A Study in Death (Lady Darby Mystery, A Book 4)

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Anna Lee Huber

THE ANATOMIST’S WIFE

M
ORTAL ARTS

A GRAVE M
ATTER

A STUDY IN DEA
TH

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Copyright © 2015 by Anna Aycock.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18150-2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Huber, Anna Lee.

A study in death / Anna Lee Huber.—First edition.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-425-27752-2

I. Title.

PS3608.U238S78 2015

813'.6—dc23

2015003057

FIRST EDITION
: July 2015

Cover illustration by Larry Rostant.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

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

For my daughter, my little songbird.
May you always know how beautiful, courageous, and extraordinary you are,
and how very, very much you are loved.
Never let anyone convince you otherwise.

I am so incredibly grateful to all of the many people who help make my books a reality, whether in the production and marketing, the plotting and execution, or in a support capacity. None of this would be possible without all of you, as well as my amazing readers, who get so excited to read Lady Darby’s next adventures. I am humbled and blessed.

Special thanks go to the entire team at Berkley Prime Crime for all of their excellent work on the Lady Darby series, particularly the Art Department for their spectacular covers; my wonderful publicist, Danielle Dill; and my uber-talented editor, Michelle Vega, and her sharp assistant, Bethany Blair.

I’m also grateful to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for all of her support, enthusiasm, and brilliant insight.

Tons of thanks go to the impressive women in my writing group—my cousin Jackie Musser, and my friends Stacie Roth Miller and Jackie Adams. Your advice and encouragement are indispensable.

I also want to thank the many author friends who have helped me in innumerable ways, especially my cheerleaders and confidantes—Marci Jefferson and Rebecca Henderson Palmer; my plotting partners—Erin Knightley, Hanna Martine, and Heather Snow; and the ladies of Sleuths in Time Authors.

Thanks and appreciation go to all of my friends and family, particularly my mother, who helped me in so many ways during those last few crazy weeks before my deadline.

And lastly, immense gratitude goes to my husband and our beautiful daughter. You are my greatest blessings, and I am so fortunate to share my life and love with you. Thank you for loving and supporting me through thick and thin. None of this would mean anything without you.

There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it.

—
A Study in Scarlet
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Vulnerant omnes, ultima necat.

Every hour wounds, the last kills.

—
A SAYING FOUND ON ROMAN CLOCKS

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

MARCH 1831

“C
an you turn your head a little to the right?”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Lady Drummond gasped, swiftly complying.

At that angle the light fell just so on her honey blond curls, and hid the streak of gray beginning to show at her right temple. It would also allow me to accent the height of her cheekbones and the pert tilt of her chin. I narrowed my eyes to study just how the swirls of butter and goldenrod formed a pattern in her elaborately styled hair, and then I dipped my brush in the paint on my palette.

“Lady Darby, you must grow weary of reminding your subjects not to fidget and turn,” she chattered in her light, melodic voice, careful not to move even her mouth too much. “And children! How on earth do you coax them to sit still? My Freddy and Victoria would never last a minute.”

A smile curled my lips as I applied the paint carefully to the canvas before me. “Oh, I don’t need a subject to remain perfectly still, just
when I’m focusing on a particular part of their anatomy. Like your face and hair.” I brushed a small dab of the yellow ochre into the goldenrod hue I’d mixed for Lady Drummond’s hair. It needed a hint more gold. “When children move about, it actually helps me to better capture them. After all, they’re far from static. If I can observe how restless they are when trying to sit still, then I know to paint their vitality. If they giggle frequently, then I know to light their eyes with delight.”

“And I suppose you do the same with adults?” she guessed.

“To a certain extent,” I replied distractedly, trying to imitate the definition in the ringlets surrounding her face.

She laughed a bit breathlessly. “I think I’m afraid to ask what my twitching says about me.”

The sharpness in her tone belied the humor implied by her statement, and I couldn’t help but peer around the canvas at her. She sat very still, but the hands that had lain so elegantly in her lap were now clasped together, and her thumbs rubbed against each other, turning the skin pink. Normally I didn’t encourage the subjects of my portrait commissions to talk, but from the very beginning there had been something about Lady Drummond that had been different. It was that difference that compelled me to reassure her now.

“Oh, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I replied casually, dabbing my brush in the paint on my palette. However, when I snuck another glance at her, I could see in her troubled blue eyes that she knew I was lying.

Perhaps I should have said something, but how could I admit I recognized her sadness, her loneliness? That I sensed her uneasiness, that her perfect life was not all that it seemed, and that her husband was quite possibly a brute. Although we’d spent several hours together every morning over the past two weeks, we were not friends. And I knew from experience that people did not like to have their carefully cultivated façades ripped away, whether you could see beyond them or
not. They preferred the disingenuousness of the lie to the nakedness of the truth.

If any society lady might react differently to such an unveiling, I suspected it would be Lady Drummond, but still I was hesitant to take a chance. I genuinely liked her, and I quailed at the thought of hurting her, even if there was a possibility it might help. She was warmhearted and kind, quick-witted and even quicker to smile, and the sorrow I saw in her eyes called to the same melancholy I buried inside me. All the secret hurts we wished to keep hidden, sometimes even from ourselves. Though I now had my fiancé—and sometimes investigative partner—Sebastian Gage, to share mine. I wasn’t certain Lady Drummond had anyone to lighten her burden.

The ornate gold clock on the mantel in the drawing room chimed the hour, recalling me to my task. Lady Drummond had informed me she had an appointment this afternoon, so I would only have an hour more of her time before she would need to ready herself. I rested my brush on my palette and flexed my right hand, trying to work out the stiffness the continued cold weather caused in my joints.

Lady Drummond observed my movements. “Shall I call Jeffers to come stoke up the fire?”

“No. The fire is already burning quite brightly, and I suspect the room is as warm as it’s going to get.”

“Yes, this winter has been dreadful, hasn’t it? But are you certain? I know this room can be quite drafty.”

“I’m sure.”

“I bet Lady Cromarty doesn’t mind the chill.” Her lips quirked in amused remembrance. “I recall how dreadfully hot I was when I was enceinte with my children.”

My sister, Alana, was eight months heavy with her fourth child, and the growing discomfort had not improved her temperament.

“Yes. Lord Cromarty and I, and even the servants, have taken to wearing extra layers of clothing.”

Lady Drummond smiled.

I dipped my brush in the goldenrod hue and focused once more on Lady Drummond’s curls. She obliged me by returning to her posed position without my even having to ask. The sun outside the window shone brighter than it had a few minutes ago, indicating there had been a break in the perpetual ceiling of gray clouds—a rare treat for Edinburgh in March. When such a thing happened, nearly the entire city was tempted outside to enjoy the rays of warmth while they could. But Lady Drummond and I stayed where we were.

I had to admit the peacock blue silk wallpaper made a stunning backdrop to the baroness’s portrait, and it brought a depth of hue to her somewhat watery blue eyes that would have been lacking otherwise. The forest green pleated fabric of her dress and gold braid were striking, but truly did nothing for her features. If not for the brilliant blue backdrop, I might have broken yet another of my rules and urged her to choose a different gown.

“And how is Lady Cromarty feeling?” Lady Drummond asked kindly.

“Quite well,” I admitted. “I was cheered to see her moving about the house yesterday, and some color has returned to her cheeks.”

After arriving several minutes late and rather flustered one morning the week before because Alana had been ill, I had hesitantly admitted my concerns over my sister’s impending delivery. The birth of Alana’s third child had been met with complications, so we were all anxious for her and the new baby’s health.

She beamed. “That’s wonderful. And I’m sure a relief to you and Lord Cromarty.”

“Yes,” I replied simply, though I couldn’t help thinking of my brotherin-law Philip’s increasingly strange behavior over the past month since my return to Edinburgh. There wasn’t anything distinct I could point to, but it niggled at the back of my mind nonetheless. I knew he’d
been busy with political matters, so perhaps it was just his distraction. I pushed the worrying thought away.

“Well, I have some creams and unctions I would like to send her, if I may. A friend of mine introduced them to me as I was entering the last stage of my confinement when my skin was so taut it was almost unbearable.” She swiveled on her gold and ecru Chippendale chair to reach for a piece of foolscap on the desk nearby, forgetting to remain still in her enthusiasm, and nearly upsetting the bowl of sugared plums she had been nibbling on. “I’ll send a note around now asking Hinkley’s to deliver it.”

I thanked her, having grown accustomed to ladies offering me helpful advice for my sister since she’d officially entered her confinement a few weeks ago. Some of their suggestions were beyond bizarre, like avoiding looking in the mirror to prevent giving her baby bad dreams, or inducing sneezing with pepper should her labor prove difficult. At least Lady Drummond’s seemed to be truly useful. Alana had been complaining about how dry and itchy her skin felt, particularly over her ever-expanding abdomen. I’d made a note to search out something for her since she’d been discouraged by her physician from making any more outings.

Dropping my brush in the cup of linseed oil I had at the ready, I chose a rigger brush and began to highlight Lady Drummond’s curls with the shade of butter. When I glanced up, I could see she was worrying her hands again, as she’d been doing quite frequently this morning. I could tell that something was troubling her, but it didn’t seem my place to ask her about it. Perhaps if we’d been acquainted longer, on surer ground, I might have dared, but as things currently stood, it merely seemed prying.

I had just begun to lose myself in the rhythm of my movements when she spoke. “Your fiancé, Mr. Gage . . .” She cleared her throat. “Are you still assisting him with his inquiries?”

I slowly lifted my head, surprised by the question, and the
too-casual way she’d attempted to phrase it. She sat tensely, waiting for my answer.

“Yes, I am,” I managed to reply. “Though we’ve nothing notable to investigate at the moment. Just a few small matters.” I tilted my head to the side, trying to decide whether to risk a question of my own. “Why do . . .”

But I was cut off by the sound of the drawing room door bursting open. It thudded against the wall behind it.

“What is the meanin’ o’ this?” Lord Drummond shouted, crossing the room toward his wife in a few angry strides.

I unconsciously shrank away from him, reminded too intimately of some of the encounters I’d had in the past with my late husband, Sir Anthony. Lady Drummond did the same and then forced herself to sit upright, facing her husband’s glare.

He shook the paper he was holding in her face, causing her to flinch. “I asked ye a question. What is this?”

She stared past her husband at me, and I could read the horror and humiliation reflected in her eyes. Lord Drummond followed her gaze, his head rearing backward in shock when he saw me, clearly having neglected to notice my presence.

The muscles in his jaw tensed and then released before he bit out, “Lady Darby, I require a word alone wi’ my wife. Please leave us.” He turned away from me in dismissal.

I stood there stunned. I wanted to do nothing but comply, but my muscles wouldn’t seem to budge. It was as if they remembered all too well the times when Sir Anthony had cornered me, furious about something I’d done or simply frustrated and eager to take it out on me. It was not unlike facing a predator.
Stand still. Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t look him in the eye or he’ll see it as a challenge.

Lady Drummond seemed to employ the same tactic, sitting rigidly in her chair, not daring to lift her gaze. The sight of her struggling not to cower from her husband as he towered over her shifted something
inside me. It had been nearly two years since my husband’s death, and yet I still struggled to escape from his domineering shadow. To watch another woman face such an existence angered me. And suddenly I was tired of remaining quiet.

From our first meeting, I’d suspected Lord Drummond of being a controlling brute. It was written in the hard glares, the proprietorial grip of his hand on his wife’s arm, the clipped way he spoke to her. I’d seen no bruises on Lady Drummond, but there were ways to hurt someone without leaving a mark. I knew.

Even if he didn’t physically harm her, I’d witnessed enough of his displays of temper to know that he did not treat his wife as he should. A wife who was loved and cherished did not wince when she heard her husband walking through the house.

“No,” I stated firmly, swirling my brush through the paint on the palette. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lord Drummond’s shoulders tense, but I told myself to ignore him. I flicked another glance at the clock on the mantel. “I still have thirty-four minutes with Lady Drummond, and I don’t intend to waste them.”

Lord Drummond turned his hard glare on me. “Ye will do as I ask,” he replied, speaking in sharp tones. “I hired ye to paint my wife’s portrait . . .”

“No,” I replied as coolly as I could manage.

Lord Drummond’s posture stiffened further, proving he was unaccustomed to being interrupted. Lady Drummond’s eyes were wide and almost wild, as if she couldn’t believe what I was doing. I’m not sure I could either.

“You
requested
I paint your wife’s portrait.
I
choose which commissions to take. I’m not obliged to accept any of them.” I leaned in to pretend to apply my brush to the canvas, though in actuality my hand was shaking. “I have other commissions already lined up, and I do not wish to fall behind schedule. Nor do I intend to waste the costly pigments I mixed this morning specifically for your wife’s portrait.”

Lord Drummond opened his mouth to argue, and I finally looked up to scowl at him and cut him off. “So I’m afraid you’ll just have to throw your tantrum later.”

The room fell silent, and I realized with a sick feeling of dread that I might have overstepped myself. My refusal to leave was one thing, but that last remark had been dangerously insulting, no matter how true it was. My heart beat loudly in my ears as I stared Lord Drummond down, knowing if I looked aside now, the argument would be lost, and Lady Drummond would suffer the consequences.

When Lord Drummond’s nostrils flared and he turned to stalk from the room, I could hardly believe I’d won, though I dared not move until he’d slammed the door shut behind him. Then I exhaled and turned to stare into the hearth, my heart still galloping in my chest. A feeling of elation began to fill me and I couldn’t stop a smile from curling my lips. It felt good to stand up to a bully for once after years of shrinking from my late husband.

However, my pride was short-lived.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Lady Drummond murmured so softly I almost didn’t hear her. Her eyes were clouded with fear, her hands pressed to her abdomen.

And I suddenly realized what I’d done.

Lord Drummond was little danger to me. For him to strike a woman outside of his protection would have been beyond the pale of gentlemanly conduct. My fiancé or brother or even brother-in-law would have been quite within their rights to demand satisfaction for such a slight to their female relative. However, Lady Drummond had no such defense. Being Lord Drummond’s wife, he could do as he wished to her, as Sir Anthony had done to me. Yes, society generally frowned upon physically harming one’s wife, but they also expected that husbands should give their wives moderate correction, so spouses who went too far in their discipline were rarely prosecuted. Perhaps my standing up to Lord Drummond had been a personal triumph,
but it had also potentially exposed Lady Drummond to harsher treatment.