A Newlywed's Guide to Fortune and Murder

Book 6: Countess of Harleigh Mystery

by Dianne Freeman

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

With her new husband George busy on a special mission for the British Museum, Frances has taken on an assignment of her own. The dowager Viscountess Wingate needs someone to sponsor her niece, Kate, for presentation to Queen Victoria. Frances—who understands society's quirks and constraints as only an outsider can—is the perfect candidate.

Kate is charming and intelligent, though perhaps not quite as sheltered as she might first appear. More worrying to Frances is the viscountess's sudden deterioration. The usually formidable dowager has become shockingly frail, and Frances suspects someone may be drugging her. The spotlight falls on Kate, who stands to inherit if her aunt passes, yet there are plenty of other likely candidates within the dowager's household, both above and belowstairs.

Joining forces with her beloved George, Frances comes to believe that the late viscount, too, was targeted. And with the dowager seeming to be in greater danger every day, they must flush out the villain before she follows in her husband's footsteps, directly to the grave . . .

Release date: June 27, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

April 1900

“You are right, Jarvis. We couldn’t fit so much as a hatpin in here.” From the edge of the attic, I peered through a haze of dust that floated in a patch of sunlight at what had to be generations of Hazelton castoffs—old trunks, boxes, and furnishings, both assembled and in pieces, covered with sheets, which in turn were covered with dust and even more boxes.

“Where did it all come from?” I glanced at Jarvis, our butler. He was exactly my height, and I caught him in profile. Apart from a hawkish nose, the surface of his face was quite flat, until his lips curved in a smile, pushing round cheeks up and forward.

“When Lord Brandon took over the house,” he said, “most of the old earl’s furnishings were sent to the attic, as were Lord Brandon’s things when Mr. Hazelton moved in.”

“Then Rose and I moved in with our things, and more furniture was relegated to the attic.” Mr. Hazelton—George—was my husband of two months. Rose was my eight-year-old daughter. For at least two generations, this house had been home to the heirs of the Earl of Hartfield, but the last heir, George’s elder brother, Brandon, had moved out when he inherited the title and the earl’s townhome. Since the next heir, Brandon’s son, was only ten years old, he would not be needing this house for several more years.

George had taken over the lease on the house a year ago, and I had moved in when we married. I’d just spent the past hour searching for a room to claim as my office. The third floor was a schoolroom and bedchambers for Rose and Nanny. George had sacrificed a bedchamber next to ours to create a boudoir and bath for me, something of a surprise wedding present. I needed a place to work but felt a bit guilty attempting to lay claim to yet another space. And moving furnishings from that space to the attic was clearly out of the question.

I glanced at Jarvis. “Any ideas?”

“Why, yes. I do have a location in mind.” Jarvis had a voice like the rumble of distant thunder. It gave his words a gravitas that had made me trust him from our first meeting—even if there was mischief in the hooded eyes that looked back at me.

“Do tell.”

“Allow me to show you.” He made for the narrow staircase and preceded me down to the third floor, where we passed through a baize door that took us through the sunlit nursery and the schoolroom. Rose, however, took her lessons with her cousin at my brother-in-law, the Earl of Harleigh’s home. Our steps echoed through the mostly empty room. I wondered if I could close off a corner for myself up here. But Jarvis led on.

I followed him downward to the main floor, wondering where this mythical location could be, until he stopped at the open door to my husband’s library, and I realized what he was suggesting. “No, no, Jarvis. This won’t do.”

“You asked my opinion, madam, and I believe this is the perfect place.”

“The perfect place for what?”

I peeked into the room. George stood and leaned over his desk to see what we were doing hanging about in the doorway. His dark brows rose with curiosity, and the genial curve to his lips tempted an answering smile to my own.

“It’s nothing, darling,” I said. “Don’t mind us.”

“But I must hear the answer.” George had come around the desk to the doorway and leaned his tall frame against the wall. “What is this the perfect place for?”

“It’s the perfect place for a cup of coffee,” I said and glanced over his shoulder. “I see you have a pot at the ready.”

His gaze darted to the butler and back to me. “You needed Jarvis’s opinion on the matter?”

“What?”

“He said you asked for his opinion.”

“You misunderstood,” I said.

“Just a figure of speech,” Jarvis said at the same time.

The butler and I exchanged a glance. “I’ll just fetch another cup,” he said before turning on his heel and nearly sprinting away.

“What the dickens are the two of you up to?” George watched me through narrowed eyes as I brushed past him on my way to the guest side of his desk and took a seat.

“Just looking for a likely spot where I can set up my own office and allow you to use yours in peace.” The library had been carved out of what had been an enormous drawing room. With doors on two of its walls, one could access it from the drawing room or the hallway. Bookcases covered a third wall, filled with George’s law tomes, some volumes on horticulture and travel, the works of Shakespeare, and two cricket bats. Two wingback chairs framed the window overlooking the back garden. George’s desk backed up to the wall of books. I’d been using it for the past two months, while he recovered from being shot shortly after our wedding. While a gunshot wound wasn’t something one would expect a proper British gentleman to sustain, George was no ordinary gentleman.

It had been a great relief to learn the bullet hit him in the upper arm and wasn’t fatal. He had recovered quickly, though he still lifted weights to regain the strength in his arm. Actually, he’d built more muscle in his arms and shoulders, to the point where he had had to take his suits to the tailor for alterations. I heartily approved of his new look, though it would always be his crooked grin and the twinkle in his green eyes that made my heart flutter. Along with his ability to make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the room.

In truth, I was tall—almost as tall as George, slender enough that a good corset could make me fit for any fashion, and fortunate to have thick, dark hair. Otherwise, I was quite ordinary—pert nose, average complexion, and blue eyes. Oh, and an American accent. But in London, Americans had become rather ordinary, too. Nevertheless, in George’s eyes, I was a goddess.

He rounded the desk to take his seat, and I noticed the open newspaper. “Anything interesting in there?”

“Nothing interesting enough to compete with you.” He folded the broadsheet and set it aside, giving me his full attention and the benefit of that crooked grin.

“A very clever answer,” I said.

“I must be clever to keep up with you. You’d never suffer a fool for a husband.”

“Certainly not a second time. Though I suppose I wouldn’t have called Reggie a fool, exactly.”

George lifted a brow. “Philanderer? Wastrel? Ne’er-dowell? Good-for-nothing?”

Reggie was my first husband. He and my mother had decided that his family’s title and our family’s dollars were a perfect match. Our marriage had had no effect on his bachelor ways. Ten years after our wedding, he’d died in the bed of his latest lover. Consequently, all of those words fit him. In my opinion, anyway.

I placed a hand over George’s. “He was also Rose’s father.”

He smiled. “Yes, yes, but I like to think she takes after you, my dear. However, for Rosie’s sake, I shall refrain from speaking ill of the man.”

Jarvis popped in with a coffee cup, and George filled it for me. “What are your plans for today?” he asked.

“Tea with Viscountess Winstead and her family.”

He grimaced and faked a shudder. At least I thought it was fake. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

Augusta Ashley, Viscountess Winstead, was an extraordinarily cantankerous older woman, the type of person I would not normally seek out. But her husband’s family owned a neighboring estate to Harleigh Manor, my late husband’s country home, where I had spent much of my marriage and all of my mourning period. Lady Winstead had been in residence during most of the latter, and while I wouldn’t call her pleasant company, compared to my in-laws, she had been a welcome relief. And she’d been kind to Rose.

“Lady Winstead has asked me to sponsor her niece for presentation to the queen.”

“Just her presentation? What does that involve?”

“Not a great deal—ordering the correct gown, practicing a court curtsy, and learning how to back away from Her Majesty while wearing a nine-foot train. And, of course, spending an afternoon at court.”

“Why isn’t Lady Winstead presenting the niece herself?”

“I’m sure she would if the family weren’t still mourning her husband’s death. Don’t you recall Lord Peter passed away right after Christmas? None of the family will be taking part in social events for another seven or eight months.”

He raised a brow. “But the niece will? Does she have a name, by the way?”

“Katherine Stover. She’s related to Lady Winstead, not Lord Peter.” I frowned. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. You were still recovering, and I needed something to do with myself. But Miss Stover was delayed coming to town from Devon, so we missed the queen’s first drawing room. The next one won’t be until late this month, and with the family in mourning, they may ask me to take on more than just the presentation and actually organize her social season.”

“Is that a problem?”

I gave him my sweetest smile. “I was hoping, now that you are fully recovered, we could make plans for our wedding trip.” A family emergency had put an end to our original wedding trip. To make up for it, my father had gifted us with a large sum of money, but George had been surprisingly squeamish about using it.

“Yes, well, a wedding trip will have to wait just a bit longer, I’m afraid.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I’ve accepted an assignment, and I’m not sure how long it will take to accomplish or where it will take me.”

My disappointment was momentary, and easily overcome by the delight I saw in his eyes. George did “something” for the government, the Home Office, to be specific, but that was as much as I knew. “That is wonderful news. I felt you were fully mended, and it seemed to me you were becoming restless. Can you tell me anything about your assignment?”

“I’m to investigate the disappearance of a rather unusual and valuable artifact.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I can’t really describe it further.”

“I see. Something old, then, I’d imagine.”

He laughed. “I cannot say.”

“Everything is such a secret.” I let out a tsk. “One would think that you could at least confide in your wife.”

“Don’t take offense. I can’t tell you, because they haven’t told me what it is yet.”

“Then I suppose it’s just as well that I’ll have an assignment of my own. When do you begin?”

“I plan to meet with my contact today to find out what he knows of the matter. I ought to be leaving now.”

“All I have to look forward to is tea with Lady Winstead,” I said.

He grimaced. “I suspect your assignment will be much more onerous than mine.”

Eager to meet with his contact, George left almost immediately. I dealt with some correspondence, reviewed the week’s menus with our cook, enjoyed an early afternoon walk with Rose, and was just readying myself for my engagement with Lady Winstead when Jarvis brought a visitor’s card upstairs to my dressing room.

I took it without moving my head, since Bridget, my lady’s maid, had my hair firmly gripped in one hand and piping hot curling tongs in the other.

“Lady Esther is here?” I asked, though since her card was in my hand, the answer was obvious.

“Yes, ma’am. I put her in the drawing room while I determined if you were at home.”

I considered for a moment if I wanted to be at home to Lady Esther. Though she wasn’t quite as unpalatable as Lady Winstead, to deal with two such women in one afternoon was to ask a great deal of my patience. Still, Lady Esther was not one to call for the sake of calling. I consulted the clock on my dressing table. There was time enough. “I shall see her.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Jarvis left to inform the lady I would be down directly, and Bridget finished my hair faster than I would have liked. Thus, there was no reason for me to linger in my room except to gather my fortitude. I drew a deep breath and ventured down to the drawing room.

Though I’d moved into George’s house, the drawing room was exactly as I’d have furnished it. A long, narrow room, it had dark oak floors, paneled walls painted a warm ivory, and three distinct areas that flowed from the dining room to the back garden—tea, games, and conversation. The elderly Lady Esther was seated in the last of these, by one of the doors that opened to the garden. The deeply cushioned club chair nearly swallowed her up. Not that she was petite. She was of average height but remarkably thin, which made all her angles—shoulders, elbows, hips, even her cheekbones and chin—look pointed and somehow dangerous. Her tongue was indisputably the sharpest instrument in all of England.

“Good afternoon, Lady Esther,” I said upon entering the room. “How kind of you to call.”

“And how kind of you to receive me.” She rested her hands on her walking stick and smiled.

I froze in mid-step. I’m quite sure I’d never seen the woman smile before, though she occasionally bared her teeth. This was different. This smile appeared genuine, and while not exactly engaging, it made her look almost approachable. It took a moment to gain my bearings.

The smile slipped into a scowl as if it couldn’t do so quickly enough. “Stop looking so shocked,” she snapped. “I can be pleasant when I’ve a mind to—when I’m around someone worth the effort.”

Ah! There was the woman I’d grown accustomed to. I took a seat in the matching chair on the other side of the window. “Goodness, are you saying I am worth the effort it takes for you to be pleasant? I’m flattered.”

“You are meant to be.” She narrowed one eye. “Though I was not entirely sure flattery worked with you, I suspected it wouldn’t go amiss.”

Instinct told me to be wary. “What is it you are hoping to achieve?”

“I wish to join you for tea.”

“I’m so sorry, but I’m expected at the Ashleys’ for tea. In fact, I should be leaving soon.”

She rapped her stick on the floor, causing me to draw back.

“I’m aware of that,” she said. “I wish to join you. Lady Winstead is an old friend of mine, and I heard you are considering sponsoring her niece. I want to accompany you, in part to ensure that you take her on.”

I couldn’t say what surprised me more—that Lady Esther knew my business or that Lady Winstead had a friend. And, of all people, it was Lady Esther. Apparently, what they say about birds of a feather is true. “What is your interest in this matter?”

“I simply wish to make myself useful.”

Her lips curved upward again. The woman was clearly up to something. However, since she’d asked so directly, it would be very ill-mannered not to invite her to join me. I supposed I’d find out eventually just what she was plotting.

When she was ready to tell me.

“Well, if we’re to be on time, perhaps we should be off now.”

We took Lady Esther’s carriage, and from the moment I sank into the soft leather seat, she kept up a stream of chatter—about the weather, an upcoming ball, and the differences between my neighborhood of Belgravia and Mayfair, where we were headed. Every time I attempted a word—rap, rap, rap—she tapped her wretched stick on the floor of the carriage and interrupted me. If I spent much more time with her, I’d be in danger of developing a twitch.

We were almost to the Ashleys’ home before she drew breath. I leapt on the opportunity to change the subject. “How long have you known Lady Winstead?”

“A good fifteen years now. I met her at her wedding to Lord Peter. She didn’t take part in society when her previous husband was alive.”

That was because he was a banker and not of the aristocracy—the same reason I had required a sponsor to bring me into society prior to my first marriage. Yet here was the very proper, blue-blooded Lady Esther seeking the company of both of us. Interesting.

“Were you a friend of Lord Peter then, before his marriage?”

She slanted a glance at me. “Before his second marriage, you mean? No, merely acquaintances. His first wife didn’t suit me, but Augusta and I struck up a friendship upon our first meeting.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to sponsor Miss Stover.”

Her countenance turned to stone. “Are you quite serious? I’m far too old for such tomfoolery.”

We’d come to a stop. A quick glance out the window told me we were at the Ashley residence. The groom jumped down and opened the door for us. I watched as Lady Esther stepped spryly out with just a light touch of her hand on the groom’s. Though I found it hard to believe she considered herself too old for anything, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn there was indeed tomfoolery involved in this situation.

The Ashleys were a prominent family in society. Lord Peter, the late Viscount Winstead, had been quite the gadabout up to and well after his first marriage fifty-some years ago to Mary Sinclair, the fourth daughter of Lord Pomerance. Ever the dutiful wife, Lady Mary had given the viscount two sons before she promptly died of scarlet fever. Lord Peter, as usual, had been off exploring some archeological sites in Egypt, and the boys had been safely shielded from the disease by their nurse, so Lady Mary had left this earth causing the least amount of inconvenience to her family. It’s doubtful any of the Ashleys had given her another thought.

With two sons, Lord Peter had felt the title was secure and had remained single for more than thirty years, leading one expedition after another in Egypt and Sudan, until he’d become famous for finding the most interesting and exciting artifacts at his extensive excavations. Then he had surprised everyone when, at seventy years of age, he made a different but possibly more treacherous trip—down the aisle to the altar at St. George’s. He’d married Augusta Fairweather, the childless, and very wealthy, widow of a banker. The lady herself had already attained her sixtieth year and enough wealth to live out the rest of her life doing whatever she pleased. That she chose instead to enter the married state once more had made the match something of a double surprise.

Particularly to his children.

The wedding had taken place fifteen years ago, and people still speculated on the reasons for the match between the outgoing, adventurous aristocrat and the always ill-tempered commoner.

Since Lord Peter had spent a mere handful of months in England with his bride during the length of their marriage, my guess was money.

Lady Esther and I were led into a large open drawing room with dark paneled walls, where I was not surprised to see several Egyptian artifacts, including an obelisk clock in the corner and an enormous vase on a bronze pedestal, both heavily carved with Egyptian motifs. It did come as a surprise to find all the Ashleys gathered around a low tea table. I supposed after four months of mourning, any visitors were a welcome relief.

Two members of the family I knew well. The late viscount’s second son, Simon, and his wife, Violet, who always referred to themselves as Si and Vi, had been chums of my late husband. They rose from their seats on the sofa and greeted me like an old friend.

We were not old friends.

Regardless, I took Vi’s hands when she offered them, and kissed the air near her cheek. When she released me, Si took my hand and offered his condolences. It took a moment for me to realize he was referring to Reggie’s death, which had happened more than two years ago. They hadn’t come to his funeral, and I supposed this was the first I’d seen of him in the intervening time.

They were as near to a matched pair as two unrelated people could be. Both were blond and blue-eyed, though now that they’d reached their forties, Si’s hair was thinning and Vi had dark shadows under her eyes. Their faces bore a matching set of lines, making me wonder if they were still engaged in the exhausting effort of entertaining the Prince of Wales.

“Lady Harleigh.”

I repressed a sigh and turned to face Jonathon Ashley, who drew in a dramatic gasp and momentarily covered his mouth with his hand, displaying a signet ring on his little finger. “My mistake. It’s Mrs. Hazelton now, isn’t it?”

His voice was as unctuous as I remembered it from more than ten years ago, when he had hoped to offer me marriage. Mother had put an end to that hope quickly. I returned his smile.

“And I am now Viscount Winstead,” he continued. “Isn’t it amusing how our fates can change in a heartbeat?”

Since it had been his father’s heartbeat, or the lack of one, that changed his fate and put that ring on his hand, I was rather appalled by his use of the word amusing. Typical Jonathon. Thank heaven Mother had rejected him as a suitor for me.

He had to be about fifty. Also blond, but with dark eyes, he was stockier and wore a mustache and a neatly trimmed beard. It would be difficult to find two brothers so completely opposite. One wanted nothing but amusement, while the other didn’t know the meaning of the word. Jonathon had married young and lost his wife perhaps a dozen years ago. One presumes she died of boredom.

He introduced his son, Andrew, a young man of about seventeen, the image of his father but with darker hair and no whiskers.

I was taken aback when my gaze landed on Lady Winstead. She was dressed appropriately in an afternoon gown, with her white hair styled up and away from her lined face, but her brown eyes looked empty, and her mouth drooped open as she slouched in a convalescent chair, wheeled up beside the short end of the tea table. She lifted her head in response to our greetings, tightened her grip on her teacup, and coughed gently, causing her shawl to slide off one shoulder. Though she was well into her seventies, I hadn’t expected her to look so fragile and ill.

Lady Winstead fixed her gaze on Lady Esther and appeared to be attempting speech. Before she could force words to her lips, her hand holding the cup trembled. She stretched out her arm, as if she wanted to place the cup on the table, but dropped it instead. Lady Esther and I jumped back as the tea splashed to the floor, joined in the next instant by Lady Winstead, who slipped, boneless, from her chair, making no attempt to break her fall.

Heavens! Had the woman just died?

A younger woman, who had been sitting next to Lady Winstead, slipped to the floor and around the legs of the tea table to place her fingers along the matron’s neck. Since her expression showed relief, I assumed she found a pulse.

At least she had the presence of mind to take some action. The rest of us looked on in horror.

Then I felt the sting of Lady Esther’s elbow in my ribs. “Do you intend to watch this like some drama in the theater?” Her words, and the jab, roused me to action.

I sank to my knees as Lady Winstead regained consciousness, and stopped the young woman, as she would have helped the invalid to rise. “It might be best not to move her,” I said. “She may have injured herself in the fall. We should call a doctor.”

“I’ll fetch her nurse,” she said.

“I thought you were the nurse,” Lady Esther muttered.

“That’s right,” Lord Jonathon said. “Neither of you would have met Miss Katherine Stover yet.”

So, this was Miss Stover. She looked a bit younger than her twenty-eight years. I took in large brown eyes with brows that currently slanted in and downward as she scrambled to her feet and cast an angry glare at the Ashleys, who still remained in their places, as if nothing were amiss.

“Forgive my manners,” she said, swiping a fallen lock of dark hair from her shoulder, “but introductions must wait until I’ve seen to my aunt.” She then hurried from the room. I glanced over at Lord Jonathon to see him scowling at her back.

I liked her already.

“There goes your charge, Mrs. Hazelton, should you choose to accept the role of sponsor.” His words were polite enough, but his smirk hinted at hostility. I wondered if she was not a welcome guest in his home. She was not related to him, after all. With Lady Winstead’s obvious infirmity, he might well have thought someone else ought to take on the responsibility of housing her.

I slipped Lady Winstead’s head onto my lap, hoping it would prove a better cushion than the polished wood floor. When I took her hand, her fingers closed gently around mine. I wondered what had debilitated her to such a degree. I. . .