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  UNSTAINED HANDS

  “Lady Darby is in there!”

  I stiffened as a gasp ran through the crowd behind the hedge. It appeared my efforts to go unnoticed had failed.

  “Did they finally catch her in the act?” the woman asked.

  “The butcher’s wife,” another one muttered.

  I tightened my arms around my body, swallowing the fear and anger that gathered at the back of my throat at hearing the old refrain.

  “You know that is absolute nonsense!” my sister exclaimed, joining the group behind the hedgerow.

  “Not this time,” Lady Westlock declared with decided relish. “She’s been caught red-handed. First one at the scene, wasn’t she?”

  “That is enough!” My sister, Alana, burst through the men blocking her access to the alcove. She marched to my side and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “I will not listen to any more of this ridiculousness.”

  “You cannot protect her forever,” Mrs. Smythe snapped as we passed. “She must answer for her actions.”

  Angry that once again I was to be subjected to more gossip, ridicule, and vicious name-calling, I lifted my hands and blinked innocently. “Look, my lady. No red.”

  She spluttered, and several of the other ladies gasped in indignation, fanning their faces as if they might swoon. A few of the men chuckled nervously.

  My sister pulled me harder through the crowd, wrenching my shoulder in her rush to distance us from the mob while they were all distracted. She shook her head. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

  “Sorry,” I murmured, even though we both knew that I wasn’t.

  THE ANATOMIST’S WIFE

  A Lady Darby Novel

  ANNA LEE HUBER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2012 by Anna Aycock.

  Cover art by Larry Rostant.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are registered trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / November 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Huber, Anna Lee.

  The anatomist’s wife : a Lady Darby novel / Anna Lee Huber.—Berkley trade paperback ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-425-25328-1 (alk. paper)

  1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Anatomists—Fiction. 3. Murder—Fiction. 4. Scotland—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.U238A85 2012

  813'.6—dc23

  2012026983

  For my husband, Shanon.

  With love, always and forever.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are so many people I wish to thank for making this book possible. A multitude of thanks go to . . .

  My agent, Kevan Lyon, and editor, Michelle Vega, for your enthusiasm and confidence in me as a writer, and for your tireless efforts to make this book even better.

  The staff at Berkley Publishing for all of your expertise and care in the creation of this book.

  My cousin Jackie Musser, and my friend Stacie Roth Miller—writing-group partners, beta readers, and cheerleaders extraordinaire. I owe so much of this book’s creation to your care and guidance, and your never-ending belief in me as a writer. You shared my triumphs and my tears, rejoicing with me or bolstering me when I needed it.

  My parents, Rich and Judy Huber, for your steadfast love and guidance. Without the confidence you instilled in me, I would never have found the courage to spread my wings and fly.

  My siblings—Adam, Christopher, Jeffery, Matthew, and Elizabeth—for helping to foster my imagination from the earliest days of childhood. I couldn’t have wished for better playmates.

  All my friends and family for all of your support and enthusiasm.

  My husband, and my brother Adam, both gifted artists, for answering the many and varied questions I put to you about oil painting. Any errors in this book are wholly my own.

  The Surgeons’ Hall Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons at Edinburgh, for their fascinating displays, including those on Burke and Hare, and the people of the UK, for welcoming my husband and me with open arms as I did my research.

  The staff at my local Starbucks for your support and well wishes, and for keeping me well supplied with chai tea lattes on those days when I simply could not concentrate at home.

  My troublemaking tabby cat, Pita, for keeping me company through the long days and nights of writing and editing. And for forcing me to take a break to pet you just when you knew I needed it most.

  And, finally, to my husband, Shanon, for everything. For loving me and supporting me. For giving me the strength and courage when I had no more left. For kissing away the tears of my disappointments and twirling me around in your arms when I succeeded. For never giving up on me. And for showing me what true love is.

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Be sure to live your life, because you are a long time dead.

  —SCOTTISH PROVERB

  AUGUST 1830

  SCOTLAND

  The scream froze me in my tracks, but the shout that followed propelled me out of my indecision and around the hedge line of the maze. Lady Lydia Perkins continued to shriek at ear-piercing levels while her escort, Mr. Tuthill, stared wide-eyed at the alcove across the path. Alarmed by the pallor of his face and the hysterical edge to Lady Lydia’s cries, I wondered if perhaps I should have turned back to search for help instead of rushing blindly toward them. I shuffled closer to see what had so disturbed them, and what I saw there sucked the breath from my lungs.

  Lady Godwin lay draped across a stone bench set into the alcove. Her eyes stared sightlessly into the night sky, and her mouth seemed frozen open on a scream. Blood coated her neck and lower face and spread down across her chest, obscuring her delicate skin and soaking the golden bodice of her gown.

  I stumbled back a step and clasped a hand over my mouth. Death was not unfamiliar to me. I had seen more than my fair share of corpses in my lifetime, and I had been quite happy to escape them for the last sixteen months. So I hardly relished the appearance of yet another one, and in my sister’s garden, no less. I shivered, feeling the fear and shadows stir inside me I had worked so hard to lay to rest since my husband’s death.

  Lady Lydia’s screams, which had transformed into a buzzing in my head, ended abruptly as she collapsed into Mr. Tuthill’s embrace. I tore my gaze away from the corpse to watch him struggle with the girl’s unconscious form. Lady Lydia was not exactly a small girl, but he managed to heft the earl’s sister into his arms nonetheless. Juggling her bulk, he cast a rather desperate look my way, and I wondered whether it was a plea for help or if he was worried I might also faint.

  Before I could reassure him of my fortitude, reinforcements arrived. Footsteps pounded over the earth, accompanied by several curses, as they struggled to locate the correct path through the maze. Lord Stratford was the first of my sister’s guests to appear around the bend in the hedges, followed closely by Mr. Fitzpatrick and Sir David. They skidded to a halt before us and exchanged glances before edging closer to peer into the leafy recess where I pointed. Sir David sucked in a breath so harshly I worried he might have swallowed his tongue.

  My eyes dropped from their horrified faces, unable to deal with the sight of their emotions when mine were still so raw. I studied the misaligned buttons of Lord Stratford’s coat and the mud splattered across Mr. Fitzpatrick’s trousers—anything to keep my gaze from meeting theirs.

  More and more people rounded the hedge of the maze, demanding to know what the clamor was all about. They pushed closer, horrified fascination glittering in their eyes as they jostled each other for a better view. Several ladies shrieked in alarm as word of Lady Godwin’s murder traveled back through the crowd, and I heard the resulting tumult from at least one gentlewoman passing out.

  I shrank back into the hedges, wishing there was someplace I could hide from their prying eyes. If only the leafy walls would open and allow me inside. My heart raced in panic, as it had so many times during that last month I spent in London.

  “Here, now. Let’s all remain calm.”

  A sigh of relief trembled through me at the sound of my brother-in-law’s voice. Philip, the Earl of Cromarty, pushed his way to the front of the mob and ordered several of the men to move everyone back, ignoring all of the protests. He spotted me, and his handsome face creased in worry.

  “Are you all right, Kiera?” he murmured, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  I nodded hesitantly, wanting to convince him I was well and yet knowing it would do no good to force a brave face. Philip would realize how far away I wished myself. No one had forgotten my past—not him, not the other guests, and especially not me.

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment before turning to the sight in the alcove. I listened absently to his hushed conversation with the other men, wondering when I could leave and whether anyone would say anything if I slipped past Mr. Tuthill deeper into the maze. I wrapped my arms around myself and studied my route of escape out of the corner of my eye. Perhaps if I were cautious, no one would notice.

  “Let me pass,” a pretentious voice in the crowd demanded. I pondered which obnoxious male thought he deserved access to the scene, and had just decided it must be Lord Marsdale, the Duke of Norwich’s heir, when Mr. Gage slid into view.

  Of course. The estimable Mr. Sebastian Gage, son of the newly minted Captain Lord Gage, war hero and London’s gentleman inquiry agent.

  I scowled. What made this golden lothario think he should be there? His father was the one with the investigation skills and reputation to back them up. As far as I could tell, Mr. Gage’s only talents seemed to be charming his way into house-party invitations and underneath ladies’ skirts.

  He tugged his black silk waistcoat into place and brushed his tousled blond hair back from his forehead. I narrowed my eyes, wondering just what he had been doing when Lady Lydia started screaming, and with whom. I vaguely recalled him flirting with Mrs. Cline at dinner.

  Before I had long to contemplate the matter, a strident voice called out from the crowd.

  “Lady Darby is in there!”

  I stiffened as a gasp ran through the crowd behind the hedge. It appeared my efforts to go unnoticed had failed.

  “Did they finally catch her in the act?” the woman asked.

  “The butcher’s wife,” another one muttered.

  I tightened my arms around my body, swallowing the fear and anger that gathered at the back of my throat at hearing the old refrain.

  “You know that is absolute nonsense!” my sister exclaimed, joining the group behind the hedgerow.

  “Not this time,” Lady Westlock declared with decided relish. “She’s been caught red-handed. First one at the scene, wasn’t she?”

  I glanced sideways at Mr. Gage, who was now watching me with solemn interest.

  “Actually,” Mr. Tuthill spoke up meekly, still cradling the earl’s daughter. He looked like he was struggling to keep her aloft. “Lady Lydia and I came upon Lady Godwin first.”

  That silenced Lady Westlock, but only for a moment. “That still doesn’t make Lady Darby innocent.”

  “That is enough!” My sister, Alana, burst through the men blocking her access to the alcove. She marched to my side and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “I will not listen to any more of this ridiculousness. I suggest that anyone who is not assisting Lord Cromarty return to the castle.” She gestured for Sir David to assist Mr. Tuthill with Lady Lydia before tugging me toward the exit, leaving the matter of Lady Godwin’s body to Philip.

  “You cannot protect her forever,” Mrs. Smythe snapped as we passed. “She must answer for her actions.”

  “When they are her actions to answer for,” Alana replied without breaking her stride. She had always been a force to be reckoned with when she chose to be, and I was once again reminded how grateful I was she was my older sister.

  The guests slowly began to trickle back through the maze as Alana shooed them along ahead of us. Lady Westlock glared at me and huffed, jiggling her double chin.

  Angry that once again I was to be subjected to more gossip, ridicule, and vicious name-calling, I lifted my hands and blinked innocently. “Look, my lady. No red.”


  She spluttered, and several of the other ladies gasped in indignation, fanning their faces as if they might swoon. A few of the men chuckled nervously.

  My sister pulled me harder through the crowd, wrenching my shoulder in her rush to distance us from the mob while they were all distracted. She shook her head. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

  “Sorry,” I murmured, even though we both knew that I wasn’t.

  Alana sighed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The remainder of the evening was subdued, as was to be expected. Most of the guests chose to assemble in one of my sister’s two parlors to rehash the details of what happened in the garden and share their “expert” knowledge. Lady Lydia recovered quickly upon returning to the castle and was even now holding court in the front parlor, describing her ordeal in excruciating detail.

  I decided to make myself scarce, checking on my nieces and nephew in the nursery before slipping into the library to sit silently in my favorite spot. It was there that Alana found me just before midnight.

  “I am getting too old to keep climbing these stairs,” she declared, dropping her skirts into place as she reached the top step. “Why can’t you hide in normal places? Like your bedchamber or your art studio?”

  I smiled tightly. “Because then people would find me.”

  Alana sighed and sank into the sofa next to me. “Did you not wish for me to find you, dear?”

  I leaned my head on her shoulder. “No. You’re fine.”

  She rested her head on top of mine.

  We sat that way for several minutes, staring past the wooden banister, out at the ceiling of the library. A large mural depicting the life of Saint Andrew, patron saint of Scotland, covered the entire space from one wall to another. Though it was certainly not the work of Michelangelo, it had a charming rustic quality I found soothing. None of the colors were deep or the lines sharp, but the muted shades and blurred lines were somehow appropriate to its location in the far north of the Highlands.