Hot Earl Summer

Book 0: The Wild Wynchesters

by Erica Ridley

Genres: Sagas; Regency Romance; Family Life

Synopsis

Action adventure meets Regency romance in this feminist romp from New York Times Erica Ridley, perfect for fans of Manda Collins and Evie Dunmore.

Bold, curvy Elizabeth Wynchester loves cuddling hedgehogs almost as much as she adores vanquishing villains with the sharp blade concealed inside her cane. Despite others’ opinions about her body and gender, nothing will stop her from seeing justice done. When her next mission drops her at the dastardly Earl of Densmore’s castle, she’s prepared to duel like gentlemen—only to be locked inside! Her trusty sword cannot defeat the castle’s hidden traps… or protect her heart from the devilishly handsome rogue guarding the keep.

When reclusive inventor Stephen Lenox agreed to impersonate his cousin for a few days, he didn’t expect the earl to vanish altogether. Nor could Stephen predict mounting death threats… or the arrival of a beguiling, blade-wielding spinster who declares herself his new bodyguard. As the earl’s enemies lay siege to the castle, Stephen fights his way past Elizabeth’s defenses. She’ll share his bed, but when the adventure concludes, she vows to sever their affair. Unless he can somehow convince a swashbuckling siren to surrender her heart…

Release date: August 6, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Miss Elizabeth Wynchester lay in wait in the shadows of a purported hackney carriage. The handsome Black man at the reins was actually her brother Jacob. The brown-haired woman perched on the bench opposite Elizabeth was their sister Chloe.

A small frown creased Chloe’s brow. “You remember the plan?”

“I always remember the plan.”

“The real plan. Not your bloodthirsty agenda.”

“It ought to be the real plan,” Elizabeth muttered. At her sister’s sharp glance, Elizabeth added, “I know, I know. Resorting to violence is a contingency.”

“A distant one,” Chloe said firmly. “And only if I tell you it’s time for contingencies.”

Today, Chloe was not dressed as the flamboyant Duchess of Faircliffe, but rather as the unassuming, practically invisible pickpocket she’d once been before falling in love and marrying a duke. Now she only used her past skills in the service of bringing justice to one of the Wynchesters’ deserving clients.

Elizabeth preferred to mete out justice with the blade of a sword.

“I just want to poke him a little bit,” she tried again. “When he bleeds, it’ll be simple to snatch the key.”

“It will already be simple to snatch the key. Having him slippery with blood makes things harder. Plus there’s no room to swing a sword inside the carriage.”

“Not a problem,” Elizabeth assured her sister. “Kuni has been teaching me to throw knives.”

Chloe covered her face with her hand. “God help us all.”

“No murdering!” Jacob called through the sliding panel that separated the driver from passengers.

“Except as a last resort,” Elizabeth reminded her pacifist brother. “Or if the perpetrator deserves to die.”

“My carriage, my rules,” Jacob shot back.

“Absolutely no bloodshed allowed,” Chloe put in quickly, “because Tommy and Philippa need to use this carriage for their mission, as soon as we’ve finished with ours.”

Elizabeth let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m being oppressed.”

“Places!” Jacob hissed through the sliding panel. “He’s coming out of the bank now.”

Elizabeth and Chloe both shot up ramrod straight, then arranged themselves in carefully casual positions.

“If he sits next to you…” Chloe whispered.

“I know, I know.” Elizabeth gripped the handle of her sword stick. “Shove him in your direction.”

“Subtly,” Chloe admonished.

The door cracked open. A male voice gave directions to an address on the opposite side of nearby Hyde Park.

Elizabeth tensed with delicious anticipation. Mr. Bunyan was a liar and a thief… and shortly to receive his comeuppance. The young ward he’d been stealing from would not only have her inheritance returned, but also need no longer fear the volatile temper of a knave who—

“I’ll have you there at once,” came Jacob’s clear voice.

Almost time. Elizabeth was certain there was more than enough room in the carriage to unsheathe her sword. However, she didn’t want to be the one who ruined good carpet before her siblings’ next mission, so she heroically stifled her bloodlust and prepared to give the thief a nice, friendly shove instead.

Mr. Bunyan leapt into the carriage. The horses took off at top speed, causing the loose door to swing shut behind Mr. Bunyan. Off-balance and floundering, he fell heavily into the first available seat—which happened to be the bench next to Elizabeth.

“Who are you?” asked Mr. Bunyan, visibly startled.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say “Your worst nightmare” before catching her sister’s eye and remembering to stay on plan. Elizabeth was meant to appear even more afraid of this scoundrel than he was about to be of her, thus providing a reasonable cover for panicking and pushing a strange man away from her.

“Aaahh!” she screamed in faux hysteria, then gave him a mighty shove.

At that moment, the carriage jerked to one side, as Jacob presumably was forced to avoid some obstruction on the street. Rather than tumble across Chloe’s lap as planned, Mr. Bunyan stumbled across the carriage to thump against the inside window.

The coach hurtled down the road even faster.

“What is this?” Mr. Bunyan sputtered, eyes wide. “Who are you people?”

Behind him, Chloe’s hand reached up toward his coat.

Elizabeth gave a winning smile to distract him. He recoiled as if a cobra had just flashed its fangs at him. Which, to be fair, was often how people described Elizabeth’s smiles.

Mr. Bunyan gasped in terror. “You’re not… You’re not Wynchesters?”

Elizabeth blinked. “That was quick.”

Usually it wasn’t until well after any given maneuver that their villainous targets realized they’d been hoodwinked. But the Wynchester family had taken on so many new clients as of late, and developed such a following, that Elizabeth supposed it was only reasonable for a felonious blackguard to live in fear that he should one day find himself flat against a carriage window in the middle of—

With a scream, Mr. Bunyan leapt across the carriage, shouldered open the door, and threw himself onto the crowded pavement.

“Shite.” Chloe shook her fist at the swinging door. “A runner.”

Jacob stopped the horses at once. “Go.”

Chloe clutched her chest. “I can’t. Elizabeth?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Chloe was breastfeeding a baby every three hours like clockwork, which did not currently allow for sprints through the park to tackle miscreants.

Justice was up to Elizabeth.

Mindful of her sometimes rebellious joints, she scrambled out of the carriage and raked her gaze over the milling throngs. She stood in front of an entrance to Green Park. Now, where on earth was… There, trying his damnedest to disappear amongst the trees and picnickers, was Mr. Bunyan. She lifted the handle of her sword stick and took off after him.

“Stop, thief!” she called out.

Mr. Bunyan glanced over his shoulder, made an expression of pure fear, then dashed between two trees in an obvious attempt to lose her.

He was taller and narrower and no doubt faster than Elizabeth, with his long legs unencumbered by petticoats. But the park was packed with people. Mr. Bunyan kept getting jostled and tripping over tree roots, which gave Elizabeth an opening to follow and the opportunity to regain lost ground.

As her shadow fell across Mr. Bunyan’s fleeing feet, Elizabeth twisted the handle of her walking stick.

“No swords!” came her brother Jacob’s distant shout.

Curse her brother’s squeamishness! He must have tied the horses and followed in pursuit.

Elizabeth sighed and secured the handle guarding her blade. She leapt over a patch of geraniums. Arm and cane outstretched, she poked the fleeing Mr. Bunyan in the back of the knee with her sword stick.

He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.

Elizabeth threw herself on top of him, flopping about bonelessly to pin him in place. Help would arrive soon. For her, not him.

Chloe was catching up to them, one arm stretched tight across her bodice.

“What the devil is going on?” asked a confused bystander.

Right on cue, Chloe pretended to trip over a yellow geranium and conveniently fell right on top of Mr. Bunyan. Elizabeth rolled out of the way just in time.

“Oof,” emanated from Mr. Bunyan’s lungs as the wind was knocked out of him. He did not seem to recognize Chloe.

“Can I help you, miss?” Elizabeth said loudly.

She pulled her sister up and off the villain. Chloe winked and melted into the crowd.

Mr. Bunyan scrambled to his feet and raced on, casting a triumphant look over his shoulder at Elizabeth, who trailed farther and farther behind as she pretended to chase him.

She gave up the act as soon as he disappeared from sight.

Overhead, a large brown hawk swooped down from the bright blue sky. The raptor had found them.

Chloe held up her palm as the bird dived toward her. The hawk’s claws raked gently across her skin, scooping up a slender brass key. The trained raptor soared back into the sky, racing over the trees and across the road to a distant rooftop, where their brother Graham crouched, waiting.

He caught the key and bounded across the skyline, vanishing into the distance.

Elizabeth and her sister made their way toward Jacob’s waiting carriage.

Chloe turned her head toward Elizabeth. “I must return to my baby. Come with me? We’ve got lemon ices.”

Reflexively, Elizabeth took a cautionary step back. “Absolutely not. You know I’ll have nothing to do with babies.”

“Then you’re letting the others have a head start at being ‘favorite aunt,’” Chloe warned.

“Pah.” Elizabeth smiled her cobra smile. “I’ll be his favorite aunt once he’s big enough to hold a sword.”



Elizabeth startled awake in pitch blackness. Without making a sound, she kept perfectly still as she took careful inventory of her body.

First her toes. Her feet were sweltering. It was the beginning of May and she was draped with a blanket, but other than a bit hot, her feet were fine. Calves… would do. Knees… good. Thighs… normal. Hips…

Ah, there it was. The familiar ache she dreaded every time she was forced to give chase. Flinging herself into a full-blown tackle hadn’t been the gentlest of maneuvers. It would have been easier to launch her sword through the thief’s chest. If it weren’t for a certain sibling’s stuffy rules about not murdering ruffians in front of bystanders.

Elizabeth’s back… Yes, her back definitely still felt that last tackle, but at least the muscles weren’t spasming. Maybe her daily stretches had been helping, or maybe she’d just been lucky this time. There wasn’t always a clear cause-and-effect to these things. Intermittent, debilitating flare-ups had plagued her since birth. Elizabeth’s body would, on its own timetable and sometimes without warning, shut down for days or weeks at a time, and cause extraordinary pain.

She could trust her sword, and she could trust her siblings, but she couldn’t trust her own damn body.

Elizabeth was never one hundred percent perfect, but today, she was all right. Her joints were swollen the way they always were. Her muscles ached the way they always did. This was a sixty-percent day. As usual, background pain was her constant companion, but at a level tolerable enough to allow for the swinging of blades and the vanquishing of enemies.

“Bad” days were terrible, and “good” days were… well, not terrific in terms of the discomfort that never went away, but great in terms of mobility. Eighty percent days were positively marvelous. Especially when there was a mission afoot.

Nonetheless, today she would make do with sixty and no mission. Elizabeth rolled out of bed gingerly and performed her customary hour of morning stretches with great care. She preferred to tempt fate on the battlefield, not by twisting the wrong way when dawn had barely broken.

“Never show weakness,” she reminded her looking glass.

The message had been drummed into her as a child. Or shaken into her. And worse. She was no longer with that family, but she carried the hard lessons they’d taught her deep in her bones. It was one of the reasons she loved swords. A blade-wielding madwoman was visibly strong, capable of defending herself and others. And sometimes, first impressions were the only chance you got.

Flare-ups made her vulnerable. After a spate of heroics, her body required rest to fully recover. Only her immediate family had ever seen her in repose on a sofa. Clients and enemies alike believed her to be an indefatigable sword-wielding machine, which was how she liked it.

The other reason she liked swords was because they could be hidden inside sword sticks. Hers doubled as canes, which made them practical as well as deadly. Being underestimated was often a tactical advantage. And sometimes, her body simply needed support.

Elizabeth hurried down the stairs to breakfast. A swift speed made possible by the excellent craftsmanship of the even marble stairs and smooth wooden banister, and because the gods had blessed her with a greater-than-fifty-percent day.

She burst into the breakfast room with a smile. Not her attacking-cobra smile, but an I’m-ready-for-kippers-and-eggs smile. Which might have been the same smile.

“Good morning,” said Marjorie, who was already at the table. She had a piece of buttered toast in one hand, and a splotch of blue paint on her nose.

Elizabeth cast her gaze toward Marjorie’s husband to see if he, too, was speckled with paint. Answer: not yet. Adrian looked as though he had just woken up, and that his fondest wish was to go right back to bed—with his wife.

How the breakfast table had changed! Twenty-one years ago, an eccentric Balcovian nobleman called Baron Vanderbean had adopted six children between the ages of eight and eleven from various walks of life. They had called him Bean, and he became the father they’d never had.

In addition to Elizabeth and shy artist Marjorie, there was clever pickpocket Chloe, acrobatic spy Graham, sweet animal trainer Jacob, and fearless master of disguise Tommy. After Bean’s death three years ago, the siblings’ bond only grew stronger… and their family grew bigger. Chloe married the Duke of Faircliffe and moved out. Bluestocking Philippa fell in love with their sister Tommy and moved in. Next came Graham’s wife, Balcovian warrioress Kuni—who was Elizabeth’s fencing partner and was also teaching her how to throw knives. And then just last summer, Marjorie had married Lord Adrian, bringing the total number of justice-seeking Wynchesters up to ten. Eleven, if you counted the baby.

Elizabeth did not count the baby.

“We’re all here,” she said in surprise.

It had been weeks since the whole family had filled the dining room at the same time. They’d been busier than ever with clients and cases. More than that, four weddings in a row naturally meant that the newly married pairs would spend a fair portion of their time with their spouses rather than with their siblings. Chloe and Faircliffe only dropped by a few times per week to dine en famille.

Tommy piled a plate with kippers to share with Philippa. The lovebirds were always doing things like that. Little thoughtful, cozy gestures that Elizabeth would likely find deeply romantic if her heart weren’t forged of steel like the blade of her sword.

Oh, very well. She would never admit it aloud, but Elizabeth longed for a partner, too. Not a flirtation, or even a temporary affaire, but the full, true, sonnets-will-be-written-about-this whirlwind of romantic love.

You wouldn’t think a suitable companion would be this difficult to find. She was a woman of simple pleasures: scenic walks through pleasure gardens, wine-drenched candlelit dinners, impaling brigands through the gullet with a sharp blade. The usual.

She wasn’t even finicky! Elizabeth was open to accepting love in any form. Man… Woman… A lethal warrior or two… No, three, each of them larger and deadlier than the last… All right, yes, Elizabeth was finicky. She would settle for nothing less than a fearless soldier in shining armor who wanted her fighting at their side forevermore.

And no babies! Nothing dampened an afternoon of light bloodshed quite like the squalling of a helpless infant. Elizabeth would happily skip up to the altar with anyone who swashbuckled. Proficiency with a blade was her one and only obligatory criterion.

And likely the reason she was still a spinster at the age of one-and-thirty.

“You’ll never believe this,” Graham said from behind a stiff broadsheet. Each morning without fail, he read every newspaper and gossip rag in London from cover to cover.

Elizabeth took her place at the long dining table and glanced over at him with interest. “Is it an advertisement from a dashing knight in search of a bride?”

“You do not want to marry this peacock.” Graham lowered the paper, revealing mischievous light brown eyes the same shade as his skin. A riot of black curls tumbled over his forehead, and he shook them out of his face. “I swear, the more money some of these noblemen acquire, the fewer brains in their heads. You remember Richard Reddington, of course?”

Elizabeth perked up. “Did he assassinate someone again?”

“Those rumors have yet to be proven.” Graham’s disgruntled expression indicated that even his formidable network of spies had thus far been unable to confirm the whispered tales.

“Who is Richard Reddington?” asked Tommy.

“He’s a viscount’s son with dubious associates in and out of polite society,” Graham answered. “He collects artifacts of war and struts around Dorset wearing replica military uniforms—despite the battles being long over and his never having fought in them.”

“He loves to be the center of attention,” Elizabeth explained. “When he’s not waltzing and carousing, Reddington leads a troupe of men who perform military reenactments.”

A troupe that wouldn’t have to be exclusively comprised of male soldiers, if the men in question would accept the possibility of a woman wielding a weapon. Elizabeth would make just as good a leader as Reddington. Or at least a competent foot soldier.

Years ago, she’d applied to become part of his reenactment squadron—only to be laughed at for being a “useless jest.” Reddington and his followers had called her rotund and ridiculous and as frightening as a mouse… despite refusing to take up arms against her in a nice, friendly duel to the death. Or at least until Elizabeth disproved their alleged male superiority.

With half a chance, she could also trounce him quite thoroughly in the enthusiastic debates on war strategies and past battles Reddington presided over in his various gentlemen’s clubs. If women weren’t barred from those, too.

Graham shook out the newspaper. “By day, Reddington parades through England with a flock of cronies flanking him, often in uniform. By night, he parades through ballrooms and humble homes alike, as the toast of the upwardly inclined.”

Philippa cringed in agreement. “My mother would have wedded me to him without blinking. And she’s far from the only society-adjacent hopeful for whom ‘heir to a title’ absolves any other sins.”

“But we mean real sins?” Tommy asked. “Crimes against something other than fashion and good breeding?”

Elizabeth stretched out her arms. “Just murder.”

Tommy swung her gaze toward Graham. “Is that true, or is Elizabeth being bloodthirsty again?”

“Again?” Elizabeth repeated in offense. “I never stop being bloodthirsty.”

“You’re very sweet to Tickletums,” Jacob whispered, pointing to the hedgehog sleeping beneath her chair. “As you are to all my animals. As well as to everyone in this family. And our clients.”

“Never repeat such slander again,” Elizabeth whispered back. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Graham ignored them and lowered the paper to answer Tommy. “Possibly true. Reddington is not without enemies, a few of whom have conveniently vanished off the face of the earth after committing some perceived slight against him.”

“And the courts have done nothing?” Tommy exclaimed. “Can an heir apparent claim ‘right of privilege’ to exempt himself from the law even before he’s inherited his title?”

“There’s no murder without a body and no crime without evidence,” Graham explained. “All we have are unsubstantiated rumors. The truth is, he’s lord of a large-enough sector of society that someone hoping to get on his good side might have acted without Reddington explicitly making the request. In any case, that’s all old news.”

“What’s Reddington done now?” Philippa asked.

“He intends to host a mock battle of Waterloo.”

Elizabeth stabbed a fork in her eggs. “Which is a battle he and his soldiers did not fight, in a country they’ve likely not been to. Or will they all be traveling to the Netherlands to put on the performance?”

Graham shook his head. “It’ll be in Dorset, one hundred and forty miles southwest of London. Presumably at his vast country estate. For the first time, however, Reddington announced he’ll be selling tickets.”

Kuni’s eyebrows shot up almost as high as her long black braids. She reached for the paper. “Charging admission, as though to a play?”

“It is a play,” Elizabeth grumbled. “And for those who haven’t noticed, women act in plays all the time. At least, they do when men let them. I hope no one buys a single ticket.”

“I hope he trips and falls on his bayonet,” said Jacob. “Reddington’s family money comes from plantations in the West Indies. He’s never worked a day in his life or earned any of his privilege. Yet he’s treated as a god because he has a title.”

“Never working a day in one’s life is the dream, for mothers like mine who despair of their daughters marrying well,” Philippa said.

“Reddington does put in considerable effort,” Elizabeth admitted. “I may have witnessed him lead his troops through practice drills on a few occasions. Though the training would have gone more smoothly if he’d taken my advice. I swear, that’s the last time I prepare an unsolicited two-hour strategy lecture for a faux war general.”

“You spoke to Reddington?” Graham put down his newspaper. Rarely did any event occur in London without his knowledge. The fact that Elizabeth had successfully kept a secret caused his eyes to boggle. “When did you meet—”

“Pardon the interruption.” Their butler, Mr. Randall, had appeared in the dining room doorway. “You’ve a guest.” He held up a calling card. “Shall I show Miss Oak into the usual parlor?”

“Gracious, that’s the third new client this week.” Chloe looked up from her slobbering devil-child and exchanged exhausted glances with Faircliffe. “We’ve barely a moment to eat or sleep.”

“I’ll attend to the caller.” Elizabeth leapt up. “Perhaps she needs an assassin-for-hire.”

All of her siblings scrambled to their feet.

“Don’t you dare greet the new client alone,” Graham warned her.

“Or offer to murder anyone for money,” Jacob added.

“Maybe she’ll suggest it first,” Elizabeth said eagerly. “I have room in my schedule to poke holes in a villain or two.”

Swiftly, she and the others relocated to the front parlor, where their new caller awaited.

Miss Oak was an older woman with graying locks. She appeared slightly overwhelmed at the sight of ten-and-a-half Wynchesters streaming through the door. But the parlor was large enough to accommodate everyone. In no time, the introductions were completed and the Wynchesters were seated with their prospective client.

Elizabeth took the chair as far as possible from Chloe and her baby.

“I am in desperate need of your help,” said Miss Oak. “There is no legal recourse I can take to right this wrong, and I’ve nowhere else to turn.”

Elizabeth was unsurprised. Virtually all their clients’ stories began with that same lament.

“Please,” said Graham. “How may we assist you?”

Miss Oak gazed at them beseechingly. “Castle Harbrook is family land. My sister and I spent the past ten years planning to turn the property into an orphanage and school for the indigent. That castle is mine by rights, but my nephew, the Earl of Densmore, refuses to vacate the property or hand over the deed!”

Elizabeth bared her teeth in disgust at the heartless nephew.

The entire Wynchester clan held orphanages in the highest regard. Not only were most of the original Wynchester siblings orphans themselves, but also Chloe and Tommy had first met in an orphanage. Providing shelter to innocent children was a far worthier pursuit than whatever the Earl of Densmore intended to do with his appropriated castle.

“Whilst I sympathize greatly,” said Chloe’s husband, the Duke of Faircliffe, “property disputes are generally the domain of the courts and not something the Wynchester family can settle by hand. Have you considered hiring a lawyer?”

“I’ve considered everything. The lawyer is on my side, but can do nothing.” Miss Oak rubbed her wan face. “The situation is not as simple as I’ve made it sound.”

“Then, please,” said Graham gently. “Start at the beginning. Explain in as much detail as you can. If it is possible for us to help you, then by all means, we will do so.”

Miss Oak nodded and took a deep breath. “The property in question is a disused castle that has belonged to my family for centuries. That is, until forty years ago, when my parents decided to include it as part of my elder sister’s dowry in order for her to secure an aristocratic husband.”

Elizabeth whistled under her breath. “A castle would do the trick.”

“You’d think so, but my sister was lucky enough to make a love match. The Earl of Densmore would have married Arminia if her dowry consisted of no more than a bag of dirt. He didn’t want or need Castle Harbrook. But now that he had it, my brother-in-law discovered he liked it. Rather than implement the comprehensive orphanage plans my sister and I had devised, he remodeled the castle into a country home.”

Of course he had. Elizabeth met her siblings’ gazes. Why provide shelter and education for hundreds of homeless children, when you could use the space for port and billiards instead?

“Although the earl was disinclined to turn the castle into an orphanage or a school while he was alive, he had no quarrel with our philanthropic plans becoming the castle’s eventual fate. He bequeathed the property to his wife in his will, and Arminia rewrote hers to ensure the property would come to me. And then they had a son.”

“Figures,” Elizabeth muttered. Babies were unpredictable little beasts.

Two maids entered the parlor with tea service. Chloe handed her devil-spawn to Faircliffe so she could perform duties as hostess.

“After the birth of their heir, your sister and brother-in-law wrote you out of their wills?” Elizabeth asked.

Miss Oak looked up from her tea. “No. The earl rewrote his to bequeath everything but the castle to his son, presuming the child would care for his own mother. Arminia’s only property to speak of would be the castle, which remained bequeathed to me in her testament.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Tommy asked.

“No one has seen Arminia’s will in years,” Miss Oak replied grimly. “And without a document stating otherwise, the new Earl of Densmore is the de facto heir of both of his parents’ holdings. Including Castle Harbrook.”

Jacob frowned. “Didn’t you mention a lawyer?”

Miss Oak nodded. “The same one oversaw the writing of both wills. He kept a copy in his office, and left the originals with my sister and brother-in-law. When the earl died, his testament was found in the top drawer of his desk, as one might imagine. When Arminia passed of the same illness the following morning…”

Philippa gasped. “Someone stole her will to keep the castle from becoming an orphanage?”

“Was it the nephew?” Elizabeth demanded. “I’ll kill him for you.”

“My nephew doesn’t care about much of anything, save the gaming tables,” Miss Oak said with a sigh. “I was his governess until he went to Eton. Densmore was unfocused and impulsive, but a good lad at heart. I trust that is still the case. The real problem, I fea. . .