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I am the narrator of this book, which means I have already shepherded an entire Regency Christmas through gossip, manners, and one extremely inconsiderate death, and now "they" have decided I should also sell it. Naturally. I assume the mince pies were too busy.
In Murder, Mince Pies, and Other Acceptable Christmas Expenses, the carols are loud, the smiles are sharper than the carving knife, and the seasonal goodwill lasts precisely until a corpse appears at the worst possible moment. Our heroine must pick her way through drawing-room alliances, whispered grudges, and the kind of festive "helpfulness" that is merely sabotage in a ribbon, while a vexingly capable gentleman insists on asking the exact questions everyone else is working so hard to avoid. Nothing says romance like mutual irritation under holly.
The trouble with a dead body at Christmas is that it makes every compliment sound like a threat, every toast feel like a warning, and every innocent errand turn into an alibi. If she does not sort the truth from the tinsel quickly, she stands to lose her reputation, her precarious security, and the one prospect who might actually respect her mind, assuming the scandal does not swallow him first. Yes, I know, very heartwarming, in a bleak sort of way.
Perfect for readers who want a clue-rich Regency whodunit, tart humour, razor-edged social etiquette, and a closed-door slow-burn romance with an HEA, all with non-gory peril and a solution that actually makes sense when you look back. This is a complete, stand-alone case in the Corpses and Courtship Club world, so you may begin here without fear of homework.
Now, do be brave: click Look Inside and let me drag you politely into the snow-dusted disaster.
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