An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler

I’ll admit, I side-eyed the premise at first—*another* amnesia plot? But Riley dismantles the trope within pages. Jemina’s memory loss isn’t a neat puzzle to solve; it’s a gaping wound that makes every interaction feel like a gamble. When she’s locked in Bedlam, the audiobook’s sound design (subtle but effective: distant screams, clanking chains) forces you to *hear* her isolation, not just imagine it. Turpin’s performance is brutal in the best way: her Jemina isn’t a plucky heroine but a woman whose voice cracks under exhaustion, whose Jamaican lilt sharpens when she’s cornered. The earl, voiced with icy precision, isn’t a brooding heartthrob but a man whose privilege is a cage of its own making. That said, the toddler subplot occasionally feels like a narrative obligation rather than organic chaos. His scenes can drag, and Turpin’s child voice—while impressively restrained—still risks pulling listeners out of the story’s darker currents. The pacing in the middle act also stumbles; Riley’s commitment to realism means some political intrigues drag when you’re itching for Jemina’s next confrontation. But the payoff? Worth it. The final act’s emotional gut-punch (a confrontation in a rain-soaked carriage, Turpin’s voice raw with fury) had me paused mid-stride on my walk. This isn’t a romance where love conquers all—it’s one where love is the scar tissue holding broken people together. If you’re tired of Regency fluff but crave the genre’s wit and tension, this audiobook is your antidote.