SCANDALOUS SCIONS FOUR By Tracy Cooper-Posey

Scandalous Scions Book 13.5

Victorian Era Historical Romance Boxed Set

---

Reviews

---

| Bookmark on Bookbub | Bookmark on Goodreads |

---

---

All prices are in USD

Electronic book, compatible with all reading devices. Book can be read on all devices and apps. [More info]

ePub or Mobi format files provided.

You will receive an email from BookFunnel with the download links once your transaction has been processed. (For pre-orders, the download link will be emailed to you on the release date.)

BookFunnel will assist with any download issues.  Click the Need Help? link at the top right of the download page.

| Continue browsing books | Jump back to top of page |

---

Excerpt

EXCERPT FROM SCANDALOUS SCIONS BOXED SET FOUR
COPYRIGHT © TRACY COOPER-POSEY 2024
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chapter One

Fenham Barracks, Newcastle-upon-Tyne. July 1872 C.E.

More than the usual amount of fuss ensued at the barracks gates, which was hardly a surprise. It still chaffed, though. Neil had forgotten the formalities maintained by a full regiment at home. Procedures had been more casual in the colonies.

He waited patiently at the gate while the sentries scrounged up someone who could vouch for Neil. His orders were grubby and weather-worn, which had raised their suspicions. The orders had been handed to Neil in Albany, the colony in Australia, which laid seventeen weeks behind him. The single sheet of paper had lived in his inner breast pocket since then.

Finally, word came back to the front gate. The red-faced corporal whispered to the sentry barring Neil’s way. “Sergeant Woodsmith says if you don’t let the man pass, you’re a fool of the first water, sir.” The corporal’s gaze flicked toward Neil. “Says ‘e’s an ‘ero and all.”

The lieutenant’s gaze moved up and down Neil once more. “That so?” He lowered his rifle and took two steps to one side and closer to Neil. “My apologies, sir. Please go ahead. Colonel Hill’s office is—”

“I know where it is, thank you, Lieutenant,” Neil told him. He pointed to his water-stained trunk. “Have someone deliver that to the main office for me.”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed.

Neil plucked the orders from the man’s fingers. “In future, when you speak about the regiment, including the names of officers and men, you make sure you are out of earshot of anyone not part of the regiment. Clear?”

The corporal grinned and straightened up to snap off a salute as Neil strode past the pair and into the barracks proper.

Fenham Barracks was large, with many buildings. The Colonel’s office was situated overlooking the parade ground. It would take a few minutes of fast walking through narrow streets of officers’ quarters and enlisted men’s barracks to reach the square. It gave Neil time to dispel his irritation before he presented himself to the commander of the regiment.

Even though it was July, the early morning air was still cool against Neil’s face, and smelled faintly of brine, for the tides reached this far along the Tyne, which ran less than a mile away. He shivered. Five years in Albany and now July felt like winter to him.

The regimental square was filled with units moving through drills and marches. Everyone wore the Undress uniform—the dark gray serge with darker braid across the chest and the red stripes on the legs of their trousers.

The shouts of the sergeant majors, the drum beats, the thud of boots moving in unison, the slap of hands against rifles was so familiar that Neil paused for a moment to absorb the sights. It was utterly unchanged, as if he had never been away.

He frowned as he took in the wagons lined along the far northern edge of the square. Each wagon had at least one man chained to the big wheel, their heads bare and their shoulders wrenched back by the tautness of the chains. The bound men watched the activity in the square with apathetic expressions.

Neil’s chest tightened. The moment of sentimentally evaporated like ice in the Gibson Desert. He turned on his heel and strode toward the big building on the western edge of the square.

When he stepped into the main office building, his shoulders relaxed, for it was warmer in here. A dozen privates and corporals moved between offices on the ground floor and up the sweeping stairs to the next floor, their uniforms pristine and new.

Neil caught the attention of the first non-com to pass by. “Major Williams to speak to Colonel Hill.”

“Yes, sir, Major Williams.” The corporal’s gaze moved over Neil the same way the sentry at the gate had done, measuring him. “This way, sir.”

Neil knew the way to Hill’s big office, but let the man lead him. He would need someone to announce him. He followed the corporal up the stairs, into the wide corridor at the top and along to the left, to the unmarked door at the end. The door stood open, as it always did.

A captain sat at a table in the outer office, his pen scratching across paper. He looked up as they entered and put the pen down, his gaze moving over Neil. Then his eyes widened. “Williams!” He jumped to his feet and moved around the table. “My God, you’re back!” He gripped Neil’s hand and shook it, squeezing hard.

“Captain Long,” Neil acknowledged. “You were a lieutenant when I left.”

“So were you,” Phillip Long replied. He stepped back, his smile broad and warm. “Major. The colonies were good to you. Have you been back in England long?”

“Long enough to jump upon a train, which I stepped off this morning,” Neil said. He glanced at the wide door behind Long’s desk. “Is Colonel Hill in?”

Long nodded. “Dismissed, Corporal,” he told the smiling soldier at the door. The man saluted and marched out of the office. Long moved toward the inner door. “You’ll dine at the mess tonight, yes? Everyone will be pleased to see you.”

Neil smothered the sigh which tried to rise to his lips. “It’s likely I will,” he said, keeping his tone polite. “If you can scare me up some officers’ quarters, that is.”

“I’ll see what I can do. We’re a bit tight on accommodations right now. If I find you a room somewhere near the barracks, would that do?” Long paused with his knuckles lifted toward the door.

Neil frowned. “There are no quarters left at all?” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a thing.”

“You’re not the only man returning to his regimental headquarters,” Long said. “They’re pulling regiments out of Australia, Ceylon, Africa, China, even India. Everyone is returning home. You know about the big stir Cardwell is putting the army through?”

Neil nodded. He had more than a passing knowledge of the reforms, for they had significant personal interest to him. Now was not the time to discuss them, though. He glanced at Long’s hand, still raised, and lifted his brow.

Long knocked against the painted wood. “Yes, for tonight, then,” he said in agreement. He pushed the door open. “Major Williams, sir?”

“Enter!” came the growled response.

Long pushed the door even wider. “Sir,” he said to Neil.

Neil stepped through. “Thank you, Captain.”

Long closed the door behind him and Neil turned to face the big table and the commander of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Regiment of Foot. “Major Williams reporting for duty, Colonel Hill.” He saluted.

Hill got to his feet. “Neil Williams,” he said in his deep and scratchy voice. He came around the table, his hand out. “We weren’t expecting you for another week.”

“My orders said as soon as possible, sir.”

Colonel Edward Roley Hill shook Neil’s hand. Hill was a career soldier, in his late seventies. He had silver hair and a thick, silver beard and magnificent mustache. He was still hale and hearty. His high forehead was lined, but his eyes were youthful. Colonel Hill had taken command of the regiment the year after Neil had left for the Swan River colony. Neil had heard much about the high quality of Hill’s previous commands.

“Let me see your orders, Williams,” Hill said, as he returned to his desk.

Neil took out the crumpled sheet, unfolded it and placed it on the table, then stepped back. “I apologize for my incorrect dress, sir. The uniform has changed since I left. I will arrange for new uniforms the first chance I get.”

Hill waved his hand, dismissing the issue, then picked up the orders. “There are dozens of tailors in Newcastle willing to take your coin. They are familiar with the new uniform. As soon as you can is good enough.” He read the sheet.

Neil peered through the big windows while Hill read. From here, most of the square was visible, including the wagons with their bound men.

Hill put the page down, then reached for a folio and unwound the string. “Returned with merit. You did well in Albany, Williams. I expected nothing less of a Fifth man.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hill pulled out a small pile of clean, white and uncrumpled pages. The ink was still fresh and dark on those pages. He put them in front of him and frowned at the script. “You’re aware of the changes Parliament has decreed, Williams?”

“Yes, sir.” Neil brought his teeth together and said nothing more.

Hill looked up at him. “Under the new terms, you’re one of the men who has been in service long enough to leave, if you want. You signed up for twenty-one years, only it has all changed, now. Have you changed, Williams? Or are you still willing to protect Queen and country?”

Neil’s chest tightened. “I would like to leave, sir.”

Hill’s eyes narrowed. The lined forehead creased. “That’s not the answer I expected from you, given your record.”

“I know, sir.”

Hill’s gaze didn’t shift. “There are too many fine men being given their marching orders. I could use a good officer, Williams. You’re one of the best. I think you know that. You’ve earned accolades and praise, promotions and medals. You thought you were in the army for life. Why not serve your time as you first intended?”

Neil drew in a breath and hesitated. How could he explain what was indescribable? The heat, the horrors, the desperate convicts he had been forced to oversee. The squalid conditions of a colony just barely established. The strange food, the indifferent senior officers and their lack of empathy for colonists and the natives, and their cruelty toward the convicts.

He could speak of none of that because Hill would not understand. He was an old-school army man, who stood by his fellow officers no matter what they did.

Instead, Neil said, “I’ve done enough fighting, sir.”

“England hasn’t been at war for decades, boy.”

“Yet the battles never cease.”

Colonel Hill harrumphed. “What do you think you’ll do as a civilian? You’re fit for nothing but this.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Neil said truthfully.

Hill scowled at him. “Running away, are you?”

The mild insult was meant to nudge him into reconsidering. Only, Neil had spent fifteen weeks in a swaying hammock aboard the City of Adelaide, with nothing to do but contemplate his future. He shook his head. “I just want a quiet life, Colonel. I believe I have earned that.”

Hill sighed and stacked the pages back together again. He stuffed them into the portfolio, crumpling them. “Very well.” His tone was gruff. “I’ll have your severance processed. Be warned, Williams, it will not happen overnight. There’s more than a few of you taking the option to leave. London is awash in red tape. It will take weeks, possibly months, for the release orders to come through.”

Hill would delay Neil’s release in any small way he could. Neil nodded. “I expected that, sir. Thank you.”

Hill laced his fingers together. “Get yourself settled for today. Come and see me tomorrow. I’ll have an assignment for you by then.”

Neil saluted him once more. “Colonel.” He wheeled toward the door and paused, his gaze on the window once more. “I saw the men tied to the wagons, sir. Why is that?”

Hill glanced at the glass and frowned. “They call it Field Punishment Number One, now—part of the reforms and all that. Lieutenant Colonel Seymour runs a tight ship. Dismissed, Williams.”

Neil left, trying to fit a Captain Seymour into the officers of the regiment he had known before being reassigned to the 72^nd Regiment of Foot, and leaving for Albany. The name was familiar, yet he could not put a face to the name or any military history, either.

He had done nothing but recall old facts, names and faces, dusty with disuse, since he had arrived in London two days ago. He’d remember who Seymour was, eventually.

When Blanche heard the clop of hooves and the creak of a carriage coming to a halt in front of the little house, her heart pattered, even as something sank in her middle. She ignored the sensation, put her sewing aside and moved to the front door. There was no front hall. The door opened upon the one public room of the house, which was both a dining room and a drawing room, and also her morning room. The single short shelf of books over the fireplace made it a library, too.

She heard Joshua’s voice, speaking to the cab driver. Then the click of a tongue, and the clop of the horses as the cab pulled away.

Blanche opened the door as Joshua approached the house. No garden separated the house from the street. Broad cobblestones spread from the front door, across the road to the houses on the other side. In the late afternoon sunlight, the cobbles were bleached, heated stones. Blanche had put two large pots on either side of the doorway and planted petunias. They had grown and flowered but were ailing in the heat of this torrid summer.

Joshua looked very fine in his dark gray Undressed uniform. Blanche preferred the formal uniform with the red coat and the high boots, although the dark braid running across the front of this uniform in horizontal bars did give it an elegant touch. His sword slapped his leg as he came to a stop in front of her.

“You’re home.” He sounded surprised.

“Come in. Dinner is waiting for you. Did you have a good day, my husband?” She reached for his arm, while holding her skirts out of the way so he could step through the door.

Joshua moved around her, causing her fingers to slide away from the serge and drop. “It was a foul day from start to finish,” he growled, unbuckling his sword.

She closed the door behind him. “Here, let me take that.” She held her hand out for the belt.

He dropped his cap onto her palm, then looped the belt over the top and ruffled his white blond hair, which was damp with perspiration. “Please tell me there is some of that lemonade you made yesterday? I am absolutely parched.”

Blanche frowned as she hung the cap on a hook by the door and the sword belt over the secondary hook beneath. “There is no ice left,” she said carefully. It was too hot for ice to last long, even in the straw-lined box in the floor of the kitchen. “I could make a pot of tea, if you like?” She was at least good at making tea. It was one of the first skills she had acquired after the wedding. It had not been the last she had learned, by a large score.

“God, no,” Joshua said. “Don’t be stupid. It is far too hot for that. What is for dinner?” He turned to the table expectantly.

Her heart hurrying, Blanche moved over to the table and uncovered the plates. She had made the tourtière and simple salad by herself. Not even one edge of the pie was burned. A simple thing, yet she was inordinately pleased about it, and had gushed about her accomplishment in her daily letter to her sister, Emma.

Joshua scowled down at the plates and the pretty petunia petals floating in a bowl of water, between them. “Cold pie?” His tone was withering.

“It is meant to be eaten cold,” Blanche said. “It is tourtière.”

“Frog food?” He pushed the plate away. “Warm it up. I won’t eat it, otherwise.”

Blanche picked up his plate, the roiling in her belly increasing. No fire had burned in the stove since early that morning. It would take time to bring it to a heat which would warm the pie. She said nothing, though. If she had thought this through properly, she would have anticipated he would want his food warm. Why had she thought tourtière would be welcomed?

“Some of the fruitcake my mother sent me remains. Cream, too,” Blanche said, instead. “Would you like to eat it while this is warming?”

He scowled and sat at the empty place. “I am hungry,” he muttered.

She pushed the kitchen door open with her foot and put the plate on the old, scratched wooden counter, then got the fire going beneath the oven. When the slice of pie sat upon the metal dish in the oven to warm, she put the last slice of fruitcake on a dinner plate, instead of a dessert plate, poured the cream into a serving pitcher and took both out to the table.

A nearly empty glass of brandy sat in front of Joshua. He smoked a cigarette moodily, even though Blanche had asked him not to smoke in the house, for the smoke irritated her lungs and made her cough.

She held her tongue and smiled at him as she placed the fruitcake in front of him. She settled on the chair beside his and stroked his hand, where it laid on the tablecloth. “Why was your day so foul, dearest?”

He snorted, as he pulled his hand away from her fingers. “Because there is not one man in the regiment who understands what discipline means.” He crushed the cigarette on the bread plate by his elbow and reached for the brandy, ignoring the cake. “Why are you here, anyway?”

Blanche did not understand the question. “There is somewhere else I should be, instead of here with you?”

His scowl grew even deeper. “Colonel Hill’s wife is having one of those afternoon tea dinners of hers. Every blasted officer was talking about eating at the officers’ mess tonight.”

Except for Joshua.

Blanche’s heart squeezed. This was her fault. Mrs. Mary Hill, Colonel Hill’s wife, held her famous and eagerly anticipated afternoon tea dinners every month. All the wives were invited to arrive for afternoon tea, then linger to eat an early dinner, while gossiping and passing time with other ladies who understood what it was like to be married to a military man.

Blanche had attended precisely one of those occasions.

No one had said anything to her directly. In that regard, the social circle of Newcastle was just as subtle as those in London. Nothing was ever said aloud or directly to the subject of the gossip, while wholesale cattiness and plotting took place while their back was turned.

Somehow, in some way which Blanche could not begin to guess, she had become a pariah among the military wives. True, on the first occasion, one of the women had heard Blanche’s name and sniffed and drawled, “French?”

“Certainement,” Blanche had replied with a smile. “My father died fighting the Prussians during the Siege of Paris.”

Had that fact condemned her? She had thought the wives of military officers would welcome the daughter of another military hero, no matter who he fought for. Blanche would never know, for she had not received a single other invitation from any of the wives, not in the many months they had been here in Newcastle.

Had Joshua only just noticed that?

To be fair, he was preoccupied with his troublesome work. The battalion he commanded had been lax and undisciplined when he first took charge. The men still resisted his efforts to inculcate in them a sense of cohesion and fighting spirit.

Blanche understood his desire to make his battalion the best in the regiment. She applauded his efforts. It was Joshua’s determination to be the best officer possible which had first drawn her admiration. That, and his French mother, of course. Their French lineage had brought them together.

Blanche reached to brush the fine hair from Joshua’s forehead. “My poor husband,” she murmured.

Joshua jerked back from her fingers. “Don’t do that.”

Blanche dropped her hand.

“How much longer will the pie take?” He drained the brandy.

“A while,” she admitted.

Joshua scowled, the fine mustache over his lip working. She had never seen Joshua without the pale mustache. Despite him not shaving it, the mustache never seemed to grow into the luxurious affair other officers cultivated.

“Damn it, I’m hungry.” He got to his feet. “I’ll eat at the officer’s mess.”

Disappointment touched her, along with a swell of frustration. “I thought we could spend the evening together. Lisa Grace sent me a new book—”

“A book?” He laughed. “You intend to read to me?”

Blanche held herself still, adjusting to the idea that her plans were in ruins. The book Lisa Grace had sent her was a salacious one, full of lusty descriptions and wickedness. Blanche had intended to let Joshua read the book for himself while she sewed, and let his natural response to the story take care of matters after that. Blanche wasn’t sure she could actually read the bawdy passages aloud, although if she needed to do so in order to bring the evening to the conclusion she desperately sought, then she would.

Now she could do neither. She let none of her disappointment show, for Joshua resented any display of strong emotions. They were, in his opinion, weak and non-military.

So many things were non-military, in his mind. The expectation that servants cook and clean for them, instead of turning her own perfectly capable hands to the work, was one. Ostentatious housing. Lace at windows. Cushions on chairs. Embellishments on dresses. The latest fashions. Novels. Cab fares.

“I’ll get your cap and sword,” Blanche said, keeping her voice even. She moved toward the door.

As she passed him, Blanche caught the tiny widening of Joshua’s eyes. She had surprised him with her meekness.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

Blanche whirled, her heart leaping. “To the mess?”

He shrugged. “The dining room is open to civilians and there is a ladies’ lounge beside the mess where you can wait, afterwards.”

Blanche barely hesitated. It would help Joshua’s career to mingle with the other officers. She never discouraged him from doing so and she would not now. Only…to spend even the hour the meal would take in his company!

Blanche smiled. “That would be lovely! Oh, how sweet of you to offer!” She grabbed the cap and sword and thrust them toward him. “Let me just run upstairs and get my things. Oh, a night out! How wonderful!”

Joshua smiled indulgently, as she ran to change her gown and collect her reticule. She took the pie out of the oven and spread the embers, all while chattering about the evening ahead. Her gratitude seemed to please him, for Joshua waited patiently.

Blanche didn’t care what Joshua might be feeling. Not at that moment. She was going out!

---