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  M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker, Six Sisters, House for the Season, School for Manners and Poor Relation Regency romance series, and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more, or follow M. C. Beaton on Twitter: @mc_beaton.

  Titles by M. C. Beaton

  The Poor Relation

  Lady Fortescue Steps Out • Miss Tonks Turns to Crime • Mrs Budley Falls from Grace

  Sir Philip’s Folly • Colonel Sandhurst to the Rescue • Back in Society

  A House for the Season

  The Miser of Mayfair • Plain Jane • The Wicked Godmother

  Rake’s Progress • The Adventuress • Rainbird’s Revenge

  The Six Sisters

  Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire

  Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion

  Edwardian Murder Mysteries

  Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows

  Our Lady of Pain

  The Travelling Matchmaker

  Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath • Penelope Goes to Portsmouth

  Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York

  Agatha Raisin

  Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet

  Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley

  Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

  Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

  Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

  Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

  Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

  Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

  Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon

  Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor

  Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye

  Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride

  Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns

  Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers • Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

  Hamish Macbeth

  Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider

  Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob

  Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man

  Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man

  Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict

  A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity

  Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore

  Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady

  Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep

  Death of a Kingfisher • Death of Yesterday

  The Skeleton in the Closet

  Also available

  The Agatha Raisin Companion

  Pretty Polly

  M. C. Beaton

  Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First electronic edition published 2011

  by RosettaBooks LLC, New York

  First published in the UK by Canvas,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013

  Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1988

  The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47210-126-6 (ebook)

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter One

  Mrs. Charlotte Manners was a pretty widow, silly, vain, and ambitious. And yet she was clever enough to admit to some limitations, two of them being that her grammar was faulty and her spelling slightly worse.

  She was in sore need of an elegant letter writer. The recipient of these letters was to be the Duke of Denbigh.

  When Charlotte was seventeen and the present duke twenty-four, he had proposed to her and she had refused him. For at that time, the duke had been Lord Charles Stuart, the youngest son of a notoriously clutch-fisted father. A Mr. Manners had also proposed. At that time, the young Charlotte had considered wealth to be a more desirable commodity than a title. Mr. Manners had been common but vastly rich. He had paid no attention to the unwritten social law that a man did not give a young miss expensive presents and had showered the dazzled Charlotte with expensive trinkets. And so she had rejected Lord Charles and married Mr. Manners. Mr. Manners had not lived very long after his marriage and Charlotte had been left a very wealthy widow.

  She had just learned that a cholera epidemic had carried off Lord Charles’s father and two elder brothers and that Lord Charles had become the Duke of Denbigh. Not only was he now one of the richest men in England but a duke as well.

  Charlotte’s spies told her that the duke was at his estates in the country. She planned to lure him back into London and into her arms. But to do that, she would need to write to him delicate letters, sweet letters that would reanimate his affections.

  She sat in front of her mirror looking for inspiration in her own reflection. Charlotte often found her own beauty a great source of inspiration. If only I had studied harder at that stuffy seminary, she thought. Then her large blue eyes widened. What was the name of that vastly popular girl who had taken all the prizes? She got to her feet, went up to the attic, and opened the lid of one of the trunks stored there. Charlotte never threw anything away. She rummaged through piles of schoolbooks, children’s books, novels, and sheet music until she found a notebook. It contained the names and addresses of her former classmates.

  Her eye ran down the names, finally stopping at one. Verity Bascombe. That was it! Why not invite the poor thing to town for a visit? Verity had a modest background. She was a lawyer’s daughter. She had never had much in the way of looks, and her dowry would be very small. Not married, most likely.

  Charlotte carefully replaced all of the items in the trunk, except for the notebook, and then ran back down the stairs to write a letter. In writing to such a one as Verity Bascombe, there was no need to strive for elegance.

  * * *

  Verity Bascombe lived in a slim s
tone house on the outskirts of Market Basset, a small town near Bath. Her mother had died some years before, and Verity had remained with her father despite several proposals of marriage. Her quiet life suited her. She acted as hostess at her father’s infrequent supper parties, attended church, was a member of the local sewing circle that made clothes for the poor, and read a great number of books from the circulating library. Recently, her father’s behavior had made her begin to feel uneasy. Instead of being grateful to Verity for running his household competently, Mr. Bascombe had begun to point out that it was time she thought of setting up her own household. The first time he had voiced this, Verity had smiled, thinking that he would soon drop the subject. But he had returned to it the next day and the days after that. A promising young lawyer, George Carruthers, had taken to walking home with them after church on Sunday. Mr. Bascombe had said that Verity was not giving such a promising beau enough encouragement. She was twenty four, her father had pointed out, and would soon be wearing caps.

  Verity was not precisely beautiful. She had thick brown hair and black eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Her figure was neat, but a trifle short. She was somewhat thinner than was considered fashionably correct, and had no dimples on her elbows, a sad defect.

  Everyone liked Verity. She was considered a cheerful, sensible lady. But no one knew of the passionate romantic that lurked inside Verity, the romantic who had turned down those proposals of marriage. Perhaps George Carruthers was her last hope. He was all that was suitable. He belonged to the professional middle class, his legs were passable, and his skin, if a trifle sallow, was at least unmarked. He had a great deal of good sense, and no one knew that Verity was heartily tired of good sense, sound values, and a lack of humor.

  But she privately thought that if she could depress Mr. Carruthers’s hopes, then her father would become resigned to the idea of a spinster daughter. The only reason for marriage that Verity could see was to gain a comfortable home and independence, and she had both of those in her father’s household.

  The arrival of Charlotte’s letter only caused a small ruffle in the tranquil pool of her life. Verity thought of the spoiled seminary brat that had been Charlotte, put the letter aside so that she could send a refusal later in the day, and continued to eat her breakfast.

  Mr. Bascombe looked at the discarded letter with a certain amount of irritation. It was a very unusual event for a letter from London to arrive in Market Basset and he thought Verity might at least have volunteered to tell him who it was from.

  “Verity,” he said sharply. “I remark you have received a letter from London!”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “From whom?”

  “No one of importance,” Verity said placidly. “A girl who was at the seminary in Bath the same time as I has written to ask me to visit her in London.”

  “Where in London?”

  “Berkeley Square.”

  “Berkeley Square! That is the best address in England! Who is she?”

  “She is now a Mrs. Charlotte Manners and is a widow, and, I believe, extremely rich. I am always reading about her in the social columns. When I knew her, she was the Honorable Charlotte Parren.”

  “An aristocrat?”

  “Yes, Papa, and a very pampered and spoiled one.”

  Mr. Bascombe took a deep breath. “You will go, of course.”

  “No,” said Verity, surprised. “I was not a particular friend of Charlotte’s. Besides, the idea of staying for any length of time with some stranger is fatiguing.”

  “I have made up my mind: You are to go,” said Mr. Bascombe. “I have long wished to travel to Edinburgh to stay with an old friend. This is my opportunity. I shall go when you go to London.”

  “But—”

  “I said, you will go!” shouted Mr. Bascombe. “I had ambitions for you when I sent you to that expensive seminary in Bath. I thought you would make useful friends. But I’ve watched you turn down invitation after invitation. I am not going to go to my grave feeling that if it had not been for me you would have been married with children.”

  “I did not accept any of those invitations because the girls who sent them to me were far above me in social rank. I would have felt sadly at a loss in any of their great mansions. We manage very comfortably, Papa. There is no reason for me to marry.”

  Mr. Bascombe played his ace. “Oh, yes, there is,” he said. “I want to get married myself.”

  “You never told me. Who is this lady?”

  Mr. Bascombe thought wildly of all the marriageable ladies of their acquaintance. “Miss Emily Butterworth,” he said at last.

  “Emily is a year younger than I!”

  “I like ’em young,” her father said brutally.

  Verity felt her ordered world caving in under her feet. Of course any new wife of Papa’s would not want an unmarried daughter in residence! And a new mistress of the household would expect to handle the reins herself.

  She studied her father for some moments and then said, “You are very anxious I should accept this invitation. Why?”

  “Because if the men don’t suit you here, mayhap they’ll suit you there,” howled Mr. Bascombe.

  “But I shall be meeting members of the aristocracy and they only marry beneath them if the girl has a great deal of money, which I do not have. And I am not beautiful.”

  Mr. Bascombe clutched what was left of his hair and gave it a hard tug. Although she was his daughter, he knew what it was about Verity that had drawn so many proposals of marriage. There was a sensuality about her, a strong, almost animal attraction that had long worried him. He suspected his daughter of harboring strong passions beneath her outwardly chaste bosom, the sort of passions that might cause her one day to lose her virginity to someone totally unsuitable.

  Two years ago, he had taken Verity on a little drive to view a ruined church a few miles outside the town. On the way there, they had stopped for refreshment at a fashionable posting house. The prices had been dreadfully steep and the staff insolent. In the coffee room had been a party of men. One of them had been extremely handsome and rakish. Mr. Bascombe remembered him well. He had been about six feet tall and exquisitely dressed. He had powerful shoulders, excellent legs, and a clear skin. His eyes were hard and predatory, and his nose thin, high-bridged, and arrogant. His mouth was well-shaped, and his chin, strong and firm. His hair was golden, thick, and curly. In all, he was one of the best-looking and most decadent Adonises that Mr. Bascombe had ever seen.

  Mr. Bascombe had been too flustered in dealing with the uppity waiters to quite take in what was happening, but when Verity’s jug of lemonade had finally been placed in front of her, he noticed that she had a delicate color and that her black eyes were sparkling.

  The Adonis was not listening to his friends. He was leaning back in his chair, surveying Verity with a hard, assessing, hawklike look, and Verity was very much aware of his gaze. Mr. Bascombe’s sensible daughter appeared all at once flustered and very feminine.

  The waiter had failed to bring their cold collation. Mr. Bascombe returned to the battle, only to find the Adonis had risen to his feet. In a chilly voice, he had told the staff to jump to it, to serve Mr. Bascombe at the double. The difference was amazing. Mr. Bascombe and Verity were immediately surrounded by scraping and bowing servants. When Mr. Bascombe finally tried to pay, he was told their refreshments were “on the house,” with the compliments of the owner.

  Mr. Bascombe had looked suspiciously at the tall Adonis, who had smiled back lazily. Mr. Bascombe was sure he had paid their shot.

  Verity had been dreamy and distracted for days afterward while her father had reflected sourly that he was glad that at least one man, however unsuitable, had sparked some interest in his normally infuriatingly sensible daughter.

  He did not expect Verity to find a beau in London. But he did think that closer contact with the type of aristocrat who seemed to rouse her might then mean she would come home prepared to marry someone of her own class. Mr
. Bascombe thought he would be failing in his duty if Verity were allowed to remain unwed. Besides, that seminary in Bath had cost a fortune, and he would like to boast to his friends about his daughter’s aristocratic friends—the reason he had sent her there in the first place. Mr. Bascombe worshipped the aristocracy and thought that anyone coming into contact with such gods would catch godlike qualities himself, as if by a sort of osmosis.

  Verity so far forgot herself as to put her elbows on the table. She leaned toward her father. “Had you not better start to go out walking with Miss Emily, Papa, or something like that. I have hardly ever seen you even speak to her.”

  “Emily and I have seen quite a lot of each other,” lied her father. “I shall pop the question as soon as I return from Edinburgh. Now, I know you will behave like a good daughter and not let any selfish wish stand in the way of my plans.”

  Verity was torn between exasperation and amusement. She was now sure that her father did not want to marry again. She was also sure that he did not even want to go to Edinburgh. On the other hand, it might do him good to try to run the household without her.

  She decided to go to London and endure a few weeks of Charlotte’s company. When she returned, she was sure her father would be so grateful to see her he would drop all this marriage nonsense—that is, if by any chance he might happen to be serious—and would no longer talk of either marriage for her or marriage for himself.

  Marry Emily Butterworth! Fustian. Papa was all of forty-five years old. How could he expect her to believe such a farrago of lies.

  Some imp of mischief prompted Verity to approach Emily later that day in the circulating library. She told Emily of her proposed visit to London. Emily was a merry, bouncing sort of girl who wore a great number of ribbons. She had ribbons in her hat and shoulder knots on her dress and little bunches of ribbons at her hem. She had wide china blue eyes that surveyed the world with innocent good humor. Her parents were in very straitened circumstances, which was why Emily was still unwed.

  Emily exclaimed with delight and made Verity promise to keep a diary so that she might read all the descriptions of grand ton parties to the sewing circle on her return.