ENJOY THIS PREQUEL TO THE TOKYO WHISPERS SERIES
In the Foreign Quarter of Tsukiji, Tokyo, Japan, Victorian England is alive and well. Manners and etiquette are as valuable as gossip and deceit. Men are more rakish than ever - so far from home, societal rules seem to be relaxed. But courting young women still requires a deft hand, a smart wit, and a man with something to offer.
INTERNATIONAL SCANDAL
Intent on being an international journalist of repute, Evelyn Prescott will do what it takes to make her mark.
It doesnât hurt that her father has built a newspaper empire, but finding a scandal in Japan is no easy task.
As much as she hates to admit it, she is forced to meet with the owner of the Tokyo Daily News, Ned Taylor, also an Englishman.
Ned holds a deep-rooted dislike of Evelynâs fatherâs approach to journalism, and Ned, a notorious rake, pushes her to see just how far Evelyn is prepared to go to get her story.
ENJOY THIS PREQUEL TO THE TOKYO WHISPERS SERIES
In the Foreign Quarter of Tsukiji, Tokyo, Japan, Victorian England is alive and well. Manners and etiquette are as valuable as gossip and deceit. Men are more rakish than ever - so far from home, societal rules seem to be relaxed. But courting young women still requires a deft hand, a smart wit, and a man with something to offer.
INTERNATIONAL SCANDAL
Intent on being an international journalist of repute, Evelyn Prescott will do what it takes to make her mark.
It doesnât hurt that her father has built a newspaper empire, but finding a scandal in Japan is no easy task.
As much as she hates to admit it, she is forced to meet with the owner of the Tokyo Daily News, Ned Taylor, also an Englishman.
Ned holds a deep-rooted dislike of Evelynâs fatherâs approach to journalism, and Ned, a notorious rake, pushes her to see just how far Evelyn is prepared to go to get her story.
Tokyo 1896, Foreign Quarter of Tsukiji
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Evelyn rested an elbow along the stone balustrade separating the Hotel Metropolis terrace from the glistening waters of Tokyo Bay and contemplated the man holding court near the hotel bar. âAre you positive thatâs him?â Â
     Aunt Prissy raised a fan between them for privacyâs sake as guests strolled past, their various languages lending a cheerful symphony to the evening atmosphere. Evelyn doubted they were inclined to pick up English phrases muttered between her and Aunt Prissy, but to make sure, she shifted nearer until they were shoulder to shoulder.
           Aunt Prissy nodded at the man in question. âWithout a shred of doubt. Thatâs Ned Taylor.â
Among tables filled with hotel patrons and waiters scurrying by with trays of champagne and sake, Mr Taylor stood beneath one of the terrace gas lamps, its light catching on his grin, which spread from his lips to the corners of his eyes and left affable creases atop his cheeks. His Japanese companions leaned forward as though to bask in its glow, pure and genuine as a freshly minted sovereign.
Invariably, the most accomplished charmers had that smile. Evelyn had met enough newspapermen in her twenty-two years to know. They lit up a room. Or the Hotel Metropolis terrace, apparently.
But the man not far from her couldnât be older than thirty, which was too young to own a newspaper. Back in England, Papa hadnât purchased his first broadsheet until he was nearly forty. Ten years later, he had more newspaper distribution outlets across the United Kingdom than one could count on two hands. Of course, Papa had been obliged to work his way through the ranks before investors were willing to back him. Ned Taylor, on the other hand, was the nephew of a duke, and nephews of dukes didnât have to wait as long as sons of Hampstead brewers to establish themselves at the helm of their cityâs foremost papers.
Also, there was the issue of Mr Taylorâs appearance. In Evelynâs experience, newspaper owners were balding and rotund. This man was⌠She struggled for the best way to assess him with the objective lens of a soon-to-be international journalist. He was the kind of man women pounced upon at the earliest given opportunity.
With tousled, auburn hair and a profile that suggested a country gentleman returning from a vigorous hunt, the man brimmed with virility. Yet the easy interactions with his companions suggested an absence of the hunterâs aggression found in most newspapermenâcharmers and otherwise. Evelyn had to conclude this man lacked a predatory bearing because he didnât require it: unfailingly, prey fell at his feet.
Aunt Prissy waved her fan against the thick heat, sending the gentle scent of the camellia perfume sheâd purchased that afternoon on Tokyoâs luxurious Ginza Boulevard towards Evelyn. âThe lovely Mrs Anderson pointed him out to me at the reception for that appalling exhibit at the Tsukiji art museum. She said, âThatâs Ned Taylor, owner of the Tokyo Daily News.â What was that exhibit again? Oh, yes, âDemonic Masks in the Japanese Shinto Tradition.â Frightening, those enormous eyes and bulbous noses.â
The woodblock prints in the Hotel Metropolis lobby came to Evelynâs mind. A series of pictures told the story of the Americansâ arrival in Tokyo on Commodore Perryâs Black Ships. In contrast to the uniformly small, straight, and unblemished Japanese visages, the foreigners boasted ruddy complexions, hordes of unruly hair, and what Evelyn found to be unfairly exaggerated facial features. âThose masks bore resemblance to the foreigners in the lobby prints?â
A look came Evelynâs way, and Aunt Prissy widened her eyes as she beat the air with the gold satin leaf of her fan. âNo wonder we get stared at every time we leave the foreign quarter. The Japanese think weâre demons.â
The men around Mr Taylor erupted in laughter at some gem that had fallen from his lips. âNot all of us,â Evelyn murmured.
âWhat was that, dear?â Aunt Prissy yawned.
Several matrons strolled towards the balustrade, their chatter enveloped in the rustling of silk skirts and clattering of heels against the terrace flagstones. Aunt Prissy warbled an evening greeting to some of them, which they returned in kind. Over the course of their residence at the Hotel Metropolis, sheâd become friendly with most of the guests. As the women walked away, Aunt Prissy offered another large yawn from behind her fan.
âReally, you should retire. Iâll stay a bit longer on the terrace. Iâm too fidgety to join you.â Evelynâs gratitude for her auntâs permissiveness as chaperone had never been greater, but she was determined to speak with a certain charming gentleman this evening, and the conversation would proceed more smoothly if Aunt Prissy wasnât taking part.
âI perfectly understand, dear Evie. Better you fidget on the terrace. Itâs quite windy tonight. Do beware of catching a chill. Shall I bring you a wrap?â Even at the end of August, summerâs heat held Tokyo in its grip. Night brought a modicum of relief, but the breezes off Tokyo Bay remained sultry.
Evelyn declined the offer and kissed Aunt Prissy good night. As the swish of her auntâs skirts faded, Evelyn contemplated her target.
Ned Taylor was her last hope.
She hadnât wanted to use the letter she carried, but sheâd been in Tokyo for over a month and still didnât have a scandalous story she could send to Papa. Most of her time had been spent convalescing from a summer malady sheâd picked up a few days after arriving and chasing a baroness through the countryside for a scandal-worthy headline. Sheâd inquired around the foreign quarter as to the reputations of its prominent residents, but all her efforts had amounted to was unsubstantiated rumours and trivial innuendo.
Evelyn had no choice but to present Mr Taylor with a request from her papa he couldnât ignore.
She was considering whether it would be best to catch his attention with a fainting spell or pretend she recognised Mr Taylor from his days in Londonâevery aristocrat had days in Londonâwhen a Japanese woman in a bright yellow gown sidled up to him. She whispered into his ear, and he turned to her with one of his stupendous smiles. His head tilted down towards the almost-but-not-quite wicked neckline of her gown. Evelyn swallowed hard. Her prey was falling prey to another woman.
The men with whom heâd been speaking seemed to grasp the womanâs claim and bowed their heads as the Japanese did when parting. The woman nodded at Mr Taylorâs arm. At once, his elbow jutted out, and she took it before they strolled side by side along the length of the terrace, which presented an irksome situation. Mr Taylor wasnât supposed to disappear with a loverâhe was supposed to be staring in awe at a letter of introduction from the most powerful newspaper owner in Britain.
Evelyn slumped against the balustrade and twisted the diamond bracelet around her wrist. She had less than a week in Tokyo before moving on to Hong Kong, where she was practically guaranteed stories of opium and corruption that would fill a newspaper for months. But everyone who stepped foot on the islands posted such reports, which was why Papa wanted stories on Japan.
Advertisers would fight tooth and nail for space next to an article shedding light on the upstart nation. No one had a grasp on Japanâs inner workings or a clue what her leaders would do next: Having defeated China in the war of â95, what were their plans? Would they eventually succumb to the colonial yoke? Or were the people of the rising sun going to colonise the Orient?
Even more important to Papa were the dirty secrets guarded by illustrious British citizens whoâd taken up residence in Tokyo. Evelyn was supposed to keep her nose to the ground and her ears open for information Papa could use to scorch his enemies, bring allies into his fold, and grow his newspaper empire.
âI donât believe you,â a woman said from close by, her speech inflected with a Japanese accent.
Evelyn stifled a gasp. While sheâd been musing on her failures, Ned Taylor and his companion had come to stand upwind of her along the balustrade.
âGriffith Spenserâs wife left him only last week. From what Iâve heard, he spends all his time at the lawn tennis club.â Mr Taylor glanced down at her satiny backside, which seemed to sway in response to his lustful gaze.
An amused smile played on the womanâs scarlet lips. This woman knew how to lure a man into her grasp and keep him there. âIf he doesnât have a lover, then why didnât he return to England with his wife? What was keeping him in Japan?â
Who was she? The elegant cut of her gown and absence of garish cosmeticsâher red lips were a testament to modern glamourâreminded Evelyn of the Japanese wives living in the foreign quarter. But the way she rested her fingers against the slight perspiration dampening her neck, then moved them to the edge of her neckline gave the impression of a geisha plying her trade. This woman could be a European-styled courtesan or an aristocratâs educated daughter who dallied with foreigners. Her worldliness piqued Evelynâs envy.
âWho knows why heâs still here.â Mr Taylor chuckled. âHearty competition between the Tsukiji tennis club and the club from Yokohama?â
âThe Tokyo Tattler, your very own gossip columnist, said there had to be a lover.â
Mr Taylor made a strangled noise. âThatâs what gossip columnists do. They speculate. It has nothing to do with facts and verification. I never thought Iâd hire one, but I was made an offer, and my bottom line has been better for it.â
In that single reply, Evelyn knew all she needed to know about Ned Taylor, newspaper owner. Despite being a man open to obvious charms, he espoused serious journalism, not the pandering-to-the-masses and whipping-them-into-a-frenzy brand of journalism Papa preferred. Sheâd suspected as much from reading his paper. While the Tokyo Daily News headlines hinted at the extraordinary, the reporting was careful and thorough. Ned Taylorâs journalistic integrity was admirable. And he was pragmatic enough to publish a gossip column. He knew the most basic truth about the cutthroat newspaper business: those sheets better make money.
âYouâve given me nothing, Ned-san,â the woman whined. âI want to slap you silly until you tell me everything.â
He smiled, more to himself. âWhile I find the offer intriguing, Natsu, thereâs nothing to tell.â
Natsu meant summer. Evelyn had picked up the word shortly after arriving in Tokyo since every conversation started with comment on the hot and humid weather, and the foreigners of Tsukiji took pride in smattering their sentences with the native language. It was a fitting name for a woman who radiated heat.
Natsu ran her folded fan up and down Nedâs forearm while she spoke in a light, seductive voice about a balloon launch at the French legation.
âI thought you were going to ask me.â The hurt in his voice was exaggerated to such a degree Evelyn could have sworn she heard true disappointment.
âNed-san, you are a perfect rascal.â Natsu used her fan to give his forearm several playful taps. âMy aim is marriage, and youâre not the marrying kind, or youâd already be wed.â
So he was a rake. A serious journalist and a rake. A plausible combination.
âHow can I wed when beauties like you wonât give me the time of day?â
Evelyn imagined him pouting his lips while raising his brow in a come-hither expression. The man probably thought himself irresistible.
âWe both know beauties in every corner of this city desire you. I could never impose on their territory.â The way she surveyed his face and kept her fan on his arm as though holding him in place, however, made her respect for boundaries questionable. If she wanted to marry him, she could have him. So why didnât she?
âYouâve settled on Mr Spenser, then?â
Settled on Spenser? Evelyn imagined Natsu pressing talons into Spenserâs back while dragging him to bed, then winced. If only she could send out quiversful of flaming arrows to warn whoever this Spenser was.
âIndeed, I have.â Natsu pulled her fan from Nedâs arm and curled her lips into a satisfied grin. âNow, if youâll excuse me, Iâm going to retire early. Tomorrow, Mr Spenser and I are going to accidentally meet outside the offices of his trading firm, and I plan to be fresh as a daisy, as you British say.â
Ned snorted a smile. âI have little doubt heâll be in your clutches in no time.â He looked like he wanted to send Spenser a warning too. Then again, there was the unmistakable glint in his eye of a newspaper owner watching his profits grow. His Tattler getting wind of Spenser playing with Natsuâs heart would keep the papers circulating. But, really, who was playing with whom?
Natsuâs gown twirled with a flourish as she left Ned by the balustrade and headed straight for Evelyn, who stared at her unabashedly. How could anyone be this gorgeous? Natsuâs glimmering red lips emphasised flawless ivory skin, almond eyes, and a lovely pert nose. This Griffith Spenser was going to forget all about lawn tennis once he found himself the object of her attentions.
âGood evening,â Evelyn said prettily, because pretty women worked hard to be pretty, and she had been staring.
Natsu twitched her nose as she glanced down Evelynâs ivory gown embroidered with pink and golden rosettes, then up to the diamond bracelet Papa had presented her with at the start of her first season. The Japanese womanâs disdain made her feel like she stood barely five inches off the ground, which was a remarkable feat considering Evelyn was tall even for an Englishwoman and Natsu barely reached her shoulder.
As quickly as Natsu had produced the disdain, she replaced it with a resplendent countenance. âGood evening to you too.â She sashayed past Evelyn, her chin aloft, leaving no doubt of the great misfortune that would befall any woman who derailed her plans.
Ned remained against the sea wall, gazing into the depths of Tokyo Bay. Strains of music from the string quartet performing in the hotel lobby skipped along the night air. Moonlight broke through the clouds, and Evelyn took a step towards him, then paused. How wise would it be to approach a known rascal on the terrace in plain view of passers-by?
In Londonâunwise. But she was on the other side of the world in a foreign quarter where there were fewer rules and the attitudes seemed more permissive. And besides, sheâd grown up with a tough journalist for a father who would pull out all the stops to secure his sources. Behaving like a near spinster in a British ballroomâas society would have itâgot her no closer to scandalous stories.
Evelyn halved the distance between them. âPardon me, but are you Ned Taylor, owner of the Tokyo Daily News?â
As sheâd foreseen, he granted her one of his dazzling smiles. Quite unexpectedlyâalthough she really should have expected it from a such a gifted charmerâthe smileâs potency at near proximity increased tenfold. Most women would have ended up in a pile of silks on the terrace flagstones. But Evelyn had no intention of swooning.
âIndeed, I am.â Somehow his face brightened by several more degrees. âHave we met?â
Evelyn kept her eyes on him, despite the glare. âIâve been intending to make your acquaintance for some time. Iâm Evelyn Prescott, daughter of Abel Prescott.â
Ned straightened and sucked in his breath. The charmerâs charm had vanished. âOwner of newspapers across the British Isles and a man I knew during my days working at the Pall Mall Gazette.â
âMy father never worked for the Gazette.â In fact, the Gazette was the newspaper Papa most wished to take out of business.
âOf that, I am plenty aware. Mr Prescott was at the helm of the Post and despised our way of doing business.â
Papa thought the Gazette was a bore and a threat to certain lords whose generosity had given Papa the means to buy his first several newspapers. âHe doesnât believe the Gazetteâs articles appeal to middle- and working-class readers.â Evelyn thought she was being diplomatic, but Ned scowled at her like sheâd ordered him to collect the rubbish.
âYour father thinks readers want scandals and balderdash, and he doesnât care if the news he reports is a total fabrication.â
She gave her diamond bracelet several twists. Escaping the Prescott reputation was as impossible at English garden parties as it was on the other side of the world. And when people called Papa an opportunist and a liar, she had no choice but to defend him, which was why, in recent years, she hadnât received many invitations to garden parties.
Granted, there was an ounce of truth to the accusations. Sometimes Papaâs articles contained falsehoods of the lighter sort. But those were usually for the sake of enhancing their value as the peopleâs entertainment, and it wasnât something one threw in his daughterâs face upon first making her acquaintance. âPapa takes great care to make certain his readers have the most recent and most captivating stories that are written by journalists of the utmost integrity.â
Ned stepped forward to within an armâs length. âIntegrity, you say? I doubt that very much. Your father has allegiance to one aim: making money.â
âKindly step back, sir. I am not my father.â
He raised a hand. âI apologise. Iâve gone too far. Itâs just that when you said our articles didnât appeal to the middle classes, it brought up old grudges.â
Typical male response: His rudeness had been her fault. Had he no control over his words?
âI donât know how things are done here in the Orient, but when two people meet for the first time in England, they discuss the weather orâŚpuddings.â
He chuckled. âPuddings are the topic of choice in London parlours these days?â
She hadnât meant to imply puddings had become standard conversational fare, but it was an innocent topic and the first one that had come to mind. Probably because their eveningâs apple and rice cake had been exceptionally delicious, and Aunt Prissy had endeavoured to discuss it with everyone in the hotel dining room. But puddings werenât the point.
âOne doesnât say things to cause oneâs companion to think herself the daughter of a greedy, heedless newspaper owner.â
The gas lamps flickered in the breeze, throwing shadows across Nedâs face, emphasising the height of his cheekbones and prominence of his jawline. âMiss Prescott, youâre correct in the first case. Things are done differently here. We donât stand on ceremony the way we do in our countries of origin. Our ways arenât as strict. Our morals, at times, are laxer. Itâs freer being here on the other side of the world. Donât you ever crave a taste of freedom?â
Freedom was precisely why she was standing beside him at the Hotel Metropolis in the foreign quarter of Tsukiji in the city of Tokyo, Japan.
âI am free. Papa sent me to the Orient and gave me Aunt Prissy for a chaperone, and she leaves me mostly to my own devices. There is nothing holding me back from freely becoming an international journalist except I cannot seem to find anything worth reporting.â Evelyn ground her teeth. She was prepared to do whatever it took to get her articles, even if it meant dealing with him. âI approached you this evening because I would like you to assist me in getting a story Papa can print in his papers. I have a letter of introduction.â
She hadnât wanted to use the letter. Sheâd meant to discover the stories herself. But since it hadnât happened, Ned Taylor, rake of the foreign quarter and man of the highest journalistic integrity, was her best hope of leaving Tokyo with a story in hand. She pulled the letter from her reticule where sheâd been keeping it for the past month, and with a resigned sigh, she handed it over.
He skimmed the letter, then handed it back. âIndeed, youâre Evelyn Prescott, and Papa Prescott requests I be of assistance. I must say it is quite presumptive of him to beg a favour from a man heâs insulted repeatedly and by name, all because I beat him to the story on bribes being solicited in the House of Commons. But in the gentlemanly spirit of indulging requests made by women wandering hotel terraces alone, I must ask, what exactly do you wish from me?â
She twisted her bracelet again. âClearly, you know the sort of stories Papa wants for his papers. Iâd like you to show me where I can get them. Iâve become quite desperate. Over the past month, Iâve either been in bed with a fever or chasing a Japanese baroness around the countryside. Iâm due in Hong Kong in a few days, and I need stories from Tokyo or else this trip has been for naught.â
Ned looked at her as though sheâd declared her intention to jump off the balustrade into Tokyo Bay. âWhy were you chasing a baroness around the countryside?â
âI was told she had a falling-out with her husband, a Japanese baron with a fine reputation, over a baby heâd fathered with an American woman whose husbandâs family is notable in American politics. It turned out the baron was starting a cattle farm in some place called Gunma and the woman was a cattle rancherâs daughter. The baby was a cow.â
Ned tilted his head back as he laughed. âThat must have been quite a disappointment,â he sputtered.
Evelyn offered an amiable laugh, but still her nerves filled it. âPapa couldâve traded that story to an American paper for something on a member of the British nobility.â
A sharp gust of wind blew strands of hair into Evelynâs eyes. As she brushed them away, Ned Taylor followed her movements as though she was performing a most extraordinary feat. She brought her fingers to a halt under the intensity of his gaze.
Then he shook his head. âYour father has no scruples.â His voice was even and harsh.
Evelyn levelled her gaze, not letting his fall from hers. âHe owes it to his workers to sell as many papers as he can, and scandal sells. So, Mr Taylor, what do you have for me?â
He crossed his arms. âOut of curiosity, what would I receive for giving you a scandal?â
âName your price. Papa will pay it.â
He met her gaze. âItâs not Papa who will be paying this price.â
She took a step back and crossed her arms. âMy funds are courtesy of Papa. If you insist upon payment from a morally upright, socially pure source, then Iâm afraid I have nothing to offer.â
He erased the distance between them. âItâs not money Iâm after.â His voice was as heavy as the bay air. âItâs a kiss.â
Evelyn secured herself with a gloved hand on the balustrade. A kiss? No one had asked for a kiss since a distant cousin suggested a game of imitating various acts heâd caught the maid and footman doing in the far corner of the hall. Sheâd put an end to the ridiculous charade after a spell of his rather clumsy tongue poking around the inside of her mouth.
Not that she was opposed to kissing, or touching, or any of the naughty things lovers did to please one another. Upon occasion, sheâd indulged in imagining herself scouring the continents for newspaper reports while taking lovers here and there.
Worldly women were free to do that sort of thing. Or at least they werenât married to stodgy imbeciles chosen by their calculating mothers. They were free to possiblyâif they so desiredâseduce and be seduced on the far corners of the earth.
But sheâd never imagined trading her kisses for scandals. Papa would be horrified. Or would he? Papa was known for turning a blind eye to the means his reporters employed to cultivate their sources. But she was his daughter. Heâd never approve.
But if she played her cards right, heâd ever find out.
Evelyn looked up. Ned stared at her mouth, and slowly she let her fingertips brush her lips as realisation set in. His kiss would be magnificent. It would be tender, yet insistent. He would kiss her until her lips darkened and swelled. The sensitive place between her legs would throb and dampen her drawers. His kiss would reduce her to a simpleton who wanted only to kiss him more.
Which was too high a price for a newspaper story, and the person exacting that price was a charmer, and charmers didnât have to be trustworthy to get what they wanted. Which was why they neednât bother keeping confidences. âYouâre suggesting a kiss in order to tell the world you kissed Abel Prescottâs daughter, arenât you?â
A group of carousing men passed by, leaving a cloud of alcohol in their wake. One of the carousers gaped as though he was certain she and Ned were engaged in a scandalous embrace. Evelyn bristled at the presumptuousness, and Ned frowned.
Irritation flared in his gaze as he shifted his stance, placing himself between her and the carouser. But the look he gave the offender wasnât meant to force acknowledgment of a manâs right to a private moment with his lover. It seemedâŚprotective. He was shielding her from the strangerâs invasive glare.
It worked. They were left alone a moment later, and Ned sighed roughly, running a hand through his hair. âLet me assure you, I donât kiss and tell.â He sounded disgruntled with himself Evelyn had drawn that conclusion. Then he softened his expression. âIâm suggesting a kiss because for some reason Iâve decided what I want most right now is to kiss you.â His voice was an octave lower, and his words thrummed in her ears. He took a step back and leaned against the balustrade. âIâm used to getting what I want, so Iâll do your bidding for the privilege of a kiss.â
Her hands became fists as outrage borne of a fiercely competitive nature filled her. He may be used to getting what he wanted, but so was she. And if the price for a story was a kiss from a charming rake who seemed likely to be an extremely good kisser, she was prepared to dismiss any qualms about paying up. A kiss wasnât going to ruin her. They were on the other side of the world, and the delicious freedom afforded by such distance was meant to be exploited. âIn that case, get me a story, and youâll get your kiss.â
He widened his eyes. Was he surprised sheâd risen to his bait? He mustnât have realised she was the one who would be walking away from their wager the winner: sheâd have a scandal and a kiss from an intriguing gentleman.
âThen we have a deal, Miss Prescott, and given the nature of our deal, you ought to call me Ned.â
Heat sprang to her cheeks at the thought of his personal name rolling off her tongue. But seeing as their lips could be drawn together and that tongue of hers would mingle with his in the near future, addressing one another on intimate terms seemed appropriate. âPlease call me Evelyn.â
âEvelyn,â Ned said slowly as though savouring a piece of ripe fruit.
The air between them hummed with something wicked and decadent, like secrets lovers shared with one another on moonlit nights.
She stepped back and gripped the diamond bracelet around her wrist. âIâll be awaiting the story. Ned.â His name came out in a light rasp. She cleared her throat, then added, âGood night.â Without thinking, she nodded like the Japanese do when parting, a custom sheâd picked up since arriving in Japan.
âGood night, Evelyn,â he replied with a similar nod, leaving her with the impression they knew one another far too well, far too soon.
Refusing to spare another glance at him, she made haste for the Hotel Metropolis lobby.
The year is 1896 and Evelyn Prescott, daughter of the newspaper mogul Abel Prescott, is in Japan hunting for a story all her own to publish in one of her fatherâs papers. Everyone knows scandal sells newsprint, and the best man to help her find it, and thus her big break, is Ned Taylor, young owner of the Tokyo Daily News and a notorious rake among the other foreigners in the city.
Written as a prequel novelette to her forthcoming Tokyo Whispers series, âScandals of Tokyoâ drops readers into the immigrant quarter of Meiji era Tokyo, with hints of all of the glitz, the temptation, and the salacious gossip one could wish. At just under 30 pages, Hallman has a lot of ground to cover, introducing characters and a world that will be expanded on in future novels, but if âScandalsâ is just a taste of this series, then itâs going to be huge.
Lovingly researched and brilliantly detailed, Hallman knows the place and time sheâs writing about and it shows! Turn of the century Tokyo is alive and well on her pages and in her characters, and it is certain to delight.
A delicious little booksnack that could certainly be read as a standalone, but personally? Itâs only left this reader hungering for more!