Books by Dianne Freeman
A LADY’S GUIDE TO ETIQUETTE AND MURDER
A LADY’S GUIDE TO GOSSIP AND MURDER
A LADY’S GUIDE TO MISCHIEF AND MURDER
A FIANCÉE’S GUIDE TO FIRST WIVES AND MURDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
A Fiancée’s Guide to First Wives and Murder
Dianne Freeman
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Dianne Freeman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2021931754
The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3160-9
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: August 2021
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3166-1 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-3166-2 (ebook)
Chapter One
November 1899
Life has an unerring way of balancing good and bad, rather like math. For every positive, there’s a negative; for every gain, a loss; for every plus, a minus. The plus on this occasion was that my mother, who’d been living in my house since my sister’s wedding last month, was about to leave for a holiday in Paris.
Huzzah! Dare I hope peace would reign in my household once more?
During her stay, she’d disrupted our lives with a constant critique of everything from the staff, the décor of her room, and the newspapers I took, to things that were entirely out of my control, like the weather. As I shivered on the wet pavement beside her hired carriage, enveloped by the damp air of a typical November morning in London, I could hardly fault her for that one.
A ray of sunlight broke through—at least in my mind—as my eight-year-old daughter, Rose, skipped down the walk to the carriage, her dark curls bouncing against her shoulders. Nanny followed in a more sedate manner. She, too, had had just about all she could stand of Mother’s interference, particularly with Rose’s routine. Nanny set specific times for meals, lessons, recreation, and sleep. Despite my insistence she adhere to Nanny’s schedule, Mother had one of her own—whenever she was in want of company, Rose should be made available. My daughter loved it. Nanny did not.
I wasn’t exempt from my mother’s judgment, either. Still, not only had she brought me into the world, but she’d also saved my life just a few short weeks ago, so I felt I owed her some degree of latitude.
Rose kissed Aunt Hetty, then came to me for one last hug before the groom handed her up into the carriage. She settled in next to my mother, fairly humming with excitement. That was the minus in this otherwise favorable equation—Rose was leaving, too.
The groom closed the carriage door, and I leaned through the open window. “Mind your grandmother, Rose.” I turned to my mother. “And you don’t give in to her every whim.” This was a definite possibility as the only person safe from my mother’s criticism was Rose. In her mind, Rose could do no wrong, which led my imagination to run rampant about their week ahead.
“We’ll be fine, Frances.” Mother batted away my concern as a mere trifle. “If you are so worried, you should join us.”
If only I could. The three of us had planned to take this trip together to order gowns for my upcoming engagement party given by my fiancé’s sister. But then the Romanovs had arrived in London: Grand Duke Michael Mikhailovich and his wife, Sophie, Countess de Torby. The elite of society had received invitations, or commands, to attend various events honoring them this week. That included me, the Countess of Harleigh, and my fiancé, the Honorable George Hazelton. Despite all my admonishments to my mother not to give in to Rose’s whims, I had done just that, allowing her and her grandmama to go to Paris without me.
With the jingle of a harness and the shuffling of hooves, the carriage pulled away from the curb. I clutched Hetty’s arm with one hand and waved with the other, while my heart sank to my toes.
Hetty brushed away a tear from her cheek. “Cheer up, dear. Little Rose has a good head on her shoulders. She’ll keep your mother out of trouble.”
Nanny let out a grunt as we trudged back to the house under the heavy gray sky. “I can still see them,” she said. “It’s not too late to call them back.”
“My aunt is right, Nanny.” I lifted my chin. “We are worried about nothing. Between the servants, the hotel staff, and my mother, Lady Rose will be fine. After all, my mother raised me, and I turned out well enough.”
Her lips compressed as she eyed me, clearly unimpressed.
“At least I came to no harm.” I picked up our pace. “You must be eager to be off on your holiday. Visiting your sister, are you not?”
Nanny grumbled something unintelligible, bobbed a curtsy, then stomped down the stairs to the service entrance.
Hetty and I exchanged a glance as we stepped through the open front door to the entry hall. “Honestly, you’d think Rose was her daughter,” Hetty said.
“She may not be Nanny’s daughter, but she is her little girl. Still, I thought she’d be happy for a short break.”
Hetty and I wandered into the drawing room off the hall and settled ourselves on the sofa, part of a cozy conversation area around the tea table. It was not an expansive room, just an ordinary rectangle, with a card table near the front windows, this grouping near the fireplace, and a cabinet against the wall between them that held a few sentimental treasures and a cache of spirits and wine. To me, it was a warm and welcoming place.
“I suspect the real problem is the changes we’re making to the household,” Hetty said.
“We’re only asking her to move next door, but I suppose I know what you mean.”
George and I had yet to set a date for our wedding, but we had been making plans. I’d move into his home next door with Rose, Nanny, and my maid Bridget. Hetty would purchase the lease to this house and retain the rest of the staff. It was a sensible plan. My gaze traveled the length of the cozy room. But this was the first home that belonged solely to m
e, and though I’d lived here only six months, I’d miss it.
This was where I first met George. No, that wasn’t true. I first met him years ago, when I made my London debut. That was before I married Reggie and became Countess of Harleigh—before I spent nine years married to the philandering cad, followed by a year mourning his death. Then I moved to this darling little house in Belgravia and learned George Hazelton was my neighbor. It was as if fate had played a role.
“It’s a little soon to be looking so nostalgic, Frances.” Hetty’s voice drew my attention back to the present. She smiled. “You haven’t even left yet, and when you have, you’re welcome to visit anytime you like.”
“You may depend upon that. The gate George installed between our gardens was not just for our convenience. It’s so Rose and I can visit easily when this becomes your home. How will you like living alone here?” I paused as a thought struck me. “Will this be the first home you’ve owned?” Hetty lost her husband to influenza back when I was just a child. She moved in with our family and became something of a second mother to me and later to my sister, Lily, after I left New York for London.
A smile crept across her face and crinkled her eyes. “This will be my first home—at the age of fifty, can you believe it? I suppose I was comfortable living with your parents and never thought of a home of my own. Now that I have, I find it very exciting.”
“Well, if I must give it up, I’m glad you’ll be taking it over. I couldn’t wish for a better neighbor.” I had a difficult time thinking of Aunt Hetty as fifty. Unlike my mother, who spent hours on her beauty regime, Hetty had an energetic nature that made her seem younger. I hoped I would age as well as she had. We were both tall, though her figure was fuller than mine. Her brown eyes were framed by a few lines at the corners, but her square jaw would likely never sag, and so far, her dark hair hadn’t so much as a strand of gray.
As I studied her, something behind me caught her attention. I glanced over my shoulder at the window. “Are you already contemplating a change to the draperies?”
“Perhaps, but right now, I’m trying to determine whose carriage is out front.”
I slipped over to the window and peeked out as a slight, redheaded woman emerged from the carriage. “It’s Alicia Stoke-Whitney. What could she want?”
“Do you wish me to stay with you?” Hetty asked.
I strode to the mirror over the drinks cabinet and adjusted the dark curls on my forehead. I’d always liked my blue eyes, but now they were tinged with red from crying over Rose’s departure. So was the tip of my nose, and my cheeks were pale. As I pinched them, I caught Hetty’s eye in the mirror, and her question sank in.
“What? No, no. I’m sure I’m up to any business Alicia might have to discuss.” I winced as the doorbell rang.
Hetty pulled me around by the arm. “Which is why you’re suddenly so concerned over your appearance?”
Any meeting with my late husband’s lover had the effect of making me question my appearance. It didn’t help that Alicia, somewhere in her mid-thirties, seemed to grow more beautiful with each passing year.
“I’m just straightening myself after having been out in the wind,” I said. “I appreciate your concern, and you’re welcome to stay if you like. But it truly isn’t necessary.”
Hetty pursed her lips. “I’ll forgo the pleasure if you don’t mind.”
I followed her to the hall and watched her slip up the stairs as Mrs. Thompson arrived to answer the door. “That will be Mrs. Stoke-Whitney,” I told her. “Will you show her into the drawing room, then arrange for tea?”
I stepped back into the room and took a bracing breath. Alicia and I weren’t friends, but my husband’s death had forced us to share a secret. We could hardly let the world know Reggie had died in her bed, so with the assistance of the ever-chivalrous George Hazelton, we had relocated dear Reggie. The subterfuge had created something of a bond between us. It had been aided by the need to behave cordially toward one another in public to quell the rumor that she and my husband had been lovers. I suppose if one pretends to like someone, one may actually come to do so—to some degree, anyway.
The door opened. “Mrs. Stoke-Whitney, my lady.” Mrs. Thompson moved aside to allow Alicia to enter, which she did with the grace of a swan. If she’d been born into another class, she might have been a dancer; she was so slender and graceful. With her red hair and green eyes, she would likely have been a star. Instead, she was the third daughter in a family with great prestige and little money. She had no choice but to marry well. I had never considered it before, but she was the female version of my late husband.
Alicia removed her coat, revealing a cunning walking dress of gray and pink, which matched her hat beautifully. “Frances,” she said, heaving a theatrical sigh. “I’m simply devastated and in need of your help.”
“Do come in, Alicia.” I gestured to the seating area.
Mrs. Thompson took Alicia’s coat and left to see to the tea. Alicia and I perched on either end of the sofa.
“Arthur is being such a beast,” she said, tugging her kid gloves from her fingers.
“Is he indeed?” Arthur Stoke-Whitney was her husband and her escape from genteel poverty. He was a good twenty-five years older than her, and there had never been any pretense that their marriage was anything more than an alliance. He already had an heir and a spare from his first marriage. After a few years as a widower, he had decided to look for a beautiful woman with a good pedigree to grace his table and aid in his political career. He was wealthy enough not to require a dowry. Alicia had fit the bill perfectly.
“He’s banishing me to the country,” she said. “I’m to be stuck there until he allows me to return to town.”
I raised my brows, and I must confess it was difficult not to smirk. “An indiscretion, Alicia?”
At that moment, Mrs. Thompson entered with the tea tray, forcing us both to be discreet until she left and quietly closed the door behind her.
Alicia threw me a glare. “I was discreet. The gentleman in question was not.”
I handed her a cup of tea and drew back as she stirred in a spoonful of sugar with enough vigor to whip an egg. When I stilled her hand, she collected herself.
“I shall never choose such a young man again. They simply must boast.” She shook her head when I offered her a delicate plate with a selection of sweets. “Of course, word got back to Arthur, and he was absolutely furious.”
“No doubt,” I said. Stoke-Whitney didn’t care what Alicia did, or how many affairs she conducted, so long as nary a hint of her improprieties became public. He was a member of the House of Commons and had elections to think of. His wife didn’t have to be above reproach, but she must give the appearance of it. He was a stickler for appearances.
I suppose I understood their marriage a little better when I reminded myself that he was a politician and something of a courtier. The queen could not abide a whiff of scandal among the aristocracy or her members of Parliament. I took a sip of tea. Her Majesty was frequently disappointed, but never by Arthur Stoke-Whitney, at least not yet.
Alicia patted an errant curl back into place. “Yes, yes. It’s understandable but terribly inconvenient.”
“Have you considered ending your dalliances altogether? You place yourself, your husband, and your family in an awkward position and risk all your reputations for what is nothing but a momentary thrill.” I dipped a bit of scone into the clotted cream on my plate and popped it into my mouth, waiting for her to defend her actions.
Instead, she gave me a pathetic look. “I do believe it’s time to consider that possibility, but don’t lecture me, Frances. I’ve come to you for help.”
That was intriguing. “How can I help?”
“Well, as I said, Arthur is furious, and I expect my stay in the country to be longer than usual. He won’t get over this in a month or two. He’s already told me I should not bother with a new wardrobe for the season.”
“I find that hard to
believe. With all the entertaining he does, he’ll need you.”
Alicia lifted her chin. “He said if he needed a hostess, he’d call on his sister.”
I gasped and nearly choked on another bite of scone. A sip of tea set me to rights. “Surely you don’t mean Constance?” A foolish question, as she was his only sister—a woman whose only social skill was hunting. Her lack of manners and even the most rudimentary grasp of precedence was one of the reasons Stoke-Whitney had married for a second time. She was an abysmal hostess.
“Of course I mean Constance, and I see you grasp the magnitude of my problem.”
“Indeed, but I still don’t understand how I can be of help.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I missed an important point. Our daughter will turn eighteen in January. Harriet should be presented to the queen and make her debut this spring. When I reminded Arthur of our responsibility to her, he said Constance could handle that little matter.”
My heart went out to Harriet. A presentation to the queen was an inspiring but formidable undertaking for a young woman, even under the best of circumstances. With someone like Constance guiding one through the complexity of a presentation, well, disaster became inevitable.
“Surely he wouldn’t do such a thing to his own daughter?”
Alicia twisted her cup until I thought it would crack. She set it down. “His sons are everything to him, but Arthur barely recalls that he has a daughter, so I cannot take this threat lightly. The only way to avoid complete humiliation for Harriet is if you agree to act as her sponsor.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” She lifted her brows. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You sponsored your sister and that other American girl, and they both had successful seasons. You wouldn’t turn up your nose at my daughter because she’s not American, would you?”
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