Marriage and Murder

#1 NYT-bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with a puzzling case in which her favorite sleuths must untangle a slew of secrets to expose a coldblooded murderer.

When a middle-aged spinster is found strangled in her country cottage and scurrilous gossip implicates Henry, Lord Glossup, he appeals to Barnaby and Penelope Adair along with Inspector Stokes to unravel the mystery of who killed Viola Huntingdon.

Henry, Lord Glossup, arrives on Barnaby and Penelope Adairs’ doorstep and begs their aid—and that of Stokes—in identifying the murderer of Viola Huntingdon, a middle-aged spinster who lived a largely blameless life in a country cottage in a tiny village close to Henry’s home. As Stokes has already been tapped to take the case, the investigators travel to Salisbury and thence to Ashmore village and throw themselves into the case.

While initially Henry was touted as a suspect, he is quickly eliminated, and with the help of the victim’s sister, Madeline, the investigators set out to discover all they can about the victim and who might have wished her ill. In such a small village, with a commensurately small population, the list of possible suspects is short, but the existence of Viola’s ‘secret admirer, H’ has everyone stumped. First, how could Viola, living in such a small community, have had a secret visitor, a man no one saw except at a distance? And who on earth is he, this H?

As the investigators piece together the clues of missing jewelry and sightings of H and follow the leads generated by opportunistic thieves, dodgy jewelers, and local moneylenders, a picture emerges that points to only one conclusion. But in small villages, things are rarely as they seem. Have the investigators got the right man in their sights, or have they been led astray?

A historical novel of 82,000 words weaving mystery and murder with a touch of romance.

"When a shocking murder is committed in a small village, Inspector Stokes and the Adairs are quick to investigate. But the case soon proves to be more complex and nuanced than it originally appeared. The twists and turns of this fascinating mystery will keep readers guessing until the last page." Irene S., Proofreader, Red Adept Editing

"The local spinster of Ashmore village is found strangled to death, and the intrepid sleuths that readers have come to know and love—Scotland Yard's Inspector Stokes and his aristocratic sidekicks, Barnaby and Penelope Adair—are quickly called upon to unmask the killer. Be advised, though, that this Regency-era whodunit will not be as easily solved as readers may first assume." Angela M., Copy Editor, Red Adept Editing

"When a member of London's high society is accused of strangling his neighbor, Penelope and Barnaby Adair are recruited to clear their friend's name and help Inspector Stokes find the killer. Balancing village gossip with painstaking deduction, they must unravel a tangle of misdirections to solve the case. But Penelope still finds time to engage in her second-favorite pastime: matchmaking." Kim H., Proofreader, Red Adept Editing

October 19, 1840

Albemarle Street, Mayfair

“Flutter-by, Mama! See?”

Through the thick lenses of her spectacles, Penelope Adair duly studied the black-and-white-and-red butterfly that had captured her elder son’s attention. The insect had perched on a late rose and was flexing its wings. “Butterfly, darling.”

Penelope, Barnaby, and their two sons were indulging in a morning amble in the rear garden of their Albemarle Street home. Hettie, the boys’ principal nursemaid, stood nearby, ready to assist if required, and the family’s black-and-white spaniel, Roger, sniffed and snuffled about the garden beds, thrusting his nose into drifts of brightly colored autumn leaves.

Ferociously focused on the butterfly, Oliver frowned. “No,” he insisted. “Flutter-by.”

Roger came along and jumped up to investigate, and the butterfly obligingly fluttered on to the next bloom.

Observing the insect’s movements, Penelope decided not to argue further; in this case, logic seemed on Oliver’s side. Just then, Pip, doggedly crawling across the thick grass, reached Penelope’s legs, and he clutched her skirts and started hauling himself to his feet, then lost his grip and fell and rolled onto his back, chortling delightedly.

Penelope grinned at her younger son. He was the happiest child she’d ever come across; every little thing was a source of wonder and happiness to Pip. “There you are, my little man.” She swooped and scooped him up and hoisted him so that his face was level with hers. She blew gently at him, and he shut his eyes and shrieked and wriggled.

With his coat unbuttoned, his hands sunk in his trouser pockets, and a fondly besotted smile on his face, Barnaby watched his wife and sons, the sources of true joy in his life, play in the weak October sunshine. Such moments of quiet domesticity were precious. He caught Penelope’s dark gaze. “I’ll admit I’m amazed that we’ve been able to make your notion of spending an hour or so with the boys every morning into a commitment verging on a habit.”

She readily nodded. “I’m rather astonished, too.” She glanced at the boys, maternal love shining in her eyes. “Then again, the incentive is significant.”

Barnaby grinned. “Nevertheless, your notion was inspired.”

“Luckily, since deciding to put my idea into practice, other than the time we spent on the Sedbury case, we’ve really only had social events to juggle,” Penelope pointed out. “And we can always cancel those if we feel so inclined.”

“Except for our visits to Cothelstone and Haverstone,” he said, referring to their annual summer pilgrimages to catch up with their respective families.

“But that was all time spent with this absorbing pair”—Penelope tickled Pip’s tummy, making him shriek anew—“so those were all extra hours on the right side of our family ledger.” She paused, then added, “And of course, we had Charlie and Claudia’s wedding, but that was just a few days of excitement, although we must make a point of catching up with them when they return from their wedding trip.”

Barnaby nodded. “An unexpected but highly beneficial outcome of the Sedbury case.”

“Indeed.” Penelope settled Pip on her hip, and they turned to watch Oliver playing tug with Roger, who had found a suitable piece of wood. “Yes, well,” she went on, “it’s back to work for me, now.”

Barnaby glanced at her. “I thought you finished your translation for the university.”

“I did! But the History Department have begged—literally begged—me to assist with two scrolls they’re having no luck deciphering.” She wrinkled her nose. “I have to say, I think it’s going to require more than my expertise to solve their riddle. I might have to call in Jeremy Carling to help.”

The sound of rapid footsteps approaching through the garden parlor had Barnaby turning to see Mostyn, their majordomo, come hurrying out through the open terrace doors.

Penelope saw, too. “What is it, Mostyn?”

Mostyn halted and reported, “Lord Glossup has called, asking to speak with you both. I feel I should mention he seems in something of an agitated state.”

Penelope blinked and shot a faintly incredulous glance at Barnaby. “Henry agitated?”

Barnaby returned an equally surprised look. Henry Glossup was a rather staid, solid sort not given to histrionics much less drama. As Henry had dined at the house on several occasions over the past years, Mostyn was acquainted with the man, and Mostyn’s observation was likely to have some foundation.

“Apparently so.” Barnaby nodded to Hettie, and Penelope handed Pip over.

Hettie secured Pip on her hip, then held out her hand to Oliver. “Come along, Oliver. Let’s see what Cook has for our morning tea.”

Oliver hesitated for only a second before reaching for the offered hand. “Shortbread?”

“I’m not sure,” Hettie replied. Already wise in the ways of little boys, she added, “It might be jam tarts today.”

Unsurprisingly, there were no further questions or resistance from the boys.

Barnaby and Penelope followed Mostyn, Hettie, and the boys inside, with the puppy trotting hopefully at Oliver’s heels.

In the front hall, Hettie and the boys turned for the kitchen, and Barnaby arched a brow at Mostyn. “The drawing room?”

“Indeed, sir.” Mostyn hurried to open the door.

Penelope glided in, and Barnaby followed.

Henry Glossup—Lord Glossup—was sitting on one of the pair of long sofas, staring at his tightly clasped hands, which hung between his spread knees. At the sound of their footsteps, Henry looked up, and from the frantic expression in his eyes and the set of his features, Barnaby knew Mostyn had read the man aright. Henry Glossup was in a state.

Exactly what sort of state and in relation to what subject were intriguing questions.

“Henry!” Penelope swept forward, offering her hands, and Henry rose and grasped them.

He half bowed over Penelope’s fingers, then, raising his head, nodded to Barnaby. “Barnaby. Penelope.” He returned his gaze to Penelope’s face, then glanced at Barnaby. “I’m here because I need your help.”

A little over forty years old, Henry was tallish and solid, yet overall, rather lean, with broad shoulders and long rider’s legs. In character, he was reserved, a trifle reticent, not one to put himself forward, yet for all that, in his own domain, he was a man of quiet command. With straightish dark-brown hair and pale, chiseled features, Henry possessed a certain gravitas, a cloak of trenchant respectability and adherence to the country gentleman’s views of the way things ought to be that hung about him, as inescapably a part of him as his well-cut, expensive, but well-worn conservative attire.

Henry was the sort of landowner who spent most of his days on his land, overseeing and caring for his acres in a way not all landholders did. His tenant farmers loved him for it, but in many ways, it kept him out of society. Barnaby had always felt that, in Henry’s case, that was largely by choice and design rather than any accidental outcome.

Her expression one of open concern, Penelope waved Henry back to the sofa, drew in her skirts, and sat beside him, angling so she could keep his face in view. “Tell us what’s happened.”

Barnaby moved to sit on the sofa opposite. “And of course, we’ll be happy to help in any way we can.”

Henry was the older brother of James Glossup, who was a longtime close friend of Barnaby’s and now married to Henrietta Cynster, a connection of Penelope’s. Barnaby had known Henry for many years, having spent school holidays at Glossup Hall with James. Penelope’s acquaintance with Henry was more recent, yet Barnaby felt confident she shared his view that whatever was troubling Henry, the man’s honesty and integrity could be relied on absolutely.

Henry Glossup was simply that sort of man.

Barnaby and Penelope’s welcome and willingness to help plainly reassured Henry. He drew a deep breath, then said, “I’ve been accused of murder—again!”

Penelope blinked and glanced at Barnaby. Both knew the story surrounding the murder of Henry’s late wife, Kitty. Her lover, Ambrose Calvin, had strangled her, but of course, as the cuckolded husband, Henry had come under suspicion at the time. Neither Barnaby nor Penelope had been present at the house party during which the murder occurred, but their knowledge of the crime stemmed from Penelope’s sister, Portia, who had been there, along with her now-husband, Simon Cynster, as well as Charlie Hastings and James Glossup, all three of whom were close friends of Barnaby’s.

Indeed, Barnaby and Penelope’s understanding of the facts of that case was as detailed as if they had been there, and to cap it all, the lead investigator had been a then-recently-promoted Inspector Basil Stokes. The Glossup Hall murder had been one of Stokes’s first cases as a Scotland Yard inspector.

Seeing the surprise in their faces, Henry went on, “It happened on the lawn after church yesterday morning. I was accused—to my face and in front of the entire congregation—of strangling a village spinster, essentially because Kitty had been strangled five years ago, and of course, village gossip being what it is, the current whispers are that I must have been guilty of Kitty’s murder all along and somehow got away with it, and”—his expression one of frustrated agitation, he flung up his hands—“apparently, I’ve now murdered another woman in the same fashion!”

His brown gaze haunted, clearly rattled, Henry stated, “I didn’t know what to do. It’s as if Kitty and that damned Ambrose have come back to haunt me—to taunt me. It’s been five years, and I’d thought it was finally all in the past, but this murder has brought the whole business back into people’s minds.” He looked at Barnaby. “I didn’t know who else to appeal to—who else might be able to help. So after lunch yesterday, I drove to Salisbury, took the train to town, stayed at White’s overnight, and came here first thing this morning.” He glanced at Penelope. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Penelope trenchantly assured him.

“We don’t mind in the least,” Barnaby added. “We’re always available to help friends, and of course, we’ll assist in whatever way we can to sort out this matter—whatever it is.”

“Exactly!” Penelope’s expression was calming and supportive. “Now, for us to properly grasp the situation, you need to start at the beginning, Henry, and tell us everything you know.”

Henry glanced at Barnaby, read his encouraging look, then blew out a breath and paused to order his thoughts. After several seconds, he began, “I suppose it all started last week. There’s...there was a woman who lived in the village—a gentry lady, a spinster—at Lavender Cottage.”

“Ashmore village?” Barnaby asked.

“Yes. Lavender Cottage is one of those on Green Lane, north of the pond. Next door to the Penroses, who are more or less opposite the pond.”

Barnaby nodded his understanding. He knew the village reasonably well and could vaguely recall the cottages mentioned.

Henry went on, “Miss Huntingdon—Viola Huntingdon—bought the cottage nearly five years ago. I know it was a bit after Kitty died. Anyway, Viola is—was—a fusspot, a stickler for this and that, always harping on about this person or that doing something of which she disapproved. All minor matters—nothing meaningful. You know the type. Usually, I give Viola a wide berth, but last Thursday morning, I was riding past her cottage, heading out on Green Lane for a ride eastward over the weald, when Humphrey, my hound, who was with me, decided to…well, cock a leg against the hedge bordering the lane.

“Unfortunately, he chose Viola’s lavender hedge, and she happened to be walking up from the pond, and she saw him and set up a screech! She came running up, and of course, she couldn’t catch Humphrey, but I’d paused and circled back, and she ranted and railed at me about how people should control their animals and not allow them to damage other people’s property. She went on and on and threatened to have me up before the magistrate if her hedge withered and died.” Henry shook his head. “As I’m the local magistrate—which she was well aware of—I’m not sure how she thought that would work. However, there were others about, and they were listening, and I made a few comments back, like dogs being dogs, after all. But when Viola threatened to take a gun to Humphrey—and I know she has a shotgun and can and does use it—I saw red.” Henry grimaced and rather glumly confessed, “I told her that if she pointed a gun at one of my animals, I would ensure she never did so again.”

Bleakly, Henry looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “I never said anything about killing her! I meant having the magistrate—me—order her gun to be taken away from her. That’s what I was threatening her with—not death!”

Penelope grimaced. “But the local rumor mill isn’t that discriminating, I assume?”

“No.” Henry deflated, shoulders drooping. “They’re taking it to mean something I never intended.” He paused, then, voice lowering, went on, “But worse, later in the afternoon, I’d calmed down, and I decided I should apologize. Offer to replace the bit of hedge if it died—something like that.”

Barnaby had no difficulty believing that was what Henry would have done. At base, he was a kind and gentle soul who valued peace and harmony.

“So,” Henry continued, “on my way home, I stopped at Lavender Cottage, dismounted, went up the path, and knocked on her door. I knocked twice and waited, but she didn’t answer. I thought she must have gone out, so I left.” He drew in a long breath, then exhaled and said, “Now, it seems she was probably lying dead in her parlor at that time.”

Barnaby gently inquired, “I take it you were seen walking away from her door?”

Henry nodded. “By two of the village’s biggest gossips. Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper had just left Penrose Cottage, and they both saw me walk out of the Lavender Cottage gate. I nodded to them, then mounted my horse, called Humphrey, and rode on home.”

By her expression, Penelope was cataloguing every fact, moment by moment. “What,” she asked, “do you know of this woman who was killed? What was her name again?”

“Miss Viola Huntingdon. She was strangled, apparently sometime on Thursday afternoon, but her body wasn’t found until the next morning, when her housekeeper—Mrs. Gilroy, who lives elsewhere in the village—arrived to start her day.”

“So that was Friday morning,” Penelope stated.

Henry nodded. “Thursday afternoon is one of Mrs. Gilroy’s half days off. She’s said that Miss Huntingdon was bothered about something and rather distracted, but hale and whole and well when she—Mrs. Gilroy—left the cottage at noon on Thursday. But when Mrs. Gilroy came in on Friday morning, Miss Huntingdon was dead and cold, lying in her parlor.”

Penelope shifted to directly face Henry. “Let me see if I have this correctly. You had an argument with the victim on Thursday morning, and she was found dead, strangled”—exactly as Kitty was; small wonder the situation is haunting poor Henry—“early on Friday morning.”

Glumly, Henry nodded. “That’s right.”

“So what was this accusation?” Penelope asked.

“And,” Barnaby added, “who made it?”

Henry sighed. “It happened after church yesterday. As usual, the congregation gathered to chat on the church lawn, and yesterday morning, the talk was all about the murder. Miss Huntingdon’s sister—another Miss Huntingdon—had come down from London, and she was there, standing with Mrs. Foswell, the minister’s wife, with the rest of the village scattered about, and I thought I should offer my condolences. Miss Huntingdon hadn’t expected to find her sister dead, and so she wasn’t in mourning clothes but had one of those gauzy veils over her hat, so as I approached, I couldn’t see her face. Perhaps if I had…” Henry grimaced. “Anyway, I walked up and stated my name and said how sorry I was for her loss and held out my hand, and this Miss Huntingdon looked down at my hand, and veil or no veil, I swear she looked at my hand as if it was diseased. Then she said—” Henry broke off and closed his eyes. He was obviously reciting from memory as he went on, “My sister wrote to me about you. She called you ‘her secret admirer, H.’ And I’ve heard you had an argument with her on Thursday morning, and you were seen leaving her cottage on Thursday afternoon, and after that, she was found dead, strangled, just like your late wife.” Henry paused and, his eyes still closed, reported, “Her voice was low and husky as if she’d been crying, and she hauled in a breath that was shaky and sobby and went on”—he opened his eyes and continued—“‘I can only hope that the police get the right man this time!’”

He looked at Penelope and Barnaby, a species of hopelessness in his eyes. “She thinks I killed her sister.”

In a matter-of-fact tone, Barnaby asked, “What did you do?”

“What could I do?” Henry shook his head. “I froze. I was so stunned, I didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. Then I lowered my hand, turned on my heel, and walked away. I could hear the whispers start up behind me, like a swarm of wasps.” He shuddered. “I was so shaken, I drove straight home, then after luncheon, I drove to Salisbury, got on the train, and came here.”

His expression baffled and pleading, Henry looked from Penelope to Barnaby. “I have no idea why anyone would think Miss Huntingdon would label me ‘her secret admirer.’ I barely knew the woman—well, just to nod to, given she’d lived in the village for the past five years.” Henry’s shoulders sagged. “But the whispers have started up again and…” He shrugged and said nothing more.

Penelope was frowning. “Is there any other man in the village or around about whose name starts with H?”

Henry grimaced. “No. That’s just it. For my sins, I’m the only H around.”

Barnaby snorted. “Being accused of murder because your name begins with a particular letter is absurd.”

“I know, but…” Henry shrugged again. “It’s a small country village, and you know what such places are like. Something like that connects in people’s minds with Kitty being strangled, and they talk, and the more they talk, the more their conjecture starts to sound like fact.” He straightened and looked at Barnaby, then at Penelope. “I’ve heard you work with that Scotland Yard inspector, Stokes. He’s the one who came down to Glossup Hall five years ago and unraveled the truth of Kitty’s murder. He knows all about that, and so I thought, if you could see your way to contacting him…”

Penelope leaned forward and patted Henry’s clasped hands. “Of course! As it happens, we work closely with Stokes on any matter that involves members of the ton, and recently, that remit has been broadened to include whatever cases we think we can help with, and on both counts, this is unquestionably one.”

“Indeed.” With a decisive nod, Barnaby rose and crossed to the bellpull beside the fireplace. “The first thing we need to do is summon Stokes. With any luck, he’ll be tapped on the shoulder for this case, assuming, of course, that the local police force requests Scotland Yard’s assistance.”

“Regardless,” Penelope firmly stated, “I’m sure Stokes will agree that we three should go down to Ashmore and take a good look around.”

Relief suffused Henry’s expression. “Thank you.” To Penelope, he said, “I apologize for pulling you away from the social round.”

“Pfft!” She waved aside the notion. “Now that the majority of the ton have retreated to the country, there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—going on in town that can possibly compete with murder.”

Having tugged the bellpull, smiling reassuringly, Barnaby resumed his seat. “In truth, I rather fancy a nice little jaunt into the country.”

Penelope grinned at Henry. “Don’t worry. We’ll come down and sort this out and discover who really strangled Miss Viola Huntingdon.”

* * *

In Ashmore village, wrapped in the peace and quiet of the nave in the church of St. Nicholas, Madeline Huntingdon kept her eyes closed and prayed for fortitude and also courage.

The atmosphere within the thick stone walls was cool, and the chill of the flagstones, even felt through the thin kneeling pad, permeated to her bones.

She was a minister’s daughter, and praying was in large part second nature. In her current emotionally troubled state, she’d come to the church to find the solace necessary to commune with the Almighty and, hopefully, find some degree of calm and reclaim at least a small measure of her customary rationality.

Since the moment she’d arrived in the village and discovered her sister had been cruelly slain, she’d been surrounded by well-meaning people whose smothering sympathy had only intensified her geysering emotions. Worse, those sympathizers’ frequently misguided albeit well-intentioned advice had left her adrift on a turbulent sea of impulse and compulsion, driven by a host of feelings of which she’d previously had little experience—vengeance, a thirst for justice, and an overwhelming desire to see the villain responsible pay.

Part of that drive came from a sense of guilt, misplaced though that assuredly was. Viola wouldn’t have welcomed Madeline interfering in her life decisions, any more than Madeline would have welcomed Viola meddling in hers. Despite being sisters and, in general terms, quite close, they had always been different people, and they’d had the sense to honor the other’s life choices.

But now, Viola was dead, murdered, and Madeline needed to dry her tears, get her feet on firm ground, and proceed in her usual calm, sensible, logical fashion.

In her heart, she’d vowed to Viola that she would see her killer brought to justice, and in the peace of the church, that sentiment grew more solid in her mind.

That was her way forward.

Ever since their father had died five years ago and she and Viola had gone their separate ways, Madeline had always stood ready to help and defend her less wise and definitely less worldly older sister, even though, being the older sister, Viola had always felt that shoe ought to have been on the other foot.

Their father had been something of a closet investor with a particular fascination with the burgeoning railways, and despite having no other income beyond what he received as a cleric, he had built a significant nest egg he’d bequeathed to his daughters.

On leaving the vicarage in Salisbury, Viola had chosen to use her half of their inheritance to buy Lavender Cottage in the village of Ashmore, located just over the border in Dorset, twenty or so miles from Salisbury. Madeline had always thought that the tiny village—with its commensurately tiny community—suited Viola in the sense that it afforded her the opportunity to be a big fish in a small pond.

Being of a different, far more adventurous bent, Madeline had taken her portion and bought a small house in a respectable part of London. She lived on the upper floor and rented the two lower floors to academics and otherwise spent her time following—quite successfully, as it had transpired—in their father’s footsteps.

Over the past nearly five years, Madeline’s life and Viola’s life had been poles apart, yet they’d remained close. Madeline had visited Viola at least three times each year, remaining for several weeks on each occasion. In return, Viola had visited Madeline in London—rather trepidatiously, it had to be said—once every year.

Their lives had settled into comfortable patterns. The very last thing Madeline had expected was to have to bury Viola.

Anger at Viola’s murderer surged anew. Viola might have been a trifle annoying at times, but she’d always tried to do the right, proper, and Christian thing, and she’d harbored not a single malicious bone in her body.

Viola had been harmless, supremely so, and none of her very human failings could possibly have justified her murder. Yet someone had placed their hands about Viola’s throat and squeezed the life from her.

For Madeline, being able to think that thought without more than an emotional wobble was reassuring. Yesterday, when she’d sat through the service in the church and, afterward, been offered so many condolences from various villagers, some of whom she knew were not entirely sincere, she’d been in such an emotionally overwrought state that she’d barely recognized herself. Level-headed was her normal condition, and being so far removed from that had been thoroughly disconcerting.

That was her only excuse for what had occurred when Lord Glossup—owner of nearby Glossup Hall—had approached to offer his condolences. Her grief—and yes, her anger at whoever had killed her really quite helpless sister—had surged and drowned what had remained of her good sense, and she’d lashed out.

She’d accused his lordship of being Viola’s “secret admirer, H”—the gentleman Viola had recently written about in such glowing terms to Madeline. She’d heard about the argument his lordship had had with Viola on the morning of her death and had proceeded to connect that with him being seen leaving her cottage later that day at a time at which she was now believed to have been dead. Madeline had then gone one step further and drawn a direct line between the murder of his lordship’s late wife, who had also been strangled, and Viola’s murder and had capped her implied accusation with the hope that, this time, the police would arrest the right man for the crime.

The memory of her outburst sent shame coursing through Madeline. The accusation had been fueled by the whispers poured into her ears since she’d arrived on Saturday to find Viola’s body being taken from the cottage, yet as soon as the words had left her lips, she’d started to doubt their accuracy.

What she could not doubt was the emotion she’d seen—as plain as day and impossible to mistake—in his lordship’s brown eyes and in the lines of his face. There’d been real sympathy—honest and sincere—in his gaze as he’d approached, and that emotion had resonated in the simple, gently spoken words of condolence he’d uttered. But then she’d coldly flung his words back at him, and the look in his face, in his eyes, as her rejection had struck him…

Hurt. A wounded look. The sense of a cut that had struck deep, far deeper than she’d expected.

With her eyes still closed, Madeline shifted on the cold, hard floor. She couldn’t get the image of his lordship’s stunned face out of her mind. In and of itself, his expression was a powerful counteraccusation that in uttering the words she had, she’d been wildly wrong.

Later, troubled by the incident, she’d sought counsel of Reverend Foswell, the minister of St. Nicholas’ Church, the village church Viola had attended and where Madeline was currently praying. From the reverend and his wife, who had been Viola’s closest village friend, Madeline had learned the truth of his lordship’s wife’s murder. Yes, Catherine Glossup had been strangled, but by her lover. The case had been investigated by Scotland Yard, and while in small country villages, there were always rumors and questions as to whether the distant police force in London hadn’t simply covered up matters for the local lordly landowner, Madeline had lived in London for years and was not so quick to condemn all police as corrupt or fools.

What truly weighed on Madeline now was the likely reality that by uttering her accusation as she had—in full view and hearing of the majority of the villagers—she’d cruelly stoked the fires of village gossip in a way that would result in a repeat of a horrendous period in his lordship’s life.

Her words had been unwise. She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, much less to cause harm to one who was—she suspected—still emotionally vulnerable over the matter of his wife’s death. That must have been a terrible time in his life, and her unjust words would have brought it all back.

She’d been wrong. She’d falsely accused an innocent bystander, and she would have to apologize.

Immediately she formed that intention, the turbulence inside her settled and calmed.

The fog that had clouded her brain since she’d seen Viola’s body taken away thinned and lifted, and Madeline was suddenly perfectly certain that in apologizing to Lord Glossup, she would be taking her first definite step toward claiming control of this unprecedented situation rather than being a victim of its vicissitudes.

That’s what I need to do. Take charge.

She drew in what felt like her first clear breath since that dreadful moment on Saturday, then she opened her eyes and looked at the altar, at the stained glass window behind it. After a moment, she smiled softly and whispered a last prayer for their late father, then she rose, stepped out of the pew, and turned up the nave toward the church’s open door.

She raised her head, looked toward the door, and paused. There was a man standing just inside the doorway, patently waiting for her. Because of the brightness outside and the dimness within the church, she couldn’t yet see well enough to determine who he was, but he was tallish and had dark hair, and for an instant, she wondered if she would be able to make her apology immediately and ease the weight from her soul. But as she walked forward in hope, she realized that the man’s stance, his posture, wasn’t that of Lord Glossup.

In dawning surprise, she realized that the gentleman by the church door was the very last man she would have expected to encounter, especially then and there.

Years before, when she’d been an innocent twenty-year-old, sheltered, motherless, and living the constrained life of a Salisbury minister’s daughter, she’d set her cap at handsome Montgomery Pincer, and for several months, he’d led her on, only to cruelly dash her girlish matrimonial hopes. That said, at least he’d been ruthlessly honest in telling her that although she had a decent portion and, given her father’s successful investing, would ultimately inherit more, she was far too independently minded for Monty to consider taking to wife.

Now, nearly seventeen years later and knowing a great deal more about men, Madeline could appreciate that not only had Monty’s assessment of her been accurate, he’d also done her a great service in allowing her to escape.

Not that he’d intended to do her any service, yet nevertheless.

As she approached the doorway, Madeline swiftly studied him and had to admit that, physically, he hadn’t changed much with the years. He was still a tall, decidedly handsome gentleman, with wavy dark-brown hair—perhaps a little less wavy and glossy than previously—falling rakishly over his forehead. His long-lashed blue eyes were just as engaging and attractive as before despite the fine wrinkles radiating from their corners. He was more than two years older than she, so had to be nearing forty, yet he still possessed an excellent figure—about six feet tall, lean, long boned with broad shoulders—and an athletic build, and she felt sure he would move as gracefully as he always had.

As ever, he was dressed well, this time in a tailored coat with a fashionable waistcoat over simple breeches and top boots. At first glance, he appeared the epitome of the successful country gentleman, but this wasn’t Madeline’s first glance. Regardless, she had to admit that Monty looked more the part of lord of the manor than Lord Glossup, in his plainer countryman’s attire, had.

She halted a yard away and inclined her head. “Monty.”

“Madeline.” Smiling with just the right blend of charm and sympathy, Monty stepped forward and reached for her hand.

She allowed him to take her gloved fingers, and he bowed—as gracefully as she’d expected—over her hand, then straightened. Before he could direct the conversation, she asked, “What brings you to Ashmore?” She assumed he was still living in Salisbury.

Monty’s smile didn’t dim. “I was passing and saw you walk in here. I’d just heard the grave news of your sister’s death and thought to offer my condolences.” His tone subtly implied that the answer should have been obvious, but his effortless charm smoothed everything over. “I am, indeed, deeply sorry for your loss.”

Cynically, Madeline acknowledged that he hadn’t lost his touch. She reached for graciousness and replied, “Thank you. It came as quite a shock.”

“I imagine so.”

As she withdrew her hand from his clasp, he ran his gaze appreciatively over her quietly expensive gown.

She stepped past him, and he turned and fell in beside her as she walked out of the cool dimness of the church. She expected him to ask about Viola, whom he’d known, albeit not as well as he’d known her, but instead, he said, “I confess I’m quite curious. What have you been doing with yourself? I heard that you had come down from London.”

The last statement was uttered as a question. Not wishing to encourage him, she replied, “I live there now.”

She took the path toward the rectory and ignored Monty’s quizzing gaze.

After a moment, he looked ahead. “I must admit I’ve rather lost touch with all those I knew before.”

His pensive tone had her glancing his way. “Did you move elsewhere, too?” From experience, she knew that keeping the focus on him would effectively distract him from her.

He smiled rather mischievously. “Yes, indeed. I’ve been in America for some years and only just got back yesterday, so you might say I’m fresh off the boat from New York.”

“What were you doing in America?” Madeline returned her gaze to the rectory gate.

“This and that. I became involved in various businesses located throughout the northeast of the country, and in all truth, I did rather well. Ultimately, however, I felt I needed to come home again. There’s just something about England that lives in your bones.”

They’d reached the rectory gate, and she halted and faced him. “That’s wonderful. But I must go in—luncheon will be served soon.”

Monty eyed the rectory with a frown in his eyes. “You’re living here?”

“For the moment. The Foswells insisted that I stay with them. No one thought I should be alone at the cottage at this time.” She was planning to move back to the cottage later that afternoon, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Ah. I see.” Monty looked at her, then with apparent sincerity, asked, “Are you all right?”

She summoned a weak smile. “I’m managing well enough.”

His charming mien returned. “If there’s anything I can do to help, know you have only to ask.” His expression turned faintly rueful. “For old times’ sake, if nothing else.”

She responded with a nod of polite civility. “Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.”

It struck her that she now viewed him through a strictly objective lens. He and their shared past exerted no lingering hold on her heart, even at this time when all her emotions seemed so much closer to her surface. The observation was reassuring. Given their past, Montgomery Pincer wasn’t a man she would ever trust again.

She held his gaze and inclined her head. “Goodbye, Monty.”

He reached for her hand, and she watched him bow over it.

Straightening and releasing her, he caught her eye. “I meant what I said. If you need anything, I’ll be happy to help.”

With a distant smile, she dipped her head and turned away. She opened the gate and went through, pushed it closed behind her, then walked the few steps to the rectory door. As she turned the knob and crossed the threshold, she knew beyond question that no matter what help she needed, she wouldn’t be appealing to Monty. There was no circumstance that would induce her to invite a man like him into her now well-ordered and successful life.

Gently, she closed the door, then peeked through the lace screening the glass side panel. Monty hovered on the other side of the gate, apparently staring at the closed door.

He remained there, seemingly indecisive, for nearly a minute, then turned and walked toward the lane.

Madeline straightened and realized she was relieved he’d gone. She couldn’t quite understand why, yet she found it strange that after nearly seventeen years, Monty had chosen that moment to reappear in her life.