Winter’s Season by R.J. Koreto unfolds against a city shaped by wealth, secrecy, and social division. The story follows a man whose work places him at the fault lines of power and danger, where private lives intersect with public consequence and justice is anything but assured.
When a young woman of means is found murdered, the crime sends quiet shockwaves through a society invested in keeping its truths hidden. Captain Winter is drawn into the case not because it is public, but because it is dangerous to ignore. A former soldier hardened by war, Winter now serves as Whitehall’s discreet emissary, navigating influence and violence without the protection of formal law.
His investigation forces him into uneasy alliances. A nobleman from his youth grants access to elite circles, while a brilliant Jewish physician brings insight grounded in careful observation rather than assumption. The case takes a more perilous turn with the return of Barbara Lightwood, a former lover whose intelligence and social reach place her close to information Winter cannot obtain elsewhere. Her refusal to fully share what she knows reopens unresolved history and clouds Winter’s judgment at the moment he can least afford it.
As the truth reaches further than anyone dares admit, Winter must confront both the crime and the personal cost of pursuing justice alone.
R.J. Koreto has been a merchant seaman, book editor, journalist and novelist. He was born and raised in New York City and decided to be a writer after reading “The Naked and the Dead.” He and his wife have two grown daughters and divide their time between Rockland County, N.Y., and Martha’s Vineyard, Mass. Visit R.J. at his website and on Facebook and Instagram.
Excerpt
The captain said goodbye to his colonel and a few other officers, and the butler saw him out. He walked to the nearest stand and engaged a hackney cab to Bow Street Court. A few heads turned as he entered the building, but no one accosted him. A clerk gave him the barest nod but said nothing as he entered a room.
A few minutes later, the captain came out. He was no longer in his regimentals, but in rather shabby outfit, almost rural, with a slouch hat. Down the hall, he entered another room, where a squad of Bow Street Runners awaited—constables, employed by the local court at Bow Street, to keep order and seize felons. Winter suppressed a grimace. They were poorly trained and poorly paid, but it was pretty much all London had for law enforcement. Many still thought the idea of a formal professional constabulary too much government interference—too un-English. So, the Runners would have to do. At least they were willing and obedient.
“We have already gone over where you should be standing,” said the captain. “You know how important it is you aren’t seen.” There was more than instruction in his voice—there was menace.
“Yes, sir,” said the most senior constable present.
“Then take your places. I’ll be along shortly.”
Moving quickly, he left the building and walked along dark streets that became progressively dirtier and more dangerous. He saw men hiding in the shadows, those who preyed on the weak and unaware, but nothing happened to him.
Eventually he came to a building that was well-lit, at least by the neighborhood standards. It was certainly the noisiest venue in the street. The cracked and faded sign marked it as The Three Bells.
The Captain entered—a few were eating off dirty plates, and almost everyone was drinking beer, or something stronger. Slatternly women laughed and tried to slip away from the half-drunk men who loudly pursued them. Some allowed them- selves to be caught, and there was more laughter and then a talk of money. The whole room smelled of smoke and grease, and the floor was sticky from weeks of spilled ale.
Few paid attention to the captain, but a fat man walked up to him surprisingly quickly for someone of his bulk.
“Oh captain, I am so pleased, do you think—”
“Shut up. Where’s Sally? She was suitable last night, and she’ll be suitable tonight.”
“Sally—oh there she is.” He pointed to a tallish girl wearing more makeup than an actress. A large man in worker’s clothes, probably a stevedore, thought the cap- tain, had grabbed her and placed her on his lap. She didn’t seem to mind.
The captain strode over, grabbed the woman by her wrist, and pulled her off the man’s lap.
“Come, my girl, we have an appointment as you well know.”
She yelped with surprise, then gave a shrug and followed. The large man stood up.
“See here—I saw her first,” he said. His accent wasn’t London, which explained everything.
“Good for you,” said the Captain, and pulled the girl across the room. The big man started to follow, but two of his friends grabbed him.
“Now Jake, no need to cause trouble,” said the first, who was clearly local.
“Cause trouble? I’ll flatten him—” “No, you won’t. You don’t know, you’re new here. For God’s sake, that’s the Captain, a soldier, they say he was, and you don’t want to start something with him—I’ve seen what happens to those who do—”
“That’s right,” chimed in the other friend, also a Londoner. “Remember Big Nick—used to be here, no one stood up to him, but he challenged the Captain…” he shuddered.
“And what happened?” asked a skeptical Jake. Both men look their heads.
“We never saw him again. He wasn’t arrested. They didn’t find his body—he was just…gone. So just stop thinking about it. There are plenty of other girls.”
But Jake still felt he had to make a show of standing up for himself. “So, you’re telling me it would be a mistake to call him out?”
“Your last mistake,” said the first man. Then very softly, as if he was afraid of his words, he said, “He’s called Winter. If you’re thinking of staying in this part of London, you would do well to remember that name.”
From the author
“Every generation thinks it invented sex” is a quote attributed to science fiction writer Robert Heinlein. That becomes the fun part of historical fiction! I write mysteries, but I typically have a romantic subplot, and I enjoy imagining what love affairs were like at different times.
In Winter’s Season, my latest book, army veteran Captain Winter investigates crimes in Regency-era London. He’s a ladies man—a type very much around today! But the cultural differences of the time put restrictions on how any romance could proceed. Winter comes from a modest background, but his bravery in the face of an accident elevated him to the gentry. We don’t think about this much anymore: Catherine, Princess of Wales, did not come from royalty or even the aristocracy.
But this is 1817, and Winter’s love life is as unmoored as his social position. His landlady introduces him to her farmgirl niece, Charity. They share a background, and when she shows some shrewd insights into his personality, it looks like this romance is going somewhere. But she knows Winter’s closest friend is an earl, and she is a woman who makes preserves and helps cows give birth. She bursts into tears just imagining if she married Winter: trying to fit in at a dinner presided over by a Regency-era countess.
It doesn’t work well at the other end either: As part of his investigations, Winter wrangles an invitation to the most elegant ball of the London Season. Darkly handsome, he catches the eye of more than one debutante. Lady Mary Salmonberry is entranced by him and can’t stop blushing in his presence. But Winter knows it cannot go further. “Mothers sent their daughters here to find an appropriate husband. And that won’t be someone of my background.”
The world changes, however. I wrote a novel that takes place partly at the end of World War I and into the early 1920s. What separates the classes now?
In this book, we have another earl and another commoner: A military nurse and one of her patients fall in love at an army field hospital. On the wards, there is nothing to indicate that he is an aristocrat and that she is the daughter of a bookkeeper. Those distinctions, I found as I researched, started falling apart under the Kaiser’s guns. They never disappeared entirely—they’re still around—but the lines blurred.
And so, the nurse and the earl marry after the armistice. A friend visits them in the 1920s and the new countess opens the door to admit him, being the first countess to do that herself. No butler? No footman? Of course not: they were all dead on Flanders Field. Unlike Captain Winter’s farmgirl, the nurse fits right into the manor house. She doesn’t have to worry about presiding over elaborate dinner parties and slipping into elaborate dresses; those are all in the past. And no one has to teach the nurse-turned-countess how to open the door herself.
Love has not changed. But the new world makes it a lot easier to manage. And at the end of the day, that’s what I like about writing historical fiction: placing emotions like love, which never changes, into the context of a world that changes radically and frequently.
One final word: love comes in all forms. In an Edwardian-era series I wrote, I introduced two young women. They are close friends—indeed, they love each other. They have independent incomes and are not looking for husbands. At the end of the book, for companionship, they buy a house where they can live together
“Umm…are they lesbians?” asked my editor.
“They love each other, and that’s enough,” I said. Were they lesbians? I don’t know and I’m the author. When it comes to love, even my fictional characters deserve some privacy.
