the shopkeeper.

Ostringer lifted first one eyebrow, then the other, as though this fact surprised him. It nearly made her laugh even after all these months. Perhaps the gesture amused her because his brows were so prodigious. They rioted under his equally riotous iron grey hair. He was tall, slightly heavyset, but still agile. He must have been nearing sixty years of age, but beyond his hair and the web of lines around his eyes, there were few signs of decay.

“How unusual,” he said. “I thought lovely young ladies such as yourself would be more interested in dressmakers than antiquities purveyors.”

His statement was innocuous. She responded in kind. “Young ladies are becoming remarkably daring in the modern age, Mr. Ostringer. An interest in antiquities isn’t unusual.”

Ladies were permitted to have a casual interest in antiquities, particularly as it pertained to decorating their homes. No one liked it if they attempted to make a scholarly career of it, though. Mr. Ostringer smiled. “I thank you for the modern age. If you will pardon my unseemly mention of business matters, my shop does better when the fairer sex embraces yet another decorating scheme.”

“The fairer sex and the Prince Regent,” Ellie said drily.

Ostringer laughed. “His Royal Highness would be a better ruler if he spent less time redesigning his palaces, but he’s doing quite a good job for me.”

“Surely you’re more civic-minded than that,” Prudence teased.

“Don’t mistake me, Miss Etchingham. I want the best for Britain. But if the best happens to sell more antiquities…”

He shrugged. His smile was pleasant, but there was something sharp about Ostringer’s face that his laughter and wild eyebrows couldn’t hide. Prudence suspected he could be quite ruthless. But he had not yet been ruthless with her.

Ellie laughed, but whatever comment she might have made about Ostringer was lost when her husband joined them. “My lord,” Ellie said to the marquess. “May I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He keeps an antiquities shop in Mayfair.”

Another man might have had heart palpitations at the thought of his wife associating with a shopkeeper, but Nick was either a better man than most, or he had come to terms with Ellie’s odd social circles. He shook Ostringer’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ostringer. I believe I can hold you responsible for half the contents of my home.”

Ostringer nodded. “I would be pleased to provide more, should your wife choose to redecorate again.”

Nick wrapped his arm around Ellie’s waist — not particularly proper, but then, neither of them were particularly proper. “I’m sure she will someday. But I plan to keep her too entertained to think about it for at least a decade.”

Ellie blushed. She rarely blushed. With her red hair, it was quite the sight.

Prudence felt another stab of jealousy. Ellie and Nick were newly wed, and the love between them still burned hot enough to scorch innocent bystanders. She looked back at Alex, driven by an instinct that overruled all common sense. But he wasn’t where he’d been before. He must have left the room without her noting it.

And without inviting her along.

She’d missed whatever Ellie’s reply had been, but Nick laughed — something low and magical, as though he’d forgotten that they had an audience. “Will you come to the staircase with me?” he asked Ellie. “I have something I wish to show you.”

Prudence very much doubted that Nick cared for most of the art in Soane’s house — he just wanted Ellie to himself. But Ellie nodded and turned to Prudence. “Do you mind if I leave you for a moment?” Ellie asked. “Not that you need my chaperonage at an event such as this.”

Prudence waved her away. “If you had told me a year ago that the infamous Lady Folkestone would chaperone me, I would have vowed to eat my hat. I’m sure I won’t get into any mischief worse than what you would push me into.”

Ellie’s sly smile said she would happily push Prudence into mischief if given half a chance. But she said her farewells as though nothing was amiss. That left Prudence with Ostringer, who thankfully still pretended he didn’t know her. “Have you seen Mr. Soane’s pottery collection, Miss Etchingham?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Lady Folkestone insisted on viewing the paintings while the light was still good.”

Mr. Soane had installed clever skylights and windows, just as he had when designing the Bank of London, so the entire collection was more visible and vibrant than anything one usually saw in a private home. Ostringer pressed his point. “You seem to be the type of young lady who prefers objects to paintings. Would you care to accompany me?”

She glanced around the room. There was no one left whom she knew, but that didn’t mean gossip wouldn’t spread if someone overheard the wrong thing. “This is not a good time for a discussion,” she said, lowering her voice.

Ostringer shook his head. “I am well aware, Miss Etchingham. No discussion is required. But there is something I wish to show you.”

It was unusual of her to leave a room with a man she claimed not to know, but it was daylight and they were in a public space. Her reputation would be safe enough.

She allowed him to escort her into the hall. Soane’s collections were quickly outgrowing his available space, even though he had just finished combining his original townhouse with the one next door. The hall had several shelves of objects crammed into every inch of wall space. A few people were exploring the curios and artifacts displayed there, but Prudence knew them only by sight from nine years of parties and excursions. None of them would remark on her presence.

“What do you wish to show me?” she asked Ostringer.

He gestured to one of the shelves. “There is a most unusual object in Soane’s collection. A rare piece of pottery, if I’m not mistaken.”

She peered in the direction he had pointed. She saw what he meant immediately, but she took her time, schooling her features so that they would give nothing away. “Very rare, Mr. Ostringer. You have a good eye for what may interest me.”

“I sold it to him a week ago. I am not surprised that it took pride of place in this cabinet. It is very well made, after all.”

Prudence knew how well-made it was. It had been buried in Lady Salford’s garden for a month. It now looked weathered, but it had easily survived the freeze and thaw of London in February. Her arm hadn’t survived it so easily; digging into the frozen turf had been a challenge that left her muscles sore for days.

She straightened her spine. “Mr. Soane has excellent taste. But I am surprised he acquired this.”

“The artist is very talented.”

She didn’t like his use of present tense. “I would have thought this piece more likely to appeal to a dilettante instead of a scholar.”

That was the agreement they had made — that he would only sell her pieces to amateurs, people who would never realize that they had bought a forgery. Ostringer shrugged. “Soane felt he had to have it. Who am I to deny him when he’s so sure of the provenance?”

She was sure she was blushing, and equally sure that Soane’s blasted skylights would betray her. “Have you sold any similar objects to scholars of Mr. Soane’s standing?”

Ostringer pretended to think for a moment. “The Duke of Thorington has bought several pieces recently. You may also recognize an urn that Mr. Thomas Hope purchased, should you attend one of the exhibitions at his house. But you will have to look elsewhere if you want something similar — I find myself quite out of stock.”

She couldn’t help herself. “Out of stock?” she asked.

“Completely.” His smile wasn’t ruthless this time — it was conspiratorial. “If you’ll allow me to bore you with business talk again, I can share that the profit approached five hundred pounds.”

Five hundred pounds. “I should congratulate you on your good fortune,” she said.

She was dizzy with it. Her share would be three hundred — enough to set herself up in a little house somewhere for a year, if she was careful with her spending and didn’t try to keep a carriage or a horse.

He inclined his head. “I’m of course eager to make more profit.”

“Perhaps you could sell scarabs?” she suggested. “I know they’re not as fashionable as they once were, but they are very easy to store.”

She knew they were easy to store. She had several of them hidden in jars of tea under her bed, developing the proper patina. But Ostringer sighed. “Scarab beetles are all well and good. But they aren’t quite…audacious enough.”

“Do you wish to be audacious?”

Prudence was careful to keep their conversation hypothetical. He responded in kind, but not as kindly as she expected. “Scarabs will bring a profit, but not as much as one might wish. If I could have my way, I would demand something worth far more than that.”

She wasn’t sure she liked the word “demand,” but the idea of making more money thrilled her. She had been preparing smaller forgeries for months — ever since she had begun to realize that she would likely never marry and would need to find a way to feed herself. She had started by repainting bits of pottery or stones to match the older styles. They were easy to do on her own in the endless hours when she should have been darning socks or sitting as an ornament at Alex’s mother’s at-homes. But as she had reinvested her first profits into paying artisans to craft more ambitious pieces, her dreams had grown.

She could make enough to be independent. She could even make enough to support her mother, if she felt like clasping that viper to her breast.

But she had yet to make a major piece, one that would bring a significant sum of money. And that would take far more effort. She shook her head as she looked at him. “Audacity sounds intriguing, Mr. Ostringer. But it is also a bigger risk.”

Ostringer smiled. “The men who can afford a bigger risk are usually not as intelligent as they think they are. I’ve sold more pieces than I can count to men who thought they knew what they were doing.”

His smile wasn’t very kind. In fact, it was rather wolfish. Had she grabbed a wolf by the tail when she had made her bargain with him?

She wouldn’t worry about it yet — but it might be wise not to put all of her eggs in Mr. Ostringer’s rather questionable basket. She nodded as though she wasn’t considering anything but what she might make for him. “Perhaps I will stop by in a few weeks to see your collection. I would like to see what you may sell next.”

A shadow fell on them, making her glad that their conversation had been circumspect. “Miss Etchingham,” Alex said.

Why did his voice make her shiver? “My lord,” she said, turning to him. “May I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He is an antiquities collector.”

“I know who he is,” Alex said.

His voice snapped. Ostringer didn’t blink. “My dear Lord Salford. How do you do?”

Alex didn’t respond. He turned to Prudence, ignoring Ostringer completely. “Would you care to accompany me to the library, Miss Etchingham? There is something I wish to show you.”

She let him take her arm because she always let him take her arm. Even though it was madness, even though it hurt, she wanted to feel the warmth of his touch — to pretend that it meant something. These moments when they walked together were as close as she could get to him. She never turned him away even when her heart was aching.

But she had too much pride to let him run entirely roughshod over her. “You shouldn’t have been rude to Mr. Ostringer,” she said as he escorted her from the room. “I know he is a merchant, but I didn’t think you were so priggish about such things.”

“I’m not a prig,” Alex said. “But I do not like to see you associating with charlatans.”

“I had never met him before today,” she lied. “He seemed pleasant.”

“Pleasant for a charlatan. Still, you wouldn’t approve of his methods.”

Her touch was perfectly proper on his arm, but no bystander would guess that all her attention was focused on her fingertips. “What methods would I not approve of?”

“He is a fraud, Miss Etchingham. Most of what he sells is genuine, but there’s always some piece or another that isn’t what he claims it is.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know?” she asked.

Alex shook his head as they navigated around the people and objects in their path. He was solicitous, slowing down to make allowance for her dress, and she leaned on him just a bit more than she needed to. “Ostringer knows what he’s about,” Alex said. “I don’t mind the usual tricks dealers play — it is up to the buyer to ascertain provenance, after all. But the rumor is that he was a private secretary before he descended into the trade. He must have had some schooling. I don’t approve of frauds who know what they are about.”

“That hardly signifies for me,” she said, smiling as though fraud was the furthest thing from her mind. And it very nearly was — she was too wrapped up in Alex to care much about Ostringer. “I don’t have the funds to buy anything from him, real or no.”

“I will buy you whatever you need. But please don’t associate with Ostringer.”

Prudence frowned. “I do not know him. Why would you care whether I associate with him or not?”

“Intuition, I suppose,” he said, after a moment of silence. “I feel honor-bound to protect you, Miss Etchingham. All I want is for you to stay safe.”

He looked down at her as he said it. She tried to read him — tried to understand his tone.

“I am quite safe here,” she said. “You’re with me.”

His arm tightened under her hand, pulling her just the slightest bit closer. That smoldering look she sometimes caught him with was back in his eyes. “I cannot always be with you. But I want you to be safe without me.”

“Why must I be safe without you?”

The question cut too close to the bone. She dropped her eyes as silence pooled around them. He paused for the longest time, long enough for her to answer her own question in any number of ways.

His answer, when it finally came, wasn’t the one she wanted. “I’m the best protection you’ve got at the moment. Allow me to indulge in my protective instincts.”

“I am not your responsibility,” she said.

It was a test. She looked up. Their eyes met, held.

She should have known better. His gaze slowly cooled. He stepped back, not enough to drop her arm, but enough to make his point. If she hadn’t seen that smoldering look earlier, she would have guessed that he was neutral, slightly concerned, but mostly unaffected. As though she was any dependent.

As though she would never mean anything to him beyond duty.

“If you would allow me to stand in for your brothers, I would do so gladly,” he said.

The sentiment should have touched her. Instead, it destroyed her.

“How charming of you,” she said, trying for banter instead of heartbreak.

He inclined his head. “It isn’t meant to be charming. I merely wish to see you have all the happiness you deserve.”

He escorted her into the library then. There was a sculpture of some vague renown, but Prudence didn’t listen closely to his description. It was clear that he had taken her there to protect her from Ostringer — but his protection came from duty, not love.

Alex would never love her. Even if he would come to, she could no longer wait for him. She could no longer sit in his house, eat his food, use his carriages, and all the rest while waiting endlessly for him to notice her.

She just needed one more object. One more big, valuable forgery that could buy her freedom.

Miss Prudence Etchingham had never been characterized as audacious before. But if she had to choose between audacity and poverty…

She looked up at Alex. His gaze was fixed on the statue, so intently that he was either obsessed with it or was purposefully ignoring her.

She had to let him go. And she would do it now, before she wasted any more of her life on a fantasy.

———————-

Want to keep reading? THE EARL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE is currently available here:

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(Excerpt from The Earl Who Played With Fire by Sara Ramsey, copyright 2013. All rights reserved.)

Coming this month...The Earl Who Played With Fire

I've been woefully absent on the blog of late, since I've been putting the finishing touches on Prudence's book. But I'm thrilled to say that The Earl Who Played With Fire is coming this month! Exact date tbd depending on how the final formatting goes and how long it takes the retailers to put it up, but it should be available before Thanksgiving. I'm so excited to share Prudence's story with you. Stay tuned over the next few weeks here, on Facebook, on Twitter, and on my newsletter - I've got some fun giveaways planned, as well as teaser chapters coming soon. And you'll want to be the first to know what book is coming after Prudence's, so watch for FAQs and other announcements.

If you want to get the giveaway party started early, you can leave a comment on the guest blog post I did at Timeless Quills. Or, you can enter for one of ten paperback copies on Goodreads. Check back for more giveaways this weekend!

And finally, here's the back cover copy to whet your appetite:

A woman courting ruin...

No one would suspect prim, proper Prudence Etchingham of lusting after her best friend’s brother. Nor would anyone guess that she’s responsible for dozens of the best forgeries in London’s antiquities markets. But if her love for Alex is doomed to fail, she must raise enough money to escape the marriage mart. She just needs one last, daring forgery to set herself up for life…

A man evading disaster...

Alex Staunton, the rich Earl of Salford, lives a charmed existence. No one knows that he’s dangerously attracted to his sister’s best friend. Nor has he revealed that he suffers from an ancient curse -- one that has given him everything, but prevents him from marrying the woman of his dreams. But when an enemy from his past takes an unseemly interest in Prudence’s future, Alex must find a way to break the curse...or risk losing her forever.

A love they’re destined for…

Every seductive encounter brings them closer together -- but their secret, smoldering desires will inevitably burn them. And when Prudence’s illicit forgery collides with Alex’s desperate search, more than their hearts are at stake. Can they break Alex’s curse and save Prudence from her unwanted suitor? Or will their love become a weapon that will destroy them both?

Cover Vote/Giveaway: The Earl Who Played With Fire

My next book, The Earl Who Played With Fire, is coming in a few short months! The writing is progressing as planned, and Prudence is currently giving a certain earl some hell on their way to their happily ever after :) In the meantime, though, I could use your help with a critical component: the cover! Please check out the three options and then use the Rafflecopter below to vote for your favorite. As a thank-you for helping me out, I'm giving away a few cool prizes (listed below the covers). But first, you want to see Prudence and Alex, right? The only difference is the color of the font...

I'm eager to hear what you think! And as a thank you, the prizes are:

1) First place gets a tote bag that says "She is too fond of books and it has addled her brain" + a $20 gift card to your favorite book store + an advance copy of The Earl Who Played With Fire (when available - likely September/October)

2) Second place gets $10 gift card to your favorite book store + an advance copy of The Earl Who Played With Fire (when available - likely September/October)

3) Three third-places each get an advance copy of The Earl Who Played With Fire (when available - likely September/October)

The sweepstakes is open to US residents 18 and over - sorry, international friends, I have no desire to get sued :( Thanks for your help! And now, vote here:

a Rafflecopter giveaway