A Bride's Guide to Marriage and Murder

Book 5: Countess of Harleigh Mystery

by Dianne Freeman

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Frances Wynn, the American-born Countess of Harleigh, returns in Dianne Freeman's charming, lighthearted mystery series set in Victorian England, and finds her wedding day overshadowed by murder . . .
On the eve of her marriage to George Hazelton, Frances has a great deal more on her mind than flowers and seating arrangements. The Connors and the Doyles, two families of American robber barons, have taken up residence in London, and their bitter rivalry is spilling over into the highest social circles. At the request of her brother, Alonzo, who is quite taken with Miss Madeline Connor, Frances has invited the Connor family to her wedding. Meanwhile, Frances's mother has invited Mr. Doyle, and Frances fears the wedding may end up being newspaper-worthy for all the wrong reasons.
On the day itself, Frances is relieved to note that Madeline's father is not among the guests assembled at the church. The reason for his absence, however, turns out to be most unfortunate: Mr. Connor is found murdered in his home. More shocking still, Alonzo is caught at the scene, holding the murder weapon.
Powerful and ruthless, Connor appears to have amassed a wealth of enemies alongside his fortune. Frances and George agree to put their wedding trip on hold to try and clear Alonzo's name. But there are secrets to sift through, not just in the Doyle and Connor families, but also in their own. And with a killer determined to evade discovery at any cost—even if it means taking another life—Frances's first days as a newlywed will be perilous indeed . .

Release date: June 28, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

London, February 1900

Family, like a rich dessert, is a treat best enjoyed in small portions. One may love it and want to indulge in great quantities, but too much of either can lead to such a noxious experience one might be prompted to avoid it—or them—forever.

Well. Perhaps just my family.

My mother invaded—I mean, arrived—at my home four months ago for my sister’s wedding, then stayed on to plan mine. Since that time, I’d gone from considering elopement to contemplating a move to the Outer Hebrides, but since the Gaelic language eluded me, I stayed home and endured the invasion—I mean, visit, for four months.

Four. Long. Months.

The single refuge left to me were my thoughts. Daydreaming had become my escape. It might appear that I was enjoying breakfast with Mother and Aunt Hetty while they reviewed the final—please let it be the final—list of wedding details, but in my head, I was in the church, saying my vows.

I smiled. The dream would be a reality in a little more than twenty-four hours.

I, Frances Helena, do take thee, George—

“Ahem!”

And just like that, the dining room came back into focus. The altar transformed into the table, draped with a white cloth and littered with handwritten notes and forgotten breakfast plates. The candles that had glowed in my daydream were replaced with the gas chandelier, and the choir turned into rattling china as Mrs. Thompson, my housekeeper, brought in fresh plates.

The reverend’s voice was replaced with my mother’s.

“Do you intend to drink that coffee, Frances, or simply admire it?”

It took another moment before her ice-blue stare came into focus. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been gazing into that cup for at least ten minutes now and haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

That was rather the point.

She drew her brows together. “What’s wrong with you?”

Where to begin? I had a house full of relatives. My mother was organizing my wedding like a military campaign, while I attempted to coordinate a move to my new home during the coldest February in my recollection. And now I’d been distracted from a lovely daydream. Of course, I could tell her none of that.

“Nothing’s wrong.” I pasted on a smile. “What were you saying?”

“I’ve just heard from the florist.” She tossed a note card onto the table. “He can’t manage the pure white roses for the wedding. Now what am I to do?”

I shuddered to think. It was quite possible that poor florist’s head would roll.

Aunt Hetty sought refuge behind the morning paper. I took a long drink of my coffee for fortification. “If they’re the pinkish color, they should be just fine,” I offered. “Rose is wearing pink.” Rose was my eight-year-old daughter and only attendant. She was also the one person Mother didn’t argue with. To her, Rose could do no wrong.

She sighed and sank back into her chair. “I can’t risk the flowers being the wrong shade of white. I’ll have to call at the shop and have a look at them myself.” She gave me a pointed look. “That means I shan’t be able to accompany you to your dress fitting.”

Somewhere in the heavens, a choir of angels sang.

I covered my grin with my cup. An afternoon without Mother’s harping was akin to a miracle. For a few hours, I’d be in control of my own life while she scoured London for the perfect white flowers.

This was my second marriage, so I don’t know that white everything was appropriate, but neither was it worth the argument. Besides, I’d prefer to forget my first marriage. Ten years ago, my mother had orchestrated that one, too. She had even chosen the groom. I’d gone along with her plan, so I can’t really lay all the blame at her door. But Reggie Wynn had been a poor choice. At the time, he was the heir to the Earl of Harleigh and was experiencing financial distress. Thus, he met Mother’s criteria: a man who needed my money and could give me a title. For my part, I was relieved he wasn’t in his dotage, as were many of the eligible aristocrats that season. At thirty-three, he was fifteen years older than I’d been, but he was dashing, and his devil-may-care attitude made him seem much younger.

Rose was the only positive result of that marriage. I was actually surprised by my willingness to try it again, but I had an excellent inducement in George Hazelton. He was the furthest thing possible from Reggie. First and foremost, George loved me, not my money—a good thing since I had very little of it left. He loved my daughter, and we loved him. More importantly, I trusted him. He had a very progressive attitude about women, or at least me. Though George occasionally practiced law, his true profession involved a variety of clandestine assignments for the Crown. That he never spurned my assistance told me I needn’t worry about being left at a crumbling country estate like some unwanted baggage, which was an apt summary of my first marriage.

“Good morning, ladies,” my father said, joining us in the dining room. He and my brother Alonzo had arrived from New York the previous evening. “Alonzo’s still sleeping, is he?” He rounded the table and bussed my cheek before slipping between the back of Mother’s chair and the sideboard to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Franklin,” Mother said, still studying her wedding notes. “You’ve been up for hours. Where were you?”

“In Frankie’s library,” he replied. “I had some cables to send. Your kitchen boy took them to the telegraph office for me. I hope you don’t mind the liberty.”

“This is Aunt Hetty’s house now,” I pointed out. “He works for her.” Since Rose and I were moving to George’s home next door, Hetty had offered to purchase the lease on this snug little house. I couldn’t imagine a better neighbor and was delighted to sell it to her.

Hetty waved a dismissive hand at my father. “Please, make yourself at home.”

“But you are meant to be on holiday, Frankie,” I replied. “Can’t your business wait?” To my siblings, Franklin Price was Father or Papa, but I had never called him anything but Frankie, and he called me the same. After all, I was named for him. It was clear to both of us, we were the only ones who had not grown weary of the affectionate moniker, but it was one of the few things I shared with him. Perhaps the only thing. As a child, I knew the back of his head better than his face since that was my view of him as he left for his office. The last time I saw Frankie was at my previous wedding. I hoped I wouldn’t have to marry a third time in order to see him again.

He pulled out a chair and seated himself between Mother and Aunt Hetty. “Business never waits, my dear.”

Hetty lowered the paper, and I was struck by the image of brother and sister side by side. They could not have looked more alike—thick, dark hair; brown eyes; tall, sturdy build. Frankie now sported a few more lines than I remembered and a face full of whiskers. Aunt Hetty, happily, had neither of those things. Nor did she wear spectacles. Alonzo and I both looked more like our father—tall, regular features, and dark hair, though there was some of my mother’s pertness to my nose and I had her blue eyes.

“Now, remind me,” Frankie continued. “Why won’t Lily be at the wedding? I thought she lived here now.” He took a sip of his coffee and sighed in satisfaction.

Mother gave him a long look, cocking her brow before deigning to answer. “Lily’s father-in-law sent them to France. Her husband is working on”—she waved a hand—“something or other.”

“It’s business, Franklin,” Hetty added. “Since you missed her wedding due to your business, I would have thought you’d approve of her keeping Leo’s nose to the grindstone.”

“I don’t disapprove, but France is not that far away. Just a short trip to attend her sister’s wedding.”

Mother placed a hand over his. “It’s too far for my daughter to travel when she’s with child.”

In truth, Lily had been with child when she married Leo four months ago. Her decision not to attend my wedding was to keep anyone from noticing that her pregnancy was perhaps a bit further along than expected. Once the babe was born, she could claim it was early. I wasn’t sure if my mother was aware of the circumstances.

I certainly hadn’t the nerve to tell her.

“You’d know better than I about that, but I’d hoped to see her. Imagine, Daisy. Our youngest is soon to give us another grandchild.” He pulled off his spectacles to wipe them with the napkin while he studied Mother’s profile. “You look far too young to be a grandmother.”

“Why, thank you, Franklin.” Mother looked positively flustered. Was that a blush?

“I suppose you’ll want to go to her and stay until the child is born,” he added, taking another sip of his coffee and fogging his spectacles once more.

Mother’s smile faded. “Perhaps I will,” she snapped. My gaze flitted between Frankie and Mother. That went wrong quickly.

Aunt Hetty folded down the corner of her newspaper to glance at my father. “Do you know Peter Bainbridge, Franklin?”

Frankie tapped his index finger against the cup he held. “One of the Bonanza Barons. Made his fortune in silver. Now he has a financial interest in nearly everything west of the Mississippi.”

Hetty released a tsk. “I meant personally.”

“I might have met him at a business dinner back in New York,” Frankie said. “Why do you ask?”

“He arrived a few days ago for a visit to his London home. Yesterday someone broke in and vandalized his office.”

“I’ll give you three guesses as to who is responsible for that, and the first two don’t count,” Frankie said. “Does the article lay blame on anyone?”

Hetty lowered the paper. “No, but who else could it be but James Connor? He’s also residing in London at the moment, and I can’t imagine a better suspect.”

“Why James Connor?” I asked.

They both threw me a look of scorn. “Because of the feud,” Hetty said. “Haven’t you heard of it?”

I’d have to be dead not to have heard of it. Both men immigrated to America—Connor from Ireland, Bainbridge from England—many years ago. They had been business partners early in their careers, but had fallen out. Since that time, they’d gone to great lengths to spread shocking and scandalous stories about one another, using the newspapers.

“It’s not by chance they’re both in London. Word is, they’re interested in purchasing the same company,” Frankie said. “Connor is trying to scare Bainbridge off, I’d wager.”

“His office was the only part of the home damaged and nothing was stolen,” Hetty added. “It’s the type of petty act they’ve both participated in. From what little I’ve heard of him, petty describes Connor quite well.”

The truth of her last statement was disheartening. Mrs. Connor was a friend. Her husband, whose fortune was also founded on silver, had a lamentable personality. He was loud, vulgar, and his humor was always at someone else’s expense. As much as I enjoyed Willa Connor’s company, I avoided Mr. Connor whenever possible. Fortunately, he didn’t care for society, so that wasn’t difficult.

“Petty, you call it? It’s a criminal act.” Mother tutted in disgust. “This feud of theirs has everyone in London believing Americans are daft. It’s an embarrassment, and I blame Mr. Connor. The Bainbridges wish to put an end to this constant baiting of one another, but Connor refuses to cease.”

All three of our heads swiveled in her direction. She turned her round, blue eyes on each of us and held up her hands. “What did I say?” She looked as innocent as a china doll, and even more lovely. Her flaxen hair was drawn back from a perfect oval face, devoid of a single wrinkle, blemish, or freckle. She worked very hard to keep it that way. Maintaining her beauty was part of Mother’s very being. Having such intimate knowledge about robber barons like Connor and Bainbridge was not.

“How are you so familiar with the matter?” Hetty asked.

Mother wavered. “I don’t suppose I am, really. The Bainbridges are friends of mine. What I know about this so-called feud, I have heard from them.” She shrugged. “One-sided, I suppose, but they have told me they’d like to call it a draw and have an end to this nonsense.”

My father chuckled and rose to fill a plate at the sideboard. “I imagine they do. That way, Gladys Bainbridge can offer to buy up all the prominent landmarks of Paris and no one will be the wiser.”

Mother gave him a quelling glare. “That was years ago, Franklin. She is not such a rube anymore. I think it’s horrible of Connor to have someone spying on her and reporting her every move to the papers.”

“Everything they do to one another is horrible,” I said. “The newspapers are the sole beneficiaries of this feud. Mr. Connor pays them to publish every foolish thing Mrs. Bainbridge does, while Mr. Bainbridge digs up unsavory details of the Connors’ lives. It wasn’t long ago I read a story about Mrs. Connor’s humble origins. They have a daughter making her debut this season. A story like that might ruin her chances for a good match.” I let out a tsk. “What do these men have against one another?”

Hetty shook her head as she moved to the sideboard for more coffee. I tried my father. “Frankie, do you know?”

“No idea,” he said. “As long as I’ve been aware of their existence, I’ve been aware of the feud. I barely know the men except by reputation, and Connor’s isn’t good. An enormous fortune and a lack of principles is a dangerous combination. I’ve done no business with him and hope I never have to.”

“It may not be business, but you will have to put up with him for one day, at least.” At his inquiring gaze, I continued. “The Connor family is coming to the wedding.”

Hetty, having returned to the table and her newspapers, looked up in surprise. Mother gasped. “You’ve added someone to the guest list? Without consulting me?”

I’d given up reminding Mother this was my wedding. Judging from the look on her face, she saw my inviting the Connors as an egregious act of defiance.

“I added the Connors two weeks ago at Alonzo’s request. You must have missed their names on the guest list.”

“Why on earth would he want them at your wedding?” My mother’s eyes narrowed as suspicion formed. I wished Alonzo had dragged himself out of bed to deliver the news himself.

“I think he’s quite taken with Miss Madeline Connor. They met in New York. She told him she’d be here for the upcoming social season.” I picked up my fork and returned to my now-cold eggs, hoping I’d sounded casual.

“I thought she was here to catch a duke or an earl,” Hetty said. “Someone with a distinguished title.”

“That’s certainly possible. Her father could provide an enormous dowry for some lucky lord. However, as with the Bainbridges, you can’t believe everything you read about the Connors.” I shrugged. “They accepted the invitation.”

Mother grumbled as she rifled through the wedding notes. Probably looking for the seating chart.

My father returned to the table with a full plate and a grim expression. “I must have a chat with Alonzo,” he said. “The girl may have the face of an angel, but her father would be the devil to deal with. He’d do better to find someone else. I don’t even like the idea of that man at your wedding.”

“If you don’t like it now,” Mother said, scribbling on the seating chart, “you’ll positively hate it when I tell you Mr. Bainbridge will be there as well.”

“You invited the Bainbridges?” It must have been after she’d taken over the guest list. It was one thing for me to add to the numbers, but quite another when Mother did. This was my wedding, after all. “This was meant to be a small affair, with close family and friends. I don’t even know them.”

“I suppose you are close friends with the Connors?”

“I’m well acquainted with Willa Connor. Alonzo must have a friendship with Miss Connor. And Graham is hosting the wedding reception at Harleigh House, which happens to be next door to their home. Thus, they are neighbors to my brother-in-law.”

“As if that counts for anything.” Mother lifted her chin. “The Bainbridges are my friends. With Gladys in Paris, Mr. Bainbridge is alone, so I invited him. And a good thing too since you’ve invited an extra lady. Now the numbers will be even.”

“But he doesn’t know the Connors are also attending, does he?” I asked.

“Of course not. I just found out myself.”

My father grinned as he glanced around the table. “Two parties to a feud at your wedding, Frankie. You may well end up with fireworks.”

I set off for my errands that afternoon with a lighter step and my maid, Bridget, cheered by the thought that in one more day, I’d be sailing off to the south of France on a wedding trip with my husband. Ten days alone with George at the luxurious Villa Kasbeck. The owners of the villa, Russian grand duke Michael Mikhailovich Romanov and his wife, Sophie, Countess de Torby, were involved in our last investigation. They felt George and I had done them a service, and I suppose we had, but I was stunned when they’d offered us the use of their home.

Upon our return, I’d live next door to my former house with George. Mother would stay with Aunt Hetty, or return to New York with Frankie and Alonzo, or travel to France as Frankie had suggested, to be with Lily. Whatever her decision, we’d be in separate houses, making for a much better relationship.

Bridget and I alighted from the cab on Bond Street, where despite the heavy gray sky, ladies and gentlemen crowded the pavement, moving briskly from shop to shop while ragged boys with brooms rushed ahead of them to clear their paths of slush, mud, or any other unpleasantries. Our destination was just a few steps away—one of the most expensive dress shops I’d dared to enter since becoming a widow. I’ll confess that while I’ve never been the reckless spendthrift my late husband was, I paid little attention to the price of anything until he was gone, and the bills landed on my desk. That was a gasp-inducing surprise. From that point on, I became utterly parsimonious when replenishing my wardrobe—having gowns restyled, hats refurbished, and only buying new when it was absolutely necessary.

Until now, such a purchase had not been necessary. But Mother had bought my wedding gown, so I felt emboldened to splurge on my going-away dress. I wanted something special. Something new to start my new life. Madame Arquette’s clothing was nothing if not special. I couldn’t wait for this final fitting.

A bell jingled when Bridget opened the door, causing two ladies to glance our way as we stepped inside the cozy receiving room of the shop. Of all people to meet here! Mrs. and Miss Connor. Bridget took my coat and slipped away to join another maid in one of the chairs against the wall, while I approached the ladies with a smile and a “good day.”

“Such a surprise to see you here, Lady Harleigh.” Mrs. Connor spoke with the slow, lilting accent that placed her origins somewhere in America’s South. I’d always wondered where, but then the embarrassing gossip about her background had come out, marking her as working-class before her marriage to Connor ten or so years ago. Though my own family had solid middle-class beginnings, I sensed asking about her past might cause her pain, something I was loath to do. She was a bright, handsome, middle-aged woman, small of stature with dark hair and eyes and currently dressed in a fashionable red suit. Regardless of her history, she seemed to have landed on her feet. Yet she always had a tense look about her, as if she were waiting for the other penny to drop.

“I would have thought you’d be busy preparing for the wedding tomorrow,” she said. “Are there not a hundred things to do?”

“Ah, but this is one of those many things, the final fitting of my going-away gown.”

Madeline Connor perked up at this. “Where are you spending your wedding trip, Lady Harleigh?”

“Cannes, primarily. But I hope to see a bit of the French countryside, too.”

“That sounds lovely.” Mrs. Connor’s face took on a dreamy look. “I’m afraid we’re here for the rest of the winter. Mr. Connor has some business to take care of, and we need to outfit Madeline for the upcoming season.”

“Assuming Papa allows me to have one.” The young woman’s tight lips and the glint in her eye warned of rebellion.

Mrs. Connor, easily four inches shorter than her stepdaughter, reached up to stroke her cascading brown curls. “Your father would not deprive you of a debut. But the season is not all about parties and dancing, you know.” She turned back to me and smiled. “Madeline has a new suitor, and Mr. Connor seems to think he’s prepared to offer for her hand.”

That would be bad news for Alonzo. I schooled my expression so as not to show my disappointment. “Perhaps you should make him wait for an answer, Miss Connor. You may have many suitors once the season begins.”

Mrs. Connor’s brow furrowed as she twisted her fingers together. “Madeline wouldn’t want to cause him any anxiety, would you, dear?”

Before the girl could answer, Madame Arquette stepped up to fetch Mrs. Connor. “I shall be with you in the briefest of moments, Lady Harleigh. We are a bit short of staff this morning.”

“I could not have better company,” I said. Linking my arm through Madeline’s, we moved to a comfortable settee hidden by a table piled high with bolts of sumptuous fabrics. Never one to pry into another’s personal business, I dearly wished to learn the name of her new suitor—for Alonzo’s sake, of course. At eighteen years of age, she looked impossibly young to me, but I tried to see her through my brother’s eyes—heart-shaped face, rosebud lips, half-moon eyes that tipped up at the corners. About average height, she’d come up to Lon’s shoulder and glance up at him through her long eyelashes. Oh, yes, Lon would be lost.

While I struggled for a suitable way to return to the subject of her suitor, Miss Connor took charge of the conversation. “Has your brother arrived in town yet, Lady Harleigh?”

“Yes, he and my father arrived yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Her eyes rounded. “Golly, a spot of foul weather, and they might have missed the wedding altogether. I assumed they’d been here for days now.”

Despite her professed concern, I noticed a small smile. Had she thought Alonzo was in town for days now and not called on her? “Not even one day yet,” I said. “My father was up and about this morning, but Alonzo was still sleeping off the effects of travel.”

“I see.” She turned on her end of the settee, facing forward. Then, with a tip of her head, she glanced at me from under the brim of her hat. “May I speak in confidence?” she asked. “I don’t wish to impose, but because my stepmother mentioned a suitor, I’d like to explain.”

It was as if she’d read my mind. I nodded my encouragement.

“It’s Daniel Fitzwalter.”

Heavens! Her family was aiming high. Viscount Fitzwalter was the first-born son, and heir, of the Marquis of Sudley, a powerful and influential member of the House of Lords. His was an old and lofty title. The only one higher would be that of duke. To top it off, Fitzwalter was young. He’d recently finished his studies at Oxford, so barely over twenty. If she were title-hunting, I’d have offered her a “well done,” but her expression told me she was not pleased with this outcome. Her unhappy face was turned to me. Waiting for a reaction.

“I sense you are less than thrilled with the potential match,” I offered.

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I’m so pleased you understand.”

I blinked. Understand what? She’d told me nothing. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“My father is overjoyed at the mere possibility of such a match, but I have no interest in titles or pomp and circumstance. I hardly know Fitzwalter, but my father is bribing him with an enormous dowry, and I’m worried the viscount will propo. . .