Dear Readers,
Something mysterious is afoot in the highest echelons of Society. The Honorable Crispin Thatchbury, that most eligible of bachelors beloved of hostesses everywhere, is decidedly not his dashing self of late.
Well‑informed readers may recall that Mr. Thatchbury recently traveled into the wilds of Cornwall on some secretive errand for His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. The Tattler has discovered that his destination was Nevermore Castle, home of the late Sir Davian Moreland.
What happened to the elegant arbiter of fashion in that odd place, one wonders. Several sources report that Mr. Thatchbury — always the life of the party — has grown serious, a transformation the Tattler and Society at large find nearly unimaginable.
But the conundrum of his altered behavior pales beside the change in his appearance, for since his return he has appeared on every occasion sporting a wig, face powder, and patches — fashions outmoded for decades, although no doubt every idle gentleman will follow his lead before long.
Such a fashion ought to appear ridiculous, but the Tattler has been assured by several of our lady readers that such is emphatically not the case. Rather, his appearance has inspired much sighing and fluttering of fans, and Mr. Thatchbury in a wig has been variously described as devastating, delectable, and even swoonworthy.
When such a man — a bachelor of many years’ standing — is observed reading poetry and gazing dreamily into the distance rather than flirting and admiring his own reflection, what is one to think?
Has the elusive Crispin received a coup de cœur at last? Has a mysterious Cornish lady captured his affections when the fairest flowers of London failed to do so? Your correspondents at the Tattler will not rest until we have discovered all.
Nevermore Castle
Regency inheritance tangle. Two heirs. One castle. A chorus of goats.
Miranda Moreland has spent her life drifting from one relative to another, never quite fitting anywhere. Inheriting a castle on the Cornish coast feels like a miracle — a chance at stability, independence, and perhaps even the belonging she’s never dared to hope for.
But Nevermore Castle is already occupied. Lance, a mysterious American with disarming charm, has taken possession, surrounded by his lively family, a raven with opinions, and a collection of whimsical animals and eccentric tenants who make the estate feel unexpectedly alive.
As Miranda becomes entangled in the inheritance dispute, she finds herself drawn not only to the castle’s residents but to the man who may stand between her and her future. For the first time, she begins to imagine a life built on more than solitude.
But a faulty will and an incompetent solicitor threaten everything. Can Miranda claim the home — and the love — she’s always longed for, or will Nevermore slip away before she can truly belong?
Nevermore Castle. Healing hearts with humor.
Purchase Nevermore Castle paperback or ebook format on Amazon or read in Kindle Unlimited: https://a.co/d/03xq8OqO
By the same author: The Roses of Longbourn series:
A Rose Out of Time – Book 1
A Rose in Winter – Book 2
Mrs. Christie and the Misplaced Rose (A Short Story)
A Golden-Hearted Rose (A Short Story)
A Rake Redeemed, or The Gretna Rose (A Novella)
Truths and Roses (A Short Story)
Coming Soon:
A Rose at Dawn – Book 3
A Rose After Rain – Book 4
About the Author
KELLY BOGGS writes seasoned not spiced atmospheric fiction that blends historical charm, a touch of mystery, and warm, character driven storytelling. Whether her books wander through Cornwall’s windswept cliffs or the quiet corners of the Regency, she builds worlds where emotion, place, and personality intertwine. Her stories offer immersive escapes threaded with wit, whimsy, and a distinctly human heart.
Links:
Website: kellyboggsauthor.com
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/kellyboggs
Goodreads: Kelly Boggs (Author of A Rose Out of Time) | Goodreads
Facebook: (1) Facebook
Excerpt from Nevermore Castle
“Lance, my dear boy,” cried Crispin. “I have been staying at inns and having the most dreadful adventures. But is this the lovely lady, Miss Moreland?”
He swept forward and kissed Miranda on both cheeks, in the French fashion—much to her embarrassment. Fleur looked positively envious.
“You have the look of Sir Davian, indeed, my dear,” he said as he stepped back.
Miranda studied him. He must be fifty, she supposed, if he was a friend of Sir Davian’s youth.
He did not look fifty. Crispin Thatchbury carried himself with a trim, effortless poise. If there was any silver threaded among his perfect golden curls, Miranda could not see it. His eyes were bright and lively, taking in everything with amused intelligence. The bottle‑green coat, the immaculate cravat, the gleaming boots—none of it suggested a man worn down by travel. He looked, Miranda thought, like someone who had simply refused to grow older in the usual way.
Oh dear, she thought, imagining the effect his good looks and theatrical manner might have on a susceptible Fleur.
Mr. Thatchbury was still speaking, she realized.
“My dears, I have come at the request of His Royal Highness. I am to conduct interviews, examine papers, learn about the estate, and return with my findings. The Prince himself will make a determination in the matter of the entail and the inheritance, once he has heard my report.”
***
As the study door closed behind them, Lance glanced at Crispin. They’d exchanged letters for years but had met only rarely, London being as far away as it was. He had always struggled to reconcile Crispin’s theatrical persona with the sharp, incisive man revealed in his correspondence.
Which would he see now, he wondered.
He was not left in suspense for long. Once Crispin had been seated and handed a drink, he settled back in easy comfort, his performance apparently having been reserved for the ladies.
“My dear Lance, what a tangle you’ve found yourself in. You were wise to write.”
“Thank you. I hadn’t thought—didn’t imagine—”
“That I’d involve the Prince? Quite. But it was the sensible course. He remembers Davian with real affection, and he has the power to act.”
“It was good of you to speak with him. And to travel all this way yourself.”
“Naturally I would travel to the ends of the earth for poor Davian’s sake,” Crispin proclaimed, allowing his drawing room dramatics to resurface for a moment. “And one cannot ignore a royal decree—no matter the cost to one’s wardrobe.”
He flicked an imaginary speck of lint from one sleeve with a flourish that suggested he had practiced the gesture before a mirror.
Lance smiled. Crispin clearly did not wish to be thanked.
“But what am I to do, Crispin? This report you are to compile…”
“It’s not so much a report as an impression, my dear boy.” Crispin settled more comfortably into the chair, one ankle crossing elegantly over the other. “Having interested himself in the matter, the Prince is now fully invested, as is his way. He wants, not facts and figures, but a full description of the estate, the persons involved, and all that can be determined of Davian’s wishes. I am not to return until I can paint him a picture that will make him feel as though he himself had visited.”
“Oh, dear,” Lance said faintly, imagining Crispin tramping about the estate in glossy Hessians, encountering who‑knew‑what.
Crispin’s brows lifted. “My dear Lance, you look as though I’ve announced a siege.”
“It’s only—” Lance hesitated. “Nevermore is…not quite like other estates.”