Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  “Mama has been in a state,” Isabella continued. “Little Charlie overheard enough of the story to start pretending he’s orchestrating phaeton crashes every time he manages to climb onto the back of a sofa, and if he doesn’t manage to destroy her nerves entirely, it won’t be from lack of trying. Meanwhile, our father has gone and surprised me the most out of everyone.”

  She glanced up to be sure they were alone and leaned in toward Lydia. Voice lowered, she went on. “Papa used a few favors and managed to get Mr. Buxton transferred directly to what he claims is a penal colony, but between you and me, it’s nothing of the sort. Obviously, Mr. Buxton’s crimes were a hanging offense, but Papa was so angry to discover the curate’s treatment of Diana that he used his influence and Mr. Buxton’s money to arrange for Buxton to leave the country instead of going to trial. He won’t tell me more, but I gather Buxton’s going to end up in the West Indies for the rest of his life! Papa got to talking about Mr. Stewart and”—her voice shifted to a deeper tone in mimicry of her father’s—“‘the damnable fellow would have ended up dead in a duel anyway, either by Buxton’s pistol or mine.’” She opened her eyes wide. “Buxton can’t ever return to England, but he escaped the noose. Privately, I’m furious about it, because anybody who would try to murder my beloved Lydia ought to swing, but I also don’t intend to tell anybody but you the truth, because anybody who would harass my beloved Diana deserved to be stabbed to death with knitting needles.” She shrugged. “I suppose it all ended as well as it could have under the circumstances.”

  Only Isabella could have looked at one murder, two attempted murders, and an evasion of justice as “ending well.” Lydia stifled a laugh.

  “Meanwhile, Diana is utterly heartbroken and I don’t know if she’ll ever be all right again.”

  “I don’t expect I will,” a plaintive voice said from the doorway.

  Diana entered the room, her face pale but her jaw set in a resolute line. Caroline and Justina traipsed in behind her, bearing baskets of hothouse flowers and sugared buns.

  “We’ve come with balm for your wounds,” Caroline announced, holding up a bouquet of red geraniums and pink camellias. “I forgot the salve I made for your poor hands, so Mr. Pemberton was kind enough to go back for it. He’ll be along shortly.”

  Lydia’s heart fluttered. She silently scolded it to be calm, and it ignored her completely.

  “I’m not nearly as angry with him as I was the other night when we thought he was the killer,” Caroline continued. She gave Lydia a piercing look, and for all her efforts, Lydia couldn’t quite stop her answering smile.

  Not that they could discuss the matter of Mr. Pemberton now. Diana was in a miserable state. She removed her bonnet and slumped into Mrs. Shrewsbury’s vacated chair, forming a pathetic picture. Justina instantly flew to her side and stroked her hair.

  “It was very brave of you to come out today,” Justina murmured. “See? The fresh air did lift your spirits a little.”

  “A winter walk is poor consolation for a broken engagement,” Diana said. “Every hope I have ever cherished has been dashed to pieces along with that horrid phaeton.”

  “No need to be quite so dismal, dearest,” Isabella said. “You’ll always have the Spinsters’ Sewing Circle.”

  Diana moaned and buried her face in the side of the chair.

  “Izzy, you mustn’t tease her!” Lydia insisted, quite ready to glare Isabella down if need be.

  Justina forced the now-sniffling Diana up into an embrace, and Caroline handed her one of the sugared buns and ordered her to eat it.

  “You shall have more consolation than a walk,” Justina promised, brushing hair back from Diana’s forehead. “Spring will be on its way soon enough, and a whole new parcel of hope is sure to arrive with it.”

  “In fact, I will personally guarantee that something lovely happens to you this spring,” Caroline said. “Your Valentine’s dinner was spoiled, so we’ll throw you an entire beautiful ball. Our ballroom hasn’t been used in ever so long, and in a month or two, my gardens will be full of daffodils we can put in darling little vases. We’ll buy you yellow ribbons to trim out one of your dresses, and you’ll be the loveliest thing ever seen in Lanceton.”

  Diana dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her sniffles lessening slightly. “That would be something to look forward to.”

  “There you have it!” Caroline said. “See, love, spring always comes. We’ll save you from being a dreary old spinster yet.” She glanced again at Lydia and grinned.

  Footsteps sounded outside the sitting room, and the housemaid scurried back in. “Mr. Pemberton, miss,” she said.

  Lydia’s heart leapt as his broad-shouldered silhouette appeared in the doorway.

  Isabella scrambled to her feet so quickly that Lydia couldn’t help suspecting that Caroline had related all of Lydia’s recent confidences. It was almost a relief; Lydia couldn’t bear the thought of having to be the one to tell Isabella that Mr. Pemberton had once called her “pretty.”

  “Caroline, we’d better get these flowers in water,” Isabella said. “Diana, you’re always so good at arranging them. You’d better come too.”

  Justina glanced at Lydia, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and reached for her basket. “These buns will be pleasanter once they’re warmed in the oven,” she declared to nobody in particular.

  Half a moment and a flurry of skirts later, Lydia and Mr. Pemberton were alone. He raised an eyebrow and glanced after the others.

  “Your friends display impressive discretion,” he said. “Indeed, they share a subtlety unmatched by the world’s greatest spies.”

  Lydia shook her head, trying to bite back a smile. “They seem to think we would prefer to be alone, Mr. Pemberton.”

  He twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. “Would we, do you think?”

  She hesitated. Words seemed very difficult to find and arrange. The tingling was back, spreading down her arms and across the back of her neck.

  “Please, sit,” she said after a long, precarious moment. “Make yourself comfortable. Tea?”

  “Yes, thank you,” he said. For the first time in his life, he seemed to have no other remarks to make.

  She reached for the teapot and an unused cup, but he held out a hand to stop her.

  “I can manage,” he said, glancing at her bandages.

  She could hardly argue. She leaned back against the cushions and watched him pour himself a cup. He was astonishingly nice to look at, but this bothered her less than it had before. There was a good man under those sparkling eyes—that tousled hair—that freshly shaved jawline.

  Her heart pounded, and her stomach twisted in echo. She took a deep breath.

  She had braved a number of dinners with wealthy, well-bred strangers. She had witnessed the freshly murdered body of a man she had respected and admired. She had followed her instincts, pursued myriad clues, and interrogated the Wycliffes’ powerful houseguests in spite of every social convention that would otherwise have protected them—and then she had dodged a poisoned chocolate, jumped from a speeding phaeton, and apprehended a killer whom nobody else had suspected.

  She had, in short, become an entirely courageous sort of woman.

  The greatest challenge still lay ahead.

  She took a deep breath. “Mr. Pemberton,” she started.

  “Miss Shrewsbury,” he said at the same moment.

  She stopped and waited. He did, too, and then, in the space between heartbeats, she leapt to fill the silence.

  “Mr. Pemberton, I’m glad we were able to bring about some semblance of justice for Mr. Stewart,” she started, the words racing each other to be first out of her mouth. “I would be remiss if I did not also confess that part of me is disappointed his charade ended so soon. I was beginning to like the notion of working on the mystery together with you.”

  Her face heated. She plowed heedlessly onward.

  “I was unaccountably happy when you came for dinner yesterday, and I
find myself equally disturbed at the thought of you leaving Hollybrook House soon. I have come to enjoy your company and your… your presence… in my life.”

  She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard. Was she saying too much? Too little? She had no experience with speeches like this.

  Silently, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Mr. Pemberton took one of her bandaged hands. He opened his mouth to respond, and she cut him off with a sharp shake of her head.

  “Don’t interrupt me, please, or I’ll never say it all,” she blurted.

  His smile widened, but his mouth stayed obediently closed.

  “I am eight and twenty and far too old and plain to deserve attention from a man of your wealth and appearance,” she continued.

  He started as if insulted.

  “Mr. Pemberton, if you dare to speak now I shall leave the room,” she warned.

  He swallowed his words, and she took a deep breath.

  “In spite of that,” she continued, “it would be a discourtesy to us both if I didn’t at least let you know that I have liked the interest you have shown me, and I have liked the time we have spent together, and—Mr. Pemberton, I like you very much.”

  Cheeks flaming, she yanked her hand away from him and dug through the sewing basket sitting at the side of the sofa. A moment later, she pulled out a scrap of red and white and smoothed it across her lap. The paper heart was lopsided, and the lace was beginning to peel away from the paper.

  “It isn’t very good,” she said. “I had to do it with my hands all wrapped up, and I don’t think the glue dried properly.”

  He leaned closer. His smile broadened.

  “I made the lace for my brother, but I daresay he’ll forgive me for giving it away,” she said. “I am giving you this, because unlike Mr. Buxton, you aren’t a criminal, and I don’t expect you to try to steal my heart or anything else.”

  That was the worst of it out, and he hadn’t fled the room yet. On the contrary, he seemed to be leaning closer.

  Lydia let out a shuddering breath. Relief swept through her in tingling waves.

  “You’re not a scoundrel, much as you pretend to be one,” she said. “If you have enjoyed becoming acquainted with me as much as I’ve enjoyed becoming acquainted with you, and if you think you might like my heart, well, I suppose you can, perhaps…”

  She shoved the Valentine toward him. Her fingers brushed against his as he accepted the flimsy paper heart.

  “Well, I’ll give it to you freely,” she finished in a rush.

  There, that was it. That was everything. She held her breath and stared at him, waiting for the ground to fall out from under her.

  He took her hand and raised it slowly to her lips, holding her gaze all the while.

  How had she ever thought blue eyes superior to hazel? His looked like the forest floor on a fine summer’s day.

  “I should very much like to see you again,” he said. “Perhaps the Wycliffes will invite me to extend my stay.”

  “Perhaps Isabella might extend the invitation,” Lydia breathed.

  “Perhaps she might.”

  “And perhaps you might come to the vicarage on Sundays for dinner.”

  “I should like that.”

  “And perhaps if another murderer comes into town we could catch him together?”

  “I rather think we might have better things to do,” Mr. Pemberton said, and he tucked her Valentine in his waistcoat just against his heart.

  Author’s Note

  When I first mentioned to author friends that I was considering making the leap into writing historical mysteries, the reaction was nearly universal:

  “Don’t do it. Don’t open that can of worms.”

  I did it anyway, of course.

  Writing mysteries, I soon learned, was difficult—but nothing at all compared to writing those same mysteries compounded by questions of what an Anglican family in 1812 might abstain from during Lent given a moderate level of religious observance, what the eldest daughter of a baronet might expect to inherit if her mother entered the marriage with a healthy income, and how exactly knitting needles were manufactured at the beginning of the 19th century.

  While I have made every effort at historical accuracy, relying mostly on primary and contemporary sources in my research, some elements no doubt slipped through the cracks, while others were massaged in service of writing a compelling story.

  At every turn, I’ve done my best to balance the needs of the plot with historical realities. If at any point I failed—dear reader, I can only thank you for your understanding!

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. Reviews help other readers find the books they’ll love.

  About the Author

  Emily Claire does not like murder, as a rule. However, she enjoys writing about it, particularly when she also gets to write about needlework, Regency fashions, mysterious manors, and strong friendships between clever, intelligent women. She lives in Portland, Oregon.

  You can follow her by subscribing to the her newsletter or visiting her on social media using the icons below:

  Also by Emily Claire

  Spinsters’ Sewing Circle Regency Cozy Mysteries

  Fall From Lace

  A Murder Unleashed

  (coming Spring 2021)

  Needled to Death

  (coming Summer 2021)

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