Murder in Berkeley Square

Book 3: Lady Worthing Mysteries

by Vanessa Riley

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Offering “a vibrant picture of the roles Black and mixed-race people played in Regency life” (Publishers Weekly), this unique historical mystery series, featuring a mixed-race heroine with a notorious past, will appeal to Bridgerton fans who want a sharper edge to their drama.

A marriage of convenience saved Lady Abigail Worthing’s family from disgrace, but she’s finding her absent husband's endless conditions increasingly repressive. Unable to stay at their London home during the oncoming winter, she accepts a ride to the country from her neighbor, Stapleton Henderson. However, she's less than delighted that she’s his excuse to avoid a dinner held by Lord Charles Duncan, one of London's most powerful—and relentless—magistrates. More irritating, women are decidedly unwelcome at the evening’s prestigious discussion of criminality—even though Abigail and Stapleton have solved several cases together . . .  

Then an unexpected blizzard strands them at Lord Duncan’s with his now-houseguests. Suddenly, an evening of fine dining, fine brandy, and insightful debate becomes an inescapable—and deadly—ordeal. The ultimate test for Abigial’s skill. One of the dinner guests is found dead in front of the Berkley Square mansion. And when another party is murdered, Abigail discovers each had received a taunting, prophetic nursery rhyme . . . coincidence, or clues left by a killer on the loose?

Through deft interrogation, she learns everyone present is connected to Lord Duncan's greatest failure in the courts: the conviction of a Martinique plantation informant for a murder he didn’t commit. But as Abigail races to find who was really responsible for the miscarriage of justice, she'll be forced to put her own and Stapleton's lives at risk in a gambit that will alter their fates forever—or end them permanently.

Release date: September 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

The Sun newspaper dropped from my fingertips.

The words put to death stung my chest. My parlor floorboards moaned when I stepped backward. I sank onto the sofa cushions. In my favorite room in my Queen Street townhome, I glanced again at the fallen broadsheet—the white paper, the indigo ink—announcing the assassination of Hayti’s new leader to all of London.

The editor made the death of Dessalines, the emperor of the first free Black nation, seem inconsequential, setting the story beneath a sentence about the royal family’s church outing and a notice about the Prince of Orange’s house.

What did foreign chaos mean to Britain?

What did the death of a leader, a hero smeared as a butcher, mean to abolition? I closed my eyes and imagined how conversations among the politicians would be turning in the smoke-filled rooms and men’s studies across town.

Those in power . . . Did they welcome this?

Had they expected such chaos from a nation led by Black hands? Or had the powerful of Britain caused this downfall?

The noise, the creaking boards behind me, made me turn to see a friendly face.

“Lady Worthing,” my butler said, “the weather is getting worse. Perhaps you should change your plans. Spend the Yuletide here in Westminster.”

I stared at him, then at the pile of evil correspondence that he’d brought me earlier and that I’d thrown on the table—canceled invitations and a letter from my errant husband.

“Things do look terrible, Mr. Rogers. But it’s a tradition I had before I married. I don’t intend to be alone . . . to be here for Christmas.”

With a quick glance out my window, I saw my lawn was white. “I love the way crystals form on glass. I love the new glass.”

“Ma’am, it would be no problem.”

“Being without these windows during the summer made me appreciate how the panes look like waves of trapped water.”

Rogers looked at me, knowing my rambles were the latest way I coped with the world.

“Ma’am, the weather?”

“If my plans are forced to change, yours will not, Mr. Rogers. You will be with your family.”

My butler sort of smiled.

I turned back to my window and counted the icicles hanging from the roof. “Cold and lovely out there. Mr. Henderson has been out with his dogs this morning. Quite nice to see a man dedicated to the things he’s chosen to care about.”

I bit my lip. That sounded a bit too bitter. “Any news of Lord Duncan returning from his wedding trip with his new bride?”

“None, ma’am, but I doubt he’d rush back from Scotland in this weather.”

“What man would?” Mrs. Smith’s voice was loud as she came into my parlor. “Any man with a bride half his age should be content and not inclined to rush anything.”

Mr. Rogers gave her the frowning eyes, as if it was not obvious to everyone that my husband, twice my years, had never rushed anything but our wedding night.

“Mrs. Smith, please.” My butler tugged on his dark mantle, then made his posture more erect. “I’m trying to convince Lady Worthing to spend the holiday here. You see how bad the weather is.”

Her fingers picked up James’s open letter from the table. “Oh. Oh, yes. You should stay if the master will return for Christmas.”

I turned from the two of them and let them sort out their cautious looks while I went to the window. My husband was not coming home. I didn’t know when I’d see him again unless I agreed to his newest request.

Swatting the curtain tie, I steadied myself. I was done with James’s games. “The conditions outside will make travel more difficult, but I refuse to quit my plans. I think it’s time to consider all that I want and what is owed to me.”

The squeaking of the floor between them sounded harried.

I parted the drapes fully. “The snow’s been higher.”

“But you’ve prudently stayed in.” Mr. Rogers stood before the pile of correspondence on the polished ivory table. By the squeamish look the two exchanged, they’d read James’s letter.

“Ma’am,” Mr. Rogers said, “you haven’t spent a proper Christmas here. It’s very kind of you to allow the staff to take leave, but we will stay and serve you.”

Proper? You mean waiting here, crying my eyes out, expecting James, only to get a note and Teacup, the runt of some litter. I now suspected the gift was truly from Rogers or Vaughn, my godfather.

I pulled my hands together like I was going to pray, but my only wish was not to yell. “No. Sir. Ma’am. It’s a tradition that my father has upheld. All his employees are home with their families for Yuletide.”

“But, madam, we—”

“Am I not Lady Worthing, Mr. Rogers? Do you not work for me?”

Eyes big at my harsh tone, Mrs. Smith said, “Yes, ma’am. We both work for Lady Worthing.”

My butler stepped forward as if he were in an executioner’s line. “In the master’s absence, you’ve led us well. No one questions your authority, but Lord Worthing wouldn’t want you unsafe. The roads are unsafe.”

My jaw trembled. My insides felt kicked in. “He’s in Australia. That’s where his sloop is docked. I’m certain he’s not thinking of my safety. I mean, he understands I can make my own decisions.”

Mrs. Smith had begun to busy herself with dusting in my yellow parlor. Then she picked up the Sun newspaper. Her finger circled the horrible article about treachery in Hayti, and she peered at Rogers.

Then I realized they’d read that, too.

I turned away and went to my fireplace and stood in the glorious heat. My cranberry carriage gown glowed, as did each of the silver buttons that lined the front of the gown from hem to collar.

“Lady Worthing.” Mrs. Smith’s voice sounded distant. “Let’s pray your husband returns soon. Once he’s here, he could use his old military connections to determine if the report about Emperor Dessalines is false.”

James no longer cared or pretended to care about what interested me. He was on the other side of the world, frolicking or fidgeting or mucking . . . yes, mucking about.

And why give him something to do so that in absentee husband logic, finding out about Hayti would be some grand gesture? Breathing, not screaming, definitely not sobbing, I walked to the sofa and sat and forced my lips to lift into an appropriate happy smile. “Lord Worthing is busy. He’s in the midst of some sort of discovery. No one shall interrupt him. He’ll not be back, not for a while.”

Solemn faced, Mrs. Smith hummed the nursery rhyme “Arthur o’Bower.”

Why was she humming this?

Why would she do this, hum what we’d all be singing if the nursery on the third floor had a purpose? Did that nursery rhyme mean she agreed with the despicable ultimatum my wayward husband had issued?

Rogers’s slow retreating steps renewed the floor’s squeaking. The soft squeals from the odd-sized slats beneath his black slippers was oddly comforting. The noise sounded louder and longer in winter. His head craned up, and he stopped at the threshold. “Command the staff to stay. Turn with your power, Lady Worthing. It’s getting so bad that everyone should stay.”

Was that it? Did fear make people stay? Was being a placeholder for whoever had James’s heart worth being here?

“For Yuletide, I’d rather not be here, and that’s settled.” My tone was low, barely audible above the noise my chestnut boot heels made as I paced in front of the fireplace. “My godfather and my friend Mr. Shaw will be joining Miss Sewell and me at her parents’ house. I refuse to have you and the others away from your families. The sooner the hired driver arrives, the sooner my cousin and I depart, the sooner everyone in my household can leave to be with their families. As a matter of urgency, start dismissing them now.”

He bit his lip, looking both fatherly and like a minister in his black coat. “Well, Miss Bellows is looking forward to Cheapside.”

My personal maid had no family. She’d be content here or wherever there was lively conversation. Her love of the festivities and food that my other family, the Jamaican side, made for the holidays was a grand enticement.

Last year she and I and Mr. Rogers stayed at Queen Street, waiting for James. The day after Christmas, my godfather came and got us. We’d missed everything.

“You have your orders, sir.”

Mr. Rogers bowed and left.

Mrs. Smith folded her arms about her gray uniform; then she offered me a smile. “Miss Bellows is packing her things. I think she’s very eager to have a good Christmas with the Sewells.”

At my aunt’s kitchen table, there would be no limit on laughter. And there was a greater chance of catching Vaughn or Wilson Shaw and persuading them to use their connection to see if there was any merit to the nasty article written about the assassination.

“If the new driver is able to make it here, you’ll have your way, Lady Worthing. I think everything will look different after the holidays. I think the New Year will be even better.”

“If? Please tell me you found someone reliable. Mr. Rawlins has already had an accident in this weather. We don’t need another one.”

Mrs. Smith began to leave but stopped short of the door and said, “Rawlins’s arm will heal up, and he’ll be back to racin’ you around in that odd carriage of yours.”

My housekeeper’s voice spun the guilt swirling in my gut. Yesterday my driver had gone out in this weather to pick up presents and to drop trunks at the Sewells’ residence in Cheapside. On his way back, my light yellow bounder had slid off the road. Rawlins had hurt himself but had still managed to get out of the ditch and get back to Queen Street before collapsing.

“He’s hurt because of me. Say it, Mrs. Smith.”

“I know you’re upset about Mr. Rawlins, ma’am, but he’s going to be fine. He’s as stubborn as you about completing a task.”

Lifting my chin, I tried to seem confident. It was a losing activity. “Go hurry my cousin and maid. The jarvey you hired will have to be here soon, or we’ll need to start walking.”

Her olive face darkened at the cheeks. She looked . . . guilty. “He canceled this morning. So, I took the liberty of asking your neighbor to drop you all to Cheapside.”

My eyes felt as if they’d popped and exploded in my skull. “You did what?”

“He’s still light on staff. I check on him, Lady Worthing. Miss Mary asked me to. His sister is spending Christmas abroad, traveling with that Mayfair aunt and uncle.”

“The Mathews?”

“Yes. They’ve traveled a lot since their ward’s death. They needed to be away, Miss Henderson said. Her brother didn’t want to go.” Mrs. Smith’s face seemed a little sheepish. “It’s his first Yuletide since returning from war. And now with you leaving . . . I don’t think it’s right for him to be alone.”

Mrs. Smith had a rigid nature for protocol, a sharp tongue, but a mysterious large heart for military men. Her father was a free Blackamoor who’d served on several navy frigates for king and country.

“So is that what’s behind Mr. Rogers wanting me to stay? Lord Worthing’s handpicked person to watch over me is waiting next door?”

“No. No, ma’am. Mr. Henderson has had a lot of loss this year.”

“And misery loves company, Mrs. Smith?”

She dipped her head. “Our veterans. When they return and everything has changed, it can be difficult. And you are at your best when you’re distracted.”

The old me, who fussed with the man next door over dogs, would wonder why my neighbor’s welfare was supposed to be my concern. The current me, who knew I was his keeper as much as he was mine, stayed silent.

The curmudgeon Commander Henderson, Stapleton Henderson, was a decent human being, and he’d become a friend.

Stapleton, unlike my husband, was here and honorable and, upon occasion, more helpful than I cared to admit.

“I thought since you don’t hate him anymore, Lady Worthing, he’d be a guest here at your Christmas table. But you’re not staying at Two Greater Queen Street.”

“Bah, humbug! I don’t want to be here, eating in the drawing room, beneath my husband’s portrait, pretending this life is enough. I have family in Cheapside, who make me feel that simple Abigail Carrington is enough.”

My hand covered my mouth. I didn’t want an outburst. “Sorry.”

She sighed and half curtsied. I supposed that was protocol for when your employer acted like a toddler.

Then she said, “Firstly, there’s never been anything simple or plain about you. And your name, ma’am, is Abigail Carrington Monroe. You should be proud. You are a lady of the ton.”

Did that mean I was supposed to act like those scandalous peers? Intrigues and dalliances were not me. “I wish you’d told me that you were entangling Mr. Henderson. When we arrive in Cheapside, I’ll ask my aunt if he, too, may come to dinner.”

“Ma’am, he seems very happy to oblige. He has an errand that he said meshes perfectly with this outing. And he was more delighted when I asked him to keep Teacup.”

“What? How indebted am I going to be to Mr. Henderson?”

“Your aunt—she sneezes somethin’ awful around pets. Did you forget?”

As if he’d heard his name, my boy bounced in, stopping every few feet to chase the squeaks from the floorboards.

After scooping him up in my arms, I held him close, like he was going away.

“Lady Worthing, you know he’ll be happier over there with the bigger dogs and the quiet floors. The rascal seems quite spooked some days.”

I nuzzled him against my neck. “I wasn’t thinking. It would be wrong to bring him, but Christmas without my boy . . .”

I saw hope in her eyes that I’d change my mind about going out. Wind rattled my windows.

Everything seemed to be against me. Holding to my resolve, my fire, I thanked her. “Mrs. Smith, you think of everything.”

“Well, seems Mr. Henderson will have custody of the three dogs for Christmas. That will make his Christmas bright. I know he’ll enjoy the trouble.”

“Trouble? No. No.” Shaking her finger at me, Florentina bounded into my parlor. “None of that, Abbie. You promised.”

I looked at her, wondering how there could be anything but trouble with a philandering, absent husband, three playful dogs, and a too-helpful neighbor minding my Teacup.

My housekeeper left my parlor, scooting past my cousin, who had donned her early Christmas present, a dark chocolate carriage dress that I’d had lined with bone buttons. Dark hair pulled up high, she looked lovely and fretful.

“Abbie, we’re supposed to make it through the holidays alive and unbothered.”

“We are alive and well. We just have to get to Cheapside.”

Her frown deepened. “Oh, I forgot about Teacup. You can’t bring him. My mom—”

“It’s been taken care of.” Cooing at my little terrier, like he was the baby my husband hoped I’d have, I shook my doggone head. “Mrs. Smith has everything arranged. My boy is spending Christmas with Mr. Henderson.”

Florentina scowled at his name. Her full lips drew closer to her nose before easing. My cousin had done that frowning and giving me odd looks these past months.

When she sank onto the sofa, with her arms crossed, I prepared for her to turn into a sleuth and interrogate me. “Abbie, tell me the truth. I see the weather outside. We waited too long to leave. Now we’ll have to spend Christmas here with the dogs and the neighbor.”

“Flo, I’m determined to spend my holiday in Cheapside. Nothing will deter me, us.”

The tense expression on her face did not ease. She leaned back, adjusting the soft blue wool baby blanket about her, fluttering the hem across her heavy black boots. She was every inch a refined and elegant mathematician.

“Then what’s the trouble, Abbie?” She raised a palm in the air as if to stop me from speaking. “Maybe I don’t want to know. As long as you keep to your promise, I’m fine.”

“Of course, Flo.”

“Yes. No investigations. No secret abolition meetings. No pushing for legislations. No running for our lives. Nothing but family and joy.”

“I didn’t promise any of that. And we’ve never run for our lives, Florentina. In all my investigations, only I have run. Henderson and me. Well. Mostly, we walked away for our lives, but one mustn’t be so picky.”

The scowl returned. Then she said, “The odds are increasing that the next mystery you stumble upon will have us doing just that, running and ruining these new boots.”

Mrs. Smith returned. “Mr. Henderson’s groom has said his carriage is on its way. And to be aware that he has to make a stop at Berkeley Square on the way. Then off to Cheapside.”

My housekeeper left the room; my cousin leaned back on the pillows, with her arms folded. “I’m having a premonition, Abbie.”

“What? You have visions, too?”

“Yes,” Florentina said. “I’m feeling that you’re doing this again, finding something to force us to spend time with your neighbor, and all three of us will have to run for our lives.”

“That would be new, Flo, the three of us doing something together.”

“Abbie, you’re making fun.”

“I’m doing nothing but trying to get us to Cheapside. The weather is no better. Rawlins had an accident, and you know how careful he is. Stapleton’s big carriage will handle the snow and ice much better than my yellow bounder.”

“Oh, it’s Stapleton now.” She tapped her short boot. “Why the neighbor? How could you ask him?”

“As I said, I didn’t. Mrs. Smith did. He is also going to take care of Teacup to spare your mother.”

As if the little fellow knew we were talking about him, the fuzzy brown thing went to Florentina and begged like he smelled bacon. With everyone using my next-door neighbor’s dog-handling trick, she might have some in her hands.

My cousin picked him up, rubbed his back. “Oh, you are adorable, but my mama will be ill if she sees you.”

After giving my boy kisses, she turned to me. “So what will you owe Mr. Hendersom for the ride and the doggie companion services?”

Wishing I could say nothing, I decided to get Florentina to sacrifice something. “I want to invite him for Christmas dinner. I’d like for him not to be alone on Christmas.”

Her gaze whipped over me. That frown on her countenance reminded me not of my aunt’s, but of Mama’s.

Then my vision darkened. It was night. Stapleton and Florentina were in trouble. I could save only one. Or thought I had only one choice. My brow sweated. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t—

“Dinner? Abigail, I’ll ask. It shouldn’t be bad to have him at my parents’ house, deepening his connection to you.”

“Yes. It’s not . . . I’m—”

“Hey.” She set down Teacup and came closer, then pulled me into a needed hug. “You’re shaking.”

“Maybe. Shouldn’t have to run away to . . .”

“Hey. Are you thinking about Rawlins?” She held me tighter. “You can’t blame yourself for his accident. This weather is causing problems everywhere. It’s early winter. Mr. Rogers said the ice on the roads looks black like tar. That’s what’s causing havoc, not you.”

Black and havoc and a peril-filled world. What was to become of us all?

“Abbie, please. Say what’s wrong.”

How could I tell her that she and my neighbor might be endangered because of me or something I’d done?

“Abigail Carrington Monroe, you can tell me anything.”

When in doubt, I talked of what I knew was a true threat to our world. “Hayti. It’s in chaos again. A report is in the Sun that Emperor Dessalines has been killed. I’m hoping it’s rubbish.”

She mouthed the emperor’s name. Then closed her eyes. “False reports happen. Hayti, the free nation, is far from Britain’s borders. News can get confused, misreported. If Lord Worthing were here, he could find—”

“He’s not.” My tone started low, like water beginning to boil. Heated to fast bubbles, steam. I stepped away from her embrace. “I’m on my own to figure out things. And I’m not without resources. Mr. Vaughn or even Mr. Shaw knows things. Lady Worthing can be very resourceful, too.”

“That she can be.”

“Mr. Henderson, ma’am,” Rogers said from the threshhold.

Stapleton waved away my butler and stopped him from taking his heavy gray mantle and the hunting hat curling about his ears. He stepped around my butler and offered us a bow.

Teacup bounded to him.

After patting my dog, he entered my parlor, lightly planting his boots, as if he’d memorized which boards creaked, to avoid making noise. “We need to get started, ladies. With my brief appointment at Berkeley Square, we must head out before conditions worsen.”

Handsome, staring with his fiery indigo eyes, taking in my parlor, me, this retired military man might be able to gather answers on Dessalines, too. With James refusing to return to England, the soldier he chose to look after me might be the answer to many problems that my husband created.

Two Greater Queen Street

After a near teary goodbye to my Teacup, I left him in Mrs. Smith’s arms and proceeded with my party out of my house and onto Greater Queen Street. Florentina, Miss Bellows, and I climbed into Stapleton’s carriage.

Sitting back in the spacious compartment, I couldn’t help but admire the carriage’s heavy frame, the way it felt settled on the road. Maybe the. . .