Mary Kingswood's Blog, page 13

Review: Captured by Mary Lancaster (2023)

I enjoyed the first of this series, built around the death in a duel of a duke, no less. The first book told the story of the duke’s young widow and the man who challenged him to the duel. This one features the duke’s sister and the doctor who attended the duel, and although it could be read as a standalone, it makes a lot more sense if read after the first book.

Here’s the premise: Lady Hera Severne is released from the oppression of her father, the Duke of Cuttyngham, when he dies in a duel. Uncertain what to do with her life now, she decides to become a paid companion, and finds a position surprisingly easily. Now this is a huge plot contrivance (why on earth would a duke’s daughter become a companion? It makes no sense, but I’m prepared to allow a book one contrivance at the start, so I’ll go with the flow here). Hera finds that her duties are light, and concerned less with her mistress, Lady Astley, than with her husband’s adult ward, who seems benign enough, if a little eccentric, yet is kept under constant watch living separately from the family. George is locked in with his nurse at night (shades of Jane Eyre and the madwoman in the attic), and even doped with laudanum when the family have guests to stop him disturbing the guests. An accidental overdose of laudanum causes Hera to send for the local doctor, who by a huge coincidence is the very same Doctor Rivers who attended the duel (that’s the second big contrivance). Doctor Rivers saves George, but he agrees with Hera that they have to ‘rescue’ him from his captivity.

It’s an odd thing, but this is the second Regency book I’ve read recently to feature an autistic person, but this one I found far less convincing. George was supposedly so disturbing as a boy that he was locked away, and the world told he was dead, yet when Hera and Justin set him loose in the world, suddenly he’s able to cope pretty well, with no more than mild eccentricity. I’m sorry, but even a non-autistic person who’d been locked away in a very restricted world for twenty-odd years would have serious trouble adjusting to the real world, so this element of the story didn’t work at all for me.

However, I was happy to whizz past all that with no more than a raised eyebrow, since the romance was charming and far more convincing, despite an outbreak of I’m-not-worthy-itis from the good doctor. But the couple (and George) end up in Brussels with the characters from book 1, where, with only a mild episode of melodrama matters are resolved in a satisfactory way. As is usual with Mary Lancaster’s books, there is some sex in the story, but it’s not terribly graphic. Despite the surfeit of contrivances, this is so well-written and enjoyably entertaining that I gave it four stars.

Review: Entangled by Mary Lancaster (2023)

I’m a big fan of Mary Lancaster, and enjoyed quite a few of her long Blackhaven series, although I never made it to the end. This one is a curious one. I enjoyed it totally, but I have to say it’s wildly implausible, and there was rather too much deus ex machina involved for my taste.

Here’s the premise: Major Giles Butler is en route to join Wellington’s army when he and his fellow officers encounter the obnoxious Duke of Cuttyngham at an inn. The duke insults a former commander of Giles’, who promptly calls him out. It’s purely for honour, with no thought of killing on either side, and Giles duly aims wide. Despite that, the duke ends up dead. Giles is determined to do his bit for his country with Wellington before dealing with the consequences of his actions, so he heads off for the coast, but not before going to the duke’s home to tell them what happened. He thinks better of that (wisely) but as he waits outside the gates, by chance he encounters a young woman running away. She tells him she’s a relation of the duke’s, so Giles agrees to help her.

And thus becomes entangled with the young (and newly widowed by his hand) Duchess of Cuttyngham. But since he doesn’t know who she is, and she doesn’t know that her husband is dead, they get along quite merrily and pass the time by falling inconveniently in love with each other. And so the plot unwinds, with Giles being chased by the law, Rosamund being chased by the duke’s people, then haring back home when she realises she’s a widow, and eventually chasing after Giles again. So there’s a whole heap of backwards and forwards, and (here’s the deus ex machina) important people jumping into the fray to help them. And along the way (shades of Georgette Heyer here) there’s a very young couple eloping to be helped and advised and generally sorted out. And somehow, in the midst of all this frenetic action, there’s time for a masked ball (because what self-respecting Regency romance doesn’t have a ball in it?).

It’s all tremendous fun, there’s a little steaminess, but nothing to frighten the horses, and it’s every bit as well written as Mary Lancaster’s works usually are. I might even have given it a resounding five stars except for the sheer number of times our heroes are improbably rescued by Very Important People who might have been expected to have more urgent things on their mind on the eve of battle than sorting out the romantic entanglements of insignificant nobodies. But it makes for a cracking good plot, so I’m not going to complain too much. Four stars. I’ll probably continue the series, partly in the hope that the intriguing new duke, Victor, gets his story told, and partly to find out just what did happen at the duel, how the duke came to die instantly and who the mysterious female is who was seen nearby.

Review: A Noble Inheritance by Kasey Stockton (2023)

This book was absolutely lovely. For one reason or another I’ve never read any of the author’s work before, but this one drew me because of its unusual subject matter, autism. It’s not something that’s often covered in a Regency romance, and it’s hard to imagine a more perfect portrayal than here. Fanny is a delight in every way, lighting up every scene she’s in, and completely pushing the two main characters into the shade. It’s wonderful.

Here’s the premise: Lady Verity Palmer is the eldest daughter of the Earl of Huxley, and her life is devoted to protecting her seventeen-year-old sister, Lady Frances (Fanny), who is autistic (not that the word is ever used, but modern audiences recognise the signs). She lives her life by rigid schedule revolving around animals, especially birds, and drawing. The girls’ mother thinks she should be in an asylum, to be ‘treated’ by doctors for what she views as an illness, but Verity is determined to keep her safely at home at Lamouth, where she can live a happy life in her own way. Since she has no brothers, Verity married her father’s heir to ensure that she and Fanny would never have to leave their home. But now her husband and father have both died, and the title and estate have passed to a distant relation, a known rake and general ne’er-do-well. Verity decides she’ll do whatever it takes to ensure Fanny is kept safe and out of the asylum.

The new earl, Daniel Palmer, is that common trope of Regencies, the man living in the shade of his father, and falling short in his own estimation. He doesn’t even try to live up to his sainted parents’ reputation, hurling himself into a life of gambling, drinking and wenching. He’s even fallen out with his mother for remarrying a man he despises. How can she bear to replace his father? He can’t quite forgive her. And now, to make matters worse, he’s inherited a wretched title he absolutely doesn’t want. He refuses to take up his responsibilities, refuses even to be addressed by his title, and runs away to his own family home, Arden Castle, to hide. But his mother won’t let him evade his responsibilities. The former earl’s widow and daughters have to be dealt with somehow, so she invites them to the castle to stay.

And so hero and heroine meet, and although Daniel doesn’t see it, all the ladies realise that the ideal solution is for Daniel and Verity to marry. They have different reasons for thinking so, of course, and Verity’s are all concerned with her sister. She knows that even if Daniel is willing to let them stay on at Lamouth indefinitely, sooner of later he will marry and then everything will change. What Fanny needs above all is security, so Verity must force Daniel to marry her, by one means or another. Her efforts to persuade him form the backbone of the romance plot, as the two gradually circle round each other.

The romance all seemed a little bit too easy, despite Daniel’s resistance. The two are clearly attracted to each other from the start, and they obviously get along like a house on fire. Nor is there any real opposition from the two mothers, and Fanny likes Daniel, so the only obstacle is that Daniel doesn’t want to marry anyone, least of all Verity, who’s only interested in him for his ability to provide a safe home for Fanny. But of course he soon crumbles, and there are no real fireworks. There’s a little bit of back story for Daniel but it doesn’t really amount to anything.

I confess that Daniel’s transformation from drunken wildness to responsible earl was a bit easier than might have been expected. Is it possible for an alcoholic to simply choose to give up the booze? I’d like to think so, but I’m not too sure. Still, I did like the gradual way he comes to terms with his new role and learns to be his own man and not merely a pale shadow of his father. The shrinking of the desk demonstrates this beautifully – nicely done.

Verity was a little bit too saintly and devoted to her sister, but I suppose that was the premise of the book. I would have liked to see a few more rough edges, frankly. It would have made her seem more human. But it’s a very small point.

There are some minor annoyances. The dual first-person points of view is something I find problematic. I’m sure it’s just me, but I found myself constantly getting confused as to whose head I was in at any given moment, and yes, I know every chapter is labelled but that doesn’t help. I get deep into a piece of dialogue and have to stop and go back just to find out who’s speaking. But it seems to be common these days, so I guess it must be popular. There’s a smattering of Americanisms, although nothing too distracting, and a couple of misused words (including downsizing – first recorded use in 1968, according to the OED). However, none of this spoilt my enjoyment overmuch.

There’s some humour in the book, which is always welcome. This exchange tickled my funny bone:

‘The goddaughter, it turned out, was fresh from the schoolroom. Biddable, Miss Edith had called her. A child would have been far more on the nose.
“Those women are harmless,” Mother said.
“We have different definitions for that word, I think.”’

The finale includes a bit of drama, somewhat too easily resolved, and after that everything ends on a high note. But really, the plot isn’t the main attraction of this book, or even the romance. They’re very well done, and the writing is smooth and sure, but everything is overshadowed by the towering presence of Fanny and her – well, I won’t call it a disability. Her characteristics, let’s say. She is such a darling, and, although I’m no expert, she seemed completely authentic and believable to me. I have a nephew who is on the spectrum too, and he does the exact same thing with shaking his hands as if shaking off water. This is an amazing portrait of an autistic girl, drawn with such affection that it’s impossible not to love Fanny. A fine piece of writing, and highly recommended. Five stars.

Review: Lady Pamela by Clare Darcy (1975)

I’m going to be honest, this one didn’t really do it for me. It had its moments (mainly to do with the rather wonderful hero, Carlin), but I never came to like the headstrong heroine, who consistently barges into any situation that would really be better left to those more suited to it. And being a novella, it was too short to go into greater depth, which might have made her more likeable. Still, not a bad little story, on the whole, and at least there were consequences to her actions.

Here’s the premise: Lady Pamela Frayne can’t resist getting involved in whatever outrageous escapade takes her fancy, so when her rackety brother seems to have filched a valuable government document from their grandfather to sell to offset his gaming debts, Lady Pamela dives into the fray to rescue him from disaster. Making her way to the country house where she thinks the document may have ended up, she’s delayed by snow, and no postilions will turn out to take her on the final stage. Fortuitously, a regular stage coach comes through, driven by an eccentric coachman called Carlin who’s determined to press on regardless. Lady P has found her transport. Needless to say, they come to grief and are forced to improvise once again. But the inn where they end up also contains a woman with a broken leg who just happened to be on her way to take up a position as lady’s maid at the very house Lady P is headed for. So off Lady P goes to pretend to be the lady’s maid and see what she can find out. The oddball coachman, meanwhile, is intrigued enough to follow her there and get involved in her scheming (and to rescue her when things go amiss).

When they realise the document isn’t there, they head back to London, where the consequences of Lady P’s outrageous behaviour upsets her very upright fiance, Lord Babcoke, and the entire ton. And so the plot runs on fairly predictable rails to the inevitable conclusion. Lady P is fairly stupid, and as heroines go I’m not at all enamoured of the type who hurls herself willy-nilly into any situation regardless of the consequences.

Carlin I liked much better as the devil-may-care nobleman. Being reckless seems to sit much better on a hero than on a heroine (in Regency times, anyway). My only grumble with him is that he struts around telling Lady P (and the world!) that he’s going to marry her when she’s still betrothed to Lord Babcoke, and although it’s a spectacularly ill-suited pairing, it’s very rude to announce your intentions before the engagement is officially over. And I do prefer it if the hero actually asks the heroine first. However, that’s par for the course for books of this age, whose original readership perhaps preferred a domineering kind of hero. We modern readers prefer our heroines to be treated respectfully, and as something more than a man’s rightfully property (even if they actually were, of course, two hundred years ago).

A silly plot, a very silly heroine and redeemed only by a fun hero, so only three stars, but I’ve enjoyed others by Clare Darcy much better than this, so I’ll put it down as an unusual blip.

Review: Talk of the Town by Joan Smith (1979)

This was a total riot, good fun from start to finish. It’s very traditional in style, but given its age that’s only to be expected, and unlike some of that vintage, the romance was quite well developed and not bolted on as an afterthought. And there was not a single kidnapping or elopement or other overblown melodrama.

Here’s the premise: Daphne Ingleside lives a quiet, respectable life in the Wiltshire countryside, but when her disreputable Aunt Effie, now a widow for the second time after being scandalously divorced by her first husband, asks for her company in London, she sees an opportunity for a little fun and a somewhat more lively setting. But this isn’t the conventional Regency with balls and routs and the Marriage Mart. Aunt Effie is too poor and disreputable to be invited anywhere. Daphne doesn’t mind. London is exciting enough, and she doesn’t much care to be paraded around anyway. She’ll have a nice quiet time with her aunt, and find something to fill the time. Perhaps her aunt, with her long and unusual history, could write her memoirs?

And all of a sudden, Aunt Effie’s quiet, retired life becomes rather exciting. As soon as the notice appears in the newspaper that she’s writing her memoirs, old friends start appearing and pressing large sums of money into her hands. Some were people she loaned money to, who never paid it back, but some were vaguer about their reasons. Effie thinks they’re just being kind to an old friend, but Daphne realises at once that they all hope to keep their own names out of the book. She finds it all vastly amusing, and of course the money is a great help to Effie.

Into this entertaining situation comes the very unentertaining Richard, the Duke of St Felix, sent by his sister to keep her husband’s name out of the book. But he’s an arrogant so and so, and Daphne can’t resist crossing swords with him, winding him up thoroughly. He leaves believing they are hardened blackmailers, and becomes determined to best the sharp-tongued little termagant. Somehow, he finds reason after reason to return to Aunt Effie’s shabby little apartment to spar with Daphne, and somehow, little by little, Daphne and Effie are edged back into society again, to be befriended by Beau Brummell and the Prince of Wales, no less. Their success is assured… or so it would seem. But their position is precarious, and one slip could see them fall from grace again.

From then onwards, nothing quite goes as expected (at least, not as I expected, anyway). But the romance develops beautifully. It’s always problematic for an author who’s set up the two main characters to be at each other’s throats – enemies to lovers is surely the most difficult trope to pull off, because how can two people who hate each other so much ever end up in love? It defies credibility, yet Joan Smith manages it beautifully, without any trickery, as Daphne and Richard gradually come to realise how things are. Daphne is a little bit too eccentric at times, and perhaps too determined to defy convention just to spite her ‘enemy’, but Richard is steadfast and true, and quite determined to see Daphne and her disreputable aunt restored to society, come what may.

For those who dislike Americanisms, you might want to avoid this one, littered as it is with ‘gotten’ and ‘fall’ and others too numerous to mention, but I was enjoying myself too much to mind. It’s highly recommended for banter aficianados, though, for the spirited exchanges between the two protagonists are glorious. Joan Smith can be a bit variable, but I found this to be one of her more successful efforts. Five stars.

Review: Elyza by Clare Darcy (1976)

This was really quirky in some ways, but it was still a lot of fun. It’s necessary to suspend all critical faculties, however, for none of it makes a great deal of sense, but if you can go with the flow, it’s highly readable.

Here’s the premise: Elyza Leigh is that staple of the Regency romance, a girl making her debut in the season who’s being pushed into marrying a worthy but deadly dull man. Rather than submit, she dresses in boys clothes and runs away (yes, we’re deep into Cliche-land here), in an attempt to get to her aunt in Bath, but after a night at an inn, her purse has been stolen and she can’t pay her shot. Happily, a random stranger comes to her aid, the fabulously wealthy Cleve Redmayne, newly returned from India, who’s hoping to make his debut in English society – and find a beauty he spotted briefly two years before. He sees Elyza as someone who can help him. She’s in society herself, so she knows everyone, doesn’t she? And since they both appear to be heading to Bath, where his lost love is also heading, he believes, they can join forces.

Now Redmayne (I refuse to call him Cleve; I’m sure that’s a typo, because the blurb has him as Clive, but no matter) is not worldly wise to the ways of England, so before long the pair, aided and abetted by Redmayne’s vast retinue, are enjoying a country fair and getting into all sorts of difficulties of the reputation-ruining variety. Along the way, they pick up bouncy Nicholas Crawfurd (another odd name) who is also ripe for any lark. Redmayne and Crawfurd aren’t in the least bothered by Elyza’s boy’s clothes, but when Colonel Hanley turns up, sent by Elyza’s London chaperone to retrieve her, they realise just what a mess she is in.

Now, Redmayne is one of those magical McGuffin characters, who is so fabulously rich and surrounded by so many efficient and willing servants, that he’s able to solve any problem. In an instant, he has devised a cunning plan to get Elyza safely back to London, reputation intact. Crawfurd and the Colonel are sworn to secrecy, and all goes according to plan. Redmayne is actually a fascinating character, because he’s supremely self-confident (and with some justification) and yet at the same time he’s quite different from the usual run of Regency heroes. There’s something off-kilter about him, his assurance mixed with over-the-top displays of wealth and a slightly wobbly grasp of social protocol. He is a little too good at everything for my taste (what can I say, I like a beta hero myself).

The plot takes a dramatic swerve here, because somehow, for reasons I missed, Elyza and crew are going to Brighton for the summer, and Redmayne is also going, abandoning his previous plan as soon as he discovers from Elyza that a certain young lady by the name of Corinna Mayfield will also be there. Redmayne saw her briefly two years before and has been passionately in love with her ever since. Now that he’s rich, he intends to sweep her off her elegantly shod feet and waft her away to the altar. The bouncy Mr Crawfurd comes along for the ride, and so what seemed to be a road trip to Bath becomes a seaside holiday, featuring an appearance by no less a personage than the Prince Regent himself. Naturally, Elyza’s deadly dull suitor, Sir Edward Mottram, is also on hand to make the dreaded proposal.

This was written in the heyday of Georgette Heyer and it’s highly influenced by her work. The wheeling out of Prinny and other historical figures, for instance, and the detailed description of the Brighton Pavilion are very Heyer, and the whole plot is infused with the sort of unlikely happenstances and fairytale events and characters that make it more of a romp than a romance. There’s a silly subplot involving a villain that Elyza deals with very badly, there’s a even sillier duel and then the inevitable kidnapping (what is it with Regencies and kidnappings?). The main romance is fairly unconvincing, but that’s par for the course for books of this age, so I won’t complain too much. It’s funny, and I can forgive a book a great deal if it makes me laugh.

The writing is fine, and my only complaint is that the book seems to have been digitised with a character reader and not properly proofread, because every once in a while there’s a word mid-sentence that makes no sense at all. Sometimes it’s possible to work out what it should be but not always. Other than that, the book is a light-hearted read, true to its vintage. Don’t expect depth or rounded characters or even a plot that makes much sense but it’s hugely fun and I enjoyed it tremendously. Five stars.

Review: The Cockermouth Mail by Dinah Dean (1982)

I absolutely loved this book, every last word of it. It’s a very simple story, but our hero and heroine are lovely, there’s a strong backup cast and a wealth of local detail that I found fascinating.

Here’s the premise: Miss Dorcas Minster, the daughter of a disgraced baronet now employed as a governess, is on her way north to take up a new position. It doesn’t sound very appealing, but nothing else offered, and what else can she do? She takes the mail coach, along with a mixed bunch of other passengers. Chief among them is Sir Richard Severall, a colonel in the dragoons, now invalided out with a knee injury, travelling by mail because his own coach has broken down.

Needless to say, since it’s almost Christmas, there’s soon snow falling and before too long the coach is off the road, and everyone has to walk to the nearest inn. Sir Richard, with his bad leg, is too slow to keep up with the rest, and Dorcas stays with him, but gradually the treacherous conditions overcome their strength, and they’re forced to huddle together in the meagre shelter of a large boulder, while they await rescue. Barely conscious, Sir Richard kisses her, to her great shock. Happily, rescue arrives and they are carted off to the inn to be revived, and to meet a couple of other stranded travellers.

I have to say that the inn turns out to be astonishingly well provided with food for so remote a location, so the refugees spend Christmas in great comfort, and even manage to go to church. There’s a bit of a dance with the locals, and the kissing bough makes a timely appearance. This could have been rather dull in other hands, but the book is replete with detail, not just about the inn and the surrounding countryside, but the difficulties of travelling by mail coach over difficult and (in winter) treacherous roads. The author makes the Lake District sound like a foreign and rather hostile country, and the heroine’s rather plaintive longing to return to the south doesn’t seem at all misplaced.

All this being cooped up in an inn cut off from the outside world naturally throws the mail coach passengers together somewhat, and Dorcas, being the only female, finds herself the subject of a certain interest from some of the gentlemen. She’s in a curious position, being the daughter of a baronet by birth, but now a humble governess by trade, and so hard up that she has to borrow money from Sir Richard to pay her shot at the inn, and then there’s the lowering thought: what will he want in return? She can’t afford to assume it’s simple kindness, and since he has no dishonourable thoughts in his head, it doesn’t occur to him to reassure her on the point. And he is so self-effacing that when another passenger starts taking an interest in Dorcas, one he thinks is perhaps a better match for her, he does nothing to press his own suit.

With the romance bubbling along nicely, despite the question of honourable intentions, there’s another problem: there’s a highwayman on the loose somewhere, and one of their fellow passengers is a Bow Street Runner, sent to catch the miscreant. And it’s just possible that one of the passengers is the villain…

So everything boils up nicely to the inevitable conclusion, although with some fun twists that I didn’t see coming at all. Not that I was paying much attention, being so caught up in the gentle but very sweet romance between Dorcas and Sir Richard that the rest was almost irrelevant. I liked very much that Sir Richard’s bad knee was a serious problem that brought him real grief occasionally, and wasn’t just a slight limp that got mentioned three times and then forgotten. I liked, too, the delicate way that Sir Richard tried to show his growing feelings for Dorcas, but without making her feel uncomfortable — although sometimes his enthusiasm got the better of him! Of the side characters, I liked Mr Tupper, the pedantic solicitor who plays a starring a role in the romance eventually, and also Jem, Sir Richard’s mouthy batman from his army days, who spoke his mind in the most colourful language (fortunately most incomprehensibly) yet was fiercely loyal to his quiet master. There is a lot of Heyer-esque cant in this, and local dialect, only some of which is translated, so you have been warned.

A lovely, lovely story, with wonderful low-key characters that it would surely be impossible to dislike. Every word was a joy to read – yes, even the cant! And for those who like that sort of thing, there’s a heart-warming epilogue, too. Five stars, and I’d give it more if I could.

Review: The Mistletoe Test by Diane Farr (2017)

I’m having a good run of reads at the moment, all of older books or, as in this case, a newer book by an established author. Diane Farr wrote some of my favourite Regencies from around twenty years ago, so it was a real treat to discover this newer work that’s very much in the same vein. It’s a lovely, light read, although with some serious moments when the subject of slavery arises. Very much one for the traditionalists.

Here’s the premise: Felicity Pennington is being threatened with a sixth season in London by her rich, indulgent Aunt Agnes, better known as baronet’s widow Lady DuFrayne. Felicity wouldn’t mind, but it’s surely time her younger sister Lucille, aka Lulu, had her chance. She’s a bit of a madcap hoyden, but perhaps she could make a smaller debut in their home town of Bath over the winter to prepare her – nothing could go wrong, could it?

Aunt Agnes reluctantly agrees, and instantly Lulu gets into trouble at her debut event, managing to tip a water-filled vase over herself. But all is not lost, for appearing miraculously on the scene to rescue her from total ignominy is Oliver Stanhope, who’s everything that’s desirable in Lulu’s eyes, and isn’t at all censorious, despite being the son of a bishop. There’s only one problem – he’s already as good as betrothed to the humourless Miss Almeria Bliss, an inapt name if ever I heard one.

Into all this arrives the person of Sir Gavin DuFrayne, the inheritor of Aunt Agnes’s husband’s baronetcy and the estate but not the fortune, which went to Aunt Agnes. Now that his father has died, he’s sold the plantations in Barbados and has returned home to try to wrest some of that fortune for himself, or at the very least, stop his aunt blowing the whole lot on the deeply unworthy Pennington family. Although he has to admit that Felicity Pennington is good fun, with her sharp mind and willingness to spar with him.

It’s obvious at this point where the story is going, and so it does, with few surprises, but every step of the way is filled with charm and humour and a delightful lightness of touch. The only darker note is the discussion of slavery, where Gavin tries to recruit Felicity to his cause of helping his own freed slaves to come to England, which he isn’t able to do because he stupidly tied up all his money for several years (which is the only misstep in the entire book, because he’s far too smart to do that before he’s done what he promised for the freed slaves; serious plot manipulation there).

Apart from the main characters being anti-slavery (which is a very common theme in modern Regencies and barely worthy of comment, even though there was far more controversy about it at the time), the book is actually quite subversive. For one thing, Aunt Agnes’s husband leaves only the entailed property to his heir, and gives all his money to his widow. Nor does she have it only for her lifetime – it’s hers absolutely. She could give it all to the Penningtons if she wants, or an orphanage, or spend every last penny, leaving the baronet in relative poverty. That would be regarded as wicked in an age when male primogeniture was everything, and a man with a title was expected to live expensively. We’re not really told why he did this, although it’s hinted that Gavin’s father was something of a reprobate, but it’s still a drastic step to take.

The other unusual arrangement is that Oliver Stanhope is his father’s heir, despite being the middle of three brothers. Again, it’s almost invariably the eldest son who inherits, but here it’s shown as an agreement between the men of the family. The eldest and youngest sons wanted to follow their father into the church and Oliver didn’t, so he gets the money. Although I have to say that his delight in his new estate and the enthusiasm with which he threw parties there were delightful. He has so much joie de vie, it’s obvious he’s a perfect match for the exuberant Lulu.

The story eventually winds its way to Christmas and the mistletoe test of the title about which I will say nothing except that it’s all lovely. I would have liked a little more followup with Gavin and Felicity, who were supposed to be the main characters but got pushed into the background by Lulu and Oliver far too often. I liked that the minor characters got their turn in the spotlight, but I wanted to see a bit more of the majors. In particular, I wanted to see a lot more of them falling in love. But that’s not really a complaint. This was a lovely traditional read that put a smile on my face almost from start to finish. Beautifully written, with lots of humour and charm, I can’t give it less than five stars.

Review: Miss Mouse by Mira Stables (1981)

Mira Stables is one of my go-to authors. I can usually depend on finding a great read, although the plots and characters and styles vary wildly from book to book. Some work in spite of quirks, but this one has no quirks at all – it’s a straight down the line traditional Regency that sticks closely to the tropes and manages to have a certain amount of drama without a villain and without the usual kidnapping at the end, so thank heavens for that.

Here’s the premise: Graine Ashley comes from a good family but there’s no money to support an unmarried sister of twenty-seven. She’s obliged to become a governess, but she’s too good looking to escape becoming prey to the master of the house, the younger generation or the male guests at house parties. So for her latest position, she’s adopted a disguise to protect herself, using greasepaint, fake shoulder humps, a limp and a mouse-like demeanour. The resident male is the Earl of Valminster, and thankfully he’s very proper and treats her with suitable disinterest.

The plot runs on predictable rails, so inevitably there’s a troublesome boy who likes to play pranks on the new governess, which (since she’s the heroine) she deflects with aplomb, thereby winning the respect of the children. But inevitably the disguise is uncovered and the real Graine is forced to step forward. The earl wants to know the reason for the subterfuge, and when she explains, he assures her that she will never be importuned while under his roof. And then he promptly falls in love with her but can’t speak out because of that promise. How very Regency.

And basically, that is the whole plot. She is the perfect governess, he is the perfect nobleman, and anyone looking for the now customary deeply flawed main characters, with daddy issues or a Deep Dark Secret – well, you’ll be disappointed. The servants are the usual benign old retainers, the relations are friendly and even the troublesome children turn into little near-paragons of juvenile virtue by the halfway point. There is some drama, but it’s all designed to show the hero and heroine in an appropriately heroic light. The romance inches steadily towards its inevitable conclusion, and in the end, only that promise and a stupid misunderstanding (yes, that old chestnut) keep them apart for long.

This makes it sound very dull, but actually I found it a relief from the overwrought and highly improbable antics of most Regencies. Two sensible and likeable leads with a very believable romance made for a very pleasant read, and all beautifully written with not an anachronism in sight. Five stars.

Review: Thea’s Marquis by Carola Dunn (1993)

This is the third and final part of the trilogy, and unlike book 2, it really does help to have read the earlier books first. This is the book where all the pigeons come home to roost, so to speak. In book 1, fortune hunter Jason, Lord Kilmore tried to elope with Alison Larkin. In book 2, he actually did elope with an heiress, but when that fell apart, he married another heiress, Penny Bryant. This book picks up the story a few weeks or months later. Jason has already gone to London, and his mother, his two sisters and his new wife are travelling south from their home near the Scottish border to join him. Penny is pregnant and finding morning sickness rather a trial, and Megan is suffering from a migraine. The ladies stop at an inn, and it’s shy, timid Thea who’s dispatched to secure rooms for them, since the other ladies aren’t up to the job.

But there’s a problem – the inn is full because of a sporting event, and there are no rooms to be had. Happily for the Kilmore ladies, a passing hero rescues them by giving up his room, and his friend’s, too, and then inviting the ladies to dine with them. The hero is the imposingly large Lord Hazlewood and his small but dandyish friend is Will DeVine. And so begins the odd friendship between these two and the Kilmore ladies.

While Thea, having led a sheltered life, struggles to behave and speak in the ladylike manner favoured by her mother, every time she puts her foot in it, Lord Hazlewood is there to smooth things over. He is the perfect courteous gentleman, and she begins to feel that she would not mind having to meet him again in London. So on to London the ladies go, their way smoothed by the thoughtful Lord Hazlewood.

There they find that Penny’s house is practically bare of furniture, everything having been trashed by her uncle before he moved out. Jason has managed to make repairs and supply the bare bones of the required furniture, but not much more. He’s also shocked by Penny’s exhausted appearance, and not at all the loving husband she’d hoped to find. And so, unusually for a Regency romance, even though these two appeared to have achieved their happy ending in the previous book, the state of their marriage becomes a central concern of this one, and even more so when previous events come back to haunt Jason and make Penny unhappy. It’s an interesting, and very realistic, scenario and I applaud the author for not assuming that everything in the garden will be rosy as soon as a girl has a ring on her finger.

Meanwhile our pair of heroes, Mr DeVine and Lord Hazlemere, are circling round the two Kilmore ladies, lively Megan and shy Thea, not at all put off (in Lord H’s case) and only slightly put off (in Mr DV’s) by the fact that they live in Russell Square, home of cits and lawyers. Of course the road to happiness is not smooth, and there’s the usual dramatic finale, but it’s clear that these two are both perfectly matched couples. I have to say, I liked all the characters in this book, and the way their stories played out. Thea learns to be more assertive, Lord Hazlewood learns the value of allowing his emotions free rein occasionally, and everything is tied up satisfactorily.

There’s only one aspect of the book that gave me pause. Lord Hazlewood has a mistress of many years’ standing. Now, he does pay her off once he realises he’s thinking of marrying Thea, but up until that point, he visits regularly and they seem to have a very cosy relationship, more like husband and wife than anything else. And then Lord Hazlewood is surprised when his mistress is upset at the break up. My question would be: how could he NOT be upset himself? Why is he not a least partly in love with her? I’m not sure I can like a man who is so detached about ending a relationship of many years.

But I suppose this is par for the course with books of this age. There’s a very different morality at play, where mistresses and wives are two different things, and occupy separate places in a man’s life. However shocking it looks to us now, the world was a different place thirty years ago. Apart from that, I have no real grumbles. I would have liked a little longer with our primary couple post-proposal, but that’s true of virtually every book of this vintage, so it’s not really a complaint. A lovely five-star read.