Murder in Westminster Read online

  The Lady Worthing Mysteries

  Murder in Westminster

  Other Titles by Vanessa Riley

  Historical Romance

  The Rogues & Remarkable Women Romances

  A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

  An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler

  A Duke, the Spy, an Artist, and a Lie

  Historical Fiction

  Island Queen

  Sister Mother Warrior

  Murder in Westminster

  Vanessa Riley

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, 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.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 by Vanessa Riley

  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.

  The K with book logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2022935886

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3866-0

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2022

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3872-1 (ebook)

  For my mother, to thank her for the countless hours of Matlock, Remington Steele, and Murder She Wrote we enjoyed.

  Nothing is impossible.

  I believe.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my Heavenly Father, for imagination.

  To Esi Sogah, my editor, thank you for allowing me to stretch my wings.

  I look forward to shaping Abigail with you.

  To my fabulous agent, Sarah Younger, I am grateful that you are my partner.

  You are my ride-or-die friend and sister.

  To Gerald, Marc, and Chris—Love you bros.

  To Denny, to Pat, and Felicia. Thank you for helping me elevate my game, the gentle shoves, and every challenge.

  The Writers of Me and My Sisters

  To those who inspire my pen: Beverly, Brenda, Farrah, Sarah, Julia, Kristan, Alyssa, Maya, Lenora, Sophia, Joanna, Grace, Laurie Alice, Julie, Cathy, Katharine, Carrie, Christina, Georgette, Jane, Linda, Margie, Michelle R., Liz, Lasheera, Alexis R., Angela, Piper, Alexis G. Eileen, Rhonda, and Jude—thank you.

  And to my rocks: Frank and Ellen

  Love you all, so much.

  Prologue

  April 8, 1806, London

  Before her youth is spent, a resourceful woman enjoys many passions—embroidered scarves, fine pearl pins, and lovers, of course.

  For Juliet Henderson, affairs of the heart are a good way of keeping boredom at bay whilst a husband is at sea. But with her staid husband of ten years, Lieutenant Commander Stapleton Henderson returned, having retired from his naval career, and setting up camp in their Westminster home, why must she give up her fun? Excitement, any excitement, is simply too great of a temptation to surrender.

  Sliding her finger along her ribbon necklace, she chuckles, then hums and sinks into the white velvet padding of her carriage.

  Gliding a palm across the seat to her empty reticule—one she’s decided Stapleton must fill—she examines her plans, her heart’s desires.

  Boring and given to a frigid temperament, her husband can be counted upon to do the right or convenient thing. It’s clear in his icy gaze, he wants her gone. With the tidy fortune he inherited and the riches he’s won at sea, he can afford to send her away in style.

  At a minimum, the pocket change he often leaves lying around his private study could buy his peace and freedom. The last time she saw him, he frivolously spent it on lumber and wrought iron to build an unnecessary fence in his ongoing war with their neighbor.

  If Stapleton thought about Juliet with the same passion he had for besting the prickly Worthing woman, Juliet might consider reconciliation.

  Her husband is nice to look at—tall, dark, and muscular, but suffering another boring year on his arm while he reacquaints himself to London Society—no.

  Putting up with his angry pianoforte—definitely no.

  Tumbling into his bed and dirtying his perfectly aligned sheets—maybe?

  She closes her eyes and draws deeper into her heavy shawl. It’s always best for a lover to want a woman more. Stapleton tolerated her. His sudden rush to evict her from his life shocked.

  Juliet now understands the difference between lust and a desire to be with the one who quickens her heart. She doesn’t want her husband anymore, but a love for the ages.

  Nonetheless, this doesn’t mean she wants Stapleton forgetting her. He should regret not having her at his side.

  Singing softly to soothe her ego, she tries to focus on her plans, not her miscalculations. Her head is for simple pampering, not mathematics.

  Thus, Stapleton’s generous allowance spent too fast on gold jewelry and pretty pearls and those tawdry lovers.

  She sighs and searches the outlines of buildings along Queen Street.

  Her soul has grown accustomed to nosy neighbors, fine furnishings, and the regal charm of everything in Westminster. It’s one of the first residences of Saxon kings and queens.

  Very cruel of Stapleton to banish her to Cheapside. What is she? Cheap fabric?

  The carriage parks outside old Number Eleven Greater Queen Street.

  As she waits for her driver to assist with her grand return, she blows kisses into her hands, hot moist air from her lips. Bared of gloves, she feels cold but free.

  Mr. Sinclair, her faithful driver, opens the door. “Miss Bumners has been saying everyone is in a frenzy that you’re actually leaving town. It’s not true, is it?”

  Taking her time, Juliet descends and loosens her long blue scarf so it will drape along her blush-pink gown. Her shoulders are bared and she holds herself erect to make the most of her ample bosom. “It is. I won’t need you anymore tonight, Mr. Sinclair. Maybe not for a long time.”

  He tips his jet-black tricorn back and offers the ruddy grin she’s accustomed to seeing. “That Miss Bumners knows everything. Mrs. Henderson, I hate to think of you going away.”

  Ann Bumners, her personal maid and spy, spends half her time at J
uliet’s town house in Cheapside, the rest here polishing every speck of woodwork.

  Feeling triumphant that the news has shaken Queen Street, Juliet puts her lips to Sinclair’s, right there in the open. Any of the other Henderson servants could watch her performance from the many windows of Number Eleven.

  “You’ve always served me well, Sinclair. Thank you.”

  His perfume of ale breath enhances the scarlet bloom of his cheeks, but her driver, the excitable, superstitious man, shakes his head. He takes a four-leaf clover from his pocket and offers it. “Luck for you. I wish you get what you deserve, ma’am, all the happiness.”

  She takes it. It’s warm and squishy in her palm. He bends his head for a moment and offers a goodbye prayer. “The man in there’s a hero, served good under Lord Nelson. Sailors come home different sometimes, especially when they’ve served long and under such circumstances. A hero and an angel deserve to have joy. He’s the only man I’d give you up for.”

  Crumpling the clover, casting it from her palm, Juliet stills, and hopes her small desire for the musket ball that felled Nelson to have shifted doesn’t show on her face. An inch or two to the right and the country wouldn’t be mourning the man who won Trafalgar.

  Of course, that would mean she’d be in awful widow’s weeds for months, what with the admiral’s most faithful physician, Lieutenant Commander Henderson, having been killed.

  She shakes these thoughts. Stapleton isn’t so bad. Quite amenable when cornered, he’s also patient—and patronizing. It’s a horrible combination, for Juliet loves to provoke. Without high passions, how does one know if they are loved?

  Head up, she follows the cobbled path to the town house.

  Before she’s able to knock, the silver liveried footmen, Dillard and Humphrey, whom she affectionately calls Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Young, open the big black doors.

  “Ma’am,” said Mr. Dillard, a gangly fellow with fuzzy black eyebrows. “You’re not supposed to be here. The master’s out.”

  “That’s the perfect time to visit.” Juliet saunters inside, but holds to her scarf, refusing Mr. Humphrey’s offer to hang it. He’s a scrumptious addition to the household, mirroring Dillard’s height and weight, but for her tastes—too naive.

  She was once like him, young and dumb. But being innocent is a fool’s luxury. A girl from Chelsea dairy country can’t afford to stay stupid. Juliet has learned fast, which means she always takes more than what’s owed.

  Always more.

  Fooling an honorable man into matrimony is the least of a pretty woman’s sins.

  She smooths the J on her necklace and heads down the sky-blue hall, treading across newly laid floors—perfectly cut, four-inch planks. Ridding the place of irregularities like wide mismatched planks of fir is the equivalent of giving away the town house’s charm.

  None of this matters. Juliet needs to stick to the plan—which means getting to Stapleton’s private study.

  She dashes down the stairs to the ground floor, his lair. Having direct access to the lawns behind the town house, the man could come and go as he pleased.

  No wonder the two of them have never endured being together for more than a few hours. They’ve arranged the house to avoid one another.

  She steps onto the new floors and shifts her weight to find one board that’ll squeak.

  None do. “The man is too precise.”

  This was the first thing he’d done since returning in January instead of discussing their marriage.

  She did Mr. Dillard.

  Compromising the fellow isn’t something Juliet is proud of, but it passed the time and made everyone aware that she was unhappy.

  Humming with glee, she lifts her hands and measures the art hanging on the walls. Each is too big to steal. Couldn’t carry one out under her arm with the pair of footmen at the front door.

  But through Stapleton’s study and off the terrace seems possible.

  Her brother, Jeorge Tanner, knows where to sell borrowed items fast in the rookery.

  A few dealers have clients who’ll pay good money for a dead ancestor in a gilded frame. Jeorge, the last of her living family, would do it for her without any questions.

  Just a little grease for his palm is all that’s required.

  Cough. Cough. “Ma’am.”

  The forced tones are the butler’s. Her favorite man to banter with, William Jyles. He’s strict with salt and a pure delight when he’s flustered into a tizzy.

  Cough.

  “I hear you wheezing, Mr. Jyles.” Juliet doesn’t face him.

  Instead, she teases and goes to Stapleton’s pianoforte and plunks off-sounding keys. “This needs tuning. Frantic music does wear the instrument.”

  The butler comes to her. “You’re not allowed to be here, Mrs. Henderson, without the master’s permission.”

  With both hands, she hits more strained notes. “Isn’t it better that he’s not here? Less arguments. Less noise. Less threats to kill one another.”

  “Ma’am, you’re making a scene. And you’re obviously dressed to go out.”

  She drops her scarf and makes a sultry turn before scooping to pick it up. “I thought I’d come here for fun. Can I say all is missed, even you?”

  “Mrs. Henderson.”

  Fluffing a drooping curl that her newest admirer says is spun gold, she puts her lips to the boxy instrument.

  “I’m saying goodbye.” She rubs her cold hand along the freshly polished wood.

  Juliet spins in circles, humming as if there’s music. “I do miss Mr. Henderson’s angry sonatas.” The harsh tones are practically the only way to tell he has feelings.

  She moves to the center right under the chandelier. “What do you do when you’re angry, Jyles? Do you ignore the problem like my husband? And where is he? Did he decide to go out and partake in society?”

  Draping her scarf again on both shoulders, she sighs. “Has he finally learned to pay attention to his sister?”

  “They’re both out, ma’am.” He folds his arms over his starched black jacket and his squishy belly, that he tries to suck in. Don’t men know women won’t notice such things if they are charmed and satisfied?

  “Mrs. Henderson, ma’am. Please. Leave.”

  “Don’t fret. I told my husband I’m going to Scotland to give him what he wants, without dying that is.” Juliet cups her hand as if they’re full of coins. “And he has said yes to me.”

  Jyles’s face sweeps into a smile. “Ma’am, I’m not privy to such news.”

  Liar.

  Cowpox man. Everyone at Eleven Greater Queen Street knows of the couple’s difficulties. And almost everyone sides against Juliet.

  Crossing her scarf and tugging it tighter about her arms, she stares at him. He is Stapleton’s confidant. What has he confessed since her husband’s return?

  The plan, Juliet. Stick to the plan.

  “Jyles, dearest Jyles. There’s supposed to be a little present left for me when I came to my senses. I’ve come.” She mocks Henderson’s dry tones. “Then I’m to be whisked away.”

  “Whisked? You mean you’ll leave with one of your special friends and give the master his writ of divorce?”

  “See. He still tells you everything.”

  She laughs, but Jyles is sometimes colder than Stapleton.

  And like her husband, she knows better than to push him too far.

  Stapleton could’ve killed her the night he found her tempting Dillard. And the butler would’ve helped hide the body.

  Running past Jyles, Juliet whips into her husband’s study and flings herself upon his desk, a good sturdy mahogany piece caught in a sea of dead gray–painted walls.

  The butler follows.

  His gait is slow. That dragging leg bothers him from time to time. “You should soak that foot. And cut back on port and brandy.”

  “You sound as if you care. Juliet Henderson cares about another living soul?”

  “Did he tell you how he begged me to stay, even after
finding me busy?”

  Jyles goes to the terrace doors and draws the curtains shut. “No. Please, ma’am, get down. You may wrinkle the master’s drawings.”

  “Did he complain I’d found someone whom I love more than Henderson money?”

  “Ma’am, please go.”

  “I will, but I wonder what he’ll think. You’re alike. Tell me what you think about my going away.” Playing with her scarf, she gives it a saucy back-and-forth tug at her shoulders. “My, it’s warm in here. There’s no fire under the mantel. Maybe crack open the terrace door.”

  The unblinking butler pivots. “You’re only trying to cause another scene. Probably a loud one to awaken all the neighbors. You should’ve said Mr. Henderson is expecting you. Stay here until he comes. Touch nothing. Take nothing.”

  The hall door to the study closes behind him, a smidgen short of a slam, but the vibration rattles the glass terrace doors.

  She sits still, waiting, but no one enters.

  Looking around, she detects there’s no money on his desk, as there usually is.

  This is Stapleton playing a game on her. They’d agreed to a sum. It should be here. There should be enough to maybe send something to her brother.

  Where would the reclusive man hide it?

  Eyeing the drawing on his desk, Juliet studies the complex architectural draft of the fence she’s heard he’s constructing.

  She flips through the stack of drawings.

  “He even numbered the pieces of wood like it’s a puzzle. And he selected pine this time? What, no ancient lumber with Scottish connections?”

  The plan, Juliet.

  If she tore up these drawings, that might send Stapleton into a rare frenzy. One final display of temper would at least let Juliet know he cares; that she still has a hold on his icy heart.