Murder in Mayfair Read online

  MURDER IN MAYFAIR

  AN ATLAS CATESBY MYSTERY

  D. M. Quincy

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Dora Mekouar

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-225-3

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-226-0

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-68331-227-7

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-228-4

  Cover design by Lori Palmer

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First edition: July 2017

  To my mother and father, for giving me everything worth having

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  Had his mount not lost its shoe on the return journey to London, Atlas Catesby would not have been in a position to purchase another man’s wife.

  He’d left the ornery stallion he’d borrowed from his friend, Gabriel Young, the Earl of Charlton, in the care of the inn ostler and removed to the inn, a ramshackle affair with a curious overhanging upper floor. He and Charlton had just taken their seats in the rustic parlor when a commotion kicked up in the yard. The harsh bellow of a man was interrupted by the agitated voice of a woman.

  Charlton looked in the direction of the yard. “I wonder what all the clatter is about.”

  “It’s none of our concern.” Atlas sipped his too-sweet ale and tried to ignore the rumpus, the lingering discomfort in his left foot reminding him he had enough problems of his own. “We’re just passing through. Leave local matters to the locals.”

  “How can you drink from that?” A mild look of disgust marred Charlton’s face, a visage most ladies of London’s hauteton found tremendously appealing. The earl’s own pewter tankard remained untouched. “Lord only knows where it’s been.”

  “I’m thirsty. Besides, I’ve encountered worse.”

  “It does not surprise,” Charlton said with a haughty lift of his amber brow, “that your treks to primitive lands have accustomed you to filthy conditions that are incompatible with good health.”

  “On the contrary.” Atlas bottomed out his tankard. “Getting out of England is precisely what keeps my health and sanity intact. It is being stuck here indefinitely that tests my nerves.” His broken left foot, which had yet to heal properly, had kept him grounded in gloomy England for far too long. How he longed for the warm sun and sweet breezes of the Mediterranean.

  The publican’s wife approached and set two earthenware plates of mutton on the scarred table with a clank. She straightened, hands on her hips, and peered out of the taproom’s sashed windows. A crowd composed of what appeared to be mostly ostlers, postboys, and passing travelers had gathered in the yard, but the object of their interest remained hidden from view.

  “He’s a mean one, that Varvick.” She was a thick-featured woman with a lived-in face who spoke with a harsh accent. Atlas detected a Germanic lilt to her words. “There’s no telling vat he’ll do next. Selling her like she’s cattle.”

  Atlas, who had minimal interest in gossip and even less in the goings-on of a small village he’d never visited before, kept his attention on slicing his meat, which proved surprisingly rich and delicate, considering their shabby surroundings.

  “I beg your pardon?” Charlton sat up straighter, perky with interest, which prompted Atlas to suppress a groan. Next to the finer things in life, his sybaritic friend loved nothing more than a good on-dit—unlike Atlas, who was still recovering and wished to reach London as expediently as possible, hopefully with no further interruptions along the journey. “What’s this you say about someone being sold?” Charlton asked the woman.

  “That Mr. Varvick, he calls himself gentry, but he behaves no better than a common cutpurse in St. Giles.” The publican’s wife leaned closer. “Selling his vife like a lamb to the slaughter. He’s already ruined her by parading her in the yard with a noose around her neck.”

  Atlas looked up from his plate. “A what?”

  “A halter,” she said. “He’s auctioning her off to the highest bidder. There’s no telling vere that poor gel vill end up.”

  “I say!” Charlton stared at her, obviously aghast. “Do you mean to tell us that people still sell their wives in this day and age?”

  She harrumphed. “Not decent folk.”

  Outrage seared Atlas’s chest. “Surely she has family who will put a stop to this farce.”

  “I couldn’t say.” She lifted one shoulder. “Nobody knows Mrs. Varvick’s people or vere she come from. The mister, he spends most of his time in London, and he just showed up vith her one day, and that vas that.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, our thanks to you, madam.” A charming smile touched Charlton’s lips. As the publican’s wife shuffled back to the kitchen, the earl turned to Atlas. “Selling one’s wife. Can you imagine?” He cut a small slice of mutton. “The humbler classes defy understanding. Although”—he paused thoughtfully with a forked bite of mutton suspended in the air—“perhaps I would feel differently if I knew what it was like to be leg-shackled.”

  Atlas dragged a heavy hand down over his mouth and chin. “Such humiliation is not to be borne.”

  Charlton’s fair brows inched upward. “My good man—”

  Atlas’s chair screeched across the sanded, stone-flagged floor as he came to his feet, his mutton and throbbing foot all but forgotten. “Especially for a woman without a family’s protection.”

  Charlton groaned. “Not again. Do sit down, Atlas,” he implored. “I beg of you. For all we know, this has all been prearranged, and she has a lover who will bid for her, and they’ll go off happily together.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” Atlas fixed him with a cold stare. “You comprehend as well as I the hellish prospect she faces.”

  “Oh, very well.” With a dramatic sigh, Charlton rose and tossed his fork aside to follow Atlas out the door. “She could very well have the face and form of a troll, and no harm of that manner will come to her.”

  They stepped outside into the courtyard and weaved their way through the crowd of onlookers. The interminable downpour that had dogged their journey from Bath had left the yard sodden and reeking of mud, damp hay, and horse dung. The rain had eased, giving way to a gray
and overcast afternoon, but the moisture in the air remained thick enough to wring water from it.

  “I’ll give you a shilling,” called a long-faced man with an eager grin as they passed him. “Is she a good shag? Do we get a chance to sample the goods before we buy her?”

  When they reached the front of the crowd, the object of the idiot’s effrontery came into view, and she was far from the boisterous fishwife Atlas had expected. This woman stood straight-spined with her head lifted. Dark hair framed perfect cheekbones and refined features set against ivory skin. Defiance glittered in her amber-brown eyes as she stared straight ahead, giving no indication she’d registered any of the jeers. She carried herself like a queen surveying her subjects rather than a woman facing great degradation.

  “She’s a spirited wench who doesn’t know her place,” said the man standing next to her, a proprietary air emanating from his stocky form. He possessed a shock of thick gray hair and appeared to be at least two decades older than the young woman. His clothing and deportment lent him the appearance of a country squire, but the thick rope clutched in one beefy hand marred that impression. Atlas took some satisfaction in the sight of the noose at the other end of the rope mired in mud on the ground rather than wrapped around the woman’s neck.

  “She’s always been high in the instep, that one,” whispered a gravelly voiced woman who’d nudged up behind Atlas and Charlton.

  “Her new master must take a firm hand with her,” said the man, presumably her husband, although the bastard clearly didn’t have a clue as to the proper treatment of one’s wife.

  “I’ll pay twenty pence for the pleasure,” called a raspy, laconic voice with a slippery lilt. Atlas turned to get a look at the bidder, a hook-nosed man who appeared to be past his middle years, somewhere in his early sixties, gray at the temples and bald on top, wearing clothing that hung loosely on an emaciated form.

  “Mr. Briney makes a generous offer.” The auctioneer’s face brightened. “But I fear I can’t take less than twenty-five for such a comely wench.”

  “Twenty-five it is then.” Briney made a provocative humming sound in his throat, his eager gaze fastened on the woman. “Mrs. Warwick looks infinitely worth the price.”

  Murmurs of disapproval swept through the crowd. Atlas’s stomach clenched at the thought of this vulture laying his hands on a respectable woman. The object of Briney’s interest showed no reaction, but her delicate complexion betrayed her, and her color heightened, a blush of pink appearing on her angled cheeks. He also noticed that her hands, clasped together demurely in front of her, were white with strain.

  “No decent man would do such a thing,” a woman standing behind them said.

  “It’s not as if Mr. Briney there is going to marry her,” her companion answered. “Even if he could.”

  “She’s still as married as I am, even if he sells her,” came the reply.

  “A shame,” said her companion. “And she being a respectable woman and all.”

  “At least she was before this.”

  Atlas had had enough. He started forward, but Charlton placed a staying hand on his shoulder. “As you say, let us leave local affairs to the locals.”

  “This is not a local affair,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “This is a matter of decency and honor, and well you know it.”

  Charlton sighed. “You cannot save every woman in distress.”

  “No,” he said under his breath. “But I can attempt to save this one. Thirty pounds!” he called out, even though he could ill afford to part with the funds.

  A collective gasp sounded from the crowd. And even Mrs. Warwick turned to look at him with a wary expression on her pale face.

  “Sold!” Her bastard of a husband spoke in a heated rush, as though worried Atlas might change his mind. “Hand over the thirty pounds and the wench is yours.”

  “I’ll require a bill of sale before any blunt changes hands.” The words were brisk. He wanted documentation that showed her to be as free and clear of the bastard as possible, but Mrs. Warwick didn’t appear to appreciate the gesture. Resentment simmered in her vibrant eyes.

  “Of course, of course,” her husband said hurriedly. “I shall bring it to you tomorrow.”

  “I shan’t be here on the morrow. Later today, if you please.”

  “As you say.” Warwick turned to his wife. “Come along, Lilliana.” She stared icy daggers at the man but still turned to follow him.

  Atlas stepped forward. “The lady remains with me.”

  The husband swung around, a suspicious gleam in his eye. “You haven’t paid for her yet.”

  “We will remain in the taproom in full view until such time that you return.” She was far safer with him than with her husband, who’d just whored her out to the highest bidder.

  “No,” she said suddenly. “I wish to return home with my husband.” Atlas stared at her. It was the first time he’d heard her voice, and the clipped, upper-class tones shocked him. This was no country lass.

  “There you have it,” said Warwick. “She prefers to stay with me until the sale is final.”

  Atlas blinked. How could she possibly prefer the company of such an obviously vile man?

  “You have my word as a gentleman that I will not harm you,” he said to her in an attempt to reassure the woman that she would be safe under his protection.

  She looked him in the eye, determination etched on her face, a slightly deprecating tone creeping into her words. “I go with my husband.”

  He should let her go—after all, the woman’s welfare really was none of his affair—but he couldn’t risk letting the bastard sell her to the highest bidder along the road or to the hollow-cheeked, falcon-featured Briney, who watched their ongoing interaction with undisguised interest.

  He turned to Warwick. “If the lady leaves the yard, the deal is off.” He examined his fingernails in a show of disinterest. “The choice is yours.”

  He heard her outraged intake of breath. “Godfrey”—she clutched her husband’s arm, for the first time betraying a fissure in her granite composure—“please let me come back to the house. I beg of you.”

  Warwick regarded her with open disdain. “I am done with you. You will never be allowed to darken my door again.”

  “I’ll hold my tongue.” She bit her bottom lip, tears swimming in her vivid eyes. Atlas could not quite make out their color—golden-brown certainly, but with a certain coppery glow to them. “I’ll never say another word about it. I swear it.”

  “It is too late for that,” the husband said coldly before turning to Atlas. “I shall return presently.”

  She did not watch him walk away but instead stood there, still and quiet, as though trying to withstand a horrible pain rippling through her body. Perhaps she found a hellish husband preferable to the unknown vagaries of a stranger. Atlas felt a twinge of conscience for having a hand in her distress. Soon enough, he would make certain she understood he meant her no harm.

  “Mrs. Warwick, it is damp out here in the yard,” he said gently. “Please allow me to escort you within.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d spoken. “Mrs. Warwick?”

  She turned on her heel and marched into the tavern without a backward glance. He followed, and Charlton fell in step beside him.

  “Excellent work,” his friend said. “You’ve succeeded in buying her. Now what are you going to do with her?”

  Atlas shook his head. “Damned if I know.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  As he escorted her to a tavern table, Atlas could not help but notice that they were the focus of extreme curiosity—he and this woman he knew nothing about.

  People who had just moments ago treated him with the deference due a gentleman now regarded him with open suspicion and even outright contempt. They no doubt thought she was at his mercy, but he—who saw how she wore her poise and dignity like armor—knew better.

  Although Charlton joined them at their table, the publican’s wife seeme
d to save her seething, disapproving looks for Atlas, especially when he asked her to bring food and drink for the woman he had just purchased for thirty pounds.

  Good Lord. He had no idea what to do with her. He planned to be aboard his cousin George’s thirty-two-gun frigate when it departed London in a matter of weeks. He was inclined to return this woman to her people before he sailed. But in order to do so, he had to find out who she was.

  “Allow me to introduce myself—”

  She leveled a frigid gaze at him. “If you even think to lay a hand on me, I will gut you in your sleep.” She spoke in precise, cut-glass tones. “You’ll never know another moment’s peace in this lifetime.”

  Charlton burst out laughing and slammed a hand on the table. “By God, I like this woman.” Mirth still quivering on his lips, he said to her, “Rest assured, madam, you could not find yourself in better hands. My friend here makes a habit of rescuing damsels in distress.”

  Atlas bristled at his friend’s words. “As I was saying, I am Atlas Catesby, lately of London. My companion here is Gabriel Young, the Earl of Charlton, also of London, as well as Charlton Abbey in Hampshire.”

  Surprise lit her face at the mention of Charlton’s title, but she did not seem impressed, which was unusual. His friend’s lofty title and fine-boned good looks normally provoked swoons of admiration from the opposite sex.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Charlton said.

  “Although we deeply regret the circumstances under which we do so,” Atlas added.

  She studied him for a moment. “Is your given name really Atlas?”

  He dipped his chin. “It is.”

  “And do you also have a brother named Menoetius?”

  A startled laugh escaped his throat. “I do not.” Her knowledge of the Greeks surprised him. More evidence she hadn’t been born and bred in the country.

  Charlton darted a confused look between the two of them. “Who is this Menoetius fellow?”

  “The brother of Atlas,” he answered, keeping his attention focused on Mrs. Warwick. She held herself very still, sitting at the edge of her seat, her posture excellent. With her even, delicate features, she could be considered handsome, but Mrs. Warwick was not a beauty, even though she carried herself with the confidence and bearing of a diamond of the first water.