Review: Scandal’s Promise by Pamela Gibson (2020)

This was a book that had so much potential. It could have been full of five-star-awesomeness, but instead a whole heap of little things kept tripping my fuses, which dragged it down a bit. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy it, because I did, but I was sad that it didn’t quite reach the heights it could have done.

Here’s the premise: Andrew Quimby, newly inheriting the title of Earl of Cardmore, returns to his ancestral seat to find it more or less abandoned, the rooms shut up and most of the servants gone. Andrew isn’t in a much better state himself. Seven years fighting the Napoleonic Wars have left him with an injury that seems to be healed, so why does he suffer from recurring pain? Only laudanum (opium) makes it better, topped up with alcohol.

Lady Emily Sinclair lives next door and seven years ago she was betrothed to Andrew when he inexplicably married another woman. She died in childbirth within the year, but Andrew stayed away from Emily, and she’s not sure she can forgive him for his betrayal. She’s never married, and suspects she never will now, but she’s quite content as a spinster, and is determined to stay away from him… isn’t she?

So we have a second chance romance, and the problem here is the usual one – however plausible the failure on the first go round, there isn’t any real obstacle to a speedy resolution this time. She’s a spinster, he’s a widower, they still love each other, what’s to keep them apart? If the hero had an ounce of common sense, he would go straight to the heroine, explain what happened the first time, tell her he still loves her, and set about courting her with determination. Well, that would be logical, but it wouldn’t make for much of a story, so the author resorts to all sorts of devious schemes to keep the two apart – misunderstandings, miscommunication, mishap, machinations by others and so on.

It has to be said that most of the trouble is my least favourite trope, the misunderstanding. Andrew never properly explains himself to Emily, never shows her that he loves her, never really talks to her, so she finds things out piecemeal and gets hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely several times (understandably, actually). The result is that she is repeatedly dithering between wanting him and deciding she’ll never be able to trust him again. And Andrew, for his part, swivels about between hope and despair, deciding one minute that he’ll win Emily back no matter what and the next that he’s lost her for ever. Inevitably, this is a high-angst book, and it got a tiny bit old towards the end.

I liked both the main characters. Andrew was a deeply flawed character who needed a big redemptive arc, and it took him a long time to get there, but he’d had a rough childhood, so I could give him some leeway. And Emily was a strong character, who may have had passionate feelings but was also well able to keep them under control, like a good Regency lady – most of the time, anyway! I liked Aunt Lily, and would have liked more of her, and Andrew’s friend Ralston had the thankless task, so common in Regencies, of playing a minor role while being a far more worthy character than the hero. Be warned that this is book 3 of a series, and there were characters popping up from earlier books, which is lovely for those who’ve read them, but a bit disconcerting for those who haven’t, although they are explained quite well. Still, it felt a bit as if something was missing.

One of the high points of the book is the way it deals with Andrew’s opium addiction. This must have been a common problem in the era, because laudanum was the only really effective pain relief known, and readily available, but it was highly addictive (and still is, of course). The periods of euphoria interspersed with dark despair, and the steady spiral downwards were brilliantly portrayed. We also saw something of Andrew’s recovery period (although mercifully not much). I wasn’t completely convinced by his relatively rapid return to normality. I don’t know whether that’s accurate, or creative licence to fit the time scale of the book.

What worked less well for me? The drama seemed a bit over the top, and the villain of the piece seemed to come almost out of the blue. There were some clues, and to be honest there weren’t many possible suspects, but at the end it almost seemed as if they compiled a list of suspects and said, well, it must be him. And it was. But maybe I missed some hints, who knows.

One other problem for me (which may not affect other readers) is the relaxed attitude to historical accuracy. This just didn’t feel like an authentic Regency, to me. The book uses a multitude of American expressions, as well as some phrases that were far too modern (the heroine wants closure, for instance). I found these a repeated irritation, but that’s just me; it’s a stylistic choice by the author. One thing she got absolutely right, though, is the legal question of the child, so kudos for that. Also, there’s a fair amount of sex in the book – one actual sex scene and a number of lustful moments, which get anatomical, so if you’re looking for a clean read, best to avoid this one. I don’t mind sex in my Regency reads, but the hero and heroine were a little too ready to fall into passionate embraces (and then immediately decide they shouldn’t do that again). The Regency is all about restraint, after all.

This is a solid read with an interesting plot that I enjoyed a lot, but for me it was let down by the back-and-forth angsting of hero and heroine, too much lusting and all those Americanisms and modern expressions. Four stars.