Page 3 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

She crossed Oxford Street and the street after, and All Saints on Margaret Street, completed just last year, arose in medieval majesty.

She admired the gothic architecture, the inlaid red-and-black stone, and the towering spire that rose 227 feet in the air, higher than the towers of Westminster Abbey.

A cloud broke away, and a stream of sunlight brushed the cross that reached the sky.

Perhaps it was preordained that Amelia was here, arranging a wedding for her sister.

Or perhaps it was penance for faking illness on Sundays when she was a child.

For it might have been her own wedding she was arranging, she thought gloomily.

Simon had admitted to caring for her and then kissed her in a way she couldn’t keep from thinking about.

Had she been any other woman, he would have felt obligated to propose to her.

After all, women and men did not simply kiss for the fun of it.

They did so only under the auspice of engagement.

But their relationship had been unique from the start.

He’d admitted to being the person who’d told Edgar Amesbury to find a wife who knew neither his name nor fortune.

Only then could the woman be trusted to carry out his wishes after his death, a death which came much sooner than anyone thought, including Amelia.

When she married him, she knew he was ill but assumed he would improve with treatment.

But his disease, which had progressively worsened, grew worse still, and his death, when it came, was quick and shocking.

Their adventure had ended before it had begun, and Amelia was left with only the idea of love and the promise of what might have been.

After his death, she clung to her letters from the penny paper.

Her childhood friend Grady Armstrong was the editor, and when one of his writers quit, she happily took up the work.

It was a way to live without leaving the house, and in her deep mourning period, it was just what she needed.

She had her work, she had Winifred, and that was enough.

But now she wasn’t so sure.

Simon was on her mind often, so often that she had to remember it was Madge getting married and not herself. She drew her eyes from the spire. Now was not the time for daydreams or speculation. She must look straight ahead if she was to plan a wedding in less than a month.

When she entered the church, Mr. Cross was conversing with a parishioner in hushed tones.

Although Amelia knew him to be a calming presence in her life, he was not having the same effect on the fellow parishioner.

The man, who loomed over the priest, was obviously having a spiritual crisis, so Amelia paused, respecting their privacy.

She studied the baptistry at her left. It was a rich brown marble, complementing the polychromatic colors of the church, including the patterned floor.

William Butterfield, the architect, had reimagined medieval architecture for their age while retaining a strong sense of history.

Like many medieval churches, windows were installed above the arcade, allowing light to descend on the sanctuary from above.

The result was majestic—heavenly, almost—with the east-end altar bathed in surreal beams of light.

Some thought ten years of work had been wasted on a bygone era, but Amelia took the project as proof that anything could be accomplished with the right vision, even her sister’s hasty wedding.

Mr. Cross finished his conversation with the parishioner, promising him more time when the day was done, and turned toward the baptistry.

Mr. Cross was a middle-aged man with an enthusiastic step that belied his age.

Trim with a balding head and two smooth patches of brown hair above each ear, he had eyes that were sympathetic and kind, and upon first meeting him, one would understand he was a good listener.

He was quiet but not uninterested, and his words—and tranquility—had the power to ease one’s mind.

Today, however, he appeared distracted, perhaps with parishioners’ problems or his own daily tasks. His glanced at the sanctuary, then held out his hand. “Lady Amesbury. What a pleasant surprise.”

Amelia took his outstretched hand. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I’d like to speak to you about a family matter, if I may.”

“Certainly.” He motioned in the direction of the vicarage, which was attached to the church.

They walked through the vestry in silence, and she noted his robes hanging ready for the week.

The office, directly afterwards, was small but, like Mr. Cross, personable with a shelf of his beloved books and a painting of the Ascension.

He was a great lover of literature and bemoaned not having more money for books or time to read them.

“I was thinking about you only this morning.” He waited for her to be seated. “And here you are. The good Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Has another situation arisen in Wapping?” Knowing his commitment to workers’ rights, she understood he might have another column for her to write under the auspice of Lady Agony.

The area had many industrial sites. It was also laden with crime, not to mention destitution and poverty.

It was too much for one man, or society, to undertake alone, and she would be happy to lend her services again.

For the first time that day, a brief smile touched his lips.

“I am certain many situations have arisen in Wapping since my last visit, and there is one person I would like you to help specifically, but none of that now. You need my help.” He folded his large hands on the desk. “How may I be of service?”

Amelia felt instantly at ease. With him, she could unload her burdens without judgment or scorn. “It’s my sister, Margaret Scott. Captain Fitz has proposed to her, and they are to be married.”

“You’d like the wedding performed here.” He completed her thought.

“If your schedule allows for it.” Despite Mr. Cross’s calm demeanor, she squirmed a little in her seat.

“You see, Margaret would like the wedding to take place this month, if possible,” she added, noting the raise of his eyebrows.

“She’s not the most patient person, and once she decides on a thing, she follows it through immediately. ”

He leaned in slightly. “She sounds like someone else I know.”

Amelia released a laugh, relieved by his good humor. “We are quite alike. That is true. But Margaret’s passionate behavior can be trying for others at times.”

“As in the time she broke a man’s arm?”

Amelia had commiserated with him about the situation after a church service one Sunday. He’d been a great help to her then, assuring her God would never give her more than she could handle. “Yes, as in that time.”

“Not to worry, Lady Amesbury.” Mr. Cross leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve handled more trying people than your little sister.

All I need is a date, and I will wed your sister and the captain into never-ending happiness.

” He called to Mr. Dougal, the young curate he’d brought on six months before, who managed his schedule, among other things, while training for a living.

He was a round, good-natured man with ginger hair and a ruddy complexion.

Inexperienced, he knew little of parish life or patrons.

But he greeted everyone as a friend or an opportunity to do good, and Amelia appreciated his attitude even if it was a little na?ve.

“Dougal, we must prepare for the wedding of Lady Amesbury’s sister, which is to take place … ” He looked to Amelia.

Amelia provided the date.

Mr. Dougal frowned. “That does not give us much time.”

Before Amelia could apologize, Mr. Cross came to her rescue. “We have little to plan on our part, Mr. Dougal. However, Lady Amesbury has much to do, so we mustn’t keep her.”

“Quite true,” Mr. Dougal said with new determination. Mr. Cross’s attitude had that effect on others. “I’ll add it to the parish schedule, and congratulations, Lady Amesbury.”

“I do apologize for the short notice,” Amelia said after Mr. Dougal had left.

Mr. Cross waved away her concern. “You bring the bride and groom, and I’ll do the rest.”

“Thank you.” Her burdens felt lighter, and she had Mr. Cross to thank.

Much was still to be done, in terms of arrangements, but he had not objected to a sudden wedding.

Another priest might have questioned the timing or reason.

Accommodation, however, was his natural reaction.

It wasn’t so much whether a thing could be done but how.

She believed it was what made him successful at his work in Wapping.

Which reminded her of his look of consternation when she’d first arrived. “How is your society work progressing?”

He tapped his fingertips together. “Slowly. Not all are happy to have a man of the cloth interfering with their livelihoods.”

Amelia frowned. “How so?”

“That is a long story for another time.” He gazed over her shoulder, perhaps to ensure Mr. Dougal was not lingering in the hallway. “What of your blackmailer? Have you had any success in identifying him?”

The blackmailer. Amelia’s life had been so upended by her sister that she’d almost forgotten about the person threatening to reveal her identity to all of London.

Almost. The person had written to the journal twice already, insisting that Amelia report the name of the Mayfair Marauder.

If she didn’t, the writer promised to give her identity to one and all.

Amelia had endured this sort of harassment once before, months ago. At the time, she was terrified, worrying for herself and her family. But not any longer. She refused to be the victim, so, like many victims, she took justice into her own hands.

“You’ll be pleased to know the paper is publishing the letter in its entirety tomorrow.

” Amelia revealed the information with marked assuredness.

“I will not bear the injury of the blackmailer’s words alone.

When my readers see what has been said, they will commiserate with me, and the person will stop. ”

Mr. Cross frowned. “I am not certain that is a good idea.”

“It is the only idea that will work. I cannot work under fear. You know as well as I do our occupations will not allow for it.”

Mr. Cross quirked a brow, perhaps unconvinced. “Still, Lady Amesbury, I worry for your safety. Londoners can be defensive, especially when it comes to objects of wealth. This person wants retribution. Revealing him might cause more pain and anger.”

For the first time, Amelia questioned her action, but it was too late. The letter would be included in tomorrow’s paper. “What else? Am I to quit writing?”

“No.” He smiled his magnanimous smile. “Your work is too important. I want you to continue helping others always. To do that, however, you must exercise caution. People are desperate to know your name, one person in particular.” Mr. Cross looked around the room as if that person might be hiding behind the dark green curtains outlining the window behind his desk.

“Yours can be a lonely occupation, as can mine. We must be secure in the fact that what we are doing is true and right. Involving your readership will only make you feel better. It will not solve the problem.”

He was right. Amelia wanted empathy, not resolution.

She wanted her readers to see what she endured for their benefit.

But the work benefited her too, perhaps more so, for without it, she would have no way to spend her time and creativity.

“Of course you’re right. You always are.

” She put a hand over her eyes. “What have I done?”

“What every other blackmailed individual has thought of doing.” He stood. “Come now. It will be all right. You have God on your side.”

She lifted her fingers from her eyes, doubtful of divine intervention.

He smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. “And you have me.”