Murder at Half Moon Gate Read online

  Books by Andrea Penrose

  Murder on Black Swan Lane

  Murder at Half Moon Gate

  MURDER AT HALF MOON GATE

  Andrea Penrose

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 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: 2017955130

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

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1079-6

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: April 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1080-2

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1080-0

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2018

  To my perfect partner-in-crime

  (You know who you are)

  “Blood only serves

  to wash ambition’s hands.”

  —Lord Byron

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing is a very solitary endeavor . . . which makes the support of family and friends even more special.

  And so, I shall begin with a big shout-out to all my family, who love books and the nuances of language as much as I do. It’s such fun to talk about ideas and the craft of writing with you.

  As always, I’m so grateful to my fellow Word Wenches—Joanna Bourne, Nicola Cornick, Anne Gracie, Susanna Kearsley, Susan King, Mary Jo Putney and Pat Rice—for all your help in brainstorming plots and characters . . . not to speak of all the hugs and copious amounts of cyber wine and chocolate you send when I’m sniveling about how badly The Muse is behaving. It’s a pleasure—and a privilege—to be part of such a wonderful BFF sisterhood of writing.

  Special thanks also go out to John R. Ettinger, whose suggestions for plot and character twists are even more devious than mine! And I’m profoundly grateful for beta readers and dear friends Lauren Willig, Deanna Raybourn, Amanda McCabe and Patrick Pinnell for all your suggestions and support.

  And lastly, a heartfelt Regency curtsey to my wonderful professional partners—my agent, Gail Fortune, my editor, Wendy McCurdy, the Kensington PR team, and the Kensington Art Department, who have created such a fabulous cover!

  PROLOGUE

  A thick mist had crept in from the river. It skirled around the man’s legs as he picked his way through the foul-smelling mud, drifting up to cloud the twisting turns of the narrow alleyways. He paused for a moment to watch the vapor ghosting through the gloom.

  A shiver of gooseflesh snaked down his spine.

  Shifting, he peered into the darkness, trying to spot the wrought iron arches of Half Moon Gate. But only a shroud of black-on-black shadows lay ahead.

  He was unfamiliar with London, and must have confused the directions. From Red Lion Square, he had taken three—or was it four?—turns, only to find himself lost in a maze of unlit alleyways. Squat warehouses, all sagging slants and filthy brick, were squeezed along the crooked turns, while the boarded-up rookeries rose up at drunken angles, blocking out all but the smallest slivers of sky. A glance up showed only a weak dribbling of moonlight playing hide and seek within the overhanging roofs.

  “Logic,” he murmured. “There’s no conundrum that can’t be solved by logic.” Turning in a slow circle, he sought to get his bearings.

  Left, he decided. Heading left would quickly bring him back to the cobbled streets of the Square, where he could start over.

  He set off again, sure that he’d soon see a glint of light. And yet, the shadows seemed to darken and creep closer. He tried to draw a calming breath, but the stench made him gag.

  “Logic,” he reminded himself. Just another turn or two would bring him—

  He stopped abruptly.

  So, too, did the scuff of steps behind him. But not quite quickly enough. By the laws of physics, it couldn’t have been an echo.

  “Who’s there?” he called sharply. His wife had warned him to ignore the note requesting a meeting. He’d intended to do so, but the second missive had been impossible to ignore. So much depended on making the right decision . . .

  There was no response, save for the rasp of rusted metal swinging in the breeze.

  He chided himself for being too jumpy. The crooked walls and overhanging roofs distorted sounds, that was all. He resumed walking, turning left, and then right, and then left again—only to have the sinking sensation that he was walking in circles. There was no flicker of light anywhere. The shadows seemed to darken and creep closer.

  From out of nowhere came a low, rasping laugh.

  He quickened his pace.

  Steady, steady, he told himself. The Square had to be just ahead.

  And yet, his boots seemed to have a mind of their own. Faster, faster . . . Behind him, the echo seemed to be gaining ground. It seemed to be coming from the right—he must head left!

  Slipping, sliding, he lost his footing as he turned the corner of a deserted warehouse and hit up hard against the soot-dark brick. Pain lanced through his shoulder.

  “Hell’s bells.” He braced his back against the wall, drawing in a shaky breath. No educated, intelligent man of science should let himself be spooked by nonexistent specters. Logic . . .

  And yet, against all logic the pursuing steps were growing louder. And then, out of the shadows rumbled a taunting voice.

  “You may be brilliant in the laboratory, but here in the stews there’s no fancy formula for escape, Mr. Ashton.”

  Pushing away from the wall, Ashton took off at a dead run.

  What devil-cursed hell had he stumbled into?

  Straight ahead, a wall loomed out of the blackness. He hesitated for an instant, and then the sound of pursuit once again drove him to his left. After skidding through yet another turn he tried to summon an extra burst of speed. But a slip sent him sprawling.

  He hit the ground with a thud, rolled through the ooze and was halfway up on his feet when a gloved hand—black as Lucifer—shot out and caught hold of his collar. His assailant swung him around and slammed him against an iron grate.

  Instinctively, he threw up his arm to parry the blow aimed at his skull. His assailant rocked back, and Ashton heard the whisper of steel kissing leather as a knife slipped free of its sheath.

  He was no longer young, but he’d spent most of his life shaping iron with hammer and chisel. His arms were still muscled, his hands still strong. He
had no intention of giving up without a fight.

  Throwing his weight to one side, he broke free of the other man’s hold and lashed out a hard punch, taking grim satisfaction in feeling his broad knuckles crack against the other man’s skull.

  A grunt of pain, a vicious oath. Shifting the knife from hand to hand, his assailant retreated a step, then pivoted and moved in more warily. The moon had once again broken through the clouds, allowing a dappling of light to reach the slivered alleyway. It slid along the razored steel now cutting slowly back and forth through the night.

  Ashton fished out his purse and threw it down. “Here, take my money. I’ve nothing else of value with me.”

  His assailant let out a nasty laugh. A mask hid his face, but a malevolent glint showed through the eye slits in the silk.

  “I don’t want money. I want the drawings.”

  How did a common footpad know about the drawings? “W-What drawings?” he stammered.

  In answer, the blade flashed a series of lightning-swift feints, driving Ashton back up against unyielding iron bars. He was now trapped in the narrow gated recess between two warehouses. In desperation, he lashed out a kick, but Evil Eyes was quick as a snake. Dodging the blow, he smashed a knee to Ashton’s groin.

  “I’m tired of playing cat and mouse games with you.”

  “I don’t have—” gasped Ashton.

  But a vicious elbow to the throat crushed his windpipe before he could go on.

  No, no, no, he mouthed in silent agony. Dear God—not now! Not when his momentous discovery was on the cusp of changing the world.

  “Please, just let me live,” he managed to whisper.

  “Let you live?” The knife pierced the flesh between Ashton’s ribs. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  There was no pain, just an odd tickling sensation. How strange, he thought. Steam was always so pleasantly warm, but the silvery mist caressing his cheeks was cold as the Devil’s heart.

  “You see, Mr. Ashton, letting you live would ruin everything.”

  * * *

  Evil Eyes let the lifeless body drop to the ground. A search of Ashton’s pockets turned up nothing but a pencil stub, a coil of twine and a scrap of wire. Uttering a low oath, he wrenched open the dead man’s coat and set to slitting open the lining with the still-bloody knife.

  Nothing.

  Trousers, boots, stockings—the blade sliced through the garments and still not a scrap of god-benighted paper was to be found.

  As disbelief gave way to fury, Evil Eyes slashed a series of jagged cuts through the pale flesh of Ashton’s exposed belly.

  “Damn you to hell! Where are they?”

  CHAPTER 1

  “Why is it that I never win at dice and cards, Wrex?” Christopher Sheffield kicked aside a mound of rotting cabbage before leading the way through a low archway. “While you always walk away from the gaming hells with your pockets stuffed with blunt.” He expelled a mournful sigh. “It defies logic.”

  The Earl of Wrexford raised a brow in bemusement. “Hearing you invoke the word ‘logic’ is what defies reason.”

  “No need to be sarcastic,” grumbled Sheffield.

  “Fine. If your question was truly meant to be more than rhetorical, the answer is I watch the cards carefully and calculate my chances.” He sidestepped a broken barrel. “Try thinking, Kit. And counting.”

  “Higher mathematics confuses my feeble brain,” retorted his friend.

  “Then why do you play?”

  “I was under the impression that one doesn’t have to be smart to gamble,” protested Sheffield. “Didn’t that fellow Pascal—and his friend Fermat—formulate ideas on risk and probability ? I thought the odds should be roughly fifty-fifty for me winning simply by playing blindly.” He made a rueful grimace. “Bloody hell, by that calculation, I must be due to win a fortune, and soon.”

  “So you weren’t actually sleeping through lectures at Oxford?” said Wrexford dryly.

  “I was just dozing.” A pause. “Or more likely I was cup-shot. Aberdeen was awfully generous with his supply of fine brandy.”

  “Speaking of brandy,” murmured the earl as he watched his friend stumble and nearly fall on his arse. “You’ve been drinking too much lately.”

  “Hell’s teeth, since when did you become such a stick in the mud?”

  “Since you led me into this putrid-smelling swamp of an alleyway,” he retorted. His own wits were a little fuzzed with alcohol, and he winced as he slipped, nearly losing his balance. “Pray, why are we taking this route past Half Moon Gate? Tyler will raise holy hell at having to clean this disgusting muck from my boots.”

  “Heaven forbid we upset your valet.” Sheffield made a face. “You know, you’re in danger of becoming no fun to carouse with.”

  Wrexford came to a halt as the alley branched off into three twisting passages. “Which way?”

  “The middle one,” said Sheffield without hesitation. “As for why we’re cutting through here, there are two reasons. It’s much shorter than circling around by the main street.” A grunt, as he slipped again. “More importantly, there’s a chance we’ll encounter a footpad, and given my recent losses at the gambling tables, I’m in the mood to thrash someone to a bloody pulp.”

  The earl tactfully refrained from comment. Like many younger sons of aristocratic families, his friend was caught in a damnably difficult position. The heir and firstborn usually had a generous stipend—and if not, tradesmen were willing to advance generous credit. But those who trailed behind were dependent on parental pursestrings. Sheffield’s father, however, was a notorious nipcheese, and kept him on a very puny allowance.

  In retaliation, Sheffield made a point of acting badly, a vicious cycle that did no one any good.

  It was, mused Wrexford, a pity, for Kit had a very sharp mind when challenged to use it. He had been of great help in solving a complicated crime a handful of months ago—

  “Has Mrs. Sloane decided to move to a different neighborhood?” asked his friend, abruptly changing the subject.

  “The last time I paid her a visit, she made no mention of it,” he replied.

  Sheffield shot him an odd look. “You didn’t ask?”

  The squish-squish of their steps filled the air. Wrexford deliberately said nothing.

  “Never mind,” murmured his friend.

  Charlotte Sloane. A sudden stumble forced a sharp huff of air from his lungs. That was a subject he didn’t care to discuss, especially as the throbbing at the back of his skull was growing worse.

  He and Charlotte Sloane had been drawn together—quite literally—by the gruesome murder of a leading religious zealot, a crime for which he had been the leading suspect. Secrets twisted around secrets—one of the more surprising ones had been that the notorious A. J. Quill, London’s leading satirical artist, was a woman. Circumstances had led him and Charlotte to join forces in order to unravel a diabolically cunning plot and unmask the real miscreant.

  Their initial mistrust had turned into wary collaboration, and then to friendship—though that was, mused Wrexford, a far too simple word to describe the bond between them.

  Chemistry. As an expert in science, Wrexford could describe in objective detail how the combination of their special talents seemed to stir a powerful reaction. However, they lived in different worlds and moved in vastly different circles here in Town. Rich and poor. Aristocrat and Nobody. Charlotte had made it clear after solving the crime that said circles were unlikely to overlap again.

  Despite her assumption, he did pay an occasional visit to her humble home—simply out of friendship—to ensure that she and the two urchin orphans she had taken under her wing were suffering no consequences for helping prove his innocence. But given his own reputation for being a cold-hearted bastard, Sheffield didn’t need to know—

  “We turn again here.”

  Sheffield’s murmur drew Wrexford from his brooding.

  “Mind your head,” added his friend as he squeezed thr
ough a gap between two derelict buildings. “A beam has broken loose from the roof.”

  The alleyway widened, allowing them to walk on side by side.

  Wrexford grimaced as a particularly noxious odor rose up to assault his nostrils. “The next time you want my company while you try your luck at the gaming tables, let’s choose a more civilized spot than The Wolf’s Lair. I really don’t fancy—” His words cut off sharply as he spotted a flutter of movement in the shadows up ahead.

  He heard an oath and the sudden rustling of some unseen person scrambling to his feet and racing away.

  “Don’t fancy what?” asked Sheffield, who had stopped to light a cheroot.

  “Strike another match and hand it over,” demanded Wrexford. “Quickly!”

  Sheffield dipped a phosphorus-tipped stick into a tiny bottle of nitric acid, igniting a flame.

  Wrexford took it and approached the corner of a brick warehouse. Crouching down, he watched the sparking point of fire illuminate what lay in the mud and then expelled a harried sigh.

  “I really don’t fancy finding yet another dead body.”

  * * *

  Setting aside her pen, Charlotte Sloane took up a fine-pointed sable brush and added several bold strokes of blood-red crimson to her drawing.

  Man versus Machine. Her latest series of satirical prints was proving very popular. And thank God for it, considering that there had been no sensational murder or flagrant royal scandal of late to titillate the public’s prurient interest. As A. J. Quill, London’s most celebrated gadfly, she made her living by skewering the high and mighty, as well as highlighting the foibles of society.

  Peace and quiet put no pennies in her pocket.

  Charlotte expelled a small sigh. Financial need had compelled her to take over her late husband’s identity as the infamous Quill, and she was damnably good at it. However, her income would disappear in a heartbeat if it ever became known that a woman was wielding the pen. She, of all people, knew that no secret—however well hidden—was perfectly safe. But among the many hard-won skills she had acquired over the last few years was the art of survival.