Murder at Kensington Palace Read online

  Books by Andrea Penrose

  Murder on Black Swan Lane

  Murder at Half Moon Gate

  Murder at Kensington Palace

  MURDER AT KENSINGTON PALACE

  Andrea

  Penrose

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  CHAPTER 31

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Andrea DaRif

  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.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2019940166

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2281-2

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2283-6 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2283-3 (ebook)

  To Ellen M. Iseman

  The best of friends.

  Thanks for always being ready with laughter and a bon mot

  when The Muse is misbehaving.

  PROLOGUE

  A graceful melody wafted through the air, the low, sonorous sounds of the violoncello deepened by the curling plumes of spice-scented cheroot smoke. The musicians were playing Haydn’s String Quartet Op. 20, No. 4, a great favorite of the host, and the violin’s sinuous notes danced above the background noise of gentlemanly bonhomie. The clink of crystal. The fizz of champagne. The deep-throated buzz of masculine conversation, punctuated by well-mannered laughter.

  “Amidst all the turmoil of war and man’s savagery toward his fellow man, it’s edifying to see some pockets of civilized splendor still exist to celebrate intellectual achievement,” observed Count Rumford to the half dozen gentlemen gathered around him. High overhead, the classical deities of the frescoed ceiling beamed down upon them with lordly benevolence. “Our royal duke’s soirees always provide an enjoyable evening of cerebral conversation for our society of scholars.” A smile. “Along with very fine wine.”

  “Unlike his reprobate brother, the Prince Regent, Sussex does have some redeeming qualities,” replied Sir Joseph Banks, the elderly president of the Royal Society, as he surveyed the aristocratic crowd from the confines of his wheeled Bath chair. “His interest in science and art harkens back to the enlightened court of his great-grandmother, Caroline of Ansbach,” he added somewhat querulously. “Now, those were the days.”

  “Come, come, you can’t claim to be speaking from experience,” chided Rumford dryly. “You’re not quite as old as Methuselah, Sir Joseph.”

  The comment drew a grudging laugh. “No. And yet, as my gout and the other unpleasant accompaniments of encroaching old age worsen, I often feel over nine hundred years old.” Banks drew in a mouthful of brandy, which sparked a reproving look from his personal physician. “As the Reaper’s blade swings ever closer, I find myself thinking of how I shall miss seeing all the new scientific discoveries that are looming on the horizon.”

  “As shall I,” replied Rumford regretfully. “Our ships will soon be furling their sails and sinking beneath the waves, leaving the exploration and adventuring to the young.”

  “A lament that all of us mere mortals make sooner or later.” Justinian DeVere, a courtly gentleman whose thick mane of hair was liberally threaded with silver, paused in passing and lifted his drink in salute to the group. “The thrill of discovery is seductive for those of us who belong to scientific societies, such as this one. We don’t wish to give it over to Death’s grasp.”

  “And yet we must.” Banks gave a wry snort. “We live, we die.” He paused for a moment to watch one of the duke’s beloved pet birds fly into the room and perch atop a marble bust of Sir Robert Boyle. “It’s the natural order of the world, from the tiniest organisms we see in our microscopes to us supreme beings.”

  “So it seems,” agreed DeVere. “And yet, all of us would agree there is much we don’t know about the workings of the universe. Perhaps the secret of Life is out there, waiting to be discovered by one of our young luminaries.”

  “Hear, hear,” murmured Banks. “Ideas that many considered no better than lunatic ramblings a century ago are now at the forefront of science.”

  “Yes, as Humboldt so eloquently says, Reason and Imagination lead us to new ways of seeing the cosmos,” replied DeVere. “There are those who believe Nature will be stripped of its magic if we learn all its secrets. But I think that knowledge will never kill the creative force of imagination. Rather, it inspires excitement, astonishment—and a sense of wonder.”

  Banks nodded thoughtfully. “An interesting point.”

  “Only consider the new discoveries of Volta, and his voltaic battery. The possibilities are exciting. If—” began DeVere, only to be interrupted by Rumford, who abruptly hailed two young men who had just entered the main room from one of the side salons.

  “Ah, speaking of our young luminaries—here are the Golden Geminis, our bright flames for the future! Come here, my dear fellows, and allow me to introduce you to Sir Joseph,” he called in a booming voice. To Banks, he added, “Enough prosing from us old men. Lord Chittenden and his younger brother represent the new generation of our country’s intellectuals.”

  Seeing that his own observations had been nipped in the bud, DeVere narrowed his eyes in irritation and then moved away to join another group of scholars.

  The young men squeezed past the crowd at the refreshment table and hurried to acknowledge the count’s summons.

  “It’s a great honor to meet such a legendary man of science, Sir Joseph,” said Cedric, Lord Chittenden, giving a deferential bow to Banks after greeting the others. “Though Count Rumford is being way too kind. My brother and I are merely callow dabblers—”

  “On the contrary, Chittenden. True, you have much to learn, but the two of you embody the future,” said Rumford. “Your contributions to our weekly discussions at the Royal Institution show great imagination and curiosity. I sense great potential in your abilities. Indeed, I’m sure you will make meaningful contributions to the betterment of society.”

  “That is high praise indeed, milord.” With a flush of pleasure darkening his cheekbones, Cedric acknowledged the compliment with a self-deprecating smile. “But—”

  “But be assured my brother and I will do our best to live up to your expectations,” interjected his younger sibling with an air of confidence.

  “Yes, of course. My sentiments exactly.” Another smile, though his eyes seemed to flick a warning at his companion. “As you see, Nicholas and I tend to think alike.”

  The clever remark drew appreciative chuckles from the older gentlemen. The brothers were twins, so close in appearance that acquaintances often had trouble telling them apart. Tall, golden-haired, and gifted with faces that mirrored the fine-boned masculine beauty of a Botticelli painting, they were fast becoming the darlings of the Royal Institution for both their boyish charm and scientific acumen since arriving from the North to take up residence in London several months ago.

  “Let us toast to great thoughts and great expectations,” said Rumford, and then gave a small cluck of concern on seeing their glasses were empty. “Ah, but you’re both in need of more champagne.” He moved away before the young men could demur, and returned a few moments later with two tapered flutes filled with sparkling wine.

  “The first lesson that you young jackanapes must learn is that one never allows one’s glass to be empty at gatherings like this,” drawled Rumford. “Liquid refreshments keep the conversations well lubricated.”

  “Ah, well if you insist.” Nicolas flashed a crooked grin and accepted the drinks. “Cedric and I certainly don’t wish to disappoint,” he said, turning to his brother with an exaggerated flourish.

  Cedric hesitated, then dutifully took one of the glasses.

  “To exploring beyond the current boundaries of science,” said Nicholas with effervescent enthusiasm.

  “Nicky,” murmured Cedric softly, looking a little embarrassed at his brother’s cocky outburst in front of London’s leading men of science.

  “That’s the spirit!” applauded the count.

  “Yes, to exploration,” said Banks, staring meditatively at the last bit of brandy in his goblet before he raised it in salute. “And the never-ending discovery of new knowledge.”

  “The hour is late, Sir Joseph,” said Banks’s physician, discreetly taking hold of the Bath chair’s handles as soon as the toasts were downed. “It’s time to take you home.”

  “It’s a cursed nuisance to grow old,” grumbled the elderly scholar, surrendering his empty goblet with a scowl. “It appears I must bid you adieu,” he added, giving a curt wave to the group as he was wheeled away.

  After darting a look at the tall case clock in the corner of the room, Cedric gave an apologetic shrug. “My brother and I must be going as well.”

  “I daresay the prospect of more pleasurable company than a gaggle of aging intellectuals lies ahead,” said Rumford with a wink.

  “For Nicholas, perhaps, but not for me,” answered Cedric politely. “Unfortunately, I have some pressing estate matters to review for the morrow, so I will be heading back to my town house.”

  “Poor Cedric—I shall take it upon myself to drown your sorrows.” Looking a little unsteady on his feet, Nicholas allowed a laugh at his own witticism and clapped an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “As we younger sons have no official duties, we must find other ways to keep boredom at bay.” Another shaky laugh. “Come, we had better take our leave from the duke and be off.”

  After exchanging the requisite polite pleasantries, the pair hurried off to thank the Duke of Sussex and make their way out into the night.

  * * *

  The air had taken on a chill, the dampness forming serpentine swirls of mist. Stirred by the breeze, the ghostly pale vapor floated through the leafy shadows of the topiary trees lining the graveled walkways.

  They paused, both taking a moment to look up at the stars playing hide-and-seek among the scudding clouds.

  “Nicky,” murmured Cedric. “If I may be allowed a word of counsel, I fear you’re becoming a trifle too fond of brandy and wine. It does you no credit, especially among such a learned circle of gentlemen. A reputation for unsteadiness—”

  “Ye gods, what a stiff-rumped prig you’ve become,” interrupted Nicholas. “Since Father died and you inherited the title, your pompous prosing has become a dreadful bore.” His eyes darkened. “Or perhaps it’s you who are stirring the malicious whispers of my unsteadiness in order to distract attention from your own.”

  Cedric stared for a moment in mute shock. “T-That’s a damnably unfair accusation—”

  “Ha! You, of all people, aren’t entitled to talk about fairness,” jeered his younger brother. “Pray tell, where is the fairness in you getting everything simply by virtue of popping out of the womb a mere three minutes before I did?” Nicholas sucked in a harsh breath and wagged a warning finger. “As for unsteadiness, have a care, dear twin. I think you are treading on far more dangerous ground than I am.”

  Clenching his teeth, Cedric remained silent. There was no point in trying to reason with Nicholas when he was in the grip of such unreasonable anger. And besides, his own blood was now up. He had shared everything—everything—that could be shared. If the title could be sliced in two, he would have shared that, too! His brother had no cause for complaint.

  As for his own activities here in London . . .

  “Nothing to say?” Nicholas flashed a rude gesture and turned away. “Then you may take your lordly lecture and shove it back down your gullet.”

  “Arse,” muttered Cedric as he watched his brother stalk away. Nicky’s drinking was becoming worrisome, sparking volatile mood swings. A gentle chiding—the duty of an older brother, he told himself—was no reason for such caustic comments about acting the high-and-mighty lord. The mantle of responsibility, along with the title of Baron Chittenden, had only recently come to rest on his shoulders. And if truth be told, it was still an uneasy burden.

  The devil take it—Nicky has no idea of its weight!

  Granted, he may have strayed into making some unwise decisions recently, but he was taking steps to correct the lapse . . .

  Cedric winced and pressed his palms to his throbbing temples. As for alcohol, he had drunk more than he was used to, and was feeling a little light-headed. Drawing a deep breath, he wandered deeper into the Palace gardens, trying to gather his wits. Perhaps a short stroll through the famous wiggly walks would help to clear his head before he headed out to the street to hail a hackney.

  He dimly recalled that Queen Anne’s Alcove, an architectural gem designed by Christopher Wren, was located nearby. Praised as a sanctuary of peace and beauty, it held a lovely covered seating area for quiet reflection . . .

  On impulse, he cut across to one of the curling side pathways.

  Crunch-crunch. It took a moment for his befuddled brain to realize that he was not the only one treading over the well-raked stones.

  Is Nicky coming back to apologize?

  Cedric slowly turned. Clouds covered the moon, and though the upper windows of the Palace were ablaze with light, the gardens were shrouded in shadows, the flitting black-on-black shapes blurring together with the dark silhouettes of the shrubbery. He squinted, trying to make out any sign of life within the amorphous gloom.

  Nothing.

  A figment of his cup-shot imagination, he decided. The champagne had begun to stir a bilious churning in his gut and it was now bubbling up to pound against his temples.

  He continued on, though his steps were growing more erratic.

  Crunch-crunch. Up ahead, Cedric spotted a marble structure of exquisite beauty rising out of the mist-swirled darkness. Classical columns flanked an arched opening in its center. Set beneath the vaulted ceiling of the semicircular space was a curved wooden bench built into the decorative dark oak paneling.

  “Wren understood the exquisite beauty of symmetry,” he murmured, taking a moment to gaze up in admiration before stumbling up the steps and taking a seat.

  Stretching out his legs, Cedric released a pent-up breath and watched the moonlight flitter over the tips of his boots. Ivy ruffled against stone. Crickets chirped. From within the dark silhouette of the nearby boxwood hedge, a bird twittered a low, languid night song.

  The cosmos was a wondrous place, alive with infinite possibilities and interconnections, he reminded himself, feeli ng his earlier agitation mellow into a pleasant fugue of wine and the ideas stirred by the scientific soiree.

  It was heady stuff—to hear such learned men expound on the idea that scientific discovery involved passion, as well as the mere recording of information. That it demanded poetry, as well as facts . . .

  Reason and imagination. Closing his eyes, Cedric felt a warmth pulse through him as he mulled over such thoughts. This was why he had come to London. To be inspired by the great minds of the country’s leading men of science, to be part of new discoveries . . .

  A sudden bump, wool against wool, jarred him from his reveries as someone sat down beside him.

  “Nicky?” he mumbled, shaking off his lethargy.

  In answer, a gloved hand clamped down over his mouth. Cedric tried to pull away, but found himself caught in a viselike grip. Eyes widening in disbelief, he tried to scream, only to have the breath crushed from his lungs as his assailant slammed him back against the oak paneling.

  No, no, no! It couldn’t be!

  He kicked out—an instant too late, as the steel-sharp knife blade slid between his ribs and pierced his vital organ.

  * * *

  The cloaked figure held his victim tenderly, letting the warm weight of the senseless body slump against his shoulder as he envisioned the heart shuddering to a stop, the blood ceasing to pulse through the veins.

  “Rest easy, my dear Cedric. You won’t have died in vain. This will all be for the greater good, I swear it.”

  He waited another long moment, inhaling the mist-chilled fragrances of the night. The clouds had blown off, leaving the black velvet of the heavens alive with a sparkling of diamond-bright stars.

  A good omen, if one believes in such signs.

  Taking out a large black silk handkerchief from his coat pocket, the assailant calmly wrapped it around the sleeve of his coat, then slowly withdrew the blade from Cedric’s chest. Starlight skittered along the razor-sharp blade as it cut again through the night.