Books by Alyssa Maxwell
Gilded Newport Mysteries
MURDER AT THE BREAKERS
MURDER AT MARBLE HOUSE
MURDER AT BEECHWOOD
MURDER AT ROUGH POINT
Lady and Lady’s Maid Mysteries
MURDER MOST MALICIOUS
A PINCH OF POISON
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A PINCH OF POISON
ALYSSA MAXWELL
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Manuel
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: 2016954460
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3834-0
ISBN-10: 1-61773-834-4
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: January 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-835-7
eISBN-10: 1-61773-835-2
First Kensington Electronic Edition: January 2017
To my husband, Paul. He’s my Owen and Miles rolled
into one, and then some.
And to Joanne Murray, for a great idea!
Acknowledgments
Many, many thanks to my fabulous editor, John Scognamiglio, who has believed in me and provided me with the opportunity to challenge myself creatively and to truly grow as an author.
And my deepest gratitude to the entire Kensington team for all their efforts in launching this series. I could not have asked for more.
CHAPTER 1
April 1919
“Ladies, although the war is over, it is not yet time for England to rest. Quite the contrary.” Phoebe Renshaw, granddaughter of the Earl of Wroxly, looked up from her notes and braved a glance at her audience, ranged at tables in what had once been the ballroom of Haverleigh House, on the outskirts of the village of Little Barlow. When an intelligent brown-eyed gaze connected with hers, her spine straightened and her chin lifted as they typically did beneath her grandmother’s scrutiny. Grams, a tall, slender figure in severe head-to-toe black, sat at the front and center table and nodded encouragement up at her. She smiled slightly for good measure, sending a bracing surge of pride through Phoebe. Funny that she still sought Grams’s approval even at the ripe old age of twenty.
Sitting beside Grams, Phoebe’s eldest sister, Julia, sighed and used her fork to push leftover bits of Cornish hen and mushroom-stuffed tomatoes around her plate. She was looking particularly splendid today in a sporty, flowing jersey ensemble in creamy beige with black trim, something from the latest collection of a newish designer named Chanel.
Only Julia could look so lovely while behaving so thoughtlessly. Before Phoebe could look away, Julia flicked a glance up at her, little more than a flutter of her eyelashes, but in that moment, her eyebrow quirked in a familiar way, as if to say, Really, Phoebe, how much longer do you intend to bore us?
Her confidence slipped. Was she boring her audience? And if so, why did Julia need to point it out to her? More to the point, why wasn’t Julia up here with her? How lovely that would have been—the two elder Renshaw sisters, working together to better the lot of others. But no, since Papa’s death in the war three years ago, Julia pretended to care about nothing, except the pleasure she apparently took in calling attention to Phoebe’s faults. If Grams went into mourning three years ago and never quite emerged—rather like Queen Victoria had at the death of Prince Albert—Julia had turned off the better part of her emotions. Although why she turned her most acerbic sentiments on Phoebe remained something of a mystery, for Julia remained cordial toward their younger sister and simply chose to ignore their brother.
Phoebe knew better than to let Julia undermine her resolve.
Don’t be a goose. You have a vital message to deliver. Remember the words you rehearsed, do not let your voice waver, and for goodness’ sake, don’t stutter!
“M-many of those we consider lucky to have arrived home from the war are in fact struggling daily to support their families, indeed, struggling to survive.” Much to her surprise, she enunciated clearly after that initial stumble. “Our veterans, especially those wounded in the service of our country, deserve better. Those whom we hail as heroes need our assistance now more than ever, and so I thank the Haverleigh School for Young Ladies for hosting us today, and for the students’ efforts in collecting clothing, personal necessities, and household items to be dispersed among veterans and their families residing in the Cotswolds.”
She moistened her lips and aimed an acknowledging nod and accompanying smile at headmistress Henrietta Finch, who sat at Grams’s other side. She did not know the woman well, for while Phoebe had attended Haverleigh during most of the war years, Miss Finch had only stepped into the position a year ago. “Miss Finch, we owe you a debt of gratitude for embracing this cause and allowing the school to participate.”
The woman, stout, square-jawed, and always flushed as if she had just run a brisk mile, tipped her head modestly in return. The assistant headmistress, younger and trimmer than her superior, pressed a hand to her bosom and also nodded, but far less modestly, in Phoebe’s opinion. True, Miss Verity Sedgewick had insisted on overseeing each step of the preparations for today’s luncheon, but she had been in the way more often than not.
Phoebe continued. “I thank all of you, our gracious guests here today—mothers, benefactors, members of the school’s governing body—for your generous donations to the Relief and Comfort of Veterans and their Families, or the RCVF, if you will. Your pledges of continued support will ensure our success as we endeavor to assist our valiant young men—and women—to pick up the pieces of their lives and regain their dignity and self-sufficiency.”
She stepped back from the podium. Polite applause spread through the room. It was enough to satisfy Phoebe, who wanted only to return to her seat and enjoy the array of desserts and glazed fruit that were to be served next. Speaking to large numbers of people was not her forte, but since the RCVF and this charity luncheon had been her idea, she’d had little choice.
Less than a month after the war ended last November she had realized she could not return to the idle life she had known before the war. No longer could she anticipate days filled with parties, picnics, hunts, and parlor games. The war years had taught her what it was to be useful, to give of one’s time rather than endlessly taking, to solve problems and even, if one were clever enough, prevent them from arising. She hoped today’s efforts, and future ones, would prevent families from going hungry and put clothes on their backs—minimal thanks for the great sacrifices suffered during the war.
Now all she had to do was ste
p down off the speaker’s platform without tripping. She was in the process of doing just that when a crash and a shout tore up the steps from the kitchen and along the service corridor, only partially muffled by the baize door behind her.
Several cries erupted and chairs scraped back as attendees leapt to their feet. Phoebe held up her hands. “Please, everyone, there’s no need to panic. Just a small mishap, I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go check on things. . . .”
With a startled expression, Miss Finch started to rise, but sank back into her seat when Grams placed a firm hand on her forearm. “My granddaughter can handle it.”
With that endorsement, Phoebe hurried into the corridor. It registered in her mind that Miss Sedgewick had made no move to leave her chair. Apparently, her desire to help didn’t extend to when help might actually be needed.
Belowstairs in the main kitchen, Phoebe quickly scanned for blood, burns, broken appendages. To her vast relief, the students and kitchen staff appeared sound enough, except for their sour expressions. A small crowd of young ladies in matching blue skirts and white shirtwaists hovered around the abundantly round figure of the school cook, Mrs. Honeychurch. The sounds of weeping drew Phoebe’s attention to one girl in particular. Unruly spirals the color of newly polished copper spilled from a hasty updo, identifying a sixth form girl known for her shy, often nervous nature.
Oh, dear. What small disaster had occurred now?
It certainly wouldn’t be the first. This morning’s casualties had included not only a spilled quart of milk but a shattered pitcher as well, nearly a dozen broken eggs, a burned soda bread, and an oversight when it came to adding sugar to the lemonade. Unfortunately, several of the luncheon guests had been served before the mistake was discovered. That was, in fact, how it had been discovered.
It had also been Phoebe’s idea to have the older students manage the luncheon preparations, and Miss Finch had given her wholehearted approval. “Most of these girls have little notion of what their servants endure each day simply in keeping their employers fed and happy,” the woman had declared. “It’s high time they learned.”
Phoebe agreed. It had seemed like such good idea . . . in theory. The design for the invitations had been stylish, the menu plans inspired, the seating arrangements diplomatic, and the floral decorations cheerful yet refined. In these matters the girls exhibited high levels of proficiency, but of course that was to be expected of fashionable young ladies. When it came to the preparation and serving of food, however . . . suffice it to say, Phoebe felt obligated to personally see to the cleaning of Lady Stanhope’s green China silk suit from the Redfern spring collection—as she had heard her ladyship specifically mention upon being splattered with orange-sherry glaze as the Cornish hens were served.
Phoebe was making her way over to the scene of this latest mishap when, from behind the center worktable, up popped Eva Huntford, lady’s maid to Phoebe and her two sisters. She held a wire whisk brush in one hand and, in the other, a dustpan piled high with sticky, glazed berries and cut fruit that sadly sported a dingy coating of whatever other morsels had fallen to the floor during the course of the luncheon preparations. One of the kitchen maids appeared with a bucket and mop. The crowd of girls moved aside to let her through.
Phoebe didn’t need an explanation to guess what happened, but as soon as the red-haired Lilyanne Mucklow spotted her, the girl’s pale eyebrows, barely visible against her freckles, drew tightly together above her reddened nose. “I c-couldn’t help it, Lady Phoebe! I tripped.”
“Well, and what on earth did you trip over?” the cook asked, most unhelpfully. “There was nothing in your way.”
Lilyanne’s bright blue eyes shifted, lighting for an instant on another sixth form girl. Lady Zara Worthington’s babyish features hardened to a scowl, prompting Lilyanne to quickly drop her gaze and shrug. “I didn’t spill all of it.”
“You spilled enough of it. There isn’t enough to go around now, Lillian.” Zara’s violet-blue eyes narrowed accusingly. “The desserts we’ve worked so diligently to create will look positively uninspired without the fruit to garnish each plate.”
“My name is Lilyanne, not Lillian.” The girl wiped at her tears with the back of a freckled hand.
Another girl with plain features, lanky brown hair, and a sturdy frame intervened. “I glazed the fruit, so I don’t know why you should complain so bitterly, Zara.”
Zara Worthington’s nostrils flared. “Jane Timmons, do not speak to me.” She pushed her face closer to the other girl’s. “Farm girls should know their place.”
“Now, ladies, that will be quite enough,” Mrs. Honeychurch said, but without the conviction of someone used to disciplining students.
The situation needed to be defused, and fast. With an attempt to make light of the accident, Phoebe patted Lilyanne’s angular shoulder. “It doesn’t matter how it happened, there’s no use in crying over spilled fruit. We’ll simply serve tea and dessert without it. But, Jane, we’ll be sure to let Miss Finch know of your efforts in making the glaze. Now then, Mrs. Honeychurch, are the kettles warmed?”
“They are, my lady.”
“Good. Girls, let the brewing begin.”
As an orderly commotion resumed, Phoebe moved off to one side and motioned for Eva to join her. With lustrous dark hair pulled back in a tidy bun, striking green eyes, and a trim figure, Eva Huntford might easily have passed for one of the aristocratic ladies sitting in the dining hall. However, her serviceable black dress and sensible, low-heeled pumps identified her as the lady’s maid she was. Phoebe longed to see Eva in something more elegant, but Eva wouldn’t hear of it. The one time Phoebe had made the suggestion, Eva had rolled her eyes and laughed.
“Did you see what happened?” Phoebe asked her. She watched Zara Worthington as the girl bent in front of one of the ovens to remove a cake tin. Before she grasped the hot metal, Mrs. Honeychurch cried out Zara’s name and shoved a pair of towels into her hands. Otherwise, the careless girl would have handled the pan barehanded and singed her fingers. Phoebe shook her head. “Did Zara intentionally trip Lilyanne?”
“I honestly didn’t see, my lady.”
“Is there some ongoing dispute between Zara and Lilyanne?”
“There is always some dispute between Zara and Lilyanne.” It wasn’t Eva but Amelia, Phoebe’s nearly sixteen-year-old sister, who replied. Attempting to brush powdered sugar from the pleats of her uniform skirt, she sidled closer and whispered, “There are disputes between Zara and absolutely everyone, at one time or another.”
Eva leaned over to assist Amelia in patting her skirt clean. “My lady, this is what aprons are for.”
“Yes, sorry. I always forget.”
Phoebe wanted to know more about Zara. “Is she often so disagreeable toward the other girls? I noticed she also spoke sharply to Jane Timmons for no apparent reason.”
“Jane can take care of herself.” Amelia absently tipped her head to one side as Eva repinned golden blond strands that had fallen loose.
“What about you?” Phoebe asked. “Is Zara unpleasant with you?”
“Sometimes, but I don’t pay her much attention. As if I could care what that rattlebrain has to say. But Lilyanne does, unfortunately. She hasn’t much confidence and doesn’t stick up for herself.”
“Do the other girls stick up for her?”
Phoebe’s question sent a blush creeping up Amelia’s already rosy cheeks. “Well . . . Lilyanne isn’t the easiest girl to get to know. She spends most of her free time alone. Prefers her books to people. At least that’s the impression I’ve gotten.”
Phoebe treated her sister to a disapproving lift of an eyebrow. “Amelia, are you allowing the other girls to dictate whom you befriend and whom you do not?”
“I . . . em . . . I don’t mean to.”
“Lady Amelia,” Mrs. Honeychurch called, “time to take your raspberry tart out of the icebox.”
“Coming, Mrs. Honeychurch!” Looking relieve
d, Amelia scurried away. Eva called after her to walk and not run, lest another unfortunate incident occur. She turned back to Phoebe.
“You’d best get back to the dining hall, my lady.”
“I think perhaps I’d better stay and help out here.”
Eva shook her head. “If you don’t go back, your grandmother is liable to come looking for you. Things are frenzied enough down here without the Countess of Wroxly poking her head in.”
“Eva, you are right as always. Good luck. I’ll have my fingers crossed the remainder of the luncheon is smooth sailing.”
Eva let go an uncharacteristic guffaw. “Now you’re hoping for the moon, my lady.”
* * *
“All right, ladies. Queue up with your desserts, please.” Eva clapped her hands for attention. Slowly, the din of chatter subsided and the nearly twenty-odd girls lifted platters of blancmange, bread pudding, fruit tarts, petit fours, honey cakes, and other creamy, sticky, sweet concoctions. The rest carried full teapots draped in bright-colored cozies. Unmistakable pride glowed on each girl’s face, and suddenly these past hours of frustrations, tempers, and tears seemed more than worth it.
Of course, that didn’t stop Zara Worthington from imparting one last rebuff to a still teary-eyed Lilyanne. “I still cannot believe you ruined the glazed fruit.”
“Never mind about that, Lady Zara,” Eva said calmly, earning a haughty look from the girl, one that spoke of retribution if Eva didn’t watch out. Eva ignored it and climbed the steps up to the corridor.
Assistant headmistress Verity Sedgewick peered in from the dining hall doorway. Like the gasses rolling across no man’s land, a cloud of violet-scented perfume filled the corridor, prompting Eva to cough. She recognized the fragrance, for Lady Phoebe had received a bottle of it for her last birthday in February. It was Brise de Violettes, a new product and one of the few perfumes that succeeded in capturing the true essence of the flower. Lady Phoebe’s came in a Baccarat crystal bottle and when she used it, she did so sparingly, unlike Miss Sedgewick. It struck Eva as odd that Miss Sedgewick could afford the same luxury on her school administrator’s salary.
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