Eugene, Duke of Bestfod is custodian of a rare and valuable artifact. Someone has killed his cousin, and attempted to steal the relic. Eugene must guard the object but more importantly guard himself against the alluring Lady Charlotte Beauchamp, who has professed her love for him. Will her investigative skills help him to catch the thief and murderer, or will he succumb to temptation and unleash what he knows to be a dangerous passion of his own?

Join Eugene and Charlotte, who, together with their families and friends are in a race to unmask the evildoer, all while the attraction between them threatens to destroy Eugene’s carefully constructed inner calm.

 

Chapter 1

 

20 June 1816

A rare warm breeze passed through the open casement of the orangery and brought with it the beguiling smell of freshly scythed grass. Charlotte breathed deeply and felt tentative stirrings of her innate cheerfulness. Even London’s regular hubbub failed to vex her. If she didn’t think too much or dwell on precious memories, she may yet survive a full day without feeling as though her world had collapsed.

She looked down at her bleak black bombazine dress; the only colour she would wear for the next eleven months. Charlotte should have been grateful Eugene had provided her the opportunity to escape the relentless absurdity of the matchmaking season, albeit unwittingly, yet she could not shake the melancholy that had descended on her with the news of his death. Days of crying, neglecting her projects, no appetite. So obvious was her grief that her brother Chester had believed her story and acceded to her wishes to go into mourning, even though she was not formally affianced to Eugene.

She hadn’t even seen him in four years. Not since he’d briefly returned for his father’s funeral from his sojourn in the Ionian Islands. He’d been distant and had looked annoyed whenever she tried to engage him in any conversation. She had been piqued at the time but looking back at her sixteen-year-old self, she was more than a trifle embarrassed by her obvious attempts to get his attention.

The realization she would never see Eugene again caused so much pain she was forced to confront the fact that she still loved him. She had given him her heart at their first meeting all those years ago and he was still in possession of it. She would always love him. Her secret dreams that someday she could make Eugene see her as a desirable woman, no longer the wilful and mischievous child who had dogged his every step, were now in tatters. There was no question of her ever wanting anyone else. The knowledge was painful but it also strengthened her resolve never to get married. 

She was now a woman who had to alter the course of her future. She straightened her spine, took a final deep steadying breath, extracted pincers from the silver etui she kept hidden under the wooden bench, and set to work.

An hour later there was a staccato tap at the door. Charlotte hastily drew a cloth over her efforts.

“It’s alright, only me,” announced Sophia as she entered the room, sniffing the air as she came closer. “What’s that, it smells odd?”

“It’s saffron – or at least it’s packaged as saffron- truth is more likely dyed strips of horsehair. Here, look at this,” Charlotte unveiled two saucers, filled with small red strips soaking in water. The water in one saucer had a yellowish tinge, the other was still almost clear. Here, take a closer look at the one with clear water,” Charlotte handed Sophie the loupe.

“Ooh, I see!” Sophia said.

“Look at the shape of the threads, not at all like they’re meant to be. I’m just finishing my report. My guess is, judging by the thickness and length of the hair, the horses came from a warm climate. This shipment arrived from India one month ago but I will recommend the bill not be paid unless someone can disprove my conclusions.”

“That is a satisfying result, then. When will you hand the report to the ‘pleasant, portly purveyor of exotic spices from the orient and continent’?” Sophia asked, using the nickname they had given the esteemed but mysterious spice merchant Mr. De Jong.

“It’s more a question of where, not when,” Charlotte muttered. “Obviously I can’t go to public events anymore, which suits me in every other respect but this. I risk being unmasked as ‘P. Singh - The World’s Foremost Expert On The Origin Of Exotic Spices’ if I, you or even my maid drops it off at De Jong’s spice store. The report is too sensitive to be sent by the post.”

Sophia grinned. “In mourning you can still go to church. You could leave it in a hymn book at the end of the family pew.  I believe that’s how Miss Hinchinbrook related her whereabouts to Mr. Paisley for their secret trysts. She’s now Mrs. John Paisley and about to enter motherhood.”

“That is really a marvelous notion!” Charlotte gave her friend a hug, “though I hope using a hymn book won’t incur the same fate for me with Mr. De Jong!” Charlotte quipped. “It will be the last report for a while. I’ve had to force myself to complete this investigation because I accepted the commission before… well before...you know.”

“I know,” Sophia sighed, “I miss him, too. For one, Eugene was a lot more couth than my other unruly siblings.”

Charlotte was grateful Sophia had been instantly supportive of her mourning even though Sophia knew Charlotte was not engaged to her brother. Charlotte suspected sometimes Sophia knew her better than she knew herself.

In fact, the only objectors to her mourning were her suitors but they could hardly claim she’d led them a merry dance. She had behaved as indifferently as manners would allow: charming but offhand, pleasant but subdued. Charlotte wondered whether that hadn’t perversely added to her allure. For a reason she could not fathom she had been a great success in her first season and there had subsequently been no peace in the house since her first ball, what with bouquets of flowers, constant visitors and lavish gifts. She hoped each admirer shortly found a wife, for unless she could come up with another good reason not to, she would doubtless have to attend the season again next year and didn’t want to be reacquainted with the same boorish crowd.

“Let me call for a bonnet and spencer and we can go to the bookstore,” Charlotte said as she packed up the evidence of her efforts.

“Whatever for?”

“A hymn book of course. One we can emboss with my name and into which we will carve a report-sized secret compartment.”