Murder Most Fair

by Anna Lee Huber

  I stared after her, wondering if I wanted to contradict this statement. Shaking my head in bemusement, I decided there was little point. Maybe it would be true, or maybe it wouldn’t. There was no point arguing the fact now, and I wasn’t certain I even wanted to.

  Though, the expansion of our family would undoubtedly be less fraught if Ardmore were no longer a threat—an event that didn’t seem like it would be happening anytime soon. Not unless we could find the proof we’d been seeking. And that meant locating those phosgene gas canisters.

  However, a break in our other point of inquiry came unexpectedly a few days later.

  The men had been hard at work earlier that day, gathering evergreens, holly, and even a few balls of mistletoe to decorate the house, as well as the Christmas tree. We had all gathered in the drawing room with the doors to the family parlor thrown open to allow us more space, each diligently at work on our assigned tasks. Sidney and my brothers were busy hanging the greens, while Father supervised, puffing on his pipe. Mother tied elegant ribbons and bows, while I arranged flowers in their vases. I was proud at how adept I’d become at working with one hand.

  Meanwhile, Tante Ilse directed Rachel and Grace as they adorned the tree, her eyes sparkling with merriment. From time to time I would catch myself watching her—trying to absorb every nuance of her face, to memorize what made her laugh—all the while wondering if this would be her last Christmas. I’d not thought to store up such memories of Rob, for none of us had known what was coming, but I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to do so with Tante.

  When the telephone rang in the entry hall, none of us truly marked it, too busy teasing each other and focusing on our charge. Even when Abbott informed me the call was for me, I went out into the hall laughing at something Tim had said. It was only when the voice spoke on the other end of the line that I grasped the significance.

  “Lorelei, sorry to intrude at such a late hour, but we’ve uncovered something you should know.”

  “Of course,” I stammered, shifting modes as C’s secretary, Kathleen, continued.

  “We’ve gained access to some of the sealed investigative files concerning the incident in Bailleul.” When Brigadier General Bishop’s temporary headquarters had been blown up by a bomb, killing him and nine other men. “It appears the officer who left the building before the incident in question was a Lieutenant James Smith.” She kept speaking, but I barely marked it as shock reverberated through me. “He was one of the witnesses who claimed the cause was an enemy projectile.”

  My hand tightened on the earpiece, the wooden ridges digging into my palm. Of course, he’d blamed it on a German shell. He’d been the one to set the bloody bomb.

  “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  I had to lean downward a bit to speak, unable to pick up both the earpiece and mouthpiece. “Yes,” I ground out. “He was involved in the Littlemote Park incident and all that followed.”

  It also explained why Alec hadn’t taken note of it. If, in fact, he’d viewed the same report. After all, Smith was an incredibly common name, and I wasn’t certain he’d ever been privy to the given name of the Lieutenant Smith I was speaking of. But I was.

  Kathleen had fallen silent, and I realized I’d momentarily astounded her. “Then he’s connected with the Fowler?” This was code for Lord Ardmore, and unhappily I had to answer in the affirmative.

  How many times were my and Ardmore’s paths to cross? How many pies could he possibly have had his hand in?

  Sidney had stepped out of the drawing room, and I could tell by the way he was looking at me that my voice and expression had conveyed the fact that the news I was receiving was not welcomed.

  “I’ll inform C,” Kathleen told me before ringing off.

  I set the earpiece back on the hook and turned to face Sidney resignedly.

  “London?” he murmured in query.

  I nodded, swiftly explaining what I’d just learned.

  He exhaled a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck, before addressing the matter. “Well, at least now you know what most likely happened. Now, the question becomes proving it.”

  “And proving whether Ardmore was involved.”

  His brow quirked in irritation. “You know he was.”

  “Yes, my gut tells me so. But without proof . . .” I shrugged my right shoulder.

  “Without proof we have nothing. Again.”

  It was less satisfying than I’d expected to hear Sidney so frustrated with Ardmore’s Machiavellian moves and the lack of evidence he left behind. Normally I was the one bemoaning our being perpetually two, if not ten, steps behind him.

  “But this time at least we have a good idea where to look,” I said, determined to cheer him. “And a face in the crowd to watch for.”

  “True.” He lifted his hands to clasp my waist, dipping his head closer in concern. “But it can wait until your shoulder is healed.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, looking beyond him toward the sounds of laughter floating through the doorway from the drawing room. “After the holidays at the very least. I’ve been away from my family long enough.” I looked up into his somber eyes, offering him a hopeful smile. “Besides, C would let me know if there were any indication that Ardmore were about to make any moves to cause further mayhem. He does have him being watched.”

  “Yes, but will they truly be able to tell?”

  My brow furrowed, and I reached up to fidget with the folds of his tie. “With Ardmore? Unlikely. But we can’t put our lives on hold indefinitely for him, can we?”

  “You’re right.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “We’ve sacrificed enough of our lives to the whims of others already.”

  “C will let us know if there’s anything anomalous happening, and that will simply have to do for now.” I leaned my head against his chest as we turned to stroll back toward the drawing room with our arms draped behind each other’s backs. “Besides, I have a feeling Ardmore has no intention of making any significant moves without me around to witness it. It’s part of his game.”

  “Let’s hope you’re correct,” he replied, not sounding as confident of that as I wished him to be. “In the meantime . . .” He paused in the doorway, glancing upward significantly.

  I spied the sprig of mistletoe strung above us and eyed him with mock suspicion. “You did that on purpose.”

  He pulled me close. “Of course, I did, dear wife. And I warn you, I intend on inventing any number of excuses to catch you beneath them, repeatedly, everywhere they’re hung.”

  I smiled coyly. “Well, I noticed Tim hanging one above the billiards table earlier, so I look forward to seeing how you’re going to contrive that one given my current debilitated state.”

  His eyes flashed roguishly. “Challenge accepted.”

  Don’t miss any of Anna Lee Huber’s bestselling Verity Kent

  mysteries, beginning with:

  THIS SIDE OF MURDER

  The Great War is over, but in this captivating mystery from

  award-winning author Anna Lee Huber, one young widow

  discovers the real intrigue has only just begun . . .

  England, 1919. Verity Kent’s grief over the loss of her husband pierces anew when she receives a cryptic letter, suggesting her beloved Sidney may have committed treason before his untimely death. Determined to dull her pain with revelry, Verity’s first impulse is to dismiss the derogatory claim. But the mystery sender knows too much—including the fact that during the war, Verity worked for the Secret Service, something not even Sidney knew.

  Lured to Umbersea Island to attend the engagement party of one of Sidney’s fellow officers, Verity mingles among the men her husband once fought beside, and discovers dark secrets—along with a murder clearly meant to conceal them. Relying on little more than a coded letter, the help of a dashing stranger, and her own sharp instincts, Verity is forced down a path she never imagined—and comes face to face with the shattering possibility that her husband may not h
ave been the man she thought he was. It’s a truth that could set her free—or draw her ever deeper into his deception . . .

  Available wherever books are sold from Kensington Publishing Corp.

  CHAPTER 1

  You might question whether this is all a ruse, whether I truly have anything to reveal. But I know what kind of work you really did during the war. I know the secrets you hide. Why shouldn’t I also know your husband’s?

  June 1919

  England

  They say when you believe you’re about to die your entire life passes before your eyes in a flurry of poignant images, but all I could think of, rather absurdly, was that I should have worn the blue hat. Well, that and that my sister would never forgive me for proving our mother right.

  Mother had never approved of Sidney teaching me how to drive his motorcar that last glorious summer before the war. Or of my gadding about London and the English countryside in his prized Pierce-Arrow while he was fighting in France. Or of my decision to keep the sleek little Runabout instead of selling it after a German bullet so callously snatched him from me. In my mother’s world of rules and privilege, women—even wealthy widows—did not own motorcars, and they certainly didn’t drive them. She’d declared it would be the death of me. And so it might have been, had it not been for the other driver’s bizarre bonnet ornament.

  Once my motorcar had squealed to a stop, a bare two inches from the fender of the other vehicle, and I’d peeled open my eyes, I could see that the ornament was some sort of pompon. Tassels of bright orange streamers affixed to the Rolls-Royce’s more traditional silver lady. When racing down the country roads, I supposed they trailed out behind her like ribbons of flame, but at a standstill they drooped across the grille rather like limp seagrass.

  I heard the other driver open his door, and decided it was time to stop ogling his peculiar taste in adornment and apologize. For there was no denying our near collision was my fault. I had been driving much too fast for the winding, shrubbery-lined roads. I was tempted to blame Pinky, but I was the dolt who’d chosen to follow his directions even though I’d known they would be rubbish.

  When my childhood friend Beatrice had invited me to visit her and her husband, Pinky, at their home in Winchester, I’d thought it a godsend, sparing me the long drive from London to Poole in one shot. I hadn’t seen either of them since before the war, other than a swift bussing of Pinky’s cheek as I passed him at the train station one morning, headed back to the front. All in all, it had been a lovely visit despite the evident awkwardness we all felt at Sidney’s absence.

  In any case, although Pinky was a capital fellow, he’d always been a bit of a dodo. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d survived the war simply by walking in circles—as he’d had me driving—never actually making it to the front.

  I adjusted my rather uninspired cream short-brimmed hat over my auburn castle-bobbed tresses and stepped down into the dirt and gravel lane, hoping the mud wouldn’t damage my blue kid leather pumps. My gaze traveled over the beautiful pale yellow body of the Rolls-Royce and came to rest on the equally attractive man rounding her bonnet. Dark blond hair curled against the brim of his hat, and when his eyes lifted from the spot where our motorcars nearly touched, I could see they were a soft gray. I was relieved to see they weren’t bright with anger. Charming a man out of a high dudgeon had never been my favorite pastime.

  One corner of his mouth curled upward in a wry grin. “Well, that was a near thing.”

  “Only if you’re not accustomed to driving in London.” I offered him my most disarming smile as I leaned forward to see just how close it had been. “But I do apologize. Clearly, I shouldn’t have been in such a rush.”

  “Oh, I’d say these hedgerows hold some of the blame.” He lifted aside his gray tweed coat to slide his hands into his trouser pockets as he nodded toward the offending shrubbery. “It’s almost impossible to see around them. Otherwise, I would have seen you coming. It’s hard to miss a Pierce-Arrow,” he declared, studying the currant-red paint and brass fittings of my motorcar.

  “Yes, well, that’s very good of you to say so.”

  “Nonsense. And in any case, there’s no harm done.”

  “Thanks to your colorful bonnet ornament.”

  He followed my pointed stare to the pompon attached to his silver lady, his wry grin widening in furtive amusement.

  “There must be a story behind it.”

  “It just seemed like it should be there.”

  “And that’s all there is to it?”

  He shrugged. “Does there need to be more?”

  I tilted my head, trying to read his expression. “I suppose not. Though, I’ll own I’m curious where you purchased such a bold piece of frippery.”

  “Oh, I didn’t.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “My niece kindly let me borrow it. Just for this occasion.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Had he been one of my London friends I would have accused him of having a jest, but with this man I wasn’t certain, and told him so. “I’m not sure if you’re quite serious or simply having a pull at me.”

  “Good.” He rocked back on his heels, clearly having enjoyed our exchange.

  I shook my head at this teasing remark. He truly was a rather appealing fellow, though there was something in his features— perhaps the knife-blade sharpness of his nose—that kept him from being far too handsome for any woman’s good. Which was a blessing, for combined with his artless charm and arresting smile he might have had quite a devastating effect. He still might, given a more susceptible female. Unfortunately, I had far too much experience with charming, attractive men to ever fold so quickly.

  I pegged him at being just shy of thirty, and from his manner of speech and cut of clothes, undoubtedly a gentleman. From old money, if I wagered a guess. A well-bred lady can always tell these things. After all, we’re taught to sniff out the imposters from the cradle, though it had begun to matter less and less, no matter what my mother and her like said about the nouveau riche.

  He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and offered me one, which I declined, before lighting one for himself. “If I may be so bold . . .” he remarked after taking a drag. “Where precisely were you rushing to?”

  “Poole Harbor. There’s a boat I’m supposed to meet.” I sighed. “And I very much fear I’ve missed it.”

  “To Umbersea Island?”

  I blinked in surprise. “Why, yes.” I paused, considering him. “Are you also . . .”

  “On my way to Walter Ponsonby’s house party?” He finished for me. “I am. But don’t worry. They won’t leave without us.” He lifted his arm to glance at his wristwatch. “And if they do, we’ll make our own way over.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I replied, feeling anything but. Some of the sparkle from our encounter had dimmed at this discovery. Still, I couldn’t let him know that. “Then I suppose if we’re going to be spending the weekend together we should introduce ourselves.” I extended my hand across the small gap separating our motorcars. “Mrs. Verity Kent.”

  His grip was warm, even through my cream leather glove, as he clasped my hand for a moment longer than was necessary. “Max Westfield, Earl of Ryde. But, please, call me Ryde. Or Max, even. None of that Lord business.” Something flickered in his eyes, and I could tell he was debating whether to say something else. “You wouldn’t by chance be Sidney Kent’s widow?”

  I’m not sure why I was startled. There was no reason to be. After all, I’d just discovered we were both making our way to the same house party. A party thrown by one of Sidney’s old war chums. There were bound to be one or two of Sidney’s fellow officers attending. Why shouldn’t Lord Ryde be one of them?

  My eyes dipped briefly to the glow at the end of the fag clasped between Ryde’s fingers, before returning to his face. “You knew him?” I remarked as casually as I could manage, determined not to show he’d unsettled me.

  “I was his commanding officer.” He exhaled a long strea
m of smoke. “For a short time, anyway.” His eyes tightened at the corners. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man,” he added gently.

  I tried to respond, but found alarmingly that I had to clear my throat before I could get the words out. “Thank you.”

  It was the standard litany. The standard offer of condolences and expression of gratitude that had been repeated dozens of times since Sidney’s death. I’d developed a sort of callus from hearing the words over and over. It prevented them from overly affecting me, from making me remember.

  Except, this time was different.

  “Did you know Sidney before the war?” I managed to say with what I thought was an admirable amount of aplomb. They were of an age with each other, and both being gentlemen it seemed a safe assumption.

  “Yes, Kent was a year behind me at Eton and Oxford. Same as your brother, if I recall. They were chums.”

  I nodded. “Yes, that’s how we met. Sidney came home with Freddy to Yorkshire one school holiday.”

  “Love at first sight?”

  “Goodness, no. At least, not for him. I was all of eleven to his sixteen. And a rather coltish eleven, at that. All elbows and knees.”

  He grinned. “Well, that didn’t last.”

  I dimpled cheekily. “Why, thank you for noticing. No, Sidney didn’t return to Upper Wensleydale for six more years. But by then, of course, things had changed.”

  My chest tightened at the bittersweet memories, and I turned to stare at the bonnet of my motorcar—Sidney’s motorcar—gleaming in the sunshine. I’d known this weekend was going to be difficult. I’d been preparing myself for it as best I could. Truth be told, that’s why I’d nearly collided with Lord Ryde. I’d been distracted by my recollections. The ones I’d been ducking since the telegram arrived to inform me of Sidney’s death.