Page 1 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder

PROLOGUE

The gardens of Severn House, Park Lane, Mayfair

Late July 1815

The man leaning towards Henrietta Percy in the twilit garden niche wasn’t her husband, but she closed her eyes and pretended he was.

His arm encircled her waist as he drew her against his chest. The plunging neckline of her elegant evening gown met the fine silk of his waistcoat, setting her heart aflutter.

Over the scent of garden roses, a whiff of starch mingled with a hint of tobacco. Henrietta told herself a tale. It is Edmund’s snuff you smell. Your husband’s arm clasps you. He is about to kiss you so passionately it will knock the breath from your lungs. She parted her lips, ready to receive her first romantic kiss from the imaginary Edmund. Her body quivered in anticipation. Almighty God, she needed this. Her pent-up passion was desperate for release.

But the moment the man’s mouth captured hers, the illusion shattered. Surely Edmund’s cool lips, which he’d only ever pressed to her hand or cheek, would never be this slobbery. Nor would they taste of sour port and cheese.

Her mind reeled – this was what a man’s kiss felt like? The open-mouth kissing she’d practised on her pillow had been infinitely better, even if it had ended with a mouthful of lint! When she’d touched her breasts in her lonely, cold bed or had slipped a hand between her legs, she’d made herself shiver with delight, so, naturally, she’d expected new heights of pleasure from a real kiss. But this? Well, if this sloppy mess was representative of the sexual experience for a woman, it was a wonder babies existed.

Just then, the firework show began, the timing too absurdly coincidental not to make Henrietta giggle, even as her companion’s sluglike tongue probed her mouth. The cracks and sizzles of the rockets were met by distant, polite exclamations from the guests enjoying the evening rout. Everyone’s mood was elevated after Waterloo, so celebrations abounded – and this happened to be the new Duchess of Severn’s hosting debut, a mere two months after her wedding.

Henrietta was missing her own party and for a man she’d never liked, whose kiss was nothing short of repulsive.

She disengaged. ‘Enough, Lord Marlow.’ After all, she’d never intended to finalise an arrangement tonight. Only to test the waters – and they were decidedly foul! ‘We must return or others will mark our absence.’

‘This won’t take me long, Duchess.’ Marlow lifted her skirts with one hand and grabbed the fall of his breeches with the other.

His presumption was so appalling, Henrietta gasped outright, which seemed to increase his ardour. He responded by clawing at her petticoats. Disgusting. Yet since she was now a duchess and no longer the impetuous wildling of her childhood, she’d provide Marlow one last chance to behave like a gentleman before shoving him to the ground. ‘My lord, cease your groping before you crumple my gown! For my husband’s sake, I must be discreet.’

Marlow chuckled deep, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh. ‘I don’t care one whit if Severn knows he’s a cuckold. Dry old men oughtn’t take wild young beauties to wife if they don’t intend to share.’

Now utterly furious, Henrietta planted her hands on Marlow’s chest and pushed. The scoundrel stumbled back but managed to keep his feet. ‘Do not disrespect my husband, and be not so careless with my reputation, sir.’ She mustered all the aristocratic authority of the daughter of a marquess, and the wife of a duke. Frankly, a viscount should quake in her presence.

Marlow didn’t quake, but he did readjust his breeches and smooth his waistcoat as he grumbled. ‘You’re a poor sport to play coy now, but, very well, we won’t tonight.’

Henrietta set about repairing her crushed skirts with a scowl. What a disastrous beginning she’d made. She’d only ever intended to initiate a mild flirtation with Marlow at this soirée, for she must acclimatise herself to her task. She certainly didn’t relish the thought of conducting an affair.

In fact, in order to make a start at all, she’d had to fortify her nerves with two – or was it three? – glasses of champagne. That was where she’d erred. When she’d cut her eyes invitingly towards Marlow, he’d responded immediately with a bold lift of his brow and purse of his lips, as if blowing a kiss. The viscount was a handsome, practised rake, and, frankly, his attention had gone straight to Henrietta’s tipsy head, leading her to accept his arm when he suggested a stroll through her lantern-lit gardens. But she’d expected him to play his part appropriately, with the proper standards of discretion and deference; since he hadn’t, he was clearly no gentleman.

Henrietta decided she’d never tryst with him again.

Marlow clasped her hand before she could duck out of the niche. ‘I shall call upon you tomorrow, Henrietta.’

‘You most certainly will not , my lord,’ she said firmly. ‘And as I did not give you leave to call me by my Christian name, refrain from such familiarity in the future.’

His lips curled into a smile. ‘What an enchanting minx you are, ma’am. Do not put me off again. For weeks, you’ve cast me languishing looks—’

‘I’ve done no such thing!’ She was properly incensed now.

He covered her lips with two fingers. ‘No need to protest for the sake of decorum, my jewel. I shall call tomorrow.’

Then he bowed, lifting her hand to his mouth, and, despite his vileness, Henrietta’s silly heart fluttered. Marlow was Edmund’s second cousin on the maternal side – the men bore a striking physical resemblance, from their blonde hair to their tall build – and when she could see only the top of Marlow’s head, she couldn’t help but imagine he was Edmund.

Oh, how she longed to hear words of ardent desire from her husband, but theirs was a marriage of convenience. He had his role; she had hers. She’d accepted these terms before she’d wed him and she’d been grateful for them, as her marriage fulfilled her destiny, her life purpose. From birth, she’d been raised to marry title and fortune combined; her father, the Marquess of Lockington, couldn’t afford to endow her with a large portion, for he’d spent his lifetime repairing the ruinous excesses of the previous marquess. The Matlock family was not yet free of debt and Henrietta’s brothers also required provision.

In turn, she was beautiful, young and well-bred, a visual testament to Edmund’s virility, lest anyone doubt it as he slipped into middle age. With such a wife, no one would dare accuse him of being too dry and dispassionate to lead the fractionated Whigs into unification at last.

By the standards of her class, she and Edmund had formed a perfect union. And Henrietta counted herself fortunate. Or mostly fortunate. Usually. After all, she hadn’t been raised to expect a love match – and a kind, temperate, generous husband was more than many ladies received.

The trouble was, she’d never been lonelier in her life.

After Marlow had departed, Henrietta paused once more to assess her appearance by feel, wanting to return to her husband looking flawless. She gingerly adjusted her flaxen curls, straightened her diadem and confirmed the presence of both ten-carat teardrop earrings, two of the Percy diamonds.

Everything being in order, she emerged from the niche, plastering a stately smile upon her face, ready to face her guests as the elegant young Duchess of Severn.

‘If you wish to hide the evidence of your sport, Your Grace,’ said a masculine voice behind her shoulder, emanating from the niche she’d vacated and causing Henrietta to very nearly jump out of her skin, ‘then you might want this.’

Horrified, Henrietta gathered her thoughts before facing this unexpected threat. Not that the man’s tone was menacing, for he sounded more disappointed than anything else, but if he’d witnessed her interaction with Marlow – and he must have done so, given what he’d said – that was not only quite thoroughly sordid, but also a potential catastrophe.

Naturally, a gentleman would most definitely think twice before causing her trouble, no matter what he’d seen (if for no other reason than that he wouldn’t want to be twenty paces from a pistol held by her husband, her father or any of her five elder brothers), yet, based on the speaker’s faint Cockney accent, he wasn’t gently bred. Who was he then? One of the footmen? A gardener? If so, why was his voice unfamiliar?

Oh, turn and get your answers , Henrietta told herself, and don’t be a weakling about it . She swished about on her heel, confidence abounding. After all, she could manage men. Her brothers had ensured she’d had a well-rounded education in all manner of self-defence, physical and otherwise. It was nothing to put a peeping Tom in his place.

Yet her resolve faltered when she saw him amongst the roses, his back to the brick garden wall, her garter ribbon dangling from his fingers. The shadow of his hat hid the details of his upper face, but he was a decidedly tall, broad-shouldered man. And confident, standing as he was, with his feet firmly planted in the exact spot where Marlow had kissed her. His rough woollen tailcoat, dark neckcloth and sturdy boots fitted his frame rather breathtakingly well, but they weren’t bespoke items from the exclusive shops of Bond Street and St James’s, confirming that he wasn’t of the ton . Henrietta’s wariness grew. He certainly wasn’t one of her servants, so why was he in her private walled garden?

He spoke again. ‘Or perhaps you do wish to reappear at your fête with your stocking rumpled round your ankles?’ A bit of mocking now, but there was still a note of disappointment in his voice. Or sadness, perhaps. Similar to Mama’s tone on those many occasions when young Henrietta had accidentally torn yet another new frock by climbing a tree or scrapping with one of her brothers.

Her garter’s silver embroidery glinted as more fireworks burst overhead.

As their light briefly illuminated the man’s entire face, a memory stirred in her mind. He wasn’t unfamiliar – those eyes had pierced into her before, not so long ago, when she’d been standing amidst a crowd. Where had it been? She racked her brain for details, recalling that when she’d returned his gaze over a sea of heads, she’d been momentarily captivated. Not merely because of his features – firm chin and jawline, straight dark brows, all strong angles pleasingly offset by surprisingly tender and full lips – but because something about his thoughtful, observant expression had reminded her of Edmund. Henrietta gave her head a little shake, irritated at her fanciful mind, always torturing her with thoughts of her unrequited love.

Quite suddenly, she recalled where she’d encountered the man before. ‘You were standing in Hanover Square, after my wedding in May.’

Another firework burst, allowing her to witness the glimmer of surprise that crossed his face before shadow fell again. ‘Please accept my compliments on Your Grace’s performance that day.’ Now there was most definitely a mocking air about him and no trace of sadness. Perhaps she’d imagined it before. ‘You acted so convincingly like a bride devoted to her husband that you fooled me entirely until tonight. But I should not be surprised. Once again, I am reminded your class doesn’t concern itself with trifling nonsense like morality.’

Indignation swelled Henrietta’s breast, but she maintained a composed demeanour. ‘While appearances can indeed deceive, you’ve misconstrued where the deception lies.’

He pushed his hat back, revealing a cynically lifted brow. ‘There’s only one interpretation of what transpired between you and Marlow, who is a rakehell and reprobate and outright piece of filth. Two months married and you choose to cuckold your admirable husband with the very man who thwarts him politically at every turn? Explain to me why?’

Henrietta narrowed her eyes. So, this bold intruder was choosing to be antagonistic. To what purpose, she didn’t know, but she intended to find out. ‘I have no obligation to explain myself to a stranger. Tell me, what is your name?’ Stepping closer, she studied his features intently, in case she needed to describe them to the Runners later. He was very tall – she rarely had to lift her chin to look a man in the eyes – and quite young, surely not much older than her own three-and-twenty years. ‘What reason have you for trespassing in my garden? Do you intend to steal my garter?’

‘Not in the least.’ He tossed her the ribbon and, as she caught it, he bowed, doffing his hat to reveal dark, wavy hair. He threw out his arms, again in a decidedly mocking manner. ‘Theodore Hawke of the Mayfair Examiner , regrettably not at your service, Your Grace, but dedicated to serving the British public, who deserve to know the truth about the people who live so grandly off the fat of this land.’ He replaced his hat with a flourish. ‘Therefore, on Wednesday, said public will read about your tryst with Marlow over their morning toast.’

Terror gripped Henrietta. She was in the presence of none other than London’s most notorious reporter, a man whose weekly gossip column was gleefully devoured by half the kingdom. A man who possessed the power to unleash scandal from which she might never recover. A man who held nothing and no one sacred.

Except Henrietta’s husband.

It was an established fact that Hawke, like many commoners, possessed a soft spot for Edmund, the reforming ‘People’s Duke’, and Henrietta decided to use that to her advantage as she appealed for the reporter’s silence. She lost all trace of haughtiness. ‘Please, don’t reveal what you witnessed, Mr Hawke. It would do my husband great harm.’

‘Ah, but I have never yet picked and chosen from the bad behaviour I witness. To do so lacks integrity.’

Angry at her instant failure, Henrietta clenched her fists. ‘ Integrity from a gossip-slinger? You delude yourself, Mr Hawke.’

He held up a finger. ‘Tsk, tsk. You are in no position to insult me, madam.’

Henrietta considered planting him a facer and only rejected the notion with reluctance, as it was unlikely to help her cause, and extremely likely to leave her knuckles swollen, given Hawke’s enviable facial bone structure. ‘Then what will you take in exchange for your silence? Name the sum and I shall pay.’

Hawke assumed an air of insincere pity. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, but you cannot alter my resolve.’

Desperation replaced Henrietta’s anger. This couldn’t be published, for there might be no end to the terrible repercussions. Never mind the scandal she’d face – it was far more dreadful to think what people would say of Edmund. They’d mock him as an old cuckold who couldn’t satisfy or control his young bride, and Henrietta couldn’t bear that.

With a few rushed steps, she was before the reporter, clutching his forearm. ‘Please don’t. I am willing to do anything.’

Hawke glanced at her hands on his arm, his eyes darkening in a way Henrietta couldn’t quite interpret. ‘Ah. Anything, is it?’ His voice was deeper, huskier than before. ‘Forgive my dullness, but what precisely do you mean to suggest?’

She’d intended patronage, support, access to other information, perhaps. Whatever a man like Hawke valued and needed. But the change in his demeanour gave her another idea altogether.

Men considered her desirable, or so she understood. Before her marriage, many had tried to kiss her, with passion flaring in their eyes and slurred love words on their lips; many had offered for her hand and had only been rejected because they weren’t Edmund. Perhaps Hawke also found her attractive.

Besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Henrietta’s palms prickled as she attempted a seductive tone. ‘I am prepared to offer you a kiss, Mr Hawke.’

For a moment it appeared he might accept and she grew surprisingly excited, her pulse rising as his smouldering gaze moved from hands to bosom, lingered there, and then trailed to her lips. She leant closer, softening her mouth in invitation, hoping the handsome Hawke’s kiss would erase the foul memory of Marlow.

But when the journalist’s eyes once again met hers, a storm brewed in their dark depths. ‘I admit your proposition appeals to my basest desires. You possess the face of an angel and the body of a goddess.’ His voice was throaty but icy, devoid of mocking or sorrow. ‘Yet neither tempts me enough to forget my respect for your husband.’

Henrietta’s desperation mounted. ‘Mr Hawke, you do not understand. Exposing me as an adulteress will not serve my husband as you think it will. If you proceed with your report, you will inflict tremendous harm—’

‘In real life, such as most of us live, people pay a price for their actions. Your husband is beloved – by others, if not by you. People across the kingdom rejoiced at your wedding. Celebrations abounded. Why? Because it gave them joy and hope to see the People’s Duke take such a lovely young bride, sure to breed another generation of reformers. I can’t expect you to understand, but joy and hope are precious to those of us who weren’t born with silver spoons in our mouths. Meanwhile, your class has everything, takes everything, flaunts everything – and yet often evades accountability, thinking yourselves above morality, above even the law. Therefore, I provide the accountability you receive nowhere else.’

‘Perhaps some amongst my class abuse their station.’ Henrietta kept her voice calm, sensing the depth of Hawke’s emotion. They were standing as close as two lovers, with her fingers still curved over his forearm, and the fervour of his speech reverberated inside her. ‘Perhaps indeed someone has wronged you in this manner, Mr Hawke. But that doesn’t mean all of us disregard decency and honour. Be not judge and jury against me, for nothing in this world is so simple as black or white. What I did, I did for reasons—’

Abruptly, Hawke shook off her hands. ‘I am not the one to whom you should justify your actions, madam. Explain to your husband. If anyone is your judge and jury, as you say, it is he. Meanwhile, I shall report what I see. This has ever been my way and so it will continue.’

He grabbed the top of the garden wall, hoisted himself up and straddled it.

If he slipped away, all would be lost. ‘Mr Hawke, please . If you write about this, society is my judge and there is no harsher one.’

He looked down, his dark eyes intense. ‘I assure you, there are harsher judges.’

‘Why are you set upon my destruction?’ she asked in despair.

‘I shall merely report your actions. If they lead to your destruction, as you say, it is a consequence of your own choices.’

Henrietta stomped her foot, not caring if her behaviour wasn’t that of a duchess. ‘Then you are a despicable, wretched, loathsome beast .’

‘You are certainly entitled to your opinion, Your Grace, but if you read my weekly column, you will come to see I write the truth.’ He paused then, and, in the gleam of another firework, Henrietta again read sorrow in his expression. Her hopes rose that she might yet succeed and she extended her arm, intending to touch the side of his leather boot. But he moved his leg out of her reach, swinging it to the top of the wall. With a quick, ‘Good evening, madam,’ he vanished over the other side.

Henrietta pressed anguished hands to her mouth. For only two months, she’d been married to the man she respected and loved above all others, and to whom she owed her obedience, yet she’d already failed him completely. How she’d extract herself from this catastrophe was a mystery, but one thing was crystal clear.

She’d hate Theodore Hawke until the day she died.