A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Murder

By Victoria Hamilton

Refusing to stand by while the wealthy men of London prey on their powerless scullery maids and other young women, Miss Emmeline St. Germaine has made it her mission to rescue the victims and threaten the men at dagger-point to cease their depravities. But mere hours after she pays just such a visit to a prominent knight, he’s found murdered and all of London is aghast.

Did the man—or woman—who murdered the knight know of her visit? Facing scandal and the ruination of her family, Emmeline must solve the crime before she and her work are exposed. But there are powerful forces at work to silence her—or worse, lead her to the hangman’s noose for a crime she did not commit . . .

“[An] outstanding series launch. . . . Hamilton expertly balances the page-turning detection with the story of a hypocritical society where women, whether they are scullery maids or orphans, rarely get to make their own decisions.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Hamilton’s novel will appeal to fans of Anne Perry’s Charlotte and Pitt mysteries.” —Booklist

“A simply riveting and compulsive page-turner of a read from cover to cover. A deftly scripted mystery with more twists and turns than a Coney Island roller coaster.” —Midwest Book Review

About the Author:

Victoria Hamilton is the pseudonym of nationally bestselling romance author Donna Lea Simpson. Victoria is the bestselling author of four mystery series, the Lady Anne Addison Mysteries, the Vintage Kitchen Mysteries, and the Merry Muffin Mysteries, and A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Sep 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958384091

Victoria Hamilton

Victoria Hamilton is the pseudonym of nationally bestselling romance author Donna Lea Simpson.She now happily writes about vintage kitchen collecting, muffin baking, and dead bodies in the Vintage Kitchen Mysteries and Merry Muffin Mystery series. Besides writing about murder and mayhem, and blogging at Killer Characters, Victoria collects vintage kitchen wares and old cookbooks, as well as teapots and teacups.

Book preview

One

October 24, 1810

Clerkenwell, London, England

Night had wrapped its arms around the city, and though folks were still about, even their most innocent dealings were cloaked in mystery and shadow. The moon was just a sliver, the waning quarter, at eight in the evening. The clopping of the horses’ hooves and rumble of carriage wheels was muffled by fog that had rolled up the Thames and into the heart of London.

In the dark confines of a closed carriage, Miss Emmeline St. Germaine adjusted her mask of elegant black lace, retrieved from lost items left behind after a masquerade ball. Her gown was from the last century and over it she wore a crimson velvet cloak from a Shakespeare period drama, theater castoffs too disreputable even for a play. She carried a slim dagger in a sheath on her belt.

From the open air of Chelsea they had traveled through the city to the open streets of Clerkenwell, taking longer than anticipated; her nerves were as taut as stretched catgut, every beat of her heart carrying the word hurry thrumming through her veins. The carriage, drawn by a sleek team of matched dun mares, finally creaked to a halt. She swung open the door and descended without aid. Josephs, her coachman, knew better than to offer his hand on a night like this. His task was to help the girl into the carriage and move swiftly once they were done. They must not be caught.

This was her seventh such outing, and her fame was increasing with each one; five girls and one boy had so far been saved, but this rescue may well be more dramatic than those, if what she had been told was true. She pulled the velvet cloak about her and shrank back into the shadows as a lamplighter trudged past along Chandler Lane, carrying his ladder and trailed by his apprentice. Once they passed, Emmeline looked to Josephs. Her driver, a shadowy figure in a many-caped greatcoat concealing his livery, pointed down the narrow alleyway.

He had sketched a map for her before their departure: a row of townhomes faced Blithestone Street, and business buildings faced the parallel thoroughfare to the west, Samuel Street, dwellings above each shop and office. Chandler Lane, bordered on one side by an open green, joined the two streets, and an alley ran from Chandler between the rear courtyards of each row of conjoined buildings. The structures were recent, constructed ten years or so before. At the back, each Blithestone residence had a brick convenience and low brick wall around its tiny courtyard with a gate that remained unlocked so the nightmen could empty the cesspits, removing human waste regularly to sell to farmers outside of the city.

There was a brick archway, open to the alley. Emmeline ducked through it; carrying a lanthorn and staying out of the light spilling from some windows, she crept down the alley, counting down the back courtyards of the connected townhouses that faced Blithestone, holding her breath against the odor of offal from the middens and human waste from the conveniences. She held the light high; there . . . that was the residence, marked by Josephs on his scouting trip with a barely visible chalked blaze on the low brick wall that contained the townhome’s back courtyard. She crept through the gate, the scuffle of her soft shoes echoing upward, and approached the back door; it swung open at a push, as promised, silent on oiled hingepins. She set the lanthorn down by the door, then softly stepped on slipper-shod feet along the whitewashed wall, down the stone steps, and into the kitchen, pausing for a moment to let her eyes become accustomed to the light within. A woman, heavyset and sweating from the steamy heat, stared at her in alarm.

I was sent to rescue the child, Emmeline muttered to the cook, her heart hammering against her rib cage. The woman glanced quickly about the kitchen—the potboy was to have been kept occupied elsewhere—and then nodded, swiping at her beaded forehead with one sleeved arm. The dim chamber was sweltering from a bubbling pot over the fire, steaming a pudding for the next day.

Hurry, miss, the cook said in a strangled tone and with a worried expression. ’E’s got ’er. She pointed to a doorway, then returned to her task, punching down and kneading the dough she prepared to set near the hearth to rise for the next day’s bread.

Quivering with a thread of anxiety mingled with excitement, Emmeline tiptoed through the kitchen. Every time she performed a rescue it was the same: the abject fear, the trembling in the pit of her stomach, the sense that she was about to cast up her accounts. And yet never had she been about to catch a villain in the act of abuse; a pure stream of apprehension pounded through her veins.

She took a deep breath, swallowed hard, pulled her cloak more tightly around her, and slipped into the passage the cook had indicated, down a whitewashed hall lit by flickering sconces toward the housekeeper’s office, supposedly deserted this time of night. The hallway was quiet but for the sound of her own breathing, which was surprisingly loud, echoing off the stone foundation of the townhouse. As she advanced, she heard grunting, muttering, and then the keening cry of a young girl.

Fury swept her nerves away. Urgent lashings of anger sped her pace. Had she miscalculated her timing? She hastened down the narrow hall swiftly and silently as a cat after a rat, pushed the housekeeper’s office door open with one toe, and heard these words grunted: Shut up, Molly! Be a good lass and stop yer wriggling.

With an intermingling of revulsion and burning fury, Emmeline pulled the dagger from her belt and stepped into the room. A young scullery maid moaned in fear and discomfort at the heavy weight upon her on a narrow divan. A man, grunting and heaving, thick hands scrabbling at her skirts, humped ineffectively. Hellfire! Emmeline had meant to arrive earlier and stop the vile animal before the girl suffered such brutishness.

C’mon, girl, first time’s the hardest, then it’ll get easy. He grunted and groaned, fumbling with her skirts. Come, my little temptress! he growled. I’ll give you sweetmeats, ribbons, ha’pennies. Be a good girl and stop squirming so damned much!

Be a good girl. Emmeline’s fury chilled to resolve. She crept up to him and thrust the tip of her cunning little dagger into the saggy white-skinned rump that gleamed palely in the yellow glow of one tallow candle, a serving girl’s faint light. A jewel-like droplet of ruby red blood oozed; he howled in pain, then stilled, the wail dying down to a whimper of fear.

If you do not stop your persecution of the child this instant, Emmeline said, lowering her voice to a threatening snarl, I shall insert this dagger where it will leave you so sore you’ll be standing to eat your supper.

The scullery maid’s employer, Sir Henry Claybourne, clambered off the shivering child and whirled, holding his injured bottom. His male member waved a salutation, then deflated like a pig’s bladder, shrinking and softening as Emmeline waved the dagger menacingly. She was relieved to see that the girl, no more than thirteen years of age, had not yet had her skirts pushed up to her waist. At least Emmeline had prevented the worst of his assault, though the child was clearly terrified, her pale face tearstained.

Swallowing back repulsed shock at the sight of his scrofulous, canker-marred prick, Emmeline lifted her gaze and noted that his bulbous nose was now red and his expression filled with both rage and apprehension. Unease squeezed her stomach. She must handle these next few moments carefully. She could not afford one second of carelessness. Every rescue was different, and each required intense concentration, but never had one been performed at such a pivotal point as this. Child, go to the back alley, she muttered. Pick up the lanthorn by the door and find the carriage at Chandler Lane. Safety awaits, I swear it.

The girl, moaning in fear, skittered away. Red-faced, Sir Henry incoherently babbled as he started to tug at his fawn breeches. One hand bloody from holding his rump, he fumbled, trying to pull up the fall. Emmeline pointed her dagger at his shrunken male member. This was no time to become queasy; she must persevere. "Did I say you were to do that? She lunged and slashed, a ribbon of red oozing on his saggy thigh. Leave that fall down, if you please, Sir Henry. Emmeline deduced that the thorny conversation would progress more easily if the knight felt vulnerable, and no man felt more defenseless than with his male appendage exposed. You have raped your last scullery maid."

"Rape? It is not rape, he blustered, his neck waddles waggling in indignation. His thin gray hair was standing straight up, his pate gleamed in the faint light, and his chin was shiny from saliva. His waistcoat was disarranged, his breeches sagging down over his stockings. They have a place to lay their head at night. I buy the girls sugarplums and trinkets aplenty, and any bastard born is sent away to a decent home."

You speak of by-blows like they are unwanted kittens. How fortunate for them you do not drown them in the stew pond. Her mask, both actual and figurative, was starting to slip; ’twas time to leave. Every second she spent with an execrable male like his lordship his confidence would increase, and thus her safety decrease.

Bitch! Who are you? he bellowed. He had decided Emmeline wasn’t going to use her dagger to wound him mortally and was tugging at his breeches, his paunch drooping and concealing his penis like a coverlet over a bedpost.

She must make haste and leave, but she had a message to deliver first. Listen to me, you poxy cit, she commanded, swirling her cloak like a jaunty highwayman. He stared up at her, his eyes protruding from his pouchy face. "If you defile one more maid—just one more—I swear there are a legion of women like me, and one of them may slip a knife between your shoulder blades while you sleep. He was about to bluster but she waved the dagger menacingly, and finished with, Or she may decide the offending member must come off. Remember that when next your prick stiffens at the sight of a child!"

Emmeline turned and slipped swiftly back through the hallway and thence to the kitchen, witnessed only by the cook and another woman—probably the housekeeper—who huddled in the shadows together. The second female was a big, raw-boned woman, red of face right down to the cleft tip of her hooked nose. Both were silent witnesses to their master’s depredations on young scullery maids, and one had summoned the courage to get a message to Emmeline’s group, who were becoming known in certain circles for helping the downtrodden, especially females. Sir Henry’s behavior was predictable, and her intervention had been perfectly timed to catch him in the act but before real harm had been done the child, so as to make the warning more effective.

Or was that true; real harm? Emmeline muttered a prayer that the girl would recover from her fright. She put one finger to her lips, then skipped up the steps and out the back door into the alley, and thence to her waiting carriage. She climbed in and banged on the roof with the hilt of her dagger. She heard the knight bellowing as he erupted from the townhouse before her carriage swiftly rattled away, turning a corner and—with any luck—disappearing into the night fog.

The child cowered in the corner. Molly, fear not, Emmeline said gently. "You’re safe now. I promise you, on my word of honor, that you are going to work in a home where your employer will never abuse you."

Two

Miss Emmeline St. Germaine, elegantly clothed in a new fall gown of russet net over cream muslin, and her companion and mother’s cousin, Comtesse Fidelity Bernadotte, shrugged out of their cloaks in the hall of their hostess’s home, a gracious townhouse in a newly fashionable square in London. All was perfection, from the gold-silk-hung walls to the red and gold Turkey rugs, Oriental pottery, and family portraits. Lady Sherringdon’s home was lovely, perfumed with the dueling scents of sandalwood and old dog.

An elderly maid, her tightly curled gray hair confined by a modest white cap, looked burdened too heavily by the cloaks necessary to ward off the late October chill. Emmeline watched her totter away, hoping the weight would not topple her. From experience, she knew it would be some time before the maid would return to announce them to the others. Her companion fidgeted with her reticule and smoothed her hair, adjusting her bonnet in the mirror over the Sheraton dressing table that Lady Sherringdon had placed there to hold the calling card tray and oddments. Emmeline bent down to pat Hugo, the friendliest pug dog of the house, as it snuffled and waggled on the marble floor at her feet, his asthmatic snorts and wuffles of welcome making her smile. Two more cautious pugs, rescued from unsuitable owners, watched from the dim reaches of the hall beyond the stairs.

Lady Sherringdon was a charitable soul; no human or animal in need escaped her goodness, and so her home was filled with servants barely able to work and pets no one else wanted. A one-eyed black cat glowered down from the landing above, its missing eye and abbreviated tail the sad victims of destructive street boys. In the years since her release from penury and abuse her ladyship had rescued more animals and humans than anyone could enumerate. Emmeline loved Adelaide Sherringdon for her generous heart and optimistic nature.

Adelaide was older than Emmeline’s companion, Fidelity—who was fifty-three—by a dozen or so years. Addy, as her closest friends called her, had suffered deeply, first at the hands of her father, who sent her north to wed a man she’d never met. Her husband, Viscount Sherringdon, was cruel, breaking her spirit as casually as one does a horse’s and with some of the same techniques: punishment, fear, and pain. When he died after twenty years of wedded misery, her relief was exquisite. She was wooed and won by a younger man (whom she married, though retaining her title as a courtesy), who swore to cherish her but instead wasted all her money at the gambling tables, then contracted a disease and died, leaving her penniless and ill.

One may have expected that her son by her first marriage, who had inherited his father’s title and estate, would have invited his mother into his home. Offended by her second marriage, he did not; even shame would not move him. For a time, Adelaide lived with a cousin as poor relation, until she was left a legacy and this London townhome by a family friend, a kindly gentleman who was more father to her than her own had ever been. She now lived in comfort and shared her good fortune.

Fidelity sighed, and Emmeline smiled. The maid would come back at some point to announce them; it was a matter of patience. She returned to reflecting on the past: how Lady Sherringdon, because of her many kindnesses, was the first woman she had thought of when the idea for their group came to her. Their meeting was ostensibly a late-afternoon gathering of ladies to discuss their program of good works. If society chose to assume their good works involved providing Bibles to heathens and relief for the poor list, that was their error. In truth, their cause was a mission that Emmeline had begun out of a frustrated sense of the iniquity of some men who were supposed to, with their greater wisdom and strength, protect the females under their governance. She had suffered from injustice in her own life; the laws of the land favored the male sex over the female in almost every way. That could not fail to irritate her, since she believed herself to be much more levelheaded than the men she knew, if she was sometimes more impulsive. She had used lessons learned from Lady Sherringdon to wrest control of her life from her older brother, but it was not a formal arrangement and could be rescinded at any time.

To combat injustice, she and Addy had recently formed a society of women dedicated to righting the wrongs inflicted on girls and women of all stations, from the lowliest scullery maid to a royal princess, if such should be in need of rescue. In the last year, she and Adelaide had gathered like-minded ladies to her cause, women who had suffered injustice at the hands of men: fathers, sons and in Emmeline’s case, a father and brother. Though they conferred and observed, agreeing on suitable candidates for their group, Lady Sherringdon in general took the lead in making the approach. As a widow, she was freer and less vulnerable to criticism should anyone discover their secret mission.

Most, though not all, of their rescues were of young servants in abusive situations. They had so far relocated six mistreated scullery maids and one climbing boy, who had been beaten daily by his execrable master. The girls had been given new jobs in safe homes. As for the boy, Tommy Jones, his apprenticeship had been paid off, his freedom, in effect, purchased; and his master had been threatened that he would be turned over to the magistrate should the maltreatment of his apprentices continue.

Last night’s mission, saving Molly from the loathsome Sir Henry Claybourne, had been a turning point, an indication of how important their work could become, given the situation in which Emmeline had found her. However, recently murmurings of alarm had evolved into a chorus among society’s leaders, bleating about how dangerous it was that a woman, the so-called Avengeress, should be stealing children, regardless of those children’s situations. Emmeline frankly reveled in it; never had she, as a woman, so affected people’s emotions. She had oft wondered what there was to life beyond afternoon visits, opera in the evening, and balls in the Season, and now she knew. What did it say about her that the finest aspects of her life were hidden from friends and family?

Lady Adelaide Sherringdon bustled out of the sitting room. You’re here! Why didn’t Tillie announce you? She clasped Emmeline’s hand and sought her eyes; the younger woman nodded, and her ladyship sighed, her hands trembling. Thank goodness! Come in, join us! she said, waving toward the sitting room.

Emmeline would enjoy relating the tale of how she had caught Sir Henry in the act and made him bleed. She had transported Molly to the agreed-upon location, from whence she would be sent to her new employer, a gentle spinster in need of a companion and maid. Then, the rapid change in the dark interior of her coach as she jostled through city streets and home to Chelsea, from a Bible reading, as she told her butler.

You will find only friends inside, Lady Sherringdon said. All eager to hear—

She was interrupted by the door; someone employed the knocker with vigor. Tillie, who had finally returned from disposing of the cloaks, trotted toward it and Adelaide stayed behind to welcome her next guest as Fidelity and Emmeline entered the parlor and greeted the others. Emmeline could hear, in the hall behind them, echoing chatter, several voices competing for attention.

She glanced around at the ladies in the sitting room. Miss Dorcas Harvey sat by a window eating plums; she was alone, for once, without her bosom friend Mrs. Martha Adair. Miss Juliette Espanson leaned forward in deep conversation with Lady Clara Langdon, who glanced up as the most recent arrivals entered.

Emmeline hugged her companion’s arm to her and whispered, I’m so anxious to tell them all! If I don’t unburden myself soon, I’ll jump out of my skin.

Fidelity squeezed back. Calm, Emmeline. You would think at your age you would have learned composure.

A lady was composed and gracious at all times, even when in a state of high excitation or expectation. A lady did not reveal her enthusiasm, did not walk too swiftly, neither did she lag behind. Emmeline conformed as best she could, the better to revel in her secret life, and so composed her expression as she greeted the others with a nod and pleasant word.

The voices from the entry hall were getting louder, accompanied by a shrill titter of youthful laughter. Adelaide glided into the sitting room followed by three ladies, only one of whom belonged. Mrs. Martha Adair, a plump, elegant lady in her forties, entered, flanked by two younger women, both fashionably gowned.

This was beyond annoying. There should be no strangers in attendance at this meeting. With them present, Emmeline could not tell the thrilling story of the previous night’s rescue. Her attention was caught by the sly looks the two young women exchanged, and she felt a tingle of apprehension. In their group, Martha was the weak link, an inveterate gossip. Emmeline was not easy with her knowing all she knew, but there was no way to keep it from her.

Martha took her seat by Fidelity, folding her hands over her embroidered reticule. She glanced over at Dorcas, who looked annoyed, her thick brows drawn together, then glanced around at the rest. Ladies, this is Misses Pamela and Honoria Schaeffer, my nieces, she said. "I was about to leave the house when they arrived unexpectedly from school. They attend Miss Woodhew’s Academy in Richmond. I could not leave them behind, and so brought them."

Both young ladies were pert and pretty, no more than a year apart and looking very much the same, with dark hair and dark eyes and in modest pale gowns suiting their age. Martha and her nieces sat and the ladies chatted while Emmeline devised a scheme to meet the next day. During a brief lull in the general chatter, Emmeline looked around at her friends. I hear that Gunter’s has a new flavor of Italian ice. Would some of you care to partake with me tomorrow? she asked.

Gunter’s? one of the young girls said, brow arched in derision. "So exploded."

Not fashionable, the other said with a nod. No one of style goes to Gunter’s anymore.

Honoria, Martha said sharply. That was impolite.

Miss Honoria Schaeffer ignored her. She leaned forward and scanned the other ladies. "You must have heard the vastly important news, did you not?"

Dorcas, her cheeks red with tamped-down frustration—she was protective of both their group’s privacy and Martha’s company—mumbled, What, new fashion in hats? Puff sleeves still in?

Miss Pamela Schaeffer cast the older woman a look of disgust. As if you would be able to wear puff sleeves anyway, she said, obliquely referencing Dorcas’s heavy, bosomy figure and ignoring the hiss of indrawn breaths at her rudeness. "No, something truly shocking! Our uncle owns a newspaper, so we hear everything in advance of others."

Emmeline’s attention sharpened. What newspaper, pray tell?

Honoria eyed her and apparently found her fashionable gown and slim figure worthy of approval, for she spoke politely enough. "Our uncle is Sir James Schaeffer. He owns the London Guardian Standard," she replied.

"The Standard ? They’ve been very harsh in their reporting on Sir Francis Burdett’s attempt to reform the House." Emmeline’s tone was sharper than she intended.

And so they should be! That man would have everything dear about England change in an instant, Miss Honoria Schaeffer, apparently the elder of the sisters, retorted.

Everything dear? Like children starving in Seven Dials, or corruption and bribery in our houses of parliament, or—

Fidelity put a hand on Emmeline’s and squeezed. Reminded that these two young ladies were strangers, and that she must not reveal her radical politics, Emmeline forced a smile, took a deep breath, and nodded. The Misses Schaeffer stared at her, wide-eyed.

In a milder tone, she said, "I must agree with you, though, Miss Schaeffer. Our nation has so much to be proud of. Did we not abolish the slave trade? Not completely, of course . . . slaves are still necessary in the colonies. We must not move too swiftly. Child labor, for example; we cannot afford to abolish that! Seven years of age is more than old enough to stop school and haul coal in the mines."

Miss Schaeffer eyed her with suspicion, but then nodded. Too true, Miss St. Germaine. What good is an education if the child will end up working in the mines anyway?

Emmeline bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood as Fidelity squeezed her hand more tightly. The younger Miss Schaeffer impatiently said, Honoria, that is not the news, that our uncle owns a paper. Miss Pamela sent Emmeline an unfriendly look and one of censure at her older sister. "The news is that a horrible crime has taken place!"

Her ghoulish enjoyment, dark eyes wide, mouth pulled in a grin, was interesting; as a genteel young lady, she should be recoiling if the crime was as ghastly as she said. What has happened? Emmeline asked her.

Martha sent Emmeline an agonized look of uneasiness. She stared back at her friend with incomprehension, not able to decipher what the expression meant.

Miss Pamela was about to reply, but Honoria leaned forward, eyes wide, and hurriedly said, "The brewer Sir Henry Claybourne was murdered last night, slit from throat to bowel, slaughtered like a hog."

There was a collective gasp, both at the dreadful vulgarity of her words and the news they relayed. Dizziness washed over Emmeline as she tried to comprehend.

Miss Pamela added, "There was a masked intruder earlier, a woman of all things, that Avengeress we’ve all been hearing about! Also, a scullery maid, just one month hired, absconded the same night, stealing all the jewels and silver! It is thought they were working together to slaughter Sir Henry and steal the household goods."

Ringing in her ears almost deafened Emmeline as the other women chattered, asking questions and demanding answers of the two sisters, who appeared slightly taken aback at the questioning and didn’t answer right away. Fidelity’s hand clamped tightly on Emmeline’s arm, her fingernails digging into the tender flesh. The pain brought Emmeline back to herself, and the dizziness ebbed, horror flowing in to take its place. How was this possible? Was it even true?

Such an awful tale, Fidelity finally said, her voice quavering, releasing her grip on Emmeline’s arm. But nobody relies on newspapers for the truth, do they? Her tone was deliberately light as air.

She was giving Emmeline time to recover, as were Lady Clara, Lady Adelaide, and Miss Espanson, who drew the young Misses Schaeffers’ attention by amplifying Fidelity’s voiced skepticism, asking multiple questions all at once. They all knew of Emmeline’s incursion into Sir Henry Claybourne’s residence the evening before, but only Martha and Dorcas stared at her with dual expressions of unease. Neither had the social grace the others exhibited in ignoring Emmeline’s discomfiture. At any moment, the Misses Schaeffer could notice the two ladies’ focus on Emmeline, and she must present a calm face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, clasped her trembling hands together in her lap, and focused on the conversation.

"Our uncle’s paper is most particular about printing only the truth!" Miss Schaeffer protested against the wave of disbelief.

Lady Clara Langdon, daughter of the Earl of Langdon, glanced over at Miss Juliette Espanson and then back to Honoria. Your loyalty does you credit, Miss Schaeffer, but newspapers are terribly unreliable. She tilted her head in a haughty manner and gazed serenely at the two younger ladies. "Just last month the Prattler printed a monstrous lie about Princess Amelia, you know."

"The Prattler is a rag, the elder sister protested vehemently. Our uncle’s paper is a serious newspaper. Both young ladies were becoming agitated, but the conflict had served to sweep the murder and the masked intruder from the conversation and give Emmeline time to recover her equilibrium. It was kindly done. Emmeline mouthed thank you" to Lady Clara, who nodded.

The young Schaeffer ladies had nothing more of substance to add to their tale, but neither did they seem inclined to leave Lady Sherringdon’s. There was no possibility of speaking openly to the others about what had happened. Fidelity pleaded a terrible headache and they rose to leave. Lady Sherringdon, ever the good hostess, followed them to the entry hall and summoned her maid to fetch their wraps.

I don’t understand, Emmeline whispered, turning to their hostess and clutching her arm. When I departed the house with Molly, Sir Henry was red-faced but quite alive, I assure you.

Adelaide tugged them toward the door. "Of course, my dear. This is shocking! But of course you are not involved. Go. I’ll try to find out what I can from those two little idiots."

I’ll send you word if I learn anything, Emmeline muttered as the maid brought their wraps. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow. I’ll send a note.

They departed the house. Emmeline climbed into the St. Germaine coach. Josephs, take the Comtesse home. Employing Josephs as the family coachman might seem a luxury in a city household, but it was a necessity to have a driver given their home was in Chelsea, out of the city proper. After that, let me out at Carpenter’s Coffee House.

Josephs inhaled sharply, but then nodded and shut the door, latching it securely. They felt his weight as he jumped up and the carriage lurched into movement.

"Emmeline, you will not go there, Fidelity said, her voice low and trembling. She reached over and grasped her charge’s gloved hand. What are you thinking? Please consider your reputation!"

"Fiddy, I must see Simeon." Simeon Kauffman was publisher of the Prattler, a radical newspaper. "He takes his coffee every evening at this time at Carpenter’s. He’ll know about this awful thing, if it’s true, and what people are saying. I need to know. He’s the only one I can trust to tell me the truth of what’s going on."

I understand, my dear, but you cannot go into that place. I beseech you, think!

Fidelity was right, of course, and Emmeline nodded. Carpenter’s Coffee House was a notorious meeting place