Wellchester Triplets Series: A Historical Regency Romance Box Set Read online

  Wellchetser Triplets Series

  Sweet Regency Romance Box Set

  Laura Locke

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  Book Descriptions

  Rescuing the Rogue Soldier-Book 1

  A new legacy began in the Wellchester family as red-headed, golden-eyed triplets were born to Sylvia and Ira. Each of the triplets, although born together, could not be more different in personality and character. Johanna, the wanderer, blazed a path for her life that was unique, if barely within the rules of propriety. With help from the matchmaker they called Aunt Margaret, could she possibly hope to find the man of her dreams. Was it possible he had literally fallen into her lap, in her own back yard. Join this tightly-knit, warm and welcoming family in their village of Tymington—all set in a time that was tumultuous with unrest.

  Untamed Farrier- Book 2

  Richard Wellchester, tall and coppery-haired with topaz eyes was one of triplets. Having trained in his father’s profession as farrier, he was ready to take on the world.

  With little besides his name, a forge, two horses and a wagon, he set off on his adventures. He was befriended by the King’s army and by the villain they sought to capture. Nothing would improve his good fortune until he happened upon the lovely Eliza, daughter of the bombastic squire who was determined to marry her off for riches and title.

  Richard’s heart held fast, though… could he outlast the squire’s willful convictions?

  Love Lost at Sea- Book 3

  That last remaining Wellchester triplet, Melody shared the copper coloring and flashing topaz eyes with her brother and sister. Her temperament matched, particularly when she crossed paths with the arrogant, controlling Mrs. Rutherford. The only redeeming quality Mrs. Rutherford, social dame of the village offered, was Conner, her son. Melody set her wistful sights on him as he left to go to sea and his mother ruined Melody’s fledgling seamstress business.

  Would Melody triumph in the end? Would Conner find his heart lay in the village of Tymington despite his dream of travelling the world?

  Contents

  Rescuing the Rogue Soldier

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Untamed Farrier

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Love Lost at Sea

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Untitled

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

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  Rescuing the Rogue Soldier

  Chapter 1

  Northumberland, England

  Cradled in the undulating foothills of northern England, Tymington rests on land often caught in the struggles between the prideful Scots and whomever sat on England’s far-reaching throne. As in the Yorkshire Dales, the fields are divided by drystone walls. It is a place where the sky joins with tilled fields—an immense canvas against which Nature may paint her self-portrait.

  Not to be outdone, the sea has come to meet the fields, giving up almost nine leagues of its salty water to form a coastline of beaches swept clean by the winds that comes from over the waters.

  Despite the serenity of the countryside, blood has seeped deeply into its soil over the centuries. Its proximity to the clashes between the crown and the Scots, or the warring Scot clans has caused them to host more than their share of battles and sorrow.

  It is here, in Tymington, where the villagers labor to stay ahead of the cold, wet winters and the droughts of hot summers. The villagers here live simple lives, enriched with family love and the hope that the next year will bring something better. This is where Ira Wellchester, son of Thomas and Belle Wellchester, began his adult life.

  Ira Wellchester was born two decades earlier. The son of a farrier, Ira had been brought up with conservative, even timid, values and chose to live a quiet life. He understood well that his future and fortunes depended on the good graces of the local villagers and for this reason, he proceeded with caution and fairness in his every transaction. This also had the questionable benefit of making him one of the most eligible bachelors in the village. The daughters that were offered to him ranged from beauties from fathers who were likewise in the trade, to worn-thin unfortunates whose mothers industriously pointed out their more than adequate, child-bearing physiques.

  Ira was aware that he must soon marry and start a family. It was tradition that the eldest son be schooled in the trade and inherit the established business. Having inherited his father’s trade, he was well patronized by the locals and could manage to provide well for a family. As in any trade, some years were better than others, but seldom did the need for shoeing horses slackened, for they provided transportation, farming, animals, and even casual enjoyment.

  Ira was taller than most men in the village, his familiar figure, tall and erect, despite the many hours spent over an anvil or with a horse’s hoof cradled in his aproned lap. Ira’s blacksmithing also forged swords and implements with iron. In many ways, he stood to profit from the battles fought nearby, but was cautious never to boast of good fortune. Too many of his friends and neighbors lacked his distinct benefits.

  There was, however, one young woman in the village who repeatedly caught his eye. Her name was Sylvia, and her mother was the village’s most sought-after dressmaker. Gossip had it that Sylvia’s mother had sewn for the court as a maiden and now her daughter was apprenticed in the family shop.

  Ira judged her to be a worthy wife, and just as he did everything else, he had a list of reasons why. She was comely in a shy way, so their personalities would blend well. Healthy, he knew she would bear him several children. As an apprentice dressmaker, she would not only have skills that could be relied upon for supplemental income, particularly when blacksmithing slowed in the dead of winter, but she understood what it was to work hard and to be thrifty for the lean times.

  Ira was determined to calmly and respectfully court Sylvia. With this in mind, he purchased a small farm at the edge of town, from the estate of the late Mr. Edward Moore. There he could raise a bit of livestock, grow a garden large enough to support a family and even
move his blacksmithing business to the barn where he would be closest to the family he hoped to have. He took his time, tilling the garden and setting the plants. He built window boxes with wrought iron brackets and filled them with flowers, hung beneath the wall of mullioned windows that faced the lane passing by the cottage.

  Ira sent to London for a few finer furnishings, including hand-blown lamps by which to read and a set of china that later sat in the ivy cupboard, fit for the most formal of tables when guests came calling. He white-washed the cottage and the nearby barn from which his business now flourished and paved the drive and parking area with crushed limestone from the cliffs that guarded the sea. These he protected with a black fence he’d personally wrought from iron.

  Ira stood back from his farm, trying to look at it with objective eyes. He was pleased and felt that it represented a future that any woman would cherish. Confident with pride, Ira dressed in his woolen cape, for the day was cool and the winds from the sea reaching far inland. With his top hat and starched white cuffs, he paid a call on Aunt Margaret Bircham, the town’s matchmaker. The reference to “aunt” was an honorary title for although the matchmaker had paired many a local couple, she herself remained unmarried. Thus, the villagers had adopted her, more children and grandchildren than she could have ever hoped to have personally mothered.

  With an air of formality, Ira clapped the iron knocker of Aunt Margaret’s heavy wooden door. It was painted a bright red, which many said was the color of love. Old Mrs. Claire, a widow who lived with and looked after Aunt Margaret presented herself at the door. “Ira Wellchester!” she exclaimed and reached forward to pat his arm. “How gallant you look today.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Claire. You’re looking well yourself this lovely afternoon.”

  She curtsied slightly in appreciation. “What brings you to our door this day?”

  “I had hoped Aunt Margaret might tolerate my company for a brief time. I’ve come to see her about private matters.”

  Mrs. Claire, nodded, knowing the nature of his “private matters” but saving him the embarrassment of going into further explanation. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll check with Aunt Margaret.”

  She had barely turned from the door when Aunt Margaret replaced her. A large, buxom woman whose thick, white hair was piled high upon her head, her monocle clenched in one eye, Aunt Margaret’s voice boomed in welcome. “Master Wellchester!” she exclaimed in a highly-pitched voice that came close to making one flinch. “How pleasant to see you’ve come calling!”

  Ira suspected she’d spotted him from her chair perched next to her lace-curtained front window and had sprung to her feet to be sure he’d not gotten away. While Aunt Margaret did not charge for her matchmaking services, the occasional remuneration was generally sent in her direction—often in direct proportion to the wealth of the couple’s union.

  “Might I beg a few minutes of your time, Aunt Margaret?” he beseeched her.

  “Come in, come in, my boy,” she welcomed, standing back from the door and leading the way to her formal matchmaking parlor as he followed. She maintained the parlor for the use of the couples she introduced, chaperoning, as was proper, from a slightly raised, high-backed chair in the corner where she tatted lace as she kept a careful watch on the prospective couple. “Mrs. Claire, bring us some tea and a few of the cakes you baked this morning,” she screeched unnecessarily loudly.

  “Coming,” Mrs. Claire returned with vigor. Ira suspected Mrs. Claire had grown a bit deaf over the past years, whether by age or the necessity to protect her hearing from Aunt Margaret. She came into the parlor and set the tray with a teapot, cups and a small plate of cakes next to linen napkins on a pie crust table positioned next to Aunt Margaret. As his hostess served, she peered through her monocle at him over the teapot. Her ample bosom was reined in by a straining broadcloth gown, her signature heart-shaped brooch glinting from its home over her own heart.

  Aunt Margaret handed him a cup of tea. “So, Master Wellchester, what brings you here today?”

  He accepted he tea, cleared his throat and loosened his collar with the tug of an index finger. “Aunt Margaret, I believe the time has come for me to take one of our local young ladies to wife. I’ve purchased a farm, planted a garden, readied a sturdy house and moved my business into its barn. I would like to start a family. I’m here to seek your help.”

  She nodded approvingly. “I see. Well, I can’t say that I don’t agree with you and I’m gladdened to hear of the preparations you’ve made. Hmmmm… she put her fat fist up beneath her chin and looked upward, contemplating who she could think worthy of him.”

  “You don’t understand, Aunt Margaret. I already know who I would like to court. I need your blessing, hopefully, and your help.”

  “Indeed? Just like that? Pray tell, who is this lucky girl?”

  “It is Sylvia, the dressmaker’s daughter.”

  Aunt Margaret dropped her cup onto its saucer abruptly. “Oh, my dear boy, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question. She is already spoken for.”

  Ira frowned. “To whom?”

  “To Ian, son of the Kirk clan of Scotland.”

  “A Scot?” Ira could not believe his ears. “When did you begin matchmaking for the Scots?”

  Aunt Margaret drew herself up and lifted her chins. “Since the battles have left few eligible bachelors. Ian comes from good, honest stock and he’s to inherit the head of the clan when his father passes. They aren’t monsters, my boy.”

  “Have the bans been read?”

  “Well, no. We have not gotten to that point yet. It is early in their courtship.”

  Ira shook his head and put his cup onto the table. “Then it is not too late. I am asking that you permit me to call on Sylvia and convince her of my worthiness.”

  “Tsk, tsk, my boy, it is not that easy, I am afraid. You must deal with her father, and he is a force to be reckoned with, I’m afraid.”

  “Has he met the Scot?”

  “Well, no, not yet. But see here, my boy. I’ve already extended the invitation and my reputation is at stake here, as well. I will not disrupt a match in progress simply on your say so.”

  Ira was silent, seething internally. He had not seen this possible eventuality. “What if you were to find yourself with a new carriage and matching black steeds to draw it?”

  Her eyes lit. Her circumstances were limited, despite her popularity. She pictured herself being driven through the village in a splendid new carriage with the matched horses. “I suppose they would be kept shod without additional expense to me?” she prompted.

  “Aye.”

  It did not take her long to make her decision. “I could see what might be arranged. Perhaps her father might look more favorably upon a union that would keep her here, close to their family at that. Off with you now and I will be in touch.”

  Ira knew their interview had come to an end and he stood, bowed and let himself out the front door. Setting his hat on his head, he whistled as he headed home. He was a businessman, after all.

  Ira was back on Aunt Margaret’s doorstep, having been summoned by a small street urchin with a note in hand. Mrs. Claire admitted him and showed him directly to the parlor. There sat Aunt Margaret, a man with a stern face, and Sylvia.

  Ira bowed to the ladies and extended his hand to Sylvia’s father. The man wasted no time, however. “I understand you wish to court my daughter?” he said, coming directly to the point.

  “Indeed sir, I do.”

  “What do you offer?”

  Ira was taken aback by the man’s blunt manner. He had imagined something more romantic and gradual than an accounting of his finances and prospects. However, he sensed this was a man who dealt with the necessities and was glad that he had a background in business to stand him well. Therefore, he invited Sylvia’s father out to the garden for a private gentleman’s talk, and when they returned, her father tipped his top hat to Aunt Margaret and left the house. He had signed off on the deal, and the cou
rting had begun.

  Chapter 2

  Ira and Sylvia were married a fortnight later in a private ceremony with only parents and Aunt Margaret in attendance. Ira saw no point in spending money on frivolities and while her father was in agreement, her mother insisted on a wedding gown, which the women made themselves.

  Ira was very pleased with his new bride and the way she settled in immediately to the business of running his house. She had brought a number of small items with her; knick knacks that made the cottage homier. He turned to his business as she turned to the garden’s upkeep and the household began to prepare for the winter that would soon be on their doorstep. There were hogs and a cow to be butchered and the meats smoked or dried for preservation. The garden’s bounty was harvested, including the seeds which would be planted early the next Spring.

  Ira’s business had grown and he worked long hours. Sylvia sat quietly alone in the cottage, stitching gowns for clients her mother had sent her way. They paid her more often in trade, such as chicken or wheat but Ira thought this a prudent and fair exchange and therefore let her continue.