Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  Fall from Lace

  A Spinsters’ Sewing Circle Regency Cozy Mystery

  Emily Claire

  Contents

  A Note on Language

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Emily Claire

  A Note on Language

  In an effort to reflect historical accuracy, I have elected to use the derogatory word “mulatto” to describe a biracial character with English and Jamaican parentage. This decision was made with respect to language and social norms of the Regency period and is used in a way that, I hope, is fitting within the context of the novel.

  If you’re curious to learn more about Black people in Regency England, I recommend starting with the article “Black People in The Regency” by the fabulous historical fiction author Vanessa Riley, as well as the article “Representing Regency: Multiracial People in the 19th Century” from Regency Reader.

  Happy reading!

  1

  “On guard, vile wretch!”

  A shining weapon flashed through the air, cool afternoon light glinting off its polished surface. Lydia parried the blow and drove her own sword toward her enemy’s chest, but he leapt back far enough that the tip only glanced against one of the buttons on his jacket.

  “You’ll never defeat me!” the warrior cried with a frantic jab of his blade.

  “I shall,” Lydia declared. “I’ll take this ship and all its treasures, and I’ll scatter your bones to the fishes.”

  And then Isabella swept through the sitting room and spoiled all the fun.

  “Charlie!” Her tone seemed exactly designed to ensure her reputation as an intimidating woman would keep her firmly a spinster until the end of her days.

  Charlie and Lydia froze, their knitting needles suspended mid-clash.

  “Put that down,” Isabella said. Her dark eyes narrowed. “What on Earth are you thinking? You could take Auntie Shrewsbury’s eye out.” Isabella fixed Lydia with her gaze, and Lydia quickly arranged her features into something approximating an apology. “As for you, Lyddie, you should know better.”

  “Auntie Shrewsbury is a dreadful pirate,” Charlie explained. “I’m a hero in the Royal Navy, and I’m stopping her from stealing a great shipment of valuable jewels from the Ottoman Empire!”

  “Is that so?” Isabella paused as she gazed down at them, her height lending an air of gravitas to her scowl. “Well, I’m a sea monster that’s going to swallow you both whole!”

  She swooped down and wrapped her youngest brother in her arms. He dropped the knitting needle onto the butter-yellow rug and struggled to get free while she covered his tousled hair and flushed cheeks with kisses.

  “Get off me, Izzy!”

  “Can’t.” She kissed the top of his head several times in rapid succession as he giggled and squirmed to get away. “I’m a terrible creature driven by ancient instincts. You invaded my seas. Now I must eat you.”

  “You’re not eating me, you’re kissing me,” he protested.

  Lydia caught Isabella’s eye. Her friend’s face lit with a cheeky grin that transformed her sharp features, and Lydia dove into the scuffle and pretended to wrest Isabella’s arms free from the little boy.

  “Run, Charlie!” Lydia cried. “I’ll hold her off!”

  He didn’t need telling twice. He was out the door as fast as his little legs could carry him, leaving the members of the Spinsters’ Sewing Circle to their dreary adult occupations.

  Lydia bent to collect the dropped needle from the carpet while Isabella fixed the others with her stare.

  “Not one of you is any help,” she said severely. “I left the room for a single moment and came back to find that, and you’re all stitching quietly away as if you were innocent.”

  “I wasn’t about to get in the way of a captain of the Royal Navy.” Caroline reached for her scissors and snipped off a length of emerald embroidery thread. “I might have gotten thrown overboard.”

  “Or he could have given us to the pirates,” Justina added, tucking a strand of flaming hair behind her ear.

  Isabella closed her eyes, as if dealing with the lot of them was more than her nerves could tolerate, and sank back into her seat.

  Her sister, Diana, smirked. “I just thought it was amusing.”

  Lydia laughed.

  Isabella picked up the book she’d been reading aloud before the interruption and opened it. She didn’t have time to resume her narration before Charlie sped back into the room, a wooden sword in his hand in place of the knitting needle.

  “I have you now!” he exclaimed, brandishing the weapon so fiercely he nearly knocked a vase of flowers onto the carpet. Justina saved it at the last instant in an impressively swift motion.

  Isabella slammed the book shut. “Charlie,” she said, in a tone sharp enough to cut through steel and playtime alike.

  Charlie lowered the sword and glared at his eldest sister.

  “This room is for drab old spinsters,” Isabella said. “Are you a spinster?”

  He made a face. “No. I’m a boy!”

  “Then run along.”

  Defeated, he lowered his weapon and gave her a fierce scowl.

  Lydia’s heart twinged on his behalf. She hadn’t been a boisterous little girl in a long time, but she still remembered how nice it had been when the adults had seemed to want her company. Freddie had always played with her and made her feel welcome. It must have been tedious for him at times to gallivant about with his much younger sister, but she had loved him for it and still did.

  “I’m not a spinster,” Diana said. “Are you going to chase me out, too?”

  Isabella reopened her book. “You may stay. You’ll be married soon enough and will never want to visit us poor old maids anymore. I ought to enjoy your presence while I can.”

  The humor lacing her tone was unmistakable; even so, Diana blushed. “I’d never abandon you, Izzy, dear.”

  “You can say that now, but one look from Mr. Buxton and he’ll have you swept away, never to think of me again.”

  Diana’s normally creamy cheeks deepened to a rich shade of pink, and she bent her head and allowed a honey-colored curl to fall over her cheek.

  Lydia didn’t bother suppressing her smile. Her father would have chastised her for laughing at Diana’s embarrassment, perhaps, but teasing a friend was the next best thing to having a romance of one’s own. Lydia, safely on the shelf at eight and twenty, could only find amusement in the younger woman’s flattered blushes.

  Diana lifted the piece of lace she was knitting, although the delicate loops of white crewel yarn did little to hide her face.

  “Leave her alone,” Justina chided. “I’m not a spinster, either, and you still welcomed me into our little club.”

  “We couldn’t exactly throw a widow out into the cold, could we?” Isabella said. “Diana, you can stay until you marry Mr. Buxton. Then off you go until he dies. You can come back once you’re out of mourning.”

  Lydia caugh
t Caroline’s eye, and they shared a moment of mortified silence, but Justina was quiet for only a moment before she burst into laughter.

  There wasn’t a great deal of humor in her situation, Lydia knew. Justina’s marriage to Mr. Audley had been a happy one, though short, and these three years later she remained a quiet shadow of the woman who had once been the light of the parish.

  There was, however, humor to be found in Diana’s expression, which held equal parts shock and horror.

  “That is truly insensitive, Izzy, both to Mrs. Audley and to me. It’s cruel to make light of poor Mrs. Audley’s tragedy and twice as cruel to suggest the same misfortune will befall your own beloved sister!”

  Lydia wasn’t quite sure the gravity of the offenses had been measured correctly, but Justina, to whom the weight of the insult rightly belonged, seemed willing to let it go, either out of the goodness of her nature or a recognition that eighteen-year-olds would be eighteen and Isabella would be Isabella.

  “I’m quite certain Mr. Buxton will do everything in his power to stay alive for you,” Justina said. “Particularly once you show him this gorgeous piece of lace. Your stitches are remarkably tiny.”

  Diana crumpled the project in her lap, her face again turning the color of raspberry cream. “I’m not making it for him!”

  Lydia bit back another too-broad smile.

  “Nobody said you were,” Isabella said.

  “It’s for my Easter bonnet,” Diana said.

  “Naturally.”

  Finally, pity overcame amusement and Lydia jumped in. “I’m making mine for a gentleman,” she announced.

  Surprised looks greeted her. Lydia had never been the kind of woman to collect admirers and would certainly not have made her feelings about a man known. She had expected the startled expressions, but something about them still needled her.

  “It’s a Valentine for Freddie,” she clarified, forcing a smile.

  Justina frowned. “Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. That won’t reach your brother for weeks!”

  “Months, rather,” Lydia said. “I don’t expect to finish for another few days, and I don’t intend to give it to him until he comes home for a visit. Still, he’ll know I was thinking of him.”

  “You can continue working on it this evening, if you like,” Isabella offered. “No doubt the gentlemen will linger over their port.”

  Lydia’s heart sank. She had almost forgotten.

  Isabella, noticing and correctly interpreting the look, offered a smile that warmed her angular face. “You’re an angel to agree to stay for the whole week. I know your father has been enjoying the comforts you provide at home, but you’re so desperately needed here. It’s been dreary with Papa’s friend visiting.”

  “Mama has been a bear about it,” Diana added darkly. “Papa and Mr. Pemberton have belonged to the same club in London for years, but this is the first time he’s come to visit. Papa invited him to stay clear through until Parliament resumes, but he only agreed to stay for two weeks, and it’s a good thing, because Mama doesn’t care for him in the slightest.”

  “It isn’t difficult to understand why,” Isabella said. “He’s handsome and droll and lovely to have around.”

  “Ought that not to recommend him?” Caroline asked, looking up from her work.

  “Not to Mama. She dislikes having to compete for everybody’s attention.”

  “At least her sister is arriving soon.” Diana squinted at her knitting and unpicked a few stitches. “Perhaps Aunt Huntington will keep her engaged until Mr. Pemberton leaves.”

  The afternoon light was beginning to fade; Lydia was having a difficult time making out the intricacies of her own work. She longed to retire to the quiet of the vicarage. A dinner party with only Isabella’s family would have been welcome. She liked the Wycliffes, even fretful Lady Wycliffe. A party including strangers, on the other hand, held little charm and seemed entirely unnecessary when her home was such a short walk from Hollybrook House.

  But Isabella had requested her presence, and sometimes friendship required sacrifice. Isabella had more than earned it.

  “I’m sorry I cannot join you tonight,” Caroline said with a glance up from her elaborate embroidery. “If Papa and I didn’t already have plans to dine elsewhere, you know I would have been happy to stay.”

  “I know, dearest,” Isabella said. “Justina has no such excuse.”

  Justina frowned. “I’m to leave in the morning to visit my aunt. She’s unwell, as I told you.”

  “Isabella is teasing,” Diana said. “She’s a wretch and is trying to make you feel bad for something you can’t help.”

  “I never want anyone to feel badly,” Isabella protested. “Unless they’ve done something unforgivable, like attending to a sick aunt instead of abandoning all their relations to stay and entertain me.”

  “Heaven forfend!” Justina exclaimed.

  Diana primly folded her lace in her lap. “On that note, we ought to dress for dinner.”

  “The best of the light’s almost gone anyway,” Caroline agreed. Her lips quirked into a smile. “Shall we close this meeting of the most illustrious Spinsters’ Sewing Circle?”

  “Did we ever open it?” Lydia asked. “For all we call ourselves a society, we lack the organization of one.”

  “But not the friendship nor camaraderie, which is all that matters,” Isabella said. “This meeting is adjourned, and I expect to see you all back here next week. Caroline, you’d better have finished your reticule by the time we gather next. The little bees are darling, and I want to see how your design turns out.”

  “Shall I take my work up to my room?” Lydia asked.

  Isabella shook her head. “You might as well leave it here. We’ll come back after we dine and—Diana, would you make some effort to tidy after yourself, please?”

  Her sister frowned from her place next to the side table, where she had put her bundle of lace and crewel yarn. “I only just set my things down.”

  “Yes, strewn about like autumn leaves. Haven’t you a basket?”

  “You took my sewing basket to hold those wretched wool balls you made for the dogs.” Having delivered this accusation, Diana made an exaggerated but cursory show of arranging her lace on the table, then offered peremptory curtsies and fled the room before her sister could manage more scolding.

  Isabella sighed and waved in the direction of the table. “Move Diana’s things aside to make room for yours, Lydia. I only borrowed her basket because she never uses it. She always leaves her things scattered about; I don’t think she can bear to leave flat surfaces alone.”

  “Nor can I,” Caroline said. “Fortunately, I have no sisters to be bothered.”

  Lydia arranged her and Diana’s laces and needles neatly on the side table. She lingered overlong on the task, much preferring knitting in the company of her friends to dressing for dinner and facing a meal with new acquaintances. One could only stretch such a task out for so long, however, and soon she was obliged to bid her friends a good afternoon and retire to her room to dress.

  2

  “Things at the asylum are coming along well, so far as I can tell, and we expect to be ready to welcome our first girls before the fortnight has passed,” Lady Huntington said. Her thin lips stretched in a smile. While she and Lady Wycliffe shared the same darkly silvering hair and gray eyes, Lady Huntington was the older of the sisters by several years.

  Lydia hurriedly finished chewing her bite of fish. Fortunately, it all but melted in her mouth; the Wycliffes kept a competent cook. “I’m so glad to hear it, Lady Huntington,” she said. “Mr. Stewart speaks highly of the work you’ve been doing there.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Wycliffe agreed from the other end of the table. “Our curate seems to have been a great help to—Cooper, what on earth is that?”

  Her tone made Lydia shrink inside, although the words had not been directed at her. All eyes turned toward the butler, who stood beside Lady Wycliffe with a fine bottle of red wine in hi
s hands. He followed her gaze to his cravat, which bore a glaring stain almost the shade of the rich burgundy wallpaper behind him.

  Mr. Cooper stiffened, though any emotions he might have been feeling didn’t make it as far as his face. “My apologies, Lady Wycliffe. The mark escaped my notice.”

  “Have you been bleeding, Cooper?” the lady of the house demanded.

  Mr. Cooper cleared his throat. “No, my lady. I must have brushed against the ingredients for a blood sausage in the kitchen.” His face colored a little. “I’ll go change immediately, if my lady will excuse me.”

  “Nonsense,” Sir Charles Wycliffe said jovially from his seat directly to Lydia’s left, at the opposite end of the table from his wife. “It’s only a little stain.”

  “A rather large one, I think,” Lady Wycliffe said. “We have guests.”

  “Which is all the more reason he ought to remain here to pour this excellent Madeira.” While cheerful, Sir Charles’s tone was also firm.

  Lady Wycliffe glanced at Lydia. “We ought not be drinking Madeira at all, husband,” she said tightly. “It is the season of Lent, after all.”

  Lydia’s stomach flipped over. It was bad enough to have to be at a dinner party; she couldn’t bear the thought that Lady Wycliffe thought she might be judging the Wycliffes’ Lenten observations. I am a vicar’s daughter, not a vicar myself, Lydia wanted to say, but the words died before they reached her lips.

  When Sir Charles didn’t immediately apologize and reach for water, Lady Wycliffe sighed and fluttered a hand toward the butler. “As my husband insists.”