In Regency London, Georgiana Hathaway has no intention of falling into the conventional trap of marriage and motherhood. She has so much more to do with her life, and a few tortuous years at 'The Particular Establishment for the Advantage of Respectable Ladies' has done nothing to change her mind. In fact, she's already taken the first steps to carve out a career, by anonymously crafting a scandalous, satirical column, called His Lordship's Trousers, for her father's newspaper. But as the misadventures of her comical rake become the most talked-about story in London, and the naughty column earns greater popularity, it is also bound to gain critics. How much trouble can "His Lordship's Trousers" get her into? She's about to find out. Meanwhile, "Dead Harry" Thrasher eagerly reads that wicked column every week. It is one of the few things— other than the obituaries— that make him laugh out loud these days. He lives vicariously through that fictional rake's antics, because his own life is suspended in time and he sees no reason to move forward. After all, when a man's obituary has been printed in the newspaper, not once but twice, he has a tendency to believe it. What's the point of a life over which man has no control? What, exactly, has he been saved so many times for? He's about to find out. When Dead Harry meets Miss Hathaway, they will both find their worlds, and their long-ingrained opinions, at risk. She does not want to fall in love with a man when everybody knows the male animal only gets in the way of a girl's ambitions. And Harry may have survived a "mortal" wound, and eight hundred and fifty days stranded alone on an uncharted island, but can the very private life of this semi-recluse survive the reckless curiosity and impertinent sauce of Miss Georgiana Hathaway? He's a naval war hero— even if he does have an aversion to decent clothing and polite behavior— so if this young woman thinks to conquer him and put his life in order, she'd better have a battle strategy. It's been a while since he enjoyed a skirmish at sea, but Harry has a feeling he'll love every moment of this one.

Do you believe in witches? Adam Wyatt will tell you that he certainly doesn't believe. He's the solemn, sensible blacksmith of Slowly Fell and he keeps his distance from females entirely for his own tranquility of mind, not out of any fear of mischievous magic. In his opinion, the great number of souls lost forever to the village pond can be blamed on carelessness and unlucky accident; nothing to do with a witch’s curse. The Dowager Lady Bramley, widow of the local squire, also denies a belief in witchcraft. Or ghosts. Although she's lately enjoyed long discussions with her dear departed husband, who is intent on luring her to Slowly Fell, a place that haunts her dreams—a village with a macabre history, and a connection to her family that she would rather not remember. Admiral Wetherby did not believe in witches either, until madness caused him to burn down his house and all his possessions, sending himself up in smoke with it. And now his daughter, practical, level-headed survivor, Sarah Wetherby, arriving in Slowly Fell to look after the vicar's sick wife, doesn't know what to think about witches. She is not a young woman prone to fanciful ideas, but she loves a good mystery, and there is certainly something going on in Slowly Fell. Sarah has begun to suspect that she's lived here before. Certain sights around the village are familiar— the house where a reclusive old woman resides in grand, but lonely splendor; the pond where a family of accused witches once met their deaths in the ducking-stool, and even the gruff manners of that handsome bachelor blacksmith seem to her familiar as old friends. Or something more. But in Slowly Fell, nothing and nobody is quite what they seem.

How do you take your tea? The Beast of Whitherward Fell has been blamed for a great many mysterious events and gruesome murders on that wildest, perilous stretch of the Yorkshire Moors. But what, or who, is the real monster? And can there be only one that has stalked this place since the beginning of time? Detective Inspector Ptolemy Deverell does not believe in mythical beasts or supernatural phenomena. He’s a quiet, unassuming, pragmatic fellow, who seldom falls prey to emotion. Nobody pulls the fleece over his eyes. So if anybody can shed light on the rampaging fiend behind the bloody history of this place, surely, he can. But when the detective embarks upon three cases at once, he has no idea how tightly they are entwined, or that this tangle will lead him into the darkest part of Whitherward Fell. To face the Beast head-on. With a lady in search of vengeance; a gentleman on a mission for truth, and a little girl waiting for justice, the detective already has his hands full. On top of everything, he— the most unromantic fellow in the world—is in love. Will he ever get around to proposing marriage to the very modern, bicycle-riding, baker-extraordinaire, Miss Lucy Greenwood? And, if he does, will she laugh in his face and try drowning him in raspberry jam? Not only that. A ghost from his own past has returned to haunt his nightmares, and he cannot get on with his life until she’s finally at rest. Tolly Deverell might not believe in the Beast of Whitherward Fell, but he is preyed upon by a scavenging creature that lurks in the bleakest shadows of a dream, waiting to tear him apart. The great shadow of its wingspan falls from above when he is most susceptible. It comes to him when he’s alone in the dark. It comes to him when all but his mind is quiet. It comes in the deadliest shades of night. And with words clawed into the wall, it asks, How do you take your tea?