This time around Veronica and Stoker find themselves entangled in another situation with the monarchy. At this point, I’m not sure I am capable of being disappointed in one of these books. I do not require love poems and fireworks, but kindly grant me a better audience than a stuffed wildebeest and a pack of sausage-breathed hounds.” (For accuracy’s sake, I should note that he did have a fondness for Keats, and the hounds did have sausage breath, but the wildebeest was, in point of fact, a gnu.) “Veronica,” he said flatly, ” I am not going to take you on top of a moldy sarcophagus. Give me passages like this and I am satisified: I yearn for characters with quirky occupations, impeccable fashion sense and taste for tea and sweets. I need my witty banter laced with sexual tension. These books and Sherry Thomas’ Lady Sherlock series are what fill the little hole in my heart that Gail Carriger left when the Parasols and Protectorate series ended. I am already worried about the day when Raybourn stops writing these Veronica Speedwell mysteries.
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