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Christmas With... Tiffany Reisz!

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Nora’s Christmas Wishlist

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good Dominatrix/erotica writer this year. Please send one of the following to my house in New Orleans.

1. Vinyl catsuit (see my attached measurements)

2. Tub of petroleum jelly (I just need that for getting in and out of the vinyl catsuit)

3. A flogger – elk (will also accept moose as a substitute)

4. David Gandy’s phone number

5. Idris Elba’s phone number

6. A major league baseball team (you can surprise me – I won’t be using them for the baseball so I really don’t care which team it is. Just no Yankees please. Griffin will never forgive me).

7. A Roomba

8. A cat to ride the Roomba

9. A shark costume for the cat to wear while riding a Roomba

10. Five golden cock rings

Thanks, Santa! Merry Christmas to you and yours! Also, I was kidding about number ten. I already have plenty of cock rings.

Love Always,
Mistress Nora Sutherlin

P.S. Oh, can I have world peace for Christmas?

P.P.S. Søren was reading over my shoulder so I had to throw something “Catholic-y” in there.

Tiffany Reisz lives in Portland, Oregon with her boyfriend (a reformed book reviewer) and two cats (one good, one evil). She graduated with a B.A. in English from Centre College in Danville, Kentucky and is making both her parents and her professors proud by writing BDSM erotica under her real name.

When not under arrest, Tiffany enjoys Latin Dance, Latin Men, and Latin Verbs. She dropped out of a conservative southern seminary in order to pursue her dream of becoming a smut peddler. Johnny Depp’s aunt was her fourth grade teacher. Her first full-length novel THE SIREN was inspired by a desire to tie up actor Jason Isaacs (on paper). She hopes someday life will imitate art (in bed). 
Find Tiffany

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Christmas With... Melanie Karsak + Giveaway !

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Chasing Christmas Past

An Airship Racing Chronicles Short Story

By Melanie Karsak

Part 1

A light dusting of snow covered the bowsprit of the Stargazer. The wind blew gently. A cascade of fat snowflakes gusted across the deck of the airship. When the flurry hit the bulwark, the flakes became a little whirlwind that drifted upward into the purple and blue twilight. I rubbed my hands together. It was Christmas Eve, and it was bitter cold. I sighed deeply, my breath fogging the air. From the streets of London below the airship towers, I could hear the holiday revelers singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. The scent of roasted chestnuts perfumed the wind. My stomach growled hungrily, and I began dreaming of the mug of mulled wine waiting for me at my favorite haunt, Rose’s Hopper. Nothing sounded better than sitting in the corner of the tavern, drinking Christmas Eve away. Leave the roasted geese, plum pudding, and midnight mass to all the joyful mums and dads and fat-cheeked children. Tonight, I would drink. Tomorrow, I would race.
The balloon of the Stargazer shifted in the breeze. I’d already started strategizing. Cold air meant the balloon would get better lift which we could use to our advantage, but flying in snow was annoying as hell. Not that it mattered much. I knew what to do. I’d run in the Yuletide Airship Race since I was a girl. What made the 1820 race any different? I wasn’t going to let a little snow get between me and the fat stack of coins waiting in Calais. This year I would win for sure.
I pulled out my little bottle of laudanum. My fingerless gloves were good for more than just gripping the wheel of the Stargazer. The cap on the laudanum bottle was always annoyingly tricky. With shaking hands—the chill of the wind, of course—I undid the lid then took a drop. I quickly stuffed the bottle back into the pocket of my wool trousers just as Angus came out of the gear galley.
Bloody hell! I think my balls are frozen,” Angus said with a laugh as he attempted to smooth down his kilt. “Are you done fussing, Lily? The ship is set to go. Let’s head to the Hopper. Jessup is probably half-drunk already.”
Grinning so hard the muscles on my face ached, I asked, “What possessed you to put on a kilt on this freezing night? And don’t tell me you’re commando in this kind of weather.”
What kind of Scotsman would I be if I wasn’t natural underneath? And didn’t you see my festive adornment?
Instead of a sporran hanging from his waist, Angus had tied a bunch of mistletoe. “Christ, Angus. What…what the hell,” I choked out, laughing so hard I started to cough.
All that opium smoke is burning your lungs, lass. Now, let’s go. If that buxom Rebecca isn’t at the Hopper tonight, I think I’ll cry,” he said with a grin, extending his arm to me.
Well, you can always hope for a Christmas miracle,” I replied with a wink.
Angus and I headed to the lift that would lower us from the airship tower to the city street below. As we rode downward, I gazed out across the city. The rooftops were covered with a powdering of crystalline snow. The gaslamp light made everything sparkle. The waves on the Thames twinkled with golden light. While the revelers had moved off, I could hear their dulcet tones from a distance. They were singing Silent Night. It really was Christmas Eve. I gazed up at the darkening sky. One shining star—was it the north star?—glimmered. I wondered, just for a moment, about Byron. Where would the illustrious George Gordon, Lord Byron spend Christmas Eve? What shenanigans would he be up to? I hadn’t heard from him for more than a month. Who knew where in the world he was and what misadventures he was wrapped up in. I missed him.
Happy Christmas,” Edwin, one of the tower guards, called cheerfully when Angus and I reached the bottom of the lift. “Here, Lily,” he said, tossing a package to me. The brown paper package was warm to the touch and smelled heavenly: honey roasted walnuts.
Happy Christmas! And thank you. Want to come to the Hopper with us?”
Edwin shook his head. “Shift is about to start. Get some sleep tonight! You damned near had it last year,” he reminded me encouragingly then headed to the lift.
I sighed deeply, looped my arm in Angus’, and we headed to the tavern. I clutched the small package of walnuts against my chest. Maybe the laudanum was already playing with my emotions, but Edwin’s small gesture moved me. It wasn’t like my foster fathers, such as they were, ever saw fit to give me a Christmas gift. I hated to admit how much I adored receiving even small things like Edwin’s gift. They felt like affirmations of love.
Angus and I crossed the snow-dusted cobblestone street to the tavern. The gaslamp outside flickered, casting blobs of orange light on the ground. Inside, someone was playing the piano very loudly, over-striking the keys. Raucous voices sang Christmas carols. Over the crowd, I could hear Jessup, my teammate and balloonman, singing Here We Come a-Wassailing.
Christ, sounds like someone is squeezing a cat,” Angus said as he pushed the door open.
That’s Jessup,” I replied with a giggle.
Angus winked at me. “I know.”
Stargazer!” Several of the tavern patrons erupted in cheer when Angus and I arrived.
Just in time,” Ollie, the tapster, yelled. “Lily Stargazer, get over here! We were about to parade the Yule log! Come for a ride! It will bring you some luck tomorrow. Come on, Lil’!”
They had just hauled in the Yule log from the back and were adorning it with holly boughs. Snow dripped from the bark onto the stone floor.
Not me,” I called back. “Make Angus ride!”
I can’t ride in a kilt. The bark will chafe,” Angus retorted with a laugh.
Without another word, Angus threw me over his shoulder and carried me across the tavern. The patrons cheered. I was hanging on haphazardly, but Angus set me down on the log gently. For all his brawny shenanigans, I knew Angus would be careful with me. He and Jessup were the only men I trusted—save Byron, in his own way—and I loved Angus like a brother.
Okay, okay,” I said, situating myself on the log like it were a horse. I sat astride, Yankee style. I gripped the gritty, wet bark for dear life, seriously wishing I was already drunk.
Got it, gents?” Ollie asked. “One, two, three!” They heaved the log into the air.
Laughing, I clung to the log as they careened around the room. Once I felt stable, I waved to the patrons, princess-style, as I made the tour. All the usual faces were there, other airship jockeys looking worn down from running transports in the freezing wind, some travelers waiting to hop the next airship, and a handful of tinkers. I even spotted one of the new tinkers, an Italian, who had recently set up shop at Hungerford Market. His name was Salvatore something, but everyone just called him the Italian. He winked at me, lifting a mug of wine in toast as I paraded by. I smiled at him. Nice looking chap. I needed to find a reason to stop by and meet him.
I spotted Angus crossing the tavern toward Rebecca. The moment she saw the mistletoe hanging from his belt, she burst out laughing. A pretty girl with curly brown hair and red cheeks, she seemed like the kind of woman who could keep you warm for the night and make you a hearty breakfast the morning after. Maybe Angus would get his Christmas miracle after all.
When they finally stopped in front of the fireplace once more, they helped me off the broke into the traditional Yule log song. The men loaded the heavy log into the fire:
Old lady ash, you’ll burn so bright
And light the way for all the night
Mistress Yule, keep away the cold
And help us burn away the old
Mother forest, bring us luck
Cleanse away the mire and muck
This Christmastide let dreams come true
Make your wishes on the Yule
After that, the patrons threw small sprigs of herbs into the fire with the Yule log. I saw Mary, the ever-cheerful barmaid, kiss a sprig of parsley, close her eyes, then throw it into the flames. If I knew her right, she was wishing for a way out of the tavern—preferably via someone male dressed in velvet and silk. A basket of herbs and flowers was passed around. I took out a small purple flower. I wasn’t keen on superstition, but I pressed the flower into my palm and closed my eyes: let me win tomorrow…and let me see George soon. I tossed the flower into the fire. It crackled as it burned. I sighed heavily. Around me, everyone was smiling and feeling cheerful. They had even roped me into the merriment, but the feeling had been fleeting. In the end, I felt…detached. It was like the joy everyone else was feeling was always just out of my reach. I was always racing after bliss. My whole life seemed to be filled with chasing, not catching, butterflies. Sure, I’d had moments of passion or the thrill of an opium high, but I’d never known true contentment. That was something reserved for other people, better people.
Ollie pushed a mug of mulled wine, a Smoking Bishop, into my hands. “Happy Christmas, Lily,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. I watched as he made his way through the crowd, passing out more mugs filled with the steaming nectar. The scents of orange, cinnamon, and cloves wafted from my mug. I sipped the liquid, burning my tongue. The drink left a sharp aftertaste of spice behind. Tonight, the tavern smelled divine. The scents of the pine boughs decorating the fireplace mantle, the baking gingerbread, and the mulled wine, fragranced the air. The scents delighted the senses, but still my heart felt empty.
I cast a glance at Jessup, my teammate. He was still lingering by the piano.
Lily, come sing!” he yelled to me.
I smiled fondly at him, shook my head, then headed for a table in the corner near the fireplace. I wiggled into the corner bench and proper my feet up on the chair closest to the fire. I pulled my gloves off then unwrapped the crinkly brown paper on Edwin’s package, popping a toasted walnut in my mouth. I savored the sweet flavor, chewed and swallowed, then washed it down with wine. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. My whole body felt tired. Beside me, the fire roared. I could hear the wood popping and crackling. It was such a sweet, calming sound. The radiating heat warmed me; I had felt frozen deep into my core. When I opened my eyes again, I grabbed the mug, the wine now cool, and finished it. No absinthe for me tonight. It was Christmas Eve, after all. Even the green fairy needed a night off.
Ollie brought me another drink. The tavern patrons had started dancing. They waved for me to join them, but I shook my head. I watched as the Italian rose, set a few coins on the bar, then headed back into the night with the rough-looking aircrew of the Mockingbird. Where was he off to with that motley troupe? Just as he was about to exit, he turned, smirked slyly at me, then left. Yeah, I definitely needed to find a way to introduce myself to him. Later. After the race.
I gazed back across the tavern. Everyone was having so much fun. Angus’ mistletoe had done the trick. He and Rebecca were already lip-locked, and he was putting a firm squeeze on her backside. Jessup was surrounded by boozy revelers who sang song after song. I loved a good party, but tonight I felt…lonely. How could that be? I was surrounded by people I knew, whose company I enjoyed. And it was Christmas Eve. I smiled as I watched the revelry, but my chest ached. My mind kept rolling back to Christmas Eves past. Never, not once, had I had what others would consider a normal holiday. Certainly not with my foster fathers. And before that, we kids at the orphanage had never been given anything. As for my mother and father in my distant memories…there were no memories, not good ones anyway. I had no memory of feasting on roasted duck or receiving nicely bundled gifts. Not once had I ever felt the magical glow of love, something people talked a lot about, on Christmas. The holiday made me feel really…alone. I pulled out my bottle of laudanum and took another drop…and then on second thought, another. Soon, my head started to feel drowsy. The lonely feeling drifted away. Soon, I felt nothing…what better gift was there on Christmas Eve?

* * *

Thank you for reading! Part Two of this short story will be released the week of Christmas. Subscribe to the author’s newsletter to learn more details on where to get part two of the story! 
If you are impatient to read the full story NOW, get it on Amazon US/UK!
If you enjoyed this brief look into the life of airship racer Lily Stargazer and her crew, the main characters of The Airship Racing Chronicles, you can find Book I of the series, Chasing the Star Garden, on Amazon
Thank you so much to Karina for inviting me to share this holiday tale with you! I hope you enjoyed this little view into a steampunk Christmas in 1820 London!

Melanie is giving away TWO of her ebooks in The Airship Racing Chronicles, Chasing The Star Garden and Chasing The Green Fairy to ONE commenter. The giveaway is international.
Comment below to win and good luck!

Melanie Karsak is the author of the Amazon best-selling steampunk series The Airship Racing Chronicles (Chasing the Star Garden and Chasing the Green Fairy) and the award-winning horror/dark fantasy Harvesting Series. She grew up in rural northwestern Pennsylvania and earned a Master's degree in English from Gannon University. A steampunk connoisseur, white elephant collector, and zombie whisperer, the author currently lives in Florida with her husband and two children. She is an Instructor of English at Eastern Florida State College. 
Find Melanie:

Christmas With...D.B. Reynolds + Giveaway!

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18+ story ONLY
which means:
get ready for some sexy times, peeps!





Cyn was dozing, caught in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness, draped over Raphael’s sleeping form, lulled by the slow beat of his heart.

Raphael woke without warning, as he always did. His arms curling around her back, pulling her even tighter against him.

“Good evening, my Cyn,” he crooned, dropping a kiss on top of her head.

Cyn smiled and snuggled closer. “Hey, baby.”

Raphael moved, rolling her over and under him, until they were face to face, his long, hard body stretched over hers. “And how was your day?”

“Empty without you,” she murmured with a smile, knowing exactly where this was going.

His hips flexed, nudging her thighs apart, the heavy length of his cock finding the cleft between her thighs, teasing her as he slid back and forth in the cream of her arousal. She was always ready for him when they woke up together, always wet. It was as if, even in sleep, her body knew what was coming and got ready, just for him.

“Raphael,” she whispered, lifting her hips, urging him to do more that tease.

“Spread your legs for me, sweet Cyn. Show me how much you want me.”

Cyn bent her knees, opening her thighs wide. “I always want you,” she murmured, her fingers running up and down along the smooth muscle of his back. She lifted her head to his neck and sucked gently, kissing her way down to his shoulder, closing her teeth over the powerful muscle there.

Raphael hissed as the warm swell of his blood hit her tongue. Lifting his hips he drove between her thighs, his cock plunging deep into her body, stretching her inner tissues as they strained to accommodate his breadth.

Cyn groaned at the double shock of his blood and his cock. Her sheath contracted around him, trembling with desire as the first shivers of her climax built into a tidal wave of carnal pleasure that sped from her pussy to her womb, zipping like lightning over every nerve and muscle of her body until she could only hold on and scream his name.

Raphael rumbled his satisfaction as she thrashed beneath him, as he continued to fuck her, his cock pounding in and out, every movement a sensual glide along inner tissues that were exquisitely sensitive in the throes of her orgasm. He took her mouth as he fucked her, his lips moving over hers, tasting and touching, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as if wanting to claim every inch of her, inside and out.

Cyn held onto him as the climax rolled over her, shaking under the onslaught of erotic sensation, her pussy clutching greedily at his cock. She could hear her own pulse thrumming loudly, could feel her heart pounding against his chest as she struggled to catch her breath.

Raphael lifted his mouth from hers with a final luxurious sweep of his lips, as his kisses moved over her jaw, his tongue dipping into the curve of her ear, his breath warm against her overheated skin. She felt the first brush of his tongue over the swell of her jugular, a rasping stroke as he coaxed the big vein to plumpness. His lips closed over her neck, sucking the vein into his mouth, teasing her as he had with his cock. Not biting, not yet. She tensed in anticipation, her nails scoring the smooth skin of his back, holding him tightly, her legs wrapped around his hips and crossed over his ass as his muscles continued to flex, his cock gliding in and out.

“Raphael,” she said, demanding.

“Say please,” he murmured against the skin of her neck, his tongue a line of heat as it followed her vein from her ear to her shoulder.

Cyn threaded her fingers into his short hair and tugged hard, but he only growled, the sound hitting her like a straight shot of lust, her pussy contracting and her nipples hardening to a painful intensity as they scraped over his chest.

She pleaded again, his name falling from her lips on a gasping breath, “Raphael.”

“Give me what I want,” he whispered directly into her ear.

“Please,” she sobbed.

The word was still on her lips when his fangs sank through the velvet of her skin and pierced her vein. He groaned as she felt the pull of his mouth, as her blood flowed down his throat. Cyn’s back bowed as the euphoric in his bite hit her bloodstream and a fresh climax seared through her body, heating her veins and lighting up her nerves, until every inch of her skin, every muscle, every nerve ending screamed with desire and lust and pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Cyn cried out helplessly, as Raphael’s body stiffened in her embrace, as his cock drove harder and faster, until she felt the rush of his orgasm, the heat of his release filling her as his fangs withdrew.

She came down slowly, her pussy still twitching in luscious torment, her legs falling from his back, but her knees still close against his hips. She caressed him lovingly, methodically, her hands moving up and down his smooth spine, over the powerful muscles of his shoulders. Raphael lay on top of her, his weight crushing her against the mattress, his face buried against her neck, breath soughing over her skin.

She ran a hand over his head, threading her fingers through his hair, as she put her lips against his ear and whispered, “I love you.”

She could feel his lips curve into a smile a moment before he lifted his head enough to kiss her, a gentle touching of lips. “I love you, too, my Cyn.”

He shifted his weight to one side, pulling her with him until she lay half on and half off of him.

Her cell phone came alive on the table next to the bed. Her ringer was off, but the device vibrated against the wood in a frantic dance. Cyn glanced over, but ignored it.

But then Raphael’s phone rang on the opposite table, and his ringer was on.

Their sighs mingled.

“Shower?” he suggested.

“Shower,” she agreed, then let him drag her off the bed to the start of another night.


An hour later, Cyn sat at her desk working in the soft glow of twinkling lights from their small Christmas tree. Raphael emerged from the huge closet they shared, dressed to conquer the world in an elegant charcoal suit. His tie tonight was platinum gray with a tiny charcoal pattern, his shirt white as always. Cyn glanced up, her head tilting as she admired the beauty that was her Raphael.

“Working?” he said, glancing at her open computer.

“Just checking email,” she said, returning to the task. She checked box after box, deleting most of it, until she came to a familiar return address. She opened the email and swallowed a groan at what she found there.

She must have made more noise than she thought, because Raphael came up to read over her shoulder. “Problem?” he asked. “Who’s . . . Gloria Bautista?”

Cyn sighed deeply. “She died yesterday. This is from her oldest daughter.”

“I’m sorry. Was she a friend?”

“Not really, more of an acquaintance. I was hired to find her for one of your vampires. It was a long time ago, years before I met you.”

Raphael was still standing over her shoulder. “Don’t forget your promise?” he read out loud. “Is that a threat? Do you need—”

“No, no, nothing like that. Mrs. Bautista called me about a week ago, said she wanted me to come over. I hadn’t even talked to her in years, not since I located her for your vamp, but she said it was important, so I made the time.”

“And?” His long fingers brushed the hair from her neck as he bent over to drop a lingering kiss against her nape.

Cyn leaned into his kiss, her eyes closing. “She gave me something, a Christmas present she said, for the vampire who hired me. I didn’t understand then why she gave it to me. They’re in touch through his lawyer. She could have just sent it to him. But now I see. She must have known she was dying, and she wanted to be sure he got it, that it didn’t get buried in all the estate bullshit.”

“You said he was one of mine. Is he local then?”

“That’s the thing. I haven’t given it to him yet, because I’m not sure who he is. He was born a slave in the south, and the only name I had for him was his slave name. But he doesn’t use that anymore. Mrs. Bautista actually told me to ask you about it.”

She spun in her chair and looked up at him.

“What’s the name?” Raphael asked curiously.

“Amos Cotton.”

Raphael got a smug sort of smile on his face, a cross between amusement and satisfaction, and Cyn knew she wasn’t going to like whatever he had to say.



* * *
D.B. Reynolds is giving away one ebook of your choice from her backlist to ONE of the commenters. The giveaway is international.
So, comment below and good luck!

D. B. Reynolds is the RT Award-Winning author of the popular Vampires in America series of Paranormal Romance/Urban Fantasy and an Emmy-nominated television sound editor. She lives with her husband of many years in a flammable canyon near Los Angeles, and when she’s not writing her own books, she can usually be found reading someone else’s.

Find D.B. Reynolds:
Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

My reviews of 

Christmas With...Anne Cleeland & Giveaway!

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This short story is from British detective series featuring Chief Inspector Acton and his partner, Kathleen Doyle. Murder in Hindsight, the third book in the series, will launch April, 2015 and is available for pre-order from Amazon and Barnes & Noble

Murder at Christmas

Doyle was aware she was a sad disappointment to Reynolds, but nevertheless she wished, sometimes, that he would remember that she was not really a baroness, but was instead a shant from Dublin, masquerading as a baroness courtesy of Acton. The servant was trying to plan a menu for Christmas because one of Acton’s old friends was coming over, and Reynolds seemed to think this called for a state occasion. Since she and Acton had never entertained before—and with good reason—he could be forgiven for jumping on it like a jackdaw; no doubt he was relieved at finally having something to boast about at the butler’s pub, if there was such a thing.

Reynolds prompted, “So now that we’ve determined upon the soup, and the fish filet, we’ve only the main course left, madam. Coq au vin, perhaps?”

Doyle had no idea what “cocovan” was, and rather than reveal her ignorance, took refuge in being cross as she wound her feet around the stool. “I’ve no idea, Reynolds, and Timothy likes plain food, anyway.”

This comment was discreetly ignored as the frowning servant bent over his notes and mused, “Lord Acton never seems to indicate a preference.”

With a mighty effort, Doyle shook off her sulks and offered, “I know his mother served him Cornish hens at Trestles.”

Reynolds immediately plucked up. “Is that so, madam? Can you remember how they were dressed?”

Doyle stared at him for a moment. “Well, they had those funny little paper things on their legs.”

Reynolds bowed his head, but Doyle knew he was wanting to laugh out loud, which made her annoyed all over again, since he was the one who’d asked the absurd question, not her.

Fortunately, at this juncture Acton pinged her mobile, and she gratefully accepted the interruption. “Hallo, husband; I am tryin’ to convince Reynolds that he need only tuck a kidney pie in the oven for Christmas dinner.”

The servant shot her an admonishing look as he gathered up his notes and, with a dignified tread, retreated out of earshot.

“Tell him to serve Chinese food, instead.”

She laughed aloud; she was fond of Chinese food, but her husband was not. “Can’t; he’d quit on the spot. He wants to serve cockervan, or somethin’.”

“We may have to put our plans on hold, I’m afraid.”

Hearing the nuance in his tone, she was suddenly on high alert. “What’s happened? Is your mother runnin’ amok, again?”

“Nothing so simple; I must make a visit to Burroughs in West Sussex, and I’d like you to accompany me, if you would.”

Doyle wracked her brain, and came up empty. “Is Burroughs one of your estates?”

“No; Burroughs is Lord Aldwich’s seat. He has encountered a small problem, and seeks my advice.”

Long used to Acton-speak, Doyle interpreted this remark to mean there was an inconvenient murder—nothing less would cancel their Christmas plans—and that Acton needed her to do a little listening. Doyle was fey, and could hear when lies were being told; it appeared her husband suspected that a fellow peer of the realm was telling him a fish tale.

There was a pause, and her husband added, “There’s a wrinkle.”

Doyle raised her brows; if Acton thought there was a “wrinkle,” then Katy bar the door—although one would think a murder at a fancy estate would be an impressive wrinkle, in and of itself.

“I will fill you in on the way, but I’m afraid we must leave immediately.”

“Right, then; I’ll pack my bag.”

Whatever it was, it was too sensitive to speak of over the phone, and she hung up thoughtfully. “Reynolds, I’m afraid I have bad news. Acton’s been called away on a case, and you’ll be makin’ cocovan for your fine self, this Christmas.”

The servant accepted this blow to his plans with a bowed head, but almost immediately rebounded. “Perhaps I should offer my services at your church then, madam.”

Doyle blinked in surprise. “Faith; that’s a lovely idea, Reynolds.” Then, thinking about it, she frowned slightly. “Would you mind goin’ to Holy Trinity Church, instead? They’re more suited to the likes of you, anyway.” She paused. “I’d ask that you to do a little snoopin’ about, over there.”

The servant eyed her with a hint of well-bred skepticism. “Holy Trinity Church is involved in Lord Acton’s case, madam?”

Her scalp prickling, Doyle nodded slowly, not certain why she was so convinced of this. “That they are, my friend. Not a lot o’ good will toward men, at Holy Trinity.”

The servant bowed his head. “As you wish, madam.”

She slid him a sidelong glance. “Don’t let any of those blacklegs steal you away, Reynolds; remember that no one over there can teach you how to make a blood pudding.”

The servant closed his notebook with a decisive snap. “I will keep it to mind, madam.”

Anne Cleeland holds a degree in English from UCLA as well as a degree in law from Pepperdine University, and is a member of the California State Bar.
She writes a historical fiction series set in the Regency period as well as a contemporary mystery series set in New Scotland Yard. A member of the Historical Novel Society and Mystery Writers of America, she lives in California and has four children.
Find Anne:


Anne kindly agreed to give away Murder in Thrall or Murder in Retribution ebook to one of the commenters. This giveaway is international, so answer the question to win:
Who is your favorite detective? (in  books/movies/TV)
(Check the links above to find out why I love this series so, so much)

My reviews of
Tainted Angel | Daughter of The God-King | Murder in Thrall | Murder in Retribution

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