Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

"As much fun as the English language will permit."-- New York Times Book Review on The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the teahouse. . . .

Miss Charlotte Pettifer belongs to a secret league of women skilled in the subtle arts. That is to say--although it must never be said-- witchcraft . The League of Gentlewomen Witches strives to improve the world in small ways. Using magic, they tidy, correct, and manipulate according to their notions of what is proper, entirely unlike those reprobates in the Wisteria Society.

When the long lost amulet of Black Beryl is discovered, it is up to Charlotte, as the future leader of the League, to make sure the powerful talisman does not fall into the wrong hands. Therefore, it is most unfortunate when she crosses paths with Alex O'Riley, a pirate who is no Mr. Darcy. With all the world scrambling after the amulet, Alex and Charlotte join forces to steal it together. If only they could keep their pickpocketing hands to themselves! If Alex's not careful, he might just steal something else--such as Charlotte's heart.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Charlotte could listen no more in silence. For several minutes now a young man at the teahouse counter had been abusing a waiter with language that pierced her soul. She had tried to behave as the other customers and look away-after all, who did not understand the pain of being disappointed in one's hopes for a warm currant scone? But finally her patience broke, and she simply had to speak by such means as were within her reach-namely, a volume of Dickens she had been reading over tea and sandwiches. Rising from her chair, she cast Great Expectations at the young man's head and then settled down once more to her luncheon. The young man roared. Clutching his head, eyes blazing, he glared around the cafeteria. "Who did that?!" Charlotte raised one delicate, lace-gloved hand. "He did," she said, pointing to a dark-haired gentleman at a nearby table. Several ladies gasped. Her chosen scapegoat, however, gave no reaction. Charlotte was unsurprised. She had seen him enter the teahouse earlier and noted at a glance how everything about him was rich, from his long black overcoat to his gold-handled briefcase. She could not imagine him paying attention to anyone he might consider lesser than himself. Indeed, he read his newspaper and drank his coffee as if she had not even spoken. The angry young man had heard her well enough, however. He stormed across to snatch the gentleman's newspaper and fling it dramatically to the ground. The moment was rather spoiled by paper sheets fluttering about, one covering his face and thereby muting his tirade, but he pulled it away, scrunching it within a fist. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, brandishing his knuckles along with the rumpled paper. The gentleman blinked composedly. "I beg your pardon?" "You threw a book at me! Stand up, mister, and face justice!" "Don't be ridiculous," the gentleman replied, unmoved. Charlotte noted that his voice was rich too, with a slight accent woven through like gold thread. "Compensate me for my newspaper then return to whatever gutter from which you crawled. You are disturbing the peace." "I'll give you disturbing!" The young man grasped the coat lapels of the older and hauled him from his chair. "Goodness me," Charlotte murmured, leaning back as the men stumbled against her table. Screams arose from the other patrons, but Charlotte did not indulge in shock. Her teacup was rattling in its saucer. Her sandwiches almost leaped off their plate. If she sat around gasping, luncheon would be entirely spoiled. With a sigh, she stood, laying her napkin on the table. She took a last sip of tea while the men knocked over chairs with their furious wrestling. She wrapped her sandwiches in the napkin, rescued her purse from the table moments before the men crashed onto it, then left the teahouse, picking up the gentleman's briefcase as she went. A tiny bell tinkled as she opened the door and stepped out. A breeze plucked at her strawberry blonde coiffure but was unable to disrupt it. Charlotte paused, squinting against the lambent afternoon light, and considered her route ahead. St. James's Street was busy as usual with a bright drift of ladies going about their regular business, shopping and sightseeing and generally making a promenade of themselves. A woman dressed simply in gray, with only one feather on her hat and the smallest bustle possible without being indecent, would stand out most regrettably amongst them. But there was no choice. She closed the shop door just as a teapot smashed against it. From within the premises came a lady's anguished cry, and then a man shouted: "Where is my briefcase?!" Charlotte straightened her modest hat, hung her purse from the crook of her elbow, and proceeded along the street. She had not gone far when the tinkle of a doorbell shook through her consciousness. Without glancing back, she began to lengthen her stride. She managed to cover several yards of St. James's Street within moments and, nodding to acknowledge a police constable who veered in his path to make way for her, turned onto King Street. Almost at once she found herself stalled by a half dozen ladies laughing together as they moved at a rate that barely qualified as strolling. Charlotte managed to tap her foot impatiently even as she edged forward behind them. "Stop, thief!" arose a shout from St. James's Street, the force of its anger making it clearly audible despite the distance. Charlotte attempted to circumnavigate the ladies without success. Really, people had no consideration for others these days. How was one supposed to effect a robbery when dawdlers blocked the footpath in this disgraceful manner? They left her no option but to cast off all decorum and step out amongst the wagons on the road. A driver hollered at her to immediately evacuate his intended route (or at least words to that effect). As she looked back, Charlotte saw the gentleman from the teahouse enter King Street, his coat billowing as he strode toward her. Realizing that she would not be able to outpace him, she muttered under her breath. All of a sudden, the wagon's horses whinnied and reared, forcing their vehicle to a shuddering stop in the center of the road. Pumpkins flew from the back, bursting open on the cobblestones and causing ladies to scream as orange mush splattered over their gowns. A phaeton coming up behind narrowly avoided collision, and as its driver rose from his seat to shout abuse at the wagoner, various pedestrians rushed to join in. Within seconds, the street was blocked. Charlotte walked away from the tumult, her heels clicking delicately against the paving. Noticing Almack's public assembly house farther along, she began to aim for it. A policeman's whistle pierced the clamor of the crowd, and Charlotte winced. Pain from the noise ricocheted along her nerves. If only she could leave London with all its cacophony and retire to Hampshire, birthplace of Jane Austen, where green peace whispered wild yet gentle poetry to one's heart. It was never to be-duty forced her presence in London, noble duty (and the fact there was not much of value to steal in the countryside)-yet still she dreamed. And occasionally took brief jaunts by train because, truly, there was nothing like leaving home for real comfort. Thus imagining oak trees and country lanes while behind her the brawl intensified, Charlotte made her way without further impediment toward Almack's. Its door stood open, a delivery boy's bicycle leaning on the wall beside it, and the warm interior shadows promised respite from London's inconveniences-as well as a back door through which she could slip unnoticed by policemen, pumpkin carters, and aggravated briefcase owners. She was almost there when she saw the child. A mere scrap of humanity, he huddled within torn and filthy clothes, his small hand extended pathetically. Charlotte looked at him and then at Almack's door. She came to a decisive stop. "Hello," she said in the stiff tones of someone unused to conversing with children. "Are you hungry?" The urchin nodded. Charlotte offered him her wrapped sandwiches but he hesitated, his eyes growing wide and fearful as he glanced over her shoulder. Suddenly, he snatched the food and ran. Charlotte watched him go. Two cucumber sandwiches would not sustain a boy for long, but no doubt he could sell the linen napkin to good effect. She almost smiled at the thought. Then she drew herself up to her fullest height, lifted her chin, and turned to look at the gentleman now looming over her. "Good afternoon," she said, tightening her grip on his briefcase. In reply, he caught her arm lest she follow the example of the urchin. His expression tumbled through surprise and uncertainty before landing on the hard ground of displeasure; his dark blue eyes smoldered. For the first time, Charlotte noticed he wore high leather boots, strapped and buckled, scarred from interesting use-boots to make a woman's heart tremble, either in trepidation or delight, depending on her education. A silver hook hung from his left ear; a ruby ring encircled one thumb, and what she had taken for a beard was mere unshaven stubble. Altogether it led to a conclusion Charlotte was appalled not to have reached earlier. "Pirate," she said in disgust. "Thief," he retorted. "Give me back my briefcase." How rude! Not even the suggestion of a please! But what else could one expect from a barbarian who probably flew around in some brick cottage thinking himself a great man just because he could get it up? Pirates really were the lowest of the low, even if-or possibly because-they could go higher than everyone else in their magic-raised battlehouses. Such an unsubtle use of enchantment was a crime against civilization, even before one counted in the piracy. Charlotte allowed her irritation to show, although frowning on the street was dreadfully unladylike. "Possession is nine-tenths of the law, sir. Kindly unhand me and I will not summon a police officer to charge you with molestation." He surprised her by laughing. "I see you are a wit as well as a thief. And an unlikely philanthropist too. If you hadn't stopped for the boy, you might have gotten away." "I still shall." "I don't think so. You may be clever, but I could have you on the ground in an instant." "You could," Charlotte agreed placidly. "However, you may like to note that my shoe is pressed against your foot. If I am so inclined, I can release a poisoned dart from its heel which will penetrate boot and skin to paralyze you within moments." He raised an eyebrow. "Ingenious. So you too are a pirate, I take it?" Charlotte gasped, trying to tug her arm from his grip. "I most certainly am not, sir, and I demand an apology for the insult!" He shrugged. Charlotte waited, but apparently that was the extent of his reply. She drew a tight breath, determined to remain calm. What would Jane Austen's fiercest heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, do in this situation? "I consider myself a reasonable woman," she said. "I take pride in not being prejudiced. Although your behavior is disgraceful, and I shall surely have bruises on my arm, I do appreciate this has been a difficult afternoon for you. Therefore, I give you permission to withdraw." "How kind," he said wryly, although he did ease his grip on her arm. "I am going nowhere, however, without my briefcase." "But it is for the orphans," she said, her tone suggesting horror that he would deprive the poor, wretched creatures of whatever small comfort his briefcase might afford them. "The orphans, indeed? And you're taking it to them right now?" "Don't be ridiculous. It's afternoon. No well-mannered lady does business in the afternoon. I'm taking it home, selling its contents, and adding the income to my estate. It will support my general affluence and prestige, which in turn will lend weight to my opinion about the sad plight of orphans." "I see. So by contributing to your personal wealth I am helping the poor?" "Exactly." He grinned. "You sure you're not a pirate?" "Certainly not! I am the opposite of a pirate. I am a good person. I only steal from the rich." "And those who would be rich if they'd just put their minds to it?" "Yes." She paused, frowning. "No. That is-" She broke off, muttering. "I beg your pardon?" the man asked, then flinched as a pumpkin flew past his head, narrowly missing him before exploding against the wall of Almack's. Wet pulp splashed his coat, although by good fortune (and some reversal of the laws of physics) none touched Charlotte. The man regarded her steadily for a long moment. Then with his free hand he pulled back her sleeve to reveal a delicate gold bracelet set with tiny jeweled bee charms. "I thought so. I've heard of women like you. What is your name?" Charlotte tried again to escape his grip, without success. "Very well," she relented. "I am Miss Anne Smith. And whom do I have the misfortune of addressing?" "Captain Alex O'Riley, madam. Which, may I add, is my real name." So he was Irish, as suggested by his mild accent. An Irish pirate in London. Charlotte could only imagine the unbridled poetry he was leaving in his wake. "I cannot say I am pleased to meet you, Mr. O'Riley. But if you leave me your card, I'm sure I'll acknowledge the acquaintance should we happen to encounter each other again at some public ball or soiree." "Or," he countered, "I could just knock you unconscious, take back my briefcase, and kiss you before I leave." He smiled wickedly. Charlotte almost gasped for the second time in twenty-one years. Her outrage was so great, she struggled to summon a witty retort. Elizabeth Bennet, consulted urgently, could only suggest that his arrogance, his conceit, and his selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to bypass her disapprobation and move straight to dislike! But Charlotte did not have time to express all that before he spoke again. "Forgive me," he said without the slightest evidence of remorse. "I'm not usually quite so rough. But what else can a pirate do when he meets a lady of the Wicken League?" He gave her a smug, challenging look. "I have no idea what you mean," Charlotte replied. "No?" He tipped his head to one side as if he might see her better crooked. "I once knew a lady with a similar bracelet featuring bees." "It is a common symbol." "For her it showed she belonged to a covert league of women skilled in the cunning arts. That is to say, although I believe it must never be said-" Glancing around to be sure no one could hear him, he leaned so close Charlotte could see the sparks of mockery in his eyes. "Witchcraft." Charlotte considered this for a moment, then discarding Elizabeth Bennet in favor of Lydia, she stomped down hard on his foot. Purple smoke burst from her heel. Bother-wrong shoes! The churl might sicken if he breathed in that smoke, but since it was some six feet below his mouth and nose, the risk of even that was minimal. She herself was in more danger, being shorter than him. Luckily, surprise had caused him to weaken his grip, and Charlotte yanked free, bashed him in the gut then under the chin with his own briefcase, and made a run for it. "Stop!" he shouted, but did not follow, on account of being hunched over, clutching at his stomach. Charlotte knew, however, that he'd soon recover and catch up to her. Escaping on foot was going to be impossible. Almost without thinking, she grabbed hold of the delivery boy's bicycle and clambered on as quickly as her skirts would allow. Excerpted from The League of Gentlewomen Witches by India Holton All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

A dignified witch is caught in a whirlwind adventure with a knavish pirate in Victorian London in Holton's cheeky sequel to The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels. As the descendent of Wicken League founder Beryl Black, Charlotte Pettifer is destined to be the next leader of the secret society of powerful witches. Though witches and pirates are sworn enemies, roguishly charming Captain Alex O'Riley threatens Charlotte's composure from their first meeting. Charlotte is eager to forget their undeniable connection, but that task grow complicated when Beryl's stolen amulet resurfaces, and, in an attempt to recover her ancestor's artifact, Charlotte stows away on Alex's flying house to give chase to the thief. In close quarters, neither Charlotte nor Alex can deny their chemistry. But with the Wicken League and the Wisteria Society, leaders of London's pirate community, eager to stop their budding romance, Charlotte must decide between her birthright and the thrilling life she could have with Alex. The whimsical worldbuilding forms a perfect backdrop to the angsty couple, and Holton's winking narration, which puts her in cahoots with the reader, makes her exaggerated characters work. Overflowing with heart, humor, and hyperbole, this clever romance enchants. Agent: Taylor Haggerty, Root Literary. (Mar.)

Booklist Review

Charlotte Pettifer is a prim and proper young witch, mentally channeling Jane Austen's heroines in almost every situation. She has been raised to be the true heir to Beryl Black, founder of the Wicken League, the archenemies of the Wisteria Society. A clever thief, she defies witchy conventions when fleeing from Captain Alex O'Riley, a dashing pirate who is not an easy mark, by taking to the sky on a bicycle, with shades of The Wizard of Oz! When a melee breaks out at a Beryl Black exhibition at the British Museum between proper members of the League and the wild ones in the Wisteria Society, Charlotte and Alex end up kidnapping each other as the race is on to find the amulet that holds the secret to magical powers. Clever word play, delightful double entendres, and adventurous high jinks will delight fans of smart, witchy romances, including the first in Holton's Dangerous Damsels series, The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels (2021).

Kirkus Book Review

A screwball adventure within a paranormal comedy of manners. Charlotte Pettifer, the prophesied leader of the Wicken League of Gentlewomen Witches, stumbles into pirate Alex O'Riley while stealing a briefcase and just manages to escape by flying a bicycle over the roofs of London: Thus begins Holton's second madcap rom-com about magic and mores in an alternate Britain, following The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels (2021). The gossamer-thin plot, in which Charlotte and Alex jostle to retrieve a magical amulet that belonged to a legendary witch, is mainly an excuse for clever banter, scenes of flying houses straight out of a Pixar movie, and jokey allusions to Jane Austen's oeuvre. As the two careen around the countryside in Alex's decrepit Irish cottage with his butler, Bixby, in search of the dangerous, wedding-obsessed witch who has stolen the amulet, arguing over who has kidnapped whom, they also tumble into bedroom activities. As they draw closer, Charlotte must accept her free spirit and learn to make friends, while Alex has to come to terms with childhood abuse by his parents and his own fear of intimacy. But the moments of self-reflection and mutual comforting between the two are kept to a minimum. With her arch turns of phrase and clever wordplay, Holton provides plenty of chuckles, evoking the gap between serious style and ridiculous content or vice versa that was the hallmark of the mock epic and Oscar Wilde. There's no actual satire here, however, just a fun-filled romp in a topsy-turvy world of corset-wearing, knife-wielding, magic-casting women and gun-wielding, light-fingered, charming pirates. The end drags on a bit, but the cast of characters continues to amuse. For those who like romance that's light on sex and heavy on hijinks. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.