Join RNIC in welcoming author Lyn Brittan to the site! She’s here to spotlight her book and offer a giveaway!
A Blurb for The Clocks of London
Moira Gear is tired of being ignored. After years of begging to join her brother’s investigative firm, she’s off to seek her fortunes in the great tunnels of Water London. She’s needed there, even if no one else thinks so. Street children are disappearing, but only she appears to notice. That leaves just one option – save them and finally establish herself as a private investigator.
Patrick Clock is THE investigator of the well heeled. Taking only the best cases, he’s earned quite the laudable reputation among both the municipal force and common citizens. He wants nothing other than to focus on his work, but while out on a call, he spies a woman with a remarkable eye and a talent for trouble. What choice does he have but to follow her?
Their plans don’t involve each other, but Patrick and Moira find themselves tangled in a web of danger and lies. As their temporary partnership tumbles dangerously close to love, they must each find the courage to save the waters of London and each other.
Moira Gear clasped her hands to keep them from shaking on the morning submarine out of Brighton to London. Her gaze shifted from one side of the vessel to the other and she leaned against threadbare seats. The last time she’d traveled in a vessel this size, they’d had pressed linen-covered tables, silver utensils and plates of steaming hot food.
Not this time.
She pressed against a porthole, desperate for something cool on her cheek. Could the perspiration she wiped from her brow be a result of the humidity regulator gone awry?
No, probably not.
Around her, other passengers read newspapers and puffed on foul-smelling pipes. Cheap tobacco? She hadn’t thought it existed. The rare crop took ages to reach London from the above-water countries. Her father’s oyster pipe carried the aroma of heaven and chestnuts. The filth these men expelled stank of burst sewage pipes.
Moira took a kerchief from her reticule and wiped a smidgen of grime from the window. Ugh. She’d taken plenty of real submarines in her life. This one wasn’t fit to transport trash to the surface. What kind of passenger vessel had portholes instead of proper windows?
Still, there was nothing to be done for it. In this new life of hers, a cheap, chugging, creaking and limping sub made the most financial sense. Being born to money and surviving without it were ever so different.
She dabbed the corners of her eyes at the memory of it. Her family lived off their name and lines of credit. When he had no servant available to carry currency, Father waved his hand, dropped his calling card and had the bill sent straight to the Royal Bank or his secretary. She no longer had such options of the purse. When she’d left this morning, she did so with only the gold, silver and fruit seeds she’d found around the house…
And her father’s library. And her brother’s office.
She toed her red paisley satchel on the floor. It wasn’t theft. The jewels, the fig seeds, all of it comprised part of her inheritance. Family property really. She had every right to it.
Most of it.
Some of it.
“Tea and paper, Miss?” A besmocked porter wheeled his squeaking cart over.
Moira raised her hand, but shook her head and sent the boy away. Best to save her money and get used to doing without. Every single half pence mattered now.
Her eyes flittered over the daily held by the man in front of her. She couldn’t make out the words of the newspaper from this angle, but she didn’t need to. No doubt, it would have a story of another missing child from London.
The small text likely lay buried deep between articles concerning the latest fashions from the gilded sea walls of Paris and notices of who met whom at this botany lecture or wore what at a golden ball.
No one ever spoke about them, save her. She read the daily every day and noticed issues. Strange issues. Missing children sort of issues.
These children came from full households on the lower levels of London, the side avenues where city transport didn’t go and where no one had access to the water’s surface. The authorities wouldn’t care about missing lower-class boys. The papers hadn’t even bothered to add their names most times. Parents of such children didn’t have the means to hire proper investigators, either. That’s where she came in.
She’d investigate, solve the problem, and become the heroine she intended to be whilst proving to her brother that she’d make a dynamic partner in his investigative firm. Not that he alone needed convincing. It was well and fine for Michael to abandon tradition and work on saving the streets, but the moment she’d asked to participate in what he was building, three events happened in rapid and terrible succession. Her mother fainted dead away, her father slammed his fist into the wall hard enough to send nearby fish scattering, and her brother laughed. The latter stung the most.
“You’ve saved me from being the black sheep,” he’d said and walked out the door.
He hadn’t been wrong on that account.
“Lovely day, in’int, Missus?”
Moira nodded to the girl next to her on the tattered bench. Her clothes appeared frayed but clean. Her reticule, a pale green, may have once been the deeper tone of the girl’s dress several washings ago. “It is indeed. Moira Gear, private investigator.”
The young woman’s lips parted into a small O, and her eyes widened to tea saucers. “Matilda, but everyone calls me Maggie. A lady copper? I ain’t never heard of such. Do you carry a loaded barker and everything? You kill anyone dead wi’it? How long you been doing that?”
I started today didn’t sound entirely convincing. “It runs in the family.”
Here’s the info on the giveaway!
Prize: eBook copy of The Clocks of London
Eligibility: You must be a subscriber to the RNIC newsletter.
How to enter: I’m sitting here watching and loving Sleepy Hollow. What’s THE show that you want…need…beg people to tune in and watch? Post your answer below and one random winner will be chosen.
Deadline: Contest ends 11:59 EST on 10/17.
Note: By participating in this contest, the winner has given permission to RNIC to share his/her name and email address with the person conducting the contest so they can forward the prize(s). Prize open to U.S. and international entrants.
About the Author
Lyn grew up in the New Orleans and decided to live like her heroes, James Bond and Indiana Jones. She wasn’t totally successful and never had to shoot her way out of a hotel bedroom. She’s still coming to terms with it.
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