{"product_id":"the-lily-of-ludgate-hill-isbn-9780593337189","title":"The Lily of Ludgate Hill","description":"\u003cb\u003eA BookBub Best Romance of Winter 2024!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFortune favors the bold—but is a confirmed spinster daring enough to loosen the reins and accept a favor from the wicked gentleman who haunts her dreams?\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLady Anne Deveril doesn’t spook easily. A woman of lofty social standing known for her glacial beauty and starchy opinions, she’s the unofficial leader of her small group of equestriennes. Since her mother’s devastating plunge into mourning six years ago, Anne voluntarily renounced any fanciful notions of love and marriage. And yet, when fate puts Anne back into the entirely too enticing path of Mr. Felix Hartford, she’s tempted to run…right into his arms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one understands why Lady Anne withdrew into the shadows of society, Hart least of all. The youthful torch he once held for her has long since cooled. Or so he keeps telling himself. But now Anne needs a favor to help a friend. Hart will play along with her little ruse—on the condition that Anne attend a holiday house party at his grandfather’s country estate. No more mourning clothes. No more barriers. Only the two of them, unrequited feelings at last laid bare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally free to gallop out on her own, Anne makes the tantalizing discovery that beneath the roguish exterior of her not-so-white knight is a man with hidden depths, scorching passions—and a tender heart.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Mimi Matthews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No one writes Victorian romance like Mimi Matthews, and her Belles of London series just keeps getting better! No-nonsense Lady Anne has renounced marriage and devoted herself to two things—her band of equestrienne friends, and her widowed mother still locked in deepest crepe-veiled mourning. But a dashing former suitor blasts back into Anne's shuttered world bringing passion and change in his wake, and Anne must decide if she will embrace life or remain safe in her chrysalis. \u003ci\u003eThe Lily of Ludgate Hill\u003c\/i\u003e made me smile from beginning to end.\"—Kate Quinn, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“Mimi Matthews never disappoints, with richly drawn characters and couples whose individual shortcomings become strengths, when paired together. In this \u003ci\u003eBeauty and the Beast\u003c\/i\u003e retelling, we get to root for two underdogs who get to rewrite their own stories.”—Jodi Picoult, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author on \u003ci\u003eThe Belle of Belgrave Square\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Shiveringly Gothic…Watching Julia blossom away from prying eyes is almost as satisfying as seeing Jasper Blunt pine for her from nearly the first page…For best effect, save this one for a windy night when trees scrape against the windowpanes.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003eon \u003ci\u003eThe Belle of Belgrave Square\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A rare treat to enjoy and savor. Highly recommended!”—Kate Pearce, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author on \u003ci\u003eThe Siren of Sussex\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“Mimi Matthews just doesn’t miss. \u003ci\u003eThe Belle of Belgrave Square\u003c\/i\u003e is exquisite; a romance that delivers the perfect balance of passion, tension, and tender moments.”—Evie Dunmore, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve long been a devoted fan of Mimi Matthews, and with \u003ci\u003eThe Lily of Ludgate Hill\u003c\/i\u003e, the delightful continuation of her Belles of London series, my admiration of her work has only increased. Her command of historical detail is faultless…I loved Anne and Hart, was instantly and completely consumed by their tangled past and seemingly impossible future.”—Jennifer Robson, international bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Coronation Year\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mimi is truly a national treasure. All of her books are filled with such delicious chemistry and heart, and her writing is superb. This one is another winner. Highly recommend.”—Isabel Ibañez, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWhat the River Knows\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mimi Matthews is a master at combining rich, historical detail with an emotionally tender love story. Watching Anne come into her own while Hart’s long denied flame for her nearly burns him alive was absolutely delightful. I loved \u003ci\u003eThe Lily of Ludgate Hill \u003c\/i\u003eand I hope this series never ends.”—Harper St. George, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger I Wed\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is truly a wonder how Matthews can consistently craft fresh romances featuring unique, multidimensional characters who face huge obstacles to their relationships.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A poignant portrait of the destabilizing effects of loss and the strength in forging a new life with the help of loved ones…Historical romance fans are sure to be moved.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An engaging series installment offering a second chance at love to a spunky heroine and a hero with hidden depths.\"—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Richly detailed and emotionally tender\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003ci\u003eUSA Today \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author \u003cb\u003eMimi Matthews\u003c\/b\u003e writes both historical nonfiction and award-winning Victorian romances. Her novels have received starred reviews in \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Kirkus\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e, and her articles have been featured on the Victorian Web, the \u003ci\u003eJournal of Victorian Culture\u003c\/i\u003e, and in syndication at \u003ci\u003eBUST Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e. In her other life, Mimi is an attorney. She resides in California with her family, which includes an Andalusian dressage horse, a miniature poodle, a Sheltie, and two Siamese cats.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLondon, England\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJune 1862\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLady Anne Deveril flattered herself that she had many outstanding qualities. Chief among them was her willingness to do anything for a friend. And Julia Wychwood was her best friend in the whole world. She had been thus ever since the pair of them had endured a first season together; two unwilling wallflowers-one in unrelieved black and one in overflounced blue-left to languish, unadmired, at the back of every fashionable ball, society musicale, and amateur theatrical on offer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne disappointing season had followed another in rapid succession. Three altogether. It had only served to strengthen the bond Anne and Julia shared. No longer wallflowers, they were comrades-in-arms. Fellow horsewomen. Sisters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, for Julia, Anne would do anything, even face the devil himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTucking her folded copy of the Spiritualist Herald more firmly under her arm, she marched up the freshly swept stone steps of the Earl of March's stately town house in Arlington Street and firmly applied the brass knocker to the painted door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLord March was no devil, but he was currently housing one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door was promptly opened by a young footman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good morning,\" Anne said briskly. \"Be so good as to inform his lordship that Lady Anne Deveril is here to see him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe footman didn't question her identity. Indeed, he appeared to recognize her. And why not? She was herself an earl's daughter, and one of some notoriety thanks to the conduct of her famously eccentric mother. A widowed countess couldn't garb herself entirely in black for years on end, traipsing about the city to consort with crystal gazers and mediums, without drawing some degree of attention to herself. Anne had long accepted that she must bear some guilt by association.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, my lady.\" The footman stepped back for her to enter. \"If you would care to wait in the library, I shall see if his lordship is at home.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course he was at home; in his greenhouse, no doubt. Anne had little intention of actually seeing the man. She nevertheless permitted the footman to show her into the earl's spacious library while he trotted off to find his elderly master.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe twin fragrances of pipe smoke and parchment met her nose. Lemon polish, too, though there was no sign that the maids had done any recent tidying up. The library was a place of spectacular clutter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBookcases lined three of the walls; leather-bound volumes on botany, agriculture, and natural history were pulled out at all angles as if an absent-minded researcher had wandered from shelf to shelf withdrawing tomes at random only to change his mind midway through extracting them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe fourth wall was entirely covered in framed sketches of flowers and greenery. Some images were produced in pencil and others in delicately rendered watercolor. They were-along with the teetering stacks of botanical journals and drooping maps that spilled over the sides of the earl's carved mahogany desk-evidence of his prevailing passion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLord March's love of exotic plants was legendary. He'd spent much of his life traveling the globe, from the wilds of America to the highest peaks of the Himalayas, bringing back rare seeds to nurture into bloom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA distracted fellow at the best of times, but a kind one, too, as far as Anne recalled. It had been a long time since she'd darkened his doorstep. A lifetime, it felt like.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe tugged restlessly at her black kid-leather gloves as she paced the worn carpet in front of the library's cavernous marble fireplace. She'd never excelled at waiting for unpleasantness to arrive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFortunately, she didn't have to wait long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hello, old thing.\" A familiar deep voice sounded from the library door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnne spun around, her traitorous heart giving an involuntary leap in her breast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMr. Felix Hartford stood in the entryway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. Lord only knew how long he'd been observing her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stiffened. After all these years, he still had the power to discompose her. Drat him. But she wouldn't permit her emotions to be thrown into chaos by his attractive face and figure. What cared she for his commanding height? His square-chiseled jaw? For the devilish glint in his sky-blue eyes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd devil he was. The very one she'd come here to see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hartford,\" she said. Her chin ticked up a notch in challenge. It was a reflex. There was no occasion on which they'd met during the course of the past several years that they hadn't engaged in verbal battle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time, however, he made no attempt to engage her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was dressed in plaid trousers and a loose-fitting black sack coat worn open to reveal the dark waistcoat beneath. A casual ensemble, made more so by the state of him. His clothes were vaguely rumpled, and so was his seal-brown hair. It fell over his brow, desperately in need of an application of pomade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was an air of arrested preoccupation about him, as if he'd just returned from somewhere or was on his way to somewhere. As if he hadn't realized she was in the library and had come upon her quite by chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn unnatural silence stretched between them, void of their typical barb-filled banter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreetings dispensed with, Anne found herself at an unaccountable loss. More surprising still, so did Hartford.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe remained frozen on the threshold, his usually humorous expression turned to stone on his handsome face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt length, he managed a smile. \"I knew one day you'd walk through my door again. It only took you\"-withdrawing his pocket watch from his waistcoat, he cast it a brief glance, brows lifting as if in astonishment at the time-\"seven years to do it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe huffed. \"It hasn't been seven years.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Six and half, then.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSix years and five months, more like.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had been early December of 1855, during the Earl of March's holiday party. She'd been just shy of seventeen; young and naive and not formally out yet. Hartford had kissed her under a sprig of mistletoe in the gaslit servants' hallway outside the kitchens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd he'd proposed to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Anne refused to think of the past. Never mind that, living in London, reminders of it were daily shoved under her nose. \"You're not going to be difficult, are you?\" she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That depends.\" He strolled into the room. \"To what do I owe your visit?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Presumptuous, as always,\" she said. \"For all you know, I'm here to see your grandfather.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHartford was the only child of the Earl of March's second son-the late (and much lamented) moralist Everett Hartford. Anne well remembered the man. He'd been as straitlaced and starchy as a vicar. Rather ironic, really, given his son's reputation for recklessness and irreverence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"My grandfather is in his greenhouse,\" Hartford said, \"elbow deep in chicken manure. If it's him you've come to speak with, you're in for a long wait.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe suppressed a grimace. There was no need for him to be crass. \"Really, Hartford.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Really, my lady.\" He advanced into the room slowly, his genial expression doing little to mask the fact that he was a great towering male bearing down on her. \"Why have you come?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnne held her ground. She wasn't afraid of him. \"I've come to ask a favor of you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis mouth curled up at one corner. \"Better and better.\" He gestured to a stuffed settee upholstered in Gobelins tapestry. \"Pray sit down.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe nimbly sidestepped him to sink down on the cushioned seat. The skirts of her black carriage gown brushed his leg as she passed, silk bombazine sliding against fine wool in an audible caress of expensive fabric.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer pulse thrummed in her throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe daren't look at him, instead focusing on the business at hand with renewed vigor. Withdrawing her copy of the Spiritualist Herald from beneath her arm, she smoothed the wrinkled pages out onto her lap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe remained standing by the fireplace. \"What do you have there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"First things first.\" She forced her gaze to meet his. \"You've doubtless heard of Captain Blunt's abduction of Miss Wychwood?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis brow creased. \"Abduction? That's quite a charge.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Do you dispute it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I haven't enough of the facts to do so. Still-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Allow me to enlighten you.\" She sat rigidly on the settee, the dire facts of her friend's unfortunate situation putting steel in her spine. \"Captain Blunt, an ex-soldier of dubious fame, has spirited away a vulnerable heiress and married her against the advice of her friends and her family, possibly against her own will. If that's not a crime-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He's a war hero,\" Hartford said, as if that excused everything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He's a villain,\" Anne countered. \"He stole her from her sickbed. Did you know that? Quite literally carried her away from her parents' house in Belgrave Square and conveyed her to his haunted estate in the wilds of Yorkshire, just like some rogue in a penny novel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Miss Wychwood's circumstances were far from ideal. And I'm a little acquainted with Blunt. Granted, he's somewhat rough around the edges, but she had no objection to him, not on the few occasions I saw them together. Given that, your conclusions are hasty at best.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't require you to validate them. Miss Wychwood is my friend, not yours. It's my duty to see that she's all right. I won't rest until I can assure myself of the fact.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA shadow of irritation ghosted over his usually humorous countenance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnne had observed the expression before. \"You don't approve of my friends.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As ever, you presume to read my mind.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm not reading your mind. I'm reading your face. And anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't care what you think of my friends.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHartford's jaw tightened imperceptibly. \"Shall I tell you what I think?\" He didn't wait for her to answer. \"You use your friends as a shield.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe scoffed. \"I most certainly don't.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You travel with them in a pack-a pack that grows with every passing season.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe opened her mouth to object, but Hartford plowed on, unconcerned with her protestations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"First there was only Miss Wychwood,\" he said. \"Then there was Miss Hobhouse. And now Miss Maltravers.\" His smile turned wry. \"The Four Horsewomen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, yes, it's quite diverting, I'm sure.\" To someone with a pea brain, she added silently.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour Horsewomen indeed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough Anne supposed it was preferable to the tired epithet he'd previously used. Until Miss Maltravers had arrived in London, Hartford had been calling Anne and her friends the three Furies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not diverting,\" he said. \"Merely interesting. I wonder why you need their protection.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer chin went up another notch. \"I'm here, aren't I? Unescorted. Unprotected.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe hadn't had much choice in the matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJulia was somewhere in Yorkshire, a prisoner of the evil Captain Blunt. Evelyn Maltravers was in Sussex awaiting the arrival of her beau, Mr. Malik. And Stella Hobhouse-dear Stella!-was presently cloistered with her dour clergyman brother in George's Street. Newly returned from accompanying him to an ecumenical conference in Exeter, she'd been tasked with transcribing his mountain of notes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot that Stella would have understood Anne's reasons for calling at the Earl of March's residence. When it came to Felix Hartford, Anne preferred to hold her secrets close. Nothing good could come of sharing them, not even with her dearest friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Unwise of you,\" Hartford said. \"You should have at least brought a maid.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"To visit an aged family friend? Your grandfather is no threat to my reputation. That's why I asked for him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In hopes that I'd show up eventually?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You always do where I'm concerned.\" The words were tantamount to an accusation. Anne's stomach trembled a little to say them aloud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis smile faded. \"What do you want of me, my lady?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What I want,\" she said, \"is for you to write something very particular in the next column you publish in the Spiritualist Herald.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stilled. A look of uncommon alertness flickered at the back of his eyes. \"I don't have a column in the Spiritualist Herald.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nonsense,\" she said. \"Of course you do. You have columns in several publications. The Spiritualist Herald, the Weekly Heliosphere, Glendale's Botanical Bi-Monthly. I could go on.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're mistaken.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm not. You're Mr. Drinkwater, aren't you? And Mr. Bilgewater, and Mr. Tidewater. You know, you really should diversify your pseudonyms-and your turn of phrase. It's recognizable to anyone who knows you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis gaze sharpened, holding hers with an air of unmistakable challenge. \"And you know me, do you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Regrettably,\" she said, \"I do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt took a great deal to shake Hart’s good-humored equanimity. He prided himself on his ability to see the absurd in every situation. No matter if it hurt him. No matter if it broke his heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut today was no ordinary day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd been up since before dawn broke, attending to yet another remnant of his late father's distasteful legacy. An unknown legacy as far as society was aware. Hart wished he might have been spared the knowledge of it as well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere had been no chance of that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis own mother had unloaded the burden onto his shoulders, confessing every sordid detail from her deathbed nine years ago. Hart had been only twenty at the time, poorly equipped to face the reality his mother's dying words had wrought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLack of readiness hadn't alleviated his responsibilities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis father had left him scant money or property. Only a small sum in the three percents and a remote, ramshackle estate in Somersetshire that cost more in repairs than it ever generated in income. But what Everett Hartford's legacy lacked in material concerns it had more than made up for in hidden scandal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHart had begun to view his father's secret life as the many-headed Hydra of mythology. Nothing was ever fully resolved. Just when he'd lopped off one of the sea serpent's poisonous heads, two more grew in its place. He was tired of it and, after this morning's events, quite tempted to wash his hands of the business once and for all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLady Anne Deveril was the last person he wanted to see at the moment. And, rather paradoxically, the person his heart most yearned to speak with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut not about his family's past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd not about her family's, either. It was a past her mother seemed to cling to with increasing determination. Anne clung to it, too, in her way, a willing victim to Lady Arundell's obsession with the dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs usual, she was clad in lusterless black bombazine. An aggravating sight, though her mourning gown was one of impeccable cut. It molded to her delicate frame, the tightly fitted bodice, with its long row of dainty jet buttons, emphasizing her narrow waist and the lush curve of her bosom. Full skirts swelled over her hips in a voluminous sweep of fabric that made the most sensuous sound, rustling over her layers of petticoats and crinoline, when she moved.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304659833061,"sku":"NP9780593337189","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593337189.jpg?v=1767740244","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-lily-of-ludgate-hill-isbn-9780593337189","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}