A captivating new historical novel from Madeline Martin, set in Victorian London about a forbidden book club, dangerous secrets, and the women who dare to break free.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Madeline Martin’s The Secret Book Society, which releases on August 26th 2025.
You are cordially invited to the Secret Book Society…
London, 1895: Trapped by oppressive marriages and societal expectations, three women receive a mysterious invitation to an afternoon tea at the home of the reclusive Lady Duxbury. Beneath the genteel facade of the gathering lies a secret book club—a sanctuary where they can discover freedom, sisterhood, and the courage to rewrite their stories.
Eleanor Clarke, a devoted mother suffocating under the tyranny of her husband. Rose Wharton, a transplanted American dollar princess struggling to fit the mold of an aristocratic wife. Lavinia Cavendish, an artistic young woman haunted by a dangerous family secret. All are drawn to the enigmatic Lady Duxbury, a thrice-widowed countess whose husbands’ untimely deaths have sparked whispers of murder.
As the women form deep, heartwarming friendships, they uncover secrets about their marriages, their pasts, and the risks they face. Their courage is their only weapon in the oppressive world that has kept them silent, but when secrets are deadly, one misstep could cost them everything.
ROSE WHARTON WAS SHOWN INTO THE drawing room at Duxbury Place, a lovely townhouse three doors down from her own in the fashionable area of Grosvenor Square. Potted plants clustered becomingly throughout the room, their leaves extended toward the windows, straining for the weak light.
The sun was one of the things Rose missed most about America, where it seemed to shine in endless abundance. And while England was lovely with its old-world elegance, she craved the brilliant splash of light and warmth.
Lady Duxbury rose from where she sat in a great sage-green armchair. “Ah, Mrs. Wharton, it is so good of you to come. Please do have a seat.”
Rose settled into a plush velvet chair beside a potted hellebore, the leathery petals blossoming in shades of deep burgundy and milky white. Small painted birds adorned the green wallpaper, their feathers artistically rendered with such care, the iridescent blue-green sweep of their wings caught the meager light.
Accepting Lady Duxbury’s invitation was no doubt a mistake, another opportunity to be ostracized at a social gathering. In that way, London wasn’t much different from Manhattan, where even women of Rose’s own American nationality had put their backs to her, their heads tucked together as they whispered waspishly about the stink of new money.
However, there didn’t appear to be any malice in the countess’s smile.
She seemed too young to have already lost three husbands. Her rich raven-black hair was piled ornately atop her head, affixed with jet-black combs, her skin smooth over her high cheek- bones. The delicate lilac of her gown indicated she remained in half-mourning for Lord Duxbury, who had been dead a full two years.
There was a difference to her countenance now, a self- assuredness she hadn’t possessed upon Rose’s first meeting with her. They’d been at a ball, one of the first in London Rose had attended after her marriage to Theodore. None of the other women had spoken to Rose and she had sequestered herself in the powder room with a book. Lady Duxbury entered some moments later, her narrow shoulders pinched together.
“Looks like you could use a moment alone as well.” Rose had given her a conspiratorial grin.
A note of sadness had shone in the countess’s large violet- blue eyes when they settled on the book propped in Rose’s hands. “What are you reading?” Longing filled the countess’s voice.
“A Masque of Poets. It’s part of the no-name series, where authors are anonymous, so their work is judged on true merit rather than notoriety.” Rose closed the book and extended it to Lady Duxbury.
The countess had flicked an anxious glance toward the door before accepting it, her touch a reverent caress on the black- and-red cover. Rose hadn’t missed the way Lord Duxbury watched his wife with a predatory protectiveness. Some men were like that, controlling, restricting.
“Take it,” Rose offered.
Lady Duxbury had stiffened, her brows furrowing together. “I can’t.”
“I’ll have my maid find your maid to deliver it,” Rose said. “I can always buy another.”
That wasn’t true, of course. The price of books was dear and funds were needed for items far dearer: marble, the contractors to lay the costly material and all the other bits and pieces necessary to reassemble a crumbling residence into one of admirable stature.
Still, she’d held out her hand, a smile of promise on her lips.
Lady Duxbury cradled the book to her heart before relinquishing it. “I shall never forget this kindness, Mrs. Wharton.” Rose had straightened a little taller then. Someone of note in
that cold, unwelcoming Society remembered her name. Such consideration had been well worth the cost of the book.
There was no meekness cowing the countess now. There was only confidence, evident in the tilt of her chin, the squaring of her shoulders, her stature one of powerful wealth with a blatant disregard for the gossip hissed behind her back.
And with three dead husbands—two being young and virile until their deaths—there was gossip aplenty.
“Thank you for the invitation,” Rose replied, aware as always of her American accent. Some found it charming; others found it grating. She was uncertain of Lady Duxbury’s opinion, though her pleasant expression remained unchanged as she extended a hand to the other woman sitting on a stuffed chair the color of spring grass.
“You know Mrs. Clarke, I presume.”
Mrs. Clarke.
Of course Rose knew her. The perfect Englishwoman if ever there was one. And not simply for her beauty alone—though she was indeed beautiful, with her heart-shaped face, golden blond hair piled like a crown on her head and a fine figure in a perfectly fitted silk dress. She was the embodiment of poise and grace.
Their acquaintance had been made at a picnic months ago. Whereas Rose had looked like she’d been tossed about in the wind like a fish in violent sea at low tide, Mrs. Clarke had been immaculate, occasionally sweeping aside any loose locks of hair with graceful fingers. As if the move had been practiced to elegant perfection.
Mrs. Clarke always did the right thing, said the right thing and was exactly the right thing. No doubt even the lapis color of her gown was meant to enhance the brilliance of her lovely wide blue eyes.
If Rose was like her, she and Theodore would still be happy. Mrs. Clarke had no idea how lucky she was. “We have met.” Mrs. Clarke offered a smile that was not too large as to be overeager, nor too small as to be unwelcoming. The perfect smile on the perfect Englishwoman.
“Lovely to see you again,” Rose replied cordially. “I simply adore your necklace.”
Mrs. Clarke touched the strand of fat sapphires at her neck, as if one could forget having put on such an expensive bauble. “Thank you. I suppose it’s a bit much for tea.” A pretty blush blossomed over her cheeks.
“You know us Americans. We love a good string of jewels,” Rose offered jovially.
The two women maintained polite expressions as the joke rolled over them like a square wheel. Rose always forgot English humor was different than that of Americans, that mention of wealth—even in jest—was vulgar.
But Rose did love jewels. Gorgeous sets of them—bracelets, earrings, necklaces, combs, brooches, rings, anything that could be set in gold to glitter and sparkle in a wash of unadulterated sunlight. Daddy had spoiled her with them when she’d been in Manhattan. Not that a vault of jewelry ever won over any Vanderbilt or awed any Astor. But they’d made her happy.
There weren’t any new jewels now. Instead, the Wharton family townhouse on Grosvenor Square had been elevated to a presentable stature, no longer the tired, disintegrating shell it’d been upon her arrival. In that regard, at least her father’s wealth was being applied to good effect.
And she had been genuinely happy with Theodore. At least in those early days.
Mother would have preferred Rose marry an earl rather than an earl’s younger brother, to elevate their American wealth with an English title. But Theodore had been irresistible. From the charming way his mouth hitched higher on the right when he smiled to how he made her feel like she belonged with someone for the first time in her life.
Before that now-familiar ache in her heart could return, the butler entered once more through the open entryway. She realized suddenly that the door had never been closed behind her when she entered.
How strange.
Apparently, Lady Duxbury had the utmost faith in her staff to allow them to hear what was spoken in her drawing room.
The butler was a stocky fellow whose arms were thick as Christmas hams beneath the sleeves of his wide-shouldered jacket. His nose took up half his face and leaned hard to the right, as if it’d been broken a good half dozen times. Rather fitting given his past, or at least what Rose’s maid had unearthed on Lady Duxbury’s servants.
The butler was once notorious in the underground boxing circuit and—if word on the street could be believed—a few knocks shy of mortal retirement. Her maids were also pulled from a questionable past, having worked in one of those factories that puffed ghastly amounts of black smog into London’s air.
The countess had an affinity for hiring from the base proletariat class.
Mother would have been shocked into an early grave at having such rustic laborers in her employ. Rose was of a more progressive generation, however. Not scandalized, but indeed fascinated.
“Lady Lavinia Cavendish,” the butler announced, his tone bordering on snobbish for a man of indecorous background.
A petite young woman with auburn hair edged slowly into the room, appearing as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Lady Lavinia.” There was a note of surprise to Lady Duxbury’s tone.
“You invited my mother.” Lady Lavinia’s small frame tensed, and she cleared her throat before speaking again. “She thought I would benefit more than she.”
The volume of her soft voice was almost inaudible, and Rose found herself leaning forward in her seat to catch the words.
“We’re pleased to have you.” Lady Duxbury welcomed her to join them and made the proper introductions.
Silence fell upon the small gathering, ripe with unspoken questions. Rose had been hopelessly curious since she’d received the invitation, secreted in the drawer of her vanity by her maid.
Nearly six months had passed since she’d been allowed to read what she wanted. After a lifetime of freedom, she now felt like a bird stuffed into a gilded cage. One she’d paid for.
