Lord Ainsley

By Krysten Layne

As a woman with a peculiar talent for wielding scalpels in 1800s’ London, Ms. Rielly is no stranger to delving into the taboo side of life and death. Determined to find her missing friend, Ms. Rielly steps inside Ainsley Manor and into an investigation involving murder and the strange affliction cast over its lord. She promptly realizes that striking a bargain with him is inevitable and will require all of the skills she has secretly nurtured as a back-alley biologist. Will living with the man possibly responsible for the atrocities she finds yield the answer she sought in the beginning? Or will it plant seeds of doubt about herself? As the city streets gradually become more dangerous and the boundaries between them more indistinguishable, Rielly and Lord Ainsley find the truth may only be released with the blood within their veins.

Whether or not by choice…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647502355

Krysten Layne

Brogan Werder had Our Back Porch, a flash fiction, published in Finger Lakes College literary magazine, The Finger. Krysten Layne is her nom de plume. She lives with her husband, Devon, and cat in Rochester, NY. Lord Ainsley is her debut novel.

Book preview

About the Author

author

Brogan Werder had Our Back Porch, a flash fiction, published in Finger Lakes College literary magazine, The Finger. Krysten Layne is her nom de plume. She lives with her husband, Devon, and cat in Rochester, NY. Lord Ainsley is her debut novel.

Dedication

To Devon, my hubby, who supported this endeavor and all my craziness. And to Sharon Sprague, who always asked, Is it ready yet?

Copyright Information ©

Krysten Layne (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Layne, Krysten

Lord Ainsley

ISBN 9781647502348 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645364023 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647502355 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900912

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

First and foremost, I would like to thank my husband. I began this book when we had just started dating and now, five years into our lives together and because of his support, it is done. I would also like to thank Sharon for being the one who listened to my awful British accent when I read her the first drafts and always believed the book should be published. Thank you to my beta readers who gave me the best gift a budding author could ever ask for: honest critique. Thank you to Miranda Belle-Isle, my first editor, who worked with me through three whole rewrites. Thank you to Austin Macauley, who saw the potential and took my book the rest of the way. And thank you, at last, to the readers, who I hope will enjoy this book.

Prologue

The most terrifying part of a man following a woman is the motive. The night is cold, and the street lights are dampened by fog, the bottom of her dress wet, and his shoes muddy. Her body stiffens with the realization that he’s been tracking her for a few blocks. He can sense she’s aware now, but it doesn’t deter him.

Her heart pounds with each step. She can’t outrun him or turn to fight; age has robbed her of the strength and fortitude necessary. She must find someone, somewhere, to seek shelter and safety but alas, there are no friendly faces here. No warmly lit doorways in which she would be welcomed. And he is closing in.

She stops midstride to turn, determined to face her fate head on, hoping her boldness may startle him. His pace is brisk, and he is soon upon her. But then, miraculously, he continues past her, his face covered with the shadow of a hat he tips in her direction.

She breathes a weighty sigh, closing her eyes for just a moment as relief washes over her in waves—he strikes her.

The shock steals the scream from her throat and she falls to the ground, her vision blurring. He looms over her and she sees the face uncovered, impassive as he stares at her. Her mind tries to comprehend the intentions behind his expression, her lips trembling as it begins to rain.

He stoops to pick her up, dragging her into a nearby alley. He does not allow her to speak or cry aloud. No, the time for her is over. It’s his time now.

Chapter One

Lord Ainsley

His memoirs began when he was a much younger man. Their pages told of a man in his prime, of wanderlust and adventure. He traveled the world, earning his title and satisfying what seemed an unquenchable thirst of curiosity.

On a particular expedition, the memoirs were halted. He returned sooner than expected to his home among the foggy, rain-wet streets of London. And when his memoirs began again, it was clear: a different man now held the pen.

***

’Lord Ainsley III was born into a small family of large fortune in London, 1848. His mother’s only child, she kept him close and always with silver spoon in cheek. His father, Lord Ainsley II, was the opposite in every way but one: assuring his only son’s survival.

’In a time of dank days and disease, the young boy was kept tucked away from the great big world of danger. Only his trusted butler and the books on his shelf were his window into the outside world. With a father away on business and a mother frittering away in society, what was a young child to distract himself with besides stories?

’Excitement and intrigue, mystery and marvel, legends and myths: these filled his childhood. And in an estate as great as what the Ainsley family had acquired, there was no lack of opportunities for exploration and wonder. Ceaseless baubles sent from distant lands, secret doors leading to chambers unknown, and an accomplice of a butler to sneak unauthorized snacks during breaks from sieges, conquests, thieveries, and the solving of cases. A childhood of privilege to be certain, yet one of deep loneliness.

’It wasn’t long before the young master had to abandon his adventures in the name of propriety. Time to trade dirt and play clothes for stiff collars and stiffer buttons, the pleasure of unhindered exploration for the rigidity of proper schooling. Suffice to say childhood does not last long within such an institution.

’I imagine this is the point in Lord Ainsley’s life where he transformed from the bright-eyed, innocent boy to the stoic gentleman who would take over the family name. He was no longer a boy running forth with wild ideas, but still driven nonetheless. A son Lord Ainsley II could be proud of. However, you never can rely on people to end up quite the way you first expect. While still attending prep school, Lord Ainsley III suddenly became the only living heir to the Ainsley fortune. All the young master’s father had wanted for his son was for him to live. Alas, he must have forgotten to do so himself.

’Time passes much in the way it should. The world seems to move around like you are its center. Then life proves differently.

’Lord Ainsley spent the remainder of his youth in various boarding schools, then continued his studies at a prestigious college where he hoped to firmly grasp his future. I believe here he was offered to study abroad. Study what, I am not certain, but he earned many a degree and auspicious title. He was, after all, a very learned reader.

’After college, Lord Ainsley was determined to see the world he’d only heard of in books. And with his inheritance and a boat ticket he was off to gain his own fortune. Asia, Middle-East, Africa: to quench the insatiable hunger for anywhere but home.

’This is the time. This was the point and I’m sure of it now. The point when he disappeared.

‘In the middle of the Sahara—’

You have it all wrong, Ms. Rielly.

Lord Ainsley stood over her shoulder like a dark shadow, his black eyes sweeping over her disheveled papers.

She hurriedly covered them with her arms. Go away, you! These are my memoirs, not yours.

Hm, he turned to leave, could have fooled me. Although, as I said, you have it all wrong. So, I suppose you are correct that they aren’t mine.

They aren’t! she declared after him. Now go stalk someone else, you bother! Ms. Rielly sighed when he was out of sight, picking up the last page she’d written. I’d get it right if you’d just tell me instead of leaving it to my fiction.

Ms. Rielly gave the pile a dejected shove and stood from her desk. Oh, sod it. Why am I here? She peered out the window to the misty streets of the city below, watching as people gave the mansion a wide berth with hurried steps. She could understand. The Ainsley Manor was a gloomy shadow of its former glory.

An imposing black iron fence surrounded the meager grounds of the estate as the city expanded and encroached toward the property. Not a soul approached the house now that it was darkened by an ever-present cloud of mystery and despair. Rumors flew about the man who had returned quite suddenly home but had not been seen in society since. Suspicions rooted deeply in their minds of the young heir who lived alone in the grand mansion with only his butler and his secrets to accompany him.

Ms. Rielly had heard the same story from any who used to claim knowledge of him before his mysterious return. He’d been such a precocious child, always excitable. Then he had been a successful young man finding his way in the world after tragedy. He had always been amiable and welcoming. Always one to keep his childhood sense of adventure on hand, he was quick to make a witty remark to entertain his guests. Until he returned home from-

Was it Mumbai? Ms. Rielly called loudly, glancing at the desk. She rushed to the doorway. Lord Ainsley! I know you can hear me! Was it India? She sighed again and leaned against the door frame, tugging habitually at the sleeve of her dress.

Why am I here?

Chapter Two

Ms. Rielly and the Lord

’I may not know the whole life story of Lord Ainsley III, but I do know what I have experienced. Including how I met him. And how I came to be in this dismal place called Ainsley Manor.

’I, as the character I’ve been assigned in the play that is Lord Ainsley’s life, must omit certain facts. As even these memoirs could be seen by anyone, it does not bode well for any of us to write the entirety of the events. I suppose that is what one can expect from a private person trying to transcribe their life from bits and pieces. Hopefully, the words will still make sense.

’I came upon Ainsley Manor five months ago for the first time. I sat inside the carriage awaiting my uncle to beckon me forth. Upon his prompt return, what I received was a gruff, unintelligible reply to my perfectly understandable question: Why are we leaving?

’As I heard it, a young gentleman of means had been living for quite some time by himself at the manor. Many of the white-gloved, laced ladies of the court had attempted to force an audience with the young man to no avail. Of course, there was one who had long since claimed—ah, but I cannot write of that.

’My uncle was a peacock of a man. Large and oozing prestige, buried long ago under a belly full of whiskey and an expensive coat. However useless he was to society, I held him dear and at the same time clutched at the only connections he could muster from his dusty past of parties and engagements. So, when the good old man mentioned he was once business mates with the family Ainsley, I grasped at the only thread I could.

’An audience was to be had, but the first attempt had us turned away at the door. This did not deter me. If I was to be admitted to any house, it would prove to be the door of Ainsley Manor opening. I would step over that threshold, I swore it.

‘My motives were as dark as the history hanging over the Manor. But I assure you, as you may have already deduced, I gained entry. For who else but I could face the challenge of finding a murderer?’

Ms. Rielly paused in her musings to reflect on that day two months ago. She deliberated