Lady Rample Steps Out

by Shéa MacLeod

  Lady Rample Steps Out

  Lady Rample Mysteries – Book One

  Shéa MacLeod

  Lady Rample Steps Out

  Lady Rample Mysteries – Book One

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Designs

  Editing by Alin Silverwood

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Also by Shéa MacLeod

  Cupcake Goddess

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  Nothing Tastes As Good

  Soulfully Sweet

  A Stitch In Time (A Cupcake Goddess Novelette)

  Dragon Wars

  Dragon Warrior

  Dragon Lord

  Dragon Goddess

  Green Witch

  Dragon Corps

  Dragon Mage

  Dragon's Angel

  Dragon Wars - Three Complete Novels Boxed Set

  Lady Rample Mysteries

  Lady Rample Steps Out

  Notting Hill Diaries

  To Kiss A Prince

  Kissing Frogs

  Kiss Me, Chloe

  Kiss Me, Stupid

  Kissing Mr. Darcy

  Omicron ZX

  A Rage of Angels

  Omicron ZX - Prequel

  Omicron Zed-X

  Sunwalker Saga

  Kissed by Blood

  Kissed by Destiny

  Sunwalker Saga: Soulshifter Trilogy

  Haunted

  Soulshifter

  Fearless

  Sunwalker Saga: Witchblood

  Spellwalker

  Deathwalker

  Mistwalker

  Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries

  The Corpse in the Cabana

  The Stiff in the Study

  The Poison in the Pudding

  The Body in the Bathtub

  The Venom in the Valentine

  The Remains in the Rectory

  The Death in the Drink

  Write Novels Fast

  Write Novels Fast: Writing Faster With Art Journaling

  Write Novels Fast: Down and Dirty Draft

  Standalone

  Ride the Dragon: A Paranormal/Science Fiction Boxed Set

  Angel's Fall

  Watch for more at Shéa MacLeod’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Lady Rample Steps Out (Lady Rample Mysteries, #1)

  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

  Note from the Author

  About Shéa MacLeod

  Other books by Shéa MacLeod

  With gratitude to Dame Agatha Christie,

  who inspired a young girl to follow her dreams.

  Chapter 1

  If Sir Eustace didn’t stop yammering on about his adventures in Africa, there was bound to be a murder. His. And the authorities wouldn’t have far to look to find the killer. “Sorry, officer, it was him or me. Self-defense and all that. I was bored out of my skull. You understand.”

  “There I was, face to face with the king of beasts, nothing on me but my pipe. What a to-do!” Sir Eustace gave a belly laugh, his monstrous, white sideburns—in defiance of all current modes of fashion—bobbled wildly. It might be 1932 London, but Sir Eustace was firmly entrenched in tales of the high planes of Africa sometime well before George V took the throne.

  I took a sip of my highball and made a moue, disappointed. I am inordinately fond of highballs, being my cocktail of choice, but the ginger ale was altogether too spicy. It zinged up my nose making my sinuses itch. Anyone who knew anything about mixing beverages knew that ginger ale in a highball should be sweet and sparkly, not spicy. At least they hadn’t used club soda, I suppose. I’d had it made that way once or twice. Ghastly.

  Reluctantly, I set my glass down on the side table, not much caring if I left water rings on the polished, dark wood which smelled faintly of lemon and wax. After all, Sir Eustace deserved a little furniture destruction, boring me to tears as he was. Really, the man had probably spent all his time in Africa indoors. And I was certain he’d never faced down a lion, no matter what he claimed. I cast a longing glance at the dark amber liquid teasing me from within the cut-glass tumbler. It looked better than it tasted. Most unfortunate since I was in dire need of a drink—or several—if I were to survive Sir Eustace.

  If only this unutterably dull affair had been scheduled a week earlier. I could have bowed out, thanks to the appropriate yearlong grieving period. Not that I had been grieving, to be perfectly frank. I’d actually been quite busy with business matters and visiting my newly inherited properties. It just gave me an excellent excuse to get out of ridiculous parties such as the one I was currently attending. Alas, the year was up, and I was forced back into society against my will. Not that I minded society for the most part. I like a good party as much as anyone else. The operative term being “good.”

  I stifled a yawn behind my white satin glove, not much caring if anyone saw. Maybe Sir Eustace would get a hint, unlikely as that was. The man was thick as a brick.

  Once upon a time, I had the great good fortune to meet and marry Lord Rample, a gentleman quite senior to me in both age and rank. It had all been my Aunt Butty’s doing, of course. The woman was an irrepressible matchmaker and thoroughly convinced that wealthy husbands were the way to go. Lord Rample had the great good fortune to be not only enormously wealthy, but without much in the way of heirs. She decided he was perfect. Not for her own husband number four, but for my husband number one.

  The result had been a séance—Aunt Butty was obsessed with spiritualism regardless of it having fallen out of style—in which Queen Victoria’s ghost had appeared and ordered him to marry me. Fortunately, Lord Rample had taken it in stride. He didn’t marry me immediately, but he did ask me on a carriage ride in Hyde Park during which the horses bolted, forcing poor Lord Rample to play hero and take over the reins, bringing us to a safe stop. I’d have blamed Aunt Butty for arranging that, but I can’t see how she could have done it seeing as she was in Cairo at the time.

  In any case, Lord Rample had seemed quite sophisticated and heroic and eventually I’d agreed to marry him. Aunt Butty had been overjoyed.

  When Lord Rample had the generosity to die a mere four years into our marriage, he had left me not only with the title of Lady Rample, but also with more money than God Himself would know what to do. Only the country manor up in the wilds of North Yorkshire—still entailed under a ridiculous ancient British law—had gone to a distant cousin by the unfortunate moniker of Buck-toothed Binky (His real name was Alphonse, so you can see why he might prefer the moniker). Frankly, I had been glad to see the back of it. The place was drafty, in poor taste, and a bottomless money pit. I was quite satisfied with the
London townhouse, a few properties abroad, and enough money to swim in.

  A loud guffaw jerked my attention back into the room. What a lot of dull people! Every one of them had a title—some multiples. Most of them had money—though not as much as I did, which amused me no end since they tended to look down their collective aquiline noses at a mere vicar’s daughter. And all of them were wrapped up entirely in the social mores necessary to maintain whatever status they clung to. Frankly, I was tired of it.

  I slid a sideways look at a plump woman swathed in an unfortunate amount of peach satin. Lady Chatelain had been the first to dub me a “merry widow.” Which was ridiculous. I had been rather fond of my elderly husband. He was a dear and often bought me nice presents and paid me lovely compliments and ushered me about proudly. I’d found no fault with him as a husband. I simply hadn’t had any passion for him, nor he for me. We’d been more like affectionate roommates, which was precisely what each of us had wished when we got married. And thus, parading around in black felt...false. Felix—Lord Rample—would have detested it. So I had chosen dark colors such as plum and navy which both suited my complexion and spoke to mourning without being showy about it. I felt strongly that Felix would approve.

  Now that a year had gone by, however, I had thrown off my widow’s weeds and stepped out. Even the snobby le beau monde couldn’t disapprove of that. Well, they could, but it would be churlish of them.

  Sir Eustace, God love him, had launched into yet another dull tale, this time of his adventures in Constantinople. Istanbul, I guess they call it now. You'd think that tales of such a place would be exciting, thrilling, exotic. You would be incorrect. Sir Eustace had the ability to turn the most interesting story into a downright yawn. Too bad. I'd always wanted to travel. Perhaps now I would. Maybe I should buy a ticket on the Orient Express. Get out of London for a while. Have an adventure. Then I'd have my own tales with which to bore the aristocracy.

  My name is Ophelia, Lady Rample. If you ask anyone in the room, they will tell you I drink too much, drive too fast, and have a tendency to be seen in the company of unsuitable men. If I were a lesser woman, I’d be ostracized from polite society. Not that it would be any loss, frankly. Polite society is ridiculously dull. However, seeing as how I am—as the Americans so cheerfully refer to it—loaded, I am forgiven a great multitude of sins and deemed an “original.” Or sometimes the less kind term of “eccentric.”

  At last I could stand no more of Sir Eustace’s prattering on. I quietly slipped from the stuffy drawing room and made as if to take advantage of the powder room. No need to offend my hostess. Lady Mary was a sweet woman and hardly to blame for her husband’s distinct lack of talent in storytelling.

  The corridor was empty save for a hideous wooden statue holding a spear, so instead of turning left for the powder room, I veered right toward Sir Eustace’s study where I knew he kept an excellent scotch. Felix had told me about it once. The two of them used to hide out, drink, and smoke cigars together. I make it a habit to never forget the location of good booze.

  The study was, fortunately, empty, with only a low fire burning in the grate. It was a manly sort of place redolent of leather and old books. The view of the street outside was blocked by heavy velvet curtains of an indistinct color—possibly blue or green. A massive and ill-advised painting of a hunt—overly decorated in blood—hung above the fireplace. Leather bound books sat untouched on shelves. Sir Eustace wasn’t much of a reader, according to Felix. Much preferred shooting things.

  A stunning art deco bar cabinet sat in one corner, wood gleaming softly in the firelight. I smiled to myself as I strode across the room, my heels silent on the thick carpet. I carefully opened the rich, walnut panels and eyed the copious bottles within. Sure enough, there was a vintage scotch that must have set Sir Eustace back a pretty penny.

  I poured two fingers of the stuff into a crystal tumbler and eyed myself in the mirrored lid. My golden-brown locks, carefully waved by my maid, were still perfectly in place and my gray-green eyes were still neatly rimmed in smoky kohl. However, my raspberry lipstick could use a bit of attention. I touched it up a tad before shutting the bar. Hopefully, Sir Eustace wouldn’t notice. Stealing a man’s scotch was not the done thing.

  I would have preferred ice—very un-British of me—but there wasn’t any. Straight up would have to do. Drink in hand, I sauntered out into the hall and made my way to the back of the house and the veranda overlooking the garden overflowing with wisteria and hollyhocks. During the day, it would be a place of stunning beauty. Even at night, it wasn’t without its charms. White lilacs glowed softly in the moonlight while the scent of narcissus perfumed the air. Mary had a way with plants. No doubt the garden was an escape from her dreary husband. Personally, I’d have drunk his scotch.

  “I wondered where you’d got to.” The voice was rich and rumbly, smooth as fresh churned butter and accompanied by the scent of cedar wood and sweet pipe tobacco.

  I gave the new arrival a sidelong glance, marveling for perhaps the hundredth time at what a singularly handsome fellow he was. Not a hair out of place and every article of clothing just so. The modern-day Beau Brummel. Too bad I wasn’t his type. Still, we had a jolly good time together. “Don’t tell me you were enjoying the ramblings of Sir Eustace.”

  “Good lord, no.” His tone was hearty. “It’s a good deal Sir E keeps a well-stocked bar.” He jiggled his own tumbler back and forth. He’d apparently come by his honestly as it held ice.

  “Do you think we can get out of here? I’m afraid if I stay here another minute I shall do something drastic. Throw myself off the veranda, perhaps.” It was all of a four-foot drop, the ground below soft from autumnal rains. The worst I’d do is end up with grass stains on my gown and a slightly damp posterior. Any additional mar to my reputation would only amuse me. I had better things to do with my life than worry about whether or not I was being gossiped about.

  He chuckled. “We can’t have that now, can we? Drink up. We’ll find somewhere a little livelier.”

  Charles “Chaz” Raynott the Third was what one might term my best friend, if he were a woman. I wasn’t sure it was the done thing to have a man best friend, but the done thing never stopped me from doing precisely as I pleased—boring soirees aside. He was also the perfect escort, being ridiculously good looking, perfectly manicured, and of the proper pedigree to boot. In fact, if I’d been in the market for a new husband, he’d likely have made an excellent one of those, as well. Except for one teeny factor: Chaz was what some would politely term “light on his feet.” Seeing as how that was illegal—ridiculous nonsense, if you ask me—having a female friend to squire around kept him safe from wagging tongues, not to mention a prison sentence.

  Of course, spending so much time together led to a few rumors. Frankly, none of them bothered me. Those that mattered knew the truth. Those that gossiped didn’t matter. Wagging tongues were fine as long as they didn’t wag the truth.

  Chaz and I had been friends for years, ever since he was injured during the Great War and found himself under my dubious care. We’d both been impossibly young, but perhaps less naive than we should have been. We’d met again years later, and a strange friendship had been born. Felix had adored Chaz almost as much as I did, and Chaz’s proclivities never seemed to bother him, though he didn’t mention it, so perhaps he simply ignored reality for my sake.

  One of the brilliant things about Chaz was that he always knew the most interesting people. Sometimes the places he took me to skirted decency, but they were never unsafe, and we always had a spiffing time.

  I downed the scotch fast enough to make Felix wince—he was of the opinion that good scotch should be savored over a lengthy period of time and possibly a pipe—and left my tumbler sitting on the balustrade. “Where to, darling?”

  Chaz grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. How he got his teeth so white, I’ll never know. “Follow me, old bean. It’s a surprise!”

  We slipped past the open doors
of the drawing room where Sir Eustace droned on. Easy enough. Convincing the maid to bring our outerwear without notifying her mistress, Lady Mary, was another matter, but Chaz was ready as always with a saucy wink, a smooth compliment, and a couple of clinking coins. In no time at all, I was wrapped in my mink stole, Chaz had on his wool overcoat, and we were climbing into his Bentley. Black and sleek, like his wardrobe.

  The tires hummed against wet pavement. It had been raining for positively weeks. Well, days, anyway. Typical English autumn weather. I was getting quite tired of it. Perhaps a trip to the south of France was in order. I could visit the villa in Nice. I did so love the French Riviera. Felix had taken me there shortly after we married. It was my first trip abroad, and I was smitten.

  While most of my compatriots lounged on the beaches or on the deck of some yacht or other, I roamed the cobblestone streets and quaint little shops. I was determined to find the very best croissant in all of France. Or at least in the Riviera. That meant a trip to every patisserie between Marseille and Nice. Felix had never complained once, and we’d both put on half a stone.

  The car drew up in front of a plain, brick building on the edge of Soho—West London’s famed entertainment district. A neat, neon sign perched above a simple door. I squinted slightly against the rain streaking the window and made out the words in red lights: Astoria Club.

  “You’re taking me to a club?” An evening of boredom stretched in front of me, men smoking cigars, women nattering inanely. Yawn-worthy music picked out on a grand piano. “You should have left me at the mercy of Sir Eustace. It would have been kinder.”

  “This isn’t any old club. Be a good sport.”

  I grimaced. Being a good sport usually got me into trouble where Chaz was concerned. Not that I minded. Trouble could be fun. Felix always said I had a nose for it. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

  Chaz gallantly wielded the umbrella while I extricated myself from the car. I clutched his arm as we darted toward the door of the club, rain drizzling around us in a fine mist.