Tessa here, and I am just so excited to welcome guest authoress Anna Cowan and her hero, Darlington, to the Ballroom today!  Anna is a debut historical author, and I predict her May 10th debut Untamed is about to make a big splash.  We have had a lot of heroes in this Ballroom, but I’m not sure we’ve ever welcomed a hero quite like the Duke of Darlington…

The lovely authoress herself, Anna Cowan

“I told you not to do this,” I hiss at him. “The whole point was to impress them with your heroic qualities.”

He looks at me like I’m losing it. “You…created me. I assumed you already knew I haven’t any heroic qualities.”

Oh I am so screwed.

I have just entered a grand ballroom with the Duke of Darlington, and as it’s my first time in a grand ballroom I really didn’t need him to be so utterly himself. Tonight of all nights.

“Don’t worry so,” he murmurs, taking his time to move across the floor in a way that pulls all eyes to him. “They will adore me. And you look lovely in that dress.”

He delivers the compliment with a smile like a kiss and I think, Okay, yes, they will probably adore him.

The ballroom is incredible. I’ve always wondered whether ballrooms were actually a bit tacky. You know, if you were an actual person in an actual ballroom back in the day whether the decorations would look cheap, the big potted plants awkwardly placed, the drapes a vile colour. It makes me happy that the Regency really does have a kind of luminosity about it.

I don’t have much time to gawk, because a lady is walking towards us, and there’s something sharp and assured about her that makes me certain this is our hostess, Lady Beaufetheringstone.

“You must be Miss Anna Cowan,” she says to me. “Miss Dare told me you would be bringing your…” Her eyes flicker to Darlington. “…hero.”

I take a deep breath. Nothing for it but to brazen it out. “May I present the Duke of Darlington?”

He steps forward and takes her hand lightly in his. “What a pleasure it is to meet you at last, Lady B,” he says in that frightening, compelling voice.

She looks at him for a long time without saying anything. Her face is blank – she’s very good at hiding what she’s really thinking. I know what’s coming, though. I brace myself for it. She will be angry. She’ll tell us to leave.

“Your Grace,” she says at last. “Are you aware your dress is at least three decades behind current fashions?”

He looks delighted, which is always a bad sign. “But why would I wear something fashionable,” he asks, looking coyly up from beneath his lashes, “when I could wear something spectacular?”

He does look spectacular.

He is wearing a dress made of heavy lavender silk with birds in cages embroidered across it in yellow, parting at the front to reveal yellow underskirts. He is laced into a rigid corset, and hoops beneath the long skirts add to the effect of a slight figure. A fichu is tucked about his neck and chest, leaving as much of his perfect, white skin on display as possible. His wig is lavender, tipped with actual gold, and one thick coil lies over one shoulder.

His eyes are dark, wicked, complex. He tips his head to Lady B’s and whispers something in her ear.

And now she’s got that look on her face. I know that look. She’s starting to think about what’s beneath the dress. What’s laced and covered and hidden.

I try not to groan out loud. If only he were…vaguely malleable.

If only Katherine were here.

“Where is your duchess this evening?” Lady B asks him.

(I had heard rumours of mind-reading, but that’s just disconcerting.)

“Katherine,” Darlington says, and Lady B shivers at the way he says her name, same as me, “is probably off acquiring half the country’s debt. Or making shady deals with men in low places. Or overseeing the building of her new fleet. She’s naming her finest ship after me, you know.”

He sounds like a boy, all gleeful on Christmas morning. But there he stands: a difficult, beautiful man. He’s a bit much, sometimes.

Lady B opens her fan to hide her surprise. “Your duchess sounds rather unconventional.”

“I have never met a single other person like her,” he says, simply.

I think Lady B wants to know more, but a dashing young man joins our party. He must be Monty, Lady B’s heir. He is alight with interest, and Darlington responds by becoming even more flirtatious.

I can only stand here filled with sincere gratitude that Darlington has found his mate, and will not be luring Monty to any nearby closets tonight. Lady B would surely never forgive me that.

I’m giving away a copy of Untamed to one commenter. I’m wondering what’s the most gender-bendy thing you or your partner have ever done (or wanted to do, but didn’t)?

Anna, thank you so much for joining us today, and bringing along this “difficult, beautiful, spectacular” duke!  I, for one, cannot wait to get my hands on this book when it’s available May 10th.  And on Darlington. 

As for gender-bendy…Mr. Dare works in a profession where most of his coworkers are women, and he has a first name that can go either way, male or female … so we are always getting calls and letters from confused people.    How about you?

Jennifer McQuiston is in hiding.

Which wouldn’t be a problem, really, if she weren’t in hiding at the precise moment she is supposed to meet Lady Beaufetheringstone, who happily invited the debut darling of historical romance and author of the hilariously funny What Happens in Scotland to today’s ball.

Jennifer accepted the invitation with pleasure, but now appears to be having second thoughts.

“Jenni,” Sarah says, attempting to coax her from her spot, “you don’t have a choice. You have to talk to her.”

“Not if I stay here.”

Sabrina peeks her head around the potted fern that is so often her hiding place. “This won’t save you. At some point, she’s going to find you.”

“And she is your hostess,” Lauren adds, ever polite.

“Yes, she’s a bit…” Miranda begins.

“Nerve wracking? Intimidating? Terrifying?” Jennifer offers.

“Overwhelming,” Miranda says.

Tessa extends a little flask. “Nip? Ratafia helps.”

Jennifer accepts, taking more than a nip. When finished, she runs the back of her hand across her lips. ”One isn’t supposed to admit you are afraid of your hostess.”

“Well…no…” Sarah says.

“And yet, here I am, *this* close to casting up my accounts at the thought of meeting Lady B,” Jennifer drinks again. “Is she even real? I mean, isn’t she more of a figment of someone’s imagination?”

“Er…” Miranda says.

“It’s best not to ask questions like that,” Lauren adds.

“Does one curtsy to a figment? Offer to pen her a hero?”

“She likes men with nice calves.” Sarah says. “It will be useful for you to remember that.”

“Who doesn’t?” Jenni says, moving to drink again.

Tessa snatches the flask back before she can. “I think you’ve had enough of that.”

“Surely if Lady B is real she will see right through me.”

Brows snap together around the little space. “See right through you, how?” Lauren asks.

“I do not belong here among the more seasoned authors.”

“Ridiculous!” Sarah says.

But Jenni’s already around the bend. “No! It’s true! I am not worthy to step across the polished parquet floor that is the Ballroom Blog, much less reveal my ineptitude in an actual waltz.”

The authoresses blink. Jennifer McQuiston clearly has a flair for the dramatic.

But she’s still talking. “Which leaves me with only one option.”

“Which is?” Sabrina prompts.

“If she is real—and I am not saying she is—”

“She is.” Miranda says.

“Mostly,” Tessa adds.

“Then I must distract the old dragon.”

“Well, I’d make sure she never hears you refer to her like that,” Sarah offers.

“I have just the thing! James!”

“Very good choice,” Sabrina says.

“There, see!” Lauren adds, “I knew you’d come up with something.”

As far as distractions go, James MacKenzie is a delicious one. If you get him drunk enough, the Scot has been known to wake up in ladies’ beds wearing only his beard. James is the hero of Jennifer’s first book, What Happens in Scotland. Everyone says he can keep a lady well-occupied, even when deep in his cups, and if you are willing to indulge in a little fun, he’ll make it a night worth remembering.

“Oh, my…” Tessa says, taking in the tall Scotsman.

“Lady B won’t know what hit her.” Miranda adds, transfixed by the man.

“About the hitting…” Jennifer says, “The last lady he woke up with cracked him over the head with a chamber pot and disappeared with his money. MacKenzie’s been in a foul temper ever since, claiming he’s tracking down a thief, but secretly I think he’s out for revenge. Hopefully, Lady B can soothe his wounded pride?”

“I’ll soothe his wounded–” Sarah says.

“Sarah!” Lauren says.

Sarah has the grace to look sheepish. “What? Have you seen that man?”

Jennifer is still going. “James can keep Lady B busy so I can become better acquainted with everyone at the Ballroom Blog without her peering at me through her quizzing glass.”

“Genius. She’ll be too busy using the quizzing glass to peer at something else,” Tessa says.

“Someone else,” Lauren corrects.

“Mmm,” Tessa agrees. Sort of.

“I can promise you she won’t need a quizzing glass,” Jennifer says.

All the authoresses turn to the bearded man across the ballroom.

“Reeeaaaallly….”

–

Every romance reader has a secret love of Scotland. And Scotsmen. Share your favorite thing about those charming rogues to the north (or your favorite of the charming rogues to the north) for a chance to win a copy of Jennifer’s What Happens in Scotland! (US Only)

Congrats to Linda, the winner of my very last advance copy of The Ashford Affair! Linda, expect an email from me to pop up in your inbox in the near future.

Thanks so much to everyone who commented!

The moment I venture into the Ballroom, I know that something has gone horribly wrong.

The scratchy sounds of a gramophone fill the air. Next to the fronds of a potted palm, a blond woman in a black lace dress is taking a long drag on a cigarette in an ebony holder. A dark-haired man in a dinner jacket holds a glass of champagne—er, make that two glasses, one in either hand. And a frazzled looking girl in a cloche hat looks like she’s trying to decide whether to join him or sidle out of the Ballroom doors.

“Miss Willig!”

Ah, the dulcet tones of Lady B. She comes charging into the Ballroom like an enraged rhinoceros— if rhinoceros were known to wield a lorgnette in place of a horn.

“Who gave you leave to invite the characters from Downton Abbey?” Lady B’s eyes take on a speculative gleam. “Although, now that Series Three has ended in such an unfortunate manner….

“These aren’t the characters from Downton Abbey,” I say hastily. I refrain from asking how Lady B knows about a television show broadcast two hundred years in the future. It’s Lady B. She has her ways. “This is the cast from my upcoming book, The Ashford Affair.”

Lady B narrows her eyes at me. “Miss Willig, when I told you to invite the characters from your new book, I meant that charming Miss Meadows. The one with the intriguing sword parasol.”

I pluck at the demure skirts of my empire-waisted dress. “Well, yes, you see, there’s been a bit of a mix-up. I’d meant to invite the cast of my next Pink Carnation novel, The Passion of the Purple Plumeria, but as that doesn’t come out until August, and The Ashford Affair is coming out on April 9th, the Ashford characters felt that it was rightly their turn. I had thought the time-space continuum might keep them out— but they do get around.”

And isn’t that the understatement of the century. The Ashford Affair rackets back and forth between 1999 New York, an Edwardian estate, World War I and Jazz Age London and 1920s Kenya. I’ve been exhausted just trying to keep up with their comings and goings.

I’m interrupted in my explanation by a long-necked beast picking its way delicately across the Ballroom floor and attempting to eat the grass from the bottom of Albert’s perch. Albert gives an indignant squawk and flies away.

“Miss Willig,” says Lady B, in dreadful tones, “what is that?”

I give up. “That’s a giraffe. You see, a large chunk of The Ashford Affair is set in Africa, and so…. Well, never mind. Here.” I thrust an iPad, cunningly disguised as a library volume, into her hand. “My publishers have created a snazzy new app— er, I mean, pamphlet— so that you can read the first chapter of the book just as it will be set out in the finished volume. That should give you an idea.”

“Hmm,” says Lady B, discretely sticking her lorgnette more firmly onto her nose. She begins to read:

Kenya, 1926

Addie’s gloves were streaked with sweat and red dust.

It wasn’t just her gloves. Looking down, she winced at the sight of her once pearl-colored suit, now turned gray and rust with smoke and dust. Even in the little light that managed to filter through the thick mosquito netting on the windows, the fabric was clearly beyond repair. The traveling outfit that had looked so smart in London had proved to a poor choice for the trip from Mombassa.

She felt such a fool. What had she been thinking? It had cost more than her earnings for the month, that dress, an unpardonable extravagance in these days when her wardrobe ran more to the sensible than the chic. It had taken a full afternoon of scouring Oxford Street, going into one shop, then the next, this dress too common, that too expensive, nothing just right, until she finally found it, just a little more than she could afford, looking almost, if one looked at it in just the right way, as though it might be couture, rather than a poor first cousin to it.

She had peacocked in her tiny little flat, posing in front of the mirror with the strange ripple down the middle, twisting this way and that to try to get the full effect, her imagination presenting her with a hundred tempting images. Bea coming to the train to meet her, an older more matronly Bea, her silver-gilt hair burned straw by the equatorial sun, her figure softened by childbearing. She would see Addie, stepping off the train in her smart new frock with her smart new haircut and exclaim in surprise. She would turn Addie this way and that, marveling at her, her new city sophistication, her sleek hair, her newly plucked brows.

“You’ve grown up,” Bea would say. And Addie would smile, just a wry little hint of a smile, the sort of smile you saw over cocktails at the Ritz, and say, “It does happen.”

And, then, from somewhere behind her, Frederick would say, “Addie?” and she would turn, and see surprise and admiration chasing one another across his face as he realized, for the first time, just what he had left behind in London….

Fortunately, Lady B appears to be absorbed, so I dodge the inquisitive giraffe and scurry towards the doors of the Ballroom. As I make my escape, something falls from my pocket and thumps to the floor.

Nope, it’s not Cinderella’s slipper. It’s my last, carefully hoarded Advance Reader’s Copy of The Ashford Affair, which I’ll be giving away to one person who comments on the Ballroom Blog today.

Since we authoresses seem to be hopping around a bit these days, it only seems appropriate to ask:

Which time period would you most like to visit?

Thank you so much to everyone who commented on my Monday post and got excited with me about Any Duchess Will Do.  The Random Winner Picking tool (I envision this looking like The Claw in Toy Story) has selected….

Cayenne!

(See what I did there?  I made her name cayenne red. Hee.)

Congrats, Cayenne!  I’ll be emailing you directly for your address.

Everyone else, please do not give up!  Right this very moment, the lovely Avon Romance folks have a GoodReads giveaway going.  They are giving away forty (yes, 40!!) copies of Any Duchess Will Do!  Just click here and enter by the end of the week.  I think you have to be a GoodReads member to enter, but if you’re not already a member, you should join! It’s fun!  Please come send me a friend request, if you do join or are already a member.  And also feel free to join my GoodReads group, if you feel so inclined. 

This month, many of the authoresses have been sharing sneak peeks into future works.  Today’s my turn!

I received a very special package in the mail just the other day, and I can’t wait to show Lady B.

“Lady B., look what came for me in the post last week! It’s so exciting. I have an ARC!”

Lady B. presses a hand to her throat.  “Oh, dear.  Please tell me we’re not having another ship crash into the ballroom.  I have not forgotten Miss Noble’s stunt with that frigate.  On particularly warm days, the drapes still smell of brine.”

“Not an ark, Lady B.  An ARC.  It’s an Advance Reader Copy of my next book, Any Duchess Will Do.”

“Ah,” says Lady B, taking my precious volume in hand.  “ARCs sound much more pleasant than arks.  At least, tidier in the ballroom.”

I nod.  “They hardly ever smell of brine.  And I don’t get these ARCs very often anymore.  Not printed on paper, anyway.”

“Well, what would they be printed on, if not paper?  Animal skin?”

“No, no.  Usually the preview copies aren’t printed at all anymore.  They’re just sent electronically.”

“That Inner-netting again?”

“Precisely.  So I was wonderfully surprised to have these actual paper copies arrive.  And I immediately opened one and laughed, because for the first time I saw what excerpt they’d chosen for the teaser page at the front of the book.  It’s, ahem, just a little bit salty.”

Lady B. glares at me.  “Salty! I was promised no brine.”

“Different kind of salty, my lady.  Go on, read for yourself.”

(And if you care to, you can read for yourself in the snapshot below.  If you click, you can see it enlarged.)

Here’s the blurb for Any Duchess Will Do:

What’s a duke to do, when the girl who’s perfectly wrong becomes the woman he can’t live without?

Griffin York, the Duke of Halford, has no desire to wed this season—or any season—but his diabolical mother abducts him to “Spinster Cove” and insists he select a bride from the ladies in residence. Griff decides to teach her a lesson that will end the marriage debate forever. He chooses the serving girl.

Overworked and struggling, Pauline Simms doesn’t dream about dukes. All she wants is to hang up her barmaid apron and open a bookshop. That dream becomes a possibility when an arrogant, sinfully attractive duke offers her a small fortune for a week’s employment. Her duties are simple: submit to his mother’s “duchess training”… and fail miserably.

But in London, Pauline isn’t a miserable failure. She’s a brave, quick-witted, beguiling failure—a woman who ignites Griff’s desire and soothes the darkness in his soul. Keeping Pauline by his side won’t be easy. Even if Society could accept a serving girl duchess—can a roguish duke convince a serving girl to trust him with her heart?

Do you have a better word to suggest to Griff, other than “flutterings”?  (I mean, really.  Flutterings.  Hah.)

Or failing that, do you have a favorite Pygmalian or Cinderella-esque romance, where a girl starts from the lowest of circumstances and rises to the highest echelons of society?

One commenter will win an Advance Reader Copy of Any Duchess Will Do!

Edited 2/19: Thanks for all the great comments!  I’ve had so much fun reading them.  I’ll keep this open until midnight Eastern tonight, and then I’ll draw a random winner and post.

The winner of Maire Claremont’s The Dark Lady is…

Cerian Halford!

Congratulations, Cerian!  Look for my email in your inbox.  Thanks again to Maire and everyone who joined us Friday.

As I enter the ballroom today, I see it looking quite different than I remember it ever appearing before.  The heavy velvet drapes have been drawn, and only a few candles are lit.

In a word, it’s dark.

Blinking into the gloom, I ask Lady B if there’s a reason for our sudden change in atmosphere.  As was expressed last Saturday, we authoresses do tend to be fans of all things “light, bright, and sparkling,” as Jane Austen put it.

“Why, Miss Dare,” says Lady B, “you did tell me you were inviting Miss Claremont to visit.  I wanted to make her comfortable.  You did tell me she is the author of The Dark Lady.”

“That’s true,” I admit.  “And there’s no denying The Dark Lady is rather a dark book.”

“Then what more logical atmosphere for her visit?”

I can’t argue.  I can only hope that no one trips and breaks something.  Lady B is obviously from a time before liability insurance.

“Here she is now,” Lady B informs me, peering out the window from behind a fold of drapery.

I make the introductions, making sure to let Lady B know that Maire is pronounced “Moira”.  And I warmly congratulate Maire on the release of her debut novel.  Such a thrilling time!

The lovely Maire in natural lighting

Maire:  My dear Tessa and Lady B, thank you so much for having me. Its been such an exciting month. At last, The Dark Lady is out in the world and I couldn’t be more proud and excited. The story is definitely a book of the heart and once I started writing it, nothing could stop me.

Lady B: Yes, dear.  But tell us about the darkness.  I’m so intrigued.

Maire:  There were a lot of works that inspired parts of The Dark Lady. When we first meet our heroine she’s in an asylum, having been locked away by her brother-in-law after the death of her husband.

Tessa:  Locked away by her own family?  How cruel.

Maire:  What really strikes me about the Victorian period is the lack of power women and children had and how so many men easily disposed of them to horrific places.

The Yorkshire Schools are notorious for bad conditions, illness, and abuse. Granted, they weren’t asylums like in my story, but they had the same issues. The most fascinating and heart wrenching depiction of these schools is Dotheboys Hall in Nicholas Nickleby.

Lady B:  I’ve never heard of it.  Who wrote that book?

Tessa:  Er…no one, yet. But a man named Charles Dickens will, in a few decades.

Moire:  Nicholas Nickleby was based off a real Yorkshire school to which the children were sent, often never to come home again. A father would pay a fee to “educate” an unwanted child. Often times, you’d see children from a previous marriage sent here since the new father didn’t want to have them in his house.

In Dotheboys Hall the boys are given tar and porridge to fill their bellies, they are virtual slaves, and have no chance of escape. They are routinely beaten and demoralized. Nicholas’ rescue of the boy Smyke who has been abused all his life in this school is one of my favorite tales ever. I’ll never forget how alone I thought that boy must have been. But Nicholas, true hero that he is, loses his own job as a teacher in the school to stand up for the boy.

How many other children were left in these places is impossible to say, but their lack of support, care, and abandonment definitely inspired The Dark Lady. Palmer’s Asylum is much like Dotheboys, only it’s for women who are “insane”. In the Victorian period it was very easy to have a woman committed. Only two doctors’ signatures were required to have a woman locked away from the rest of her life.

Lady B:  Shocking! Just two? Everyone knows only 4 out of any 5 given doctors can agree on anything.

Maire:  And these doctors were often corrupt. Insane asylums at this time were desperately unpleasant. All inmates were kept together with few resources and absolutely no love. Like Smyke, I knew, my heroine had to be rescued. Luckily, her hero, Lord Ian Blake, a childhood friend, finds her and steals her away.

Tessa:  Hooray for rescuing heroes!  I do hope we are promised a happy ending.  A light at the end of the dark, dark tunnel.

Maire:  Yes.  Both Ian and Eva have faced a great deal, but after reading such stories about the asylums and Yorkshire schools, I wanted to tell a story where the characters have stood at the abyss and almost not been able to come back from it. But, unlike in Nicholas Nickleby, I wanted a happy ending for my heroine. Poor Smyke never does recover, but Eva conquers London and with  Ian she’s able to overcome the tragedies of the asylum.

It’s certainly a much darker side of Victorian life than we often see, but it fascinates me how easily women and children could be swept aside. I’m so grateful that in my stories, they can seize their own fates with their hands and find powerful happily ever afters.

Tessa:  I’m grateful for those happily ever afters, too! Maire, thank you so much for joining us today.

More about The Dark Lady:

Lord Ian Blake has returned from India a broken man. Years ago, he pledged to Lady Eva Carin—his childhood companion and ” first love—that he would bring her husband back alive. His failure haunts him. But even his jade soul can’t anticipate the shocking sight of beautiful, independent Eva confined in a madhouse….

Locked in an asylum, forgotten by society, Eva is adrift in both body and mind. For Ian to break her free, they must cross a powerful enemy—and prove her sanity to England’s unforgiving aristocracy. But the biggest danger of all may come when the secrets of Eva’s tragic past are finally unlocked….

One lucky commenter today will win a copy (print or electronic)!

Sometimes stories of deep, dark emotion and loss can give us the most soaring sense of joy and triumph in the end.  What are some of your favorite darker tales–be they from romance or other genres–where characters truly “stand on the edge of the abyss” as Maire describes?

Congratulations to the winner of two Emma Locke books….

Janice Hougland

Janice, look for my email soon. And everyone, thanks so much for joining us!

For today’s Saturday Salon, I have the pleasure of welcoming dear friend and exciting debut historical author, Emma Locke!

Emma Locke is a writer and engineer living in the Pacific Northwest, where she loves hiking with her dog, hot yoga and riding out the annual 330 days of rain. Hiking and yoga give her time to plot, the lack of sun makes for perfect writing weather, and as for her day job, the dichotomy seems to work: her analytic side ensures her passionate, satisfying love stories don’t mulch under her bed, and her author side forces her to keep writing more.

Emma says: Thank you so much for inviting me to share a little bit about the inspiration for my new Naughty Girls series, Tessa! The Naughty Girls is a six-book series that initially came to me as a high concept a few years ago, when my girlfriends and I were single and dating. I decided to write a variant of Sex and the City in London, with heroines who are a bit more mature than the usual Regency debutante, and far more experienced. These “naughty girls” are able to access parts of London that are usually off-limits in the traditional historical romance, which set me on a quest to understand the seamier side of the Regency. Where did my heroines live? What did they do with their free time? Where were they received (and where were they shunned)?

I read all sorts of research books, mostly about bawdy houses, madams, and courtesans, and then just before Christmas, Isobel Carr sent out a tweet about her shiny new primary source. In 140 characters, Isobel convinced me that THE EPICURE’S ALMANACK, Eating and Drinking in Regency London ed. by Janet Freeman needed to go directly onto my Christmas list. Lo and behold, my brother put it under the tree. Thanks, bro!

Cover of The Epicure’s Almanack

THE

EPICURE’S ALMANACK,

OR

Calendar of Good Living.

 

This book is designed to direct a man with a delicate stomach and a full purse, or any man with a keen strong stomach and a lean purse, where he may dine well, and to the best advantage, in London.

The ALMANACK is chiefly a restaurant guide, with hundreds of pages dedicated to commentary about different places to eat in London. I can’t stress how cool this is. Whether you need a restaurant name, or a fun fact, or the price of a meal, it’s in here.

Goose and Gridiron

The Goose and Gridiron, London House Yard, St. Paul’s Church Yard, is kept by Mr. Alleyn. Here, if there is not always a goose ready for a gridiron, there is a gridiron ready for a goose, or for any other bird or beast of prey which the guests order to be dressed on it. Here are also joints of all sorts, hot from one o’clock until five. At this house most of the western short stage coaches for Hammersmith, Turnham Green, Parson’s Green, Fulham, Putney, and Richmond, that go into the city, take up and set down their passengers.

Did diners tip in the Regency? According to Freeman, the answer is yes. (I haven’t read the entire book yet, but she says it’s in here.) Are you curious whether a certain restaurant still exists? There is a list of “Survivors” in the back tables. Would you like to know more about vendors of industrial kitchen equipment? Who doesn’t??

There is a section about local marketplaces, their wares and relative quality, and a chapter that lists common ingredients and when they are freshest during the year. (In June, “Buck venison is now introduced at polite tables, and continues in season until the end of September. The price of a prime haunch is from three to five guineas.”) There is a glossary of drinks (no, cosmos are not listed), the names and main ingredients of prepared dishes, and a glossary of other random terms. (I will definitely be using “body snatcher” in THE PROBLEM WITH SEDUCTION.)

Tessa says: I must have this book, Emma!  So glad you told us about it.  Wow, buck venison was a pricey dish. Three to five guineas was no small amount then.  And I love the idea of being able to visit a restaurant or pub that was in existence two hundred years ago!  A Regency London Zagat’s guide–so cool.

You’ve reminded me of my personal favorite resource for day-to-day details, THE LADY’S STRATEGEM, A Repository of 1820s Directions for the Toilet, Mantua-Making, Stay-Making, Millinery & Etiquette, ed. by Frances Grimble.  It has everything a young lady of the era needed to know — from how to sew her own gloves and stays, to ideas for parlor games and dinner conversation, to recipes for skin tonics and hair preparations.  Though some of the cosmetics recipes involve such worrisome ingredients as arsenic (in a depilatory) and egg whites (applied to the hair, and not washed out)! *shudder*

It occurs to me that if you put these two books together, you have the makings of a great early 19th century first date.  A well-coiffed couple, a fine dinner out, and sparkling conversation.

THE PROBLEM WITH SEDUCTION is the second novel in Emma’s The Naughty Girls series, and it will be released later this month.  Today, one lucky commenter will win the chance to read both an advanced, electronic copy of THE PROBLEM WITH SEDUCTION and an electronic edition of THE TROUBLE WITH BEING WICKED!

Today’s post has me thinking not only about the past, but peering into the future 200 years from now… What artifacts or practices from our present-day culinary and cosmetic life will fascinate and amuse 23rd-Century dwellers?  My money is on flat irons and Hot Pockets. What do you think?