And Dangerous to Know

Book 3: Rosalind Thorne Mystery

by Darcie Wilde

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

When the ladies of the ton of Regency London need discreet assistance, they turn to Rosalind Thorne—in these mysteries inspired by the novels of Jane Austen . . .
 
Trust is a delicate thing, and no one knows that better than Rosalind Thorne. Lady Melbourne has entrusted her with recovering a packet of highly sensitive private letters stolen from her desk. The contents of these letters hold great interest for the famous poet Lord Byron, who had carried on a notorious public affair with Lady Melbourne's daughter-in-law, the inconveniently unstable Lady Caroline Lamb. Rosalind is to take up residence in Melbourne House, posing as Lady Melbourne's confidential secretary. There, she must discover the thief and regain possession of the letters before any further scandal erupts.
 
However, Lady Melbourne omits a crucial detail. Rosalind learns from the Bow Street runner Adam Harkness that an unidentified woman was found dead in the courtyard of Melbourne House. The coroner has determined that she was poisoned. Adam urges Rosalind to use her new position in the household to help solve the murder. As she begins to untangle a web of secrets and blackmail, Rosalind finds she must risk her own life to bring this desperate business to an end . . .

Release date: December 31, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 277

Sample

Adam Harkness pushed his way into the Brown Bear public house. April’s bright, damp dawn had just begun to seep between London’s chimneys, but the room was already crowded with working men after a mug of beer or a bowl of stew. Harkness touched the brim of his old-fashioned tricorn hat to Seamus Callahan, the landlord. In answer, that worthy spared one hand from plying his beer jug to wave Harkness toward the cellar door.

The Brown Bear was just like any of the hundreds of public houses across the length and breadth of London, save for one thing. This house stood directly across from the famous Bow Street police station. Down the years, the Brown Bear had become a sort of annex to the business of the station and its magistrate’s court. Prisoners were held here, questioned here, even searched for stolen property here. A man might think he’d been invited in for a friendly drink, only to find he was being called out for his crimes by a witness sitting in the back of the room.

And sometimes, while men ate and drank upstairs, a much grimmer table was laid out in the cellar.

“I’m sorry to have roused you so early, Mr. Harkness.” Sir David Royce straightened up from his work.

“I’m sorry you should have to.” Harkness crossed the chill cellar to stand beside a long table with its sad burden. He had served long enough as a principal officer at Bow Street that the smell of death no longer alarmed him. Neither did the sight of a corpse.

She was a pale woman, and no longer young. Not even death had erased the lines around her mouth and eyes. But neither was she very old. A quantity of dark hair—clean and well brushed—tumbled loose about her shoulders. Her skin was only minimally marked by sun and wind. Her hands looked strong, but the nails were clean and the fingers were not obviously splayed or callused. She’d lived a life indoors, then, perhaps as a lady’s maid or a shopkeeper’s assistant.

A ring of bruises stood out sharply around her mouth.

“What’s happened here?” Harkness asked.

“This unfortunate woman was brought here in a hired wagon, around two o’clock or so. The carters were extremely reluctant to stay while I was sent for.” Sir David Royce was a portly, balding man with steady hands, sharp eyes, and a methodical mind. He held the office of King’s Coroner for Middlesex County. It fell to Sir David and his subordinates to inquire into all unexpected deaths reported in a county that included both London and Westminster.

Sir David was constantly busy.

“I owe our host upstairs a little something for holding the pair of them spellbound with his beer and conversation.” Sir David rubbed his hands on a piece of toweling, which he slung over his shoulder. “I began my examination as soon as I was called, and I admit, I’ve been wrestling with what to do since.”

“How so?” With most crimes, such as theft, it was left to the victim to make complaint and seek redress, and to pay any costs that might arise in that attempt. But murder was a violation of the King’s Peace. The coroner’s sworn duty was to help uphold and preserve that peace by identifying the person or persons who broke it in the first place.

“Harkness, I believe this woman has been poisoned. You see those bruises on her mouth? She’s been made to swallow a considerable quantity of laudanum, very probably mixed with brandy. You can still smell it on her.”

Adam inhaled. Under the noxious odors that accompanied a death, he could still detect the tang of alcohol, anise, and camphor that made up a common blend of laudanum.

Harkness straightened and wiped at his mouth. “Is she . . . intact?”

“She’s not virgin, but I can’t find signs of force used on her, except those I already pointed out. I’ll be looking again when the light’s better, but I do not think rape is at the root of what happened to her.”

“Could she have met with an accident?”

“To accidentally drink enough laudanum to die, she’d have to have accidentally emptied a full bottle into a pint of brandy and then accidentally gotten the whole lot down without falling unconscious or becoming violently ill. And there’s no sign that she stumbled and fell because of intoxication.”

“Then what is the matter?” asked Harkness. “Convene the inquest. If you need my help, you have it, of course.” As coroner, Sir David could command the assistance of the Bow Street officers whenever he needed. The magistrates wrote out the warrants as a matter of form, and the Crown paid the fees.

Sir David sighed. “The problem, Mr. Harkness, is that this good woman was originally found at the gates of Melbourne House.”

The coroner paused expectantly for Harkness’s reply. When Adam just shook his head, Sir David deflated visibly.

“What have I missed?” Harkness asked. “I know Melbourne House is in Piccadilly. It’s home to Peniston Lamb, Lord Melbourne. Lord Melbourne’s a gamester, a horseman, and in Parliament. And I believe his wife, Lady Melbourne has a name for herself . . .”

“Lady Melbourne is notorious,” said Sir David. “Not only is she a leading political hostess, she has had any number of lovers. Including, they say, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.”

“Ah.” Harkness felt an unwelcome light begin to dawn in his mind. “That could become . . . delicate.”

“And then there’s the matter of Lady Melbourne’s son, or more accurately, her son’s wife, the infamous Lady Caroline.”

Harkness looked again at the dead woman. “This isn’t . . .”

“No, no. Whomever we have here, she is not Lady Caroline Lamb. I’ve had that lady pointed out to me at the theater. She’s a tiny person with very red hair.”

“Then how does this infamous Lady Caroline come into the matter? I thought you were concerned about Lady Melbourne?”

Sir David laughed. “Heavens defend us, Harkness! I forget sometimes how closely you focus on your own little world.”

Considering that Harkness’s world involved criminal activity across the length and breadth of the United Kingdoms, he would have disagreed with the epithet “little.” But he held his tongue about that.

“Lady Caroline,” said Sir David with theatrical patience, “is a public scandal in silk skirts. She might be genuinely insane, poor woman. But regardless of that, she numbers among her lovers, a certain George Gordon, Lord Byron.”

That brought Harkness up short. “Byron the poet?”

“Poet, radical, madman, unrepentant seducer of women, and God knows who or what else,” replied the coroner grimly. “The rumors are . . . most unsavory.”

“Sir David, please tell me you don’t think Lord Byron . . .”

“Mercifully, no. Lord Byron is currently in Switzerland, or maybe it’s Italy. Lady David was reading about it the other day.”

Which was a relief. Harkness did not care to imagine the public uproar if the celebrated Lord Byron was accused of murder.

“But you do think this woman may have been killed by someone in Melbourne House?”

“It’s possible,” answered Sir David. “The carters insist they didn’t know what they were hauling. They were just paid, and generously, to take a load wrapped in canvas to the Brown Bear. But they were very clear that the load was heaved into their cart while they were inside the courtyard gates.”

“Who paid them? Who helped them?”

“They could not, or would not, say. And that’s only part of the problem,” added Sir David sourly. “Any connection to Lord Byron, however tenuous, is going to set the whiskers of every single newspaper man from here to Landsend twitching. And here we have a dead woman who was found practically at the feet of Byron’s Mad Lady Caroline, and the possibility that someone in Melbourne house tried to get the body away from Melbourne house . . .”

“And it has the makings of a bloody mess,” Harkness finished for him. “But it’s strange, Sir David. If someone simply wanted her . . . gone, they could have her thrown into the river. Or dumped her into an alleyway.” Even Piccadilly had its fair share of deserted mews and dank lanes. “Why didn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Sir David. “Some rudiment of conscience, or overconfidence, or even remorse? A bit of all three?”

“But not enough of any to risk the house’s residents being called to testify at an inquest.” Harkness sighed. “When will you issue the warrant?”

“I won’t.”

I can’t have heard that right. Harkness frowned, but Sir David nodded.

“I’m not going to say anything at all about this woman. I will finish my examination, write down my notes in my private journal, and see her interred.”

“You won’t convene an inquest?” Surprise reverberated uncomfortably through Harkness. He had never seen Sir David hesitate when it came to carrying out his duty, no matter who he might be bringing into his court. “Even though you’re certain this is murder?”

“As long as this stays quiet, whoever is responsible will think their measures have succeeded and will do nothing more.”

Like flee the country, like call upon their influential friends, like bribe any witnesses to remain silent. Harkness nodded in reluctant understanding.

“But while they are, hopefully, sitting secure, we’ll be busy in other ways.” Sir David glanced toward the cellar door. “I need a favor from you, Harkness.”

“If I can.” Harkness respected Sir David, and liked him as a friend, but he would not give his word until he was sure he could keep it.

“You recently spoke to me about a lady, one who was of great assistance with that business at Almack’s last year . . .”

“Miss Rosalind Thorne.” Despite the gravity of their conversation, Adam felt a small smile form. He’d been fortunate to know a number of remarkable women in his life, but Rosalind Thorne was someone extraordinary. That lady was fiercely intelligent, with nerves of steel and a sharp sense of humor, all combined with a queenly demeanor.

“I believe she lent a hand sorting out the mess with Fletcher Cavendish and Mrs. Seymore as well?” said Sir David.

“Miss Thorne’s made something of a specialty of being useful to ladies who have problems . . . outside the workaday.”

“How high do her connections run?”

“Into the first circles.” In fact, Rosalind Thorne had been born and raised among the haut ton. Her family lost their place when her father lost his money, but her family name guaranteed that she remained welcome in many aristocratic homes.

“Harkness, I need you to find out if she will use her connections to penetrate the walls of Melbourne House. If this woman”—he gestured to the body on the table—“ran afoul of any person in the house, and if that person is trying to keep the matter a secret, we’ll need to discover all we can before that person decides to cover their tracks any further.”

Sir David could call anyone to testify at an inquest. As a Bow Street officer, Adam might brandish his staff and his warrant to enter a house and search it for evidence. But the law neglected to grant him, or the coroner, the power to compel any man to talk.

Especially if that man, or woman, was bosom friends with the Prince of Wales.

Miss Thorne, however, was no rude officer. She was a gently bred lady. Those same families that would unite against Bow Street would open their doors to Rosalind Thorne—their doors, their diaries, and their secret hearts.

“Very well,” said Adam. “As soon as I can, I’ll go see if Miss Thorne is at home.”

“I hope that she is,” Sir David replied, more to the woman beneath her makeshift shroud than to Harkness. “For all our sakes.”

As it happened, Miss Rosalind Thorne was at home, but she was not alone.

“Rosalind, tell George he’s a shortsighted booby.” Alice Littlefield glared at her brother.

“Yes, do.” George looked down his long pointed nose at his sister. “And then you can tell Alice she’s an unreasonable child.”

Rosalind Thorne put down her bite of toast. “Coffee?” she inquired.

Rosalind’s morning had begun somewhat later than Mr. Harkness’s. Unlike him, she had been permitted time for a breakfast of coffee, toast, and marmalade in the small but neat parlor of her house in Little Russell Street. Her intention upon rising had been to spend a peaceful hour with her stack of correspondence. This modest plan, however, was entirely disrupted by the unexpected arrival of Alice and George Littlefield, both spattered by fresh spring mud and both in high dudgeon.

Brother and sister looked at her now in surprise as she lifted the silver coffeepot. Both shook their heads.

“As you please.” Rosalind set the pot down again. “Perhaps you would settle for telling me what’s happened?”

Rosalind and Alice had been friends for ages. When they appeared together, they made a striking pair. Like her brother, Alice was slim, dark, and quick, although George was much taller. Rosalind, on the other hand, was tall, golden, and dramatically statuesque. But that was not where the contrast ended. Even as a girl, Rosalind had been steady and thoughtful, while Alice had always been quick and rambunctious.

Despite their apparent differences, the two became fast friends as children, and for much of their childhood, the promise of futures had been a sparkling one. Alice’s debut was one of the most highly anticipated of her season. For her part, Rosalind had achieved that elusive but much-sought-after dream. She had fallen in love. Even better, her chosen beau, Devon Winterbourne, returned the sentiment in full measure. There were problems, of course. Rosalind’s parents—especially her father—were utterly determined that Rosalind should marry into both wealth and title. Devon Winterbourne was a scorpion, a second son, and so did not stand to inherit. But he was the second son of the Duke of Casselmaine, which was a distinctly respectable level of peerage, even by her father’s soaring standards. Rosalind, her confidence buoyed by love, had been certain that she could talk her parents ’round, especially if she had her sister, Charlotte’s, help.

Then, across the course of a year, disaster struck for both families.

Rosalind’s and Alice’s fathers nursed similar ambitions for their daughters, but they also nursed similar vices in themselves. Both men gambled, and drank, and engaged in speculation, and the results for both had been the same. After years of living beyond their incomes, they’d finally lost their ability to pay their debts, or borrow from friends, or anyone else for that matter.

When ruin finally threatened, Rosalind’s father responded by running away.

Mr. Littlefield’s response left his children not only penniless but orphaned.

Therefore, George could be forgiven for sounding genuinely distressed when he exclaimed, “Alice is intent on destroying her livelihood!”

“Oh, piffle, George.” Alice, having refused coffee, helped herself to a slice of toast from the rack and dropped down onto the stool in front of the fire.

“And how is Alice doing this?” Rosalind asked the room at large.

“Tell her, Alice. Tell her what you’re going to do!” The naked anger in his voice genuinely surprised Rosalind. Despite his family’s hardships, George remained an easygoing man, and the pair enjoyed a close relationship that Rosalind sometimes envied. She and her own sister had not fared nearly as well.

“If you would sit down and calm down, I would be glad to tell her everything.” Alice pointed her half-eaten toast toward the sofa.

But George ignored this direction and rounded on Rosalind. In tones he normally reserved for discussing Parliamentary corruption and failed drainage systems, he announced, “She’s going to turn novelist.”

Rosalind paused to suppress all possible traces of a smile. Only then did she raise her brows and look to Alice for confirmation of this outrage. Alice lifted her chin, which was really all the answer Rosalind needed.

“I’ve spoken with Mr. Henry Colburn. In fact, it was George who introduced us . . .”

“I wish I’d made you stay home!”

“. . . and Mr. Colburn said that should A.E. Littlefield be inclined to write a novel, he would be delighted to consider the manuscript for publication at the earliest possible date.”

Shortly after their father’s suicide, George and Alice had both turned to writing to make their livings. The majority of the Littlefield income now came from the twice-weekly paper the London Chronicle. George was a feature writer, while Alice provided society gossip under the sobriquet of A.E. Littlefield. This and some other odd jobs enabled them to live, but not well. There were times, especially when the season was over and London quiet, that it became difficult to make ends meet.

“What Colburn wants,” George sneered, “is another book of overwrought tittle-tattle, like that Glenarvon thing Lady Caroline wrote, and he thinks Alice can give it to him.”

“Which she can,” replied Alice. “And she can do it using prose that is a much less violent shade of purple and is sprinkled with rather fewer mawkish Irish ballads.”

“And when she’s sued for libel, and the Major removes her from her regular column, then what?”

Rosalind did not remark on this immediately. Instead, she poured a fresh cup of coffee and held it out. George stared at it and then, resigning himself to the inevitable, seized the cup, sat himself on the end of the sofa, and drank. Alice crossed her ankles, rolled her eyes, and held out her hand. Rosalind poured a second cup.

Now that she had their attention, and a moment of silence, Rosalind said, “George, this isn’t like you. What is really the matter?”

“It’s one thing to air the haut ton’s dirty linen when they’re tossing you the titbits themselves, or if you’re Lady Caroline, daughter of a duchess and married to a peer of the realm. It’s quite another thing when you’re a penniless nobody.”

“If it sells, we won’t be penniless,” replied Alice tartly. “And I intend to publish anonymously.”

“It won’t stay anonymous. It never does.”

“Have either of you spoken to any of Mr. Colburn’s other authors?”

Brother and sister stared at Rosalind, both with their cups halfway to their mouths, their expressions such precise mirrors of each other that Rosalind’s self-control finally gave way and she let out a long laugh.

“You’re journalists!” she cried. “Has either of you considered interviewing the other persons Mr. Colburn is publishing to find out what manner of man he is and how he conducts his business? You could also speak with a solicitor about the libel laws. I should think, George, you would know at least one law clerk, but if not, perhaps Alice can speak to Mrs. . . .”

It was at this moment that the parlor door opened, and Rosalind’s housekeeper, Mrs. Kendricks, entered the room. Mrs. Kendricks was a rail-thin, competent, and usually unflappable woman. But just then a distinct color flushed her cheek and worry creased her brow.

“I do apologize, Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Kendricks said. “But you have another visitor. Lady Jersey is . . .”

Wherever or whatever Lady Jersey had been before, she was now in Rosalind’s front room.

“I did not expect you to have callers so early, Miss Thorne.

It is hardly the social hour.”

Rosalind, George, and Alice all struggled to their feet as Lady Jersey strode into the parlor. If the room had seemed somewhat crowded before, it instantly became cramped. Sarah Villiers, Lady Jersey, was a stout, short woman. Her force of personality, however, was such that she instantly filled any allotted space.

Ladies of the haut ton were instructed from infancy to be quiet, modest, and entirely unobtrusive. At some stage, Lady Jersey had thrown all such lessons over her shoulder. Ignoring the trio standing in awkward surprise, she stalked about the room, peering at Rosalind’s few pictures and ornaments as if bent on making an immediate purchase.

But then, Lady Jersey could afford to disregard those proprieties the world demanded of other women. She presided over that great hub of social London—Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Newspapers and wits scoffed at Almack’s weekly subscription dances with their strict dress code and meager refreshments. But the fortunes of whole families turned on the matches arranged at those highly exclusive assemblies. As the foremost among Almack’s gatekeepers, Lady Jersey held unrivaled social power, and she had no scruples at all about wielding it exactly as she saw fit.

There was no reason for the woman who ruled London society to be prowling Rosalind’s narrow parlor before ten o’clock in the morning. Fortunately, proper manners provided refuge from the sudden shock.

“Lady Jersey, how do you do?” said Rosalind. “May I introduce Mr. George Littlefield and his sister, Miss Alice Littlefield?”

“Yes.” Lady Jersey looked the Littlefields up and down through her quizzing glass with the same glare she’d used on Rosalind’s Dresden shepherdess. “Not, I trust, related to that horrid newspaper gossip, A.E. Littlefield? I am aware that Miss Thorne is forced on occasion to have intercourse with such . . .”

“Heavens, no,” murmured Alice. “I’m sorry your ladyship should think it. Well, George, it is past time we were on our way.”

“Yes, of course.” George did not bat an eye as he made his bow. “Miss Thorne. Lady Jersey. Pray, don’t trouble, Mrs. Kendricks. We will show ourselves out.”

As the Littlefields took their admirably prompt leave, Alice paused just long enough to give Rosalind a glance that spoke volumes. Specifically: If I do not receive a full report of this visit, the consequences will be severe.

Mrs. Kendricks, excused from having to attend to the departing Littlefields, retired to the chimney corner.

Lady Jersey sighed. “I do wish you would remember to keep regular hours, Miss Thorne. There cannot be a moment’s delay in this matter.”

“I am ready to help however I can.”

Rosalind had made Lady Jersey’s acquaintance during the previous season. Unthinkably, a man had been murdered inside Almack’s. Rosalind had discovered the murderer, although to Lady Jersey’s way of thinking, this was of secondary importance. For her, the vital acheivement had been that Rosalind prevented the scandal from destroying the reputation of the ballroom or its committee.

“Your sense of duty has always been most admirable, Miss Thorne. I said so to Lady Melbourne when I recommended you to her. ‘You may depend on Miss Thorne in all particulars, ’ I said. ‘She is entirely calm and levelheaded, and she understands that such affairs must be managed with the utmost discretion . . .”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am—”

“Was there ever anyone more unreasonable than that wife of his! Taking the most private family business to a lawyer! Perhaps her own parents are of no standing, but to demonstrate so little consideration for her nearest relations . . .”

Lady Jersey’s volubility was the stuff of social legend. Rosalind knew from personal experience that waiting for her to draw breath would be an exercise in extreme patience.

“I suppose one could excuse that woman, perhaps. All things considered . . . The house she was raised in . . . the duchess was a great lady, there is no denying. These is none like her today. I met her several times, you know. Still, the irregularities of the domestic arrangement . . . and the general permissiveness. It had to have some effect on Lady Caroline.”

While Lady Jersey flung forth this verbal whirlpool, Rosalind signaled to Mrs. Kendricks. The housekeeper moved silently to her side.

“Still. One would think any person would have been grateful to be admitted to such a household as Lady Melbourne’s.”

Rosalind made a discreet scribbling gesture. In response, Mrs. Kendricks handed across her housekeeping book and pencil.

“It should have been a brilliant match! An unparalleled match.”

Rosalind opened the notebook to a fresh page and began writing.

“If she’d only been discreet! If she’d only understood how long and how hard Lady Melbourne labored to help her!” Lady Jersey glowered at the tidy writing desk with its stacks of correspondence. “You just have time to change into something decent. You have something, don’t you? I suppose I might loan you one of . . .” She turned, and stopped. “Miss Thorne, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“A few notes for my housekeeper. Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks.” Mrs. Kendricks made her curtsey and took the note, the breakfast tray, and herself out of the room. “If you will please sit down, Lady Jersey? Mrs. Kendricks will bring you fresh coffee while I get ready.”

The fact that everything was moving in the direction she hoped for seemed to catch Lady Jersey off guard. “Yes. Very good. Very prompt. I was certain we might rely on you.”

“I do have one question.”

“Well? What is it?”

“Where are we going?”

Lady Jersey leveled Rosalind with a quelling glower.

“Oh, Miss Thorne, do try to pay attention! I’ve been perfectly plain! We are going to Melbourne House. Lady Melbourne is in need of your particular assistance.”

This was no small pronouncement. Lady Melbourne was one of London’s preeminent social and political hostesses. True, she was no longer in her prime, but the Melbourne name, the family, the house, and the lady herself still represented the highest circles of London society, and that was despite a level of notoriety that would have destroyed a lesser woman.

Indeed, if there was one person who wielded more influence over social London than Lady Jersey, it was Lady Melbourne.

“Of course,” replied Rosalind calmly. “I do apologize. And the matter is . . . ?”

Lady Jersey sighed sharply. “Really, Miss Thorne! I have never known you to be so woolly-headed! Did I not just explain? Some very valuable, highly confidential letters have been stolen from Lady Melbourne’s personal papers. It is to be your duty to recover them.” She leaned forward and hissed. “They’re about Lord Byron, Miss Thorne! And there can be no question but that they have all been stolen by that woman!”

What Rosalind knew about the connection between Melbourne House and the notorious aristocratic poet George Gordon, Lord Byron was limited. When Lord Byron and his epic poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage had become London’s ruling sensations, Rosalind was mired in the depths of her family’s dissolution. Despite this, the salacious details of the poet’s affaire de coeur had so pervad. . .