Books with author R L Stevenson

Fifteen-year-old Sophie sees her move to Victoria as a chance to start over and leave her old self behind. She is soon drawn into the orbit of the charismatic but troubled Zelia. As their friendship develops, and Zelia's behavior becomes increasingly self-destructive, Sophie struggles to maintain both the friendship and her own sense of self. Then Sophie meets Max. At first, Max seems to be Zelia's opposite: direct, straightforward and sure of herself. But this new friendship brings its own unexpected challenges and confusion, and Sophie slowly starts to realize that friendships are a place in which one can both lose and discover oneself.

During his residence in London, the accomplished Prince Florizel of Bohemia gained the affection of all classes by the seduction of his manner and by a well-considered generosity. He was a remarkable man even by what was known of him; and that was but a small part of what he actually did. Although of a placid temper in ordinary circumstances, and accustomed to take the world with as much philosophy as any ploughman, the Prince of Bohemia was not without a taste for ways of life more adventurous and eccentric than that to which he was destined by his birth. Now and then, when he fell into a low humour, when there was no laughable play to witness in any of the London theatres, and when the season of the year was unsuitable to those field sports in which he excelled all competitors, he would summon his confidant and Master of the Horse, Colonel Geraldine, and bid him prepare himself against an evening ramble. The Master of the Horse was a young officer of a brave and even temerarious disposition. He greeted the news with delight, and hastened to make ready. Long practice and a varied acquaintance of life had given him a singular facility in disguise; he could adapt not only his face and bearing, but his voice and almost his thoughts, to those of any rank, character, or nation; and in this way he diverted attention from the Prince, and sometimes gained admission for the pair into strange societies. The civil authorities were never taken into the secret of these adventures; the imperturbable courage of the one and the ready invention and chivalrous devotion of the other had brought them through a score of dangerous passes; and they grew in confidence as time went on. One evening in March they were driven by a sharp fall of sleet into an Oyster Bar in the immediate neighbourhood of Leicester Square. Colonel Geraldine was dressed and painted to represent a person connected with the Press in reduced circumstances; while the Prince had, as usual, travestied his appearance by the addition of false whiskers and a pair of large adhesive eyebrows. These lent him a shaggy and weather-beaten air, which, for one of his urbanity, formed the most impenetrable disguise. Thus equipped, the commander and his satellite sipped their brandy and soda in security. The bar was full of guests, male and female; but though more than one of these offered to fall into talk with our adventurers, none of them promised to grow interesting upon a nearer acquaintance. There was nothing present but the lees of London and the commonplace of disrespectability; and the Prince had already fallen to yawning, and was beginning to grow weary of the whole excursion, when the swing doors were pushed violently open, and a young man, followed by a couple of commissionaires, entered the bar. Each of the commissionaires carried a large dish of cream tarts under a cover, which they at once removed; and the young man made the round of the company, and pressed these confections upon every one’s acceptance with an exaggerated courtesy. Sometimes his offer was laughingly accepted; sometimes it was firmly, or even harshly, rejected. In these latter cases the new-comer always ate the tart himself, with some more or less humorous commentary. At last he accosted Prince Florizel. “Sir,” said he, with a profound obeisance, proffering the tart at the same time between his thumb and forefinger, “will you so far honour an entire stranger? I can answer for the quality of the pastry, having eaten two dozen and three of them myself since five o’clock.” “I am in the habit,” replied the Prince, “of looking not so much to the nature of a gift as to the spirit in which it is offered.” “The spirit, sir,” returned the young man, with another bow, “is one of mockery.” “Mockery?” repeated Florizel. “And whom do you propose to mock?” “I am not here to expound my philosophy,” replied the other, “but to distribute these cream tarts.

Sir Daniel and his men lay in and about Kettley that night, warmly quartered and well patrolled. But the Knight of Tunstall was one who never rested from money-getting; and even now, when he was on the brink of an adventure which should make or mar him, he was up an hour after midnight to squeeze poor neighbours. He was one who trafficked greatly in disputed inheritances; it was his way to buy out the most unlikely claimant, and then, by the favour he curried with great lords about the king, procure unjust decisions in his favour; or, if that was too roundabout, to seize the disputed manor by force of arms, and rely on his influence and Sir Oliver’s cunning in the law to hold what he had snatched. Kettley was one such place; it had come very lately into his clutches; he still met with opposition from the tenants; and it was to overawe discontent that he had led his troops that way. By two in the morning, Sir Daniel sat in the inn room, close by the fireside, for it was cold at that hour among the fens of Kettley. By his elbow stood a pottle of spiced ale. He had taken off his visored headpiece, and sat with his bald head and thin, dark visage resting on one hand, wrapped warmly in a sanguine-coloured cloak. At the lower end of the room about a dozen of his men stood sentry over the door or lay asleep on benches; and somewhat nearer hand, a young lad, apparently of twelve or thirteen, was stretched in a mantle on the floor. The host of the Sun stood before the great man. “Now, mark me, mine host,” Sir Daniel said, “follow but mine orders, and I shall be your good lord ever. I must have good men for head boroughs, and I will have Adam-a-More high constable; see to it narrowly. If other men be chosen, it shall avail you nothing; rather it shall be found to your sore cost. For those that have paid rent to Walsingham I shall take good measure—you among the rest, mine host.” “Good knight,” said the host, “I will swear upon the cross of Holywood I did but pay to Walsingham upon compulsion. Nay, bully knight, I love not the rogue Walsinghams; they were as poor as thieves, bully knight. Give me a great lord like you. Nay; ask me among the neighbours, I am stout for Brackley.” “It may be,” said Sir Daniel, dryly. “Ye shall then pay twice.” The innkeeper made a horrid grimace; but this was a piece of bad luck that might readily befall a tenant in these unruly times, and he was perhaps glad to make his peace so easily. “Bring up yon fellow, Selden!” cried the knight. And one of his retainers led up a poor, cringing old man, as pale as a candle, and all shaking with the fen fever. “Sirrah,” said Sir Daniel, “your name?” “An’t please your worship,” replied the man, “my name is Condall—Condall of Shoreby, at your good worship’s pleasure.” “I have heard you ill reported on,” returned the knight. “Ye deal in treason, rogue; ye trudge the country leasing; y’ are heavily suspicioned of the death of severals. How, fellow, are ye so bold? But I will bring you down.” “Right honourable and my reverend lord,” the man cried, “here is some hodge-podge, saving your good presence. I am but a poor private man, and have hurt none.” “The under-sheriff did report of you most vilely,” said the knight. “‘Seize me,’ saith he, ‘that Tyndal of Shoreby.’” “Condall, my good lord; Condall is my poor name,” said the unfortunate. “Condall or Tyndal, it is all one,” replied Sir Daniel, coolly. “For, by my sooth, y’ are here and I do mightily suspect your honesty. If ye would save your neck, write me swiftly an obligation for twenty pound.” “For twenty pound, my good lord!” cried Condall. “Here is midsummer madness! My whole estate amounteth not to seventy shillings.” “Condall or Tyndal,” returned Sir Daniel, grinning, “I will run my peril of that loss. Write me down twenty, and when I have recovered all I may, I will be good lord to you, and pardon you the rest.” “Alas! my good lord, it may not be; I have no skill to write,” said Condall.

Derek thinks he might be falling in love. The problem is, he hasn't been entirely honest with his on-line boyfriend. Derek sent Ethan a photo taken before he got depressed and gained eighty pounds. Derek hasn't been honest with his employer either. When he lied about his age and experience to get a job with disabled adults, the last thing he expected was to meet a woman like Aaliyah. Smart, prickly and often difficult, Aaliyah challenges Derek's ideas about honesty and trust. Derek has to choose whether to risk telling the truth, or to give up the most important relationship in his life.

In this final installment of the Brandy Young Sorceress Treasure of the Ogre Mystic, Brandy and her party head deep into the mountains in the Northern Pann Reach to locate the cave of the ogre mystic. The treasure is supposed to be unguarded and forgotten but what they find when they get there comes as a perilous surprise. The journey is fraught with peril as Brandy continues to explore her sorceress abilities and a group of entertaining and useful new companions teaches her some valuable lessons about the world. Will Brandy and her party survive the treacherous quest. Will Retter, Sheer, and Marilynn interfere? Will this be the beginning of a long and interesting adventuring career or will it be the end? Will Brandy learn anything about why she was dismissed from her apprenticeship early or with she take that mystery with her to an early grave. Read Brandy young Sorceress Part 4 to find out.

Marriage to her publisher, Arthur Abbott, has done nothing to stop Barbara Buncle from involving herself in the lives of her neighbours. After leaving Silverstream and moving to London, Barbara and Arthur are enjoying their newly-wedded bliss, but not the city life. The only solution to their problem? Returning to the country. Silverstream is out of the question, but Barbara eventually finds the perfect candidate in the town of Wandlebury. After falling in love with the town, and the run-down Archway House, the Abbotts move in and make it their home. Barbara doesn't intend to get mixed up with those around her, again, but can't help falling into those scrapes, often with humorous consequences!