Mostrando resultados por autor "Marisa Paxon" en Todas las categorías

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already carried an entire Mayfair Season, three dozen teacups, and one extremely rude corpse across the page, and now they have decided I must also persuade you to join the mess. Fine. Come in, mind the carpet. In A Spot of Murder in Mayfair, Lady Helena Foxe is supposed to be doing what well bred young ladies do best, namely, smiling politely while other people ruin their own lives in whispers. Instead, a tired clerk with ink on his finger and trouble in his wake collapses in her family’s drawing room, leaving blood in the wool and ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I already carried every waltz, whisper, and corpse across the finish line, and now “they” have decided I should also stand in the foyer and beckon strangers inside. Splendid. Miss Clemency Harrow arrives at Ashbourne Hall on a Tuesday with a sensible spine, an insolvent father, and an engagement arranged as neatly as a place setting, right down to the Earl waiting at the bottom of the stairs like a man who has never trusted soup. Unfortunately, the house has opinions, the guests have secrets, and Mr Horace Pettigrew has come armed with moral ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already hauled an entire viscount, several cups and saucers, and one academy’s worth of respectable hysteria into orderly sentences, and now they have decided I must sell it as well. Apparently my reward for keeping everyone from fainting into the evidence is marketing. At Madame Rochfort’s Academy for Select Young Ladies, morning chocolate is meant to calm nerves and encourage obedient embroidery, not drop a patron dead onto the salon carpet. Viscount Halverton arrives to be admired, praised, and quietly mined for subscriptions; he ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I carried every bonnet, bruise and bad decision across the finish line, and now they have decided I must sell it too. Fine. Welcome to the duke of Wescott’s private theatre, where the curtains are crimson, the manners are impeccable, and the main prop is in a temper. Lady Arabella Sorrell arrives engaged to Lord Crispin Fallowmere, dressed for a betrothal celebration and braced for the kind of conversation that kills the spirit slowly. Instead she gets a sulking black cabinet built to make a gentleman vanish, a manager named Draycott who looks ...

I am the narrator of this book. I carried every soaked boot, every jangled key, every polite lie, and the entire corpse without so much as a thank-you; now they want me to smile and sell it too. Splendid. Welcome to a Regency manor house mystery where order is a weapon, and Miss Cecilia Arden wields it like a teaspoon sharpened by necessity. She arrives at Larkspur Hall in December, boots and patience equally damp, to take a post that requires figures, nerve, and the ability to shut a front door in the face of Dorset itself. She has all three. She also has very little choice. Naturally, the...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I am to haul you through every polite disaster inside it and receive precisely none of the credit. Now they have decided I should also sell it, as though I were not busy keeping everyone from lying in the same sentence. Beatrix Langford arrives at a country observatory to do the sensible work, copy figures, reconcile ledgers, and let titled people feel clever beneath a dome with a slit like a watchful eye. Then Lady Honoria Pemberton falls down her own staircase, very dramatically and quite dead, leaving behind an irritable ghost who refuses to be...

I am the narrator of Murder, Marmalade, and Other Ballroom Disasters, which means I have already carried you through candlelight, gossip, and a man expiring on polished floorboards, and now they want me to sell it as well. Splendid. Nothing says “romance” like administrative labour. Here is what you are walking into: Bath’s Assembly Rooms, terrible music, and Miss Julia Amberley sitting very still at the edge of society because a certain Mr Jasper Fenton once spoke a few convenient sentences and left her to choke on the consequences. Then he has the decency to die at her feet in a ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already hauled you through an entire country house full of ringing bells, bruised dignity, and people lying to my face about tea, and now they have decided I must also sell it. Apparently murder is not labour enough, I must do marketing too. Bramblewick belongs to a marquess who prefers not to notice how his own house runs, which is a charming hobby until the morning the stillroom key goes missing and the butler turns up dead beside a tray meant for His Lordship. Prudence Ashdown, head housekeeper, keeper of keys, and the only person here ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I will haul you through every humid corridor, every polite lie, and every outrageously starched cravat; first they insist I must sell it as well. Splendid. Welcome to Marshwood Grange, where the pineapples are treated like visiting royalty and the staff are expected to perspire with gratitude. Miss Elinor Strickland has been hired to illustrate Lady Agnes March’s prized fruit, which is a respectable way to earn a living if you overlook the small matter of the hothouse manager dropping dead at her feet. Naturally, Mr Barnabas Quill’s ghost ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already hauled an entire Egyptian gallery, one stubborn earl, several crates of “private arrangements,” and a corpse dressed for the wrong millennium into coherent order, and now they have decided I must also persuade you to join in. Apparently my reward for keeping everyone from fainting into the evidence is commerce. Lord Caddington hosts an after dinner unwrapping in his London townhouse, candles lit, scholars twitching, society ladies sharpening their smiles, and one coffin waiting under glass like a promise. Miss Isabel Fairleigh, ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already carried an entire parish through one public poisoning, three private arguments, and a heroic quantity of moral certainty. Now they want me to sell it as well, as if I have not done enough emotional lifting for people who think “misadventure” is a respectable substitute for “someone did this on purpose.” It begins on a perfectly ordinary Sunday in Redfield, with a sermon about idle tongues, a viscount with an inconvenient reputation, and Mr Ambrose Pritchard taking his usual sip from a small glass bottle, right up until the ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already carried a duke, an entire art institution, and one extremely punctual corpse from sentence to sentence without anyone so much as offering me a restorative sherry. And now they have decided I must also entice you into the mess. Splendid. A corpse behind a curtain, an unfinished Renfrew portrait, and a duke who treats paintings like evidence should have been more than enough excitement for one morning at the Royal Academy. Then Mr Edwin Larke, critic, creditor, and professional ruin of pleasant conversations, takes a pinch of snuff ...