Page 7 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

FIVE

Dear Lady Agony,

Recently, a bride and groom did not attend their own wedding breakfast, instead taking a quick refreshment in private apartments before leaving for the honeymoon. I was surprised until it happened again. Is this to be the new practice? Please let us know your opinion on wedding day deserters.

Devotedly,

Wedding Day Deserters

Dear Wedding Day Deserters,

The practice has not been determined in poor taste, but it should be.

I believe it is a dereliction of duties concerning hospitality and home.

One attends a wedding to see the happy pair, not their appendages.

It’s my opinion the pair had better stay for the cake or risk offending the attendees. Besides, who doesn’t enjoy cake?

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Simon and Kitty left, and Amelia jotted off a note to Grady Armstrong, her childhood friend and editor of the paper by which she was employed.

She asked him to meet her in Hyde Park after his workday with any information on Rose Rothschild and Mr. Cross.

She doubted he would have any details on Mr. Cross’s murder that Mr. Dougal hadn’t given her already (it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours), but it was a possibility.

Grady always had his ear to the street for news, and crime was of great interest to the readers of the paper.

She slipped on her dowdiest brown linen paletot, which covered the bulk of her dress, in hopes of being discreet.

She did not want her meeting with Grady noted, especially with the blackmailer possibly following her movements.

The time was unpopular; that was of no concern.

She did not worry about one of her set observing her conversation with a penny paper editor.

Furthermore, their meeting place was so out of the way that they rarely encountered passersby.

She fetched a matching parasol. She didn’t care for the fringes—her usual parasol was strong and sturdy and not brown—but in this instance, they proved beneficial. They provided several more inches of protection for her face.

Checking the looking glass, she was pleased with the effect.

Her hair, auburn with a swirl of caramel brown, was disguised by the placement of a straw—and again, brown—bonnet.

Her shape, which was curvier than popular taste, was nondescript under the large coat.

She might have been any woman traveling anywhere, surely not a penny paper authoress and definitely not a countess.

Parasol in hand, Amelia tiptoed down the stairs, staying close to the wall.

But even flat satin shoes were no match for Aunt Tabitha, who heard and called her into the informal drawing room.

Tabitha often reviewed household accounts at the long rectangular desk, and today, she held a letter in her hand.

She raised it into the air when Amelia crossed the threshold.

“Do you know what this is?” Tabitha asked.

A smart retort almost passed Amelia’s lips, but a quick glance at Tabitha’s face checked the comment. “I do not.”

Tabitha stood, pressing herself up from the desk to her full height.

Surrounded by the pretty gold and blue furniture that defined the comfortable space, Tabitha seemed a dark demigod in her long gray gown.

Indeed, with the letter before her, she conjured the image of Poseidon wielding his trident over the vast ocean.

Poseidon presided over the seas but also storms, and if Tabitha’s face was to be trusted, a tempest was brewing ahead.

“This,” said Tabitha, her voice all severity, “is a letter from your mother. She wanted to inform me that eight of your uncles will be in attendance, with their wives, except for Aunt Kate, who twisted her ankle in a foot race.” She slipped on her spectacles, reading from the letter.

“Which is a shame since she and Amelia are one in the same and get along the best of all the relatives.” She dropped the letter and stared at Amelia.

“Kate is my favorite aunt …”

Tabitha narrowed her eyes.

“Except you, of course.” Amelia smiled.

“I am serious.” Tabitha threw down her glasses. “That is fifteen guests for the wedding breakfast, not to mention your father’s relatives, who, she states, are ‘hoping for a peek’ at the house.”

Why her mother hadn’t written to her, instead of Tabitha, was a mystery—for about half a second.

Of course she must know planning a wedding breakfast was beyond Amelia’s domestic talents.

She was better at walking than planning.

Still, she wished her mother would have had the good sense to route the information through her; she could have made it more palatable to Aunt Tabitha.

She wasn’t certain how, but she would have found a better way than a direct letter.

“If they have appetites like yours and your sister’s, the household will need to prepare,” continued Tabitha. “I cannot imagine the strain Cook will be under. I must find assistance for her immediately.”

“It isn’t as if we are an army, Aunt,” Amelia said in her most soothing voice. “Just one small family from Somerset.”

Tabitha arched a gray eyebrow.

“The house is sufficient, money is abundant, and your connections are plentiful.” Amelia smiled brightly. “The wedding is going to be wonderful.” Without Mr. Cross? How could it ever be wonderful without him presiding? A flicker of sadness erased her smile.

Tabitha spotted it and descended like a bird of prey. “What is the matter?”

“I have bad news, very sad news indeed from the curate. You might have seen him come in earlier?” Amelia recollected the conversation. “Mr. Cross has died. He was murdered in the vicarage last evening. The police believe it was a robber after the poor box.”

Tabitha closed her eyes for a moment, and when she reopened them, they looked much gentler, the type of kind blue oases the Amesburys were known for. “I am sorry, Amelia. I know how much you cared for him.”

“Thank you, Aunt.” Amelia released a breath. “I appreciate that.”

“What is to be done for a new officiant?”

“I will see about it tomorrow. There is always the curate.” Amelia swallowed.

“Or Mr. Penroy.” Mr. Penroy was new to the church, too new, in Amelia’s opinion.

Old vicars she could tolerate, but young priests very rarely.

Mr. Cross had harkened to the old church, the Roman church Tabitha would say, but Amelia preferred the old ways over Penroy’s fire and brimstone.

“Let us hope it does not come to that,” said Tabitha. “Best secure the curate if possible.”

“I will try.”

“Time is the issue.” Tabitha sighed. “All of this might be managed if we had six months instead of two weeks.”

“In the meantime, if there is anything I can do to help with the breakfast …”

“There is not.” Tabitha smoothed her dark dress and sat down. “See to the wedding ceremony—and rid yourself of that brown hat. It’s too dreadful, even for you.”

Amelia left with a frown. She knew the bonnet was ugly but dreadful? At least it served its purpose of concealing her face. With a blackmailer in her business, she couldn’t be too careful. An ugly hat was a small price to pay for anonymity.

A dozen minutes later, she crossed Hyde Park Corner, passing under the Triumphal Arch.

Grady was to meet her at their special spot, a bench tucked next to an oversized plane tree, far away from onlookers and pedestrians.

It was deep into the park, but she was used to walking and arrived on time, glancing around to make certain no one had followed her.

They hadn’t, and perhaps it didn’t matter anyway.

The blackmailer claimed to know her identity.

Whether he or she followed her might be of little consequence.

Unless the blackmailer was considering pressuring her friends and acquaintances for the identity of the Mayfair Marauder. Then it would be of grave consequence.

Grady was her oldest and dearest friend.

They had grown up together in Somerset, scheming and dreaming and planning their futures.

She didn’t have any brothers—only sisters—and he had the job, if not by birth, then proximity.

When he was nine years old, he began working in the stables at the Feathered Nest, Amelia’s family’s inn.

He fed and watered horses in need of a rest on the route to London.

For years, Grady and Amelia had watched travelers come and go, vowing one day to go, too.

They’d made good on their promise, Grady leaving as soon as he had saved enough money and Amelia as soon as Edgar offered for her hand. Life had taken them on different paths and then brought them back together after Edgar’s death. Grady needed an author, and Amelia needed a way to spend her time.

And what a way it had turned out to be. In the long days after Edgar’s death, she spent her time thinking about her readers’ problems and ways to alleviate them.

Her life had purpose, and it had meaning.

She found her voice in those days, a voice she hadn’t known existed.

Soon her role as Lady Agony became as important as her role as Lady Amesbury, more so because she was expressing herself in a way she hadn’t before.

The last few months, however, had brought the two roles closer together, and she had to wonder if she had essentially written herself into the person she wanted to be: courageous, forthright, bold, even.

Or perhaps the recent murders had made her brave.

They involved people she cared about, and she realized what was worth fighting for.

A footstep on the dry grass drew her gaze upward, and she noted Grady’s approach.

She smiled at her oldest friend, and he smiled back.

His shoulders were slightly curved, and his oversized coat hung loosely on his frame.

As he approached, she saw his fingertips were smudged with ink, as they always were, and he smelled of it too, that and newsprint.

Grady sat down beside her, took off his cap, and swiped at his dingy blond hair before replacing it. “You send for me, and I drop everything. If you weren’t my favorite author, I might protest.”

Amelia recognized the weariness in his voice and regretted her request. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come after a long day. I should have waited.”

“You’re not good at waiting. You do not have the patience for it.”

“You’re correct, I suppose,” she agreed. “I don’t. But my impatience has often served me well.”

He lifted his shaggy eyebrows, not completely believing her.

She moved on to the topic at hand. The sooner they discussed it, the sooner he could go home and get some rest. “What do you know of Mr. Cross’s murder? Have you heard anything at the paper?”

“And so begins another investigation before my trousers have had a chance to wrinkle.” Grady slapped his thighs. “What does this murder have to do with you, may I ask?”

“Your trousers are already wrinkled, and it has everything to do with me. Mr. Cross left me a news clipping.” Amelia took the paper from her reticule. “He asked the curate to give it to me, personally, on the day of his death. I haven’t figured out what I am meant to do with it.”

Grady glanced at the clipping. “This is the woman you mentioned in your note.”

Amelia nodded.

“I don’t know anything about her death beyond what’s stated here.

What I do know is this.” Grady ticked off information on his stubby fingertips.

“She lived in Wapping, which was a prized area of your vicar’s.

Her father owns a pub there, where she used to wait tables.

She had worked at the biscuit factory only a month when the accident occurred.

Nothing unusual about her death. People fall off ladders all the time, and this one went from the ground floor bake room to the second floor packaging room—quite a height, to be sure. ”

Amelia didn’t hear anything in his account that would signal Mr. Cross’s involvement, except Wapping.

The poor East End district was an area of concern for him.

He was appalled by the working conditions the populace suffered, not to mention the crime and filth that filled the streets.

Children and adolescents were of particular worry for him.

Young girls and boys kept long hours for little pay, and regulations were practically nonexistent.

When he’d heard of a candlemaker keeping children until eleven in the evening, only to return at six the next morning, he reached out to Amelia, asking her to address the abuse in her Lady Agony column.

She did so immediately, and the factory came under investigation a fortnight later.

Amelia stared at the newspaper clipping. “I’ve written about several unfair employers in the column. Some of them in Wapping.”

“True.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Many bad eggs have been excoriated by your pen.”

“Am I to root out a bad egg here?” She let out a frustrated sigh. “If that is what Mr. Cross intended, I will, but not until I find his murderer.”

“Perhaps they are connected.” Lines appeared between Grady’s eyebrows, making him look more serious. To Amelia, he would always be a boy, connected to green grass and Somerset, but work had taken its toll on him, and it showed now in his concern.

“Perhaps, but I have no way of knowing yet.” She changed subjects to the other one she needed to discuss with him. “Simon came to me about the blackmailer. He said it was irresponsible to quote the letter in the column. He was not happy with my decision.”

Grady snorted. “What does the marquis know about blackmail?”

He knew more than Grady suspected. Simon himself had been blackmailed with information about his sister’s relationship with a known gambler.

And what had he done in that instance? Almost exactly what Amelia had done.

He had refused to bargain with the blackmailer and instead threatened to retaliate.

Recalling this instance made her feel better about her decision, and her shoulders lowered a little. “Nonetheless, I hope our actions come to fruition. Will you let me know the moment you hear something?”

“Of course.” He pulled his hat farther down on his forehead. “The blackmailer is the first and last thought of my workday.”

“And if details become available regarding Mr. Cross’s murder—”

“You will know them immediately,” Grady assured her. “The inquest date is surely coming.” He stood. “Until then, be safe, Amelia—and patient. Don’t go looking for information where there is none.”

She stood also. “You be safe as well. As my editor, you are guilty by association. Be extra mindful until we know if the blackmailer has further intentions.”

He nodded his agreement and was off, leaving her to stare after his coattails. It was not in her nature to do nothing, but in this instance, waiting was her only option.

The idea never seemed so hateful.