A Perfect Plan

by Alyssa Drake

  A Perfect Plan

  Wiltshire Chronicles

  Alyssa Drake

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  An Imperfect Engagement

  About the Author

  Read More from Alyssa Drake

  A Perfect Plan © copyright 2016 Alyssa Drake

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, 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. Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

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  This book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where the purchase was made.

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  For more information on Alyssa, please visit her website Alyssa Drake Novels or sign up for her newsletter, Love Notes, delivered directly to your inbox.

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  Summary: An opinionated tomboy must navigate the dangers of society, unaware her brother’s killer is lurking in her midst.

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  Cover design by Tina Adams

  Editing by Personal Touch Editing

  www.alyssadrakenovels.com

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  For my first fan, my mom

  Prologue

  June 19, 1842

  He stared pitilessly, his mouth twisted cruelly as Mr. Matthew Hastings writhed uncontrollably on the mahogany desk. His arms flopped helplessly—a dull thud, thud, thud. Heavy green drapes lining the picture window behind the desk blocked any moonlight from streaming into the room. Only the dim light of fading embers bathed Mr. Hastings and his guest at this early hour. No sound echoed in the sleeping house. Anonymity cloaked the sole witness to Mr. Hastings’ excruciating demise.

  “It is unfortunate I had to resort to this unpleasantness.” The man shook his head with feigned sadness, a sneer hovering just on the edge of his lips. He paused, deep in contemplation, then spoke quietly as if explaining an important lesson to a child. “I did caution you–several times–over the past few months. However, you refused to heed my warning.”

  Leaning over, the man slid his fingers through Mr. Hasting’s hair, mostly black but highlighted by the graying of age. His grip tightened, and he wrenched Mr. Hastings’ head sideways. Pressing his lips to Mr. Hastings’ ear, he hissed intimately.

  “You have something I want, something that was promised to me when I was much younger. Since you are unwilling to relinquish possession…”

  He indicated a half-empty glass of brandy resting precariously near the edge of the desk, just out of reach of Mr. Hastings’ twitching hand. The brandy taunted, its amber color glistened ominously. Mr. Hastings’ eyes rolled wildly as the toxin caused his body to spasm in a gruesome dance. His tongue remained paralyzed, locked, unable to form a simple word. Help.

  The man released Mr. Hastings’ head, gently returning it to the desk, then stroked his fingers down the side of Mr. Hastings’ contorted cheek. “This particular poison is quite painful. I must admit, I chose it because I knew it would cause you to suffer horribly.”

  “Ugh,” replied Mr. Hastings. His flopping body beat its slow rhythm again—a fish gasping for its last breath of air. The raspy breathing echoed in the study. Although the sound was not loud enough to raise an alarm in the house, the man’s eyes flew to the closed study door. Grabbing Mr. Hastings by his hair, the man yanked, crushing Mr. Hastings’ mouth with his hand.

  “Stop this nonsense, this instant,” he hissed.

  Jerking, Mr. Hastings threw his torso forward, ripping out of the man’s grasp, as he stretched his out arm toward the poisoned snifter. His fingers brushed against the glass, sliding down the side. The glass scooted further away, teetering on the edge of the desk. With a lunge, Mr. Hastings wrapped his hand around the glass, locking tightly. Gasping twice, he shuddered, then exhaled, his body slumping onto the desk.

  The man relaxed, straightening slowly. He studied Mr. Hastings’ with narrowed eyes, searching for any hint of movement. Nothing. He grinned and chuckled quietly as his gaze fell on the glass in Mr. Hastings’ grip.

  “No clues.” He clucked his tongue. “A good attempt, however, kindly remember, I am much smarter than you.”

  Prying the glass from Mr. Hastings’ stiff hand, the man dumped the remaining liquid into the fireplace. The fire hissed and burned red briefly before returning to its normal color. Wrapping the glass in a handkerchief, the man placed it carefully in his coat pocket. He patted the pocket twice before his eyes rose to meet Mr. Hastings’ empty gaze.

  “I am sorry to steal you so young from your lovely wife. The loss will be devastating for her.” A horrid smile stretched across his lips. “Please do not concern yourself with the well-being of your dear wife or your children; I intend to take good care of your family.”

  “Ugh, ugh.” Mr. Hastings choked. His hand slammed down on the desk. His head rolled to the side, lifting a centimeter from the desk. His blue eyes rolled madly, threatening to burst from their sockets. Agony racked his features, his entire face straining taut from the poison’s brutal assault.

  The man laughed quietly and stepped toward the desk, his voice scornful. “You are a fighter. Perhaps I did not give you a large enough dose.”

  His hand slid into his breast pocket, fingers closing around a tiny brown vial. A wheezing breath escaped from Mr. Hastings’ lungs. He deflated, his body twisted grotesquely over the desk, a lifeless marionette. Eerie silence filled the study. Mr. Hastings’ empty eyes, permanently frozen in a moment of anguish, glared accusingly at the man.

  Placing his fingers to the side of Mr. Hastings’ neck, the man nodded with satisfaction. He leaned over the body and rifled through the desk drawers, his hands groping into the far recesses. Each empty disappointment brought a growl to his lips. Taking care not to disturb Mr. Hastings’ corpse, the man slid his fingers under the desk, looking for a secret compartment or a hidden drawer. He found nothing—not a key, not a clue, nothing—just an ordinary desk.

  With a snarl, he stood, his eyes scanning the study, absorbing every detail, every nook and cranny. This was the only room left in the townhouse he had not yet had the opportunity to search. Yet they continued to elude him. He shook his head, chewing his tongue as he glanced over at Mr. Hastings. Such an inconvenience–this murder business–although this was by no means his f
irst horrendous act.

  His eyes swept the room again, taking inventory; various trinkets from Mr. Hastings’ travels decorated the bookshelves along the walls. Mrs. Hastings’ ornate writing desk, hidden in the far corner, was situated to face the beautiful garden hidden behind the green curtains, instead of the center of the room.

  Mr. Hastings once teased his wife at a dinner party her desk should be in his office since she spent most of her time on the business of correspondence, and all business should be performed in an office. In response to his remark, she requested the staff move her desk from the sitting room into his office the next morning, where she spent most of her time staring out the window at the foliage instead of writing letters.

  “What wonderful a distraction!” She often exclaimed the sentiment, her musical voice blooming with joy each time. “Surely if ever anyone has a reason not to respond to a letter, it is due to the beauty of nature.”

  Gliding over, he ran his fingers lightly over the soft wood. Rebecca’s desk. He tried to open the desktop, but the rollup lid refused to budge. Snarling, he grasped a bronze letter opener from Mr. Hastings’ desk and shoved the edge roughly under the lid, attempting pry it open. With a snap, the lock gave way, and the letter opener sliced into the wood, gouging a deep scar across the delicate surface of the desk. The letter opener fell from his palm with a thunk, skittering across the floor and disappearing under Mr. Hastings’ desk.

  The man searched all the crevices of the desk, pulling out every drawer and muttering with each empty outcome. His only discovery, an old pile of love letters, tied with blue and white ribbons, was stashed in the rear of the final drawer. He fanned through them quickly, annoyed to find Mr. Hastings’ tidy scrawl decorated the outside of every envelope. Sentimental value, apparently, why else would Mrs. Hastings store them in her desk? He shoved them roughly back into the drawer and slammed it with a snarl. Angered, he roared at the body sprawled across the desk.

  “Where did you hide them?”

  The corpse did not respond, but Mr. Hastings’ wide eyes appeared to be mocking his frustration. A last laugh in death, the man mused sourly.

  “No answer. I’m not surprised.” He cast a disdainful sneer at the body. “However, mark my words, I will find them, and no one will be able to tie me to your unfortunate demise.”

  The man crossed the room once more. Wrenching open the study door, he leaned into the hallway and with panic dripping from his voice, yelled. “Help, Mr. Hastings has taken ill. Oh please, help.”

  The butler, awakened by the man’s cries, came running down the hallway through a door in the kitchen. He slid across the wooden floor in his stockings and rushed to Mr. Hastings’ side. Drinking in his master’s anguished eyes and immobile figure, the butler gasped. He examined the body but felt no pulse in Mr. Hastings’ wrist.

  “What happened?” the butler asked, still bent over his employer.

  “As we were talking, Mr. Hastings fell into some sort of fit, thrashing about, then just slumped over.” The man forced a concerned tone into his explanation and leaned over the body as well. “I called for you as soon as the episode began.”

  Twisting sideways, the butler studied the man. “We will need to fetch Dr. Barnes; however, I fear it is too late to save Mr. Hastings’ life.”

  “Stay with him, do what you can, I will go for the doctor.” The man exited the study before the butler could reply.

  Stepping out into the late evening fog, the man whistled a hollow tune which echoed hauntingly in the mist. He called for his carriage with a quick snap of his fingers and climbed into the coach without a backward glance. As the carriage bounced along toward the doctor’s house, the man wondered if the butler noticed anything suspicious when he entered the room. His hand curled around a glass hidden in his coat pocket, the final detail which needed to be resolved.

  Perhaps it might be best to pay for the butler’s silence. However, if the butler was a loyal employee, a payoff would raise suspicions. An accident, on the other hand, would permanently guarantee the butler’s silence. How much tragedy could one family endure? He smirked in the darkness of the coach. Does a dead butler even count as a tragedy?

  The carriage stopped suddenly, jarring him from his morbid thoughts.

  “Help!” The man leapt from the carriage, bellowing and banged loudly on Dr. Barnes’ front door. His voice strained with false concern. “Help, please, help. I need a doctor!”

  “I will be right there.” The tired voice replied from deep within the recesses of the house. The elderly doctor blearily opened his front door, holding the nub of a candle. “I am Dr. Barnes, how can I help you, Mr…?”

  “There is no time for introductions,” replied the man, his face partially concealed in shadow as if the light recoiled from his visage. He shoved a parchment-wrapped bundle into the doctor’s hand.

  “What is this?” Dr. Barnes blinked, focusing his tired eyes on the solid mass in his hand.

  “Mr. Hastings has died.” The man lowered his voice and leaned closer. “This is to ensure he died of natural causes.”

  Thumbing through the stack money, Dr. Barnes’ tongue caught between his teeth. He whistled under his breath, counting silently. He glanced up, realization glowing in his dim irises, and raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Did he?”

  “Most definitely not. However, I am weary this evening and a bit reluctant to tolerate more than one death tonight. Although if the need arises…” The man’s voice trailed off.

  Dr. Barnes tightened his grip on the money and nodded once. “There will be no need, I understand your request.”

  “I thought you might,” the man smiled. The sentiment did not reach his cold, dark eyes.

  “I must leave at once,” replied Dr. Barnes. His tongue twisted around the words, garbling the sentence into mushy syllables of fear. Grabbing his medical bag from behind the door, Dr. Barnes threw a jacket over his arm and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Would you like to ride in my carriage?” The man bared his teeth, gesturing to his carriage, darkness seeping from the inside of the coach.

  “No, thank you. I shall go on foot. Good night, sir.” Dr. Barnes shuddered once, then nodded to the man, turning and walking in the opposite direction of the carriage.

  “Doctor.” The man’s soft voice chased Dr. Barnes’ retreating back.

  Dr. Barnes paused halfway down the street, his shoulders drooped. Reluctantly he turned. “Yes, sir?”

  “It would do you well to remember I know where you live.” The man saluted him with a curt nod.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Dr. Barnes. A tremor wracked his small frame. He pulled the jacket tightly around his shoulders, spun around again, and hastened down the street. He vanished around a corner without another word.

  Strolling over to a nearby bridge, the man dug into his pocket and extracted the handkerchief containing the stolen glass. He leaned over the railing and dropped the contaminated snifter into the river below. Sucked into the swirling, black water, he watched the glass sink rapidly below the churning surface of the Thames–vanishing from sight. He folded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket, patting it.

  Humming the same haunting tune as before, he climbed back into his carriage and knocked on the window. The snap of a whip followed his cue, cracking twice over the backs of the horses. They pulled impatiently on the reins, jerking the carriage forward. The man leaned back into the darkness, pressing his fingers together in delight.

  “I am not finished with your family yet, Mr. Hastings.”

  Chapter One

  February 20, 1853

  Thump!

  The dull sound echoed from the room above, followed by a chorus of high-pitched screams and giggles. Concentrating on her book, Sam forced herself to ignore the din. A second round of pounding and screeching caused her to glance at the ceiling, an exasperated sigh ripping through her lips. Expecting the floor to crash down, she shifted her weight, re-crossing her ankles as she debated whethe
r to investigate her nieces’ current amusement. The sound subsided momentarily, and then an explosion of noise required her to abandon her current occupation in haste.

  Stumbling up the stairs, Sam raced around the corner and slipped on the slick floor, crashing awkwardly into her nieces’ door frame with a grunt. Gripping the wall for support, she planted her wayward feet firmly before glaring into the disheveled room.

  One look at the chaos reminded her why she should never leave the girls unsupervised for more than ten minutes. Her eyes narrowed, sweeping over the mess and silently counting children. Marie’s black hair clung to her sweaty face, undone from its neat plait, presumably during a recent struggle. Rose’s red face mirrored her sister’s, except her braid, slightly lighter than her sister’s hair, still held some of its original shape. Both of them sat on an abused armchair, squished together between the armrests. They grinned at each other, sharing a secret pleasure.

  Only two visible children meant the youngest sister must be hidden somewhere in the room. Sam pursed her lips when she realized exactly where Lucy was concealed. Marie and Rose had trapped Lucy inside their tiny armoire, stuffed with dresses and various toys in questionable working order. Lucy—howling with fear and a touch of anger—beat her little chubby fists against the jammed door while her two older sisters giggled conspiratorially. The chair on which they sat blocked the armoire, its weight preventing Lucy from escaping her dark tomb.