Excerpt: RECIPE FOR TREASON
Book Three in the Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series
CHAPTER ONE
A jolt of the coach bounced the open book in her lap, rousing Arianna, Lady Saybrook, from a fitful half sleep. Wincing, she shifted against the leather squabs and flexed her aching shoulders.
“Hell,” she muttered as the wheels hit another frozen rut. This was truly the Devil’s own journey.
Though instead of rolling through fire and sulfurous brimstone, they seemed to be entering a bleak realm of ice and frigid vapors. With each passing mile, the landscape looked more and more leached of all color.
Touching her numb fingertips to the page, Arianna couldn’t help but wish that the handwritten recipe for hot Spanish chocolate might transform from ink and paper into a pot of steaming, spice-scented liquid. Despite the fur throw wrapped around her, she was chilled to the bone by the damp cold seeping in through the creaking woodwork.
And the weather looked to be turning worse.
December was not an auspicious time to be traveling from London to Scotland. Not that there had been any choice, Arianna reminded herself with an unhappy sigh.
Peering out the windowpane, she saw that large flakes of snow had begun to fall, smudges of dull white against the grim grayness of the windswept moors. A shiver skated down her spine. There was something about the dark, desolate surroundings that stirred a prickling of unease.
Her two companions, however, appeared untouched by worry. Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook—and her husband of little more than a year—was slumbering quietly on the facing seat, his long legs wedged against her bench to steady himself against the bumps. Basil Henning, his good friend and former military comrade, was not quite so peaceful in repose. His raspy snores were growing louder by the minute.
But then, Henning was always a little rough around the edges—stubbled chin, wrinkled clothing, irascible temper . . .
A clench of guilt squeezed at her chest. He wouldn’t be forced to make this miserable trek if it hadn’t been for his loyalty to her and Saybrook in previous adventures.
“Damn Grentham,” swore Arianna under her breath, tucking the wrap tighter around her middle. The government’s Minister of State Security was renowned as a ruthless, manipulative master of intrigue. Most people feared him and didn’t dare to challenge his authority.
But not me.
“He is not a good man to have as an enemy,” she acknowledged in a wry whisper. A fact that hadn’t stopped her from jabbing a needle into his puffed-up vanity on several occasions.
She had won those skirmishes. But as for the war . . .
Another lurching bump. And then all went very still.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked in a louder voice.
Saybrook came instantly awake. Leaning close to the opposite window, he brushed a hand to the fogged pane and squinted into the swirling shadows. “Perhaps a tree has fallen across the road.”
Henning was slower in opening his eyes. “Auch, or perhaps a bloody rein has snapped, or a spoke has cracked,” he grumbled, rubbing at his unshaven chin. “There are a hundred—nay, a thousand—things that can go wrong on these miserable rutted roads of Yorkshire.”
“Thank you for the cheery note of optimism, Baz,” quipped Saybrook.
“If you want sweetness and light, you should have headed south and caught a ship to the balmy shores of Catalonia,” retorted his friend. The earl was, in fact, half-Spanish, a fact that only added to his reputation for eccentricity among the Polite Society of London. “Heaven knows, we would all be far more comfortable there than in this godforsaken wilderness.”
“I’ll step outside and see what the problem is. If there is an obstacle blocking the way, José may need a hand.” Saybrook buttoned his overcoat and, after a hint of hesitation, eased the carriage pistol from its holster by the door before reaching for the latch.
Arianna frowned. “You expect trouble?”
“It is always wise to be prepared—”
CRACK!
One of the windowpanes suddenly exploded in a shattering of silvery shards.
“Get down!” ordered the earl calmly as he ducked low and shoved the door open with his shoulder. “Arm yourselves. The dueling pistols are in their case under the chess set, and the cavalry weapons are in my valise,” he added. “Baz, you guard the left while I reconnoiter on the right.” And with that, he rolled out into the gloom.
Henning’s sleepy scowl vanished. Like Saybrook, he was a battle-toughened veteran of the Peninsular War. The bullet did not spark panic, merely a short, sarcastic laugh.
“Ah well, we did ask for things to get a bit warmer.” His lips pursed as he pulled out the rosewood box and checked the priming of the sleek pistols. “Here, you had best keep one of these fancy barking irons, Lady S. You’ve already proved you know how to use it.” The matched pair had been a gift from the Russian Tsar, who had professed his undying admiration for her marksmanship during their recent stay in Vienna. Her shot had saved . . .
Be damned with old enemies—there were new ones to face.
Arianna took the pistol and then slipped a sheathed knife from her reticule and pushed it into her pocket. The long, slim blade was deceptively dainty looking. Its steel was lethally sharp.
“There is something to be said for possessing an unladylike expertise with deadly weapons,” she replied.
Henning’s chuckle died away in the sound of splintering wood as another bullet smashed through the casement. “Stay here and keep low.” He crawled over her tangled skirts and unlatched the far door. “I’ll go cover Sandro. Whoever is out there is in for a rude surprise.”
“Rude, indeed,” she echoed before following on his heels.
Cold spiked through her as she hit the ground and slithered into the shelter of the spoked wheel. The light, gray and grainy as gunpowder, was fast fading behind the weathered clefts of granite, leaving the narrow road through the ravine shrouded in shadows.
Squinting, she tried to bring the hazy shapes into focus. Sounds were just as muffled—all she could hear above her pounding heart was the nervous snorts of the horses and the rush of a nearby mountain stream tumbling down through the rocks.
Damn. Arianna drew in a deep breath and held herself very still. No sign of movement up ahead, no stirring of . . .
A scuff—and then a step, coming from the rear of the carriage.
Easing back the weapon’s hammer to full cock, she moved forward for a better angle of view.
Swoosh, swoosh. The faint whisper of wool brushing against leather. A moment later, the dark flutter of a greatcoat, skirling around a pair of well-worn boots.
Not those of her husband or his friend.
Arianna tightened her grip on the butt. Her hands were so cold that she could barely feel any sensation in her fingers.
“Ha.” With a low hiss, the stranger dropped to a crouch by the wheel and raised a rifle. “I see you now, behind that rock,” he muttered under his breath. “One . . . two . . .”
“Drop your weapon before I count to three,” said Arianna, moving the pistol to within a hairsbreadth of his temple. “Or you are a dead man.”
His jaw twitched in shock.
“And in case you are wondering, I’m an excellent shot,” she went on. “Not that any aim is required at this distance to blow your skull to Kingdom Come.”
Snarling a low, savage oath, he tried to swing around, but the rifle barrel knocked against the iron rim and went off with a deafening bang.
At the same instant a sharper shot rang out, and a gurgle of blood spurted from the man’s jugular as the earl’s shot tore open his throat. He pitched forward and fell facedown on the hardscrabble ground, a viscous black pool quickly spreading over the snow-dusted stones.
Wrenching her gaze up from his lifeless form, Arianna spotted Saybrook moving along a ridge of rock.
“Sandro—behind you!” she cried in warning as a second silhouette rose from
the murky shadows, too close for her to dare a shot.
The earl whirled and lashed out a kick that caught his assailant’s knee, knocking him to the ground. The man rolled out of reach and sprang to his feet, flinging a rock at Saybrook’s head. It missed by a hair, the echoing ricochet sounding like gunfire in the swirling wind.
“Bloody hell, Jem—what are you waiting for! Shoot the bastard,” cried the assailant to some unseen cohort as he whipped a hand up from his boot and cut a slash at Saybrook’s chest.
“He’s got a knife, Sandro,” called Arianna.
“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” he responded, parrying a thrust with a quick flick of his forearm. “Stay where you are.”
Ignoring the order, she edged along the side of the carriage, alert for any other sign of movement. Where was Henning? she wondered. And what of their coachman? A low groan from the driver’s perch seemed to indicate that José had survived the first attack.
Question, questions—but they would have to wait.
A flurry of wild thrusts had forced Saybrook back several steps, giving her a clearer shot at his assailant.
“Tírate al suelo,” she called to him in Spanish, ordering him to duck down.
“Aim for his knee and not his heart,” called her husband. “I want him alive for questioning.”
“Jem!” cried the assailant, his voice turning shrill.
A shot rang out from somewhere on the other side of the coach, followed by a scream. One of the horses whinnied in fright, spooked by the flash of fire.
“Ye’ll be getting no help from Jem.” Henning’s voice rose above a wispy plume of gun smoke.
“I suggest you throw down your blade,” said Saybrook to his attacker. “The lady is a crack shot.”
“As if any bloody female could hit the broad side of a barn,” jeered the assailant, but he sounded a little shaky.
“Oh, I assure you, my wife is no ordinary female.”
Arianna angled the pistol’s barrel a fraction. “I’ll aim a touch high. If I miss, it will hit his cods rather than his knee. Either way, he won’t be walking very steadily for quite a while.”
Her sangfroid seemed to spook the man. Cutting a last halfhearted jab at Saybrook, he suddenly turned and bolted for the tangled wildness of the looming moor.
“Dio Madre!” She was about to pull the trigger and drop him with a shot to the leg when her husband took off after him. Cursing her flapping skirts, she scrabbled up to the top of the ledge and followed as fast as she dared.
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Excerpt: MURDER ON BLACK SWAN LANE
Book One in the Wrexford & Sloane Regency Mystery Series
Rain pelted against the narrow mullioned window, as if the gods were taking perverse pleasure in echoing the faint thump-thump of foreboding inside her head. No doubt, mused Charlotte, the thought of primitive, pagan forces controlling the universe would be considered blasphemous in civilized London.
“Civilized—ha!” she whispered. A leading churchman savagely slaughtered, orphans and widows left to fend for themselves in the hardscrabble streets, the ravages of war draining the country’s coffers. “The concepts of charity and kindness to all seem to have gone to hell in a handbasket.”
Charlotte put down her pen and stared glumly at the drawing she was trying to finish. Prinny’s accusing eyes stared back at her, half hidden in the corpulent folds of flesh she had made for his face. Normally she felt no compunction about skewering the Royals, but a dark mood had taken hold of her this morning, brought on perhaps by seeing the boys head out into the gloom. Raven had said that he wanted to search for more gossip on the Earl of Wrexford and the ongoing murder investigation.
She hated that they felt compelled to dig up dirt for her.
But dirt sold her satirical prints. And money put food in their mouths.
Ergo unum oportet esse pragmaticam.
“I must be pragmatic,” she repeated aloud, hoping the spoken words might help chase away her malaise.
A gust of wet wind rattled the glass.
So much for incantations and talismans. They were fiddle-faddle for the foolish. Railing at Fate was a waste of breath. If one hoped to shape destiny, one had to do so with one’s own hands.
After sharpening her quill, she resumed her work.
An hour passed, though as she glanced out the window Charlotte realized it might have been two. She often lost track of time when she was working. It was the growling in her stomach that had broken her concentration.
Or perhaps it was the faint rasp of metal on metal.
She froze and cocked an ear.
The sound came again.
The outer entryway had nothing to steal within the bare-bones space. But she always kept the main door locked, and aside from her only Raven had a key.
Snick. Snick. The latch slowly lifted.
Swallowing a spurt of panic, Charlotte grabbed her penknife. A meager weapon, to be sure, but if push came to shove, she’d learned a few nasty tricks over the years to fend off attack.
Steady, steady. She slipped off her chair.
The wall lamp shivered as the door creaked open. A figure stomped through the opening, his skirling overcoat sending a spray of raindrops spattering over the floor. Great gobs of viscous mud clung to his black boots.
They were exquisitely made, noted Charlotte in spite of her fear, the leather buffed to a soft sheen.
A gentleman, not a ruffian from the stews.
She jerked her gaze upward.
Well-tailored wool, burnished ebony buttons. Shoulder capes that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.
She took an involuntary step back.
He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, sending more drops of water flying through the air. Wind-whipped hair, dark as coal, tangled around his face. At first, all Charlotte could make out was a prominent nose, long and with an arrogant flare to its tip. But as he took another stride closer, the rest of his features snapped into sharper focus. A sensuous mouth, high cheekbones, green eyes, darkened with an undertone of gunmetal grey.
Ye god, surely it couldn’t be . . .
“Forgive me if I have frightened you, madam.” He didn’t look the least contrite. Indeed, there seemed to be a momentary flash of amusement as he flicked an emerald-sharp glance at the knife in her hand. “I am looking for A. J. Quill.”
“You have come to the wrong place,” replied Charlotte, dismayed to hear her voice had come out as a mouse-like squeak.
“I think not.” He came closer. “The two little imps who deliver Quill’s drawings were followed back to this house.”
“Stay where you are!” she warned, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Another step and I’ll scream.”
“By all means go ahead and shriek to the high heavens. Though I imagine it will be a prodigious waste of breath.” He placed a fist on his hip. “I doubt there are many Good Samaritans in this part of Town.”
She thinned her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of being right. “How dare you invade my home! Whoever you are, I demand you leave at once.”
“How ungentlemanly of me. You’re right—I neglected to introduce myself.” A mocking bow. “I am Wrexford. I daresay you’re familiar with my name.”
Charlotte maintained a stony face. “No, I’m not. Now please leave, or . . . or . . .”
“Or you’ll cut out my liver with that dainty little penknife?” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Yes, well, A. J. Quill is quite skilled in skewering my person. Let him fight his own battles.” Wrexford looked around the room. “Where is he?”
“I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—”
For a big man, he moved with feral quickness. A blur of wolf black, leaving the sensation of predatory muscle and primitive power pricking against her skin.
“Stop!” she began, the protest dying quickly as Wrexford leaned over her desk. And began to laugh.
“Your husband has captu
red Prinny’s self-indulgent squint to perfection.” He looked up. “That is, I assume he is your husband.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. Like a helpless mouse, she seemed frozen by her fate, waiting for the paw to flash out and deliver the inevitable coup de grace.
“Or perhaps it is a more casual arrangement?” His lidded gaze lingered for a moment on her face.
Think! Think! But all that came to mind was the overwhelming urge to stick the knife into one of his eyes.
“Ah, I see you’re in no mood for pleasantries.” Wrexford hooked one of the stools with his boot and pulled it over. “No matter. I’ll wait.”
Panic seized her. Charlotte felt as if its unseen hands were crushing her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her.
“You cannot!” she rasped. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Her hard-won existence shattering into a thousand tiny shards . . .
Suddenly fury crested over fear. She flew at him, fists flailing. Be damned with the consequences. Her life was already over.
Wrexford caught her wrists, not before she landed a nasty blow to his cheek. “Tut, tut, there is no need for violence, madam. Your husband and I can—” He stopped abruptly, those infernal eyes now focused on the fingers of her right hand. One by one, he pried them open.
She tried to pull away.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, studying the smudges of ink. “Let me guess—it’s not your husband. It’s you who are A. J. Quill.”
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Excerpt: MURDER at HALF MOON GATE
Book Two in the Wrexham & Sloane Regency Mystery Series
Coming in March 2018
Charlotte picked up the woven straw hat and carefully shook the dust from its floppy brim. The motes floated through the still air, sparkling like bits of gold in the sunlight slanting though the narrow window. It was, she told herself, only a figment of her maudlin memories that the musty back room suddenly seemed redolent with the summer-warm fragrance of cypress and thyme.
The Stolen Letters Page 11
