Murder in Drury Lane

Book 2: Lady Worthing Mysteries

by Vanessa Riley

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Pressed into a union of convenience, Lady Abigail Worthing knew better than to expect love. Her marriage to an absent lord does at least provide some comforts, including a box at the Drury Lane theater. Abigail has always found respite at the theater, away from the ton's judgmental stares and the risks of her own secret work to help the cause of abolition—and her fears that someone from her past wants her permanently silenced. But one evening everything collides, and the performance takes an unwelcome turn . . .



Onstage, a woman emits a scream of genuine terror. A man has been found dead in the prop room, stabbed through the heart. Abigail's neighbor, Stapleton Henderson, is also in attendance, and the two rush backstage. The magistrate, keen to avoid bringing more attention to the case, asks Abigail not to investigate. But she cannot resist, especially when Henderson offers his assistance.



Abigail discovers a tangled drama that rivals anything brought to the stage, involving gambling debts, a beautiful actress with a parade of suitors, and the very future of the Drury Lane theater. For Abigail the case is complicated further, for one suspect is a leading advocate for the cause dearest to her heart—the abolition of slavery. Uncovering the truth always comes at a price. But this time, it may be far higher than she wishes to pay.

Release date: October 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

June 7, 1806, London

I tried to catch my breath, not think of the past few hours. Putting my head back against the sturdy theater seat, I waited for Drury Lane’s magic to calm me, to aid in my pretending nothing had changed.

My godfather chattered about the latest bills in Parliament as we waited for the final act of A Bold Stroke for a Wife. I wasn’t much for vote counting, not when my thoughts were consumed with violence.

Slashed pictures.

Stabbed pillows.

Shattered windowpanes.

“Lady Worthing? You’ve gone quiet. It was agreed you’d seem festive tonight.”

Blinking, chasing away the tension in my chest, I fanned myself and forced a smile. “Is that what peers must do, Mr. Vaughn? Pretend?”

Sitting forward, looking straight ahead and in command, as if he were the Prince of Wales, my godfather patted my arm, wrinkling my poppy-red satin glove right at my sore wrist. “The world is our theater. We shall act as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened to you or your residence.”

Nothing?

Was vandalisme, wanton destruction, nothing?

By the time Neil Vaughn and the magistrate arrived at Two Greater Queen Street, all the shattered glass had been swept up. The mirror stained with dried wine, or what I hoped was dried wine, had been cleaned.

I’d worked hard, wiping and scouring off the stains, then tossing the rags into the fireplace to burn them.

“Abigail,” Vaughn whispered. “Duncan said there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary reported in the neighborhood. He didn’t—”

“Didn’t want to cause a panic in Westminster. It was only my home, the home of the lone Blackamoor and absent baron, that was attacked.”

“Abigail—”

“Hurray. My street is not experiencing the beginning of a wave of crime, merely me. A disturbed individual targeted me because of my race or fears the abolition debate might be won.”

“Someone could be after Lord Worthing, Abigail. He has enemies.”

“That doesn’t help, Mr. Vaughn.”

A noisy conversation coming from the hall behind my box beckoned my attention, then disappeared. At least it wasn’t laughter at my life.

“When the final act is done, I’ll go home and soak in lavender. As I dressed for this play, I saw my tub was unharmed. But I’m certain my maid is scrubbing it to be sure.”

Seeming to ignore my complaints, my godfather fingered the fob to his gold pocket watch. “Old Hildebrand’s name was in the late paper. Too late to garner a bigger crowd.”

Craning to listen for footfalls, I bristled. “Who makes a last-minute decision to return London’s greatest actor to the stage?”

“Alexander Hildebrand is a legend. Once the word is out, more people will come. At least I hope it happens. I wonder. With Sheridan’s money woes, enticing a man out of retirement, one who can bring the people, must be costly.”

The audience did look thin. “If I wasn’t forced to be here, even after my tiring journey back from Bath, I’d still come for Hildebrand. I do hope he’ll be less shaky in the last act.”

Vaughn checked his watch again. “Richard Sheridan is an opportunist. Given more time, every broadsheet or scandal page would bear the name Alexander Hildebrand.” His hands came together. Steepled index fingers sank onto his lips. “Goodness. I wonder what arms the man has twisted to make this happen.”

Of course, my godfather, Prinny’s man in the know, an arm twister for peers, would have knowledge of Drury Lane’s owner. “Is Sheridan one of your card-playing friends?”

His mouth lifted into a humorless arc. “I don’t sit at tables with everyone, especially not with men who can’t afford to lose.”

Craning his head toward mine, he stilled my jittery fingers. “It’s going to be all right. I’ll protect you, like always. This will be fixed.”

His whisper, those words, had always meant comfort.

To the girl trying to save her scandalized family from further ruin, it had been everything, everything I’d needed to be convinced to accept Lord Worthing’s offer of marriage.

It was also everything I hadn’t understood—I’d lose my family, and the baron I wed would always be away.

Now this everything might get me killed.

The dapper man, my godfather, fiddled with his white evening gloves, then checked his watch for the fourth time. “And you must be befuddled by being at the theater without my niece, your fellow thespian lover?”

His voice sounded loud. His hand movements were exaggerated. The maestro wanted London to see and make note that all was fine. It was his idea, blessed by the magistrate, for me to come to Drury Lane and pretend.

My dear cousin Florentina still plodded along with abacus and paper, working on calculations with her employer to meet a deadline. I was grateful she wasn’t with me to see what had happened to my home.

“Smile, Lady Worthing. No one but those close to you should know your pain.”

His whisper cut through me.

The despair lacing and strangling my lungs eased. Pretending to be invincible—not heartbroken and alone—was better.

Anyone watching or hunting Lady Worthing would see me interacting with my respected godfather, not how my limbs trembled.

Or how I mourned Two Greater Queen Street.

Burglarized.

Broken glass lying everywhere.

And none of my Westminster neighbors, not even the curmudgeonly military man and his guard dogs next door, had said a thing.

The nightmare visions that had made me flee Bath were becoming true. Like my mother, I saw my end. Disease had claimed her life. A crazed villain would steal mine.

“You’re right, Lady Worthing. Sheridan will do anything to save his theater, even retrieve a retired legend. Then there’s you, his most loyal patron. He needs more like you.”

“If I live, I’m sure to oblige.”

Vaughn chuckled, then he suddenly sobered. “This warning will be addressed,” he said. “I have my ears open to all reports.”

I should respond to Vaughn, say something clever about him not being able to hear well, lest I screamed. Instead, I focused on the closed red velvet curtains covering the stage and how they contrasted with the bright blue walls embellished with gold filigree. “The last act of the play should’ve started by now. Such an odd delay.”

“Let me distract you with more politics. The voting has started again. We may get an abolition bill this year. The new Duke of Culver has set fire under everyone, even Wilberforce.”

My brow furrowed. The notion of the world finally doing what was right, ending enslavement, should be cheered. “I heard his speeches when he was still a viscount. He’s impassioned. Nothing like the old duke.”

Shuffling my hands, shifting satin between my sweaty gloves, I turned my attention from Vaughn to the jostling noises coming from the adjoining box. My neighbor, Stapleton Henderson, crept into a chair there. He came late to the performance.

“Abigail, is steam fleeing your nostrils?”

“Great. What good is a busybody neighbor if he can’t detect that something is wrong with the house next door?”

Vaughn peered over at Mr. Henderson, and I watched as the man swayed in his seat and promptly napped.

“Lady Worthing, does he get under your skin? Have you had any visions concerning what his scandalous sister is up to?”

My glare at Vaughn could set his black coat on fire. “Mary Henderson is doing better. The vision burning into my skull is of broken glass. Seat cushions torn. The stuffing tossed about like ashes.”

“Did you sense this attack? With your second sight, you should’ve sensed something.” He grimaced and clasped my shivering hand. “I know it doesn’t work like that, but your mother . . . no matter. I’ll get to the bottom of this. No one was harmed. Nothing was stolen.”

“Just my peace . . . the sanctity of my home—”

“The home which still isn’t in your name. I’m sure when this detail is fixed, peace shall be yours.”

His peace maybe. “The man who has everyone’s ear needs to know my marriage has finally secured my financial success.”

“Sometimes that’s all a marriage is. Money still rules the world. It won’t change.”

True.

Gold, no matter its source, fueled businesses on expensive Bond Street and paid for the politics of almost every lord making speeches in Parliament.

Picking at the tips of my gloves, I despaired, my thoughts flashing from shattered windows to my neighbor snoring in the adjoining box. “How much longer will my place of respite stay in business, Mr. Vaughn, before bankers decide Drury Lane would be more suited as shops?”

“London will not quit its theater. Spectacle is in its bones.” He stretched in his seat and checked his watch again. “You’re anxious. Relax. I rest well knowing you and my niece weren’t there when someone . . . Lady Worthing? Are you seeing something?”

My eyes had closed, but only to block frustration and self-pity. I blinked at him. “I see doom for Drury Lane. A Bold Stroke for a Wife doesn’t look promising. Drury Lane is so empty. It feels lonely.”

“Abigail, are you lonely?”

Vulnerable was a better word for the emotions swirling in my chest. “Cut adrift is more apt, but I’m quite used to doing things without James Monroe.”

I bit my lip and turned back toward the stage. I hadn’t meant to utter those words and especially not in a bitter tone.

Hoping I sounded independent and forthright, not aggrieved or even frightened with my circumstances, I tried again. “I’m good. This last act should be better.”

“Everything has a beginning and ending, Abigail.”

I gawked at this man who knew secrets, and wondered if he knew this would be how my life would go—hoping for things that never quite happened, wishing for things to bloom when everything was dry.

Sighing, letting air in and out, I looked up at the floral medallions decorating the ceiling. “Mr. Vaughn, tell me what you know. I’ve done what you and Lord Duncan asked. Tell me everything of this burglary. I can handle the truth.”

“I know nothing, Abigail.”

Sitting back, I gasped, then sagged in my seat, as if a spring inside my spine had popped. Neil Vaughn having no idea who had attacked my home was the most frightening thing I’d ever heard.

It took at least a minute or two before the numb feeling in my fingers passed. I grasped the chair and sat up straight, looking down at the curtained stage. The last act was still delayed.

“Mr. Vaughn, I’ve decided I’m not a patient person.”

“Never too late to develop new skills.”

“Before I married, my sister and I used to attend Drury Lane as often as we could. We’d sit in the last row, among the crowds. We didn’t have the pleasure of something as comfortable as a private box. Father’s money was honest. He couldn’t afford this perch.”

“Nothing like a pretty parrot in a gilded cage.”

“I’m surprised, Mr. Vaughn, you’ve not said, ‘Guilty cage.’ Many of James’s investors reap profits from Caribbean plantations.”

“Guilty is not the word I’d use.” He sat up straighter and pushed at the pin in his snow-white cravat. “Your husband’s money is through inheritance and sea bounties. I made sure before I encouraged your attachment. Your marriage to the absent baron has advantages.”

Then he sighed, making a sound—a soul-escaping moan, a whispered prayer—I’d heard only twice in my life.

Once when his brother, my cousin’s father, was beaten and left for dead by alleged street thugs.

And once when my mother died.

The sound—it always meant hopelessness. I hated what it meant, hated the way life always changed when I heard it.

“Say the worst, Mr. Vaughn.”

“Elevation doesn’t outweigh neglect. A woman can make wrong choices when she believes her loved ones no longer care.”

I thought he’d utter something of the burglary, not a warning for my bungled heart. Staring into his dark, secretive eyes, I wished I knew what had happened between him and my mother, why they had separated, why she’d married my father, even though she’d loved Vaughn.

More so, I wished I knew the kind of love that refused to die.

“When will Lord Worthing end his travels and settle into domestic life, Abigail?”

“When he’s done searching the world, I think.” Smoothing the Mechlin lace on my bodice, tucking the flighty pleated pieces against my neck, I hid any honest thoughts about James and my dissatisfaction with my marriage. “As my father readily points out, I’m young. There’s time for domestication.”

“Starting a family would keep you home and remove you from danger.”

“Not so sure, with Two Greater Queen Street being violated. And it wasn’t but a few months ago that I found my neighbor’s estranged wife dead on my lawn. That’s a dangerous domestic situation.”

“Abigail, a killer almost murdered you in Saint Margaret’s Church. You’re lucky your neighbor arrived in time.”

I shouldn’t have told Vaughn all the details of my last mystery, especially when it made the irascible Henderson sound like a hero. Well, he was a war hero, the navy man. But I might’ve escaped without him.

A quick peek at the adjacent box exposed the fellow startling awake. He looked around and winked at me, then nodded off again.

“Now you’re definitely frowning, Abigail.” Vaughn shook his head but began clapping when the rest of the audience did. I followed his example once I had confirmed Henderson wouldn’t tip over.

“Lady Worthing, this isn’t right.”

“Exactly, Mr. Vaughn. Hildebrand hasn’t returned. A new man, a horrible one, is reading his lines. Horrible.”

He patted my fingers and offered a fatherly condescending grin. “Not what I’m talking about. You keep peering at your mourning neighbor. The man who lost his wife—”

“Not lost or misplaced like a pair of gloves. Murdered.”

His lips formed a terrible pout. “I’ll accidentally call you by your nickname in a most public manner if you don’t confess to your interests in him.”

Vaughn never made idle threats.

He’d announce the diminutive sobriquet, which only my father still called me. It would be at some inconvenient time, somewhere embarrassing, diminishing the credibility I desperately sought.

“The gift of patience is not in our bloodlines, Mr. Vaughn, but if you must know, I’m annoyed at him for invading my theater and then napping through plays. And I wonder if he knows anything about my house. Did he see it happen and not care?”

“Abigail?”

“Mr. Vaughn, he’s typically up late walking his greyhounds. He’s next door. He might have seen—”

He sighed again. “Abigail.”

“You’re right. He probably wasn’t home. Too tired from all his paramours to notice criminal activities. Mrs. Smith says he moved one in right before I left for Bath, saying she’s a governess. His sister’s too old for a governess.”

At this, my godfather turned and spied the new man-about-town with his head down, surely grunting like a pig.

“And this annoys you, and not the fact the widower has begun to live his life again while yours is in suspension.”

I blinked at the absurdity of such a statement. “I’m not one to tell anyone how to live. That’s your job. But he shouldn’t be here sleeping.”

Vaughn leaned closer to my ear. “Where should he be sleeping?”

Face fevering, I refused to look at my godfather’s countenance, at his cheeky grin. “Anywhere but here. It’s a theater. Some decorum is required.”

“My dear, we’re the last people to be concerned about who should or shouldn’t be admitted.”

This time I gaped at Vaughn.

His wizened eyes spoke of past slights, things he and my mother and others in the family had experienced. My father, too, had seen several doors slammed upon him for proudly having a Jamaican wife.

I put a palm on my godfather’s arm. “Wasn’t what I meant. And no, I’m not interested in Mr. Henderson at all, other than being his neighbor and watching out for his younger sister. He should pay more attention to Mary.”

“Ah, you still wish to keep the almost scandalized lass in your company. You love secrets and challenges.”

Turning his chin, I made sure Vaughn saw me this time. “I know what it’s like to be left without comfort because of the death of a parent or for making my own choices.”

Vaughn dipped his head and sighed. “Your mother would be proud of you, a baroness with the ear of the magistrate and mine.”

“I want to help. I always have.”

He pulled out his gold pocket watch again and fiddled with its lid. “Yes, and it’s the best of Magdalena in you. But when will your husband sail back to London and determine where you’re sleeping?”

As hard as I could, I tried to will the hot blush from my cheeks. “Lord Worthing is doing important work exploring the world.”

“You realize you’re important?” He snapped his watch closed. “I have an appointment.”

“But the play’s about to end.”

“Not soon enough. Your driver, Rawlins, will see you home. All will be well there. Mrs. Smith promised me the evidence of the burglary . . . will be gone.”

Suddenly feeling chilled, I crossed my arms. “Why come with me if you can’t stay?”

“Spending any time with my goddaughter is important. Time is a gift. And you’ve played your part well. Respectable, unbothered Lady Worthing. Rawlins and your butler will be prepared if the culprit returns to cause more mischief.”

“You do suspect someone?”

He stuffed the watch back into his fine jet coat and gathered his hat and gloves. “Not yet. But I will find the guilty ones, and they will pay. Debts are meant to be collected.”

After moving to the rear of my box, he looked back at me. “You can always be honest with me. I won’t render judgment, only help.”

“I’ve nothing to confess. Other than broken things, I’ve no excitement.”

“There should be, Abigail.” The words leaving his lips resonated in my hollow chest like a bell’s clapper, solemn and echoey. “I didn’t know Worthing would abandon you.”

My lids dropped.

My breathing slowed, and I wrapped my arms tighter about me. I had to contain all the dashed promises, all my discarded hopes. “I’m no longer under any illusion. James and I are a marriage of convenience. I’m not unhappy. Nor am I searching for anything.”

“Then why do crimes keep coming to you? Maybe if you had a more traditional marriage and children, you’d be safe at home knitting.”

“It’s never safe to knit. Those sharp, poky things can gouge out an eye.”

“Or you could use the needles to make socks.” He put on his jet hat and smoothed the brim. “You definitely wouldn’t be concerned about your neighbor’s sleeping habits.”

Vaughn bowed. His slick beaver-pelt hat held a sheen in the sconce’s light. “Good evening, Lady Worthing.”

He left.

My sleeping neighbor had vanished, too.

Was the play that awful? Or was he Vaughn’s appointment?

Stomach turning, I focused on the stage.

The stand-in for Hildebrand stuttered his line.

Oh, this was getting worse. This performance might doom—

The lead, a blond woman, screamed.

She kept at it, her high-pitched scream piercing enough to shatter windows. Then she uttered, “Bleeding! He’s dead! In the old-scene store! Dead!”

The curtains fell.

This didn’t feel rehearsed or even part of the play.

It felt true.

People started running, climbing over chairs, disappearing.

I grabbed my reticule and went out into the hall, directly into Stapleton Henderson’s path. Seemed he didn’t leave the theater, after all.

More patrons trudged around us, but my neighbor didn’t move. His indigo eyes bore down on me like I’d done something wrong.

“Lady Worthing. What’s the commotion?”

“I’m not sure, but I feel compelled to find out.”

I marched to the left of my neighbor and headed for the exit, but he followed close behind me as a sea of people flowed past, streaming into the stairwell.

“Wait, woman.” He seized my arm and pulled me aside, hovering over me as if to provide shelter. “Good Lord, it’s a stampede.”

He grabbed my waist and dragged me closer.

“Let me go, Mr. Henderson.”

“Getting caught in a crowd fleeing to safety can get you crushed. It’s dangerous.”

Against his chest, with his heart thundering, I almost gave in to the impulse to stay there, to wish this comfort had come hours ago, when I’d stumbled into my assaulted home.

But I tore myself away. “I’m going to the trouble.”

“If you think I’ll let you charge into danger—”

“Then come with me if you must. Clues disappear if you waste time. We must make haste.”

“Clues to what, baroness?”

“Murder. At least that’s what it sounds like.”

“In old Drury? An actor calling out murder? That doesn’t sound unusual.”

“Did you hear the screaming? See the souls fleeing? The panic is true. I need to find out what’s happened.”

Shaking his head, he grunted and caught my hand. “Shall we?”

“We?”

“As a trained physician, I might be able to help.”

It wasn’t as if I had a choice: the big man drew me near and entered the dark stairwell while holding me close.

I hoisted the edge of my celestial-blue evening gown and kept up.

My neighbor wouldn’t get to the scene of a crime without me.

Perhaps the presence of this big navy hero would thwart the dangers my godfather feared.

Patrons shrieked in the darkened stairwell.

Silent, pressing forward, Henderson seemed like an unflinching knight routing the enemy.

I wanted to say that he didn’t have to hold my hand so tightly or my waist so close, but who told a raging bull anything?

Imprisoned beneath his arm, with my palm flat on his, I surrendered to the smell of cherry cigar smoke in his onyx jacket, the slight anointing of bergamot in his cravat.

His grip eased when we approached the next landing. Light shined down on his blank face. “Oh, the bloody thing is too crowded. Don’t stop. Keep going!”

His order wasn’t given to me but to the people ahead of us.

“They’re not jumping the last stairs, Mr. Henderson.”

The grimace on his countenance made me rethink expressing more sarcasm. The man hated small, tight spaces. His morbid fear of confinement, his sister, and his dogs were his only vulnerabilities.

I gripped a higher spot on his arm. “They’re moving again. We’l. . .