Five days later, Therese spent Christmas Day surrounded by her family. Wrapped in warmth and laughter, she acknowledged herself at peace and deeply content.

Snow had fallen from the morning of Christmas Eve, but despite the increasingly treacherous roads, all her family had managed to reach Winslow Abbey before a heavy dump had made travel impossible. Therese, Melissa, Jamie, George, and Lottie had left Little Moseley on the twenty-second and had arrived in good order at the abbey on the afternoon of the twenty-third.

There were reasons the family chose to gather at Winslow Abbey regardless of the bother of traveling to Northamptonshire in deepest winter. Chief amongst those reasons was the abbey’s sheer size; it could easily accommodate all the children as well as their parents without any fuss. A corollary of the size was the number of staff, and as Celia’s children were the youngest, her staff were most accustomed to dealing with rowdy, boisterous, rambunctious youngsters—and given the right circumstances, all Therese’s grandchildren qualified. To Celia and her staff’s credit, Therese had never seen any member of the abbey staff seriously discomposed or even thrown off balance by any of the children’s sometimes outrageous antics.

Yet to Therese’s mind, the principal quality that made the abbey so perfect a place for hosting Christmas for a large extended family was the multitude of reception rooms. Although there was a formal drawing room and dining room, the family never used them—not even for their Christmas feast. For that, they’d sat twenty-six about the table in the family dining room, and even then, they hadn’t used every leaf in the table.

Now, as the ladies all rose from the festive board, strewn with the detritus of a delicious and successful Christmas luncheon and, comfortably or not-so-comfortably replete, headed for the family sitting room, Therese reflected that the relaxed comfort of Celia’s home was an oft-appreciated yet rarely acknowledged blessing.

The sitting room was large. Celia led the ladies in, and Therese sank onto the well-stuffed chaise while others surrendered to the embrace of the equally well-padded armchairs.

They’d left the gentlemen at the table, passing a bottle of an excellent French brandy that Therese’s son, Christopher, the only one of her children still unmarried and who worked in some secretive capacity attached to the Foreign Office, had somehow laid his hands on—much to the delight of his two brothers and two brothers-in-law.

Therese had heard the children making plans, and most had scattered to other rooms in search of games or had scampered up the stairs to the upper floors to play hide-and-seek. Only the two oldest girls, Henrietta’s Amanda and Melissa, had trailed after the ladies. The pair followed them into the room and made for one of the window embrasures. There, they perched on the window seat and, heads together, whispered secrets.

Celia, ensconced in the armchair beside the corner of the chaise Therese occupied, sighed deeply, then she looked at Therese. “Once again, Mama, thank you for having Jamie, George, and Lottie to stay again. They were absolutely set on returning to Little Moseley, and I have to admit that having them away made preparations here much easier.”

Therese smiled. “Strange though it may seem, it was, indeed, a pleasure. They’ve learned their way about and have proved entirely trustworthy.” She met Celia’s eyes, and her smile deepened. “You’ve raised them well, my dear. You would have been proud of the way they comported themselves.” Therese paused, then added, “They are very quick learners, and through their time in Little Moseley, they’re learning still more.”

“I hope so,” Celia said. “But what did they get up to this year? I haven’t yet had time to sit down and listen to their adventures.”

“Well, once again, they were in the thick of things, searching for a missing book of carols. For various reasons, it was essential to find the book—which had been misplaced within the village—in order to be able to hold the village carol service, which is a long-standing village tradition.” Therese gave a brief summary of the efforts the children, this year led largely by Melissa, had expended and their eventual success in locating the book in time.

The other ladies—Therese’s oldest son Monty’s wife, Catherine, Therese’s second son Lloyd’s wife, Margaret, and Henrietta—relaxed in armchairs about the chaise and idly listened, amused and entertained by the tale.

“And out of all that,” Therese concluded, “we had a romance bloom and blossom between the new church organist, who proved to be Richard Helmsley although he’d been calling himself Richard Mortimer, and Faith Collison, the daughter of a senior diplomat.”

“Collison,” Henrietta said. “I remember him and his wife—he’s with the Foreign Office.”

“Indeed.” Therese nodded. “And I must tell you that Melissa as well as Lottie proved quite excellent at matchmaking. Not that Richard and Faith needed all that much help—just a gentle nudge here and there—but Melissa and Lottie accomplished the required assistance with aplomb.” Therese smiled. “I was exceedingly proud of them.”

Henrietta looked across the room at her daughters, still sharing confidences in the window embrasure. Although Melissa had arrived with Therese and her three cousins two days ago, Melissa’s father, Reginald, Lord North, had been detained in London and, together with Henrietta and Amanda, had only just made it to the abbey before snow closed the roads.

“I haven’t yet had time,” Henrietta said, “to speak with Melissa privately at any length.” Henrietta paused, then shook her head in amazement. “I don’t know what you did, Mama, but whatever it was, you’ve performed a miracle. Since we’ve arrived, Melissa hasn’t glowered once, not that I’ve seen.”

Therese allowed her smile to turn self-deprecating. “It’s not me you have to thank, my dear. Little Moseley at Christmastime is a place that seems to heal inner wounds, scrapes, and scratches, and even despite themselves, bring out the best in people, then nudge and steer them along their correct paths in life. Specifically, their path to future happiness.”

She glanced across the room at Melissa and Amanda; the girls were fully absorbed in their discussion and too far away to hear if she spoke softly. Therese looked at Henrietta and lowered her voice. “As for her glowers, I rather suspect that a handsome young gentleman whispered in her ear that she’s much prettier when she smiles.” Therese had, indeed, heard Dagenham do just that when, early in his and Melissa’s acquaintance, Melissa had attempted to send him to the right about with one of her blacker scowls.

Indeed, none of Melissa’s discouragements had worked, leaving Therese inclined to consider Dagenham more than just a handsome face.

Henrietta, of course, fixed Therese with a suspicious and wary, distinctly maternal look. “Which handsome young gentleman?”

Her gaze on Henrietta’s face, Therese arched her brows, then tipped her head slowly from side to side, patently debating. Eventually, however, in the face of Henrietta’s and the others’ mounting interest, after a quick glance at Melissa and Amanda confirmed both were still distracted, Therese offered, “I wasn’t sure whether I should mention it—not when it’s so early in the piece. The last thing I would wish is for you to overreact and attempt to push or even nudge—which, I warn you, might well be dramatically counterproductive—but even without that, given Melissa’s age, who knows what might come of it?”

“Come of what, Mama?” Henrietta fixed Therese with a look she hadn’t seen in decades. “Stop teasing—who was it? And what was he doing in Little Moseley, anyway? It’s a quiet country backwater, as you’ve frequently assured us.”

Therese smiled, amused to see her elder daughter reacting as if she was barely out of the schoolroom. “I believe I mentioned that, last year, young Henry Fitzgibbon had invited four of his Oxford friends to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas at Fulsom Hall in Little Moseley. Despite various adventures of an instructive nature, overall, the four had such a good time that, this year, three returned to spend the weeks before Christmas with Henry at Fulsom Hall. Henry and the three assisted in the search for the missing book of carols. They also joined the choir and helped make the village’s Christmas pageant and the carol service the best in living and even ancient memory.”

When Therese paused, Henrietta prompted, “And?”

“And,” Therese replied, “one of Henry’s three friends was Dagenham.”

Henrietta blinked. From her expression, she was rapidly consulting her mental list of ton families—a list Therese knew to be nearly as complete as her own.

The other ladies were similarly occupied, but Henrietta got there first. “No!” Her eyes widened, and she turned them on Therese. “You can’t mean to say that Melissa spent nearly two weeks in a tiny village being squired about and danced attendance on by Viscount Dagenham.”

Therese arched her brows in an arrogantly superior way as if to say, Can I not?

Henrietta’s face lit. Delighted and intrigued, she leaned closer and said, “Oh, Mama—do tell!”

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed revisiting the village of Little Moseley in company with Lady Osbaldestone and, this year, four of her grandchildren, and reading of their adventure in the run-up to this Christmas of long ago. Should you feel inclined to leave a review here (link to retailer’s bookpage), I would greatly appreciate it.

Of particular note in this year’s tale are the carols that the choir and congregation perform during the village’s Carol Service. The carols mentioned are all known to have been sung in Church of England churches during that period. Many of the more evocative carols of today were not written until the middle of the 19^th century, and so were unknown to Lady Osbaldestone and her brood.

Over the coming years, I plan to bring you more annual Christmas adventures from Little Moseley, featuring Lady Osbaldestone, her grandchildren, and the other characters who inhabit the village. Of course, Lady Osbaldestone being who she is, romance is never far away.

Meanwhile, 2019 will see the release of a new Cynster Next Generation Novel, A Conquest Impossible to Resist, in which Prudence Cynster meets her match, scheduled for release on March 14, 2019.

That will be followed by the second in the Cavanaugh books, The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh, scheduled for release on April 30, 2019.

That will be followed by a special release on June 20, 2019, details of which are currently under wraps. Then to round out the year, we’ll have the third volume of Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles for you to enjoy in the lead-up to Christmas.

In closing, from me and mine to you and yours: We wish you a happy and safe Festive Season and a productive and prosperous New Year.

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Stephanie.

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Three years after being widowed, Therese, Lady Osbaldestone finally settles into her dower property of Hartington Manor in the village of Little Moseley in Hampshire. She is in two minds as to whether life in the small village will generate sufficient interest to keep her amused over the months when she is not in London or visiting friends around the country. But she will see.

It’s December, 1810, and Therese is looking forward to her usual Christmas with her family at Winslow Abbey, her youngest daughter, Celia’s home. But then a carriage rolls up and disgorges Celia’s three oldest children. Their father has contracted mumps, and their mother has sent the three—Jamie, George, and Lottie—to spend this Christmas with their grandmama in Little Moseley.

Therese has never had to manage small children, not even her own. She assumes the children will keep themselves amused, but quickly learns that what amuses three inquisitive, curious, and confident youngsters isn’t compatible with village peace. Just when it seems she will have to set her mind to inventing something, she and the children learn that with only twelve days to go before Christmas, the village flock of geese has vanished.

Every household in the village is now missing the centerpiece of their Christmas feast. But how could an entire flock go missing without the slightest trace? The children are as mystified and as curious as Therese—and she seizes on the mystery as the perfect distraction for the three children as well as herself.

But while searching for the geese, she and her three helpers stumble on two locals who, it is clear, are in dire need of assistance in sorting out their lives. Never one to shy from a little matchmaking, Therese undertakes to guide Miss Eugenia Fitzgibbon into the arms of the determinedly reclusive Lord Longfellow. To her considerable surprise, she discovers that her grandchildren have inherited skills and talents from both her late husband as well as herself. And with all the customary village events held in the lead up to Christmas, she and her three helpers have opportunities galore in which to subtly nudge and steer.

Yet while their matchmaking appears to be succeeding, neither they nor anyone else have found so much as a feather from the village’s geese. Larceny is ruled out; a flock of that size could not have been taken from the area without someone noticing. So where could the birds be? And with the days passing and Christmas inexorably approaching, will they find the blasted birds in time?

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When Miss Cara Di Abaccio is accused of stealing the Carisbrook emeralds by the infamously arrogant Lady Carisbrook and marched out of her guardian’s house by Scotland Yard’s finest, Hugo Adair, Barnaby Adair’s cousin, takes umbrage and descends on Scotland Yard, breathing fire in Cara’s defense.

Hugo discovers Inspector Stokes has been assigned to the case, and after surveying the evidence thus far, Stokes calls in his big guns when it comes to dealing with investigations in the ton—namely, the Honorable Barnaby Adair and his wife, Penelope.

Soon convinced of Cara’s innocence and—given Hugo’s apparent tendre for Cara—the need to clear her name, Penelope and Barnaby join Stokes and his team in pursuing the emeralds and, most importantly, who stole them.

But the deeper our intrepid investigators delve into the Carisbrook household, the more certain they become that all is not as it seems. Lady Carisbrook is a harpy, Franklin Carisbrook is secretive, Julia Carisbrook is overly timid, and Lord Carisbrook, otherwise a genial and honorable gentleman, holds himself distant from his family. More, his lordship attempts to shut down the investigation. And Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope are convinced the Carisbrooks’ staff are not sharing all they know.

Meanwhile, having been appointed Cara’s watchdog until the mystery is resolved, Hugo, fascinated by Cara as he’s been with no other young lady, seeks to entertain and amuse her…and, increasingly intently, to discover the way to her heart. Consequently, Penelope finds herself juggling the attractions of the investigation against the demands of the Adair family for her to actively encourage the budding romance.

What would her mentors advise? On that, Penelope is crystal clear.

Regardless, aided by Griselda, Violet, and Montague and calling on contacts in business, the underworld, and ton society, Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes battle to peel back each layer of subterfuge and, step by step, eliminate the innocent and follow the emeralds’ trail…

Yet instead of becoming clearer, the veils and shadows shrouding the Carisbrooks only grow murkier…until, abruptly, our investigators find themselves facing an inexplicable death, with a potential murderer whose conviction would shake society to its back teeth.

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Well-born rakehell and head of an ancient family, Alaric, Lord Carradale, has finally acknowledged reality and is preparing to find a bride. But loyalty to his childhood friend, Percy Mandeville, necessitates attending Percy’s annual house party, held at neighboring Mandeville Hall. Yet despite deploying his legendary languid charm, by the second evening of the week-long event, Alaric is bored and restless.

Escaping from the soirée and the Hall, Alaric decides that as soon as he’s free, he’ll hie to London and find the mild-mannered, biddable lady he believes will ensure a peaceful life. But the following morning, on walking through the Mandeville Hall shrubbery on his way to join the other guests, he comes upon the corpse of a young lady-guest.

Constance Whittaker accepts that no gentleman will ever offer for her—she’s too old, too tall, too buxom, too headstrong…too much in myriad ways. Now acting as her grandfather’s agent, she arrives at Mandeville Hall to extricate her young cousin, Glynis, who unwisely accepted an invitation to the reputedly licentious house party.

But Glynis cannot be found.

A search is instituted. Venturing into the shrubbery, Constance discovers an outrageously handsome aristocrat crouched beside Glynis’s lifeless form. Unsurprisingly, Constance leaps to the obvious conclusion.

Luckily, once the gentleman explains that he’d only just arrived, commonsense reasserts itself. More, as matters unfold and she and Carradale have to battle to get Glynis’s death properly investigated, Constance discovers Alaric to be a worthy ally.

Yet even after Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard arrives and takes charge of the case, along with his consultants, the Honorable Barnaby Adair and his wife, Penelope, the murderer’s identity remains shrouded in mystery, and learning why Glynis was killed—all in the few days before the house party’s guests will insist on leaving—tests the resolve of all concerned. Flung into each other’s company, fiercely independent though Constance is, unsusceptible though Alaric is, neither can deny the connection that grows between them.

Then Constance vanishes.

Can Alaric unearth the one fact that will point to the murderer before the villain rips from the world the lady Alaric now craves for his own?

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