A Sinister Establishment Read online

  A Sinister Establishment

  A Regency Cozy

  Lynn Messina

  potatoworks press • greenwich village

  Contents

  Beatrice Hyde-Clare Mysteries

  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

  About the Author

  More Mystery!

  Some Romance!

  copyright © 2020 by lynn messina

  cover design by jennifer lewis

  isbn: 978-1-942218-32-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Published 2020 by Potatoworks Press

  Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  Created with Vellum

  Beatrice Hyde-Clare Mysteries

  Book One: A Brazen Curiosity

  Book Two: A Scandalous Deception

  Book Three: An Infamous Betrayal

  Book Four: A Nefarious Engagement

  Book Five: A Treacherous Performance

  Book Six: A Sinister Establishment

  To the dozens of awesome history buffs and Regency authors whose websites and blogs ensure that my historically adjacent cozies aren’t historically embarrassing. Thank you!

  Chapter One

  If Beatrice Hyde-Clare had realized that her refusal to consent to her betrothed’s slight alteration in their marriage vows would allow his grandmother to assemble a roomful of people to witness the happy event, she would have agreed at once to his request. A promise made during one’s nuptials was binding, to be sure, but she had little doubt she would have found a way to extricate herself from a pledge to cease investigating murders should the need arise—a development she deemed highly unlikely, though not impossible considering the recent spate of corpses in her life. Her confidence was owed to the fact that during her brief courtship of the Duke of Kesgrave she’d grown adept at making rhetorically persuasive arguments. If her logic did not quite meet his rigorous standards for accuracy, it was no matter, for it satisfied her own.

  Alas, she had been too delighted by Kesgrave’s audacity in rewriting the Book of Common Prayer—and why should he not take a liberal hand, for its lineage went back a mere three centuries while his own encompassed a full half millennium—to notice the dowager quietly scribbling messages at a table in the corner of the drawing room. It was only when the familiar trill of her aunt’s strident disapproval wafted in from the entry hall that she recognized the tactical error.

  “Well, no, Flora, I do not think Beatrice chose to have her wedding today with the express purpose of rousing you from your sickbed,” Vera Hyde-Clare explained with just enough uncertainty in her voice to allow for the possibility, “as I believe she holds you in high esteem and would never wish for you to suffer a monstrous setback or have your health permanently damaged. And yet here you are, at Clarges Street, a shadow of your former self, barely able to hold your head up as you totter forward. Rather, I am merely calling attention to the misfortune of the timing, for it is so very unfortunate. It goes without saying that I would much rather you had not eaten a plate of spoiled oysters. But having made such an ill-advised decision—and an unusual one, too, as I would have sworn you detested the creatures—you should be allowed to bear the consequences in peace rather than summoned to attend a wedding that was not supposed to happen for another three days. I cannot condone the thoughtlessness. My poor dear, how terrifyingly pale you look. Do lean on me, so that you do not collapse onto the dowager’s fine marble floor.” She paused slightly in her speech, then added, “Oh, but it is very fine marble indeed, so elegantly veined. I wonder if it’s from Italy. Livorno, perhaps. Or maybe Carrara.”

  As genuinely concerned as she was about her daughter’s health, Vera’s anxiety was no match for her instinctive admiration for quality, and Bea, noting the hushed tone with which she spoke, imagined the other woman running her fingers reverentially over the smooth marble. It was a visceral response to opulence, one Vera could no more control than the beating of her own heart, and, amused by her aunt’s constancy, Bea envisioned her perched on the threshold of heaven too awed by the exquisite ornamentation of the pearly gates to enter.

  ’Twas an absurd picture, without question—Aunt Vera pestering poor St. Peter on the location of the seabed from which the jewels were harvested whilst he tried to find her name in the Book of Life—and Bea laughed despite her churlishness. She was further diverted when Flora, assuring her mother she felt quite sturdy, laid claim to a miraculous recovery. “Truly, I feel as though I was never sick at all, Mama. I cannot think of how to account for it save for your exceptional care. Thank you, darling, for attending to me so diligently.”

  As Flora’s stomach ailment had been a ruse employed that morning to allow her to slip from her home at 19 Portman Square unnoticed, this assertion was decidedly false. Indeed, the whole scheme had been based on the assumption that her mother’s sweeping discomfort with illness would keep her far away from the sickroom, a supposition that proved accurate when she prescribed several hours of uninterrupted rest for her daughter. Obligingly banished to her bedchamber, Flora had changed into her brother’s clothes, crept out of the house through the kitchens and hailed a carriage to the Strand. There, she’d gained entry into the theater where Bea and the duke were investigating the murder of an actor and rescued them from a slow, agonizing death in the jet-black bowels of the building’s cellars.

  That Kesgrave had already freed them from their restraints and would have turned his attention to the door as soon as Bea had finished expressing her gratitude had no bearing on Flora’s perception of herself as their heroic savior. As such, she took a sort of proprietary interest in them now as she strode into the drawing room, asserting that the only wretched thing would have been for the pair to wed without their guardian angel in attendance.

  Vera, whose aversion to infirmity of any sort was so deeply ingrained even she realized there was something suspicious about her daughter’s praise of her nursing skills, stared in confusion at this mention of a protective spirit and looked around the room as if expecting to see some secondary figure from the Bible standing by the fireplace, such as Noah or Job.

  Fortunately, she spotted only her niece, whose customarily wan appearance reminded her why she was so cross in the first place, and she berated the girl with brusque impatience for breaking her promise to wait a full week before making her vows. “I cannot comprehend it. No, I cannot. If you were de
termined to ignore the wisdom of my counsel, then why do so after our visit to Madame Bélanger? Surely, courtesy demands that you openly rebel the day before a significant investment is made on your behalf? I find your behavior vexing, extremely vexing.”

  Since Bea resented the acquisition of the excessively lavish trousseau almost as much as her aunt, she thought this was a fair question and turned her unblinking gaze to Kesgrave for a reply, as the decision to diverge from the agreed-upon schedule had been his. Daunted by neither the presence of Vera Hyde-Clare nor the sting of her disapproval, he returned Bea’s stare with unflinching calm, his own eyes, brilliantly blue and impossibly bright, glowing with a determination to see the thing done. How it might be contrived—with a modicum of dignity or amid an orgy of carping—was of no concern to him, and Bea, who knew his ability to think rationally had been corrupted by the sight of a murderous actor holding a pistol to her back earlier in the day, felt a strange sort of flutter in her belly at the implacability of his intent.

  It was, in fact, much worse than a flutter, she realized, as color suffused her cheeks,

  And how could she not blush, knowing all too well the thoughts that occupied his mind? She herself shared them, and well aware of how thoroughly unsuited they were for the dowager’s drawing room, she felt her face grow uncomfortably warm.

  What a wholly depraved creature she must be to entertain such ideas whilst in the presence of her family!

  The case was hopeless indeed when even the shrill displeasure of her steadfastly censorious aunt wasn’t enough to completely quell the anticipatory shiver of delight Bea felt at the inflexibility of the duke’s resolve.

  Naturally, she expected everyone in the room to notice the unusual blush, but Flora drew the occupants’ attention by dismissing her mother’s complaint with a brisk wave of her hand. “We could not possibly allow Beatrice to marry Kesgrave with only the rags on her back, for she is not some poor orphan in a fairy story who must sweep out the soot from our fireplace or sleep in a cupboard. She is a beloved member of our family, and I know you would never want her to take a turn around Berkeley Square in a dress marred by a stain of gooseberry jam. Why, one of the neighbors might notice! ’Tis not like this tear in my own gown, which is so small I’m sure not even the dowager duchess will note it.”

  As if of its own volition, Aunt Vera’s index finger flew to Flora’s lips as she tried to stop her daughter from speaking of such terrible things as stains and tears. Although the target of her apprehension was in the hallway conferring with her butler, she could not squelch the sensation of the peeress’s eagle eye hovering somewhere over her shoulder observing her family’s every minor imperfection. It was a familiar feeling, as she lived with the perpetual fear of falling short of the other lady’s exacting standards—a dread her daughter routinely exploited in her pursuit of a wardrobe by Madame Bélanger.

  Or, if not a full wardrobe, then several new gowns by the exquisite modiste.

  Having witnessed Flora’s efforts on multiple occasions, Bea knew exactly what she was up to and was disconcerted to discover she felt a pang of sympathy for Aunt Vera, whose panic prevented her from realizing her daughter’s dress was without defects or blemishes. Bea was saved from succumbing to the odd compulsion to offer her relative comfort by Flora, who blithely continued her speech, insisting the couple had already demonstrated incredible forbearance by waiting so long.

  “Instead of offering recriminations, let us be happy for them, Mama,” she exclaimed with giddy assurance. “Life is a precious gift and we must be glad they are alive and well to enjoy this wonderful event, for no one’s future is assured. Why, something dreadful might have happened to them this very day had some divine force not been watching over them. Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero!”

  Vera, whose anxiety remained acute as she frantically inspected her daughter’s dress for imperfections, inhaled sharply and called for their carriage to take them back to Portman Square posthaste. “We must return my dear girl to her sickbed, for she is babbling incoherently,” she said, darting an angry look at Bea. “I knew it was too soon.”

  The unspoken charge hung in the air for only a moment before her son strode into the room in the company of his father.

  “There’s no need to kick up a fuss, Mama,” he said bracingly. “She’s not incoherent, just speaking in Latin.”

  Although Russell had sought to reassure his mother with this comment, she was more unsettled than ever to discover Flora was proficient in a foreign language. For years she had despaired of her daughter’s inability to learn French. If only the recalcitrant child would apply herself! The subjunctive was not that difficult to master.

  Uncle Horace was just as astonished and stared at her as if trying to comprehend her unprecedented erudition. Finally, he said with bemused wonder, “He’s right. It means ‘seize the present; trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.’ It’s from the Odes. I must confess, Flora, that I do not recall Miss Higglestone including Horace on your syllabus. And yet she must have, for your accent is uncommonly good.”

  Flora preened at the compliment while Vera extolled the virtues of their former governess, whose skills she had never doubted though she might have questioned them once or twice.

  Unable to allow his sister to bask in the glow of filial approbation alone, Russell launched into a catalogue of the many Latin phrases he had learned during his brief yet distinguished career at Oxford: Georgics, Eclogue, Aeneid.

  He had barely made it through the complete works of Virgil when the door opened and the Countess of Abercrombie swept into the room on a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said with unrestrained emotion as she beheld Beatrice by the fireplace next to Kesgrave, “you are a most beautiful bride.” She sighed deeply and dabbed delicately at her eyes, which may or may not have been filled with tears. Then she walked across the floor until she was mere inches from Bea, wrapped her in a gentle hug and murmured softly, “A most, most beautiful bride.”

  Familiar with her ladyship’s penchant for drama, Bea submitted unprotestingly to this treatment. For her aunt, however, it was an irresistible provocation and she ceased trying to determine if her daughter had a fever to stare with wide-eyed amazement at the lovely widow.

  “But…but…her cheeks are so sallow,” Vera exclaimed in confusion, “and her dress is…is…so…” But she could not come up with the right word to describe the serviceable gown of an indeterminate blue and abandoned the effort, settling on a vaguely articulate grunt of despair. “You may see for yourself how inadequate it is. One does not have to wear one’s presentation gown to one’s wedding but surely something better than…than…” Again, her vocabulary failed her as she waved her hand at her niece. “We must send home for something more appropriate or—and I believe this is the more auspicious plan—wait for one of Madame Bélanger’s lovely creations to be ready. I am sure you agree, my lady, that Bea cannot marry the Duke of Kesgrave dressed in that…that…”—here, finally, inspiration struck and she latched onto the word her daughter had used earlier—“rag of a gown.”

  Now it was her ladyship’s turn to affect astonishment, for she could not perceive anything to complain about in Bea’s appearance. Indeed, pushing the young woman back so that she may inspect her properly, she noted nothing but the radiance of excitement.

  “Yes, yes,” Lady Abercrombie said with blissful contemplation, “a most beautiful bride.”

  To say that Bea wanted the whole lot of them gone, that she wished they would simply vanish from the room at the waspish snap of her fingers, would be to grossly understate the case. She’d lived a mostly quiet life—quietly reading, quietly sewing, quietly listening to her aunt grapple with her children’s unerring ability to increase her anxiety with their excessive demands for money and attention—and she could scarcely comprehend how it had altered so profoundly in such a brief span. A mere six months ago she had been sitting in the Skeffingtons’ dining room in the Lak
e District quietly eating eels à la tartare, and now she was in the Dowager Duchess of Kesgrave’s drawing room besieged by an almost painful cacophony.

  All she wanted was to be alone with the duke.

  And yet it was impossible to smother the gurgle of laughter that rose in her throat at the expression of utter bewilderment on Aunt Vera’s face as her relative tried to make sense of Lady Abercrombie’s stunning reversal. Only five days before, her ladyship had stood in the Hyde-Clare’s breakfast room—entirely uninvited, of course, for nobody was ramshackle enough to entertain guests over eggs and kippers—and insisted that Bea and the duke wait until at least May to make their vows. First, she must throw a ball to introduce Bea to society with all the pride, pomp and circumstance befitting a future duchess, a development that her relatives had failed to anticipate when they hosted their own indifferent affair seven seasons before.

  Naturally, Aunt Vera had found the prospect of her niece’s reintroduction to society horrifying, for it would imply to all and sundry that she’d inadequately performed the task the first time around. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the countess’s support in delaying the nuptials and felt her opinion had helped convince the pair to wait a week.

  But now…now she was smiling fondly at Bea and wiping maudlin tears from her eyes as if nothing would make her happier than to witness her hasty marriage to Kesgrave.

  Did her ladyship not understand what was happening? Was she incapable of comprehending how the passage of time worked? Perhaps she had fallen into a fugue state and believed she’d emerged a full week later?