London, 1891. With the gossip broadsheet The Society Page speculating that her husband is getting far too cosy with their female neighbour back at his country estate, Alice, Duchess of Stortford, is fed-up. And it’s raining! But when a flustered nobleman appears at her door, knowing of her reputation for managing discreet enquiries, he begs her for help. His nephew, who is about to inherit an Earldom, has gone missing.
But the deeper Alice digs, the murkier things become. Why are the late Earl’s wife and his stepson so evasive? What really happened at The Carlton Hotel the night the heir was last seen? And who’s set to gain the Earldom if the heir ends up dead?
Aided by her loyal maid Maud, her quick-thinking footman George, and the ever-resourceful private investigator Ben Beaumont—not to mention a certain well-known detective with a pipe—Alice must untangle a web of secrets to find the missing heir before it’s too late.
The clock is ticking, the gossip is swirling—and only Alice can set things right.
It’s Spring in London, 1891. With the gossip
broadsheet The Society Page speculating that her husband is getting far
too cosy with their female neighbour back at his country estate, Alice, Duchess
of Stortford, is fed-up. And it’s raining! So when a letter from her
sister-in-law, Fee, arrives promising a diversion in the name of The Right
Honourable Lester Fairfax who needs her assistance, Alice is intrigued and
agrees to see him.
Alice
swept into the drawing room at Darby House, the rustle of her skirts barely
audible over the beating of her heart. With a quick nod, she motioned for
George, her lead footman, to linger by the door—his towering frame an unspoken
bastion of propriety.
There was
a crackle as her guest shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d been sitting
upright, his hands resting on top of the polished wooden cane in front of him.
He rose abruptly when he saw her. “Your Grace, I’m most grateful for this
audience,” he boomed in a deep voice. “The Right Honourable Lester Fairfax at
your service.” He clicked his heels together and gave a deep bow.
Alice
waved a hand at him. “Please sit down, Mr Fairfax, and tell me how I may be of
help to you.” She settled into the armchair opposite him, her curiosity piqued.
He glanced
towards George, a frown creasing his forehead. “This matter is… er, rather
private, Your Grace.”
“Oh, don’t
mind George.” She raised an eyebrow at the footman, whose blue eyes betrayed no
emotion. “He’s as silent as a graveyard and twice as discreet. Please proceed.”
Fairfax
swallowed and nodded, though his moustache twitched in what might have been
annoyance or nerves. He cleared his throat, clearly steeling himself to spill
the beans. “It concerns my nephew, Mr Charlie Rydal. He stands to inherit the
title held by his late uncle, The Earl of Rivershore.” His voice carried an
edge of pride that seemed at odds with his concerned expression.
Ah, so the
earl’s heir has turned up. And just in time, it
would appear. If the newspapers were to be believed, the deadline for Mr
Charlie Rydal to present himself to the earl’s lawyers was the end of this
week. “Well, he appears to have cut it a bit fine, Mr Fairfax, but—”
“We had to
come from India, Your Grace. He’s my sister’s son. We manage a tea plantation
out there. But now, with the earl’s passing…” He trailed off, his green eyes
darkening with worry.
“And your
brother-in-law is here with you?”
“Alas, no.
He died six months ago.” Fairfax bowed his head. “And my sister is too frail to
travel. So it fell upon me to escort young Charlie to London.” Fairfax’s hands
tightened around the head of his cane, his knuckles whitening as he shifted in
his seat, the leather creaking under his weight. “We arrived on Friday, and I
took two rooms at The Carlton Hotel here in Mayfair. I had to depart for
business in South—” He stopped and coughed. “Er… Portsmouth on Saturday
afternoon…” He trailed off and cleared his throat as he rested his cane against
one knee and unfolded a neatly pressed handkerchief. He dabbed at his brow,
then continued, “Upon my return on Sunday evening…” His voice tapered off
again, and he cast a troubled glance towards the window. “Charlie was not in
his room, Your Grace, and he’s still missing.”
Missing?
So that’s what this is about? She was
disappointed in Fee. She’d hoped for more than an errant young man who would no
doubt turn up in the next few hours slightly the worse for wear and probably
very sheepish. Young Rydal had discovered the bright lights of the city and was
no doubt making the most of his freedom. She stifled a sigh. This wasn’t the
exciting puzzle she’d been expecting. “How old is your nephew, Mr Fairfax?”
“Twenty-two,
Your Grace.”
So an
adult. “And how was he when you last saw
him?”
“He was
tired but in good spirits when I left.”
“Well,
London has its allure,” Alice said with a small smile, remembering her younger
brother’s first weekend in London after he’d come down from Cambridge.
Following an afternoon of drinking at Whites and an evening of baccarat at
Brooke’s, James had been unceremoniously delivered to her doorstep by an
unhappy hansom cab driver the following evening with absolutely no recollection
of where he’d been for the previous twenty-four hours.
“Indeed,
it does.” He folded his handkerchief with precise corners. “But I’m worried.
Charlie has never been to London before, and he knows no one here.”
“But
surely the young man is simply enjoying the Capital’s charms,” she replied,
brushing a loose strand of red hair from her face. She suppressed a yawn as the
muffled Westminster chimes from the grandfather clock in the hall marked the
quarter-hour. A low rumble from her stomach told her it was twelve-fifteen. Luncheon
will be ready soon.
“Ah, Your
Grace, if only it were so.” Fairfax leaned forward, the concern in his green
eyes deepening. “I have made a few discreet enquires myself, and no one has
seen Charlie. It is unlike him to be out of contact for this long.”
“Perhaps
he’s simply lost track of time?” She was itching to stand up and be rid of this
man.
Fairfax
shook his head, his scruffy moustache bristling with resolve. “Time, dear lady,
is precisely what we lack. The appointment Charlie has to attend in order to
claim his inheritance is this Friday at noon. Should Charlie fail to appear…”
He huffed loudly. “Well, he’ll lose everything.”
Helen Golden spins mysteries that are charmingly British, delightfully deadly, and served with a twist of humour.
With quirky characters, clever red herrings, and plots that keep the pages turning, she’s the author of the much-loved A Right Royal Cozy Investigation series, following Lady Beatrice and her friends—including one clever little dog—as they uncover secrets hidden in country houses and royal palaces. Her new historical mystery series, The Duchess of Stortford Mysteries, is set in Victorian England and introduces an equally curious sleuth from Lady Beatrice’s own family tree—where murders are solved over cups of tea, whispered gossip, and overheard conversations in drawing rooms and grand estates.
Helen lives in a quintessential English village in Lincolnshire with her husband, stepdaughter, and a menagerie of pets—including a dog, several cats, a tortoise, and far too many fish.
If you love clever puzzles, charming settings, and sleuths with spark, her books are waiting for you.
