Page 1 of Murder in Matrimony
ONE
London, England
1860
Dear Lady Agony,
Many successful matches have been made this season, and several couples wish not to delay their nuptials. I, for one, do not think they should have to. However, my mother’s friend believes a hasty ceremony is to be avoided at all costs. She says an engagement of six to twelve months is a must. Is it?
Devotedly,
Tiresome Traditions
Dear Tiresome Traditions,
It’s the time of year when the wordweddingdrops from many young lips. The fans have been fluttered, the waltzes have been danced, and the garden paths have been walked. All that is left are those two little words young hopefuls longto say: I do. Left to themselves, the words are inconsequential,hardly worth the space they take up, but put them together, and one makes a lifetime commitment. How many will utter these words at the end of the season? How many will wait until next spring? As long as the couple is in love, I do not believe it matters. I eagerly await the number, whenever the date. Dearest readers, I know of one already.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
As Amelia Amesbury glanced at friends and family gathered in her drawing room, she was excited for the future. The Amesbury name had been cleared from controversy,her sister Margaret Scott was fully recovered, and Simon Bainbridge had admitted his feelings for her not more than a fortnight ago. She was melancholy, yes, to see her sister depart for Somerset tomorrow, but she was also relieved to return to her schedule, which would include answering an influx of letters addressed to her secret pseudonym, Lady Agony.
Since Edgar Amesbury’s passing, she’d responded under the alias in one of London’s foremost penny papers. No one would have guessed that a widow to one of the greatest fortunes in the city was the authoress of the agony column, a space where correspondents poured out their problems in hopes of solutions. They knew she was a peeress; she signed her letters Lady Agony with a capital L. It was one of the reasons her column was so well read. However, the knowledge did not conform to their idea of what a lady should be. A lady should not deign to work anywhere—a penny paper, no less—and they were as curious about her reasons as her unconventional answers. Lately, they wanted to know how she happened to catch and release the Mayfair Marauder. One correspondent had even become quite obsessed, yet she didn’t allow the complication to dampen her excitement.
The answer was much less complicated than they suspected. The truth was Lord Drake, the man whom she christened Mayfair Marauder in her letters, was a good man in a bad situation. His father was ill, and anyone who’d been through a long, debilitating illness with a relative would understand how desperate one could become in the situation. It was hard to see someone suffer day after day. Amelia knew that firsthand from her short-lived marriage to the Earl Edgar Amesbury. He, too, had a progressive illness that took him just two months after their marriage, and Amelia would have done anything in her power to bring him peace in his final moments. For Lord Drake that meant saving his ancestral home. He wanted his father’s last breath to be taken in his beloved Cornwall estate, and indeed, he’d achieved his goal of keeping his father in his much-loved castle.
The story of the Mayfair Marauder, as all stories of human interest, intrigued her readers a good deal and would intrigue them more if they knew it was a peer who had stolen and then returned the most precious jewels in Mayfair. The story,however, would not be told by her. She’d promised to never reveal his identity if he returned the jewels. He’d kept his end of the accord, and she’d certainly keep hers—no matter how many correspondents called for his name, including A Concerned Citizen, who vowed to reveal her real identity if she did not share the name of the Mayfair Marauder. But she’d dealt with blackmail before and most likely would again. She refused to cow to the demands then, now, or ever.
“I, for one, shall miss you, Miss Scott.” Lady Winifred Amesbury snatched the last strawberry tartlet from the tray in the drawing room, where they were enjoying tea with Lady Tabitha Amesbury, Marquis Simon Bainbridge, Margaret Scott, and her new friend, Captain Fitz.
Amelia smiled at Winifred, who was Edgar’s niece and charge. Amelia loved her as much as a daughter. Of course Winifred would miss Margaret, better known as Madge. Her sister had indulged her every whim.
“Who will play with me in the garden?” continued Winifred. “Or pop popcorn? Or race horses?”
At the last comment, Amelia jerked her head.Race horses?
“You havedearAmelia for that,” Madge returned, emphasizing the bit of flattery. “She knows how to race horses as well as I do. You only have to encourage her.” Madge winked a pretty hazel eye at Amelia. “Besides, I might be around more than you imagine.”
Plunk went Aunt Tabitha’s teacup onto her saucer. As silent as the room grew, it might have been a window shattering. Tabitha Amesbury was Edgar’s aunt and the sole surviving Amesbury besides Winifred. When it came to the family’s reputation, she had exacting standards, taking it upon herself to be judge and juror of all household undertakings. “You’ll keep in touch, certainly,” said Tabitha with a placid smile.
Madge’s eyelashes fluttered in the direction of Captain Fitz. “Oh, we’ll be keeping in touch.” She covered a chortle with her hand, looking very unlike the girl Amelia had grown up with, the girl who liked trousers, fishing, and tinkering. The girl who could fix a worn hinge or wheel before you could say Jack Robinson. The girl whodid notflutter her eyelashes.
Amelia darted a glance at Simon, who caught her look. For a single second, she forgot Madge’s confusing behavior and lingered in the green grasses of his eyes. She could live in a countryside that color, and she didn’t like the country that much. She loved London—the city, the smells, the scenery. The Thames could grow rank, true, but nothing compared with the scent of a nut or oyster seller setting up his cart for the day, or the sound of foot traffic on Pall Mall, or horses’ hooves in Hyde Park, or the shades of faces that made up the crowd on Derby Day.
Yet she would give all that up to live one day in those green, green eyes.
Simon turned to Lady Tabitha, perhaps with the idea of appeasing her. The Bainbridges and Amesburys had been friends for ages, and if anyone knew a word that would comfort her, it was he. “I’ve discovered keeping in touch with family is so important. I only wish I’d discovered it sooner.”
“It is of utmost importance,” Lady Tabitha replied, her pronunciation as correct as her posture. “Mrs. Scott will be overjoyed at her daughter’s return.”
Overjoyed might be an exaggeration,thought Amelia.Madge had arrived in London under a veil of criticism from the citizens of Mells. She had broken the arm of a man who had attempted to kiss her without permission, only to be accused of murdering a man she danced with at Amelia’s ball. The real murderer had been brought to justice, but it had taken many difficult weeks to expose the culprit.
“I don’t disagree with you.” A second chortle dropped from Madge’s lips, and her cheeks grew as pink as her auburn hair, which was brighter than Amelia’s and possessed its own kind of energy. Like her freckles, it gave her the appearance of just coming in from a walk on a winter’s morning. “Mother will be overjoyed with our news.”
The room grew three degrees cooler, as if a ghost had floated in from the open window and hovered behind Amelia’s shoulder. This couldn’t be what she thought it was. Only two weeks ago, she and Simon had affirmed their feelings for one another. He had admitted to her occupying his every thought. If her younger sister preempted their budding romance with adeclaration of love, she would be the first one to grab Tabitha’s cane—ebony with a regal gold timepiece—and rap her over the head with it.
Captain Fitz, who was a thoughtful man with a calm head in a crisis, looked very little like his reputation today. The flush of color when he smiled at Madge, which was continually, extended to the roots of his blond hair. Even when he lifted his chin in serious reflection, he appeared the same smitten suitor. “The truth is, we called on you today for a specific reason.”
