Page 1 of Murder in Moonlight
Prologue
Autumn, 1851
She first glimpsedhim in the dark of night, looming out of a thick London fog.
They were in a narrow back alley, in the midst of a police raid. The light of wildly swinging lanterns flared for an instant across the most fascinating face she had ever seen—lean, dark, and aquiline. Strong, oddly beautiful bones beneath taut skin…a high forehead, black brows arched over deep-set eyes…full, sensual lips, a determined, slightly pointed chin.
Tall and lean, yet broad of shoulder, the man was both striking and handsome. When the mist swirled between them once more, she actually moved closer so that she could keep looking. He paid her no attention. He was gazing upward, at the roof of the tall building where the subject of the raid had fled, hotly pursued by several policeman and at least one gentleman.
She had only come here to provide protection for an old, somewhat naïve friend and her companion, the entirely surprising Lady Grizelda. Native curiosity had something to do with her presence too, as had the entertainment value. She found it delightfully piquant that she, well known as a courtesan and a brothel madam, should be here in respectable, fashionable dress, escorting the daughters of a duke and a banker respectively, both in the unmistakable, gaudy garb of prostitutes. They imagined they were in disguise, which wouldnot have saved them from the fury of the women whose territory they were invading.
All of which was great fun. But who the devil was this unusual and intriguing man?
He sprang upon her so suddenly that she barely saw him move. He slammed into her, and she staggered backward several paces. She would have fallen had his arms not held her up. Shocked, she could only stare as the body of a man tumbled past her eyes and crashed sickeningly onto the cobbles, almost exactly where she had stood the instant before. Surely the thief and murderer they had all come for.
The man who had saved her life blocked her view of the horrific sight. The commotion all around them seemed to fade. There was only this man who held her in his arms. He smelled of fresh soap and delicious spice, with just a hint of brandy on his breath, and other people’s tobacco on his clothes. He was all muscle and sinew and power against her, his steady, dark eyes profound and compelling. She could not look away. Excitement swept through her.Desire.
Slowly, his arms loosened. “I beg your pardon.”
Dear God. His voice, velvet soft and deep, melted her bones. Stunned, she could not even thank him with more than a slight inclination of the head in response to his graceful bow.
“Ah, you’ve met,” said Lady Grizelda mischievously. “Mrs. Constance Silver, Mr. Solomon Grey.”
Chapter One
Summer 1852
Solomon Grey journeyedto Greenforth Manor the old-fashioned way.
This was not through any mistrust of the railways but rather of his own restlessness. He disliked feeling trapped or dependent on either railway schedules or the goodwill of his hosts in supplying transport to the nearest station. So, although it took him two days rather than a few hours, Solomon traveled in his own comfortable, well-sprung carriage, secure in the knowledge he could come and go as he pleased.
He rather enjoyed the slow drive through the countryside to the soothing beat of his horses’ hooves. He had shut himself up among the crowds and bustle of London for so long that it was lovely to see greenery again. There were no dramatic hills or lush forests here in Norfolk, but gentle undulation, glinting waterways, and space to breathe. So far from the day-to-day concerns of ships and cargoes, staff, and money, he could have relaxed completely were it not for the pulse of excitement within him, the nagging hope that at last he might learn something, and inevitable fear of what that might be.
The carriage swept through ornate gates and along a driveaway lined by beech trees, to a large, rather pretty manor house. In the afternoon sun, its stone glowed and the windowsgleamed in apparent welcome. A shadowed side of the building hinted at another wing not visible from this angle.
He wasn’t sure he liked the house—too neat and enclosed, somehow, in its manicured grounds. But it was old enough to be the keeper of many secrets. Like his hosts, perhaps.
The servants were certainly well trained and clearly expecting him, for two footmen ran from the front door, the first to hold the horses, the second to open the carriage door and let down the steps.
As he alighted in leisurely fashion, his hostess emerged to greet him, smiling in welcome. If she regretted inviting him, she gave no sign of it.
Deborah Winsom was a pretty, appealing woman, perhaps still on the right side of forty, neat in appearance and shy in manner, from his recollection. He did not know her well, just as an occasional presence on a hospital board of which he was a member.
“Mr. Grey!” she greeted him warmly. “How delightful to see you again.”
He took her hand, bowing over it. “My thanks for inviting me, Mrs. Winsom.”
She smiled, with a sudden, brilliant coquettishness that took him by surprise. Although dressed much as he remembered her from London—plainly and modestly, with none of the excesses of recent fashion—she exuded a slight feverishness that he had not noticed before. Perhaps she did not like parties and this was how she dealt with them.
Looking back, she had certainly latched on to him with something approaching relief when he expressed interest in meeting her husband, the Norwich banker. He had imagined she felt comfortable with him and was glad.
“Come to Greenforth!” she had invited him. “We are having a few close friends and family join us there for a week next month.My husband will be charmed to meet you. He often speaks of his time in the West Indies. I shall send you an invitation.”
She had, and he had accepted for his own reasons, though now he began to wonder if he had mistaken hers.
She took his arm in a somewhat proprietary grip, drawing him toward the house. “You are just in time for tea, so you will meet my husband and our other guests. How was your journey?”
Their polite small talk was interrupted as they entered the house to find a distinguished and handsome man striding across the hallway. He turned toward them saying, “Deborah, where—” then broke off, smiling in welcome.
