
Today, I'm delighted to welcome Paul Rushworth-Brown to the #HistFicThursdays blog as part his Coffee Pot Book Club's book tour. Today, meet Paul's new book The Lost Voices, and discover your next great read! Read on to enjoy an excerpt from this gripping book!
First of all, let's meet the book...
Some lives pass through history without leaving a trace.
The Lost Voices is a work of historical fiction that brings to light those whose stories were never formally recorded—not because they lacked significance, but because their lives unfolded beyond the reach of power, authorship, and recognition.
This is the story of ordinary people forced into extraordinary circumstances—individuals navigating a rigid social order shaped by obligation, fear, and quiet resistance. Here, survival depends as much on silence as on action, and choices are made not in moments of glory, but in private, under pressure, and with consequences rarely acknowledged.
The novel explores how personal truth is shaped—and sometimes erased—by authority, custom, and the need to endure. What remains are the lives history does not celebrate: the unspoken loyalties, the moral compromises, and the quiet cost of being unheard.
The Lost Voices is an intimate and powerful reflection on what history forgets—and what it leaves behind.
Praise for The Lost Voices:
"Another great work by a very talented author who loves his period works and characters from his great plots. He writes with verve and intent to deliver the imagination something unexpected and greatly appreciated... Brilliant..."
~ Gavin, Readalot Magazine reviewer
The Lost Voices is available via this link.
And here's an excerpt to whet your appetite:
On the Edge of Survival
A man does not always know the moment his life is taken from him. It rarely arrives with warning. More often, it is something he wakes into—already decided.
Robert came to in the darkness. The taste of salt and rot was thick in his throat, and the floor beneath him tilted with the roll of the sea.
A ship.
Rough voices echoed off the wood, muffled by the thick, briny air in the hold.
“Won’t need a horse where he’s goin’…”
Coarse ropes bit into his wrists—tight, the fibres grating skin. No give.
Heavy boots thudded against the timber, the vibrations rattling his bones.
The men stepped back.
A figure moved through the dim light, tricorn hat low, hand resting on the pistol's grip.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
A boot ground against his throat, leather rasping skin and pressing his Adam's apple.
“How do I know you’re tellin’ the truth?”
Robert clawed at the stale air, chest burning for each ragged gasp.
“Smythe… sent me… Leeds… The Nags Head…”
A pause.
Then—
“Slit his throat.”
The knife flashed—cold glint and slicing whoosh—descending toward his neck.
“WAIT! I have jewels!”
Silence.
Everything changed.
Now, let's meet the author:




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