Author Eloisa James on her latest historical romance novel "The Last Lady B"
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Club Calvi caught up with the author called "a reigning queen of romance."
New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James has written nearly 40 historical romances, with millions of copies in print worldwide. She also has had perhaps one of the most interesting day jobs in publishing as a Shakespeare scholar and professor. Mary Calvi talked to James about her latest book, "The Last Lady B." You can listen to their entire conversation on the Club Calvi Podcast
Mary said the Last Lady B in the book, Genevieve, is feisty, brave, and wry, and that James has put her in quite the predicament.
"I decided to make a little change from all those novels I've written because, to be honest, if you put me in a prison cell, I could write a regency romance in a ballroom," James replied. "You'd have to give me a laptop, but I could even do it by hand."
"The Last Lady B" is different from the dozens of other romances James has written.
"This one is a little gothic," James explained. "I have a tiny bit of a ghost. I have a haunted abbey. My heroine is married to an elderly man who has had three dead wives."
Genevieve, also known as Evie, is a proper lady. Her new husband takes her to his house, a converted abbey in the Scottish Highlands.
"The first thing she does on the way up to Scotland is adopt a piglet," James explains. "It's a way for her to come into her own, actually becoming a person who doesn't care about what is proper. Her husband says that's a very vulgar pet. And she's like, up yours."
James says "The Last Lady B" is the first book she's written in first person.
"Rather than me describing what's going on, like she did this and he did that, I had to write it in Evie's point of view. That was a lot harder," Hames said.
Mary noted that there's a thread of Shakespeare throughout "The Last Lady B." James is a scholar of Shakespeare, and taught the subject at Fordham University in New York City for years. She recently left as Chair of the university's English department and is now writing full time.
Mary asked James about the secret to her success. James credited that she keeps challenging herself.
"This is not the first time I've pivoted in my career. I've tried all kinds of things. I've been lucky in that I've had a job which means that I never depended on Eloisa money. That meant that I could try new things. Some of my books have failed utterly. But the books readers didn't like, I will get letters from someone saying this is the book that saved my life. This is the book my mother loved so I read it aloud to her in hospice. Every book finds its audience as long as you are not calling it in," James said.
James has been a presence on social media with a number of videos going viral, especially the video about Taylor Swift's song "The Fate of Ophelia." There's a character named Ophelia in "The Last Lady B."
"People are like, that's not exactly what the play is," James said. "That's not the point. The point is you have an incredibly brilliant person come along and offer an interpretation. Shakespeare's plays are open for those interpetations."
You can read an excerpt and get the book below.
Club Calvi books may contain adult themes.
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"The Last Lady B" by Eloisa James
From the publisher:
In the depths of winter, Lady Genevieve Hughes, her pet piglet, and her septuagenarian husband travel to a haunted abbey in the Scottish Highlands. Evie is excited to meet a ghost (perhaps one of her husband's three previous wives), but didn't expect the funny, quirky guests to become the friends she's never had. And she certainly didn't imagine meeting Sir Godric Everly, a sardonic, witty solicitor who loathes her husband.
Yet as secrets and lies turn Evie's world upside down, Sir Godric becomes the one person whom she can trust.
When ghosts, multiple wills, and a shocking marriage certificate bring Lord Burnsby's past crashing into his present, Burnsby promptly dies, leaving Evie free to remarry…though as a virgin wife, now a virgin widow, she is more unnerved by the marriage bed than a spectral visit.
More importantly, she has to figure out whose identity is false, whose vows are dishonorable, whose truths could destroy her reputation—and where her heart belongs.
Eloisa James lives in New York City and Florence, Italy.
"The Last Lady B" by Eloisa James (ThriftBooks) $16
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Excerpt: "The Last Lady B" by Eloisa James
Prologue
London
May 2, 1805
(I'm taking the liberty of beginning with a conversation that happened seven months ago, so consider yourself warned.)
"Lord Burnsby? A nasty old goat with three dead wives? He's older than I am. For God's sake, Genevieve, three dead wives." My father's cheeks had turned the color of a raspberry.
I sighed.
True, Burnsby was no one's dream husband. He was close to seventy, with the weak jaw displayed by many of my countrymen. Yet since I couldn't imagine feeling passionate about any man, his advanced age and chinless state were irrelevant.
Belying my aristocratic upbringing, I am both cynical and blunt. My sister, Rosie, to the contrary, has her heart set on a blue-eyed husband who will fall deeply in love after their first waltz. Rich and titled goes without saying.
Yet neither of us has a dowry.
Having waltzed (and flirted) with many a blue-eyed bachelor who subsequently married for money, I couldn't bear the idea of my dreamy sister debuting in gowns that weren't elegant enough, in gloves that had been mended, in slippers worn thin.
Without a dowry and—ipso facto—without suitors. Real ones, anyway.
"Being dead, Burnsby's wives are irrelevant," I informed my father. I paused and then told him the truth. "His lordship has promised to dower Rosie."
My father's groan evoked an unhappy Hamlet. "How shall I survive the disgrace of another man dowering my daughter!"
"No one has to know the source," I offered. "The dowry will allow her to marry the man of her choice."
"Our bloodline and her beauty should be enough!"
After a moment, my silence reminded my father (Sir William Sutton) that bloodlines and beauty had failed me, since three years on the marriage mart had resulted in Burnsby's proposal.
"You're selling yourself," Father moaned, as if the trade in women wasn't a fact of life. Aristocratic life, anyway. "Giving up on love!"
"I prefer to think of it as bartering." I left the question of love to the side. My years in polite society had disappointed but not surprised me, whereas Rosie would be crushed when no adoring husband materialized.
"You shouldn't have to worry about Rosie," Father said, humiliation writ large on his face. He wasn't a gambler or a drunkard, by the way. He simply didn't have any money.
For the last few days, I'd lain awake in my bed, agonizing—until I snapped and sent a message to Burnsby. He may be old, but he seemed gentle and supportive. Plus, he didn't require me to entertain him. With no more encouragement than a nod and a smile, he would happily monologue on the state of the world.
I was sick of charming younger men in the hope they would look past my shabby gloves and sweep me away to a new life. Burnsby had promised not just Rosie's dowry, but an entirely new wardrobe fit for his wife.
(Did I negotiate these unromantic details? Yes, I did. Observation has taught me that men require advance warning of their responsibilities, preferably in writing.)
"You're making a mistake, Genevieve," my father warned, wagging his finger. "Burnsby is too old to father children."
"Luckily, he is content with the heir he already has." My father frowned, so I went for the killing stroke. "Frankly, imagining a wedding night makes me want to vomit."
(Remember I said I was blunt? I am blunt.)
My father's mouth fell open. "No lady enjoys bedding her husband. Damme, I shouldn't have to explain that. Don't think about it!"
"Lord Burnsby has purchased a special license," I informed my father. "We plan to marry this morning, after which we'll travel to his Scottish estate." Then I added, "Before leaving the city, we will stop by his solicitor to finalize my sister's dowry, my jointure, and my pin money."
My father was wringing his hands, a curiously vulnerable gesture. Being English nobility, we weren't given to displays of affection, but I came closer and kissed his cheek. "It's not your fault."
"Your mother would be so unhappy," he said, sighing like a teapot on the boil.
"She would be pleased for Rosie," I pointed out. "Next year, when we return to London for the Season, I shall introduce Rosie to society from Burnsby House."
"Don't marry him, Genevieve! Any man might lose a wife or even two—just look at your mother, dying in childbirth—but three? That's not chance or carelessness. It's unnatural."
I patted him on the shoulder, which didn't help.
"People say all three of his wives were murdered," he bleated.
"I've given that gossip serious consideration."
"And?"
"Burnsby would consider homicide unbefitting his rank and presume the world would rearrange itself to his wishes. If he wanted to rid himself of a spouse, he would expect a slippery staircase to do the job for him."
My father gulped down the rest of his whiskey.
(Well, now you're all caught up. That's how I dowered my sister, married a baron, and moved to Scotland.)
Copyright © 2026 by Eloisa James, Inc. from the The Last Lady B, published by Gallery Books a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Used with permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.