Death and the Courtesan

by Pamela Christie

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Pamela Christie's sparkling historical mystery goes beyond the modest drawing rooms of Regency London in the company of the city's most esteemed and scandalous courtesan. . . Since the age of sixteen, Arabella Beaumont has been happily employed as a highly paid woman of pleasure. True, respectable ladies of the ton would never deign to call at Lustings, her delightful home. Then again, Arabella has no desire to make dreary small talk and sip tea when she could be enjoying the company of amusing, intelligent, and extremely generous gentlemen. But while Arabella's admirers are legion, she also has enemies. A paper knife stolen during one of her salons was discovered near the body of a former rival. Arabella was entertaining her wealthy benefactor on the night of the murder, but the engaged duke can't provide the alibi she desperately needs. It falls to Arabella and her resourceful sister, Belinda, to clear her good--or at least innocent--name. Utilizing all the talents in her arsenal, the irrepressible Miss Beaumont will endeavor to catch the real culprit, before the hangman catches up to her. . . Praise For Pamela Christie And Death Of A Courtesan "What a delicious and delightful tale! The Regency world is turned upside down--and much refreshed--by a decidedly unorthodox heroine. Pamela Christie writes with wit and verve, gifting readers with a vision of the period at once marvelously scandalous and oh-so tempting. I adore clever, spunky Arabella and look forward to her future adventures." --Sara Poole, author of The Borgia Mistress "A clever, funny, engaging read reminiscent of Fidelis Morgan's Unnatural Fire. Pamela Christie deftly combines the conventions of the Regency-era novel with the fast pace and careful attention to characterization found in the best modern historical mysteries." --Kate Emerson, author of The King's Damsel "With cleverness and humor, Pamela Christie brings to life a colorful world that would've been at the same time familiar and scandalous to Jane Austen and her readers." --Anna Loan-Wilsey, author of A Lack of Temperance "A smart, witty and thoroughly entertaining read! It reminds me of some of my favorite series on Masterpiece Theater." --Diane Haeger, author of I, Jane "A delectable treat for the historical mystery lover to savor. You will be left eager for Arabella's next adventure!" --Teresa Grant, author of The Paris Affair

Release date: June 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Decent people what’s only tryin’ to make a honest livin’ oughtn’t to have to put up wi’ this sort a thing. I’ve ast ’er nicely, I’ve ast ’er firmly, an’ I’ve threatened ’er wi’ the law, but the hussy looks right through me as if I was made of glass!”

Though the heavily built landlady appeared to have been formed of some type of construction material, it definitely wasn’t glass, and the two Bow Street Runners who followed in her wake exchanged smirks as she led them up the dark staircase. Visibility was poor in here, and the steps were strewn with objects both lumpish and sinister, but neither constable was inclined to grasp that handrail a second time.

“Oh, she was nice enough . . . to begin with, first tellin’ me I’d be paid in full . . . by the end o’ the week, then in a fortnight . . . then by the end of the month . . . Said she ’ad expectations from somewhere . . . but either she never got the . . . money, or she spent it all . . . soon as it come in.”

The landlady paused on the landing to catch her breath.

“Have you got the key with you, Mrs. Ealing?” asked one of the constables.

“Yes, lor’ bless you, sir! I remembered it this time!” She produced a key from her pocket, and the three of them trudged down a narrow passage that reeked of cat. “ ’Ere we are: number five.” She pounded on the door. “Open up!” shouted Mrs. Ealing. “I’ve got the law with me, you baggage! They’ve come to throw you out on the street! Do you hear me?” She rattled the knob, but there was no sound from within. “I know she’s in there. Prob’ly dead drunk. It’s a disgrace, is what it is!”

Mrs. Ealing unlocked the door, which swung open before her into the room. But she remained standing where she was, like a wall in her own right, blocking the entrance with her bulk, and the officers had to push past her in their haste to reach the ghastly thing that lay upon the bed.

Walls are typically made of stone, or brick, or wattle and daub. The good ones can be counted on to maintain perpendicularity for years. But the landlady swayed and toppled after only a few moments. Not a bit like glass. Nor stone, for the matter of that. Mrs. Ealing, at this moment, resembled nothing so much as a pile of wet cement.

The morning on which Arabella was served with a warrant for her arrest dawned like many another summer’s day in Brompton Park: brimming with birdsong and sunshine, punctuated with gently rustling leaves. For it was June, glorious June, and London the most lighthearted of cities, if one happened to be rich. There were no dark clouds, no eerily howling dogs, no unaccountable feelings of foreboding. Nor was there any sign of the duke, other than a checque for five hundred pounds that he’d left beneath her pillow. But this, too, was typical.

Arabella smiled and stretched herself, as the accustomed light tapping at her door heralded the appearance of the chambermaid, bearing Arabella’s breakfast. She was in an excellent humor.

“Good morning, Doyle!” said Arabella, pulling herself upright to receive the tray. “We leave for Bath in two weeks! Are you excited?”

“Oh, yes indeed, madam! Cook’s been tellin’ us ever so much about it—’Tis like the way our mam used to talk o’ London, when us were little and hadn’t ever been here!”

“And did London live up to your expectations?” asked Arabella, tucking a crisp linen napkin into her décolletage.

“In some ways. In others I can’t say as it has, ma’am.”

“Well, I think you’ll find Bath very satisfactory in all particulars, Doyle. It is the one destination which never disappoints.” She lifted the cover from her plate. “Oooh! Enormous, masculine sausages! I do love those!”

The maid tittered. It suited her, too, for she was a tiny thing, and Irish. “If you please, ma’am, His Grace the Duke is waiting to see you downstairs.”

“What? Isn’t he gone, then?”

“No, ma’am. That is, he was gone, but he’s come back again, and says for you to please take your time; he’ll wait in the library until you want him.”

“Want him . . . ? Why should I? Well, thank you, Doyle. Tell him I’ll come down when I’m dressed.”

Arabella poured a rich, steaming stream from her silver chocolate pot into a delicate pink cup with a golden rim. How odd; why should the duke think she wanted to see him? She’d already seen him—quite a lot of him—over the past three nights. And hadn’t he mentioned something about attending a breakfast meeting at his club?

She took a bite of toast and picked up the paper. More news from the front. Napoleon had . . . blah, blah, blah. And Wellington was nearly . . . oh, blah blah . . . war was so dull. And yet people scarcely spoke of anything else these days. Surely, there was something in the paper besides politics....

Oh! Dear! Now this was too bad! Euphemia Ramsey was dead! Murdered night before last! She and Arabella had once been friends, but they’d fallen out some years ago. It was more than just a falling-out, actually; they’d become enemies. But nobody deserved to be murdered. Not even Euphemia.

Hmm, stabbed to death with a paper knife . . . Dear, dear! Suspect’s arrest imminent . . . that was good. Owner’s initials engraved on handle . . .

Arabella stopped chewing and sat very still. A week ago, after one of her parties, a silver paper knife with her initials had gone missing. Oh, but it couldn’t be that one . . . could it . . . ?

She thrust aside the tray and hurried to her dressing room, where she selected a rust-colored muslin frock with dark-green ribbons, and dressed quickly. Then she swept up her hair with tortoiseshell combs and dabbed her eyes with orange-water from the basin under the window. There was no time to do more, nor was there need: She was looking her best this morning, in spite of, or perhaps owing to, the fright she had just experienced.

Now we shall pause, reader, to take stock of the celebrated Arabella Beaumont, England’s most famous courtesan. She was handsome, rather than pretty, but she made the most of everything she had, for, as Arabella herself was famously quoted as saying, “There is no limit to the heights attainable by a passably attractive, intelligent woman, knowledgeable in the ways of pleasing men, and entirely free from inhibitions.” The gray-green eyes were narrow and long, the full lips shapely, and she nearly always wore, not so much for ornament as for use, a stub of pencil behind her right ear. Upon meeting her for the first time, one had immediate and simultaneous impressions of height, abundant auburn hair, and a Grecian profile—the bridge of the nose dropping almost straight down from the forehead. There was nothing the least bit childlike about her looks, and the sort of man who prefers the infantile innocence of helpless little maids would not have pronounced her beautiful, perhaps; yet even such a one as he should have found it difficult to resist her graceful elegance and engagingly direct manner of speaking.

Arabella’s protector, on the other hand, was conventionally good-looking. So there can be nothing more to say about his appearance. The eye of the beholder slides off countenances such as these, there being no single feature to fix upon or excite interest, and Arabella used to quite forget what he looked like when they were separated for more than a fortnight.

When she entered her library, the duke set down his pen and rose from the writing desk, opening his arms.

“My poor darling!” he murmured, kissing her brow. (For Arabella was tall, but the duke was six-three.) “Such a sorry business!”

“I don’t believe it, Henry!” she cried. “Surely there has been some mistake!”

“I am afraid not, my dove; I spoke to Sidmouth this morning. He’s serving a warrant for your arrest today.”

“But they can’t really think I did it, Puddles! I’ve been here with you the past three nights! The servants will swear to our being together!”

The duke took her hands and gazed earnestly into her face. “I am afraid we shall have to keep that to ourselves, Bell. I didn’t like to tell you before, but you see . . . I’m . . . getting married soon, and my fiancée thinks . . . well, she thinks I gave you up six months ago.”

Arabella abruptly withdrew her hands.

“I’d no idea you had a fiancée, Henry!” she said coldly. “There’s been nothing about your engagement in The Times!”

“We haven’t told anyone. Her father always thought me a despicable roué.”

“And so you are, darling. Who is she?”

“Doesn’t matter. But the paterfamilias finally popped off last week, and she’s a very wealthy woman now. Not that I need it, but money’s a good thing, and more money is even better. Besides, my mother is dead keen on the match. So I can’t . . . You see?”

“What?” cried Arabella. “Not even if they hang me for a crime I haven’t committed?”

“Oh, they won’t, Bell. I’ve told Stinker off the record where I’ve been spending these past few nights.”

“And who is ‘Stinker’?”

“Old Sidmouth’s son. We were at school together.”

“Well, that’s some help, I suppose. Still, without your evidence I might very well hang. If I don’t rot in prison, first.”

They had moved into the entrance hall and were standing next to the front door when it suddenly commenced pounding.

“Open up in the name of the law!”

The flustered parlor maid ran in from the passage.

“Oh, madam; whatever shall I do?”

“Open the door, Fielding,” replied Arabella calmly. “It’s the law, you know.”

The two blue-coated constables who stood outside appeared abashed at finding themselves face-to-face with a London celebrity. They stood, shifting their weight uneasily, and shyly removed their hats.

“ ’Ave I the honor of addressin’ Arabella Beaumont?” asked the fair one.

“You have, sir,” said she. “Won’t you come in?”

The two officers stepped carefully over the threshold, conscientiously wiping their boots on the mat.

“I’m very sorry, miss, but I must read you this warrant.”

“That’s quite all right, Constable. You may proceed.”

The warrant was read and the officers were on the point of escorting her out of the house when the duke, who had heretofore remained in the background, stepped forward at last.

“One moment, if you please.”

“And who might you be, sir?”

“I am Henry Honeywood Seaholme, the Duke of Glendeen . I have here a letter, written by myself and addressed to Lord Sidmouth, the home secretary, promising to guarantee Miss Beaumont’s continuing presence in this city until the time of her trial, and requesting that her person be remanded to my custody and protection for the remainder of this month. Naturally, I shall be happy to pay whatever security is required.”

He handed the letter to the dark-haired officer.

“Well, Your Grace, I don’t know if—”

“It’s quite all right, Constable. Lord Sidmouth advised me to follow this procedure himself.”

“Oh. Well. That’s all right then, I suppose,” said he, glancing uncertainly at his partner. “We’re sorry to have troubled you, Miss Beaumont.” He gave an awkward little bow and murmured, “I’m a great admirer of yours, ma’am.”

“Not at all, Constable,” she replied graciously. “You were only discharging your duty.”

As they were leaving, Arabella partially closed the front door and put her head through the opening, where the duke couldn’t hear her. “And I hope,” she added softly, “that you will both pay me an unofficial visit when all this is cleared up.” For they were strong, good-looking fellows!

After she had shut the door, the officers stood perfectly still for a moment. They looked at each other and swiftly looked away. Then the fair one reached up, firmly grasped a tree branch, and swung from it, uttering a single, curiously ape-like cry. His companion, dipping his hat into the birdbath, poured water over his own head and gasped like a landed fish.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, Arabella had turned to the duke.

“Why did you say ‘for the remainder of this month’?”

“Well, because that’s when my leave ends, you know.”

“And do you really expect them to have this matter resolved by then?”

“Um, well, probably, yes. I sail for Lisbon on the twenty-ninth.”

“Where will I be, then?”

“Well . . . here, I suppose. I mean, if they solve the murder, you’ll be free and everything.”

“But, Henry, what if they haven’t solved it?”

“Um . . .” He couldn’t meet her eye.

“I shall go to prison, shan’t I? And then they’ll hang me, while you’re off in Iberia.” She slumped against her benefactor. “Now I can’t go to Bath, and I did so want to meet Jane Austen! That is, not meet her, of course, but have her pointed out to me in a shop, or something.”

“Who is Jane Austen?” he asked, walking her back to the library with his arm around her.

“A terribly clever new writer, who’s known to frequent that place. No one is supposed to know her identity, but I am friends with her publisher. I shouldn’t imagine you’ve heard of her.” They sat down upon the sofa, holding hands. “Didn’t you say that you have an awful lot of idle time on your ship? I could lend you my copy of Sense and Sensibility, if you like.”

“What’s it about?”

“Two sisters and their search for love.”

“Hmm. Is it a dirty book?”

“Rather the opposite.”

“Well. Doesn’t sound my sort of thing, you know. I mostly confine my reading to manly subjects of a salty nature, like sea battles and pornography. My men wouldn’t half laugh if I should be discovered with dainty literature in my quarters.”

Arabella sighed. “The servants and I were so looking forward to Bath,” she said. “Oh, Puddles, what am I to do?”

“Why, nothing, my dear! I’ll get you Corydon-Figge!”

And he attempted to ease her onto the floor, with her head between his knees.

“I really don’t feel up to eating, Henry.”

“You mistake me, my darling!” said the duke, fumbling with his breeches. “I meant Sir Clifton Corydon-Figge; the best barrister money can buy!”

Arabella pulled sharply away from him and stood up.

“And you mistake me,” she said, shifting the emphasis of the words in order to clarify her meaning: “I meant I really don’t feel up to eating Henry.”

Lady Ribbonhat was taking longer than usual over her correspondence this morning. She would scratch a few lines and then sit quite still for extended periods, staring vacantly at the wallpaper. One could hardly blame her, for she had recently had the morning room re-papered in an ostentatious gold foil, at great expense, and staring at it was one way—really the only way—that she would ever realize her money’s worth. Even so, some might have thought the walls better suited to a typically pompous dinner with the regent than a lovely summer morning all to oneself. Framed silhouettes of Lady Ribbonhat’s favorite pugs hung above the desk on pink satin ribbons, and sometimes she stared at these, rather than at the wallpaper. But neither her golden walls nor the pink and black pictures adhered thereto reflected the duchess’s mood today, which roiled along like an angry river, in deepest, bloody purple. For her heart was overflowing with anticipated vengeance, which her head had determined was almost at hand. She was writing a letter to Arabella, and considering the venom that coursed so forcefully through Lady Ribbonhat’s veins at that moment, the reader might find it curious that she should experience difficulty in getting it to flow from her pen. But the explanation is a simple one: In such matters it is of the utmost importance to strike exactly the right note, and poor Lady Ribbonhat was somewhat tone-deaf.

At length, however, she was able to produce an epistle that satisfied her requirements well enough:


Lady Ribbonhat seldom used her full title, since everyone to whom she wrote knew perfectly well who she was, and it took too long to write out. But the dowager wished to strike fear and awe into the breast of her enemy, and like a vulture with its talons out, sought to improve her chances of success by descending from a greater height.

This paragon was the possessor of a large head and a runty body, shriveled with the years. A pair of pale eyes with pendant lids sat too closely on either side of a high-bridged, beaky nose, beneath a heavy pair of crow-black eyebrows. The hair upon her head, however, was the color of mayonnaise.

Rightly ascertaining that the new fashions were too young for her—just now they were modeled on the . . .