Menace at Lincourt Manor

By Blair Bancroft

Violet Larrabee, a merchant's daughter, born in India, achieves her greatest dream, marrying the man she has loved since childhood (great-grandson of a Bengali rajah), only to have her world plunge into a succession of nightmares. Abandoned by an all-too-busy husband, she must cope with a dilapidated house, hostile servants, and a succession of escalating events that culminate in multiple murders. Murders that might possibly have been committed by her husband.

Violet faces her problems with courage and determination, seldom faltering as she proves herself far from the shy, shrinking flower for which she was named. Until, with the solution to her problems almost at hand, a dramatic stumble nearly puts an end to her life and all possibility of Happily Ever After.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Apr 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9780999851968

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Twelve-year-olds know nothing of love—romantic love, that is. Or so says everyone from stern mamas to aging philosophers. But I was born and raised in India, where life is more colorful, more lively, more dramatic, more knowing than lives circumscribed by the rules practiced on Britain’s tight little island. Sadly, many who left England to live and work in India wrapped themselves in a bubble of their Englishness, seeing only the foreignness instead of the exuberance of another culture. My mother, though a kindly, good-tempered woman, was one of them. When I was born in the stifling heat of a spring day in Bengal, my mother—no doubt nostalgic for the Lake Country—named me Violet, never dreaming I would be more like a full-blown rose turning its face toward the sun.

Unlike my mother, I was perfectly happy to stay in India forever, for well before my twelfth birthday I had chosen my mate for life.

Not that he knew it, of course. I worshipped Julian Gilrane from afar. But our fathers both worked for the East India Company, whose headquarters for all of India was in Fort William, situated on the east side of the Hooghly River across from in the teeming city of Calcutta. Julian’s mother and my mother were the best of friends, and our families frequently dined together. In short, Julian had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. He was, however, seven years older than I and never looked on me as more than a little sister, ofttimes a nuisance. Which did not keep me from becoming starry-eyed and breathless every time I saw him. Sometimes, I simply hid behind a column, a piece of furniture, or a tangle of vines and stared at him, savoring what to me was the epitome of young manhood.

To someone born in India, Julian’s tawny skin was just the right shade. He was tall, if a bit lanky; his hair was black as coal, his eyes obsidian, his nose regal. One morning when my mother thought me old enough to understand, she explained this oddity to me.

In the last century, when such things were less frowned upon than they are now, an eager young agent of the East India Company established his fortune by marrying the daughter of a Bengali rajah. Members of the Company smiled and nodded, considering the marriage a wise move, if not acceptable to the highest sticklers. Though when the son of this union was born in the image of his father—a proper young Englishman named George after our far-away monarch—there were a good many sighs of relief. Until the next generation when baby Julian came into the world and by a whim of nature displayed skin several shades darker than a son of the Company should, his sins compounded by hair and eyes as black as coal.

My mother, bless her, though never giving up her convictions that everything English was superior to all else in the world, fostered a friendship with Helen Gilrane, mother of this startlingly foreign babe, a friendship that remained fast down through the years. But when she observed how much I was drawn to Julian, she did not hesitate to warn me there would those who shunned or taunted him for being touched by the tarbrush. I recall gaping at her, totally unbelieving. India was my home, Julian the grandson of a rajah. As arrogant and handsome as the day was long.

But as I grew, as I saw the sideways looks, overheard the whispers, I was furious, despising the ignorance, the prejudice that spawned such actions. Actions that made me love Julian all the more.

And then, a scant three weeks after my twelfth birthday, disaster struck. My life suffered a blow from which I was certain I would never recover. My mother called me into her sitting room, waved me to a seat beside her on the sofa. Frantically, I searched my mind for what I had done wrong this time.

Behind us, a servant stirred the air with a giant reed fan, sweeping it back and forth in an arc. I appreciated the gentle breeze, but it never seemed to be enough for mother, who often reminded us that she was from the Lake Country and would never be comfortable in India. Yet today, she did not seem to notice the sweltering heat as she eyed me with a look that was more wary than stern. Violet. She paused. Oddly, I thought I caught a flash of sympathy in her cornflower blue eyes. I know you are fond of the Gilranes. Over the years they have become family, have they not?

Mama knew. Totally mortified, I hung my head, feeling a rush of scarlet overwhelm my pale cheeks. Mama was about to warn me of the shocking social sin of wearing my heart on my sleeve.

But the truth was worse—much, much worse.

Mr. George Gilrane has been named a Member of the Board of the East India Company, Mama announced. After a quarter century devoted to Company matters, he will arrive triumphant in the land of his father’s birth. Mama gave me a stern look. Although we will sorely miss the Gilranes, Violet, we must be exceedingly happy for them. And, she added as I finally looked up, the Great Question filling my eyes, "this is an excellent opportunity for Julian as well. I am told he is more interested in learning about Investments and the Exchange than in following in his father’s footsteps. Therefore, he would have had to go to England soon, even if his father had not received such an honor—

Violet? Oh, my poor dear. You are too young to have such feelings!

But, shoulders shaking, I was already half-way to the door. I would not cry, I would not cry until I reached the shelter of my room. And then I would spill out a river of tears strong enough to float me to the sea, to far distant England, to a land which, to me, was totally shrouded in mystery.

I was inconsolable. My world turned to ash, almost as if I had been consumed by a funeral pyre, a death ritual widely practiced in India, in which a wife was burned along with her deceased husband. And then one morning, my father summoned me to his study, informed me he had had enough of my nonsense. I was descended from a long line of bold and upright knights, soldiers, scholars, and pillars of the church, and my weakness was a disgrace to every Larrabee who had ever lived.

A bitter blow. Yet despite the fact that I had never set foot in England, a land some five thousand miles from Calcutta, I stood tall, stiffened my shoulders, and promised Father I would be true to my stiff-upper-lip British heritage. But in my heart I promised to be true to Julian, though I would never again allow anyone to see my grief.

Shocked by my father’s rare scolding, I donned armor that day. Papa, you see, was not simply the head of our household but now held the position Mr. George Gilrane once filled: Administrator of the East India Company for all British-held territory on the Indian continent. And to the English in India the Company was second only to God, an all-encompassing influence on every aspect of our daily lives. Disobeying an edict of the Administrator was unthinkable. Nor could he be seen to have a daughter who was a watering pot.

And so I survived my first heartbreak, Julian Gilrane gone, though far from forgotten.

I avidly awaited each new letter Mother received from Mrs. Gilrane, but correspondence over thousands of miles was, inevitably, infrequent. Nonetheless, pleasure warmed me when I learned that Julian had taken to ’Change like a duck to water, making wise investments and steadily increasing the initial funds granted him by his father.

As I reached the age of attracting the attention of young men—both men of the Company and officers of the Company’s sizable army—I realized just how far Julian’s casual kindnesses to me as a child differed from interest of a romantic nature. How could I have been so foolish! I cringed. Yet the dream remained, the vision of my golden-skinned hero still gleaming on the distant horizon.

From the day of my fifteenth birthday, my mother actively encouraged me to consider the merits of the ever-changing flow of young men arriving for duty at Fort William, as well as the ones come to India to make their fortunes with the Company. And, dutifully, I smiled, I danced, I flirted. But even though Julian had faded to little more than a fond, and occasionally embarrassing, memory, I never again experienced the head-over-heels adoration I had known as a child.

A month before my seventeenth birthday, my world tilted once again in a tragedy far greater than the loss of Julian Gilrane. My dear, darling, long-suffering mother caught one of India’s ubiquitous fevers and died within a week.

It fell to me to write the letters to my mother’s parents in Keswick and to her friend and long-time correspondent, now Lady Helen Gilrane, as Sir George had received a knighthood some three years earlier. After fulfilling this duty, I recalled my father’s stern words of long ago, stiffened my spine, and took over the reins of the household. Even if my letters sailed on the fastest ship and the trade winds were brisk, it would likely be more than a year before letters of condolence made their way to Bengal.

Therefore, I shrouded myself in diaphanous black—a shade at odds with the blistering heat of the Indian climate—and ran the household as my mother taught me. I participated in the expected charity work. I stood at my father’s side when the army, including the Bengal Lancers, was on parade. (Although it may seem odd to some, the British Army in Fort William was an extension of the East India Company, its primary duty to protect the company’s many interests in a country vastly larger than Britain. To be more direct, the Company paid the salaries of everyone from raw recruits to commanding generals.)

But finally, just as I was beginning to wonder if my letters to England had gone astray, Amin, our majordomo, delivered a tall stack of letters to my father’s desk, fresh off the latest East India merchantman. My fingers itched to examine the correspondence, but I was too well brought up to commit such a social solecism. Even letters addressed to me must first be inspected by Papa.

Why I was so anxious I did not care to admit, for the letters likely contained nothing more than condolences. But if one was from Lady Helen, there would be news of Julian. I waited on tenterhooks for Papa to come home. For I knew—I simply knew—that one of those letters contained more than condolences.

How could I be so certain?

Not long after Julian and his family left for England, I began to develop an odd gift. At first, it was no more than flitting thoughts I dismissed as good guesses. Then, ever-so-gradually, I began to realize I could feel things others did not. That some of the mysticism of India had crept into my stiff-backed, hard-headed British upbringing. By the time I was fourteen, I had found a nice, sensible English word for it: intuition. Yet the fact remained that my gift was odd.

I could not tell my mother, for she was far too English and would be perfectly horrified. But my ayah called it a gift. If so, it was not a gift I wanted. I did my best to conceal it. And besides, compared to the great mystics of India, my gift was paltry—sporadic, often more unsettling than enlightening. I was also aware that not so long ago the English had seized women like me, tied them to a stake, and burned them.

Melancholy thoughts, but perhaps not so surprising as there could be little doubt that the majority of letters on Papa’s desk were condolences on the death of my mother.

It was a long, agonizing wait. Not until after father had lingered over his after-dinner port did he retire to his study to read the letters from England. A whole forty-five minutes passed before Amin informed me that Papa requested my presence.

Since my mother’s passing, I had seldom seen my father smile, but tonight he was wearing a look I found impossible to interpret. A handsome man, a year short of fifty, Papa showed but a few streaks of gray in his wavy golden blond hair and almost no signs of a middle-aged paunch. His face was distinguished by the lines of authority acquired during his years as Administrator, and even though he spent more time away from home than in it, I admired him greatly.

Papa had separated the letters addressed to me, but oddly made no reference to them as he examined me from head to toe, almost as if it was the first time he had noticed I was grown up. Which was quite ridiculous, as I had been acting as his hostess for some time now.

A sudden frown creased his forehead, the intimidating effect spoiled by an errant curl that fell all the way to an equally blond eyebrow. With a jerk of his hand, he waved me to the seat in front of his desk. Still frowning, he picked up an opened letter several pages in length. Sir George and Lady Helen have made a remarkable proposal, one I admit I had not expected. He paused, shifted in his chair, seemingly intent upon the chirps and clicks of the creatures of the night drifting through the open window, as if they could provide him with the answer to whatever question plagued him.

Many years ago, Papa continued, when the Gilranes still lived here, your mother and Mrs. Gilrane talked of a match between our children. Papa, looking decidedly uncomfortable, harrumphed. You, as I recall, left no question in anyone’s mind of your approval of such a match.

A hot blush stained my cheeks. I had hoped never to be reminded of my childish infatuation.

Evidently, Papa continued, Julian has done very well for himself and is on his way to establishing a fortune of his own. However, his father reports he has accomplished this to the detriment of his private life. Once again, Papa paused, clearly choosing his next words with care. I must warn you, Violet, that I have heard rumors that Julian has encountered some resistance from society’s high-sticklers. There are some who think his—ah—heritage does not make him a proper matrimonial choice.

That is absurd! Criticize Julian, would they? In the blink of an eye, I flared to his defense.

"We may find it so, Papa returned evenly, but when the English look at him, they see a foreigner instead of a proper English gentleman."

Hands white-knuckled in my lap, I declared, They should be drawn and quartered!

To my surprise, Papa’s lips quirked into a faint smile. If your mother had any inkling of what you would become, she would never have named you Violet.

My lips quivered as I returned his smile. Our private moments were few and far between, and I held them dear.

Papa leaned forward, pinning me with his shrewd blue-eyed gaze. I had hoped you would find a match among the many young men in Fort William, but that has not happened. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Even if I were not in mourning, there is no one who has caught my eye, let alone for whom I have developed a tendre."

Papa tapped his fingers on the open letter and finally plunged to the heart of the matter. Sir George and Lady Helen propose a match between Julian and yourself.

My world stopped.

The voyage to England is long, and you will be out of mourning by the time you arrive in London. If, that is—Papa gave me a sharp look—you are still of the same mind you were when the Gilranes sailed for England.

Mind? My mind had just gone whirling into chaos, incoherent shards of thought scattering in every direction. Yet over the years I had crafted my armor well. My dignity as the daughter of an Administrator of the East India Company surfaced, and I was able to ask with only the slightest quake in my voice, What does Julian thinks about all this? I was but twelve years old when he last saw me, a child he tolerated for the sake of our families’ friendship.

Papa’s frown returned. For exactly that reason, I have read the letter twice and can find no reference to Julian’s personal thoughts on the subject. However—Papa huffed a breath and hurried on—the Gilranes invite you to stay with them at their country home near Richmond while you acquire proper wedding clothes and you and Julian become reacquainted.

I had spent more than six years attempting to forget Julian Gilrane. And now this. Nonetheless, there was no question about my answer. A shrinking violet I was not. Julian Gilrane was mine. I would plunge into the unknown, head high, and pray it was not all a dream.

I left India a scant month later, Father arranging passage on one of the Company’s newest ships, with a captain who had recently set a new record for the run between Calcutta and London.

There came a time when I would wonder: if I had known what I was sailing into, would I have clung tooth and nail to the land of my birth?

I shall recount the tale of my next few years and let you, dear reader, decide for yourself.

Chapter 2

I stood on the deck of the Lady Eleanore, my gaze fixed on the receding shoreline. I was leaving everything I had ever known: Father, the faithful servants who had played such a strong role in raising me to my nearly nineteen years; the bright colors, the cacophony, the smells, the sheer exuberance of the land of my birth. Everyone warned me that England was cold and damp, though most conceded that it was also wondrously green, with flowers in abundance from early spring to autumn.

And . . .

My heart surged with joy. No matter how many windless days we encountered, how many stormy seas, how many endless days of nothing on the horizon but ocean and more ocean, at the end of the voyage was Julian Gilrane.

Our accommodations are better than I expected, remarked the woman who had just joined me at the rail. Isobel Ballinger was designated my chaperone for the voyage. The wife of Major Lucas Ballinger, she had found the heat, the very fabric of life in India oppressive, and now that she was with child, she was fleeing back to England, praying to be reunited with her family before the date of her lying-in. Although I was inclined to think she was playing ducks and drakes with her unborn babe’s life, I could understand the urge to have her mother at her side for such a momentous event. If only my mother could see me now . . .

I believe we have my father to thank for that, I returned with a smile. He has arranged for the best cabin on the fastest ship.

Indeed, Mrs. Ballinger agreed. I must admit I am greatly relieved. Please express my gratitude when you write to Mr. Larrabee.

It was true that we would travel to London in relative luxury. The Lady Eleanore was one of the fleet’s newer ships and had been designed with a guest cabin large enough to accommodate two narrow beds, a writing desk, a dining table for two, and a modest-sized wardrobe—all firmly attached to the stout wooden floor and walls. My lips turned up in a fond smile. Papa might have been an austere presence, more commonly in his Company office than in our home, but there was never any doubt that he genuinely cared about Mama and me, or that my mother’s death had come as a severe blow. As much as I would miss him, I could only hope that my departure would free him to find some happiness of his own.

Shortly before the date of our sailing, Papa had summoned me to his study and laid out the measures that had been taken on my behalf. Not that he explained Settlements in detail—I was, after all, female and not expected to understand such things—but Papa made it clear that in addition to a truly generous dowry, he and Mr. Gilrane, together, had set up a fund that would always be mine. Julian would oversee the money, but he could not touch it for his own use. I would, however, have to request his permission to use so much as a ha’penny of the income from this trust. Something I could not like, even though I was grateful for the existence of such a fund.

Is Mr. Gilrane’s contribution like a bride price? I asked.

Father snorted. "Kindly remember you are English, Violet. Clearly, we should have sent you home long since."

But India is home—

No buts, my girl. Speak of ‘bride prices’ in London society, and they will likely shun you for ‘going native.’

Mother had frequently scolded me for my fascination with Indian customs, but never in my wildest dreams had I considered that speaking of such things could be a stumbling block in the mysterious land so far away. I added minding my tongue to the many challenges that lay ahead.

Papa took a deep breath and continued. England is very far away, Violet, too far for me to keep watch over you. I have, therefore, set up a separate fund, which is for you and you alone. You have a good head on your shoulders, and I know you will not abuse my trust. It is, however, a highly unusual step, and I suggest you keep the matter to yourself. I would not wish to insult the Gilranes by any implication that I do not trust them.

I stared. My own money? Unusual indeed.

Papa went ahead to explain that the only other person who would know about this fund was his solicitor in London, who would provide me with funds upon my request.

For a long moment Papa and I regarded each other with rare understanding—he truly loved me, would miss me, and had just done his best to ensure my future. And at that moment I finally realized it was possible I might never see him again. Contrary to every rule of British reticence, I rushed around the desk and threw myself into his arms, instantly becoming the watering pot he had so frequently cautioned me not to be. Over my final days in India, Papa continued to impart a good many words of wisdom. And I listened, treasuring every moment.

A great rattling, followed by a whooshing sound interrupted my melancholy thoughts. While I was lost in memories of home, we had reached the mouth of the Hooghly, Isobel Ballinger long gone. The crew was hoisting the mainsail, the ship picking up speed with every yard of unfurled canvas. England. We were off to England, and no turning back.

I turned around, faced the bow. However, many months it took, however many hazards we encountered, Lady Eleanore was a ship of the East India Company, and we would arrive in London, as planned.

And waiting on the dock . . . Julian Gilrane. My betrothed.

For men of the sea, any voyage is a constant challenge; for passengers, little but the endless tedium of sea and sky. And too much time to think. Fortunately, once I adapted to life on a bobbing cork, tossed about at the vagary of wind and wave, I was fascinated by the sheer immensity of it all. Of the daring of the first men who built boats and ventured off to the edge of the world, only to discover the sea just kept going, and fortunate was the sailor who found a bit of land, a safe harbor in which to rest.

But my admiration for adventurers, then and now, could not occupy all my time. Not even the long hours I spent caring for poor Isobel, who had almost immediately come to regret her decision to birth her babe in England. Rather than she being my chaperone, I became her nurse and encouraging companion—truth to tell, I was grateful for the distraction. For my worries were legion. I worried about Papa. I worried about living in a strange new world. Most of all, I worried about Julian. I could only hope, as I turned nineteen somewhere south of the Cape of Good Hope, that this advanced age would grant me the wisdom to cope with the Great Unknown that loomed at the end of our voyage.

Unfortunately, I was still unable to slough off feelings of unease about the arrangements made between our fathers. Julian was not a child, but a man of six and twenty. Independent, successful on ’Change. Yet at no time had Father mentioned any direct contact from him. Surely he should have been the person arranging Settlements with my father.

You think too much! my more staid and sensible self chided. It is not as if he is some noble fop who never worked a day in his life. He is busy making his way in the world. Why should he not welcome his father handling such mundane matters as Settlements?

But through four months of wind and calm, days too sunny and days wracked by storms, my niggling doubts refused to go away. I tried, I truly tried. I would stand on deck with the wind in my face and attempt to picture the River Thames, the teeming city clinging to its bank like Calcutta around the Hooghly, my fears swept away when I saw Julian at quayside—tall, dark, arrogantly handsome, and strikingly competent, fulfilling every promise of what I had seen of him at nineteen.

Be prepared for anything, my inner voice hissed. Remember what your Papa said about keeping a stiff upper lip.

But the Gilranes sent for me, I countered. Part of my bride price is an entire new wardrobe. They would never do that if all were not settled.

Bride price indeed! Remember what your father told you. If you are to live in England, you must put India behind you! Forever.

I fought this inner battle daily—when standing with salt spray in my face, when tucked in my berth at night, and in the loneliness of dawn. As we neared England and excitement soared at our first glimpse of the dark shadow of land on the horizon, I made a determined effort to count my blessings, rather than my fears.

Thanks be, Isobel had outrun the date of her lying-in. (She would have a boy, I knew, but was careful never to mention it.) The poor dear looked like a ship with its foresail bellying out in a strong wind, and she spent more time in bed than on her feet, but she would soon be in her mother’s arms, and all would be well. As for me, I was close to panic-stricken. What would Julian think of me? I could easily picture him as he had been when he left for England—a young man in the first flower of his manhood—while I had been twelve, a hoyden with tangled hair, no figure, and a tendency to run wild every chance I got.

Truly, it seemed remarkable that such a lofty creature as Julian Gilrane would even consider me as a wife.

Truth was, from the moment Papa informed me of the proposed marriage, I wondered what Julian would think of me. I had taken a long, critical look at myself in a full-length looking glass: I was relatively small in stature, but my figure had developed rather nicely. Julian would be surprised. My hair was golden blonde like my father’s; my eyes were my mother’s, the color of a summer sky. But my skin was far from the pale complexion so much admired in females just arrived from England. Indeed, the kindest word that could be used to describe my skin was sun-kissed. And—I winced—after four months at sea