Murder at Queen's Landing Read online

  Books by Andrea Penrose

  Murder on Black Swan Lane

  Murder at Half Moon Gate

  Murder at Kensington Palace

  Murder at Queen’s Landing

  MURDER AT QUEEN’S LANDING

  ANDREA PENROSE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  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

  CHAPTER 31

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 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: 2020937088

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

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2284-3

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2286-7 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2286-8 (ebook)

  To Darius “Jake” Roy, David Jiang, and Brett Gu

  Intrepid heroes of Saybrook

  Thanks for letting me write you into my story. I look

  forward to reading all the wonderful chapters you’re

  going to write in your own lives.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing entails much solitary effort, which makes me even more grateful for all the wonderful people who help bring a book from that first faint glimmer of an idea to the printed (and digital) page.

  Many thanks go to my wonderful agent, Kevan Lyon, for her guidance and encouragement in navigating the ever-changing waters of modern publishing. And I’m incredibly grateful to my fabulous editor, Wendy McCurdy, whose suggestions and counsel always make me a better writer.

  I’m also sending heartfelt shout-outs to special friends....

  To “Professor Plotto,” whose astounding breadth of knowledge—from the esoteric to the sublime—is a source of constant inspiration. (As are the diabolical plot twist suggestions!)

  To my amazing blog group, the Word Wenches—Joanna Bourne, Nicola Cornick, Anne Gracie, Susanna Kearsley, Susan King, Mary Jo Putney, and Patricia Rice—who are always there with a cyber crying towel and a virtual slug of single malt scotch! I’m extraordinarily lucky to have such wonderful brainstorming partners and beta readers. But most of all, I’m extraordinarily lucky to have such wonderful friends....

  To Lauren Willig, for our Yale Club cookie brainstorming sessions . . . to Deanna Raybourn and Beatriz Williams, for all the fun and inspiration of tossing around creative ideas . . . to the Saybrook Fellowship, whose collective creativity and scholarship are constant reminders that books and ideas make the world a brighter place . . .

  And lastly, hugs to all the PR, production, and art staff at Kensington Books. You guys are the best!

  PROLOGUE

  “Halloo?”

  A sudden gust of wind moaned in answer, its salt-sharp swirls tugging at the shoulder capes of the gentleman’s elegant overcoat. He took a tentative step into the narrow alleyway between the unlit warehouses, then drew in a shaky breath as his soft-as-butter Hessian boots sank deeper into the muck.

  “I must be mad,” he muttered. But he couldn’t afford to ignore the summons, no matter that every bone in his body was howling that what it implied couldn’t be true.

  “One, two . . .” Wincing at the squelch of every slow, sucking step, Hessian Boots felt his way along the grimy brick until he found the iron hasp of the fourth door. As promised, the massive padlock was unfastened, and the age-dark oak creaked open at his touch.

  Fear slithered down his spine. It was dark as a crypt inside.

  “Would that I could retreat,” he whispered. To carefree days of sun and laughter, of privilege and pleasure. But there was no going back. The only choice was stumble ahead and try to find a way—

  A hand seized his arm, yanking him deeper into the gloom. The door thudded shut behind him.

  “W-what the devil—”

  “Shhhh!” hissed his captor, shaking him to silence. “Stay quiet, or you’ll get your throat cut.”

  Hessian Boots felt panic rise in his gorge. “But why?” he demanded. “What your note implied is . . .” A swallow. “Impossible.”

  A laugh, low and mirthless, as a flint struck steel and a tiny flame sparked to life. Flexing his black-gloved fingers, his captor shifted the single candle and pulled a packet from inside his coat. “See for yourself. I’ve made copies of enough documents concerning Argentum to prove that what I said is true. Unlike you fancy, fork-tongued serpents, the numbers don’t lie.”

  In the flickering light, the oilskin seemed to dip and sway through the shadows, like a cobra about to strike.

  Argentum. Ye gods, so it wasn’t a bluff. The man knew.

  “How did you discover all this?” demanded Hessian Boots, keeping his hands fisted at his sides. He had been told that the venture was a closely guarded secret, known only to a privileged few.

  “Never mind. What matters is that you need to stop it.”

  “But . . .” A ruse—this was a filthy ruse to destroy all the imagination and hard work that had gone into the venture. Argentum would create a whole new world of opportunities for the future, so of course, there were those who would try to stop it.

  By whatever means it took.

  “But I can’t stop it,” lied Hessian Boots. “It’s too late for that.”

  “You had better pray you’re wrong,” said Black Gloves.

  Despite the damp chill swirling up from the river, sweat was dripping from his brow, the salt stinging his eyes. “W-what do you—”

  A fierce bark suddenly shattered the nighttime stillness, its echo reverberating against the close-set buildings.

  “You hear that? The night watchmen and their hellhounds are starting to make their round.” Black Gloves pressed in closer. “We can’t afford to linger.”

  Hessian Boots felt the packet being thrust into his coat pocket.

  “Good versus Evil . . . Read the documents and then you must decide which side you’re on. Trust me, your life will likely depend on your choice.”

  The flame sputtered and went out, shrouding them in a darkness blacker than Satan’s maw.

  His thoughts were spinning helter-pelter, so it took him an instant to react. “What do you mean? Who are you?” he demanded.

  But a dull thunk and a flutter of chill air was the only answer.

  After a heartbeat of hesitation, Hessian Boots edged his way to the door and found the iron latch. Pressing his f
orehead to the dank wood, he gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering.

  Damnation—surely this must be some devil-cursed nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake. But the prickling splinters against his skin and the foul-smelling mud seeping through his boots were all too real.

  A hound barked again.

  The sound roused him from self-pity. Escape—I must escape. He wasn’t the only one at risk.

  After easing the latch up, Hessian Boots opened the door a crack and ventured a peek. And thankfully saw naught but a shadowy gloom. Darkness, he realized, was now a blessing, not a curse.

  Spotting no sign of life, he darted to the corner of the warehouses and after a small pause, ducked low and ran to take cover among the hogshead barrels stacked by the loading area.

  The gate where he had entered wasn’t far. Another few minutes. . .

  But then a blade of lantern light sliced through the thick fog, stirring pale curls of mist.

  Heart hammering, Hessian Boots held his breath as fear suddenly fisted around his chest. It had to be a ruse! His partners had warned him that jealous rivals would seek to stop the venture if word of it somehow got out. Black Gloves had likely passed on falsely incriminating documents in order to foment mistrust and dissention. Or . . .

  He forced himself to swallow his terror. Or perhaps there was an even darker explanation....

  His thoughts began to spin, specters tangling with suspicions. Nothing was making any sense.

  It seemed to take forever, but at last the sounds of the patrolling guard faded away. Which seemed only to amplify the ominous groans and creaks from the nearby wharves. Rusty metal . . . rotting wood . . . Hessian Boots released a sigh as another menacing thought crept into his head....

  The worn-out bones of those who toiled in endless misery to make the rich even more obscenely rich.

  “What a bloody fool I’ve been,” he moaned.

  Water slurped against the barnacled pilings, the receding tide giving way to the stench of decay.

  Hessian Boots slipped free of the barrels and hurried to a narrow cart path that led through another warren of windowless warehouses and out to the side gate set in the dockyard’s perimeter wall. Hugging close to the shadows, he quickened his steps.

  A right turn and then a left turn . . .

  A shove knocked him off-balance, and suddenly he was falling, falling—

  “You can’t go that way,” warned Black Gloves, yanking him upright and pushing him back into the shadows. His shoulder hit hard against jagged brick as smooth leather-clad hands forced him into a narrow passageway between two windowless buildings.

  “They’re waiting at the gate,” added Black Gloves. “There’s another way out. Follow me. The stone landing ramp can be crossed at low tide.”

  Digging in his heels, Hessian Boots tried to shake loose from the other man’s hold. “Let go of me! I’m not playing any more of your filthy games.” He fumbled at his pocket, trying to reach the packet of papers and fling it into the mud.

  “Don’t be daft.” Black Gloves tightened his grip and pulled him closer. “Trust me, if we try to leave by the gate, we’re dead men.”

  “I don’t believe—” His words died in a gasp as a dribble of moonlight caught the lethal flash of steel.

  Black Gloves had pulled a knife and was angling the blade upward.

  “Damn you to hell,” rasped Hessian Boots, fear turning to fury as he heard someone else scrabble into the narrow passageway.

  A trap!

  He lashed out a kick that buckled his captor’s knee, then lunged and seized the hand holding the knife.

  Punching, kicking shoving, swearing—Hessian Boots was vaguely aware of a third man joining the fray. Friend or foe? Impossible to tell. Reason had given way to the primal, primitive instinct to survive.

  Steel sliced a gash across his knuckles. Recoiling, he swung a wild punch and heard a grunt of pain. The blade flickered, a quicksilver gleam against the dark blur of bodies.

  Hessian Boots punched again and for an instant felt a sticky wetness beneath his fingers before a blow from behind knocked the wind from his lungs and sent him careening into the wall.

  Run!

  Was it a shout from Black Gloves or merely his inner voice of self-preservation?

  “Run!” The cry came again.

  Dizzy, disoriented, Hessian Boots gasped for breath, squinting through the gloom as the two thrashing shadows spun toward him. A strange cacophony filled his ears: the thrum of his own blood pulsing through his veins . . . amplified by a strange thudding.

  And then suddenly from the maze of warehouses rose flashes of light bouncing wildly off the bricks, punctuated by shouts and snarling barks.

  It was the thought of gnashing teeth tearing at his flesh that roused him. Evading a grab at his coat, Hessian Boots pushed away from the wall and plunged deeper into the passageway, following it blindly until at last he saw a glimmer of lamplight and the silhouette of the stone landing ramp up ahead. Slipping, sliding, he raced across the still-wet muck and somehow managed to reach the street.

  Run!

  Gut churning, legs pumping, boots pounding the cobbles, he willed himself to go faster, praying for escape from the hounds of hell snapping at his heels.

  CHAPTER 1

  “No.” The Earl of Wrexford gave a critical squint at the waistcoat. “Absolutely not.”

  His valet gave an aggrieved sniff. “You can’t mean to attend tonight’s gala ball dressed in unremitting black. You’ll look like an undertaker.”

  “You would rather I look like a street fiddler’s monkey?”

  Tyler bristled. “As if I would ever suggest something so vulgar.” He ran his hand over the exquisitely embroidered silk. “This particular shade of cerise embellished with midnight-dark thread is both stylish and sophisticated.”

  The earl made a rude sound. “Then you may wear it yourself. Preferably in the laboratory, when you are cleaning up the most caustic of our chemicals.”

  “You are an arse,” grumbled his valet. “And a fashion philistine.”

  “And might I point out that you are my humble servant.”

  “Not for long, if you insist on having such a boring wardrobe. A man of my rare talents needs challenges.”

  “Then go to the workroom library,” drawled the earl, “and fetch the book on Benjamin Silliman, so you can read up on his experiments with minerals.” He ran a hand through his hair, earning another huff. “I wish to see if we can replicate his results with acid on quartz. And then, assuming the results are what I expect, I have an idea I wish to try.”

  Tyler’s look of injured outrage quickly dissolved into one of curiosity. “Hmmm, acids, eh? Are you perchance thinking of adding vitriolic acid to Silliman’s original mix?”

  Wrexford was considered one of the most brilliant chemists in England, but most of his research was done in his private laboratory as he didn’t work well within the hierarchy of London’s prestigious scientific institutions. His sarcasm tended to offend people. Tyler, who served as his laboratory assistant as well as his valet, was one of the few people who could tolerate his mercurial moods.

  “Perhaps,” answered the earl.

  “I’ll have the summaries from my reading and all the supplies assembled by tomorrow.” The valet tucked the offending waistcoat under his arm and turned for the dressing room. But after a step, he paused. “Won’t you at least consider the silver and ebony stripe? It has the sort of subtle textures and elegance that Lady Charlotte would appreciate.”

  Charlotte Sloane. Wrexford hesitated and looked away to the leaded windows, where the darkening night shadows were teasing against the glass. A lady of infinite textures, woven of complexities and conflicts. Though that, he admitted, was rather like the pot calling the kettle black.

  “I don’t think Lady Charlotte gives a fig for how I’m dressed for the evening,” he replied.

  After all, she cloaked herself in quicksilver shadows. And s
ecrets—oh-so-many secrets. An involuntary twitch pulled at his mouth. One of the more surprising ones he had discovered was the fact that having assumed her late husband’s pen name, she was the notorious A. J. Quill, London’s leading satirical artist.

  They had first clashed when Wrexford had become the subject of her razor-sharp pen—that a highborn aristocrat had been accused of murder had had all of London abuzz. But they had come to form an uneasy alliance in order to find the real killer.

  Much to their mutual surprise, a friendship had developed. Though that was too simple a word to describe the bond between them. It had grown even more complicated over the course of several more murder investigations, in ways impossible to articulate. And recently, it had taken another twist—

  Tyler let out a huff, drawing the earl back from his musings. “She’s a gifted artist and a sharp-eyed observer. Of course she’ll notice all the little details that add color and texture to a blank canvas—or the lack thereof.” Another rude sound. “So don’t blame me if she decides you’re a man of no imagination or taste.”

  “Oh, please, Tyler, don’t tease Wrex into a foul humor,” came a voice from the corridor. A moment later, a tall, fair-haired gentleman attired in elegant evening clothes entered the sitting room of the earl’s bedchamber There was a certain insouciance to the not-quite-perfect folds of his cravat and rakehell smile.

  “Lady Charlotte will be nervous enough making her first foray into a Mayfair ballroom without having to endure his sharp-tongued sarcasm.” Christopher Sheffield fixed the earl with a wary look. “Please try to refrain from misbehaving tonight. Especially as you tend to do it deliberately.”

  Wrexford raised a brow. “Are you really chiding me for bad behavior?”

  Sheffield had been the earl’s close friend since their days at Oxford. The younger son of a marquess, he was allowed no responsibilities for running the vast ancestral estates, and his imperious father kept a stranglehold on the family purse strings, doling out naught but a tiny stipend. Bored and frustrated, Sheffield retaliated by drinking and gambling to excess—a pattern of behavior that did no one any good.