Amazon has chosen “Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit” as a Kindle Monthly Deal for all of November, priced at $1.99.
Felicity Carrol is brilliant, resourceful and not interested in becoming a proper young Victorian lady. When her mentor is brutally murdered she investigates only to find that the realm itself could be threatened.
“[Felicity] is a combination of Sherlock Holmes and Indiana Jones…Recommended to those looking for a female superhero out to right wrongs and defy convention to do so.”—Historical Novels Review
Excerpt from “Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit”
“Everyone, please take shelter behind the hedges,” Felicity Carrol announced.
Her homemade bomb was about to explode.
The dozen servants obeyed without hesitation. It was nearly ten at night, and they had already rescued what furniture and art they could from the east wing before Felicity told them to leave the rest to the flames. With help, she had first rescued the chemicals and scientific equipment from her laboratory, which was the source of the fire currently consuming the house.
When Felicity determined that the blaze could not be contained and would spread, she came up with a plan to save the rest of Carrol Manor. In the kitchen, she combined the perfect amounts of glycerin with nitric and sulfuric acids. She added torn paper and porridge oats to absorb the unstable mixture. With cautious movements, she packed the volatile paste into an Italian ceramic urn she had always disliked. As she did so, she reviewed the formula in her mind. Many times, pride in her knowledge and abilities suppressed any doubt about her experiments. She loathed that aspect of her personality—taking pleasure in what she could accomplish. For instance, she would bet no other young woman in England, well, in all of Surrey anyway, was capable of constructing a bomb in their kitchen. Despite the delicate work, Felicity wanted to laugh. Besides herself, what young woman would even want to pack an urn with dynamite?
Still, better to be careful in case she did not know as much as she thought she did about bomb making. Although confident in her chemistry, she didn’t want anyone harmed if something went wrong. And plenty had already gone wrong that evening. The fire was proof of that. So she had asked the servants to leave while she created the explosive.
Aided by John Ryan, an affable Irishman in charge of the grounds, she had carried the dynamite-filled urn outside. Together, they placed it in the middle of the long hallway connecting the east wing to the rest of the manor.
After glancing back to make sure everyone was protected, Felicity lit a match to a line of gun powder Ryan had supplied. Spitting sparks, the powder burned toward her handmade explosive.
“Time to run,” she told Ryan.
“As you say, Miss Carrol.”
She picked up her skirt for an unfettered escape. Ryan ran alongside her.
Behind the hedge, they all waited. The air pounded. The ground tremored, and glass
shattered. A burning timber flew over their heads, eliciting gasps from the female servants.
Felicity peeked around the hedge. A good ten-meter chunk of the hallway had been blasted away. Her explosion had contained the fire to the east wing. The main house had suffered some shattered windows but was otherwise safe.
“You did it, Miss Felicity. No doubt they heard your bomb clear to Guildford,” Ryan said in his comfortable brogue.
“How much simpler if we’d had a stick of dynamite. But one must make do, thanks all the same to Mr. Alfred Nobel.” She did not want to appear too pleased with herself.
The remaining fire spit and hissed.