Mr. Coulton-Jones didn’t see Phoebe because she was sitting behind the enormous flower arrangement, but he had just approached a man who stood against the wall near the fireplace. Mr. Coulton-Jones’s fine, coffee-brown hair had been forced into a fashionable style, and his cravat was elegantly tied, his shirt-points high but not overly so. His jacket was perhaps a couple of years old but not out of style, and it suited his muscular physique admirably. “Aunt.” Phoebe nodded toward the two men. “He only just arrived a moment ago.” She wasn’t certain how she ought to feel upon seeing him again. Now that she knew the connection between the symbol she had found on the Heath, her late Uncle Wynwood and Uncle Sol, Mr. Coulton-Jones’s meeting with that strange man took on a more sinister cast. Was he involved in something to oppose the government or the war? Because if Uncle Sol were investigating something for the Home Office, it possibly involved one of those two. Yet remembering her co...

Phoebe remained aware of their surroundings as they walked the narrow streets, and at one point, she thought that they were being followed. She turned to boldly confront the man following behind them, and when his heartbeat pulsed and he pulled a knife from his sleeve, she made a fist and punched him solidly in the nose. His cry of pain as he dropped to the cobblestones echoed off the buildings on either side. Even better, it accomplished what she had intended—two other men who had been lying in wait several yards ahead of them on either side of the road abruptly withdrew. The three women were not accosted by anyone else on the way back to the tannery. —From Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 9: Shelter Curious how it all begins? Click below to read the beginning of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 1: Archer for free and step into a world of Regency intrigue, danger, and slow-burn romance. 👉 Read the excerpt now 💌 Prefer to ease into the series? You can join my newsletter and get ...

Laura opened the note immediately, not bothering to move back into the drawing room. She frowned as she read the hastily scrawled lines: I require your presence immediately. The boy will have brought a hackney cab and ordered it to wait for you. Placing a hand to her throat, she felt the pulse racing there. She forced herself to take a deep breath, and then she told Aya, “I must go to Saffron House immediately.” Her maid frowned. “The gall of her, to order you about as if you are a servant.” “No,” Laura said thoughtfully. “She is not normally so forceful. I fear something is wrong.” —From Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 9: Shelter Curious how it all begins? Click below to read the beginning of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 1: Archer for free and step into a world of Regency intrigue, danger, and slow-burn romance. 👉 Read the excerpt now 💌 Prefer to ease into the series? You can join my newsletter and get a free ebook copy of Lissa and the Spy , a romantic Regency mystery ...

Phoebe realized the sound was coming from the partially opened door at the end of the drawing room that led to the library. “M’lady, please come out from under the desk!” Aya sounded mortified. “I was simply checking in case a re—in case something might have fallen behind the drawer.” Aunt Laura’s voice was muffled. But as Phoebe approached, the strange tone of Aya’s voice made her slow her pace and pause out of sight of the half-open door. “A receipt? A jeweler’s receipt?” Aya spoke quietly, unlike the half-scolding, half-joking tone she usually took with her eccentric employer. When her aunt didn’t reply, Aya continued, “I saw the crest on the watch. It’s the same one that was on that pendant.” “Of course not,” Aunt Laura replied briskly, but Aya interrupted. “I was there with you that night. I saw it. That watch is somehow connected to her , isn’t it?” Phoebe’s limbs had become solid blocks of ice. She had the feeling that whoever that woman was, she was important to her au...

Costumes are period accurate for the Regency era, and her gown is based on the fashion plate below. She Had Four Minutes to Make a Good Impression. And She Couldn't Say Anything Interesting. If you've ever read a Regency romance and wondered why the heroine spends so much energy on not saying things, you're asking exactly the right question. Regency ballroom conversation had rules. Unwritten ones, which somehow made them worse—because everyone was expected to simply know them. The short version: say as little as possible, make it pleasant, and never reveal anything that might embarrass your family. The weather was safe. The quality of the supper was safe. Admiring someone's gown was safe. Anything beyond that required careful navigation. Fashion plate of a Regency ball gown from Ackerman’s Repository, February 1809. What you absolutely could not discuss: Politics, religion, and money were off the table entirely. War—even as soldiers were dying on the Contine...

With all haste, Maner made his way to the section of London known as Orario, to a portion of Rachey Street lined with warm, comfortable, elegant townhouses. He passed them all until he reached a particular house, which did not appear much larger than the others, but which he knew extended far to the rear. His hands shook as he rapped with the door knocker. The owner of the building had no reason to harm him, and yet he was nervous. Even the most vicious of rats would hesitate to approach a poisonous snake, no matter that the snake was not hungry for his flesh. The large butler who answered the door possessed a body heavy with muscle and could have squeezed Maner’s neck in one meaty fist. He had been working for his mistress for as long as Maner could remember. “I would like to request an audience with the Senhora,” Maner said in a contrite voice. “Please tell her it is an extremely urgent matter. It is about an illegal slave auction that will take place in two days.” —from Lady Wy...

In the far corner of the Senhora’s room, the heavy burgundy curtains twitched, then a man stepped out from behind them. While his feet would have been visible underneath the edge of the curtain, they were hidden from view of anyone sitting near the fireplace by the placement of the Senhora’s desk. “The last time I hid in a woman’s chamber was more than twenty years ago,” Sir Derrick Bayberry complained. “It was quite suffocating behind the curtain.” Ignoring his grumbling, the Senhora gestured to one of the seats in front of the fire. Sir Derrick was about to sit on the same sofa as Maner, but he frowned at the cushion. “Mr. Hanson left a stain.” The Senhora gave a huff of exasperation. “I am not so terrible, am I, that I would frighten a grown man? Englishmen are entirely too fragile.” Sir Derrick refrained from pointing out that the Senhora had certainly not made an effort to appear more ingratiating, but she knew he was thinking it. —from Lady Wynwood and the Forbidden Auction...