Historical Regency Amateur Sleuths

The descendant of adventuring-dead-aristocrats, Clarissa Knightley supplements a modest inheritance by penning gothic novels that cost more than they earn. Upon learning that she has mysteriously inherited a share of an earl's estate, she rashly packs up her household. In remote Gravesyde Priory, she hopes to find a safe haven and family who will welcome her and her young nephew. Instead, she discovers a drunken American army captain, his African servant, and ancient, surly caretakers.

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 ...

In the heart of Regency London, where the gulf between the opulent upper class and the squalid streets is as wide as the Thames, Zoe Demas, a young French woman entangled in two worlds, finds herself at the center of a chilling mystery. When her lady's maid, Lucy, is found dead in the notorious district of Whitechapel, Zoe refuses to accept the verdict of a tragic accident. Determined to uncover the truth, she enlists the help of Quinton Huxley, a man whose expertise lies in navigating the murky waters between legality and the underworld. Alongside a cast of characters as diverse as they ...

An inherited estate. A hostile steward. A corpse in the forest—and a past that refuses to stay buried. Newly married and eager to begin their life together, Zoe and Quinton Coleville arrive at Cedarbrook, Quinton’s ancestral estate. But the welcome is anything but warm. Two days later, a body is found near the crumbling shell of the old manor house hidden deep in the woods. A shadowy figure seen in the West Wood only fuels the local legend of a Coleville ghost watching the estate, protecting its secrets, unable to rest. With their friends on the way to visit—and quickly drawn into the...

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 ...

A marquess and a lady must avoid rumors and scandal while solving a great mystery. Lady Prudence has always enjoyed London. However, when her cousin suddenly appears, frantically handing her a package before being knocked to the ground by a runaway carriage, everything changes in an instant. A gentleman nearby comes to her aid, and instantly, Prudence finds herself locked in a dangerous mystery. Felix, the Marquess of Stoneleigh, had been intending to leave London, finding his search for a bride to be less than successful. None of the young ladies have truly caught his attention, no matter ...

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 this book, which means I have already hauled the novel through every dripping corridor, every self-important meeting, and every cup of coffee that tastes faintly of despair, and now “they” want me to sell it as well. Fine. I have carried heavier things than a blurb, usually other people’s egos. At Ainsworth Court, Lady Seraphina Vale, Countess of Ainsworth, is attempting the apparently scandalous feat of being a widow with a spine and a canal to build, when her map room decides to lock itself and her chief surveyor obligingly dies face-first in ink. Locked door, ...

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 ...

House parties are all harmless flirtation until a guest turns up dead in the ornamental fountain and the household bell only rings for fire or death. Miss Eliza Fairburn comes to Foxglove Court for respectable employment, not village scandal: companion to Lady Ashcombe, watcher of tedious card parties, and firmly resolved not to be impressed by the Marquess of Rothley or his inconveniently blue eyes. Then his charming cousin is found with a broken neck in the fountain court, three years after a steward’s son “accidentally” fell from the west gallery, and everyone suddenly prefers the ...

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 hauled you through every paragraph of virtue, vice, and shelving, and now they have decided I must sell it as well. Apparently death by furniture is not self explanatory. Welcome to the Ladies’ Minerva Library, where the hall smells of ink and soap, the rule book is impeccable, and the shelves are full of exactly what everyone swears they are not reading. Eleanor Pryce keeps the catalogues honest, the keys accounted for, and the sermons politely returned, while the Gothic romances travel under cover of moral improvement, as God and Mrs...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already carried one stubborn widow, one inconveniently principled doctor, and an entire village’s worth of holy outrage across the page, and now they have decided I must sell it as well. Apparently murder is not labour unless it comes with marketing. A cozy Regency whodunit where Sunday best meets a very un-Sunday death. In the village of Hartleigh, Phoebe Hartwell keeps an apothecary, a steady hand, and her temper in a respectable jar, largely because the alternative is letting the manor decide what sort of widow she is allowed to be. ...

I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already hauled everyone through every candlelit smile, every petty social skirmish, and one spectacularly ill timed corpse, and now they have decided I should also sell it. Naturally. Welcome to Penninghurst, where the Dowager Marchioness hosts a matchmaking fête so expensive it could heat a curate for the winter, and so tightly managed it could make a grown man apologise for breathing out of rhythm. Imogen Fairweather arrives as chaperone to her seventeen year old cousin, armed with borrowed silk, a talent for sums, and the sort of ...

I am the narrator of this book. I carried every ink blot, every committee smile, and one extremely heavy marble torso without so much as a thank-you, and now they have decided I should sell it to you as well. Marvellous. I drop you into Mayfair, where a perfectly respectable townhouse has been dressed up as the centre of Greek learning, mostly so the ton can drink wine and mispronounce Athens with confidence. Miss Adelaide Pembroke arrives with a portfolio, a generous fee, and the sort of inconvenient eyesight that notices when a plinth has been wedged, unwedged, and wedged again. Then Sir ...

I am the narrator of this book. I have already carried every footstep, every whispered aside, every inconvenient corpse, and now they have decided I should also persuade you to read it. This is what happens when one proves reliable. What I carried was a cozy Regency murder with a ghost who refuses to mind his own death. Bath’s Assembly Rooms are polished, candlelit, and brimming with manners, until the dancing master collapses mid-figure and immediately reappears floating above his own body, deeply offended and tethered to Miss Adelaide Finchwick, a woman whose greatest social crime is ...

I have already dragged a full evening of Drury Lane vanity, hot footlights, and damp wool through your the entire novel without so much as a thank you; now they have decided I must also persuade strangers to volunteer for it. Marvellous. I do adore unpaid encores. Welcome to Regency London, where a government censor is found neatly flattened by a fallen backdrop during the interval of a fashionable new comedy. The audience is still demanding laughter, the investors are still demanding profit, and Miss Eliza March is still trying to behave like a quiet, respectable ward in Lady Hartley’s ...

When Lord Wrexford discovers the body of a gifted inventor in a dark London alley, he promptly alerts the watchman and lets the authorities handle the matter. But Wrexford soon finds himself drawn into the murder investigation when the inventor's widow begs for his assistance, claiming the crime was not a random robbery. It seems her husband's designs for a revolutionary steam-powered engine went missing the night of his death. The plans could be worth a fortune and very dangerous in the wrong hands.

The theft of a priceless emerald neckless leads to murder and Blythe, the Dowager Duchess of Ashby along with Bow Street Runner Owen Kennedy must rely on a lie to find the killer before they become the next victims.

The Earl of Wrexford possesses a brilliant scientific mind, but boredom and pride lead him to reckless behavior. He does not suffer fools gladly. So when pompous, pious Reverend Josiah Holworthy publicly condemns him for debauchery, Wrexford unsheathes his rapier-sharp wit and strikes back. As their war of words escalates, London's most popular satirical cartoonist, A. J. Quill, skewers them both.