An Art Lover's Guide to Paris and Murder

Book 7: Countess of Harleigh Mystery

by Dianne Freeman

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

Perfect for fans of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries and Jane Austen alike, the latest in this delightful mystery series described as “pure, unadulterated fun” (Publishers Weekly) combines historical intrigue, wit, and a sophisticated Victorian setting with a charmingly independent heroine.

Frances and her husband, George, have two points of interest in Paris. One is an impromptu holiday to visit the Paris Exposition. The other is personal. George’s Aunt Julia has requested her nephew’s help in looking into the suspicious death of renowned artist Paul Ducasse. Though Julia is not entirely forthcoming about her reasons, she is clearly a woman mourning a lost love.
 
At the exposition, swarming with tourists, tragedy casts a pall on the festivities. A footbridge collapses. Julia is among the casualties. However, she was not just another fateful victim. Julia was stabbed to death amid the chaos. With an official investigation at a standstill, George and Frances realize that to solve the case they must dig into Julia’s life—as well as Paul’s—and question everything and everyone in Julia’s coterie of artists and secrets.
 
They have no shortage of suspects. There is Paul’s inscrutable widow, Gabrielle. Paul’s art dealer and manager, Lucien. Julia’s friend Martine, a sculptress with a jealous streak. And art jurist, Monsieur Beaufoy. The investigation takes a turn when it’s revealed that George has inherited control of Julia’s estate—and another of her secrets. While George investigates, Frances safeguards their new legacy, and is drawn further into danger by a killer determined to keep the past buried.

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

July 1900

“We should go to Paris.”

George, my husband, glanced up from his work to remove his reading glasses and send a frown across the polished expanse of our partners desk. It was fitted sideways against the back wall of the office in our townhome in Belgravia. Our chairs sat on either side of the window, so we both enjoyed the view of the back garden as we attended to our morning routine, one that I feared was becoming a bit mundane.

From my side of the broad desk, I handled matters such as our schedule, pending invitations, correspondence, and weekly menus suggested by our chef.

Exhilarating work it was not.

On his side, George read the newspapers and dealt with his own correspondence, like the letter he’d just set aside when our butler, Jarvis, brought in the tea tray. I’d noticed the letter had come from Paris.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” I said as he placed the heavy silver tray on the center of the desk, equidistant between us. “That’s exactly what I need.” The stocky butler, who looked more like a boxer, bowed and left us to it. I kept my gaze on the tray while I poured myself a cup.

George’s chair creaked as he stretched his long frame up and backward, lacing his fingers behind his head. His lips turned upward at the corners, from a frown to something more like a smirk, as he watched me attempt to look guileless. “Paris, you say? Should we? Why now?”

I relaxed enough to allow my spine to touch the back of my chair and lifted my cup toward my lips. “To visit the World Exposition, of course, or Exposition Universelle, as the French call it.”

“Are they doing that again? Isn’t it like the Great Exhibition Prince Albert held in my father’s day?”

“Exactly. In America we call them World’s Fairs. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of this one. Everyone is talking about it.” I took a sip of my tea. “They say Paris is now the City of Light quite literally, with buildings and streets illuminated at night. It must be breathtaking. People are traveling from every corner of the world to marvel at the display of art and industry collected in one place.” I wagged my index finger at him. “You know you would enjoy it, and it would be educational for Rose.” Rose was my eight-year-old daughter.

George watched me, smirk still in place, completely unmoved.

“As for why now,” I continued, “I believe I’ve waited long enough for a wedding trip. We were married in February. It is now July, and here we are, still in London. Yes, we had good reasons for postponing our travel, but those reasons no longer exist, and it is well past time we go somewhere.” After setting my cup on the desk, I crossed my arms and awaited his response.

George poured himself a cup of tea, gazing at me in assessment all the while. “Are you lying?”

It was my turn to smirk. “You tell me.”

He eyed me while he stroked his beard—a recent addition to his handsome face that he had yet to become used to. I, on the other hand, took to it very quickly. Somehow, the dark whiskers along his jaw made his eyes even greener and his lips all the more inviting. Gazing at him, I became so distracted, I startled when he slapped his palm on the desk and took to his feet.

“All right, I’ll admit I don’t know.” He leaned his hip against the desk, next to my chair. “Are you lying?”

I held up my index finger and thumb just a fraction apart. “A bit. Though my statements are true, they aren’t the reason I want to go to Paris.”

“That’s the best way to spin a tale. Keep it as truthful as possible. I must say, you didn’t give yourself away. I’m impressed.”

My cheeks grew warm with his praise. “Thank you, darling. So I’ve passed the examination, have I?” George was something of an investigator. He’d worked for the Home Office for many years, even infiltrating criminal groups to uncover evidence of their illicit activity. He still accepted the occasional assignment from the government, but recently, we had been working on more personal investigations.

And yes, I did say we.

I’ve assisted in George’s investigations and tackled one or two of my own, as well. Though I didn’t have his expertise, I was learning. It was 1900, after all. Time for women to declare they could do more than decorate a man’s arm or his table.

“You have most definitely passed,” he said. “Not so much as a blush or twitch of those lovely blue eyes of yours.” He cupped my chin with his palm and pressed a kiss against my lips. “Now,” he said, propping a leg on the desk, “I’ll take the truth, if you please. Why Paris? Why now?”

“Well, the part about our wedding trip is completely true. First, my family caused a delay in our plans. Then you had to heal from your injuries. I had thought we’d go somewhere after you recovered, but then you took an assignment, and quite honestly, I fear we’ve fallen into a routine and are on the verge of becoming dull.”

George’s mouth formed a grimace as I spoke. “Perhaps a little less truth would be better.” He held up his hands, as if measuring. “There must be a suitable place for me between perfect husband and dullard.”

“Perhaps dull was too harsh,” I said. “But I do believe it’s time we share some excitement. If I can’t run off with you to some romantic hideaway, at least we can go somewhere interesting, entertaining, and enjoyable, where we can take Rose. Thus, the Paris Exposition. I might even get a look at my new niece.”

My sister, Lily, had married Leo Kendrick last October and had almost immediately moved to France for Leo’s business. She’d given birth to a daughter early in May. Both sides of the family chose to ignore the timing. Leo’s parents had met little Amelia Jane already. In fact, Patricia Kendrick, Leo’s mother, had taken an apartment in Paris due to her work with Britain’s Royal Commission for the exposition. Lily and Leo had left their home in Lille and moved in with Patricia when the baby was due so Lily would have the advantage of a Parisian doctor.

That was two months ago, however. Lily and her family had returned to their home, but even so, Lille was only a train ride away from Paris.

“I do miss my sister terribly,” I continued. “It’s very hard to hear how wonderful my niece is from Patricia Kendrick. She is a lovely woman, and yes, she’s the child’s grandmother, but she’s still a third party. I’d like to see the baby for myself. In fact, Hetty might wish to come, too.” Hetty was my aunt. It was she who had brought Lily to London from New York City over a year ago now. After Lily married, Hetty had stayed in London, then had taken over the lease on my house when I married George.

George tipped his head, which caused a lock of dark hair to fall across his forehead. He swept it back. “This sounds as though you weren’t lying to me at all.”

“I already admitted part of what I’d said was true.”

“And the other part?”

“That letter you received from France.” I wiggled a finger toward his side of the desk.

“How did you know it was from France?”

“It has French postage. I have the power of vision.” I gave him a wink. “Quite the detective, aren’t I?”

“Is this a roundabout way of asking who is writing to me from France?”

I lifted my cup to my lips, realized the tea had gone cool, and set it back down, conscious of George’s regard. “All right. I suspect the letter involves an assignment. If it does, I’d like to be part of it.” I arched a brow. “Does it?”

“Not exactly an assignment. More of a request.”

I waited for more. George stared silently at his hands. “Isn’t that how it all works?” I prompted. “First, you receive a request. Once you accept, it becomes an assignment. Does it involve going to Paris, and do you intend to accept?”

He released a heavy sigh. “It does, and I think I must.”

His reaction and reply were not what I’d expected. George was always invigorated by a new case—excited and eager to get started. “This must be a disturbing case.”

“It is . . . complicated. And confidential and potentially dangerous. The idea of making a holiday of it, with Rose and your aunt along . . .” He shook his head. “That is not possible.”

“Fine. Then you and I shall go alone. Once we’ve completed this investigation, they can join us, and then we’ll have our holiday.”

“Frances, this is somewhat personal.”

Warning bells sounded in my head. “Too personal for your wife?” All manner of horrors crossed my mind as I rose to my feet and took a step toward him, putting us nose to nose. “George Hazelton, if there is another Frenchwoman out there declaring herself to be your wife, so help me, I’ll—”

“No!” George looked as though his life were passing before his eyes at the mention of events from last fall. He took me by the shoulders. “It’s nothing like that. The letter is from my aunt Julia. It’s of a confidential nature, and I simply don’t know how much of it she’d be willing to let me divulge to you.”

My racing pulse slowed. “Is she in some sort of trouble?” I’d met Julia Hazelton years ago, when I made my London debut and became friends with George’s sister, Fiona. Lady Julia had chaperoned us once or twice when Fiona’s mother wasn’t available. We had always considered it a treat since she was only ten years older than us and far more indulgent than either of our mothers.

Lady Julia was the spinster aunt that all mothers warned their daughters they’d become if they didn’t lower their standards and marry someone. From what I’d witnessed, hers didn’t seem an unpleasant life. No worse than that of many of us who did marry, and far better than that of some.

I’d learned recently that Lady Julia had longed to travel and make her living painting, but for years the Earl of Hartfield, who was her brother and George’s father, hadn’t allowed it. Fiona thought her aunt Julia had been something of a prisoner in their home. George didn’t see it quite so dramatically. Upon the old earl’s death, George’s brother had inherited the title and had set Lady Julia free, which is to say he’d given her a generous allowance and told her she should do with it as she wished.

My understanding was that she had been living a nomadic life ever since. She’d managed to attain the ripe old age of thirty-eight without ever having to follow society’s rules. She was a veritable advertisement for the joy of spinsterhood. I was surprised she’d written to George. “Is she passing through Paris?”

“She has been living there for the past seven years.”

“For seven years?” Not so nomadic, then. “Wouldn’t that have been when she left the family home?”

George gave me a mirthless smile when he saw awareness dawn in my eyes. “This is my dilemma. The rest of the family thinks she is traveling the world, and she has made it clear to me that she wishes to perpetuate that ruse. She has contacted me twice over the years, and I’ve helped her with matters of business.” He ran a hand down my arm. “I’d love to have you with me, my love, but there are elements of her life she wishes to keep private.”

“But if the point of your trip is to help her with confidential business matters, I can stay at our hotel while you work with her. Or I could find something else to do. It is Paris, after all. She needn’t even know I’m there if you fear that will distress her.”

“That’s not exactly what I’m worried about.” He stepped around to his side of the desk and picked up Lady Julia’s letter. When he opened it, something fell to the desk—a small fragment of paper. George swept it up and handed it to me. “I don’t think sharing this with you will breach any confidentiality.”

It was a newspaper clipping from July 11—two days ago. I unfolded it to reveal a death notice. “Paul Ducasse,” I read. “The artist?”

George indicated that I should continue reading.

The newsprint was small and in French, so it took a moment to read. It was indeed Paul Ducasse, the artist, who had died—by accident, according to this. “It says he fell into the Seine and drowned on the evening of the tenth.”

He held up the letter. “Aunt Julia thinks differently and would like me to investigate.”

Ducasse must be of some importance to her if she wanted George to investigate his death. It appeared that Lady Julia had a few secrets. One of them involved a man—a dead man.

“So, you must see why it would be better if you don’t accompany me.” The confident tone with which George began the statement faltered when he caught my eye.

I smiled. “Must I?”

“Surely you don’t want to become involved in this, Frances.”

I tipped my head.

“Egad, I’ve no choice, have I? You’re going with me.”

I rested my palm against his cheek. “I’ll start packing now.”

By the following afternoon, George and I were crossing the English Channel. When necessary, I can be the model of efficiency. Our need to depart quickly had made obtaining hotel lodgings impossible. I had heard more than twenty million people had already visited the exposition since it opened in April, and at least that many more were expected before it closed. Which meant George and I might have found ourselves on the street if not for Patricia Kendrick, my sister’s mother-in-law.

Patricia was deeply involved with the British exhibit at the exposition but was not currently occupying the apartment she leased in Paris. She’d returned to London last week for at least a month and suggested that George and I make use of her Paris apartment to visit the exposition, call on my sister, or investigate a suspicious death.

She didn’t say that last part in so many words, but I was confident she wouldn’t mind.

Modern woman that I was, I’d used our telephone to contact her the moment I knew we were bound for Paris. She could not have been more accommodating. She had sent the address and a set of keys with a footman within the hour and had promised to notify the housekeeper in Paris of our arrival. My aunt, Hetty, was happy to take charge of Rose for a week or so. And just as willing to bring her along to Paris later.

And voilà! Here we were a little over a day later, standing on the deck of the Invictus under a heavy sky. The cool sea air blew wisps of hair across my face. I lifted my hand to brush them aside, but George’s fingers got there first and tucked the dark strands securely behind my ear.

He drew in a deep breath, clearly savoring the salty tang of the sea. “I knew it would be more enjoyable out here than in that tight cabin. Aren’t you glad we came up on deck?”

“It’s perfect,” I replied, linking my arm with his and nestling into his side. We had come out on the covered deck almost an hour ago to watch our progress as we approached France. As we crept into the port of Calais, all sound was lost to the clamor of the coastal birds who screeched their objections at the steamer disturbing their pool. It was a shame we weren’t traveling for pleasure, but with luck, that would come later—after Lady Julia’s business.

I leaned against George’s shoulder and watched the activity on the dock up ahead. There was no need to rush, as we had Bridget and Blakely, my maid and George’s valet, along to take care that our bags were loaded onto the right train and that a suitable compartment was made ready for us.

“Lady Harleigh, what a surprise.”

I glanced to our left to see none other than Alicia Stoke-Whitney standing on the other side of a support beam. As always, I couldn’t help but draw a contrast between us. Alicia looked like a fairy princess—pocket size, with a pointed chin and bright cheeks and eyes. Even her hair was a vivacious red, which completely matched her personality. I, on the other hand, was a few scant inches shorter than George’s six feet, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a pert nose. The only time my cheeks were bright was when I pinched them.

Alicia had left England months ago, after her husband died, intending to spend her mourning period on the Continent. Not that I thought she truly mourned her late husband, but that was beside the point. Mourning was a societal norm most widows followed. I had done so for my late husband, and he was a complete rotter. In fact, he’d been in Alicia’s bed when he died. I’d quite forgotten about that, and the memory stung a bit, though I tried not to let it show. It was my late husband who’d broken our marriage vows, not Alicia. Since that time, she and I had become rather useful to one another.

Still, I did find it annoying that while the rest of us observed the formalities, she gadded about as she pleased. She’d clearly just come from England. And as clearly, she was in the company of a rather handsome man. He was of average height, but everything else about him was distinctive. Thick dark hair and mustache, piercing gray eyes, chiseled features, and broad shoulders. He looked to be in his early forties, which put him at the upper edges of Alicia’s tastes. Her latest amours had been younger men.

George released a tsk that was audible only to me. Though I sympathized with his feelings, I was curious. “Hello, Alicia.” I didn’t bother correcting her use of my former title. I’d been Mrs. Hazelton since I married George. “I thought you’d forsaken England for the Continent.”

She let out a tinkle of laughter and squeezed the gentleman’s arm closer to her side. “I have certainly found much to love in France, but occasionally I must return to England for matters of business.”

I wondered what business Mr. Dark and Handsome was helping her with. I shifted my gaze his way. Did Alicia intend to introduce him?

“Tell me, what brings you to France?” she asked. “Where are you staying?”

Hmm. Apparently, no introduction was forthcoming.

“The exposition, of course,” I said. “You remember my brother-in-law, Mr. Kendrick? His mother is a member of the British commission. We are staying at her home in Paris.”

“Such a small world,” she said. “I, too, am a member of the commission. I took my late husband’s place. I don’t believe I’ve worked with Mrs. Kendrick, though the name sounds familiar.”

The steam whistle sounded, vibrating from my feet up through my spine and reminding us it was time to disembark. “We should go to our cabin and gather our belongings,” George said, taking my arm.

Alicia smiled. “And we must be off, as well. I’m sure we shall see each other again in Paris.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed before George nearly dragged me through the door. “I’m coming,” I said once we were out of their hearing. “Heavens, I know you don’t care for Alicia, but you needn’t run in your attempt to get away.”

George darted a glance behind us and slowed his pace. “I simply didn’t want to be trapped into providing any further information. I’d really prefer that no one know we’re here until after we’ve taken care of Aunt Julia’s business.”

We’d reached our cabin to find that Bridget and Blakely had already removed every sign of our previous occupation. “We have a private compartment on the train,” I assured him. “She’ll never find us.”

George gave me a bewitching smile. “That sounds rather like an invitation.”

“I thought you were avoiding invitations at the moment.”

“Not from you, my love. Never from you.” He pulled me into his arms, and goodness! We nearly missed our train.

We arrived in Paris about four hours later. Upon disembarking the train, we found Gare du Nord completely overrun with fellow travelers—some rushing across the platforms, heels ringing out on the metal grates, others waiting by stacks of baggage, each their own island within the flowing mass of people.

It was early evening, just after six. I suspected many of these people were returning home from their daily employment. The commuters scowled at the travelers who raised their voices to be heard over other voices, in every language imaginable. The noise echoed off the stone and metal structure and bombarded the ears like waves against the shore.

George gripped my hand so as not to lose track of me in the enormous building, and we stepped into the swirling mass. Bridget and Blakely had set out a good twenty minutes before us, so assuming we made it out of the station, they ought to have a cab waiting. I have never been so grateful for my height. I could see over most of the heads between us and the exit. When we finally made it out the doors, I expected to hear a pop like that of a cork released from its bottle.

“There’s Bridget,” George said. She stood on the back end of a hackney cab, or here in France, I suppose it would be a fiacre, waving her arms. Her fair Irish complexion was blotchy from the heat, and her blond curls had escaped her sedate bun.

“Blakely went on to the house with the luggage,” she said as George and I climbed in. “And I got very lucky that this cabbie was willing to wait for you.”

“Then hop in with us and enjoy the fruits of your labor,” I told her. “Heavens, I had no idea it would be so crowded.”

“You were the one who said the entire world was traveling to Paris,” George said. “I should think you would have been prepared for this.”

I bumped against the back of the seat as the cab took off. “I suppose I thought the world had already been and gone. I hope it’s just the station, but I fear we will be up against crowds everywhere.”

We had traveled along for thirty minutes or so when the carriage came to a standstill. I regarded the heavy traffic outside the window, wondering how long we’d be stuck here. We were south of the opera house and approaching the Louvre. I consulted my 1896 Baedeker guide. If it was correct, rue St. Honoré, and the Kendricks’ apartment, ought to be close at hand—assuming the carriage would move at some point.

I heaved a sigh of impatience. “Why don’t we walk? We’ve been traveling long enough today, and it’s quite stifling in here.”

“I’m game,” George said. “Is the apartment nearby?”

A short consultation with our driver indicated it wasn’t far at all.

“Shall we, then?” George said.

We left Bridget in the cab with our two small bags and payment for the driver. Then we picked our way around the multitude of carriages and even a few automobiles lined up on the broad boulevard. The sky was significantly brighter here than it had been on the coast, but without the breeze, the air felt sultry, and we were still dressed for the channel crossing. I considered myself lucky when we arrived at the apartment before I’d completely wilted.

That is to say we arrived at the entrance gate to the building. Suitable for a castle, the beautifully carved and ancient wood fit perfectly into an enormous arched opening in the stone wall. A knob was fitted into the side of the arch to ring the bell for the concierge. Before I could do so, Blakely opened one of the doors and stepped out. The valet was a head shorter than George, and the door he was manning was a good two Blakelys tall.

“Good to see you made it,” George said as we followed the valet into the courtyard.

“I’ve been here just long enough to get your luggage brought in,” he said. Neither the heat nor the exertion seemed to have had any effect on Blakely. His black suit and white shirt were just as crisp as when he left the house this morning. The pale skin that came along with his coppery brown hair was not even slightly flushed. I turned away with a sigh of envy and took notice of my surroundings.

“Why, it looks like a park in here,” I said. A smallish park, anyway, enclosed on all sides with five-story buildings, the walls of which were covered with glossy green vines. The courtyard was paved with flagstones from the surrounding walls to a garden area in the center, filled with showy mophead hydrangeas and fuzzy ferns. Small palm trees in pots lined the two long walls of the rectangular space and framed matching stairways that climbed up the opposing walls to outdoor landings on the first floor. It was blessedly cool and shady here. A refreshing change from the street.

“We left Bridget and our bags in the cab a few blocks away,” I told Blakely. “She should be along shortly.”

“Very good, ma’am,” he said. “Then, if you’ll allow me to introduce the housekeeper, she can show you to your room, while I wait for Bridget.”

“An excellent plan.” We followed him up one of the stone stairways to the Kendricks’ apartment, which took up. . .