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  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

  “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

  A BRUSH WITH SHADOWS

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 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 is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Huber, Anna Lee, author.

  Title: A brush with shadows / Anna Lee Huber.

  Description: First edition. | New York, New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017042934| ISBN 9780399587221 (paperback) | ISBN 9780399587238 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | FICTION /Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction

  Classification: LCC PS3608.U238 B78 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017042934

  First Edition: March 2018

  Cover art by Larry Rostant/Bernstein & Andriulli

  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.

  Version_1

  For my sister, Elizabeth. I’ve loved you forever and I’m so proud of you! Thanks for sharing my tears and laughter, and for bringing out my silly side, whether it’s the Gingerbread Beast, a water trampoline, or dancing in the aisles of stores. XO

  CONTENTS

  Praise for The Lady Darby Mysteries

  Titles by Anna Lee Huber

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is truly a labor of love, one that involves the contributions of so many. This book, in particular, would not have been possible without a great deal of assistance.

  Thank you to my editor, Michelle Vega, for her sharp eye and sterling advice, and for loving Lady Darby and crew as much as I do. Thank you to the entire Berkley team for all of your amazing expertise.

  Thank you to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for her sage advice and confidence in me as an author.

  Thank you to my critique partners Jackie Musser and Stacie Roth Miller for answering my flailing e-mails asking for help, for reading early drafts of chapters, and for talking me down from the rafters.

  And I cannot possibly offer enough thanks to my husband and my mother for all they do so that I can write. I know my young daughters are in good hands when they are with their father or their grandmother, and that is invaluable peace of mind. They also keep our household running when the dishes need to be washed, or the floor needs to be swept, or any million other little things. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you do and for your unfailing belief in me.

  Thank you to my daughters for filling me up with so much love and emotion, and for forgiving my distraction at times when I’m deep in the process of writing a book.

  Thank you to all my friends and family, who shower me with their excitement and support.

  And thank you to my readers. None of this would be possible without you. You’ve been clamoring for another Lady Darby, and I hope the longer wait than usual is worth it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The devil’s boots don’t creak.

  —SCOTTISH PROVERB

  JULY 1831

  DARTMOOR, ENGLAND

  The first time I laid eyes on Langstone Manor, I could not blame my husband for having stayed away for over fifteen years. I’m sure it didn’t help that the weather was far from hospitable. Heavy gray clouds filled the sky, releasing sheets of rain that obscured the horizon, all but concealing my view of the infamous moors rising to the east. But even on a bright, sunlit day, I struggled to imagine the house being more inviting. In truth, it appeared downright foreboding, even without the pa
inful memories that plagued Gage.

  Memories I could see weighing on him now. They were written in the tautness of his brow and the deep pools of his eyes as he stared up at the stone manor through our hired carriage’s window. Sebastian Gage had conducted dozens of precarious inquiries, had faced down Turkish warriors in the Greek War of Independence, and had most recently been winged by a bullet fired by a temperamental Irish housemaid during our last inquiry only a week before, but this place somehow still troubled him.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, if I were about to enter my first husband, Sir Anthony Darby’s, London town house—that place of so many unhappy remembrances—I wouldn’t have been so sanguine. It’s never easy to confront the demons of our past. But to see my normally unflappable husband so apprehensive unsettled me.

  I reached out to touch Gage’s hand where it gripped his leg, hoping to offer him a bit of reassurance. I wanted to do more than that, but with our maid and valet seated across from us, that would have been highly inappropriate. As loyal and trustworthy as Bree and Anderley might be, and privy to more intimacies than most, having assisted us with numerous murderous inquiries, there were still some things that should remain private between husband and wife.

  Gage turned his hand over to squeeze my fingers and offered me a fleeting smile before turning back to the view outside his window. I followed suit, curious about this place where he had spent so much of his childhood.

  He’d told me little about his time here with his mother while his father had been away at sea, fighting Napoleon and manning the blockade. However, what he had revealed had spoken volumes, and I’d been able to infer even more than he probably realized from the things he hadn’t said. Whatever else he felt about this place, it was clear he’d not been happy.

  I stared upward at the manor’s edifice of coarse stone and tall mullioned windows, their glass dark and oily in the gloom. Two symmetrical wings projected from the main block, their exteriors echoing that of the one before us, but for the long narrow windows which I suspected had once been arrow slits, now fitted with glass. The roof was covered in small slate shingles only a shade lighter than the clouds. The tall chimneys and sprocket eaves with their gabled ends added angles and dimension to the bland façade, but they failed to lighten the overall melancholy feel of the setting in any way.

  The manor didn’t look much different than I anticipated the granite-shattered outcroppings of the tors would look. I wondered if that had been the builder’s intention. If so, he’d succeeded, but at what cost? As beautiful as the landscape of Dartmoor was purported to be, it was also treacherous, and this home had taken on many of the same characteristics.

  The garden which had sprung up in the courtyard before the manor also did nothing to help matters. Hedged in by an imposing metal gate and stone walls, thick beds of green plants and a few straggling pale flowers had taken root at the edges of the gravel lane. Trees ringed the edge of the property, their twisted trunks seeming to sprout from the very walls themselves as if they would not be denied access, or allowed to escape. The garden was clearly well kept, its verges rigidly maintained, but some more colorful flowers and a bit of judicious pruning would have done much to lighten the space. But perhaps those plants did not grow in this climate and the dense foliage refused to be stunted.

  “Do you think they realize we’ve arrived?” I asked, beginning to question whether we should send Anderley to knock on the door.

  In the failing light, it was impossible to see much of anything beneath the pale stone archway through which I presumed one accessed the main door, but a footman hurried forth from its recess, allaying my uncertainty. However, any question as to whether our arrival had been anticipated was swiftly answered by the widening of the young man’s eyes as he scrutinized our trunks strapped to the roof of the carriage.

  “Good evening, sir,” he murmured upon opening the chaise’s door. “Were you expected?”

  Gage’s mouth tightened in what looked like annoyance, but that I knew to be an emotion far more complicated. “Yes,” he announced before stepping down into the loose gravel without offering the servant any further explanation. Taking the umbrella from the startled footman’s hand, he reached back to assist me.

  I wrapped my shawl tighter around me against the wind, and opened my mouth to remind him it wasn’t the servant’s fault he’d been caught unprepared. But one look at Gage’s face made me fall silent. He already knew this, and his tight-lipped displeasure was not directed at the footman, but at his grandfather, the Viscount Tavistock.

  Regardless of our delayed arrival, the viscount should have made his staff aware of the prospect of our coming. After all, he’d been the one to write to Gage, begging him to visit—a move which Gage assured me was entirely out of character for the proud, taciturn man. His urgent missive had originally been sent to London and had to be forwarded on to us in Ireland, where we had just wrapped up our latest murderous inquiry, causing a delay of more than a week. In our rush to reach Langstone Manor, we’d not paused to send a message ahead of us to confirm our plans, knowing it wouldn’t have arrived much before we would.

  Given that postponement, it was possible that the matter for which we’d been summoned had already been resolved. Or perhaps Lord Tavistock had simply given up on us. Whatever the reason, the household was not prepared for our visit.

  Gage hurried us forward, pausing once we’d stepped through the arch into the covered porch, where he turned to address the footman who trailed behind us. “The coachman has driven us all the way from Plymouth, and I’ve promised him lodging for the night for himself and his horses. Please see to it, as well as our servants and luggage.”

  The flustered expression on the footman’s face would have been comical had I not also felt some empathy for him. He was young and inexperienced, and so could not be blamed for his failure to recognize Gage after his long absence, or perhaps for even being cognizant of his existence. The footman glanced back and forth between us and the carriage, uncertain whether he should insist he announce us or do as Gage had instructed.

  Fortunately, an older man came to his rescue. “Timothy, do as he asks,” said a slight man standing in the shadows next to the door before shifting his gaze to meet my husband’s. “I’ll show Mr. Gage inside.”

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light underneath the porch, but Gage already recognized the speaker.

  “Hammett, I’m surprised to see you’re still with us.”

  I stiffened, surprised by the rudeness of my husband’s comment, but the other man didn’t seem the least insulted if the grin that cracked his thin mouth was any indication.

  “Aye. Yer cousins haven’t rent me from this mortal coil yet. Nor your grandfather neither.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Gage’s face.

  The elderly man, who I now recognized must be the butler, ushered us out of the damp into a small vestibule. He tilted his head to inspect Gage and then me, dislodging the few stray gray hairs still clinging to the top of his head. “This’ll be yer bride, then?” Though he was merely a servant, I felt I had been assessed and judged, and apparently found acceptable, for his creaky voice warmed. “Welcome to Langstone Manor.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  Then his eyes narrowed on Gage. “You’ve been gone a long while.”

  Gage was not fazed nor chagrined by the old retainer’s censure. “If I wasn’t already conscious of that, the sight of your wrinkled face would certainly remind me. But what are you still doing here? I thought you would have retired to one of the estate’s cottages or shuffled off to the seaside long ago.”

  “And leave his lordship to fend off these leeches alone?” His scraggly brow lowered. “Not that it’ll matter much longer.”

  The remainder of Gage’s levity fled at this comment. “How is he?”

  “You’ll see for yerselves,
” Hammett replied gruffly, turning at the sound of footsteps.

  I followed his gaze toward the gleaming wooden staircase on the opposite side of the long stone entry hall, where a tall woman dressed in a midnight blue gown had paused a few feet from the base of the steps. I could not immediately discern who she was in relation to Gage, but it was evident from the manner in which his eyes hardened and his nostrils flared that she was not someone he was fond of. And the feeling was mutual.

  I was accustomed to everyone liking my husband. Those who weren’t already won over by his good looks were quickly persuaded by his charm and easy nature. Even his father, who was derisive and sometimes unforgivably hard on him, still cared for him in his own contrary way. However, this woman took few pains to conceal the loathing shimmering in her eyes. Where this naked animosity came from, I didn’t know, but it took me aback.

  Maintaining a façade of polite composure, Gage stepped forward to greet her, but halted when a dark-haired man came bustling into the hall through a doorway on the left.

  “Mother, did you know a carriage has arrived? Do you think it could be . . .” His words faltered as he followed her gaze toward where we stood. His eyes widened.

  Given my reputation, it was not the most awkward welcome I’d ever received, but considering the fact that I suspected these people were related to Gage in some way, it was certainly the most disconcerting. Indignation began to build inside me, not on my behalf, but on Gage’s.

  I was used to people thinking the worst of me. The scandal over my involvement with the work of my first husband, the great anatomist Sir Anthony Darby—specifically my sketching his dissections for an anatomical textbook he was writing—had blackened my name and made me a figure of fear and revulsion in many circles. Few cared to note that my participation had been forced, or that in spite of it, my drawings had been beautiful and flawless. For them it was proof enough of my unnaturalness that as a gentlewoman I had not only survived such a gruesome ordeal, but also gone on to use that reluctantly accrued knowledge to help solve murders and other crimes.