A Stroke of Malice Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE LADY DARBY MYSTERIES

  “[A] history mystery in fine Victorian style! Anna Lee Huber’s spirited debut mixes classic country house mystery with a liberal dash of historical romance.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Riveting. . . . Huber deftly weaves together an original premise, an enigmatic heroine, and a compelling Highland setting.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Deanna Raybourn

  “[A] fascinating heroine. . . . A thoroughly enjoyable read!”

  —National bestselling author Victoria Thompson

  “Reads like a cross between a gothic novel and a mystery with a decidedly unusual heroine.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Includes all the ingredients of a romantic-suspense novel, starting with a proud and independent heroine. . . . Strong and lively characters as well as believable family dynamics, however, elevate this above stock genre fare.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] clever heroine with a shocking past and a talent for detection.”

  —National bestselling author Carol K. Carr

  “[Huber] designs her heroine as a woman who straddles the line between eighteenth-century behavior and twenty-first-century independence.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “[A] must-read. . . . One of those rare books that will both shock and please readers.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Fascinates with its compelling heroine who forges her own way in a society that frowns upon female independence. The crime itself is well planned and executed. The journey to uncover a killer takes many twists and leads to a surprising culprit.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “One of the best historical mysteries that I have read this year.”

  —Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

  Titles by Anna Lee Huber

  THE ANATOMIST’S WIFE

  MORTAL ARTS

  A GRAVE MATTER

  A STUDY IN DEATH

  A PRESSING ENGAGEMENT

  (an enovella)

  AS DEATH DRAWS NEAR

  AN ARTLESS DEMISE

  A STROKE OF MALICE

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Anna Aycock

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Huber, Anna Lee, author.

  Title: A stroke of malice / Anna Lee Huber.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2020. |

  Series: Lady Darby mysteries

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019050947 (print) | LCCN 2019050948 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451491381 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780451491398 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.U238 S77 2020 (print) | LCC PS3608.U238 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050947

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050948

  First Edition: April 2020

  Cover art by Larry Rostant

  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.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  For my brother, Chris, who has the biggest heart and the zaniest sense of humor.

  Whether we’re sledding through “Maple Town,” searching for the Spooky Old Tree, or “free-falling” down the highway, I’m happy to be along for the ride, and proud to call you my brother.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A heaping helping of thanks goes to the entire team at Berkley, including Michelle Vega, Jennifer Snyder, Brittanie Black, Tara O’Connor, Jessica Mangicaro, and many others. A multitude of thanks also goes to Kevan Lyon and the crew at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

  As always, I’m so deeply grateful to my family and friends for their never-ending love and support. Special thanks go to my husband and daughters, and to my mother. I also want to say thank you to the members of my writing group, whose feedback is always invaluable—Jackie Musser, Stacie Miller, and Jackie Adams.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for the Lady Darby Mysteries

  Titles by Anna Lee Huber

  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

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!

  —SIR WALTER SCOTT, MARMION

  JANUARY 5, 1832

  TRAQUAIR, SCOTLAND

  If there had been any doubts I was visiting a ducal estate, the trumpeting buglers would have clarified the matter. Not that there was truly any confusion. Not when I was staying in a grand 284-room Gothic castle surrounded by nothing but miles of steep snowy hills and ice-choked burns, save the occasional sheep. And the soaring bedchamber to which I’d been assigned was so lavishly furnished it might have put Louis XIV’s Versailles to shame. But the buglers were so unexpected, and so extravagant, that after first catching my breath from the start they’d given me, I found myself giggling at the absurdity.

  My husband smiled down at me. “They are a trifle excessive, aren’t they?”

  “Do all dukes feel it necessary to summon their guests in such a manner?” I asked as we descended the stone spiral staircase, his arm linked with mine. Though I had spent a fair amount of time in a number of aristocratic households, including the establishments of my brother-in-law, the Earl of Cromarty, I had never visited the estate of someone as lofty as a duke. Upon our arrival at Sun
laws Castle earlier that day, we’d been greeted by a battalion of footmen dressed in crisp green and black livery with gold braid.

  But prior to our marriage nine months earlier, Sebastian Gage’s bachelor status, as well as his charm, wealth, and attractiveness, had guaranteed he was a greatly sought after guest. And those attributes didn’t even factor into account the delicate investigations he often undertook on behalf of the nobility as a gentlemen inquiry agent, or his father’s friendships with men as highly ranked as the king himself.

  “Not all, but the Duke of Bowmont certainly isn’t an aberration,” he replied. “In truth, he seems to be one of the more unpretentious persons of his rank. I suspect the buglers are merely tradition. And I suppose we can’t argue with their effectiveness.” He cringed as another musical barrage assaulted our ears. “You can certainly hear them echoing throughout the entire castle.”

  I rather thought a gong might be as effective, and a bit less jarring. Or perhaps furnishing each room with some sort of chiming clock.

  We reached the first floor and a shiver ran through me from a stray draft wafting through the corridors. I pulled my ivory shawl tighter around me, grateful I’d elected to drape it over my bare shoulders revealed by the scooped neckline of my amethyst sarsnet gown. At nearly six months full with child, I found that I was more often warm than cold, but an ancient castle of such immense size was all but impossible to heat efficiently, especially during the chill of a Scottish winter. I could already hear the sound of merry voices drifting through the doors of the dining room further along the corridor. Warm light spilled out into the gloom of the passage, and we hastened forward, eager to join the festivities.

  It appeared as if about half of the Duke and Duchess of Bowmont’s approximately five dozen guests were already gathered in Sunlaws Castle’s dining room. My maid, Bree, had already ferreted out the information that there was an even more opulent state dining room on the opposite side of the castle, but after surveying the room before me, in terms of opulence, I didn’t know how much grander one could get. The ceiling was graced with not one but two Waterford chandeliers surrounded by intricate stucco medallions. The walls were fitted with panels of azure silk damask, and the fretwork across all the surfaces, including the curtain rails, was gilded.

  However, the other guests’ attention was not on the Van Orley tapestries or the priceless landscapes by Claude Lorrain spanning the walls, but on the two-tiered Twelfth Night cake perched at the center of the long carved mahogany table. The duchess had told me her pâtissier and confectioner had outdone themselves this year in their preparation of the evening’s treat, and while I could not judge their efforts against those from previous years, I agreed the dessert’s appearance was quite splendid. The plum cake was covered in layers of pale sugared icing and then lined with intricate figures made of marzipan. When I leaned closer, I could see that they were courtiers from a medieval court: a jester, a knight, ladies in waiting, and of course, a king and queen.

  Upon our arrival, the duchess had prepared us for the prospect of eating dessert at four o’clock in the afternoon, though Gage and I were less certain what the remainder of the evening would hold. The duchess’s annual Twelfth Night Ball was somewhat notorious for its revelry and high-spirited antics, and invites were coveted among the elite. Normally, I would have wished to avoid such a fashionable soiree, but a friendship had recently developed between me and the duchess, and despite her infamous reputation, I realized not all the things whispered about her and her family were true. And thus, all the things said about their party were not likely to be either.

  In any case, I was not here only for the festivities, but also to finish painting the duchess’s portrait after she’d been called away from London suddenly a month prior. Though we hadn’t yet had much time to discuss it, she had already mentioned she’d set a room aside just for the purpose, and I looked forward to beginning our first session together in the next few days. Capturing the duchess’s aging beauty accurately and unflinchingly on canvas was a rare challenge for my abilities, and I was anxious to succeed.

  “Oh my,” my older sister, Alana, Lady Cromarty, breathed in admiration as she moved forward to stand beside me at the table, linking her arm with mine. She leaned forward, squinting at the marzipan figures. “Kiera, is that a herald? And a hunting dog? And . . . is that courtier . . . ?” She broke off, her eyes widening.

  “Yes,” I replied. There was indeed a page or courtier exposing his bottom to the maid next to him.

  Apparently, not all the rumors about the Bowmonts’ Twelfth Night Parties were untrue.

  She straightened. “Well, given the speculation of all that went on in our royal court in centuries past, I suppose they could have chosen a much more shocking depiction to re-create.”

  Even so, I elected not to circle the cake to examine the marzipan figures on the other side.

  We glided away from the cake, our husbands following in our wake. Footmen circulated the room with glasses of wassail and whisky, and we each accepted one as we took up a position near the far end of the table while the remainder of the guests continued to congregate in the room. There was a palpable air of excitement as everyone anticipated the commencement of the festivities. Alana’s and my brother, Trevor, paused at the threshold looking rather dashing in his dark evening clothes, his gaze sweeping over the assemblage. A wide grin split his face as he caught sight of us and he began edging his way through the crowd toward us. The jovial spirit had infected him as well.

  I didn’t know whether the duchess had already intended to invite Philip and Alana to her party—they were the Earl and Countess of Cromarty after all—but I was quite certain she had invited Trevor on my behalf. The same could be said for my friend Charlotte, the widowed Countess of Stratford, as well as my cousin Rye Mallery, who had been ardently courting her. I dipped my head to her as our eyes met across the room, pleased to see that her eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed happily as she stood close to Rye’s side. It was true, Charlotte’s great-aunt, Lady Bearsden, was an old crony of the dowager duchess. In fact, the two ladies were seated in chairs near the windows, cackling over some outrageous bit of gossip, no doubt. However, I still suspected Charlotte had been added to the guest list because of me.

  That the duchess had thought to do so made my heart warm even more toward her. She was aware of my scandalous past, and she could commiserate in some ways that other people could not. That she’d made such an effort to make me feel more comfortable showed I wasn’t wrong in my assessment of her. Beneath her bold facade and irreverent defiance lay a heart of empathy and kindness.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, she appeared in the doorway with the duke. At the sight of them, the assembly broke out into a smattering of applause. The duke and duchess nodded their heads, as if this was their due, gliding into the room. The diamond necklace glittering around the duchess’s throat seemed to compete with the dazzle of the crystals in the chandeliers overhead. The duchess knew how to present herself to best advantage, and tonight was no different. Her elegant figure was swathed in a bold shade of scarlet, the fashionable puffed sleeves finished with organza and lace trim. The colors offset her white hair and creamy skin to perfection, and made the duke, with his saggy jowls and the paunches under his eyes, appear rather sallow.

  For my part, I was most surprised to see them standing arm in arm, though I knew they often enough did so for show. Both of their current lovers might be present among the guests, but that wouldn’t stop them from performing this bit of pageantry.

  Having been raised by a mother and father who adored each other, and taught us to eschew such immoral behavior, I found the rampant infidelity among a large portion of society to be awkward and disconcerting. But I was also aware that much of the nobility did not marry for love, but for wealth and connections. For many, the best that could be hoped for was mutual respect and friendship with their spouse.

 
I moved a step closer to Gage, deeply conscious of how lucky I was. My first marriage to Sir Anthony Darby had been arranged, and it was not an exaggeration to call it the worst years of my life. I hesitated to call his subsequent death a blessing, but it most certainly had saved me from further torment. To have then found Sebastian Gage, a man who loved and accepted me for who I was, seemed at times a miracle.

  His hand pressed against the small of my back, drawing me in, as he always had. As I hoped he always would.

  “We are pleased to welcome you all to this year’s Twelfth Night Ball,” the duchess declared, raising her voice to be heard over the murmur of the crowd. “As those of you who have attended in the past will recall, our first order of business is to select our Lord of Misrule and his glorious Lady.”

  At this, the duke’s butler—who was quite possibly the tallest man I had even seen, his head seeming to nearly brush the doorframe—and four footmen stepped forward to slice the cake.

  “I hope you have all been enjoying my staff’s confectionary work of art, for it’s now time to taste it. But chew carefully,” the duchess warned, her eyes lively with good humor. “For the gentleman who finds the bean in his slice of cake and the lady who finds a pea, shall be crowned lord and lady for the evening.”

  I was aware of the tradition of crowning a Lord of Misrule, or alternatively the King of the Bean or the Abbot of Unreason, but I had rarely taken part in any Twelfth Night festivities. Growing up along the Borders region between England and Scotland, we had been more apt to follow my mother’s Scottish family traditions than those of my father, who was from southern England. The Rutherfords, along with most of the Scots, made mischief at the turn of the New Year on Hogmanay rather than on Twelfth Night. In fact, Trevor, Alana, Philip, Gage, and I, along with Alana and Philip’s children, had celebrated Christmas at our childhood home along the River Tweed. We had then welcomed in the year of 1832 at our aunt and uncle’s annual Hogmanay Ball before traveling further north to the Duke and Duchess of Bowmont’s castle. But for all that Sunlaws might lie in the heart of the Ettrick Forest, an ancient hunting ground of the Scottish kings, firmly entrenched on Scots soil, their family an offshoot of the noble Kerr clan, the dukes had been happy to adopt the traditional merriments from both sides of the border.