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Lady Katherine only has one week to catch the Pink-Ribbon Killer. Not only to stop the killing, but also to prove her skills at detection to her father and win her dowry and independence.
There’s only one catch—she has to take one last matchmaking job to do it. Never mind that the match is impossible—all the better because if she fails, then no one will seek her services again. The job provides the perfect cover, especially when her peculiar investigatory techniques are mistaken for unconventional matchmaking attempts.
Things would go a lot smoother if she weren’t knee-deep in suspects and thwarted at every turn by a rival matchmaker. But when the killer strikes again, Katherine’s investigation leads down a dangerous path. Too late, she discovers that she has a lot more to lose than her dowry.
An Invitation To Murder
Lady Katherine Regency Mysteries (Book 1)
Leighann Dobbs
Harmony Williams
Leighann Dobbs Publishing
This is a work of fiction.
None of it is real. All names, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real names, places, or events are purely coincidental, and should not be construed as being real.
AN INVITATION TO MURDER
Copyright © 2017
Leighann Dobbs Publishing
http://www.leighanndobbs.com
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner, except as allowable under “fair use,” without the express written permission of the author.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Preface
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
Epilogue
Also by Leighann Dobbs
About Leighann Dobbs
About Harmony Williams
Preface
1816 England was a time of unrest. The end of the Napoleonic Wars meant that London and other cities were flooded with former soldiers now without jobs. An increase of beggars, homeless, and other desperate souls meant an increase in crime.
Fortunately, London had Sir John’s Men to keep the peace. Formed in 1754, Fielding’s men—later called Sir John’s Men when he was knighted—were more commonly, and derisively, referred to as the Bow Street Runners. The precursors for the modern detective, there was a stigma against the investigative sciences or “thief-takers” from the century before, when corruption was rampant, and evidence fabricated or bribes accepted to keep criminals out of prison.
Therefore, although Sir John’s Men did impeccable work, they were not well-respected nor was their profession thought of as respectable. It is for that reason that the Royal Society of Investigative Techniques, a fictional creation for the purposes of this story, is an underground club and Katherine must maintain a cover while she conducts an investigation.
Lady Katherine Irvine, the daughter of an earl, is in a different social class from the Bow Street Runners. For that reason, if it were widely known that she works undercover as a detective, she and her family would be disparaged by the ton.
The ton, also referred to as le bon ton, High Society, or Polite Society, are the old money of England, the rich and powerful with lineages dating back to the Dark Ages and the titles and lands that go along with such a prestigious bloodline.
The reputations of the young ladies in this social class hinge upon a misogynistic insistence upon “ladylike” or “acceptable” feminine behavior that Katherine defies at every turn because we, as the authors, think such constriction is a load of bollocks. One of the ways Katherine counteracts this expectation is by swearing using Regency terms such as “tarnation” and “sard,” both unacceptable for the use of polite females. In her acceptance of friendship regardless social class, Katherine is ahead of her time much the same way Lyle Murphy, the Bow Street Runner and inventor, is ahead of his time with some of his inventions.
Regardless of these intentional anachronisms, we hope that you enjoy the story!
Chapter One
Thursday, August 22, 1816.
Irvine House, London, England.
Lady Katherine Irvine, daughter of the Earl of Dorchester who was one of the most brilliant detective minds of Britain, stared the villain in the eye and pointed at the toe of her embroidered slipper. “Drop it, thief, or you won’t like the consequences.”
Her pet pug, Emma, spat out the slim leather-bound notebook and wagged her curly tail. Her dark eyes glimmered with mischief.
“Good girl. Come here and I’ll give you a rub.”
As Katherine knelt to retrieve her notes on the hair-raising murder case that had eluded even her father, Emma hunched down with her tail in the air. The dog snatched the notebook and made off with it.
“That isn’t a toy!” Katherine hiked her dove-gray skirts to her knees and still managed to trip over an errant obstacle. Her bedchamber was riddled with them. Her notes on the recent deluge of crime in and around London decorated every available surface, including the floor. It made for slippery footing.
She winced at the crumple of paper as she landed on one knee, worried that she had destroyed her theories on the Pink-Ribbon Murders.
Two young debutantes murdered at two separate house parties had the ton so up in arms that they’d cancelled their remaining events. Katherine thought it was a sensible decision, for with the crime scenes disturbed and the guests too deep in their cups or entrenched in frivolity to recall much at all, even Papa hadn’t been able to solve the murders.
But Katherine would. She and her father had a wager. If she could solve a murder case on her own before her twenty-fifth birthday, which was in fewer than ten days, he would award her with her dowry to use however she pleased.
It would please her greatly to depart from her father’s and stepmother’s incessant cooing as they snuck about in a last attempt to give the earldom an heir. It would be all the better if she could manage such independence without having to rely on anyone but herself.
However, Emma could shred Katherine’s hopes just as easily as the notebook she held between her teeth. Katherine had poured the bulk of her theories on the Pink-Ribbon Murders into that book.
“Emma.” Her voice held a note of warning, not that the little pug took heed in any way. The dog dove beneath the coverlet, which hung askew off the bed. It seemed the dog thought she was out of sight and out of mind, for Emma didn’t seem to notice that her backside wasn’t quite as warm as her front. Her tail wagged vigorously in the open air above her golden rump.
Holding her breath, Katherine crept near her. Please don’t chew on those notes, she prayed. I’ll never give you another bone if you do.
Two steps remained between her and the ornery dog. Then one.
As she bent to seize Emma’s back end, the dog scurried farther beneath the bed. Katherine lowered herself, flattened on her stomach, and wriggled in after Emma, her arms outstretched. Her hips became wedged between the ground and the low bedframe, immobilizing her.
“Oh, tarnation!” She and her oldest sister had both in
herited her late mother’s figure, wider in the hips than around the chest. She didn’t fit beneath the bed. “That deuced dog!”
With a short, plaintive whine, Emma halted her retreat just out of reach and dropped the notebook. Blessed be! If Katherine could only reach a little farther…
The door latch jiggled. Muffled footsteps stopped abruptly. From behind her, a familiar voice exclaimed, “Lady Katherine! What have you done to this room?”
Eureka, she had something! Katherine gripped the slippery item between her fingers and drew back so quickly that she walloped her head on the hard wooden bedframe. Wincing, she sat back on her heels and held up her prize, triumphant.
What she held was not a notebook, but the puce silk ribbon her lady’s maid, Harriet, had tied around Emma’s neck. “Sard it all,” Katherine swore.
Harriet’s expression turned every bit as dark as her hair. “You’re learning too much foul language from your Bow Street Runner friend.”
Katherine raised an eyebrow. Her foray beneath the bed had caused several locks of brown hair to fall out of her coif and into her eyes. She brushed them aside with her free hand. “I believe he prefers to be called one of Sir John’s men.”
“I believe he prefers to be called Lyle,” Harriet countered. She stepped forward, her hands on her round hips. “Now, what are you doing beneath the bed, my lady?”
With a disgusted sigh, Katherine rose and dusted off her dress. “Emma’s stolen something again.”
“It must be something important.”
“My notebook, the one I’ve been using to record my ideas on the Pink-Ribbon Murders.”
Harriet tossed her thick braid over one shoulder. “I know the one. Why don’t I find it for you while you attend to your guest?”
Katherine didn’t care for the falsely sweet smile her longtime maid wore, nor for the twinkle in her ebony eyes.
“Is Lyle here?” she asked as she raked her gaze over Harriet’s attire. She wore a faded sunshine-yellow dress, one of Katherine’s cast-offs. Nothing about her appearance indicated that she had formed a sudden tendre for Katherine’s dearest friend, which was a pity. Lyle could use a guiding hand.
“Are you expecting him?” Harriet asked, her voice as sweet as her smile. “I’ll fix your hair if you’d care to go down.”
“No need.” Katherine used the ribbon in her hand to tie back the errant strands of hair. “Help me catch that thieving dog. Lyle and I have an investigative society meeting to attend tonight, and I cannot be late.” Not only did she owe a colleague her notes on a case he had trouble pursuing, but she wanted to learn as much as she could about the Pink-Ribbon Murders. The next society meeting wouldn’t be for a month.
Harriet retrieved a foot-long brass shoehorn from near the wardrobe and approached the bed, bending as if she meant to sweep it underneath like a broom. Katherine took up a post on the opposite side.
In a casual tone, the maid added, “I fear you’ll be late even if we manage to wrangle Emma into behaving.”
Katherine chewed on her lower lip as she bent to peer beneath the lip of the bed once more. All she saw were the lamplight reflections of two beady eyes squarely under the center of the large mattress and out of reach. With disgust, she let the coverlet drop into place.
She had more important matters to which to attend, such as the bevy of notes scattered across the room. Oh dear. Perhaps she would be late, after all. Abandoning her post, she hurried to collect the pages. She skimmed each, searching for the ones pertaining to tonight’s meeting.
Her efforts to solve the Pink-Ribbon Murders would be much more fruitful if the string of house parties was to continue—and if she could have somehow secured an invitation without having to pretend to join the husband hunt. How tedious.
“Perhaps we can entice Emma out with a treat,” Katherine said absentmindedly. The drawer to her writing desk creaked as she opened it to stuff the pages out of sight. Lodged in one corner was the reticule packed full of dried dog treats. As she plucked it out, Katherine put on a wheedling tone. “Would you like that, Emma, darling, to be rewarded for your misbehavior?”
Harriet snorted as she straightened. She tossed the shoehorn onto the mattress with a wry shake of the head. “She’s a dog, my lady. She doesn’t understand English.”
“Nonsense.” Katherine dipped her fingers between the strings of the reticule to break off a small morsel of the dried meat in the pouch. “She understands plenty of English words. Ball, walk, supper, bed.”
Dusting off her hands, Harriet said, “Well, in that case, perhaps she’ll understand when I tell her that if she doesn’t come out of there, I’ll see she’s made into cat food!”
Katherine laughed as she returned the treat bag to the drawer, not expecting an answer from the threatened canine. To her surprise, Emma yipped as she scurried out from beneath the bed. She barreled toward Katherine, tripping over her short legs along the way. As she scrambled to get all her feet under her before she sat, she tipped her eager face up and let her pink tongue loll out the side of her mouth. The notebook was nowhere to be seen.
“Please tell me you haven’t eaten it,” Katherine muttered as she knelt to feed her pet the morsel. Emma lapped it up and sniffed her hands for more.
Meanwhile, Harriet crouched to peek under the bed. “It’s under here. Why don’t you entertain Mrs. Pickering while I fetch it for you and straighten up?”
“Mrs. Pickering?” Katherine searched out the sensitive spot behind Emma’s ear. The dog thumped her foot on the floor in glee. Katherine groped for another fallen sheaf of notes with her free hand.
Her voice muffled, the maid answered from her position halfway under the bed, “Indeed. She called asking after your expertise.”
“Mine?” Katherine straightened, fighting a smile as she clutched the papers to her chest. “Not Papa’s?” She wondered how Mrs. Pickering could have learned about her. The daughters of earls did not openly solve crimes, not even when said earl was known for his eccentricities.
Harriet resurfaced with the notebook in hand. She stood too far away for Katherine to judge whether or not the notes within would still be legible, but Katherine was not worried. Emma had a gentle touch and tended to use her lips instead of her teeth when absconding with precious objects.
Smirking, Harriet answered, “I doubt your father would prove a very good matchmaker.”
Katherine froze and turned to her maid with a scowl. “Matchmaking?” The word tasted foul. “No. Never again. Send her away.”
As Katherine’s attention waned, Emma returned to her mischief by vigorously smelling the nearest page of notes. Oh, no she wouldn’t! Katherine grasped her around her middle and lifted her, thrusting her out in front of her as she crossed the room.
Tapping the leather-bound book idly against her palm, Harriet looked smug. “I tried telling her you were not at home, but she insisted upon waiting for your return. She’s heard so much about your success with your sisters.”
Katherine narrowed her eyes. “Is this punishment for messing up my room?”
Harriet laughed. “It’s the truth. Go downstairs and see for yourself.”
The sky would freeze over before Katherine did that. She thrust Emma into her maid’s arms. “Trade me that book for this ornery dog.”
“Of course, my lady. We’ll have heaps of fun together.”
The moment Harriet clasped the pug’s middle, Emma pumped her legs as if hoping to outrun her in midair.
Katherine examined the book and found it no worse for wear. Thank Zeus. Katherine carefully inserted the notebook into her bulging reticule.
Balancing the feisty dog on her hip, Harriet added, “I sent a pot of tea in to warm Mrs. Pickering, but that’s bound to get cold if you tarry too much longer.”
Katherine glared. “I shan’t be meeting with her, nor taking a confounded matchmaking job.”
“Not even if she pays you? I’d do it.”
Katherine wasn’t quite that desperate to leave
her father’s house. She could wait nine days for her dowry, when she’d have funds aplenty to let a cozy townhouse of her own.
“If you’re so eager, then why don’t you take the job?” Turning, Katherine gathered up the last of the pages and thumbed through them to find the particular notes she needed.
“I would, but I seem to have my hands full.”
When Katherine offered her friend an arch stare, Harriet lifted the pug as if offering proof.
“I’ll be late to my meeting with Lyle if I don’t depart immediately.”
Harriet shrugged. “Very well. If you mean to avoid her, you’ll have to go out the window. She’s in the blue parlor, next to the door.”
Harriet must have seated her in such a central location on purpose. Katherine glared.
Her smile widening, Harriet added, “Don’t fret. I left Lyle in with her for entertainment.”
Katherine’s heart skipped a beat. “Please tell me you’re jesting.”
“Not at all. Best not keep them waiting.”
Egads, what could Lyle have found to talk about—the rate of decay of a drowned corpse? The smell and consistency of rat droppings if poison had been ingested? The only thing her dear friend did worse than making small talk was flirting.
Although Mrs. Pickering wasn’t the most powerful of her peers, she had enough clout to wrangle a Season for her daughter, which made her far more powerful than the Bow Street Runners, up at whom she no doubt turned her nose.
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