A Fashionable Fatality Read online

  Books by Alyssa Maxwell

  Gilded Newport Mysteries

  MURDER AT THE BREAKERS

  MURDER AT MARBLE HOUSE

  MURDER AT BEECHWOOD

  MURDER AT ROUGH POINT

  MURDER AT CHATEAU SUR MER

  MURDER AT OCHRE COURT

  MURDER AT CROSSWAYS

  MURDER AT KINGSCOTE

  MURDER AT WAKEHURST

  MURDER AT BEACON ROCK

  Lady and Lady’s Maid Mysteries

  MURDER MOST MALICIOUS

  A PINCH OF POISON

  A DEVIOUS DEATH

  A MURDEROUS MARRIAGE

  A SILENT STABBING

  A SINISTER SERVICE

  A DEADLY ENDOWMENT

  A FASHIONABLE FATALITY

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  A FASHIONABLE FATALITY

  ALYSSA MAXWELL

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

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

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2023 by Lisa Manuel

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2022945813

  The K with book logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3491-4

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: February 2023

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3494-5 (ebook)

  To the members of the newly renamed South Florida Fiction Writers, who have been a vital part of my writing journey from the very beginning, always a source of strength, wisdom, and community. Thank you!

  CHAPTER 1

  The Cotswolds, England

  September 1921

  Phoebe never learned. In recent years, that much had become clear. Try as she might to gain wisdom from her experiences, some inner stubbornness refused to allow life’s lessons to sink in. Take today, for instance. What had begun as an exciting and hopeful morning as she’d set out to visit her newly remarried sister and spend time with her baby nephew had ended here, in Julia’s drawing room, with a slender Frenchwoman rapidly clucking her tongue in disapproval as only Frenchwomen could.

  “Ah, non, non, non. Julia”—the woman pronounced it Zhoo-lee-a—“how right you are about your poor sister. But we shall fix her, non?”

  Not only had Phoebe not known she needed fixing, she didn’t want fixing. Moreover, this pronouncement had been made before she and this individual had even been introduced. The woman, at least ten to fifteen years older than Julia, possessed a sharp, discerning gaze, the eyes nearly black in color; a straight, pert nose and a pointed chin; and she wore her cropped dark hair in soft waves drawn back from her face. She had come at Phoebe just now like a bombardment, making short work of the carpet between them, her hands outstretched and a look of almost painful dismay on her face.

  Call it hope, that tenacious inner quality that had set Phoebe up for today’s abasement. Julia, formerly the Viscountess Annondale but now, due to her second and much happier marriage, the Marchioness of Allerton, had telephoned a week ago to invite Phoebe to Allerton Place for an extended weekend. Julia rarely telephoned. No, that wasn’t true. She telephoned all the time to speak with their younger sister, Amelia, or with Grams or Grampapa. But as for Phoebe . . .

  She had accepted the invitation eagerly . . . but she had forgotten there would be strings attached. She had forgotten that nothing was ever easy between Julia and her.

  The Frenchwoman now began plucking at the attached sash that circled the waist of Phoebe’s dress. “It is too wide for this year. So passé. Cut it off! Either a thin belt, or nothing and allow the fabric to skim the figure. Do you see?”

  No, Phoebe didn’t see. She liked this frock. Very much, and she had seen something just like it on the pages of the April edition of La Mode. With its pintucked blouson bodice, wide silk sash, and velvet piping, all in varying shades of russet, she thought it not only charming but suitable to her coloring and shape. Judging by their expressions, however, Julia and her mystery friend had other notions.

  And to think, her biggest qualm about coming to Allerton Place had been the expected presence of Julia’s mother-in-law, Lucille Leighton, Dowager Marchioness of Allerton. It must be admitted that the elder Lady Allerton had a way of vexing everyone within hearing range with her frequent complaints. But she and her late husband’s aunt, Lady Cecily, not only had taken up residence at the Dower house since Julia and Theo’s wedding but were currently on a tour of the West Country and weren’t expected back until early next month.

  As it turned out, though, Phoebe hadn’t escaped criticisms and complaints.

  Fingering a curve of blond hair where it swooped away from her face and curled over her ear, Julia strode closer. A tolerant smile tilted her lightly rouged lips. “Phoebe, I’m delighted to introduce you to Mademoiselle Gabrielle Chanel. Coco, my sister, Phoebe Renshaw.”

  “Oh. Mademoiselle Chanel, a pleasure,” Phoebe managed, though she wasn’t sure it was. A pleasure, that is. She offered the woman her hand. She knew Gabrielle Chanel by reputation. Actually, by Julia having discovered Maison Chanel’s clothing designs only a few years prior—during the war when the designer had been featured in Harper’s Bazaar. Julia had immediately decided the modern, clean lines and soft jersey fabrics were perfect for her long, lean figure.

  Julia wore one such suit today, a waistless, calf-skimming dress in royal blue covered by a jersey cardigan, the sleeves loose-fitting and three-quarters in length. A flowing beige jacket and darker pleated skirt swayed around Mademoiselle Chanel’s slight figure when she moved, as did the long strands of pearls around her neck, transforming what might have been a frumpy ensemble into an elegant statement.

  Phoebe’s murmured greeting brought on another clucking of Mademoiselle Chanel’s tongue. The woman forewent shaking hands and instead shook her head and waggled her forefinger. Her gaze dropped to Phoebe’s feet—would she find fault in the leather pumps as well?— and slowly slithered back up to her face. She commented to Julia, “I would have known this was Phoebe even if you had not told me. She is very much as you
described her.”

  “I’m afraid she is,” Julia replied brightly, as if Phoebe weren’t there. “That’s why I was so excited for the two of you to meet. In your hands, there will finally be hope for my little sister.” She turned one of her patented enchanting smiles on Phoebe, though its effects on her were rather less fruitful than with most people. “Phoebe, surely you remember I had the wonderful fortune of meeting Coco during Theo’s and my honeymoon.”

  With the war a memory and France continuing to heal, Julia and Theo had decided to travel through the country with a stopover in Paris before continuing south to Marseilles and then Monte Carlo. The family had received postcards along each stage of the trip, including a gushing report of meeting the fashion designer and spending an afternoon at her couture shop at 31 Rue Cambon in Paris.

  Phoebe forced a smile. “Yes, I remember. It’s lovely to meet you, Mademoiselle.”

  “Mais non, it is Coco to my friends. And next time, you must accompany your sister to Paris, yes?” She pronounced the city’s name in the French way: Par-ee. “Oh, what we couldn’t do for you at Maison Chanel.” Once again, she plucked at Phoebe’s frock, tsking and sighing.

  Phoebe was saved from further assessment by the arrival of two men who stepped in from the hall laughing at some joke between them. They fell silent at the sight of the women, but only for an instant.

  “Phoebe! You made it in one piece.” Theo Leighton, Phoebe’s new brother-in-law, held out his arms and she gratefully entered his embrace. His comment referred to her preference for driving herself places in her two-seater Vauxhall, much to her grandmother’s dismay. “You’re looking splendid and none the worse for wear. How did the roads treat you?”

  “They were quite passable, although I did notice Eva clutching the seat more than once.” Her lady’s maid had yet to embrace motor travel, and though she never complained about riding in Phoebe’s motorcar, she nearly always emerged with a chewed lip and white knuckles.

  “Good, good,” Theo said, and hugged her again. “So very glad you could join us.”

  He said this with something of a conspiratorial tone, making Phoebe wonder if he, too, had come under Mademoiselle Chanel’s critical scrutiny.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” she assured him, “even if it had threated rain and hail all the way.”

  It had been a somewhat challenging drive, if the truth be told. Although the borders of Allerton Place nearly touched the farthest reaches of the Renshaws’ estate of Foxwood Hall, their entrances lay in two separate Cotswold villages nearly twenty hilly, twisting miles apart. Which meant Julia didn’t simply pop over daily to see her grandparents and siblings, and nor did they in turn embark on the trip here without some thorough planning beforehand.

  “Let me look at you.” Theo grasped Phoebe’s hand and twirled her. “Lovely, as always. You’re like a picture in a fashion magazine.”

  She thought surely he must be teasing, that perhaps he had overheard Mademoiselle Chanel’s lamenting, until she remembered Theo didn’t tease when giving compliments. A more sincere man she had rarely met. It hadn’t always been so. He’d come home from the war injured, the poisonous gasses rolling across the battlefields of the Somme having scarred his lungs, face, and hands. Even now, having undergone procedures to restore the skin, the left side of his mouth tugged downward and the flesh beside his chin and down onto his neck had been left pink and puckered. He had regained the use of his fingers for the most part, but his occasional coughing remained a source of concern.

  The ordeal had initially left Theo withdrawn and often ill-tempered, but only temporarily. And to be honest, Phoebe believed much of his peevishness had stemmed not from frustration over his wounds but from Julia having nearly married his elder brother, Henry, and then actually marrying Gilbert Townsend, Viscount Annondale, the previous year.

  As for Theo’s transformation to the jovial, kindhearted gentleman who stood grinning before Phoebe now? Again, it was admittedly due to Julia, and the revelation that it had been Theo she had loved all along. Now, he had not only Julia, but also his deceased brother’s title of Marquess of Allerton.

  But barely a penny to go with it, relatively speaking.

  “I hope you brought riding clothes,” he added after a moment.

  “I did,” she said, “and I’m so looking forward to being in the saddle again.” It had been a rather long while. So many horses had been taken to the Continent to be used in battle . . . “I’m glad you kept a few.”

  “Yes, well, we sold off most of them, as you know, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with all of them. Oh, but good grief,” he exclaimed suddenly, his scarred mouth contorting, “where are my manners? I see you’ve already met Coco.” He gestured to the man waiting slightly behind him, who had been watching with an amused gleam. “Phoebe, I don’t believe you’ve ever met our other guest for the weekend, Ralph Hewitt-Davies, Earl of Chesterhaven. His brother and I were at Eton and Oxford together. Chessy, this is Julia’s sister, Phoebe.”

  The earl’s gaze dipped and rose much as Coco’s had done, although without the disapproval. “Ah, another Renshaw granddaughter. The old Earl of Wroxly certainly has lovely faces to gaze upon at his breakfast table each morning, doesn’t he?” This earl, Chessy, was approaching middle age yet remained handsome and, at present, deeply tanned. Obviously an outdoorsman. He stood several inches taller than Theo, but something in his bearing suggested he would always seem the tallest man in the room, even if, in fact, he was not. He extended a manicured hand and grasped Phoebe’s firmly. “A pleasure, my dear. An absolute pleasure.”

  He continued to hold her hand as he performed another brisk assessment—at least, Phoebe had the sense that he was taking her measure. He might as well, since everyone else had. And she took his. Yes, though he must be approaching forty or perhaps more, he was blond and fit, tall and straight, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Yes, an athlete, and an aristocrat through and through. She hadn’t needed to be told of his title to perceive that much. He continued to hold her in his gaze, as if he had asked a question and waited for the answer.

  She began to grow uncomfortable . . .

  “Ahem.” Coco was suddenly beside him, looping her arm through his and drawing him away from Phoebe until he had no choice but to release her hand. Coco simpered up at him. “Did you enjoy your tour of the stables? The horse—does it meet with your approval?”

  “Chessy is interested in the filly born here a year ago last spring,” Theo explained.

  “Oh. Are you going to buy her?” Phoebe’s stomach sank. She had, in fact, hoped Grampapa might purchase her for the Foxwood Hall stables. It had been three years since the Armistice, and Phoebe hoped they might finally keep a horse or two. She so missed riding along the woodland trails and the fields bordering the tenant farms.

  “Yes, the chestnut,” the earl confirmed. Though Coco continued to exert pressure on his arm to set him walking, he stood his ground and stared into Phoebe’s eyes in a way that nearly brought a blush to her countenance—and would have, several years earlier. “Do I detect a bit of disappointment, Phoebe? Do you want the filly?”

  “Oh . . . no.” She could make no claim on it, after all, not having ample funds of her own to make the purchase. If only Grampapa had taken the several hints she and Amelia had dropped . . . “She’s yours, if you want her.”

  “Bon, then it is settled. Chessy shall have his filly.” Coco effectively dismissed Phoebe and appealed to Julia. “It is time for tea, non? You English and your tea.” She gave a brittle laugh. “We shall adjourn to the garden, if I remember correctly. Oui?”

  “You are correct. Tea will be served on the terrace. The weather is so lovely today.” Julia strolled forward, stopping when she reached Theo and taking his arm, though in a much more relaxed manner than Coco’s possessive clutch on Chessy. Neither did Julia glower at Phoebe or flash a warning with her dark blue eyes, as Coco’s brown ones currently were.

  Curious. Only moments
ago, the Frenchwoman had fussed over Phoebe like a mother hen—clucking and all. She couldn’t wait to “fix” Phoebe. Now she seemed eager to separate herself—and Chessy—from Phoebe’s side as quickly as possible.

  Could she be . . . was it possible . . . jealous? Of the little sister with no style?

  * * *

  Eva moved the last of Lady Phoebe’s things into the armoire and shut the paneled doors. Turning, she surveyed the guest room and decided its pale wood furnishings and toile fabrics were charming, if ever-so-slightly shabby. But then, much of Allerton Place showed signs of wear, despite it being the family seat of the marquesses of Allerton these many generations.

  Well, she supposed that was the point, wasn’t it? For so many families, the Renshaws included, the war, taxes, tumbling agricultural prices, the abandonment of the countryside as young people flocked to the cities, and simply time itself had worn great fortunes away much as rivers wear away their own banks.

  The marriage of the Marquess of Allerton and Lady Julia Renshaw had brought renewed hope to the estate, as her previous husband had provided most generously for her in his will. And, of course, though he did not yet know it, their son, baby Charles, was Gilbert Townsend’s heir and already the master of a vast fortune—one based on business and industry and not on old family money passed down through the generations.

  Eva straightened Lady Phoebe’s things on the dressing table, arranging the jewelry box, hair accessories, and cosmetics as Lady Phoebe liked them; took one more look around the room; and let herself out. On her way to the service staircase, she noticed the door of another guest room ajar and heard the sounds of someone performing similar tasks to those she had just completed. Curious as to who it was, she peeked in. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know the other servants who had traveled here with their employers.