Page 2 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder

CHAPTER 1

A Murderous Headache

Five years of (nearly) perfect behaviour later …

Severn House

June 1820

Henrietta reclined on her favourite chaise in her husband’s library, engrossed in the day’s newspapers as a gentle breeze rustled their pages. Half an hour earlier in this same room, she and Edmund had hosted three afternoon callers she’d much rather not have seen, but, thankfully, those men had now departed, leaving her to enjoy a few precious minutes of quiet camaraderie with the duke.

She didn’t typically peruse the broadsheets this late in the day – she preferred to devour them when the smell of ink was still fresh on their pages, snatching each one the moment Edmund laid it aside during breakfast. But she’d ignored the news this morning. This morning, she’d been preoccupied with contemplating the meaning of an event from the previous night – namely, that Edmund had kissed her before she’d slipped between her sheets. In a manner quite unlike anything he’d done before. He’d held her tenderly against him. Had trailed one hand down her back until it had rested on the curve of her bottom. And his lips had lingered upon her own.

Following the kiss, he’d said, ‘My dear, I’ve only lately realised how remarkable your steadfast loyalty is – pray, forgive me for the times I’ve resented it,’ and Henrietta’s heart had taken flight, for, despite her failure to secure him an heir in five years of marriage, he’d finally recognised her devotion.

He’d spent his weekly night in her bed lying so close his soft snores caressed her shoulder, rendering her own sleep nearly impossible. She’d waited in breathless anticipation for touches that never came, leaving her preoccupied and tired at breakfast.

But the demands of the day had since settled her mind. Whatever Edmund’s unexpected intimacy had meant, he’d resumed his typical kind but aloof demeanour ever since his grey eyes had fluttered open on the pillow beside her own.

That kind aloofness had been ever-present in her marriage, both before and after the dreadful scandal of five years earlier. Though his brow had creased when she’d tearfully confessed everything on the night of the soirée, he’d stood resolutely beside her when the news broke, never allowing anyone to disparage her name. That and the staunch support of her loving family had repressed the tide of scandal, albeit with a tenuous hold, like a seawall strained almost to bursting by violent waves.

A stronger gust of wind now drew Henrietta’s attention from the article she’d just finished, an anonymously published political treatise advocating for universal suffrage. It had left her mind churning, wondering anew if indeed all British men – and women – might one day have a representative voice in Parliament. She gazed through the tall windows, admiring the clouds dotting the sky above Hyde Park, and yearned suddenly to be outside. The breeze was the perfect degree of crisp; in her life prior to becoming a duchess, she and her brothers would have spent a day like this sea-bathing or sailing at their father’s estate of Deancombe Manor, which overlooked the Channel not five miles from Brighton.

Henrietta’s limbs ached with desire for movement – and nothing was better than exercise to help process her thoughts on the political treatise and consider discreet ways to support its cause without troubling Edmund. While her husband was a progressive Whig leader, he must avoid radical issues during these turbulent times. Advocating for more men to have the vote was already considered extreme; broaching topics like property rights and suffrage for women could incite violent reactions. Yet if Henrietta could discover who wrote these independently published articles, several of which had intrigued her in the past, she might aid the author financially so he or she could publish more regularly. But how did one go about investigating an anonymous author’s identity?

Thus, her need to think. ‘Shall we go for a ride in the park, Edmund?’

Seated in a nearby armchair, the duke flipped a page in his book. ‘Not I, my dear, for I have a murderous headache. But you may certainly do as you desire.’

Henrietta’s brow furrowed. Edmund never complained of illness and he rarely passed on an opportunity to ride when at leisure. ‘I shall stay and care for you,’ she said, for there was no question of leaving his side if he felt poorly and she rarely went in public without him anyway. ‘Should I send for headache powders? Or the doctor, even?’

He responded without lifting his gaze. ‘No need.’

Henrietta considered. ‘Tea, then.’ She rang her small silver bell on the table alongside the newspapers.

The door opened promptly, but it was the new housemaid, Libby, rather than the principal footman who entered.

‘Why! Is Thomas still indisposed?’ Henrietta asked of the mousey young woman, for it wasn’t Libby’s task to wait outside doors and yet, earlier also, the maid had assisted due to Thomas’s absence. ‘If so, why has the second footman not replaced him?’

‘Don’t know, Your Grace.’ Libby twisted a strand of her unruly brown hair, which seemed incapable of staying confined inside her mobcap. Her gaze darted to the duke, as it often did in his presence, and a spark lit up her unusual eyes – one blue, one green. ‘S’pose they might all be indisposed.’

‘Well, please find a footman or send the butler, Libby.’ Henrietta did not want to encourage the young woman’s infatuation by having her serve tea to Edmund. ‘That’ll be all.’

With a lingering glance at the oblivious duke, Libby bobbed a curtsy and turned, knocking her toe on the door as she departed.

‘What an odd afternoon,’ Henrietta said. ‘ You have a headache and the footmen aren’t at their posts. I wonder if they are unwell, too? Perhaps I should summon the doctor for the household.’

The corners of Edmund’s lips quirked. ‘I can’t speak for the footmen, but my headache will soon pass. It’s merely the consequence of spending an afternoon in Marlow’s company.’

Henrietta forced a smile, for Edmund was making a jest. Personally, she despised Marlow – not only because of what had occurred between them, but also because he was always seeking to thwart the good her husband tried to do in Parliament.

Edmund had been closeted alone in the library with the viscount for an hour before the other two visitors – his heir presumptive, Perceval Percy, and Edmund’s reclusive friend, James Beaucastle – had unexpectedly arrived, both claiming an urgent need to speak to the duke. It had been then that Henrietta had joined the men, anticipating that her presence as hostess would ease any potential tension amongst such a diverse group of guests. And it had. After exchanges of pleasantries all around, Edmund had conversed quietly with each of the new visitors while Henrietta had forced herself to speak primarily to horrid Marlow, who she knew hated her with that unparalleled vitriol that only an arrogant and powerful man, spurned, could produce. But, as always, she and Marlow had produced a passable show of amiability until Edmund had ordered a particular bottle of wine ‘to drink to Britain’s glory’. Libby had served, due to Thomas’s absence; everyone had enjoyed a glass or two, and the three men had left with no further ado.

‘Was your meeting with Marlow productive?’ Henrietta was extremely curious to hear about it, if Edmund was willing to tell her.

‘Surprisingly so. I’ve discovered something Marlow desires enough to back me as party leader.’

As the daughter and wife of devout Whigs, Henrietta pursed her lips doubtfully. ‘I fail to comprehend how Marlow calls himself a Whig when his views align more closely with the Tories. He doesn’t support any reform measures.’

‘Family tradition, Henrietta – and because he and our King are old carousing mates, which is what makes Marlow’s support so crucial. Even if my fellow party members choose me to lead before the next election, becoming prime minister hinges on His Majesty’s appointment.’

‘But will Marlow also assist you in bringing about a repeal of the Six Acts?’ Henrietta ventured the question though she knew Edmund didn’t like her asking about political reform. He regarded her ideas on female property and voting rights as dangerously radical – not to mention incompatible with the role of women in society. Since her father shared that opinion, Henrietta was accustomed to being told not to bother her mind with the matters of men.

Edmund glanced up from his book then, his grey eyes unusually dark. Though two-and-twenty years her senior, he was a striking man, his thinning blonde hair turning a glorious shade of silver, his figure still trim and upright, and, deep inside, Henrietta’s old passions flared. While she’d mostly learnt to repress such feelings, his bedtime kiss the night before had evidently stoked some embers of desire.

‘No, my dear girl.’ Edmund spoke in a gratingly paternal manner that served to temper Henrietta’s unwelcome ardour very well indeed. ‘But that was not my objective. Now, no more political talk from my wife, if you please.’

But now that the topic had been broached, she couldn’t let it go. She’d always struggled to hold her tongue when she yearned so desperately to be part of the change. ‘Edmund, the Six Acts repress the freedoms of press and of speech, which are necessary for the success of long-due reforms. And while some reformers go too far by veering into radicalism, to punish all people by restricting meetings and stifling ideologies—’

‘Enough, Henrietta.’ He spoke quietly but severely. ‘Kindly remember that I took my place in the Upper House before you were born.’

A wave of mortification flushed over her. As accustomed as she was to disappointing him, she still hated inciting his displeasure. Besides, her wish to be heard was an impossible dream. ‘Forgive me, Edmund. I should’ve held my tongue. I am sorry I angered you.’

He softened. ‘Sweet, beautiful girl, I’m not cross. As I’ve explained countless times, I simply wish to protect you. Conversations like this pose risks. Although I have long striven for parliamentary reform – advocating for the abolishment of rotten boroughs and expanding voter eligibility, as you are aware – it is a Tory government. Additionally, Cato Street instilled tremendous fear in my peers.’

‘But the Cato Street conspirators were traitors, not reformers,’ Henrietta said hesitatingly. ‘True reformers would never conspire to assassinate the prime minister and the cabinet.’

Edmund inclined his head. ‘There is a fine line between reform and radicalism, and a finer one yet between radicalism and treason. I urge you to be careful – these delicate distinctions are the cause of my present political difficulties. If I do not proceed cautiously in my support of the people’s causes, I shall make powerful enemies who will hinder what progress I’ve made to date. Now, my dear, my home is a respite from these distressing matters and you are the mistress of my respite, so let this topic be. Please. ’

‘Of course,’ Henrietta replied, and then said no more. Edmund meant well. He was noble and honourable, through and through, but, naturally, they viewed matters from different perspectives.

She harboured no resentment. She understood Edmund’s expectations of his duchess: a society leader, a hostess, a household manager and a vessel for carrying his heir, at whatever cost. As the daughter of a reformist marquess and his fecund lady, Henrietta was well qualified for the role; she’d entered it eagerly and although all those tasks had proven much more difficult than she’d anticipated, she had no regrets. She loved Edmund, and being the Duchess of Severn was no small matter. It allowed her a tremendous reach of influence within the spheres of women.

Or it would, if she could ever overcome those whiffs of scandal that still hovered about her despite Edmund’s support, all because of that bloody journalist, Theodore Hawke …

If one could call the lurid filth that dribbled from his quill ‘journalism’.

Which reminded Henrietta that somewhere in the pile of newspapers beside her would be that rag Hawke wrote for, the Mayfair Examiner , because it was a Wednesday, its weekly publication day. She sifted through the papers until she found it. Gingerly pinching it between her fingers, she skimmed past the advertisements and a sensationalist article claiming the fugitive conspirator, Eliza King, had been spotted in London, to the column that dominated the third page: The Hawke’s Eye. All-Seeing Observer of Society’s Affairs , as he was evidently calling himself this week. Other times, he bestowed ridiculous titles upon himself such as Truth-Seeker of Mayfair and Dutiful Reporter of Dastardly Deeds . She curled her lip. If Parliament felt the need to control the press, why had they not repressed gossip rags along with political radicalism?

After five years of reading Hawke’s weekly column – and watching him closely, on the frequent occasions when Henrietta had had the misfortune of encountering him on the prowl – she’d accepted that the man wrote what he deemed to be the truth, but his dichotomous thinking frustrated her. It was a waste of the talents she begrudgingly realised he possessed.

She scanned the densely printed lines of this week’s column, searching for the familiar ‘S–n’ (‘Severn’ thinly disguised), to see if Hawke had generated poison about her this week. Her heart positively stopped when she spotted it in the third paragraph – but it resumed beating when she realised it was a piece on her husband’s cousin.

Mr P–l P–y, the Duke of S–n’s heir presumptive (and likely to remain so, since Her Grace has yet to produce what is euphemistically termed ‘a token of affection’ for her husband) …

Ah, so there was a dig at Henrietta after all, and she knew what that beastly Theodore Hawke wished to imply – not so much that she was barren, but that she didn’t love Edmund.

Henrietta ground her teeth. Vile, hateful man. He understood nothing. Nothing. The next time she saw him lurking, she’d glare at him even more venomously than usual and she wouldn’t be affected by the bold wink with which he often countered. For that was what their interactions had become – an exchange of accusatory expressions only they understood. Her cold condemnation declared: You waste your talents by refusing to see shades of grey , and his cocky assurance countered with: No, you refuse to acknowledge my consistent lack of bias as journalistic integrity . She knew as much, because on the few occasions when they’d edged close enough to each other to hiss words under their breath without drawing attention, they’d said some variation of the same.

Well, except for one time, on that day – that exceedingly odd day – when she’d been shopping with her mother. She and Mama had been progressing along Bond Street, approaching a wagon delivering beer to a tavern, when a quarter-tun hogshead barrel had rolled off its skids, heading straight for Mama. Realising the danger, Henrietta had sidestepped to swiftly shield her parent; at the same moment, Hawke had suddenly appeared (well, no doubt he’d been trailing them) and had thrown himself between Henrietta and the barrel. The force of the impact had bowled him over. He’d fallen to the ground with a grunt – Lord, who wouldn’t have, with five hundred pounds chucked at them? – but he’d got back to his feet and had steadied the barrel. Henrietta and her mother, and the crowd of pedestrians who’d been frozen in terror, had watched as he’d then helped the delivery men carry the hogshead down the stairwell into the basement of the public. Despite her mother urging her to walk on, so as not to be seen interacting with the man, Henrietta had waited until Hawke had crested the stairs again. His surprise at seeing her still there had been immediately evident, for his cheeks had coloured slightly and he’d replaced his customary cockiness with a warily lifted brow.

He’d made as if to move on without a word, but she’d inserted herself in his path and had held out her hand. ‘Mr Hawke, stay a moment. In gratitude for your … your service to … to my mother, may I please arrange for my physician to call upon you at your residence? You received a dreadful blow and though you appear unharmed, you might have internal injuries.’

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t take her hand, much less answer her enquiry. But then he looked between her white kid glove and his ink-stained hand, wiped his palm on his breeches, and took only the tips of her fingers between his. His touch was gentle but firm – causing her heart to skip a beat for some un-accountable reason – and he bowed handsomely as he responded. ‘I am quite well, thank you, Your Grace. But I intended no service beyond what I would do for anyone in danger. Neither you nor her ladyship owe me anything.’

And then he released her to continue on his way, leaving Henrietta with an odd longing for less hostility between them. However, that longing passed as soon as she recalled what he had done, and, now, as a rule, Henrietta tried not to think of the Bond Street encounter, for it didn’t absolve Hawke of his prior actions.

She returned to reading about her husband’s heir, curious what had landed Perceval in the gossip rag. He’d been in their library with the other guests, not half an hour past, and he’d cast nervous glances at Edmund all the while.

… recently announced his impending union with the ravishing Miss B–k, rightfully crowned this Season’s Incomparable, for she possesses wealth and beauty, and – what is of more critical need to Mr P–y – intelligence to boot. But this reporter wonders if there will be a wedding once Miss B–k’s papa, the bishop, learns his prospective son-in-law was seen tying a necklace around a certain opera dancer’s swanlike neck in the shady refuge of a Hyde Park elm last Sunday morning, when he really ought to have been in church.

Anger flared as Henrietta thought of sweet, brilliant Jane Babcock. During the girl’s first afternoon call after the engagement, Henrietta had learnt Jane harboured opinions that aligned with her own on matters of social and political reforms, and they’d fallen into a delightful tête-à-tête that far surpassed the customary twenty minutes and had necessitated the consumption of three pots of tea and a second tray of cake and fruit.

Perceval’s ability to win the heart of such a worthy young lady had impressed Henrietta. Now, she was incensed on Jane’s behalf.

‘Perceval still keeps his mistress?’ she asked Edmund. ‘If so, ’tis no wonder he looked fit for the gallows this afternoon. Is Jane to cry off the wedding?’

Edmund looked up from his book, his eyes positively black. ‘My dear, you know better than to lend credence to Theodore Hawke’s column.’

Henrietta’s cheeks warmed. Again, she ought to have held her tongue. There was an unspoken agreement amongst the beau monde to pretend Hawke’s column was meritless. Although The Hawke’s Eye had been the initial source of revealing the Charitable Relief Scandal, which had ultimately exposed a network of corruption and embezzlement by government officials, no one had ever publicly credited Hawke with uncovering that abuse of power. Nor had they acknowledged he’d been the reason public attention had been at last drawn to a dreadful case of domestic cruelty by a prominent parliamentarian. Even as intervention had been imposed, forcing the MP to relinquish his wife and children to the safety of her family, no one had credited Hawke’s role. It was best to pretend his column was worthless, for, at some point, nearly everyone fell under his ruthless pen in one way or the other.

As Henrietta contemplated Hawke’s column, she observed her husband and her thoughts of gossip and its merits began to vanish, replaced by concern for Edmund. He had returned to his book, but he rubbed his temples as he read. His face was flushed and he shifted in his seat, as if uncomfortable or uneasy.

What could the matter be?

‘Edmund, did Perceval upset you when he called today?’ she asked gently.

Edmund shook his head, although his colour belied the action. He was becoming purplish, the way some men looked when suppressing anger, although never Edmund, whose manner was always unimpeachable.

Despite his appearance, he delivered his response with his customary composure. ‘Perceval called to inform me that despite the implications in Hawke’s column, his relationship with his former mistress ended before his engagement. According to him, she continues to make troublesome demands, but he claims to have spoken to both Miss Babcock and her father about the matter.’

‘That greatly relieves me,’ Henrietta said sincerely. ‘That he ended the relationship and that he’s spoken to Jane, I mean. Not that he continues to be harassed by his former mistress.’ She didn’t like to think badly of Perceval. If the worst happened and Edmund died before she managed to bring herself to produce a son, she’d be dependent upon Perceval’s generosity. Her meagre dowry alone would keep her only in genteel poverty.

‘You are hot and cold, my dear – too quick to jump to conclusions. Regardless of whether Perceval has shed his mistress, Hawke’s column will bring trouble and precisely at the time when it is most imperative Perceval’s character be unblemished.’

‘But why? If Jane and her father forgive him, what matters anyone else’s opinion?’

Edmund skirted her question. ‘It remains to be seen if Perceval’s newfound maturity can weather this storm.’ Although he spoke calmly, his voice was becoming rather thick, as if affected by emotion, which was again unusual. He stuck two fingers under his cravat and tugged, loosening its hold. ‘At any rate, I caution you strongly against optimism.’

Henrietta pleaded Perceval’s case. ‘I believe he is changing his ways for Jane. He loves her and she is a sensible, clever girl. With her influence, he will continue to embrace duty.’

Edmund’s gaze was intense. ‘I know why you wish to believe that,’ he said firmly. ‘But it is still best for the dukedom if you give me the son you promised, my wife.’

Five years of guilt washed over Henrietta. She had promised, it was true, but she’d promised rashly, before she’d understood the impossibility of bedding one man, when one was married to another. She’d tried – that one time, she had tried – but the whole encounter turned her stomach when she thought of it. Not merely because of Hawke’s interference, but because she knew disloyalty went against the very fibre of her being. She’d made a sacred vow of faithfulness and though faithfulness meant different things to her and to Edmund, the one scrap of individuality she had as a married woman in her society was to hold to her values and principles. If she discarded them, she discarded her autonomy entirely. And she hadn’t yet been able to bring herself to do that, despite her love for Edmund.

Or perhaps because of it. Because if her role was ‘wife’, was it not up to her how to interpret that role? Just as it was Edmund’s prerogative to determine his roles of ‘husband’, ‘duke’, and ‘politician’?

So, despite what he said, of course Edmund was cross at her for what he considered to be misguided stubbornness rather than the actions of an obedient wife. In fact, he was so upset he was becoming physically ill. He was dabbing his forehead with a pristine handkerchief – he who never sweated without physical exertion, he whose skin was always as cool and smooth as marble.

Henrietta cast aside the silly gossip rag. ‘Forgive me, Edmund. My disloyalty has made you unwell.’

‘What nonsense, child. As I told you last night, you are excessively loyal, but let us not speak of that now.’ His eyes darted to the window, his fingers picking at his collar again. ‘It’s rather warm in here, is it not?’

Henrietta considered. True, the sky was bright, but no afternoon sun streamed into the room and the breeze was pleasant. No, there was something troubling Edmund and if it wasn’t Marlow, Perceval or Henrietta, it must be …

Her mouth went dry. She was about to trespass on forbidden grounds, but, as a wife, she had a right to be worried about her husband. ‘Then was it Mr Beaucastle who upset you?’ She named Edmund’s reclusive friend, the third gentleman who had been in the library half an hour earlier.

‘James?’ he said, too quickly. ‘Nonsense again, Henrietta! I told you I’m not upset.’

She didn’t believe it. Edmund was putting her off, like he always did if she spoke of Beaucastle. ‘He did so! He did something to upset you, Edmund. I know he did, because I know you argued dreadfully with him yesterday over something and today he returned, and I do think he meant to continue the quarrel had not Perceval and Marlow been with you as well.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ Edmund said testily. ‘It’s merely that it’s a devilish warm day. I’m overheated.’ His words were slurred and Henrietta wondered if he’d had more wine than the two glasses she’d thought he’d consumed – but that couldn’t be, for Edmund was never in his cups. ‘This blasted library is as hot as hellfire. I must remove my coat.’

He rose abruptly, his book clattering to the floor, and staggered, clutching the arm of his chair with such force his nails dug into the upholstery, his knuckles whitening, his knees giving way.

And then he vomited violently on the carpet.

Henrietta sprang to her feet, overturning the newspapers, and rushed to support him, for he was swaying dangerously, on the verge of collapsing to the floor. He must be having a seizure from illness, she realised – he’d once told her he’d suffered one during a feverish ailment in his youth, terrifying his mother, though he’d come out of it soon enough.

Henrietta understood his late mother’s distress, for Edmund’s seizure was horrible to behold. Only a sliver of grey surrounded his vast black pupils, he’d turned a ghastly shade of puce, and his tongue and lips were swelling.

‘Oh, how do I help, Edmund?’

Gurgling, he put both hands to his collar, frantically clawing at his neck, gouging his skin with his nails. His breath, his clothes, stank of vomit and wine. And of something else. Something unfamiliar. Something sweet, but putrid.

The full weight of his body now rested in Henrietta’s arms and she collapsed under him when he fell to the floor. His torso pinned down her legs; otherwise, she would have run to pull the bell or open the door, screaming for assistance. But then again, perhaps she could not have done so, even if she weren’t holding him, for she couldn’t leave him when he was in so much pain.

Making what use she had of one hand, she tugged at his cravat. ‘I shall loosen this knot and you will breathe easier, my beloved.’

Edmund gripped her wrist with both of his hands, staying her progress. ‘My dear …’ He gasped. ‘My dear …’

‘How do I help?’

‘No, my dear …’

‘I’m here, Edmund, I’m here.’

‘ My dear … ah .’ He struggled to form the words and cried out in frustration as his convulsions intensified. ‘My dear … ah … sweet … killed me.’

Then Edmund inhaled a terrible, rasping breath and, on the exhale, his body softened and he whispered one word – ‘ James ’ – as his hands released her wrists and fell like rocks to his chest.

A scream filled the room. Long, shrill. It wasn’t stopping, it wasn’t going away …

And it wasn’t until a second later when the library door burst open and Thomas the footman entered, his face twisting as he beheld her cradling Edmund’s lifeless body, her hand at his throat, that she realised it was her own cries piercing her ears.

Screaming bloody murder.