Murder in Westminster

Book 1: Lady Worthing Mysteries

by Vanessa Riley

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Discovering a body on her property presents Lady Abigail Worthing with more than one pressing problem. The victim is Juliet, the wife of her neighbor, Stapleton Henderson. Although Abigail has little connection with the lady in question, she expects to be under suspicion. Abigail's skin color and her mother's notorious past have earned her a certain reputation among the ton, and no amount of wealth or status will eclipse it.



Abigail can't divulge that she was attending a secret pro-abolition meeting at the time of the murder. To her surprise, Henderson offers her an alibi. Though he and Juliet were long estranged, and she had a string of lovers, he feels a certain loyalty to his late wife. Perhaps together, he and Abigail can learn the truth.



Abigail, whose marriage to Lord Worthing was not a love match, knows well how appearances can deceive. For all its surface elegance, London's high society can be treacherous. Yet who in their circle would have killed Juliet, and why? Taking the reins of her life in a way she never has before, Abby intends to find out—but in the process she will uncover more danger than she ever imagined . . .

Release date: August 30, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

April 8, 1806, Opening Night at Drury Lane

Something gripped my shoulder.

Surprising and soft, tugging me backward away from the dark.

Away from the ribbon.

“Abbie.”

Blinking, I filled my lungs.

One breath—I spied a hanging chandelier.

Second breath—people in theater boxes.

A third gasp—my dress, an evening gown edged with purple lace. My hands were attired in ivory gloves.

At the opening of Ali Baba at Drury Lane Theatre, I didn’t need to call attention to myself because of nightmare. Slow and easy, I pried my hand from the balcony rail and gulped as much air as my lungs could hold. I held a portion on my tongue like it was a fine claret.

“Abbie, you were asleep and mumbling. If you haven’t been resting well, we needn’t have come.” My cousin Florentina Sewell sounded half-annoyed, half-fretful. “We can end things now and go home.”

Sitting back and hiding my tension, I put on my best sophisticated Lady Worthing look. “My dear Miss Sewell, opening night at Drury Lane can be overwhelming.”

Florentina shook her head. Her beautiful olive face held a scowl. “Abbie, have you not been sleeping again?”

Couldn’t tell her I wasn’t and that one of those rare dreams had started again. We had too much to do tonight to let my anxious heart get the better of me. “Just a little nap. It’s not as though sleep deprivation has me running down to the stage screaming like a loon.”

Or being strangled, like in my nightmare.

Gentle brown-gray eyes with flecks of fire glared at me. “I knew you were lying to me. Abbie, this isn’t right.”

I grasped her hand and hoped she felt my strength, my commitment to doing my part in the struggle. “I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m fine.”

Then I offered a laugh, one of those good fake giggles that society women shared when shopping for gloves. “You need a night away from staring at numbers. Math, be gone tonight.”

“I love mathematics, and I’m lucky to be a helper to Mrs. Edwards. Those calculations for longitude are needed for our sailors to get home safely.” Her passion sounded better than the applause rumbling below. Florentina was lucky. She knew from an early age the things that would make her heart sing.

And there was no one I wanted at my side when I finally claimed the things my soul needed.

Another wave of claps started in the crowded Drury Lane Theatre as a trumpet sounded.

Offering Florentina a wicked grin, I fluttered my fan, a large thing of jet fabric and ivory feathers. “No quitting now. Ali Baba’s waiting for us.”

Eyes rolling, but with her lips wiggling, suppressing a laugh, she straightened in her chair. “The things you get me to do.”

“Florentina, we can’t be selfish. We need to put my elevated status to use.”

“But we aren’t staying. That’s part of your plan.”

“As I said, we need to put my Lady Worthing name into action, helping those who truly are in need.”

“If you say so. But you were my favorite cousin when you were plain old Abigail Carrington. Not that you were ever plain.”

The noise coming from the hall behind us was the cue to begin our disappearing act.

Offering a nod to Florentina, she pulled the string I’d attached to the curtain of our box. The fabric stretched, shrouding the corner.

Flat against the wall of our private box, Mrs. Smith, my housekeeper, and Miss Bellows, my lady’s maid, entered. Dressed similarly to us and hidden in the dark with my legendary fans, the two would do nicely representing us. Florentina and I had other plans.

“Ma’am,” Miss Bellows said in her lovely Irish brogue. “Ye not doing somethin’ illegal.”

“Certainly not.”

I kissed the older woman’s cheek. “I thought you might want to see opening night. You’ve always wanted to go to the theater.”

“But pretending to be you, ma’am?”

It was ridiculous on face value, with her being pale white and myself not so much. My complexion was more gold than olive, unlike Florentina’s. But in the darkness of the theater, behind the ridiculous plumage, Miss Bellows could pretend to be me.

The notion of Miss Bellows passing for a Blackamoor in itself filled me with humor.

In a way, this mirrored some of the stories my godfather, Mr. Vaughn, had told me of how people had survived by exchanging races in the West Indian colony of Jamaica, where he and my mother were born.

“It’s ludicrous,” I said aloud, and meant it as comment on this moment, history, and every farce one had to endure to make a better day.

Cold fingers latched to my wrist. “You’re shaking, ma’am.”

Was I? “Just my normal shivers.” Always cold, even near the roaring fire, I dismissed these shakes as nothing, not even second thoughts. Miss Bellows had known me as a precocious child. She kept my secrets, and those of a mixed-race family caught in colonialism and a volatile home. Didn’t know how I’d survived without her.

“Just hand me the cape, Miss Bellows, and then take my seat.”

She did so, took my big black-and-white fan, and then claimed my theater chair.

Mrs. Smith, who’d been standing almost in the hall, watched with her usual mixture of quiet dignity and disdain. She shook her head, handed me her long cape, before exchanging places with Florentina.

“This is highly irregular, mum.” Her Jamaican accent would give her away, but I counted on people offering half stares and assuming one dark face was the same as another.

Before I could reassure her, she’d whipped out a pair of my opera glasses. “I suppose you won’t tell us where you two are going?”

I put a finger to my lips, then winked at her. The Smiths were a settled Blackamoor family known for their service to many of the ton, especially within the Westmorland and Jersey peerages. Nothing disturbed her for too long. Discretion might as well be her surname. “Ladies, leave in the middle of the last act. Make sure no one sees you.”

“But how will we know how it ends.” My maid looked disappointed, but tried to pry the glasses from Mrs. Smith.

“They all lived and loved happily ever after, Miss Bellows.”

Making sure our hoods were up and that no trace of hands or faces could be seen, I prepared to leave Mrs. Smith and Miss Bellows to the joy of opening night. “Have fun. Be gone by the middle of the last act. Hire a jarvey and return to Greater Queen Street.”

Grasping Florentina’s hand, we escaped through the halls and down the stairs. The crowds behind us clapped like thunder.

I hesitated for a moment. That feeling of being watched sent a sensation down my neck, like the fine baby hairs of my braided chignon being touched. Craning my head, I saw no one. I accounted this to those nerves I denied, but it wasn’t every day one was invited to a secret meeting.

My cousin and I donned our dark capes made of the tweed fabric my father loved as a boy in Glasgow, Scotland, and headed down Brydges Street.

No one seemed to stare, but lively Covent Garden was always filled with more extravagant distractions.

I felt invisible and invincible, two things I hadn’t been since I wed James Monroe, Lord Worthing.

The night was cloudy with bits of red. I’d like to think James was enjoying the other end of these skies from his sloop as he chased his dreams across the seas. “ ‘Red skies at night, a sailor’s delight.’”

“What, Abbie?” Florentina slowed, then came to a full stop.

I stumbled into her. “Sorry. Guess I should pay closer attention. The smells of food and spirits and the sounds have me.”

Tumbling my hand forward, I got her moving again.

The farther we were from the theater, the more I caught myself looking over my shoulder. That feeling that something was wrong, that we’d been seen, returned. It gnawed at my insides.

“Florentina, turn on Russel.”

“But our mews is farther.”

“I know, but trust me.” Unable to shake the notion that we were in danger, I led my cousin into Anderson’s Eating House on the corner of Clare Court and Drury Lane.

“Abbie, your driver is meeting us at the mews now.”

“Rawlins knows if we aren’t there at nine-thirty, he’s to wait another five minutes, then come here.”

“You have a prearranged second place to be picked up. Why not make this the primary place? It’s closer.”

“It’s too close.”

“Abbie, do you want me to calculate the odds of our success tonight for this overly elaborate ruse?”

“No.” I massaged my temples, asking myself why I’d made things difficult. The voice that answered in my head was my sister Dinah’s: Because you are difficult.

“Let’s get a table and wait for Rawlins.” I reached into my reticule, avoiding the folded page, and brought out coins.

Someone on the waitstaff noticed the shine in my gloved palm and soon gave us a place in the corner.

Anderson’s had a reputation of being crowded and not asking too many questions. “Tea, sliced beef, and cheese. A little bread.” The fellow nodded, bit my gold coin to ensure it was real, and then went away.

“Abbie, you’ve rushed us from the theater to eat?”

“No.” I pulled out my watch, a wonderful thing with brass springs and windings. It read 9:15. “We still have some time before Rawlins comes. Eating will make us look less suspicious.”

“Right. Two hooded young Blackamoor women can simply blend into the woodwork.”

A pot of tea, a plate of cheese and bread, dropped onto our table. “Out of beef.” The young man grunted and walked away.

Trying hard to keep my this-is-how-I-planned smile from breaking, I plucked a bit of the crusty loaf. “Eat up, Florentina.”

Her gray-brown eyes were wide as she nibbled a bit of cheese. “Aren’t these witnesses to us being here and not at the theater? Or is this another cog in your complex plan?”

I didn’t answer. If I hadn’t felt like I was being followed, we would’ve made it to the mews, with none the wiser. I checked my watch again. “Where’s Rawlins?”

“Your driver is better than a sundial in his precision. He’ll be here, as you planned.” She grabbed my hand. “Abigail Carrington Monroe. Tell me what’s going on or buy me a decent dinner. Something with a roast. Something luxurious and filling. Not a plate with no meat.”

“Settle down.” I looped my arm about her baggy sleeve. “We have an appointment.”

“That’s obvious. Where to and with whom?”

I leaned in close, daring not to raise my voice and attract attention—well, more attention. At least in this corner, no one could come from behind and strangle me, like the woman in my dreams.

The image haunted me these past nights. It was why I hadn’t been sleeping. Couldn’t close my eyes and be trapped witnessing a vision I’d not understand, nor be able to stop.

Florentina stabbed at the Stilton cheese. The blue veining and the tart smell said this was cut from a Cropwell Bishop block. “Abbie, I’m waiting. What are we doing?”

“The who is Wilberforce. The where is a private meeting at Holy Trinity Clapham.”

“An abolition meeting!”

I clapped her mouth. “Hush.”

She pried my fingers away. “You’re supposed to leave it alone. Lord Worthing’s concerned with your safety. The movement can wait.”

“My husband is considerate, but he’s not here.” My voice sounded sharp, showing more disappointment than I wanted. “Lord Worthing is attending to his priorities. I’m doing the same for mine.”

She dropped two too many lumps of sugar into my cup and passed me the tea. “Sorry, Abbie.”

As much as I loved saccharine things—especially blended with chamomile’s tang and the tartness of lemon—the sugar trade, white gold, did much harm.

“The cause of abolition is something I can help. Something I could fight for while Lord Worthing is off to sea for high adventure. It’s something I can do while he’s left me here to battle London alone.”

“I’m sorry. Let’s think about our doings.” She offered a small smile, one laced with pity and a teaspoon of the worst medicine, the I-told-you-to-wait kind.

“Flo, cut me some Stilton. Smash it onto a piece of the bread.”

She did, then offered me another sad expression.

Stuffing my mouth with delicious earthy cheese, I looked to the window. Florentina didn’t need to see that her calculations of my odds at being happy were right. James was gone. In a few more months, I’d mark our second anniversary of marriage, with him away.

“More bread, Abbie. I’ll save you the crusty part.”

“No. I’m full. And Lord Worthing will always be concerned, but he knows me to be capable. He’ll not object to me finding my own ways to battle for justice.”

She shrugged and then chuckled. “If you have to choose a dump to dine, you’d pick the one with great Stilton cheese. That’s signature Lady Worthing.”

Florentina knew me, understood me, and in the end, she championed my choices. That couldn’t be said of my sister.

“I need my causes, Flo. Something has to fill me up.”

“So where is Holy Trinity Clapham?”

“In Clapham Common. We head back toward Westminster and then take the bridge. It’s not much farther, once we cross. It wouldn’t seem long if we were under way. Where’s Rawlins?”

“It’s now the time for him to leave the mews and come here. He can be counted upon.” She cut another bit of the cheese. “Add another ten minutes if there’s traffic. Covent Garden at night can be chaotic.”

Munching on the toasted bread, she cleared her mouth, patting away crumbs. “If we’re heading back to Westminster, let’s stop at your house. We could change. Something sensible that doesn’t say monk or theater.”

“Flo, I don’t want anyone else knowing my whereabouts. We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to have Ali Baba alibis.”

“But we’re going to a serious meeting looking like nuns on the run. We need an impeccable, unimpeachable Lady Worthing outfit.” She winked at me. “You know, something that says expensive and trustworthy.”

I had thought of that and weighed the risks of further involving my household. Never certain of their loyalty since having married the third baron of Worthing, I wasn’t sure who to trust besides the people who came with me to Queen Street—Mrs. Smith and Miss Bellows.

Nothing could be done to jeopardize Wilberforce. William Wilberforce was a beacon of good. I couldn’t compromise him, even if I looked like a missionary gone amok.

I shook my head, elevated my chin, then offered an exalted gaze. “I’m Lady Worthing regardless of my clothes. And I’m in no mood to return to Greater Queen Street to see how much of the monstrosity Number Eleven has finished. The horrid man dropped off more wood and huge sections of wrought iron. I left him the other day fiddling with his drawings and making measurements as if he planned to build a massive temple. The gall of him to do this because I asked Mr. Stapleton to keep his mangy dogs from terrorizing my Teacup.”

Florentina chortled into her mug. “You sure it’s not the other way around? Your terrier can be a handful.”

“My little dog can do nothing to those bigger ones. They’re greyhounds of some sort. The two are massive and my Teacup is wee.”

“True, but a determined mutt can do great things against purebred bullies.” Her words, her clear gaze, weren’t merely about dogs anymore. It was the resilience in our mixed blood, the survival coded into our flesh. It bonded us. We could move mountains. We needed to be smarter and more focused than the rest.

My cousin picked lint from her cape. “So we stick to the plan? No dinner, just cheese, bread, and warm tea. Well, that’s consistent and efficient—very Abigail.”

Logic and stubbornness were inherited gifts from the Scottish and Jamaican sides of our family, double portions for me. “Rawlins can’t be delayed much longer. We’ll miss Wilberforce’s new plan. And I have what he needs to reengage parliament’s debate on abolition. This time there will be action.”

My cousin nodded and fixed another cup of tea.

She and I were a pair, a privileged pair. Florentina used her skills to help the navy, and I dabbled in helping individuals keep their freedom—by solving problems.

My yellow bounder stopped outside. I left coins on the table and towed Florentina and her handful of cheese outside. “They’ll think we’ve hired a hackney.”

We headed out of the coffeehouse. My driver, in his dark indigo-blue tricorn hat and ebony mantle, jumped down.

“To our meeting, Rawlins.” I held out my hand, but he didn’t take it.

He was motionless for a moment.

I could hear my heart pounding. “What is it?”

“Word was sent for you. No meeting tonight.” He handed me a note. The handwriting was too familiar and worrisome.

“Very well, Rawlins. Take us home.”

“Good, ma’am.” The bronze man, with strong, aged hands, helped me and Florentina up into the chaise. Then he began navigating our carriage down all the remote streets to arrive in Westminster.

“Abigail, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, but a godfather. He said our meeting’s canceled and something about other fish to hook.”

Florentina took the note from my fingers. “What does this mean? And will it be tasty?”

“He means trouble. And it’s someone close to us.”

My cousin covered her mouth, but not before mumbling “Dinah.”

My sister.

Whatever she’d done now, I was prepared this time—to save her and me. This little scrappy baroness would win. I wouldn’t be denied anything because of the changing politics of a fickle nation, a finicky neighbor, or a sister determined to find ruin.

The bells tolled, and Rawlins drove as fast as he could, though not fast enough for me.

It had to be past ten.

One of the many churches in Westminster was hard at work. “Odd for them to ring at night. Do you think King George has passed? He was quite ill two years ago.”

“No.”

I winced at Florentina’s quick dismal. “Flo, did that answer come from some sort of actuarial table?”

“Number jokes.” She pointed through the slats to the empty streets. “More people would be outside with very public displays of affection. The loss of important people does that.”

She dropped the hood of her cape and pushed at rich dark ringlets, the braids woven and rolled into a tight chignon. “Remember how it was for Admiral Nelson, the weeklong funeral culminating at Saint Paul’s?”

“Yes. People lined the route of his coffin in miserable cold January. The man died at sea last October, but his body wasn’t returned to England for months. Everyone still came”

“Same with Mr. Pitt. They waited until the following month to have his funeral. The former prime minister lay in state for two days in Westminster Abbey. People were everywhere. Tonight is too quiet for the king or someone important to have died.”

It was a harsh way of putting it, and the cross look on her pretty countenance stung.

Sitting back with my arms folded against my stomach, I prepared for my cousin’s true feelings. “Out with it, Florentina Sewell. Say what you are thinking.”

She rubbed her hands together as if she were cold and I already felt the frost coming from her forthcoming words.

“Dinah is not in trouble, none but the mischief caused by her own hands. When she left, we searched the streets for months. She is well hidden. You missed seeing Lord Worthing off, hoping to catch a moment with her.”

“I wanted to show her she was still important to me. That all was forgiven.”

“Abbie, you didn’t do anything wrong. You chose to marry a man who is a national hero and who paid your father’s debts. You’ve been elevated. That helps all of us. Dinah didn’t like that she was no longer the golden daughter, or she despised Worthing’s joke or whatever silly reason she happened upon.”

“You make her sound heartless. She might project that to the outside world, but that’s not who she is. You know her. She’s in trouble.”

“I know that wherever she is, Dinah Carrington is well. She left and she’s still controlling you. You’re changing plans, our plans, for her. Tonight was important. You made us wear costumes. Everything is abandoned because your sister wishes to send you on another wild chase.”

Flo was right about a lot of things, but not about Worthing’s departure. We’d argued. I chose not to go. Hunting Dinah was a better excuse than watching my husband leave me, not knowing when or if he’d return.

Glancing over her shoulder at the lamps lighting the Westminster Bridge, I calmed looking at the glow and how it turned the River Thames into an ebony mirror.

Dinah. She was the special one, the one with the brightest hopes, until I won Lord Worthing’s favor. Didn’t she know there was enough light for both of us to shine?

Trying to hold on to my composure or my hope, or something solid and true, I clasped the seat. “I made my choice. Wilberforce will meet again. My contact will secure more information. I’ll have to find him a rare book or a choice wine.”

“Your contact? Are you talking about Shaw? The handsome solicitor continues to pass you gossip he overhears at your father’s firm?”

“Well, yes. But I wouldn’t call him handsome. He’s like my brother.”

“He’s not my brother. I can admire his good looks, even if he is one of the most arrogant men in Britain.”

Wilson Shaw, Florentina, and I all grew up together in a Spitalfields neighborhood, a Blackamoor stronghold in London. It was hard to think of Wilson as anything but fun and dependable. But my cousin had been critical of everything of late, especially anything she deemed nonsensical. Wilson was seldom without a smile and a hearty laugh.

My gaze noted the silhouettes of Saint Margaret’s and huge Westminster Abbey, ancient buildings with towers stretching through the clouds. They were constants, strong and formidable. If I were going to use my position to make a lasting difference, then I needed to be the same.

Tearing up over things I couldn’t change shouldn’t be done.

“She’s all right, you know.” Florentina tugged me into her embrace. “Dinah’s strong-willed like you.”

The carriage stopped, but I kept hugging my opinionated cousin. I descended, but s. . .