What Did I Think?
I would have never considered myself a lover of historical crime fiction but here I am, having read two of Laura Shepherd Robinson’s books now and I think it’s slowly becoming one of my favourite genres.
And that is well and truly a result of LSR’s descriptive narratives and how she slowly builds tension, drama and suspense throughout her books.
‘Daughters of Night’ isn’t really a sequel as such to her first book ‘Blood and Sugar’ but it does include similar characters, the main one being Caroline Corsham.
After witnessing the brutal murder of a local/well-known sex worker whilst in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, she sets herself on a mission to hunt down the murderer and get justice. Yet along the way, she finds herself getting mixed up in all sorts of deception and deciet and finds herself in very treacherous water…
This books is THICC but one that I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Each chapter gives just enough for you to keep you wanting more. I think my guess on ‘who done it’ changed about 15 times haha.
I am really enjoying this genre and I think if you already love historical fiction, I think you should try historical crime fiction. I definitely don’t think you’ll be disappointed with ‘Daughters of Night’ anyway!
In the wrong hands a secret is a weapon.
Caroline Corsham was alive to the danger, to the vulnerability of her position – she had thought of little else since last night’s disaster. Yet now that the truth was known – her secret guessed, the blade honed sharp – what choice did she have left, except to believe? A last roll of the dice. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. These banalities spurred her on. God grant me courage.
Taking a ginger comfit from her enamelled pillbox, Caro slipped it into her mouth, her nausea rising. Muslin, lace and brocade hemmed her in on every side; jewelled buttons flashing on embroidered waistcoats; pastel shades of periwig and kid glove; silver buckles glinting in the light of a thousand beeswax candles that filled the domed roof of the Rotunda with their honeyed scent. It was the opening night of Jacobus Agnetti’s exhibition of classical scenes, and half of London society had turned out for the wretched man. Distractedly, she greeted people she knew: allies of her husband in the House of Commons; clients of the Craven Bank; rival beauties, solicitous matrons, admiring gentlemen. Their laughter was shrill, pink faces merged in a smear of complacency. They smile to bare their teeth, before they rip you apart.