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  Praise for Anna Lee Huber’s This Side of Murder:

  “A smashing and engrossing tale of deceit, murder and betrayal set just after World War I. . . . Reminiscent of some of the works of Agatha Christie. . . . Anna Lee Huber has crafted a truly captivating mystery here.”

  —All About Romance

  “A classic murder mystery with the added layer of the Great War . . . The dialogues are exquisite, as is the writing.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Absolutely loved it! . . . Everything a mystery should be: suspenseful, atmospheric, and beautifully written, with rich historical detail and a heroine you really want to cheer for. I enjoyed every page, and I can’t wait to see more of Verity Kent!”

  —Ashley Weaver, author of the Amory Ames Mysteries

  “I’m happy to gush over Anna’s writing because she really is that good. Fans of Mary Stewart—take note. In the aftermath of WWI, intrigue, urgency, and a smart, savvy sleuth come together in what is already my favorite new mystery series!”

  —Alyssa Maxwell, author of the Lady and Lady’s Maid Mysteries

  “With its spirited heroine, richly drawn setting and compelling time period, This Side of Murder is sure to please fans of classic whodunits and lovers of historical fiction alike.”

  —Jessie Crockett, author of Whispers Beyond the Veil

  Praise for Anna Lee Huber’s previous works:

  “Deftly handled and well plotted, with gorgeous prose and a demonstrated grasp on a complex history, As Death Draws Near is a sumptuous and suspenseful escape into another time.”

  —All About Romance

  “Anna Lee Huber once again takes us into the dark streets and the bright ballrooms of Edinburgh. . . . Our fascinating heroine finds danger in both the dank alleys and the glittering homes of the wealthy, where nothing is what it seems.... A thoroughly enjoyable read!”

  —Victoria Thompson, bestselling author of Murder on Amsterdam Avenue

  “Anna Lee Huber is a supremely talented author, and these books are complex, impeccably plotted, and clearly well-researched. In addition to creating the wonderful characters, she brings the culture and the landscape into full view, and there is a strong sense of place.”

  —Romantic Historical Reviews

  “Huber’s lively fourth Lady Darby mystery . . . centers on the suspicious death of Lady Drummond, whose portrait Kiera (aka Lady Darby) was painting.... Kiera . . . uses the resources she has with verve and vigor.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The latest Lady Darby mystery fascinates with its compelling heroine who forges her own way in a society that frowns upon female independence.... The journey to uncover a killer takes many twists and leads to a surprising culprit.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Anna Lee Huber’s spirited debut mixes classic country house mystery with a liberal dash of historical romance. Fans of Tasha Alexander and Agatha Christie rejoice! Lady Darby is an engaging new sleuth to follow and The Anatomist’s Wife is history mystery in fine Victorian style!

  —Julia Spencer-Fleming, New York Times bestselling author of One Was a Soldier

  “Riveting. . . . Huber deftly weaves together an original premise, an enigmatic heroine, and a compelling Highland setting for a book you won’t want to put down. I cannot wait for the second installment of Lady Darby’s adventures.”

  —Deanna Raybourn, New York Times bestselling author of The Dark Enquiry

  Novels by Anna Lee Huber

  This Side of Murder

  Treacherous Is the Night

  TREACHEROUS IS THE NIGHT

  A Verity Kent Mystery

  Anna Lee Huber

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Anna Aycock

  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.

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

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1317-9

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1317-6

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1317-9

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2018

  I dedicate this book to the so-often overlooked victims of every war and conflict—the refugees and beleaguered citizens of territories occupied or bombarded by the enemy. In particular, the people of brave little Belgium during 1914-1918, whose country might have been small, but whose hearts and courage were immense.

  And I would also like to dedicate it to the women throughout history who have always done their parts, in matters both big and small, at home and on the broader stage of conflicts. Often underappreciated and dismissed, and sometimes derided, still they soldiered on for the greater good.

  You have my undying gratitude.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As all authors know, there are books that are relatively straightforward to write, and then there are those that are not. They run through your house like a toddler freed from their clothes, refusing to follow your plot, forcing you to give chase, and laughing all the while at your frustrated folly. Like those sweet, impish little cherubs, it is books like these that in the end are often the most rewarding to produce, but during the process cause you no end of exasperation, pain, and self-doubt.

  Treacherous Is the Night definitely fell into the latter category. And as such, I have many people to thank.

  Loads of gratitude to my mother, who took care of my flesh-and-blood sweet, impish little cherubs while I wrote, and helped keep our home from dissolving into a trash heap.

  Immense thankfulness to my husband for all his love and support, and for helping to work out the tangle of Sidney’s motivations, and the struggles and joys of marriage. Also, thanks for diving down the research rabbit hole of 1914 airplanes, ordnance, and detonators with me. (But probably the less said about that, the better.) Love you, babe!

  Thank you to my children for their sticky kisses and silly dances, and for making my life more wonderful than I ever could
have imagined.

  Thank you to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for all of her confidence and wisdom.

  Thank you to my editor, Wendy McCurdy, and the entire Kensington team for all their stellar efforts and expertise.

  Much thanks to the real-life members of the British Secret Service and the intelligence-gathering networks throughout the former occupied territories of Belgium and France, and in particular to those who survived to write about their experiences.

  Thank you to all my friends and family for their love and support, be it in dropping me a note to tell me they enjoyed my book, or in answering my telephone call to talk me down from my panic, or in responding to a message to ask for some random bit of research I think they might know.

  And last, but definitely not least, thank you to my readers for embracing this new heroine, Verity Kent, and for feverishly debating which direction she should take next, and which fella should ultimately win her heart. I hope you enjoy this next stage of her journey.

  CHAPTER 1

  Oh, treacherous night!

  Thou lend’st they ready veil to ev’ry treason,

  And teeming mischiefs thrive beneath thy shade.

  —Aaron Hill, from his adaptation of Voltaire’s The Tragedy of Zara

  July 1919

  London, England

  “I’ve a favor to ask of you,” Daphne declared as she plopped down on the emeraldine cushions of the sofa in my drawing room. “Now, hear me out before you say anything,” she added, removing her gloves.

  I gazed at her in wary amusement. Her enthusiasm was boundless, as was her penchant for stumbling into bizarre circumstances. I could only guess what predicament she’d found herself in this time.

  She inhaled swiftly and then leaned toward me. “I want you to attend a séance with me.”

  My eyebrows arched in surprise before lowering in displeasure.

  She held up a hand to forestall me even though I hadn’t uttered a word. “I know you don’t believe in them. That you think they’re poor form.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  “No, but it’s plain to see. Anytime anyone mentions them, your mouth gets all tight. Like it is now.”

  I relaxed the muscles pursing my lips, taking her point.

  “I’m not saying you aren’t right. There are a lot of fraudulent mediums about these days shamelessly swindling the bereaved.”

  This was sadly too true, and what lay at the heart of my objection to such things. It seemed all of England had gone mad for Spiritualism, desperate to speak to their loved ones who had died before their time, lost to the senseless carnage of the war. This made them all too easy prey for the unscrupulous.

  “But I have an appointment with one of the most gifted and attuned Spiritualists in all of London,” she hastened to say. “She comes very highly recommended. Surely you don’t object to all such things? Only the shams?”

  Rather than answer her, I asked a question of my own. “Who recommended her?”

  She sat back, plucking at a loose string on her pale pink frock. “Well, my sister for one.”

  “Your sister?” I couldn’t withhold my disdain, for Melanie was not the most astute judge of character.

  “Yes, but not just her. Several other ladies have told me how wonderful her manifestations are. I’ve even been told the Queen Mother and Princess Louise have consulted her.”

  This did not sway me, for I’d spent enough time with royals to recognize they were as fallible as the rest of us.

  I tilted my head, studying her fretful expression. “Why is this so important to you?” I asked more gently. “Who is it you want to make contact with?” I could guess, but I wanted to hear it from her.

  Her eyes slid to the side, staring at the pomegranate damask wallpaper. “Gil’s birthday would be tomorrow.” She swallowed. “His twenty-fifth. And mine is next month, and I can’t stop thinking about how I’ll be the same age he was when he was killed.” Her stark gaze lifted to meet mine. “I . . . I just want to know he’s well.”

  I wanted to reassure her. To quote the same assurances I’d been told time and time again by clergymen, by my parents, by friends, and even by strangers over the long years of the war. They readily sprang to my lips, but I did not let them pass. I was as tired of repeating them as I was of hearing them. Daphne already knew them, and my reiterating them yet again would not help. What she really wanted was a connection, a way to reclaim that which war had severed, and I could not give her that.

  I grimaced in understanding, allowing her a moment to compose herself again as she dabbed at her eyes. I was finding it very difficult to say no to her. Not only because she was my dearest friend, but also because her petite stature, golden tresses, and limpid blue eyes aroused a protective instinct within one. She might have been just another bland blond beauty, but for the pronounced hook in her nose. She was forever cursing her imperfect beak, never recognizing it saved her from being a cliché, and instead elevated her into the stratum of arresting.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t sympathize with her desire to contact her brother. Many times, I’d contemplated what it would be like to be able to speak to one of the dozens of loved ones and friends I’d cared for—who had become casualties of the war and the outbreaks of Spanish influenza that followed. But for my part, I was having more than enough trouble dealing with the living.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, my husband strode into the drawing room of our Berkeley Square flat. As always of late, my heart beat a little faster at the sight of him. Until a month ago, I’d believed Sidney was dead, killed in France during the Germans’ brutal final push in the spring of 1918. But although he’d been critically injured, he’d managed to survive, using his reported death to clandestinely search for evidence that would uncover the traitor working amidst the fellow officers in his battalion. The same man who had shot Sidney and left him for dead.

  Although we had worked together to unravel the nest of traitors, I was still coming to grips with his return. Still trying to reconcile myself to the fact that he’d allowed me to believe him dead for fifteen months. Still trying to bridge the distance four and a half years of war had built between us. Our five-year wedding anniversary would be in October, and yet these four weeks since his reappearance were the longest we’d ever spent together.

  Correctly sensing that my conversation with Daphne was somewhat delicate, he nodded a greeting to my friend and then settled in a chair on the opposite side of the room, screening himself from our view with his newspaper.

  “Can’t you take George?” I asked Daphne, feeling only a small twinge of guilt for suggesting she plague our mutual friend with her request.

  Daphne’s mouth pursed. “He’s even more against it than you are. Thinks it’s all hogwash, you know that. And he’s twice as vocal.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He’d probably tell Madame Zozza to her face.”

  I well knew George’s thoughts on the matter. A brilliant cryptologist and mathematician, George’s mind worked along strictly logical lines, and Spiritualism did not fit those. He and Daphne seemed the unlikeliest of friends. He with his stoic logic and calm precision, and she with her wide-eyed naïveté and vibrant enthusiasm. But though Daphne might be a bit thick at times, she was unfailingly, unflinchingly loyal, and George and I both valued that quality almost above all others. As for Daphne, I’d long suspected she’d taken to George because he reminded her of her older brother, Gil, lost early to the war. The same brother she hoped to contact.

  “Madame Zozza?” I queried.

  “Yes! Quite dramatic, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s merely her stage name, so to speak.”

  “You think?”

  Her brow lowered. “Yes, but don’t let that dissuade you. After all, one hardly wants to visit a medium named Betty Smith.”

  Perhaps she didn’t, but I would feel better about her consulting a woman without such pretensions. Sadly, I knew I was in the minority. After all, the number of séances being conducted across London
was nearly as abundant as the number of dances. Those mediums who were most popular performed sessions that were often more spectacular than they were accurate, and consequently were able to book as far in advance as the tickets for a popular revue at one of the theaters.

  I had only ever attended one séance—an amateur bit of table-turning at a country house party—and I hadn’t found it to be the least entertaining or enlightening. It had all seemed like nothing more than a ridiculous bit of theatrics, even before the ladies involved decided it would be capital fun to channel my still-believed-dead husband. Now that I knew my husband was very much alive, their cruel trick did not bother me over much. But the memory of that night still made my jaw tight with anger and my skin prickle with unease.

  To Daphne’s credit, she didn’t know about what I’d endured at that house party. Otherwise, she would never have asked me to attend this séance with her. And if I told her now, she would be horrified. So I kept the matter to myself.

  Torn between my desire to protect Daphne from her own gullibility that would make her an easy mark and my own revulsion at the practice, I tapped my fingers against the arm of my bergère chair. “When is this séance?”

  She pressed her lips together, hesitating before she admitted, “Tonight.”

  I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “If this Madame Zozza is as gifted as you claim she is, how long have you had this session booked?”