Dorchester Terrace (Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Series #27)

( 15 )

Overview

Anne Perry’s acclaimed Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels have made London’s exclusive world of wealth and power an addictive literary destination for readers everywhere. This new masterpiece, a haunting story of love and treason, invites us not only into the secret places of Britain’s power but also into the innermost sanctums of the fin de siècle Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Thomas Pitt, once a lowly policeman, is now the powerful head of Britain’s Special Branch, and some people ...

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Dorchester Terrace (Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Series #27)

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Overview

Anne Perry’s acclaimed Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels have made London’s exclusive world of wealth and power an addictive literary destination for readers everywhere. This new masterpiece, a haunting story of love and treason, invites us not only into the secret places of Britain’s power but also into the innermost sanctums of the fin de siècle Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Thomas Pitt, once a lowly policeman, is now the powerful head of Britain’s Special Branch, and some people fear that he may have been promoted beyond his abilities. He, too, feels painful moments of self-doubt, especially as rumors reach him of a plot to blow up connections on the Dover-London rail line—on which Austrian duke Alois Habsburg is soon to travel to visit his royal English kin.

Why would anyone destroy an entire train to kill one obscure Austrian royal, or are the rumors designed to distract Pitt from an even more devastating plot? He must resolve this riddle at once, before the damage is done.

Meanwhile, in a London sickroom, an old Italian woman—at the end of a romantic career as a revolutionary spy—is terrified that as she sinks into dementia, she may divulge secrets that can kill. And a beautiful young Croatian woman, married to a British power broker, hoards her own mysteries. Apparently all roads lead to the Continent, and Pitt suspects that between them these two fascinating women could tell him things he desperately needs to know. But as the hours tick by, it seems that the only woman Pitt can count on is his clever wife, Charlotte.

No one sustains mesmerizing suspense better than Anne Perry.  In Pitt’s trial by fire, his wrenching moral dilemma, and his electrifying moment of decision, the beloved bestselling author gives us a climax never to be forgotten.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Scotland Yard’s Thomas Pitt worries about his fitness as head of Special Branch, a post he officially assumes in early 1896, in bestseller Perry’s suspenseful 27th novel featuring Pitt and his wife, Charlotte (after 2011’s Treason at Lisson Grove). When Pitt gets reports from his staff that someone has been asking questions about railway signals and points, he’s concerned that the inquiries might be a prelude to an assassination attempt during a train journey, though the target is at first unclear. Unfortunately, getting others in the British government to share his worries proves an uphill slog. And even with additional resources, figuring out the who, the what, and the when to prevent a crime that could have international repercussions isn’t easy. Perry convincingly demonstrates that this long-running series hasn’t run out of steam, and breathes new life into it by giving her capable lead new responsibilities and new challenges. Agent: Donald Maass, Donald Maass Literary Agency. (Apr.)
Library Journal
Best-selling author Perry brings back longtime Victorian-era favorites the Pitts (Treason at Lisson Grove). A traitor is hidden in the very ranks of the Special Branch, and when a retired spy is murdered, the couple know time is running out for his unit's mission. [See Prepub Alert, 9/30/11.]
Kirkus Reviews
A dying adventuress holds entirely too many secrets for the miscreants who threaten Queen Victoria's government, whose peace Thomas Pitt is sworn to keep. Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, the wise and knowing aunt of Pitt's wife Charlotte, is right to be concerned about her old friend Serafina Montserrat. It's not just that Serafina's life is drawing to a close; her illness makes her mind wander, and oftentimes she says things she shouldn't--and, according to her niece, Nerissa Freemarsh, things that just aren't true. But Serafina speaks very much to the point when she tells Vespasia that she's afraid "they'll kill me" because "I know too much." Sure enough, the next time Vespasia comes to visit, Serafina has already died. Pitt, who's already been put on high alert by the hints about very contemporary terrorist threats Serafina has intimated to Vespasia, ascertains that the cause of death was an overdose of laudanum quite impossible for Serafina to have administered to herself. Whodunit? And even more important, why? It doesn't take long for Pitt (Long Spoon Lane, 2005, etc.) to focus his concern on Duke Alois Habsburg, a decidedly minor noble whose upcoming visit to his cousins in England seems increasingly likely to end with his assassination. But which of the slippery bureaucrats Pitt must deal with in his new capacity as head of Special Branch is the traitor behind the plot? And how can Pitt, who continues to be superstitiously reverent toward his alleged social superiors, smoke out the traitor and deal with him? Slow to catch fire, but full of pleasing twists once it does--one of Perry's most successful attempts to cloak contemporary geopolitical anxieties in plummy faux-Victorian periods.
Maureen Corrigan
The plot of Dorchester Terrace moves along in suspensefully serpentine fashion, and given that we readers know what historical horrors really did follow from the assassination of an Austrian archduke, Pitt's dilemma has the ring of genuine urgency. What remains most vivid, however, about this series in general, and Dorchester Terrace in particular, is those small moments when Perry takes readers deep into the rituals and brutal social realities of a vanished world.
—The Washington Post
From the Publisher
Praise for Anne Perry’s most recent Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels
 
Treason at Lisson Grove
 
“Perry has always done her historical homework on the darker elements of the British ruling class, and she has outdone herself this time.”—The Washington Times
 
Buckingham Palace Gardens
 
“An intricate plot about a murder at the palace [with] an irresistibly appealing Upstairs, Downstairs perspective . . . a fine introduction to Perry’s alluring world of Victorian crime and intrigue.”—The New York Times Book Review
 
“Another winner . . . a wonderful cast of characters with many twisting plots.”—Vero Beach Press Journal
 
Long Spoon Lane
 
“Anne Perry has once again delivered the tasty concoction her readers have come to expect [and] presents us with moral and political puzzles that are all too close to our own.”—Los Angeles Times Book Review
 
“An altogether intriguing and enjoyable mystery . . . Fans of this series, with its amazingly well-drawn historical details, know the delight of time traveling back to Victorian England.”—Bookreporter.com
 
Seven Dials
 
“Terrific, vivid stuff . . . The alarmingly prolific Anne Perry [is] a master of the genre.”—The Seattle Times
 
“Perry’s as good as it gets. . . . The final courtroom scene produces more victims and left me breathless.”—The Providence Journal
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345510624
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 4/3/2012
  • Series: Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Series , #27
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 786,133
  • Product dimensions: 6.56 (w) x 9.28 (h) x 1.19 (d)

Meet the Author

Anne Perry

Anne Perry is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England:  the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, including Treason at Lisson Grove and Buckingham Palace Gardens, and the William Monk novels, including Acceptable Loss and Execution Dock. She is also the author of a series of five World War I novels, as well as nine holiday novels, most recently A Christmas Homecoming, and a historical novel, The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Ottoman Empire. Anne Perry lives in Scotland.

Biography

Born in London in October 1938, Anne Perry was plagued with health problems as a young child. So severe were her illnesses that at age eight she was sent to the Bahamas to live with family friends in the hopes that the warmer climate would improve her health. She returned to her family as a young teenager, but sickness and frequent moves had interrupted her formal education to the extent that she was finally forced to leave school altogether. With the encouragement of her supportive parents, she was able to "fill in the gaps" with voracious reading, and her lack of formal schooling has never held her back.

Although Perry held down many jobs—working at various times as a retail clerk, stewardess, limousine dispatcher, and insurance underwriter—the only thing she ever seriously wanted to do in life was to write. (In her '20s, she started putting together the first draft of Tathea, a fantasy that would not see print until 1999.) At the suggestion of her stepfather, she began writing mysteries set in Victorian London; and in 1979, one of her manuscripts was accepted for publication. The book was The Cater Street Hangman, an ingenious crime novel that introduced a clever, extremely untidy police inspector named Thomas Pitt. In this way an intriguing mystery series was born…along with a successful writing career.

In addition to the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt novels, Perry crafts darker, more layered Victorian mysteries around the character of London police detective William Monk, whose memory has been impaired by a coach accident. (Monk debuted in 1990's The Face of a Stranger.) She also writes historical novels set during the First World War (No Graves as Yet, Shoulder the Sky, etc.) and holiday-themed mysteries (A Christmas Journey, A Christmas Secret, etc), and her short stories have been included in several anthologies.

Good To Know

Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Anne Perry:

The first time I made any money telling a story I was four and a half years old—golden hair, blue eyes, a pink smocked dress, and neat little socks and shoes. I walked home from school (it was safe then) with my lunchtime sixpence unspent. A large boy, perhaps 12 or 13, stopped me. He was carrying a stick and threatened to hit me if I didn't give him my sixpence. I told him a long, sad story about how poor we were—no food at home, not even enough money for shoes! He gave me his half crown—five times sixpence! It's appalling! I didn't think of it as lying, just escaping with my sixpence. How on earth he could have believed me I have no idea. Perhaps that is the knack of a good story—let your imagination go wild, pile on the emotions—believe it yourself, evidence to the contrary be damned. I am not really proud of that particular example!

I used to live next door to people who had a tame dove. They had rescued it when it broke its wing. The wing healed, but it never learned to fly again. I used to walk a mile or so around the village with the dove. Its little legs were only an inch or two long, so it got tired, then it would ride on my head. Naturally I talked to it. It was a very nice bird. I got some funny looks. Strangers even asked me if I knew there was a bird on my head! Who the heck did they think I was talking to? Of course I knew there was a bird on my head. I'm not stupid—just a writer, and entitled to be a little different. I'm also English, so that gives me a second excuse!

On the other hand I'm not totally scatty. I like maths, and I used to love quadratic equations. One of the most exciting things that happened to me was when someone explained non-Euclidean geometry to me, and I suddenly saw the infinite possibilities in lateral thinking! How could I have been so blind before?

Here are some things I like—and one thing I don't:

  • I love wild places, beech trees, bluebell woods, light on water—whether the light is sunlight, moonlight, or lamplight; and whether the water is ocean, rain, snow, river, mist, or even a puddle.

  • I love the setting sun in autumn over the cornstooks.

  • I love to eat raspberries, pink grapefruit, crusty bread dipped in olive oil.

  • I love gardens where you seem to walk from "room to room," with rambling roses and vines climbing into the trees and sudden vistas when you turn corners.

  • I love white swans and the wild geese flying overhead.

  • I dislike rigidity, prejudice, ill-temper, and perhaps above all, self-righteousness.

  • I love laughter, mercy, courage, hope. I think that probably makes me pretty much like most people. But that isn't bad.
  • Read More Show Less
      1. Also Known As:
        Juliet Hulme
      2. Hometown:
        Portmahomack, Ross-shire, U.K
      1. Date of Birth:
        October 28, 1938
      2. Place of Birth:
        Blackheath, London England

    Read an Excerpt

    chapter

    1

    It was mid-february and growing dark outside. Pitt stood up from his desk and walked over to turn the gas up on the wall lamps one by one. He was becoming used to this office, even if he was not yet comfortable in it. In his mind it still belonged to Victor Narraway.

    When he turned back to his desk he half expected to see the pencil drawings of bare trees that Narraway used to keep on the walls, instead of the watercolors of skies and seascapes that Charlotte had given him. His books were not so different from Narraway’s. There was less poetry, fewer classics perhaps, but similar titles on history, politics, and law.

    Narraway had of course taken with him the large, silver-framed picture of his mother. Today, Pitt had finally put in its place his favorite photograph of his family. In it, Charlotte is smiling; beside her stands thirteen-year-old Jemima, looking very grown-up, and ten-year-old Daniel, still with the soft face of a child.

    After the fiasco in Ireland at the end of last year, 1895, Narraway had not been reinstated as head of Special Branch, though he had been exonerated of all charges, of course. Instead, Pitt’s temporary status as head had been made official. Even though it had happened several months earlier, he still found it hard to get used to. And he knew very well that the men who had once been his superiors, then his equals, and now his juniors, also found the new situation trying at best. Rank, in and of itself, meant little. His title commanded obedience, but not loyalty.

    So far they had obeyed him without question. But he had had several months of very predictable events to deal with. There had been only the usual rumblings of discontent among the various immigrant populations, particularly here in London, but no crises. None of the difficult situations that endangered lives and tested his judgment. If such a crisis were to occur, it was then, he suspected, that he might find his men’s trust in him strained and tenuous.

    Pitt stopped by the window, staring out at the pattern of the opposite rooftops and the elegant wall of the nearby building, just able to discern their familiar outlines in the fading light. The bright gleam of streetlamps was increasing in all directions.

    He pictured Narraway’s grave face as it had been when they last spoke: tired and deeply lined, the effect of his difficult escape from total disgrace and from the emotional toll of his experiences in Ireland. Pitt knew that Narraway had accepted, at last, the existence of his feelings for Charlotte; but as always, Victor’s coal-black eyes had given little away as they talked.

    “You will make mistakes,” he had said to Pitt in the quietness of this room, with its view of sky and rooftops. “You will hesitate to act when you know it could hurt people or destroy a life. Do not hesitate too long. You will misjudge people; you’ve always thought better of your social superiors than you should have. For God’s sake, Pitt, rely on your instincts. Sometimes the results of your decisions will be serious. Live with it. The measure of your worth is what you learn from the errors you make. You cannot opt out; that would be the worst mistake of all.” His face had been grim, shadowed by memories. “It is not only the decision you make that counts, but that you make it at the right moment. Anything that threatens the peace and safety of Britain can come under your jurisdiction.”

    Narraway had not added “God help you,” though he might as well have. Then a dry humor had softened his eyes for a moment. Pitt had seen a flicker of compassion there for the burden that lay ahead, and also a hint of envy, regret for the excitement lost, the pounding of the blood and the fire of the mind that Narraway was being forced to give up.

    Of course, Pitt had seen him since then, but only briefly. There had been social events here and there, conversations that were polite, but devoid of meaning beyond the courtesies. The questions as to how each of them was learning to bend, to adapt and alter his stride to a new role, remained unspoken.

    Pitt sat down again at his desk and turned his attention to the papers in front of him.

    There was a brief knock on the door.

    “Come in,” he said.

    The door opened at once, and Stoker entered. Thanks to the events in Ireland, he was the one man in the Branch that Pitt knew for certain he could trust.

    “Yes?” he said as Stoker came to stand in front of Pitt’s desk. He looked worried and uncomfortable, his lean face more expressive than usual.

    “Got a report in from Hutchins in Dover, sir. Seen one or two unusual people coming over on the ferry. Troublemakers. Not the usual sort of political talkers—more like the ones who really do things. He’s pretty sure at least one of them was involved in the murder of the French prime minister the year before last.”

    Pitt felt a knot tighten in his stomach. No wonder Stoker looked so worried. “Tell him to do all he can to be absolutely sure of their identities,” he replied. “Send Barker down as well. Watch the trains. We need to know if any of them come up to London, and who they contact if they do.”

    “It may be nothing,” Stoker said without conviction. “Hutchins is a bit jumpy.”

    Pitt drew in his breath to say that it was Hutchins’s job to be overcautious, then changed his mind. Stoker knew that as well as he did. “Still, we should keep our eyes open. We’ve enough men in Dover to do that, with Barker.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Thank you.”

    Stoker turned and left. Pitt sat without moving for a moment or two. If it really was one of the French prime minister’s assassins, would the French police or secret service get in touch with him? Would they want his help, or prefer to deal with the man themselves? They might hope to get information about other anarchists from him. Or, on the other hand, they might simply contrive for him to meet with an accident, so the whole matter would never reach the public eye. If the latter were the case, it would be better if the British Special Branch pretended not to be aware of the situation. Pitt would have to make the decision about whether to involve the Special Branch, and to what extent, later, when he had more information. It was the type of decision Narraway had referred to: a gray area, fraught with moral difficulties.

    Pitt bent back to the papers he had been reading.

    There was a reception that evening. A hundred or so people of social and political importance would be gathered, ostensibly to hear the latest violin prodigy playing a selection of chamber pieces. In truth it would be a roomful of people attempting to observe and manipulate any shifts in political power, and to subtly exchange information that could not be passed in the more rigid settings of an office.

    Pitt walked through the front door of his house in Keppel Street just after seven o’clock, with plenty of time to get ready for the reception. He found himself smiling at the immediate warmth, a relief after the bitter wind outside. The familiar smells of baked bread and clean cotton drifted from the kitchen at the far end of the passage. Charlotte would be upstairs dressing. She was not yet used to being back in the glamour and rivalry of the high society into which she had been born. She had found it shallow when she was younger, and then, after marrying Pitt, it had been out of her reach. Now he knew, although she had never once said so, that at times she had missed the color and wit of it all, however superficial it was.

    Minnie Maude was in the kitchen preparing Welsh rarebit for him, in case the refreshments at the event were meager. Her hair was flying out of its pins as usual, her face flushed with exertion, and perhaps a certain excitement. She swung around from the big stove as soon as she heard his footsteps.

    “Oh, Mr. Pitt, sir, ’ave yer seen Mrs. Pitt? She looks a proper treat, she does. I never seen anyone look so?.?.?.” She was lost for words, so instead held out the plate of hot savory cheese on toast. Then, realizing the need for haste, she put it on the kitchen table, and fetched him a knife and fork. “I’ll get yer a nice cup o’ tea,” she added. “Kettle’s boiled.”

    “Thank you,” he said, hiding at least part of his amusement. Minnie Maude Mudway had replaced Gracie Phipps, the maid who had been with the Pitts almost since they were married. He was still not entirely used to the change. But Gracie had her own home now, and he was happy for her. Minnie Maude had been hired on Gracie’s recommendation, and it was working out very satisfactorily, even if he missed Gracie’s forthright comments about his cases, and her loyal and highly independent support.

    He ate in silence, with considerable appreciation. Minnie Maude was rapidly becoming a good cook. With a more generous budget at her disposal than Gracie had ever had, she had taken to experimenting—on the whole, with great success.

    He noticed that she had made enough for herself, although her portion was much smaller. However, she seemed unwilling to eat it in front of him.

    “Please don’t wait,” he said, gesturing toward the saucepan on the stove. “Have it while it’s hot.”

    She gave an uncertain smile and seemed about to argue, then changed her mind and served it. Almost at once she was distracted by a stack of clean dishes waiting to be put away in the Welsh dresser, and her meal went untouched. Pitt decided he should speak to Charlotte about it; perhaps she could say something to make Minnie Maude feel more comfortable. It was absurd for her to feel that she could not eat at the kitchen table just because he was there. Now that she had taken Gracie’s place, this was her home.

    When he had finished his tea he thanked her and went upstairs to wash, shave, and change.

    In the bedroom he found Jemima as well as Charlotte. The girl was regarding her mother with careful appreciation. Pitt was startled to see that Jemima had her long hair up in pins, as if she were grown-up. He felt proud, and at the same time, felt a pang of loss.

    “It’s wonderful, Mama, but you are still a little pale,” Jemima said candidly, reaching forward to straighten the burgundy-colored silk of Charlotte’s gown. Then she flashed Pitt a smile. “Hello, Papa. You’re just in time to be fashionably late. You must do it. It’s the thing, you know.”

    “Yes, I do know,” he agreed, then turned to look at Charlotte. Minnie Maude was right, of course, but it still caught him by surprise sometimes, how lovely Charlotte was. It was more than the excitement in her face, or the warmth in her eyes. Maturity became her. She had an assurance now, at almost forty, that she had not had when she was younger. It gave her a grace that was deeper than the mere charm that good coloring or straight features offered.

    “Your clothes are laid out for you,” Charlotte said, in answer to his glance. “Fashionably late is one thing; looking as if you mistook the arrangements, or got lost, is another.”

    He smiled, and did not bother to answer. He understood her nervousness. He was trying to counter his own anxiety over suddenly being in a social position that he had not been born into. His new situation was quite different in nature from being a senior policeman. Now he was the head of Special Branch and, except in the most major of cases, entirely his own master. There was no one with whom to share the power, knowledge, or responsibility.

    Pitt was even more aware of the change in his circumstances as he alighted from the hansom and held out his arm for Charlotte, steadying her for an instant as she stepped down. The night air was bitterly cold, stinging their faces. Ice gleamed on the road, and he was careful not to slip as he guided Charlotte over to the pavement.

    A coach with four horses pulled up a little ahead of them, a coat of arms painted on the door. The horses’ breath was visible, and the brass on their harnesses winked in the light as they shifted their weight. A liveried footman stepped down off the box to open the door.

    Another coach passed by, the sound of iron-shod hoofs sharp on the stones.

    Charlotte gripped his arm tightly, though it was not in fear that she might slip. She wanted only a bit of reassurance, a moment to gather her strength before they ventured in. He smiled in the dark and reached over with his other hand to touch hers for an instant.

    The large front doors opened before them. A servant took Pitt’s card and conducted them to the main hall, where the reception had already begun.

    The room was magnificent. Scattered columns and pilasters stretching up to the painted ceiling gave it an illusion of even greater height. It was lit by four massive, dazzling chandeliers hanging on chains that seemed to be solid gold, though of course they weren’t.

    “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Pitt whispered to Charlotte.

    She turned to him with a wide-eyed look of alarm, then saw that he was deliberately teasing her. He was nervous. But he was also proud that this time she was here because he was invited, rather than because her sister, Emily, or her aunt, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, had been. It was a small thing to give her, after all the years of humble living, but it pleased him.

    Charlotte smiled and held her head a little higher before sailing down the small flight of steps to join the crowd. Within moments they were surrounded by a swirl of color and voices, muted laughter, and the clink of glasses.

    The conversation was polite and most of it meaningless, simply a way for everyone to take stock of one another while not seeming to do so. Charlotte appeared perfectly at ease as they spoke to one group, then another. Pitt watched her with admiration as she smiled at everyone, affected interest, passed subtle compliments. There was an art to it that he was not yet ready to emulate. He was afraid he would end up looking as if he were trying too hard to copy those born into this social station, and they would never forget such a slip.

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    Customer Reviews

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    Sort by: Showing all of 15 Customer Reviews
    • Anonymous

      Posted April 21, 2012

      Bravo, Bravo

      This one started out slowly. For awhile I thought Anne Perry had lost her touch. Boy was i ever wrong. It was a Tour de Force! Pitt and Charlotte are even better than before. Loved it. Brilliant and Pitts new position in Special Branch requires new skills i never dreamed were possible for Pitt, all used in the defense and love of his country. I am salivating for the next book in the series.

      3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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    • Posted April 28, 2012

      I am always anticipating a new Anne Perry book. However, I think

      I am always anticipating a new Anne Perry book. However, I think the Pitt series has deviated from the formula which made it interesting. I read the series to learn about the people from high society down through the dregs, how they interact, feel, think, what they wear, activities they do, etc. Charlotte has grown smug and complacent, and Emily has lost her vibrancy in favor of the character of a one dimensional shrew. Only Vespasia has retained many of the favorable characteristics (aside from Pitt who is pigeonholed into a political scheme). I'm not really interested in politics or political activities. I would even take back the tedious Inner Circle drama! It feels as though Anne Perryis grasping for straws to fill a book much like the Monk series seems to be focusing on pedophilia.

      2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted March 8, 2013

      Winters

      Our position has been compromised--- crow will contact you at ssc with the new meeting place when the coast is clear

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Posted June 14, 2012

      I love all things of Victorian England and mysteries. As the new

      I love all things of Victorian England and mysteries. As the new head of Scotland Yards Special Branch Thomas Pitt is not sure if he is capable of doing this job but he has the support of Charlotte his wife,Great-Aunt Vespasa and his second Stoker. Ms. Perry has done a marvelous job of staying true to the times. The characters are well written with more than one lead character. The storyline relates to events that happened in Treason at Lisson Grove, so I have put it on my TBR list. For all of you period mystery lovers run to the bookstore and pick-up Dorchester Terrace.

      Thank you Net Galley and Ballantine Books for letting me read and review this great book.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted April 13, 2012

      I have read and loved all of this series. This was very disapoi

      I have read and loved all of this series. This was very disapointingIt seemed the pot was overwhelmed by the self anylasis by the characters.

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    • Posted January 5, 2012

      Highly Recommend

      I have enjoyed all of Anne Perry's books, and this one is just as good. The style and detail are very good and lay a great ground work for the story.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted November 9, 2013

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted July 8, 2013

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted April 6, 2012

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