Today, we’re thrilled to be able to reveal the cover of Rebecca Ide’s upcoming novel THE GENTLEMAN AND HIS VOWSMITH, and we have an exclusive excerpt to share with you too!

“The Gentleman and His Vowsmith is best described as Bridgerton with magic and murder. It’s a sparkling historical fantasy filled with arcane magic, deadly conspiracies and an irresistible queer romance. It’s perfect for fans of Freya Marske and Alexis Hall.”

Due for release 24th April 2025 from Pan Macmillan, let’s check out the official blurb:

Set in Regency England, a sparkling historical fantasy filled with arcane magic, deadly conspiracies and an irresistible queer romance.

Lord Nicholas Monterris is trapped. The only heir to a declining dukedom, Nic is destined for a marriage of convenience. What he didn’t expect was for his bride to be Lady Leaf Serral, daughter of his father’s hated rivals. Now they must all be locked inside mouldering Monterris Court for the duration of the contract negotiations, along with head negotiator, master vowsmith Dashiell sa Vare—beautiful, perfect Dashiell sa Vare—an old flame Nic has neither forgiven nor forgotten.

What could go wrong?

Only a dead body turning up mere hours after they lock the doors. The first could be an accident, but a second death reveals something sinister is unfolding at Monterris Court, and long-buried secrets begin to surface. As accusations fly, Nic must work with his former lover and his future bride to uncover the killer before they become the next targets.

Perfect for fans of Freya Marske, Alexis Hall, and Bridgerton mixed with magic and murder

Due for release 24th April 2025 from Pan Macmillan – you can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org

And now, let’s check out that cover…

Jacket design by Kieryn Tyler, Pan Macmillan Art Department

Here’s what Rebecca had to say on the cover:

“I adore this cover, it is vivid and daring – exactly the right blend of romance with a hint of danger. Truly everything I hoped it would be and more.”

Rebecca Ide is the pen name of Devin Madson, the Aurealis Award-winning author of In Shadows We Fall. Having given up on reality she is now a dual-wielding rogue with a lot of points sunk into stealth and lock-picking skills. She lives in Australia with no cats and no neighbours and she doesn’t drink coffee.

Exclusive Chapter

“Do you know why he wants to see me?” Nic asked, glancing back at his valet.

“I’m afraid not, my lord.” Rowerre grimaced. “He didn’t send word ahead, but it must be important to bring him from London.”

Nic returned the grimace, attempting to flatten his hair as he walked. “I was afraid you would say that.” He halted at the top of the stairs, where threadbare carpet gave way to stone steps made smooth by the passage of centuries. His father kept his rooms in the oldest part of the house, claiming his personal suite was where King John had stayed six hundred years earlier, which, given how draughty they were, Nic could well believe. “I know it’s probably too late, but you’d best see if I’ve left anything around the place. I don’t need another lecture on the appropriate use of my time.”

“I checked the front rooms when I saw the carriage, but I will look over the rest of the house now.”

“Thank you. Whatever would I do without you?

“It’s nothing, my lord.”

With a bow, Rowerre set off upon his mission, leaving Nic to descend the stairs alone. He’d always hated this part of the house, in part because it was his father’s, but also because the old, central rooms smelled of decay—a smell that managed to be both damp and dusty. Monterris Court had once been a grand, stately manor, but a family history going back to William the Conqueror did not save buildings from collapse. Now it was a sprawling pile, a maze of faded rooms only one wing of which remained habitable. At least the windows here were intact, and no vines were growing in through the cracks in the walls—yet.

At the bottom of the stairs, Nic hid his reluctance with a sharp knock on his father’s study door. Inside, a murmur became a footstep, and after a moment that dragged into eternity, the door opened upon Master Everel’s scowl—a scowl etched upon his face like someone had scratched his features from shadow.

“Ah, you’re here,” he said, the word finally hovering unspoken. Turning, the old vowsmith added, “The young lord is here, Your Grace.”

Young lord. He was sure the man only called him that because Nic hated it.

“Nicholas.” The duke didn’t look up from his papers. He sat at his desk, glaring at a line here, making a mark there—every single thing on the page more important than his son. Nic set a hand on the back of the silk-upholstered chair, unsure if this was the sort of meeting where he was expected to sit, or the sort where his father wanted him out of sight as fast as possible.

Despite the five-day carriage journey from London, the Duke of Vale looked as fresh and precise as ever. The long-sleeved black shirt that marked him as a Brilliant was both starched and fitted, the perfect canvas for a gleaming silk waistcoat in cream and gold, each button a delicately formed dragonfly. Nic had never owned anything so fine and could only soothe his envy with the knowl- edge that his father would soon return to his dull home attire.

“Thank you, Everel, you may go,” the duke said at last, and Nic was grateful the ever-scowling vowsmith wasn’t to be present. Small mercies, the true zest of life.

From a cage on the duke’s lacquered side table, his echo groomed its black and gold feathers, watching Nic with disdain. “You too, eh, Revere?” he muttered.

His father pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

Ah, a sit-down meeting. Nic wished he’d brought wine.

Once Nic had settled on the stiff chair, the duke finally deigned to look up. With no welcoming smile, he stared at Nic through a pair of smoked glasses—glasses in which Nic could see more of his own reflection than his father’s eyes.

“This moment has always been coming,” the duke said. “But I have now finally accepted an offer for your marriage.”

Nic’s stomach sank. Of course this moment had been coming, but with every passing year he had dared to hope a little more— hope his father’s requirements for an acceptable offer were too high to ever be fulfilled.

“Did you hear me, Nicholas?” the duke snapped when Nic made no reply.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. The offer comes from Lord Charborough, negotiating for his eldest daughter, Lady Leaf Serral.”

Nic’s eyes widened. “The Serrals?”

His father’s brows rose above his dark glasses. “You are surprised. You do not think the heir of House Monterris good enough for a daughter of House Serral?”

“I . . .” His father’s brows rose higher and Nic decided honesty was, for once, the best course. “Frankly, I thought you hated the Serrals. Lord Charborough took your seat on the Council.”

From behind those inscrutable glasses his father stared at him and Nic stared back, until the duke shifted in his chair, making its antique joints groan. “He did. And their being on the Royal Council of Magical Guilds makes them impeccable candidates. Lady Leaf also has an acceptable position on the Brilliance Register, and comes with a substantial dowry.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“Sneer all you like, Nicholas, but as a ducal family, we must maintain our fortune above the king’s financial threshold or risk losing everything.” He gestured toward the letters patent hanging in pride of place beside the duke’s favourite pair of pistols— pistols that shone like nothing else in the house. “It may be an old-fashioned practice from a time when dukes protected the empire’s borders, but what is vowed into law cannot be unvowed. As a Monterris, this is your highest responsibility.”

With a small grunt of effort, the duke rose to stare out the window, the paint on its thick ironwork crazed with age. “They want your high magical aptitude and we need their money,” he admitted to the panes. “They have been informed of your preference for men, of course, and so an agreement on how best to ensure children shall form part of the negotiations.”

“How lovely.”

The duke turned from the window, the weak sunlight shimmering on his waistcoat’s golden threads. “You think this is amusing?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. It’s time you grew up and took your responsibilities seriously.”

Grew up. The duke always spoke like Nic was a child who had chosen to remain cooped up in a decaying mansion on the Northumberland moors. Pointing out the truth never helped, yet Nic said, “You could have presented me in town years ago.”

“You know very well your mother could not have spared you, and the estate could not have borne the expense. Now, had you made more of your remarkable magical talents and become a vowsmith, things might have been different. As it is, your choice to waste your time on less worthy pursuits has left us where we are.”

An old complaint, often rehashed. Long before his birth, the Dukes of Vale had spent generations gambling away their grand fortune, and somehow it was Nic’s fault for not becoming a vowsmith.

“Fortunately, being my heir counts for a lot even though you have achieved nothing that would allow me to leverage a greater price for you.”

Price, like he was an animal to be sold at market.

“I did not send for you to argue, however,” the duke went on, returning to his desk. “Rather to let you know that since the announcement has already been made, we now have three weeks to prepare for the lock-in. The old wings will be shut up and the central halls closed off for cleaning and repair. New furnishings will be brought in, and a tailor will be here next week to fit you for a new wardrobe. Master Everel will lead our side of the negotiations, though it is in our favour that they’re to bring Master Vowsmith Dashiell sa Vare. I think—”

His father went on speaking, but Nic’s heart stopped. He hadn’t heard that name for years—a name that conjured a young man long faded from his thoughts, though some memories remained bright and unbreakable. Dashiell’s dark, bronze eyes beneath finely arched brows. His ink-stained hands. The way his lips curved when Nic’s humour drew from him an unwilling smile. He’d been good at making him smile.

“—can negotiate to our best advantage, you must embody your ancient and proud lineage. You must be my son, not your mother’s, for the duration. Do you understand?”

His father looked over the rims of his reflective glasses, the scars around his eyes briefly visible and always disconcerting.

“Yes, sir,” Nic said, glad he could manage as much. Because even had it been worth arguing with the man who owned his entire existence, he could not speak another word while his heart beat so fast. That name. So unexpected at this of all moments.

“Good.” His father took up his quill—a man well satisfied. “Rowerre will prepare your wardrobe, and the servants will clear your rooms. We wouldn’t want any of your . . . oddities being stumbled upon.”

Oddities like his books on conjuring and far-off places, or the table crammed with mechanical trinkets and salvaged mechanisms, or the company currently awaiting Nic’s return. He couldn’t even manage a docile “Yes, sir” this time, not when his memory had betrayed him with a recollection of the all-too-brief occasion Dashiell had lain in that bed.

The duke dismissed him with nothing but a look, and having no desire to stay and no voice with which to object, Nic rose, chair scraping across the floor. His father winced—a small joy in an otherwise painful meeting. Even so, Nic hurried out with more haste than dignity, needing air, needing to think, to remember the young man who had so bewitched his youth without the feeling his father could see inside his head.

Out in the hallway, Nic leaned against the wall and just breathed. It was, for now, all he was capable of.

Dashiell sa Vare. Dashiell Bane-of-His-Existence sa Vare. Dashiell Perfect-in-Every-Way sa Vare. Youngest master vowsmith in three generations. And unless the intervening years had been very unkind to him, owner of the greatest hair ever. What had Nic done to warrant such punishment? Locked in with the Serrals while Dashiell sa Vare inscribed his bloody marriage contract.

Blissful oblivion waited upstairs in the arms of his latest pretty thing, yet no amount of oblivion would let Nic escape just how completely the last ten minutes had changed his world.

Due for release 24th April 2025 from Pan Macmillan – you can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org