A Daughter's Guide to Mothers and Murder

Book 8: Countess of Harleigh Mystery

by Dianne Freeman

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Mystery

Synopsis

In the latest USA Today bestselling, Victorian Era-set Countess of Harleigh Mystery from multi-award winning author Dianne Freeman, Frances Hazelton and her husband, George, uncover the secrets of backstage Paris to find out who’s acting the role of a killer to chilling perfection…

Frances and George are enjoying some well-deserved leisure time in Paris when an old acquaintance from London, Alicia Stoke-Whitney, seeks Frances’s help to investigate a personal matter. Alicia’s daughter is being courted by Carlson Deaver, a wealthy American shadowed by a very suspicious tragedy.

Less than a year ago, Carlson’s wife, a former actress, was murdered, her body discovered in one of the more dubious quartiers in Paris. Though authorities guess it was a robbery gone wrong, no one was ever brought to justice. Until Daniel Cadieux, Inspector for the Sûreté, follows a startling new lead. None other Sarah Bernhardt, legendary icon of the Paris stage, receives a piece of jewelry stolen from the victim, along with an incriminating note: I know what you did.

It opens a new door for the Hazeltons’ investigation, as well. But not a soul believes that the Divine Sarah would become entangled in something so disreputable as murder—even if she and the late Mrs. Deaver did have a history of theatrical clashes. Amid questions of revenge, blackmail, scandals, and secrets, more poisoned pen letters follow, and suspects abound. Now it’s up to Francis and George to infiltrate the most elite social circles of Paris, and find a culprit before another victim faces their final act.

Release date: June 24, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Paris, September 23, 1900

“If this isn’t the good life, then I don’t know what is.” Patricia Kendrick, the hostess of our picnic, raised her wine glass as if toasting everyone in the park. “What an exquisite day to be out enjoying nature!”

“Indeed, it’s hard to believe we are still in Paris,” I said. Our picnic site was an open meadow alongside Lac Inferieur in the midst of the natural beauty of the Bois de Boulogne, one of the largest parks in Paris. I was half turned away from our table so I could watch the rowers work their way out to the two tiny islands in the middle of the lake. Now that I thought about it, those islands were man-made. In fact, if I was not mistaken, so were the lakes. Both Inferieur and Superieur and their charming little brooks were constructed in the middle of the last century, with water piped in from an artesian well at the southernmost end of the park.

Natural or not, it was impossible to argue against the beauty of this lovely park.

The day was warm for so late in September, which likely sparked the idea for this picnic. Impromptu, my sister had called it, but our table was covered with white linen, we had the requisite china, silver, and crystal. Two footmen were carrying the hampers, packed with sweet and savory delights, from the carriage parked around the other side of the hedge. It would be far too much food for the four of us, my sister, Lily, her mother-in-law, Patricia, and Patricia’s daughter, Anne. And of course, Lily’s four-month-old daughter, Amelia, who was perfectly content to gnaw on her own fingers.

“When did you return from Deauville, Frances?”

I turned my attention to Patricia. She was in her mid-forties with deep brown eyes and golden-brown hair that she wore parted in the center and woven into intricate twists behind her head.

“Just yesterday,” I replied. My husband and I had been on something of a belated honeymoon for the past three weeks. We had come to France a month ago on behalf of his young ward and her half-sister. We had to settle some issues pertaining to their late father’s estate, part of which involved a villa in the seaside town of Deauville—a villa neither girl wanted to keep or even see.

The girls had refused to go with us, so George and I traveled to Deauville on our own, and once our business was finished—we ended up buying the villa ourselves—we finally enjoyed a honeymoon. The two of us. All alone. My expression turned dreamy at the thought of it. “It was wonderful,” I told Patricia, who nodded in understanding.

“Once you have a houseful of young people, it’s almost impossible to find time for each other,” she said. “And Deauville is such a pretty town—there’s nothing to do but relax.”

We had managed to find plenty to do—not all of it relaxing and some quite terrifying, but I couldn’t discuss that with Patricia. “It was a lovely holiday, but I can’t wait to get home to Rose.” Rose was my nine-year-old daughter.

“I completely understand,” Patricia said. “I’ve truly enjoyed all my work for the Exposition commission, but I’m also eager for it to end so that I can go back home to my family.”

Patricia was involved with the British commission for exhibits at the Paris Exposition, the world’s fair that had been running since April and would end in November. Of course she was looking forward to some time with her husband. He had remained in England to mind his business ventures, while Patricia had leased an apartment here in Paris, and except for a month during the summer, when she returned to England and George and I had used her apartment, Patricia and her husband had been apart.

“You and Father should plan a holiday for yourselves as George and Frances did,” Anne suggested. She and Lily were seated across the table from us, trying to entertain Amelia, who seemed less than delighted with her surroundings.

“If you wait until November, I’d advise going somewhere farther south and warmer than Deauville,” I said. “In the meantime, it must be nice to have Anne here to visit.”

“It is, of course. I only wish I had more time for her.” Patricia tipped her head and narrowed her eyes at me. “Did you golf on your holiday?”

“You might call it that,” I said. “I’m still learning the game and have yet to develop any expertise.” In truth, I was awful, which both bothered and surprised me. I’d always been good at physical activities.

Patricia barely waited for me to finish speaking before gesturing to Anne. “Did you hear that?” she said. “Frances also plays golf. The two of you must have a round together.”

Anne glanced up with a grin. She looked like a younger version of her mother, but where Patricia’s choice of hairstyle made her features severe, Anne’s brown eyes winged with delicate brows were surrounded by waves of brown hair that softened the angles of her face. She had little Amelia on her lap and was fending off the wet fingers the baby had just pulled from her mouth and seemed determined to wipe on Anne’s face. “No, darling,” Anne said. Pushing the small fist away, she glanced at me. “I did hear that. I’d love the chance to practice if you can find the time, Frances. Did Mother tell you I’m here for the big tournament next week?”

Lily took custody of the baby, and I handed Anne a napkin to wipe her cheek. “I wasn’t even aware there was a big tournament coming up.”

Anne sighed. “That doesn’t surprise me. The tournament is part of the Olympic Games.” She gave me a close look. “Have you heard that the second Olympic Games are here in Paris?”

“No, I had no idea. All the events I have heard of this summer were part of the Exposition. Have the games just begun?”

She chuckled and glanced at her mother, who shook her head. “I didn’t know about the games, either,” Patricia said. “Apparently, they have been taking place all summer right under our noses.”

“The competitions were all over the city,” Anne said. “There was fencing in the Tuileries Garden, croquet and polo right here in the Bois de Boulogne, and rowing and swimming in the Seine.”

I nearly laughed before I realized she was serious. “People were swimming in the Seine? George and I have been back and forth between London and Paris. Apparently, our absence led to our ignorance of these events, but I am very sorry to have missed that one.”

“I don’t think your lack of knowledge was due to your absence,” Patricia said with a quirk of her lips. “I was here most of the summer and had no idea. Have you heard anything about the Olympics, Lily?”

My sister had stepped away from the table to bounce Amelia in her arms while she fussed. She shook her head. “I don’t hear anything these days.”

“The officials are not promoting the sporting events as much as they are the Exposition,” Anne said. “Therefore, most of the competitors have been French, and some of them didn’t even realize they were competing in the Olympic games. They thought it was just another match or tournament.”

“Heavens,” I said. “Does that mean you are competing for England?” I grasped Patricia by the arm. “You must be so proud.”

“Why, yes, of course,” she said. “I’m always proud of my children.” She gave Anne a bemused look. “I hadn’t really thought of it as competing for England.”

Anne laughed and patted her mother’s hand. “I sincerely doubt that England even knows about it, Mother, so you needn’t feel badly.”

“If you are proficient enough to play in the Olympics,” I said, “you could have no wish to partner with me. My skill is sadly lacking. George is far better. He is currently having a game with a friend of ours. Perhaps all four of us can go out and I’ll try to keep up.”

“That would be perfect,” Anne agreed. “The tournament is little more than a week away. I would love to have a practice game or two before then.”

“I wish I had time for a little exercise,” Lily said, joining us at the table. “Amelia keeps me too occupied.”

A passerby, glancing at our group would never have guessed Lily and I were sisters. Like the way Anne and Patricia were clearly mother and daughter, Lily looked the image of our mother. Both of them were blond, petite, and blue-eyed, with curvaceous figures. I inherited Mother’s blue eyes, but everything else came from my father. My dark hair, spare figure, and my height. Where Lily was barely five feet tall, I was much closer to six—and I refuse to say just how close that was.

“Have you not hired a nurse?” I asked her. Lily and her husband lived in the north of France, but she was in Paris until November so that Patricia could enjoy some time with the baby before returning to England. Leo, who had stayed at home, managed one of his father’s factories, which had him at his office all day and often entertaining customers in the evening. Without a nurse, Lily was on her own.

Patricia chuckled. “We are not the aristocracy, Frances. I know you had to raise your daughter according to the Wynn family traditions, but they are babies for so short a time, what mother would want to miss one moment of it?”

Lily smiled, but based on the dark circles under her eyes, I’d wager she wouldn’t mind missing a few moments. Perhaps even one full night. My daughter was from my previous marriage to Reginald Wynn, the Earl of Harleigh. It’s true that Rose began life under the loving gaze of the same nurse who had cared for Reggie. It was a family tradition, and I had no argument with it. When the older nurse moved on, I engaged another. I was still Rose’s mother and could spend all the time I wished with her, but having the nurse meant Rose and I were not forced to spend twenty-four hours of every day in each other’s company, regardless of our desire to do so.

“I see your point, Patricia,” I said. “Babies can be such a delight, but Lily is also managing a household, taking care of Leo, and entertaining his business associates. I’d hate to see her neglect her own health for lack of time.”

Patricia gave me a look of incredulity. “Come now, Frances, I managed to raise four children on my own while at the same time caring for my husband, and my health never failed.” She tipped her head to look past me to Lily. “I’m sure if Lily needs help, she will ask for it.”

Lily ducked her head. “Of course, I would.”

I wasn’t so sure of that. Lily looked exhausted and unhappy, but perhaps I was seeing her at an inopportune moment. I’d drop the issue for now—perhaps forever. My mother was arriving in Paris the next day for her first glimpse of her new granddaughter. I’m sure the woman who had arranged for an endless string of nurses, governesses, tutors, and instructors on every conceivable subject or skill for her own children would have an opinion about her newest granddaughter’s present situation.

Once the food was unpacked and we began our feast, I asked Lily if she knew Mother was about to arrive in Paris.

Her eyes rounded. “Tomorrow? I had no idea. She’d told me in her last letter she’d stop in Paris for a visit on her way home, but she never mentioned a date. Will she be staying with you?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Between you and Anne, I thought Patricia had enough guests. Father is continuing on to New York.” I paused to observe Lily’s reaction to this news. “I hope you weren’t planning to see him.”

She waved a hand. “I can’t believe he stayed away from his office for all these months while they were in Egypt, I doubt he’d find one small baby as interesting as the pyramids or the stock market, but I am glad Mother is staying for a visit.” She glanced around me to note that Anne and Patricia were involved in their own conversation, then returned her attention to me. “You may find this difficult to believe, but I actually miss her.”

“I confess to the same sentiment. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a twisted part of us that wants to be corrected and critiqued all the time.” We both shuddered in remembrance. “But beneath all her bluster is a mother who loves us.”

Lily grinned. “Perhaps I needed to become a mother to recognize that. I hope you’ll bring her to see me soon after she arrives.”

“I doubt I’d be able to keep her away. You should expect us tomorrow afternoon.”

As the day wore on, the four of us lapsed into a companionable silence, while birds sang in the trees and other picnickers chatted and laughed in the distance. We were situated with a view of the two lakes and the woods behind them, but one of the main roads stretched along beside us as did a walking path.

“There must be a race this afternoon,” Lily mused. “The road seems much busier than when we first arrived.”

“I think you are right,” Patricia said. “The Hippodrome Auteuil is right beyond the trees across the road.”

“Look, I think that’s Sarah Bernhardt arriving right now.” Lily pointed unnecessarily to the open carriage that had just pulled into view. All of us would have recognized the renowned actress without the prompt. Seen from across the meadow, she was a slender figure wrapped in white fur wearing a large white hat, but even seated in the carriage, she was animated, her motions quick and constant. It could only be the Divine Sarah.

When the few pedestrians alongside the road waved to her, she laughed and waved back with enthusiasm.

“George and I will be here for another two weeks,” I said. “We must try to attend one of her performances. Who knows when we’ll have another chance? With her own theater here, I doubt very much that she’ll ever return to London.”

“Or America,” Lily added. “You should take Mother.”

“I’ll certainly ask her.” I said, noting a few more picnickers settling into our area and even more out enjoying an afternoon stroll.

“Frances.” Lily touched my arm to draw my attention then spoke in a whisper. “I believe I know that woman walking toward us. Isn’t that Alicia Stoke-Whitney?”

She was correct. The petite redhead in a yellow walking gown, holding a parasol aloft, had separated herself from a group of merry-makers near the lake and was headed our way. The last time my sister had seen Alicia she learned—well, there is no graceful way of saying this—that my first husband had died in Alicia’s bed.

After that little incident, I had managed to keep my distance from Alicia until she forced the issue by inviting me, publicly, to a party she was hosting. My sister was there, so I had to explain my reticence to associate with Alicia. Though Lily urged me to send my regrets, I had no choice but to accept. My refusal would have given credence to the rumors that Alicia and my late husband had been lovers. The fact that they had been was an irrelevant bit of truth society did not need to know.

From that point on, Alicia considered me a friend. Initially, I continued to avoid her, tolerating her only when avoidance was impossible. But over time she began to grow on me. Alicia was completely self-centered, untrustworthy, and irresponsible, but something about her made me—well, I suppose the word would be care.

Her irreverence toward everything was both shocking and refreshing. I’d come to believe it was her way of coping with life, which had not always been kind to her. Many of her problems, however, were of her own making.

My sister had no knowledge that so much water had passed under the bridge since she’d last seen Alicia, and there was no time to explain since the woman was nearly upon us. I could sense Lily puffing up in moral outrage, but all I could do was take her hand and keep her in her seat, while I rose to my feet, whispering, “It’s fine. I’ll explain later.”

Alicia shared her brilliant smile with the four of us, then held out both hands to me. “Frances, my dear friend. It’s been an age since I’ve seen you. You are looking well.”

Lily stared in astonishment while I greeted Alicia and introduced her to my companions. She and Patricia exchanged a few pleasantries about the Exposition. Alicia was also a member of the British commission, though not on the same committees as Patricia.

After a few minutes of conversation, Alicia turned back to me. “I am meant to be chaperoning my daughter, Harriet, and her friends.”

“Chaperone?” I nearly choked on the word. Alicia? I followed her glance to the group of young people gathered near the water. Whoever set Alicia to the task of being a chaperone must either have been completely desperate or had no acquaintance with her.

“I must get back to them soon, but I wonder if you’d mind taking a short walk with me first.”

I was curious enough to agree, and we set off toward the footpath near the road that led to a wooded area. “How is Harriet finding Paris?” I asked.

“Quite enjoyable, I think. She has settled in with a group of young people, both English and French.” Alicia paused and two tiny lines formed between her delicate brows. “There’s also a certain gentleman who has shown quite a bit of interest in her. That is what I wanted to ask you about.”

I looked at her, intrigued.

“He’s an American. I wondered if you know him.”

I chuckled. “It’s a very large country, Alicia, and I’ve been away from it for over ten years. I doubt very much—”

“His name is Carlson Deaver.”

“Oh! Well, I suppose I do know him—not personally, but as I’m sure you know, his sister, Lottie, and I are friends. I believe I heard he was living in Paris, as is their mother.”

“Yes.” She drew out the word. “Mrs. Deaver is another subject I’d like to discuss, but that must wait for another time. First, what can you tell me about Carlson?”

“Almost nothing. His sister, Lottie, is married to my late husband’s cousin, Charles.”

“That’s right, I’ve met her.” She poked the air with her index finger, then actually bit her lip when I glared at her. I waited for some comment about Lottie’s clumsiness or Charles’s lack of wit. To her credit, she chose not to insult my relatives, folded her finger back into her fist, and said, “Please, go on.”

Surprise, surprise, the woman was learning.

“As you already know, Mimi Deaver is Carlson’s mother. His father, I believe, passed away last autumn. Shortly after Lottie and Charles’s wedding. Mr. Deaver was involved in railroads, if I’m not mistaken, and left quite a fortune to his children and widow.”

Alicia continued to stare at me with an expectant gaze.

“And they are from New York City,” I continued, “and that is all I know.”

“That’s all?” She looped her arm through mine and dragged me off the path and across the grass toward the lake where we could still see her charges but were out of their hearing. “Can you tell me nothing of his character? No exploits from his past?”

“Alicia, he was part of New York society. I was not. Then after several months of not being acquainted with him in that city, I moved to England, where I had no way of becoming any more familiar with him. I’m sorry, but I can’t provide insight to a man I simply do not know.”

She studied me through narrowed eyes for a moment, then gave her head a firm nod. “Then I’d like to have you investigate him for me.”

“What?”

“Must you shriek so?” she asked. Taking my arm, she pulled me closer to the spray and burble of the waterfall. “Investigate him,” she repeated. “You’ve done that before. You investigated your sister’s suitors.”

We came to a stop at the lake’s edge and pretended to watch the water cascading over the rocks. “That is not exactly true. I had a police officer investigate my sister’s suitors. There is quite a difference. I didn’t do it myself—well, I didn’t do much of it. If you want to look into the man’s background, you should hire someone.”

She spread her arms wide. “Who? I don’t know anyone in Paris who does such things. Only you. I want to hire you, but for some reason, you are playing hard to get.”

“I am simply saying you can do better than me,” I said. Heavens, one would think we were speaking of matrimony. “What are you trying to find out? If he truly has a fortune?”

“I wish to assure myself that he’s not a murderer.” Alicia held up a hand as I gasped. “Don’t you dare shriek again,” she said. “I don’t want everyone around us to wonder what we’re talking about.”

I took a glance at the grassy picnic area behind us and saw that no one was paying us any attention. The flowing water was effectively covering our conversation. I noticed a bench nearby, facing the lake, and drew Alicia to it. Once we were settled on the bench, I began my questions.

“What possible reason do you have to even wonder such a thing about the man?”

Alicia tossed a dangling cluster of red curls behind her shoulder. “His first wife was murdered.”

“By him?” I asked.

“I suspect you are jesting,” she said, shaking a finger in my face. “But the truth is nobody knows. It remains an unsolved case. I would like to know beyond any doubt that Mr. Deaver had nothing to do with his wife’s murder before I allow him to court my daughter. I’m sure you can understand my position.”

Indeed, I did. Alicia’s late husband had been the soul of propriety on the surface but, beneath that veneer, was a man with criminal tendencies. Even Alicia had not seen his true self until it was almost too late. After his deception, it was hardly a surprise that Alicia’s trust would be hard won. I couldn’t help but grimace as the memory invaded my thoughts.

“Yes,” she said. “I see you do understand. If my daughter is going to become involved with this man, I must at least know that she will be safe in his company.”

“At the very least,” I agreed. “I didn’t know Mr. Deaver had been married. What can you tell me about his wife and her death?”

“Only what the newspapers had to say. It happened in January, so, not long after Harriet and I came to stay in Paris. I was still scrambling to get the two of us settled and hadn’t become involved in Paris society yet.”

“His wife hasn’t been dead a year and he is showing interest in Harriet?” Though it hadn’t been a full year since Harriet’s father, Alicia’s husband, had passed, either. Perhaps observing the proprieties wasn’t important to Alicia.

“The timing was what first had me wondering,” she said. “It seems to me that most men would mourn their wives for a year. Mr. and Mrs. Deaver were relative newlyweds, married barely a year at the time of her death. They ought to have still been in the honeymoon phase of the marriage. Yet he is already looking for a new wife.”

Apparently, the proprieties did mean something to her. “You could always ask him to defer his attentions to Harriet until a proper mourning period has been observed,” I suggested.

She looked pained. “He is a very wealthy man. If Harriet puts him off, someone else will snap him up.”

“You and I both know that an advantageous match does not necessarily make for a good marriage.”

“Yes, experience has taught me that much.” She failed to repress a tiny shudder. “If Harriet wasn’t fond of him, I wouldn’t go through this much trouble.”

“I see. What else did the papers report?”

“Carlson’s wife, I believe her given name was Isabelle, was home alone. The police say someone broke into the house in an attempt at burglary, unaware that Mrs. Deaver was still at home. Their suspicion is that the burglars killed her.”

That sounded rather cut and dried to me. “Then why do you think it possible that Mr. Deaver had something to do with his wife’s murder?”

She raised her brows. “Because the police never found the supposed burglars nor any of the stolen loot.”

I laughed at the use of the word. “Loot?”

“Mostly jewelry, if I remember correctly. But the important part is that no one was ever brought to justice. That leaves too much room for suspicion for my comfort.”

“I don’t know if I can do enough to put your mind at ease,” I said. “However, my mother will arrive in Paris tomorrow. I know she had an acquaintance with Carlson’s father and mother. She may be able to provide more information about Carlson, but without assistance from the French police or the newspapers, I may not be able to go any further than that.”

“Even a little information is better than none,” she said.

“Then I will see what I can do.”

Patrica had rented an open carriage to transport us to and from the park. On the ride home, she pointed out various landmarks to Anne, while Lily and I amused Amelia who was nestled between us in her basket, shaded by o. . .