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SCANDAL OF THE YEAR… WILL IT END WITH A SILKEN ROPE?

Sir Pinkerton Jones-Worthy, who always knows the latest gossip, was kind enough to give the Tattler an interview about the latest—and possibly the greatest—scandal in the ton.

Did Lord Derwent, heir to the Earl of Medway, murder his close friend, Lord Worsten? Lord Worsten’s body, shockingly stabbed several times, was found in a ditch on the Great North Road the day after Lord Worsten abducted Lord Derwent’s mistress―or did he? 

“Everyone thinks so,” Sir Pinkerton said, “but my dear friend, Lady Rosamund Phipps, tells another story.”

“Lord Derwent is her brother, so surely she should know,” I ventured. 

“One would assume so, but one would also expect her to protect her brother to the best of her poor ability,” Sir Pinkerton said with a sigh. “She claims Derwent left town with his mistress, and that the abduction story is pure fabrication. However…”

“Yes?” I prompted him eagerly.

“Lords Derwent and Worsten quarreled publicly the other day―in White’s, of all places―and Worsten swore to steal Derwent’s mistress.”

“Ah!” I said, “Rivals in love. Or perhaps only lust, but gentlemen have been known to duel over such foolishness.”

“Alas,” Sir Pinkerton said, “if it were only a duel, which is an honorable way to settle a dispute. Unfortunately, there is nothing more dishonorable than murder.”

“Especially such a vicious sort of murder. Stabbing! Leaving the corpse in a ditch, prey to scavengers and vermin.” I shuddered. “How frightfully barbaric.”

“Indeed, but the Bow Street Runners are in pursuit, and when they apprehend Derwent, he will be tried swiftly—and hanged.” He paused. “With a silken rope.”

“Isn’t that only for peers?” I mused. “He’s not a peer yet, merely the heir to one.” I wrinkled my nose. “Not that the sort of rope would be much comfort when one is about to die.”

Sir Pinkerton tittered. “I fancy not.”

“Poor Lady Rosamund must be distraught,” I said. “She suffered much in the spring from rumors about her fragile state of mind.”

Sir Pinkerton puffed out his narrow chest. “Lady Rosamund needs a man to take care of her.”

Perhaps. She does have a sizeable fortune. 

“What about the latest print by Corvus?” I asked. “It suggests that many so-called gentlemen are bandying her name about and vying for her hand in a horribly louche sort of way. The print implies that you, dear Sir Pinkerton, are one of those very gentlemen.”

Sir Pinkerton bristled with affront. “How dare that rascally caricaturist insult me? I am nothing like those rakes. I adore Lady Rosamund. I care deeply for her.”

Hmm. We shall leave it to our readers to judge his motives. 

“A little bird told me Lady Rosamund has just left town, heading up the Great North Road,” I said. “Maybe she knows where her brother has gone and means to warn him, so he can escape to the Continent.”

“She went after him?” Sir Pinkerton huffed. “In that case, I must leave town forthwith.”

He hastened away. I hope I am not the cause of more trouble for Lady Rosamund. The last thing she needs, if she indeed goes to save her brother, is Sir Pinkerton getting in the way. We at the Tattler wish her luck―and fervently hope that Lord Derwent will escape the silken rope.

***

 

 

Lady Rosamund visits the bookshop with Miss Concord (her brother’s mistress, whom she rescued from an abductor) and is accosted by two gentlemen who show signs of planning to woo her. Rosamund is aghast at the notion of remarrying—particularly not one of these men. Miss Concord has a better suggestion.

“If I were you, I would choose that lovely Mr. McBrae,” Miss Concord said.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“He’s head over ears for you,” she said. “Surely you’re aware of that!”

I managed a shrug. “I know he finds me attractive, but he doesn’t intend marriage.” Thank heavens, for that would make our situation even more awkward. It’s bad enough that he disapproves of me and lets me know, and worse that he wants to make me his mistress. Not that he has asked me in so many words, but his actions have made it clear.

“No? Why not?” she asked.

“Because—because, well, it’s preposterous,” I said. “He’s an impecunious Scotsman, and I’m the daughter of the Earl of Medway.”

“So what? He’s a gentleman and you are a lady.” She stuck out her chin. “If you’re in love with each other, why shouldn’t you marry?”

“We aren’t in love,” I retorted, stopping myself just in time from spouting some nonsense about love matches being only for the underbred. Despite my best efforts, my mother’s dictums tend to surge to my lips, especially in moments of disquiet.

The thought of intimacy with McBrae made me uneasy. Actually, the thought of intimacy with any man did—but admittedly, far less so with McBrae than with any other gentleman of my acquaintance.

I liked him, and he lusted after me. And to be fair, he seemed to have a certain amount of respect for my intelligence. To be fair again, he had taught me a certain amount about matters of which I had no previous experience, and he had also saved my life.

But none of this had anything to do with love. 

“Perhaps not yet,” she began, then quailed slightly at my frown.  

“I don’t plan to marry again,” I pronounced.

She looked as if she wanted to ask why, but stopped herself, no doubt for fear of offending me. Good, for I had no intention of explaining myself.

It was a good thing McBrae didn’t want to wed me. I couldn’t possibly marry anyone, even if I wanted to. I would carry the reason for that to my grave.

***

LADY ROSAMUND AND THE PLAGUE OF SUITORS, Blurb 

Lady Rosamund’s plan for a quiet return to London society goes awry when she rescues a woman fleeing along the road—the mistress of her brother, Lord Derwent. Rosamund takes her in, meaning to sort matters out with Derwent—but he has left town in a hurry, and soon the Bow Street Runners are after him for murder. If that wasn’t trouble enough, several suitors are vying for Lady Rosamund’s hand. 

Luckily, Gilroy McBrae is in London to help Rosamund save her brother. Will their strained relationship, along with his rivals for her heart, impede the race to unmask the real murderer before Derwent is caught and hanged?

Bio:

USA Today bestselling author Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. After publishing a middle-grade fantasy, she settled on historical mysteries and romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes (or vice versa). Sometimes there’s bit of fantasy mixed in, because she wants to avoid reality as much as possible.

Barbara used to have two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding and to succeed at knitting socks. She managed the first (don’t ask) but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the second. This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays. Learn more at www.BarbaraMonajem.com.

Social media links:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/barbara.monajem

Bookbub:  https://www.bookbub.com/profile/barbara-monajem

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3270624.Barbara_Monajem

Website: http://www.BarbaraMonajem.com

 

Buy links:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BMGRR74Y/

Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0BMGRR74Y/

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BMGRR74Y/

Amazon Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0BMGRR74Y/

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lady-rosamund-and-the-plague-of-suitors-barbara-monajem/1142786548

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/lady-rosamund-and-the-plague-of-suitors

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/lady-rosamund-and-the-plague-of-suitors/id6444872414

Never let a little money come between a girl and her future comfort, I say!

Sweetbriar Engagement Ball

Dearest Reader,

I hesitate to tell you this dreadful tale of a young lady of respectable family, yet not high in the instep. Yes, her father has marital aspirations for her and her younger sister. You do know what I mean. Well! I tell you that I have it on good authority that she will not marry the man whom her father has purchased for her.

Yes. I do say purchased.

Now you must think me quite mad to say that I rather hope she does marry him anyway. As it is her pride that stands at the door to her happiness, she must give in and marry the poor fellow! (He is very poor.)

Don’t you agree?

Aside from the fact that she should have danced all night, rather than succumb to madness, I am all for her! I mean, after all, a girl who has money should take advantage of all opportunities.

I know you will find my thinking sound. After all, I never had any money and look what happened to me!

Lady Reginald Marlow

Excerpt, THE RAVEN’S LAST BET, All rights reserved. Copyright, Cerise DeLand 2022.

“Listen to me, Sara. I have a plan. It won’t be one either of our fathers likes but it might work.”

She pulled away. Peering into his magnificent eyes clouded her judgement. His green-brown orbs reflected a sadness in the faint lights that matched her own. “Tell me.”

“We announce that we intend to marry others.”

“I’ve already left two men alone before the vicar. Now there’s this gossip in the Gazette—?”

“Forget those other two men. And hang them at the Gazette.”

She put a hand to her hip. “We’ll send them new stories. Marvelous. I dislike your thinking, Harry. Totally. Marry another? Ba! Precisely who did you have in mind?” 

He gave her a look that said he had the right answer. “A man who makes you tingle.”

“Of whom there is no one.” Which is a lie.

“For each woman, there is a man. A perfect match.”

“I’ve not found him in four years. Why now?”

“You will lure him.”

 By some folly, to be sure. “How?”

A wicked gleam lit those iridescent eyes. “With kisses.”

“You expect me to kiss men?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “How else will you discover the right fellow?”

“How else will I go down as a scarlet woman? I’ve climbed enough fences barring me because I am of the dreaded merchant class. Papa’s money might continue to buy me entry, but if I degrade myself further, no one will touch me!”

He tipped up his chin. “You will be discreet. I will help.”

“You’ll bar doors?”

“And divert traffic.”

She scowled at him. “You’ve been away much too long, sir. You think me so brave. I am different from that child who tagged along behind you and tucked frogs in your pants.”

He scoffed. “Remind me. Who came to me night before last in her nightrail?”

”Dressing gown.”

He waved that away. “Exactly my point.”

Exasperated, she huffed. “The fault, dear Harry, is not in our stars, but in myself.”

“I agree.”

Oh, he infuriated her! “I do not know how to kiss.”

“And so you will learn.”

Only one way. She could barely say it. “By doing.”

“Indeed.” He winked. “With me.”

That way lay disaster and hopeless ruin. She’d should return to this party, because this was hopeless. She’d given up wanting him so long ago. Or thought she had. She threw up her hands. “Absurd.”

“Is it?” He took a step toward her, so near she inhaled his scent, imbibed his familiar allure that she could not allow to thrill her. “You said my kiss left you with no…what is the word?”

“You know perfectly well the word.”

“Tickle?”

If only. “Tingle.”

“Well then, my darling.” With one hand he caught her wrist while he swept his other hand around her waist. “Let’s see if this fits the bill.”

“No, stop!” Wonderful. Now she sounded like the village crier. 

“There, there. Don’t be shy. An experiment, eh?” He lifted her hand toward his mouth. “Or shall we call it…” he murmured, as he put her index finger, fully gloved, against the neat cleft in his chin, “…a demonstration? Visible to the naked eye.”

He smiled. Or was that the show of teeth of a predator? A creature who…gloated? 

He caught the point of her glove between his long white incisors. The act of a male bent on taking a bite of her, he tugged. The fabric slid along her finger, silk on silk, a glissade of shivering delight. Her glove glided from her elbow in a silent skim of her nerves. She shivered.

He halted. Glanced up at her, those long dark lashes of his rising to reveal the facets of a Harry she’d never known. A ravenous devil appeared there, one who pulled at another fingertip, starving for more of her until her hand was bare. Nipping her third finger and the next, he sent tremors up her spine. Her mouth fell open as he took her smallest finger, fabric and all, and bathed the whole of it in his hot moist mouth. His tongue served as succor—and as torture. 

She panted as if she’d run a mile. Her gaze glued to his voracious teeth, she dare not look away or lose a second. What he gave, she took. If it was instruction, it was also a revelation. Though she knew not how to interpret his lips to her fingers as lips to lips, she reveled in whatever he’d choose next. 

With a yank of his teeth, he pulled and her glove slid slowly down her arm and fell to the floor. She was bare to the night air, chilled and burning, as he caught her fingers and pressed them to his open mouth. He cupped her elbow, and her wrist was once more his. Bare skin gave him no pause, but encouragement to lift her hand once more. 

He groaned and crushed her torso fully against him. His possession, from her breasts to her hips, left her pulsing. 

He put her palm to his lips and licked the hollow of her hand. She moaned at his luscious homage and her knees gave way. As he caught her up, he bit the heal of her hand. She yelped. He gave a grunt, nigh unto laughter or triumph, she knew not which, then wrapped her arm around his waist. As he sweetly backed her to the wall, his hair fell loose over his brow and he focused on her lips. 

Then he took them.

THE RAVEN’S LAST BET and a BONUS BOOK!
She won’t be sold into marriage.
He won’t wed her for any amount of money. Only love.
If he can just figure out a way!

Harry Seymour arrives home from years of fighting abroad to learn he must clean up the family mess. His father demands Harry honor a deal he made with his best friend for Harry to marry the man’s daughter…for money.
Harry, who’s loved Sara Fleming since she was four, has no problem marrying her. He never did, even when she was denied him because she was the Whiskey King’s daughter.
But he won’t wed her for money.
Sara cannot accept the bargain her father made. She’s already left two men at the altar because she didn’t love either one. And if she can’t wed Harry for love, she’ll marry no one. But she wagers she’ll walk away a spinster…and happy if Harry will do her the favor of ruining her.
It’s a bet Harry can’t refuse.
Can he?
***
Bonus Book!
LORD STANTON’S SHOCKING SEASIDE HONEYMOON

She is so wrong for him.
Miss Josephine Meadows is so young. In love with life. His accountant in his work for Whitehall. Her father’s heir to his trading company—and his espionage network.
Lord Stanton cannot resist marrying her. But to ensure Wellington defeats Napoleon, they must save one of Josephine’s agents.
Far from home, amidst a horrific storm, Stanton discovers that his new bride loves him dearly.
Can he truly be so right for her?
And she for him?

BUY LINK: The Raven’s Last Bet – Kindle edition by DeLand, Cerise. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Cerise DeLand, The Author

Cerise DeLand is the USA TODAY bestselling author who has been writing since God created dirt. (That’s an old Texas saying!) But she has been at it for nearly 40 years! With about 80 books to her credit, she has stopped counting.

Follow her please on Amazon: Cerise DeLand on Amazon

 

New Scandal Sheets take up ‘Sensitive’ Matters! Beware!

Dearest Readers,

Readers of this regular missive are certainly aware of other purveyors of news related to the Bon Ton. The Lady’s Newspaper and Pictorial Times, for example, or Fraser’s Magazine for Town and Country. Those of genteel breeding, however, may not be aware of the existence of single-sheet items printed hurriedly and sold on the streets cheaply for a penny or halfpenny, perhaps because they deal with issues of politics that many ladies do not concern themselves with.

However, a rumor has arisen that a member of the gentry may be behind one of these scandalous sheets. This man calls himself Janner, which is a name for an English person born within ten miles of the sea, and though his ideas may be controversial his language and ability to express himself reveals that he is a man of great education, perhaps a graduate of one of our finest universities.

Janner takes up a variety of causes, from the support of bills in Parliament governing the labor of women and children in factories to the plight of boys who work delivering goods to our very homes from vendors we might otherwise hold in esteem.

His fervor is that of a young man, and enquiring minds are curious to see if he can be matched to anyone from a seaside background with an excellent education. Certain names have arisen, most specifically Lord Tyne and Lord Therkenwell, who both hail from Cornwall.

Those who encountered Lord Tyne during his sister’s season may have reason to doubt his ability to form such elegant sentences. Which leaves Lord Therkenwell, who shares a dwelling in Eaton Square with a gentleman employed by the French embassy. This somewhat louche arrangement results in two eligible bachelors who are rarely seen in the company of women.

These particulars, as well as the fact that Therkenwell has taken a more public stance on issues now that his father, Earl Badgely, is less active in the House of Lords, leads your correspondent to make a connection between Janner and the Cornish lord.

How does this relate to the readers of this publication? Recently Janner has taken a position on the pay and working conditions of household staff! And that should concern any lady who wishes to maintain a proper home—especially on a budget. We shall keep abreast of these issues in the future, and whether we can expose Lord Therkenwell as the author of these missives.

***

Janner Excerpt,  The Lord and the Gentleman

Ahead of him he spotted a young boy selling broadsides. He hurried closer to see if it was the latest Janner. And indeed as the boy called out the headline, he recognized it. He felt warm inside—until a portly man in a heavy overcoat grabbed one of the pages from the boy without paying.

“Here, mister, that’s a penny,” the boy said.

The man glanced at the headline. “I don’t pay for trash!” he said.

When the boy grabbed for the paper, the man pushed him, and John felt obliged to step in. “It is theft to take something without paying for it,” John said. “Either return that page to the boy or pay him, or I will call the bobbies on you!”

The man turned on him, his mouth a snarl. Then his eyes opened. He looked at John, taking in the cut of his topcoat, the ruffled sleeve that stretched over his wrist. “A molly, are you?”

“Even I were, I would have no interest in such as you,” John said coldly. “A pork pie stuffed in a sausage casing, and a thief to boot. I reiterate, sirrah. Give the boy his coin or his paper.”

Huffing, the main pulled a coin from his pocket and handed it to the boy. He folded the paper under his arm. 

John tipped his hat and said, “Good day.” Then he turned and began to stride back toward Russell Square, his heart beating rapidly. The nerve of the man, a commoner in cheap clothing, to insult him, a member of the gentry. Usually his outrage led him to write as Janner, so when he got home, he pulled down an empty notebook from his shelf and wrote out the incident, indicating, time, place and what the man was wearing. Those details would be useful at some point, he was sure.

As he closed the book and put it back on the shelf, he wondered if other boys suffer the same conduct when selling his work? The idea remained with him, and became the substance of the next Janner broadside, about the value of work. Regardless what readers might think of broadsides, they were the result of work by writers, editors, printers and salesboys, and each of them deserved to be compensated. To snatch away a page, as the man had done, was a theft against all involved in the production.

He worked all week on this essay, taking quick trips out to spy on the salesboys and see if anyone else tried to take advantage of them. He witnessed hectoring and even one man who spit, and he used those examples as well. 

By the time Saturday night arrived, when he had an invitation to a soirée at the home of Lord Dawson and the man he shared a house with, Toby Marsh, he was tired. He was still angry about the injustices perpetrated against the salesboys, and unhappy over his father’s demand that he head to Shorecliff.

“I don’t know if I shall go out tonight,” he said to Beller as evening darkened. 

“You have worked hard this whole long week, my lord,” Beller said. “See how ink-stained your fingertips are? They are a mark of your industry. Whether you go out or not you must let me work on them.”

John sat at the small table in his kitchen. Beller sat across from him with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a worn cloth, and John stretched out his right hand. Beller grasped it with one hand and used the other to brush aggressively against the ink stains. 

“You take very good care of me, Beller,” John said, even as his fingertips stung against the abrasion.

“God calls every Christian to glorify him in our work,” Beller said. “According to Saint Luke’s account in the Bible, Mary Magdalen washed the feet of Christ with her tears at a banquet in the House of Simon.” He looked up at John with the hint of a smile. “At least I may use rubbing alcohol instead of my tears.”

John laughed. “You are a rogue, Beller,” he said. “And that is why I enjoy your company so much.”

“And I yours, my lord.” When he finished cleaning John’s fingers, he said, “and now, are you ready to reward your hard work with some entertainment?”

John smiled. “I am, my good man. Thank you. Shall I wear the tweed suit?”

“I think it is appropriate for the January cold,” Beller said. “With a wool scarf and top hat, and your greatcoat over it.” 

Once Beller had completed John’s ensemble, John struck out for the walk to Ormond Yard. The night was chilly but clear—or as clear as sooty London could be. He even managed to spot the North Star above him, though it was quickly eclipsed by wafts of smoke coming from chimneys he passed.

Cornwall in February would be quite dreary, he thought, as he turned onto Great Russell Street, past the enormous pile of the British Museum. It was closed, of course, but he gave a nod toward the Egyptian sculpture gallery, one of his favorites. When he came down to London occasionally from Cambridge, he had often strolled through those galleries, peering at the Rosetta Stone as if it could decipher his future for him.

He had so much good fortune in his life, he thought. An allowance from his father that enabled him to live in comfort, his writings as Janner that gave him a purpose. He had Beller for companionship and service. Though he longed for a male companion he had to resolve to continue until such a man arrived in his life.

Two elderly men passed him, one holding the other by the belt so he would not topple, and John tipped his cap at them and wished them good evening. Seeing their connection made him smile all the way to Ormond Yard.

***

The Lord and the Frenchman, blurb

Two wounded men discover true love and a found family in Victorian England

In the opulent courts of Victorian England, John Seales, Lord Therkenwell, is a man of wealth and privilege, expected to marry a woman of his own social standing and produce an heir. But when he meets dashing French diplomat Raoul Desjardins at a soirée arranged by a politically-connected gay couple, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to the man despite the risks of their forbidden love.

John and Raoul struggle to keep their feelings for each other hidden while becoming ensnared in a web of international intrigue that threatens to ruin their careers and endanger their lives. As they navigate the dangerous political landscape of the time, they must also confront their own demons and make a choice: follow the expectations of society or follow their hearts. Set against the backdrop of a tumultuous era, “The Lord and the Frenchman” is a passionate and romantic tale of love that knows no bounds.

Genre: MM Romance

Length: 81,000 words

Publisher: Samwise Books

All formats available

Release date: February 14, 2023

https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Frenchman-Ormond-Romantic-Adventures-ebook/dp/B0BSH6ZL4N/

https://amzn.to/3XNKHMm 

https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-lord-and-the-frenchman/id6445491482

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-lord-and-the-frenchman

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-lord-and-the-frenchman-neil-s-plakcy/1142969348?ean=2940167013803

https://books2read.com/u/4DJyJe 

Neil Plakcy, author bio

Neil Plakcy is living his own happily ever after with his husband and two rambunctious golden retrievers in South Florida, where he is a professor of English at Broward College. He has been a construction manager, a computer game producer, and a web developer – all experiences he uses in his fiction.

He has written or edited over fifty novels and short stories in gay romance, gay mystery, cozy mystery and erotica. His research has taken him from the FBI’s sixteen-week citizen’s academy, where he practiced at a shooting range, to visiting numerous gay bars in Miami Beach and Fort Lauderdale. (Seriously, it was research.) 

His website is www.mahubooks.com

A young woman with fire in her speeches tours the country!

Dear Editor Clemmens,

Special from the States. Let me whisper from the near future, some news from across the pond. There is a girl, I have heard, who though plain of face and masculine in stance, is called America’s Sweetheart. Can you imagine? And for what? Because for a little thing of eighteen, she has a voice that carries deep into your heart, or your gut, if you are one to find her stance on slavery and the war unappealing.

Her name is Anna Elizabeth Dickinson, and when she shakes her curlyhead, men do the most amazing things. A protégé of William Lloyd Garrison and Frederick Douglas, she has invigorated the Northern cause with her sappy speeches about dying soldier boys. Why, believe it or not, the Republican party has hired her to campaign for their candidates in the midterms. 

Imagine such arrogance for her to accept such a task when she does not have the right to vote herself. But she has. 

Of course, those wily men have sent her into the worst of those Copperhead lairs. Places they have no wish to go. And for good reason. Why, not two days ago, she was attacked and some of her curls clipped off by an unruly crowd of coalminers who have no use for this War between the States and forced military service.

I must say, I fear she will be running into difficulty with the woman’s righters if she continues on this path. But for now, she has caught the eye of our dear Susan B. Anthony, whose ardor for a young girl, well on her way to becoming the richest woman in America, will excuse the up-and-coming orator much. 

Though I have the feeling that a blow up is coming from another quarter. That thief in hiding, Julia Pennington, whom Miss Dickinson has taken under her wing, is sure to object to sharing her affections with the grand dame of suffrage.

And then, I too, may have some plans of my own for the young ladies—ones that will see me well-heeled for the rest of my days. And I want you to know that I am not the villain these girls make me out to be. Just doing my job as an investigative reporter.

~Floyd Burns, Reporter for The World

That Dickinson Girl: A Novel of the Civil War

By Joan Koster

BLURB

She’s going to be the greatest orator of the Civil War!

Eighteen-year-old Anna Dickinson is nothing like the women around her, and she knows it. Gifted with a powerful voice, a razor-sharp wit, and unbounded energy, the diminutive curlyhead sets out to surpass the men of her day as she rails against slavery and pushes for women’s rights. Only two things can bring her downfall—the entangling love she has for her devoted companion, Julia, and an assassin’s bullet. 

Forced to accompany the fiery young orator on her speaking tour of New England, Julia Pennington fights her growing attraction to the ever more popular celebrity. When a traitor sets out to assassinate Anna, Julia must risk her life to save her.

Loosely based on the life of forgotten orator, feminist, and fighter for justice, Anna Dickinson, That Dickinson Girl is the story of one woman’s rise to fame and fortune at the expense of love during the political and social turmoil of the American Civil War.

Available from: 

AMAZON  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKT7DJQ5

B&N  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/that-dickinson-girl-joan-koster/1142596073 

KOBO  https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/that-dickinson-girl

BIO of the Author

When she is not writing in her studio by the sea, Joan Koster lives an 1860s farmhouse stacked to the ceiling with books. In a life full of adventures, she has scaled mountains, chased sheep, and been abandoned on an island for longer than she wants to remember.

An ethnographer, educator, and award-winning author who loves mentoring writers, Joan blends her love of history, and romance into historical novels about women who shouldn’t be forgotten and into romantic thrillers under the pen name, Zara West. She is the author of the award-winning romantic suspense series The Skin Quartet and the top-selling Write for Success series.

Joan blogs at JoanKoster.com, Women Words and Wisdom, American Civil War Voice, Zara West Romance, and Zara West’s Journal and teaches numerous online writing courses. 

AMAZON AUTHOR https://amazon.com/author/joan-koster

BOOKBUB https://www.bookbub.com/profile/joan-bouza-koster 

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3989103.Joan_Bouza_Koster 

Facebook https://facebook.com/joankosterauthor/ 

Twitter https://twitter.com/womenwewrite 

Pinterest https://pinterest.com/joankosterauthor 

Instagram https://instagram.com/joankosterauthor 

A Scandalous Incident in Drury Lane!

A certain lonely lord was seen leaving Drury Lane early – entirely missing the final act of Miss Ryan’s divine Duchess of Malfi. He’s seen her play before, no doubt. It’s said he’s present in his brother’s box for every show so what dreadful occurrence might interrupt such dedication? The gentleman in question is a known connoisseur of theatre – and actresses. He left early, stepped into a hack with a footman-type, and wasn’t seen again that evening. One can only pity the actress concerned – because rumour has it that something scandalous occurred last night at Carlton House…

Whatever has happened, the incident appears serious. The Prime Minister could not be reached this morning. It’s said he’s unwell, though lights burned late in Westminster last night. The matter is top secret, but it’s certain at least one known rake was seen leaving the Regent’s private rooms at an unearthly hour – and the Prime Minister’s private secretary was spotted using the tradesman’s entrance twice. One doesn’t like to spread gossip regarding the higher echelons of government, but one can hardly help it in this case. Only one other thing seems certain – this secret incident doesn’t seem to involve any ladies, which is both a comfort to society, and a disappointment to this writer. If all that’s at risk is the reputation of a certain London actress, our debutantes may sleep soundly in Mayfair.

About the Book: The Case of the Black Diamond (Part I)

AVAILABLE ON LIMITED RELEASE:  https://amzn.to/3AU941L

The Case of the Black Diamond Part I
Nicknamed ‘the lonely lord’, Alexander Lindsey has spent a decade spying for the King and believes himself immune to surprises – until he meets Miss Ryan. Claire Ryan doesn’t swoon, and doesn’t blush – but when the Regent’s jewel is stolen, Lord Lindsey turns up at The Soho Club, asking questions. Soon, Claire and Alexander are investigating each other.

This is the first of a five part series. Part II is already available.

Release Date: 22 November 2022

Excerpt from The Case of the Black Diamond, by Clyve Rose:

Outside The Soho Club, dark clouds gathered in the afternoon sky. The air thickened, closely heavy in the prelude to a drenching. Claire shivered at the change in temperature, the tensing of mood. She sipped her coffee, watching Xander Lindsey, watching her. His gaze seemed focused rather closely on the rim of her cup, specifically where the fine china met her lips. 

She sipped her brew again. “If you’re intent on seduction, you should know I am not my sister.”

His gaze lifted to her face, steady, focused, powerfully intent. “I have never seduced your sister. I am no rake, Claire.” His voice remained sure, strong, and deeply tempting.

“So it’s a ruse?” She guessed.

He inclined his head, his “mmmm,” resonating low in his throat, like a throb. “We can’t all mask our clandestine activities with scent.” His tone turned husky, intensity sharpening like a honed blade.

“I am not in the habit of short term liaisons,” Claire spoke carefully. “I am not in the habit of being seduced, either.”

“There’s a remedy for that,” he said quietly, suggestively. Did his voice deepen further? How deep does he—stop it.

As though he’d heard her, Xander set down his cup. He walked slowly towards her, the way one might approach a rare and dangerous object.

“Tell me, Claire Ryan, are you armed?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I should like to kiss you. If I halt here, you may blade my heart open instead,” he stopped halfway across the chequered floor, arms by his sides like a supplicant. A supplicant with warm brown eyes, and a devastating dimple.

Claire affected a study of the distance between them, lifted her head, locking her gaze to his.

“Three steps back gives you a sporting chance, Xander Lindsey.”

“Indeed?” The resonance from his baritone rippled through her. Nevertheless, he held his ground and Claire lifted a brow, gaze travelling brazenly over his planed face. He stared right back, smiling, offering that dimple where she lingered before studying the cleft in his chin, his corded neck muscles, those powerful shoulders of defined shape. Her gaze dropped lower, taking in his broad torso, narrow waist, and the shapely front of his trousers. She smiled then, wide and joyous, walking slowly towards him, slower than ever, as though she may never reach him, never touch him. Time stretched out, thinning, heating, bringing her closer to the heft of breath beneath flesh, her pulse beating faster with each step until her skin throbbed with the thought of his lips beneath hers, his surrender within her body. 

“Something to savour,” she murmured, watching his answering smile. His tongue darted out, licking his lips and she let out a small laugh, not blinking at all. Not missing a moment of Xander Lindsey standing before her, arms at his sides, gaze locked on hers with an impulse she felt in every nerve and muscle. Claire touched his cheek, stroking him gently before leaning forward, lips positioned inches from his. Reaching up, she slipped her other hand beneath his jacket, sliding her palm over his shirt, feeling his breath shorten, his weight shift…until she located his hidden jacket seam. Keeping her gaze on his, she extracted his pistol as smoothly as possible, stroking the barrel along firm muscle as she withdrew. She kept his barrel there, smoothing it lightly back and forth against his shirt, teasing him with danger, with steel, with her unbroken gaze.

“Is it cocked, my lord?”

Author Bio:  Clyve Rose is an award-winning author of historical fiction in Australia and the US. She has been writing historical romance for the best part of two decades, and has three bestsellers to her credit. She believes that love is the highest and strongest force known in the world, and that it only manifests when we are our best and truest selves. She’ll continue writing about love in all its various, glorious forms, and that one day her epitaph will read Just one more read-through.

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