CHAPTER ONE
MISS BRYONY RUSSELL SAT in front of the dismal fire in the tiny terrace apartment on the very edge of Whitechapel. It was a dangerous area, and well she knew it, but with the small amount of money left the three sisters hadn’t had much choice. Lodgings in London weren’t to be had cheaply in the thirty-second year of Queen Victoria’s reign.
Bryony looked at her sisters and cleared her throat. “I believe there’s no choice for it, we’ll have to go into service.”
Her sisters looked at her with a mixture of interest and horror. “Service?” her youngest sister Sophia echoed faintly. “As in, work? As a maid?”
“What else does ‘service’ mean, you silly goose,” her middle sister Madeleine said. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
“I don’t,” Sophia said decidedly.
Bryony surveyed them impatiently. “Not you, Sophie. You’d get fired within a fortnight. And I’m not saying you should do it either, Maddy, if you don’t wish to. But the only way we’re going to find out the truth about what really happened to Papa is to get inside the households of those we most suspect, and I can think of no better way.”
It had all happened so swiftly. One day they were the pampered daughters of a wealthy shipping magnate, the next they were destitute, orphaned, and under a cloud of shame. Eustace Russell had been a self-made man, amassing a fortune through the shipping company that had started out a mere fledgling business and ended up being the foremost company in England and half of Europe. He’d married a great and titled beauty who’d given him three daughters; he lived life well.
And six weeks ago he’d supposedly embezzled a massive amount of Russell Shipping’s finances and then died in a carriage accident as he raced for the Continent, plunging to his death over the high cliffs on the southwest corner of England. His three daughters were finally beginning to emerge from the shock and grief that had overwhelmed them, only to find they were in social disgrace as well.
Two banks had failed immediately following the discovery of their father’s perfidy, setting off a financial panic that had wide-reaching effects. It was no wonder the name of Russell was viewed with scorn and mistrust nowadays.
For the past six weeks Bryony and her sisters had been in a fog, numbed by grief and confusion. Everything was gone—the money, their good name, their faith in their father. Their former town house on Curzon Street had been set on fire, presumably by Eustace to cover his tracks, and the ruined shell of it remained, mute testament to the shame
that had come to their family. Even Renwick, the vast country estate in Somerset, had been taken, the entailed property returned to the heir upon Russell’s death. The three daughters had arrived from the country with no place to stay, and it had taken all Bryony’s force of character to keep her sisters from feeling the shame and hopelessness that was crushing her. It was a blessing that their delicate, high-strung mother wasn’t still alive to endure the public recoil. It was hard enough on Bryony, and she accounted herself far sturdier than their mother had ever been.
It hadn’t taken long for Bryony to pull herself together, take a clear look at the so-called proof of her father’s iniquity, and realize it was all a lie. The scribbled note, in her father’s own hand, had further convinced her.
Don’t trust any of them. Someone’s stealing money, and it looks like Kilmartyn’s in league with them, no matter what excuses he makes. Don’t trust Morgan either. Never trust a pirate. Something’s going on, and I’ll get to the bottom of it, or
Don’t trust anyone. That’s what her father had dashed off, a note to himself, but for Bryony it was something else. It was purpose. The idea that there was actually something that could be done was a tonic to her soul. There was no way she could bring her father back, but if she could ensure whoever was truly behind this met justice it would give them all some kind of peace, or, at the very least, resolution.
“We don’t even know that he was murdered,” Sophie protested. “Simply because you found an odd note among Father’s papers doesn’t mean we should pay it any heed. Carriage accidents do happen, you know. And who’s to say that Father didn’t take that money?”
“Because Papa was almost maddeningly honest, and he instilled those values in all of us,” Bryony said firmly. “I simply cannot believe he would ever do such a thing.”
“I told you,” Maddy snapped at her younger sister. “If you ever used your brain to think about anything but fashion and food…”
“We aren’t getting to enjoy any fashion,” Sophie shot back, plucking at her black-dyed mourning dress. “And since I’m the only one who can cook around here we’re not getting to enjoy the food either.”
“Stop fighting!” Bryony said wearily, not for the first time. “I swear, the two of you are like angry cats. If we’re to get through this with any kind of success we have to work together.”
“Sorry,” Sophie muttered, casting a half-resentful, half-apologetic look at Maddy.
“I’m sorry, Bryony,” Maddy said with a degree more sincerity. “Where do you propose we start?”
Bryony sat back, pouring herself another cup of the strong, cheap tea they were subsisting on. “I can think of three suspects—Papa named two of them. The Earl of Kilmartyn was his business partner and made a fortune at Papa’s side. Papa distrusted him, and for some reason the bank panic didn’t affect him in the slightest. He’s the most logical choice. He’s a well-known rake, despite his beautiful wife, and he’s got the morals of an alley cat, or so I’ve been told.”
“He’s too obvious,” Maddy said. “What about Captain Morgan? Father had just removed him from his command, and he was on his way to Devonport when the accident happened. When our choice is between a peer of the realm and a former pirate the answer seems logical.”
“Privateer,” Bryony corrected firmly. Maddy had a tendency to be overdramatic. “You’re right, though. Captain Morgan appears to be a man who wouldn’t blink at the thought of murder. I don’t believe Father ever trusted him completely. Although there are a number of reasons to drive to Devonport—visiting Captain Morgan being only one of them. There did appear to be bad blood between them.”
“There was bad blood between Father and almost everyone he ever met,” Sophie scoffed. “Honest or not, he was hardly the most convivial of individuals. Surely you’re not suggesting Captain Morgan embezzled a fortune and killed our father out of pique?”
“It’s something you would do,” Maddy said pointedly.
Sophie shrugged with surprising good nature. “I suppose I might, if someone annoyed me enough. But what about Viscount Blackhurst? With our father’s death he regained ownership of Renwick, no small treasure. He already murdered his wife. Why hesitate to kill a total stranger if you stand to gain that much?”
“We don’t know that he murdered his wife,” Bryony corrected her. “It’s just rumor. And of the three I admit he seems the least likely. The man was already wealthy, and he owned several estates. Besides, Father didn’t seem to suspect him.”
“Clearly Father didn’t know everything, if he ended up dead,” Sophie replied, sinking back on the window seat and staring out into the rain-drenched city, the sheen of her unshed tears barely noticeable. She looked like a gorgeous, shining doll amidst the trappings of a black crow. Mourning clothes had been expensive, even using the cheapest of worsted, but instead of diminishing Sophie’s vibrant beauty the stark black only made her more stunning. “Why don’t we simply go with our original plan? I’ll marry someone fabulously wealthy and very handsome and support the two of you.”