A Pretty Deceit Read online

  Praise for Anna Lee Huber’s previous Verity Kent mysteries:

  Penny for Your Secrets

  “Readers looking for atmospheric mystery set in the period following the Great War will savor the intricate plotting and captivating details of the era.”—Library Journal (Starred Review)

  “Action-filled . . . Huber offers a well-researched historical and a fascinating look at the lingering aftermath of war.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “No sooner are Verity Kent and her dashing but troubled husband, Sidney, back from solving a mystery in Belgium (Treacherous Is the Night, 2018) than they are confronted with one at home in London . . . Touching details of the Kents’ struggle to overcome Sidney’s anguish add to the stellar mystery here, making this a great read for fans of the series and for all who enjoy Downton Abbey–era fiction.”—Booklist

  “Huber’s historical mysteries are always multilayered, complex stories, and Penny is an especially satisfying one as she interweaves social commentary and righteous feminist rage into the post-War period. With a perfect blend of murder, mystery, history, romance, and powerful heroines, Huber has yet to disappoint.” —Criminal Element

  “This is a fine historical mystery series that will not disappoint.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  Treacherous Is the Night

  “A thrilling mystery that supplies its gutsy heroine with plenty of angst-ridden romance.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] splendid sequel.... Huber combines intricate puzzles with affecting human drama.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Masterful. . . . Just when you think the plot will zig, it zags. Regardless of how well-versed you may be in the genre, you’ll be hard-pressed to predict this climax.... Deeply enjoyable . . . just the thing if you’re looking for relatable heroines, meatier drama, and smart characters with rich inner lives.”

  —Criminal Element

  “Huber is an excellent historical mystery writer, and Verity is her best heroine. Sidney and Verity are a formidable couple when they work together, but they are also very real. They don’t leap straight back into life before the war but instead face many obstacles and struggles as they readjust to married life and post-war life. Nonetheless, the love between Sidney and Verity is real and true, and the way that Huber creates their re-blossoming love is genuine. Topped off with a gripping mystery, this will not disappoint.”—Historical Novel Society

  This Side of Murder

  “Huber paints a compelling portrait of the aftermath of World War I, and shows the readers how devastating the war was for everyone in England . . . I am looking forward to reading many more of Verity Kent’s adventures.”—Historical Novel Society

  “I loved This Side of Murder, a richly textured mystery filled with period detail and social mores, whose plot twists and character revelations kept me up way past my bedtime. Can’t wait for the next Verity Kent adventure!”

  —Shelley Noble, New York Times bestselling author of The Beach at Painters’ Cove and Ask Me No Questions

  “A smashing and engrossing tale of deceit, murder and betrayal set just after World War I. . . . Anna Lee Huber has crafted a truly captivating mystery here.”—All About Romance

  “The new Verity Kent Mystery series is rich in detail without being overwhelming and is abundant with murder, mystery, and a bit of romance. The plot is fast-moving with twists and turns aplenty. Huber knows what it takes to write a great mystery.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A captivating murder mystery told with flair and panache!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Sure to please fans of classic whodunits and lovers of historical fiction alike.”

  —Jessica Estevao, author of Whispers Beyond the Veil

  Novels by Anna Lee Huber

  This Side of Murder

  Treacherous Is the Night

  Penny for Your Secrets

  A Pretty Deceit

  A PRETTY DECEIT

  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

  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

  Teaser chapter

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

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 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.

  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.

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

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2847-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2848-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2848-3

  For my brother Jeff,

  who has always been big-hearted, dedicated, and

  determined. Thank you for always being there, whether

  the chips are up or down! You have always jumped

  wholeheartedly into fun, and your kindness and generosity

  of spirit is inspiring to all, especially your students.

  I’m so proud of you!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heaps of thanks and gratitude go to . . .

  My spectacular editor, Wendy McCurdy, and the entire team at Kensington, including, but not limited to: Elizabeth Trout, Ann Pryor, Larissa Ackerman, Kristin McLaughlin, Michelle Addo, Carly Sommerstein, Lauren Jernigan, and Alexandra Nicolajsen.

  My agent-extraordinaire, Kevan Lyon, and everyone at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

  My writing group partners—Jackie Musser, Stacie Roth Miller, and Jackie Adams—whose care and feedback is always invaluable.

  My husband, whose love and encouragement mean more than anything, and who is (almost) always willing to listen to me ramble and help me plot.

  My daughters, for their snuggles and laughter, and for showing me how to view the world through different eyes.

  My family, for all their love and support, especially my mom.

  And most importantly God, for all His blessings, guidance, inspiration, and strength.

  PROLOGUE

  And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but the truth in masquerade.

  —Lord Byron

  April 1918

  Bailleul, France

  Mud. Muck. Miles and
miles of it. As far as the eye could see. Though the rain had stopped two nights’ past, the constant churning of feet, hooves, and wheels kept the condition of the roads soft and ever mutable. Perhaps tonight’s chill would freeze it solid, albeit into rutted tracks and ridges.

  Except a spell of dry weather meant the renewal of the Germans’ advance. As the second day of brilliant blue skies stretched toward nightfall, I could sense the tension palpably running through everyone I passed. Be it the French refugees fleeing from their homes with their most precious possessions strapped to their backs in the onslaught of this latest German assault, the ambulances carting away the groaning wounded, or the fresh troops marching up the line to relieve their exhausted allies. It was only a matter of time before the next wave of attack began.

  With that clock ticking down in my head, I pressed on, ignoring the sharp pains in my feet and the stitch in my side, as well as the curious looks I received from some of the soldiers marching alongside me in long columns. Their boots and putties already flecked with mud, and their drab wool uniforms stiff with sweat, few of them paid me more than a passing interest. Their thoughts were too centered on what was to come. After all, only a week before, Haig had issued his “backs to the wall” order, and our boys were taking it seriously. They hadn’t bled and suffered for three and a half long years to go down now.

  In all candor, that bloody-mindedness was one of the reasons I’d made it this far up the line. Normally, I would have been halted and repelled miles back, sent packing with the other refugees. Two officers had tried, but I’d double-backed and circumvented them, keeping a wary eye out for their companies. In the chaos and confusion of the swift retreat, a sympathetic soldier might buy my story of having lost track of my young brother during my family’s flight from our home in Bailleul, but they would grow suspicious if they caught me again.

  I pulled the dingy, frayed coat tighter around my frame, keeping my head down, as I bustled past the officers at the head of the latest column. Battered and broken buildings lined this stretch of the road. The once-prosperous farm reduced to rubble and ashes, much like the newly budding trees that resembled little more than charred stumps and splinters of wood. The air smelled not of spring—new growth and freshly turned earth—but fetid decay, smoke, and desperation.

  The Germans had already penetrated nearly fifty miles into the Somme sector of the Western Front, and now their troops to the north were pushing westward toward Ypres and beyond. Towns that had been safely tucked behind the Allies’ lines since late 1914 were now cowering from German shells or escaping their advance. And so the war of attrition had begun to move, simply not in the direction we wished it to.

  I spared a glance toward the west and the setting sun as brilliant oranges, mauves, and purples tinted the sky—a poignant reminder that even the hellishness of this war, and its utter destruction to the landscape, could not blot out beauty completely. I blinked hard, choking down a sudden swell of emotion. Don’t think of him now, I ordered myself. After. Once the message is delivered. Once the job is done, you can collapse in a shell hole and consign yourself to his fate, if you wish. But you have to finish this one last thing first.

  At the sight of the wrecked rail track stretched across the landscape in front of me, I quickened my pace. I’d been able to inveigle out of a second lieutenant I’d spoken to near Saint-Jans-Cappel that Brigadier General Bishop had created a temporary command post in a crude shelter by the side of the road a short distance from the remnants of a farm and a shattered rail track. Though I’d seen several damaged farms, this was the first one I’d spied next to a rail line.

  This had to be it, and I might have made it with just moments to spare. For the chill dark of night often meant only the beginning of the days’ true hostilities. I had to reach the general before the Germans renewed their bombardment or fog rolled in to obscure another of their advances.

  I spied the shelter, light gleaming through a few of the rough slats, and the sight of my objective perhaps made me a bit reckless. Rather than pause to consider the best possible method of gaining access, and give the sentries posted outside the warped door time to take an interest in me, I charged forward, attempting to obscure my approach as best I could behind the lines of marching soldiers. But eventually there was nothing between me and them, and I had to rely on the element of surprise to slide between them as they turned to stop me with a shout of protest. By then, I was already throwing open the slatted door and stumbling down the three steps into the partially submerged single-room shelter.

  I stopped short of the rickety wooden table set near the center of the room, maps and papers strewn across it, dimly lit by the lanterns swinging from hooks in the ceiling above. In the yellow glow, I met the eyes of the man I’d traveled so far and through such precarious territory to reach. And I held his gaze even as I heard the click of at least three Webley revolvers being cocked as they were drawn from the holsters of the commander’s subordinates and aimed at me.

  The general assessed me with a swift perusal of my person. “Young woman, what do you think you are doing?” he demanded of me in French, mistaking me for the refugee I appeared to be.

  “Brigadier General Bishop,” I replied, my crisp upper-class British accent making his pupils widen and the gentleman holding the revolver to my left waiver. “I have a dispatch for you from London.”

  The commander scrutinized me with new eyes, displaying enough intelligence not to ask stupid questions. Evidently, he recognized that if a young lady had been sent under disguise all the way from London with a message for him, then it must be of utmost importance.

  “Lower your weapons,” he ordered his young officers. Then his gaze shifted to the sentries standing at my back. One of them had grasped my elbow. “We will discuss this breach later,” he promised them, and then dismissed them with a nod of his head.

  Extending his hand, he snapped his fingers, beckoning me forward. I pulled the letter from the inner pocket of my coat and passed it to him across the broad expanse of the table. His eyes continued to inspect me even as he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  What precisely it said, I didn’t know. Only that I’d been charged with the task of delivering it by C, the chief, himself. As an agent working for the British Secret Service, the foreign division of Military Intelligence, I’d spent a number of weeks behind enemy lines in the German-occupied territories of Belgium and northeastern France, liaising with members of our intelligence-gathering networks, but I’d never been this close to the front line. The rare times I’d been sent on a mission behind British lines, they had been well in the rear of the trenches. It was too difficult for a woman to approach the battle zone unnoticed, and the army’s own military intelligence officers handled most matters that might require our attention there.

  In the normal course of matters, they would have handled this as well. Except we’d long suspected someone along this stretch of front was intercepting Bishop’s reports and forwarding the information to the enemy, and we’d recently begun to realize that person was among the brigadier general’s staff. Army intelligence had been charged with investigating the matter, but now that the Germans’ big push had begun and was concentrating in this sector, while army intelligence had yet to do anything to root out the traitor, C had decided it was imperative that Bishop be warned. Especially if the spy turned out to be one of his intelligence officers.

  When Bishop had finished reading, his sharp eyes again met mine, clearly apprehending I was far more than the messenger I seemed. I had no choice but to trust he would keep this insight to himself.

  “Captain Scott,” he snapped, calling forward a man with cool, crystalline-blue eyes. “Please escort the mademoiselle to safety at the rear of the latest train of refugees on the road to Hazebrouck.”

  That he’d been tasked with this assignment undoubtedly must have displeased him, but the captain did not show it by even a flicker of an eyelash. For my part, relief at having completed my assignment
was swiftly giving way to exhaustion and malaise, and I felt almost as if I was sleepwalking as I turned to proceed the captain through the door. The sentries were both scowling at me as I strode past, but I hadn’t an ounce of energy or sympathy to spare for them. Not when the fact of the matter was they hadn’t been doing their jobs very well, or else they would have stopped me.

  The never-ending columns of supply lorries and troops continued to march past into the twilight, and in the distance I could hear the rumbling prelude to the evening’s salvo of artillery fire. All of these sights and sounds should have been a shock to my system, but instead a haze of numbness seemed to have settled over me. I was striding down the verge of a muddy road outside Bailleul, but I was also locked somewhere inside myself. Somewhere where the full impact of the telegram informing me of my husband’s death, which had been delivered some four weeks past, was hammering away at what little will I had left.

  I’d forced myself to keep working, to keep moving, to keep doing my bit for all that Sidney had fought and died for. And at night, when the pain and grief became too much, I did my best to drown it out with gin and whisky. But it was such a strain to carry this weight around day after day, to bear up under it all as if I hadn’t completely crumbled to pieces inside. There were moments when it would suddenly all come crashing into me, and I would find myself barely able to breathe. There were some nights I couldn’t even pray, my pluck and spirit all gone. And sometimes I wanted nothing more than to lie down and consign myself to the dust around me. Perhaps then I could rejoin Sidney on the other side. Perhaps then we could be together as we’d never truly been allowed to be here on earth with the war constantly tearing us apart.