Murder Most Malicious

Books by Alyssa Maxwell

 

MURDER AT THE BREAKERS

MURDER AT MARBLE HOUSE

MURDER AT BEECHWOOD

 

MURDER MOST MALICIOUS

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

M
URDER
M
OST
M
ALICIOUS

A
LYSSA
M
AXWELL

KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

C
HAPTER
1

 

“H
enry, don't you dare ignore me!” The shout burst from behind the drawing-room doors, a command nearly drowned out by staccato notes pounded on the grand piano. “Henry, I'm speaking to you!”

Stravinsky's discordant
Firebird
broke off with a resounding crescendo. Voices replaced them, one male, one female, both distinctly taut and decidedly angry. Phoebe Renshaw came to an uneasy halt. She had thought the rest of her family and the guests had all gone up to bed. Across the Grand Hall, light spilled from the dining room as the butler and footmen continued clearing away the remnants of Christmas dinner.

With an indrawn breath she moved closer to the thickly paneled, double pocket doors.

“I'm very sorry, Henry, but it isn't going to happen,” came calmer, muffled words from inside, spoken by the feminine voice—a voice that sounded anything
but
sorry. Dismissive, disdainful, yes, but certainly not contrite. Phoebe sighed and rolled her eyes. As much as she had expected this, she shook her head that Julia had chosen Christmas night to break this news to her latest suitor. And this particular Christmas, too—the first peacetime holiday in nearly five years.

A paragon of tact and goodwill, that sister of hers.

“We are practically engaged, Julia. Why do you think your grandparents asked my family to spend Christmas here at Foxwood? Everyone is expecting us to wed. Our estates practically border each other.” Incredulity lent an almost shrill quality to Henry's voice. “How could our union be any more perfect?”

“It isn't perfect to me,” came the cool reply.

“No? How on earth do you think you'll avoid a scandal if you break it off now?”

Phoebe could almost see her sister's cavalier shrug. “A broken not-quite-engagement is hardly fodder for scandal. I'm sorry—how many times must I say it? This is my decision and you've no choice but to accept it.”

Would they exit the drawing room now? Phoebe stepped backward intending to flee, perhaps dart behind the Christmas tree that dominated the center of the hall. Henry's voice, raised and freshly charged with ire, held her in place. “Do I? Do I
really
? You listen here, Julia Renshaw. Surely you don't believe you're the only one who knows a secret about someone.”

Phoebe glanced over her shoulder and sure enough, the two footmen, Douglas and Vernon, met her gaze through the dining-room doorway before hurrying on with their chores. Inside the drawing room, a burst of snide laughter from Henry raised the hair at her nape.

“What secret?” her sister asked after a moment's hesitation.

“
Your
secret,” Henry Leighton, Marquess of Allerton, said with a mean hiss that carried through the door.

“What . . . do you believe you know?”

“Must I outline the sordid details of your little adventure last summer?”

“How on earth did you discover... ?” Julia's voice faded.

It registered in Phoebe's mind that her sister hadn't bothered to deny whatever it was.

“Let's just say I kept an eye on you while I was on furlough,” Henry said, “and you aren't as clever as you think you are, not by half.”

“That was most ungentlemanly of you, Henry.”

“You had your chance to spend more time with me then, Julia, and you chose not to. I therefore chose to discover where you
were
spending your time.”

“Oh! How unworthy, even of you, Henry. Still, it would be your word against mine, and whom do you think Grampapa will believe? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed.”

“You are not walking away from this, Julia!” Henry's voice next plunged to a murmur Phoebe could no longer make out, but like a mongrel's growl it showered her arms with goose bumps.

The sound of shuffling feet was followed by a sharp “Oh!” from Julia. Phoebe's hands shot instinctively toward the recessed finger pulls on the doors, but she froze at the marquess's next words. “This is how it is going to be, my dear. You and I are going to announce our engagement to our families tomorrow morning, and shortly thereafter to the world. There will be parties and planning and yes, there
will
be a wedding. You will marry
me,
or you'll marry no one. Ever. I'll see to that.”

“You don't even know whether or not anything untoward happened last summer,” Julia said with all the condescension of which Phoebe knew she was capable, yet with a brittle quality that threatened her tenuous composure. “You're bluffing, Henry.”

“Am I? Are you willing to risk it? What would
Grampapa
think of his darling girl if he only knew the truth?”

Phoebe's breath caught in her throat at the thud of something hitting the rug inside. She gripped the bronze finger pulls just as Julia cried out.

“Let go of me!”

Phoebe thrust both doors wide, perfectly framing the scene inside. Julia, in her pale rose Poiret gown with its silver-beaded trim, stood with her back bowed in an obvious attempt to pull free of Henry's hold. A spiraling lock of blond hair had slipped from its pins on one side to stream past her shoulder. At her feet, a vase lay on its side, thankfully unbroken, the flowers and water it held now blending with the Persian weave. Four empty indentations in the rug testified to the side table having been rudely knocked askew. Meanwhile, Henry's dark hair stood on end, no doubt from raking his fingers through it. His brown eyes smoldering and his cheeks ruddy with drink, he had his hands on her—
on her!
His fingers were wrapped so tightly around Julia's upper arms they were sure to leave bruises.

For a moment no one moved. Phoebe stared. They stared back. Henry's bowtie hung loose on either side of his neck, his tailcoat and waistcoat unbuttoned with all the familiarity of a husband in his own home, his garnet shirt studs gleaming like drops of blood upon snow. Anger twisted his features. Then recognition dawned—of Phoebe, of the impropriety of the scene she had walked in on—and a measure of the ire smoothed from his features. He released Julia as though she were made of hot coals, turned away, and put several feet between them.

Phoebe steeled herself with a breath and forced a smile. “Oh, hullo there, you two. Sorry to barge in like this. I thought everyone had gone to bed. Don't mind me, I only came for a book, one I couldn't find in the library. Julia, do you remember where Grampapa stashed that American novel he didn't want Grams to know he was reading? You know, the one about the boy floating up that large river to help his African friend.”

“I don't know. . . .” Julia looked from Phoebe to Henry and back again. She brushed the errant lock behind her ear before hugging her arms around her middle. “I'll help you look. G-good night, Henry.”

“Were you just going up?” Without letting her smile slip, Phoebe glared at Henry and put emphasis on
going up.

A muscle bounced in the hard line of his jaw. His eyes narrowed, but he bobbed his head. “Good night, ladies. Julia, we'll talk more in the morning.”

He strode past Phoebe without a glance. Several long seconds later, his footfalls thudded on the carpeted stairs. Phoebe let go a breath of relief. She turned to slide the pocket doors closed, and as she did so two black-clad figures lingering in the dining-room doorway scurried out of sight.

There would be gossip below stairs come morning. Phoebe would worry about that later. She went to her sister and clasped her hands. “Are you all right?”

Julia whisked free and backed up a stride. “Of course I'm all right.”

“You didn't look all right when I came in. You still don't. What was that about?”

Julia twitched her eyebrows and turned slightly away, showing Phoebe her shoulder. Yes, the light pink weal visible against her pale upper arm confirmed tomorrow's bruises. “What was
what
about?”

“Don't play coy with me. What was Henry talking about? What secret—”

“Were you listening at the door?”

“I could hear you from the middle of the hall, and I think the servants in the dining room heard you as well. Lucky for you Grams and Grampapa retired half an hour ago. Or perhaps it isn't lucky. Perhaps this is something they should know about.”

“They don't need to know anything.”

“Why are you always so stubborn?”

“I'm done in, Phoebe. I'm going to bed.” Her perfectly sloping nose in the air, she started to move past Phoebe, but Phoebe reached out and caught her wrist. Julia stopped, still facing the paneled walnut doors, her gaze boring into them. “Release me at once.”

“Not until you tell me what you and Henry were arguing about. I mean, besides your breaking off your would-be engagement. That comes as no great surprise. But the rest . . . Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Julia snapped her head around to pin Phoebe with eyes so deeply blue as to appear black. “It's none of your business and I'll thank you to mind your own. Now let me go. I'm going to bed, and if you know what's good for you, you'll do the same.”

Stunned, her throat stinging from the rebuke, Phoebe let her hand fall away. She watched Julia go, the beaded train of her gown whooshing over the floor like water over rocks.

“I care about you,” Phoebe said in a barely audible whisper, something neither Julia, nor the footmen, nor anyone else in the house could possibly hear. She wished she could say it louder, say it directly to her prideful sister's beautiful face. And then what—be met with a repeat of the disdain Julia had just shown her? No. Phoebe had her pride, too.

 

Eva Huntford made her way past the main kitchen and into the servants' dining hall with a gown slung over each arm. Lady Amelia had spilled a spoonful of trifle down the front of her green velvet at dinner last night, while Lady Julia's mauve and silver beaded gown sported an odd rent near the left shoulder strap. It almost physically pained her to see such damage to the clothing she took such loving care of, and she briefly wondered what holiday activities could possibly result in such a tear. She dismissed the thought. Today was Boxing Day, but she had work to do before enjoying her own brief holiday later that afternoon.

“Mrs. Ellison, have you any bicarbonate of soda on hand? Lady Amelia spilled trifle—oh!” A man sat at the far end of the rectangular oak table, reading a newspaper. A cup of coffee sat steaming at his elbow. She draped the gowns over the back of a chair. “Good morning, Mr. Hensley. You're up early.”

“Evie, won't you call me Nick? How long have we known each other, after all?”

It was true, she and Nicolas Hensley had known each other as children, but they were adults now, she lady's maid to the Earl of Wroxly's three granddaughters, and he valet to their houseguest, the Marquess of Allerton. Propriety was, after all, of the utmost importance in a manor such as Foxwood Hall. Familiarity between herself and a manservant would hardly be considered proper. “A long time, yes,” she replied with a lift of her eyebrow, “but it's also been a long time since we've seen each other.”

He smiled faintly. “I saw you yesterday. And the day before that.”

“You know what I mean. We've been surrounded by the others, or have passed each other in the corridors as we've gone about our tasks.” She turned to go. “In fact, I should—”

“Evie, do stay. I've craved a moment alone with you. Don't look like that. I only wish to . . . to express my deepest condolences about Danny. My very deepest, Evie. A sad business, that.”

Her throat squeezed and the backs of her eyes stung. Danny, her brother . . . She swallowed. “Yes, thank you. A good many men did not come home from the war. They are heroes, all.”

“Indeed.”

Hang it all, this would never do, not on Boxing Day. In a couple of hours she would be free to trudge home through last night's dusting of snow to spend the afternoon with her parents, and they must not glimpse her sadness. She gave a little sniff, a slight toss of her head. There, better now. She smiled at Mr. Hensley. “Tell me, what are you doing down here at this time of the morning? Won't his lordship be abed for hours yet?”

“My employer is already up and out, actually.”

“On such a cold morning?” Shivering, she glanced up at the high windows, frosted over and sprinkled with last night's flurries.

Mrs. Ellison turned the corner into the room, her plump hand extended. Eva's requested soda fizzed away in the measuring cup she held. She handed Eva a clean rag as well. “Who's up and out on this frigid morning?”

Eva moved a place setting aside and spread the velvet gown's bodice open on the table. She dipped the rag in the soda. “Lord Allerton, apparently.” She looked quizzically over at Mr. Hensley.

He set down his newspaper. “At any rate, his lordship isn't in his room. I inquired with the staff setting up in the morning room and no one's yet seen him today.”

“One supposes he's gone out for a walk despite the weather, then.” Eva dabbed the dampened cloth lightly at the stain on Lady Amelia's bodice, careful of the embroidery and the tiny seed pearl buttons.

“Or perhaps a ride in that lovely motorcar of his?” Mrs. Ellison sighed longingly.

“No, I called down to the carriage house and his Silver Ghost is still there.” Mr. Hensley frowned in thought, a gesture that did not diminish his distinguished good looks. He was several years older than Eva and had briefly courted her sister before entering into service as an under footman here at Foxwood. The years had been more than kind to him, she couldn't help admitting. The slightest touch of silver at his temples might be premature for a man of thirty, but on Nick Hensley the effect was both elegant and charming.