Genres: Adult, Historical, Mystery

Synopsis:

In the Victorian era, a cheap and popular form of entertainment has entranced the population often known by the name; penny dreadful. Costing a penny, readers purchased the stories and entered the fantastic world of superhuman men and damsels in distress.

The stories have been popular for over fifty years and Lavinia Howard is a young woman who dreams of being such a writer. Having recently lost her father, she turns to a family friend who puts her in touch with Jasper Courtenay, owner of Courtenay Publishing.

Writing under the pen name G. R. Howard, Lavinia creates a character who becomes a huge success as her penny dreadful stories are the most popular ever printed. Her character is brash and obnoxious and has no respect for authority as he solves London murders and the working classes adore him!

But strange things begin to happen as the stories Lavinia writes start to come true. Two very similar deaths mirror those she writes about, and Detective Chief Inspector Harrison Bryce is assigned to investigate. Inspector Bryce soon discovers that Lavinia has become so popular that she has also made enemies along with her legion of fans.

He realizes that everyone surrounding Lavinia has a motive to have committed the crimes. He must work fast to determine who wants to harm her as he suspects Lavinia may be the next target on the killer’s list.

Excerpt

Casimir Kimberly strode resolutely past the throng of people gathered in the alley who were trying to catch a glimpse of the body of the woman lying at the foot of the wooden stairs. His black woolen overcoat reached to his knees and he could feel the material swirl about his legs as he walked. Casimir was not a man given to fanciful dress or cologne as some dandies and French men were known to be, but damn did he love his coat.

He made eye contact with a policeman keeping the crowd under control and the man immediately motioned for Casimir to make his way through the circle of people. Casimir glanced over his shoulder and saw that Ralphie was behind him but lagging. The man was always falling behind.

As he came closer to the body lying in an odd position from the fall, a flash of lightning dominated the sky and he looked up. It was early in the morning and most people were still in bed. The crowd that was gathered now must be the dead woman’s neighbors or local tradespeople.

He felt around in his coat pocket for his John Millar & Sons tin and took out one drop and popped it into his mouth. As the delicious flavors of black currant and licorice filled his mouth, he began to study the crowd surrounding him. He first surveyed the middle-aged men, then the women. He knew what he was searching for and his heart beat faster as the lightning flashed once more through the morning sky.

He sat back on his haunches, surveying the body before him. He had been told a portion of the woman’s story when the police had summoned him. The charwoman had lived on the second floor and the stairs leading to the flat were outside in the alleyway. Sometime in the night, the woman had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. Some in the police said it was an accident, others were not so convinced. He had been called in to look over the scene and give his opinion. Casimir wasn’t a detective with Scotland Yard nor a private investigator who worked for the Pinkerton Detective Agency, but he was blessed—or cursed, depending on whom you asked—with an abnormal understanding of crime, its victims, and most importantly the offenders.

Casimir suddenly looked up. He sniffed the air distinctly with several sniffs to the right and then to the left and narrowed his eyes.

“Ralphie,” he growled once.

“Yes, Guvnor,” came the quick reply from the man standing nearby.

“Move that fishmonger down the lane,” Casimir said simply. “All I can smell is his two-day-old mackerel.”

“Aye, Guvnor.”

The fishmonger was moved along but Casimir’s sense of smell was compromised. He swore inwardly. He always liked to get a sense of the crime scene’s smell. The blood, the vomit, the rain, the earth. Each had its own distinct smell and each told its own story. He looked down at the body and noticed the shabbiness of her nightdress, the small feet, and the hands used to hard work. The woman was probably in her forties but her weathered face looked closer to sixty. Her forehead was deeply lined, her eyes sunken into her skeletal face.

As he took in her worn hands, he noticed something peculiar. On the ring finger of her left hand there was no ring but lighter skin where a ring had once been. He knew the woman was married.

Casimir stood up abruptly, causing the onlookers around him to gasp. He shook his head and looked about at the group. He had been so absorbed in concentrating on the woman he had forgotten about the people surrounding him in the alleyway. He looked back into the group, his eyes searching for what he had seen before to assure himself that he was correct. His eyes narrowed when he saw the exchange and then he almost grinned. This was too easy, he told himself.

He strode forward, his long legs covering vast amounts of space before he stood before a stout, well-built man in the crowd. The man had the look of a stonemason, not very tall but built like a solid bull. He eyed the man quietly, looking over his beefy chest, his bulging forearms, his black hair sprinkled with gray, and the cap he held in his hands respectfully. Casimir narrowed his eyes and watched the man glance quickly to his right and then away again.

Following his gaze, he saw what the man was looking at. A small red-haired woman with a large bosom and thick ankles. She smiled shyly back at the man before he looked away.

“He did it,” Casimir said loudly and strongly, pointing to the stonemason.

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About the Author

Nicola is a Los Angeles native. Early in elementary school, Nicola had a great fondness for reading and began to write creatively. She graduated from university with a degree in communications and has held a variety of positions in journalism, education, government and non profit.

Nicola has traveled extensively throughout Europe, China, Central America and Egypt and loves all things historical.

She has nineteen historical romance and mystery novels on Amazon.

Connect:
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Publication date: January 30th 2024
Genres: Adult, Historical, Romance

Synopsis:

On the English stage, the Belle of London is born…

During the late Victorian era, Amelia Westcott is without family and few friends and is forced to make her way in the world. Talented and beautiful, she takes to the London stage and attracts the attention of numerous powerful and wealthy men including the Prince of Wales.

But a close friend of the Prince’s is little impressed with the lovely actress. Christopher “Kit” Beaumont is not taken in by Amelia’s charms and believes she is a gold digger set to sink her claws into any man who will give her a comfortable life.
Kit knows nothing about the strong and independent Amelia who gains a powerful patron in the Prince of Wales even as she is given the moniker The Belle of London.
As her star rises, she vows to have nothing to do with the arrogant, handsome Kit.

From the London stage to New York’s Broadway, Amelia and Kit are thrown together and a battle of wills and passionate personalities ensues as Kit suddenly realizes he wants Amelia as his own.
Though Kit has decided that no other woman but Amelia will do, someone else is plotting to make certain the two are never together.

Excerpt

KIT TRIES TO PAY OFF AMELIA

She surveyed the man before her. He was sinfully good-looking with brown, almost-black hair and brown eyes warm upon her. He was dressed impeccably, and the cut of his coat and pants bespoke wealth and privilege. His shoes were polished. She knew instinctively he was a man used to getting his way.

“How can I help you, Mr. …?” she sought out his name.

“Call me Christopher.”

She didn’t call him by his name. “How can I help you?”

“You can do me a great service.” As he spoke, he pulled out a small rectangular book and a fountain pen. “All you need do is name your price.”

Amelia frowned. “My price? I don’t understand.”

Kit smiled at her as he opened up the checkbook. “I know you aren’t in love. You’ve just met. And I’m sure, as a woman, you dream of finer things, jewels, and frocks. Name your price. You can have them tomorrow. But not Patrick. He’s not for you.” His eyes were as cold as stone.

“Patrick,” she breathed out, her heart sinking. She had badly misjudged him. Amelia took off her gloves and faced the man in the low gaslights. “Patrick wants me gone.”

The man frowned. “Patrick doesn’t know I’m here.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here?” She looked again at his clothes and considered his voice, so used to giving orders and being obeyed, and she knew. He was here to buy her off. She almost laughed at the thought. “Am I such a danger to him?” she whispered. “To you? And aren’t you placing the cart before the horse? Nothing has happened. One supper. What are you afraid of?”

Kit looked her up and down. “You must be very used to using your attributes as a way to make men do what you want. I’m sure you’ve had men tell you so. I’m sure you’ve been offered protection from older men. Look at it this way. In my bargain, Miss Westcott, you get the money, and you don’t have to take off a stitch of clothing.”

“How dare you.” Amelia was breathless at his degrading words. An intense rage swept through her. Taking three steps, she stood before him, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming quickly.

Kit was on his feet in an instant. He stared down into her face. “Is the truth so unpleasing to you, Miss Westcott?”

She met his eyes, and her chin notched up. “You think because you associate with a certain kind of woman, all women must be like that. Because I’ve fallen on hard times, my soul and heart can be bought for the price of a few shillings and pence.”

“Be careful.” Kit contemplated her oval-shaped face, auburn hair, and light blue eyes. “What I offer you is far more than shilling and pence. It would be more than you could make in a year.”

“You are so used to buying and selling people?” she asked him coldly.

“I’m not separating Tristan and Iseult,” he responded. “You have fallen on hard times. I can make those hard times easier. Name your price.”

She looked away from him. “I have no price.”

“Two hundred pounds.”

Amelia gasped. An Army officer would make that amount in a year. “I care for Patrick. I do,” she confessed. “And my care for him is genuine and honest. That you chose to come here and insult me when you know nothing about me, I cannot forgive. But because I know a part of you must care greatly for him as well, I will forget this night. But know this, you have judged me wrongly and falsely. And though I am not the type of woman you think I am, you seem to be the exact kind of man I think you to be,” she threw at him.

Kit’s jaw clenched as he stared down at her. “And what kind of man is that?”

Amelia narrowed her eyes at him. “You are a master. You are a man used to being obeyed and his orders followed. But you’re a coward.” She spat the words at him. “Instead of coming to me and asking me questions in a straightforward manner about Patrick, you made false assumptions and attempted to buy me!”

Kit almost sneered. “So, you do not have it in mind to marry Patrick for position and money?”

Amelia cocked her head. “Women can do little in society. Most of our worth is in being mothers and wives, is it not? So, if I were to say I was not interested in marrying, that would be a lie. But as Patrick has neither asked me nor mentioned it, I don’t see the relevance.”

Kit was about to respond, but she interrupted.

“And how is it your duty to confront me so? You are not his brother, I know he has little family. Would he appreciate you being here now? Behind his back. Offering me money to disappear? This is hardly the behavior of a gentleman, which I know you to be,” she demanded.

He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I’m a gentleman?”

Amelia made a sound of disbelief. “Though you seem intent to make me seem like some unintelligent, money-grabbing slag, I am not. I see the cut of your clothes, the polished expensive shoes, your authoritarian voice—”

Kit surveyed her then and was struck by the beauty of her clean skin, luminous blue eyes, and mass of auburn hair that was pinned up. “I won’t apologize for protecting my friend,” he said suddenly.

She rolled her eyes. “The last thing on earth I expect from you, sir, would be a warranted apology for your bad behavior. That would mean you realize you acted poorly. We can’t have that.”

Kit took a moment to study her again and then nodded. “Very well. Perhaps I misjudged the situation. But remember this. Patrick is an educated man and has a law practice. I’m certain a music hall dancer will not fit into that lifestyle. You’ll at least admit that?” He raised an eyebrow.

“You know nothing about me, sir,” she said quietly.

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