Death at Villa De Lacey (De Lacey and Squires Mysteries #1)

Chapter One

Bridget De Lacey strolled across the sprawling grounds of Villa De Lacey—a magnificent three-story, eighteen-room stone villa trimmed with pale-blue French shutters, a matching two-paneled double door, and a fleur-de-lis iron railing that framed the raised portico at its entrance.

It had been built from Lutetian limestone—the very same stone from which much of Paris had been built—on a sloping hill above Lake Windermere by Bridget’s French grandfather who’d come to the wild, barren Lake District region of England and fallen in love with the area’s sublime majesty.

And who could blame him? Bridget thought.

Life was idyllic in this land of endless blue lakes, magnificent mountain peaks, and lush green fells.

This was the land that inspired England’s greatest poets—Southey, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, and, of course, Wordsworth, who lived a few miles from Villa De Lacey in his home called Rydal Mount.

A floral scent wafted through the air as she passed the small rose garden centered around a rectangular fountain out of whose waters emerged a perfectly sculptured bronze statue of Venus, standing on a scalloped seashell, as depicted in Botticelli’s famous painting.

“Come along, Bijou,” Bridget called her little white terrier, who had darted from her side to chase a family of lapwings.

With Bijou scampering again at her heels, Bridget continued to the edge of the garden, which culminated in a stone patio secured by an elaborate balustrade wall that surrounded the grounds of Villa De Lacey.

Bridget leaned her forearms on the balustrade and gazed at Lake Windermere, two hundred feet from the entrance to Villa De Lacey.

The spectacular lake, surrounded by majestic mountains and green fells, stretched for miles and had a calming effect on all who gazed upon it.

But today, Windermere’s waters had turned choppy, and a mist hovered over the horizon.

What had started as a fine day with blue skies and calm waters had quickly turned stormy.

But that was not unusual. The weather in the Lake District was changeable and unpredictable.

“A storm is brewing, Bijou.” Bridget looked down at her terrier, who’d raised himself on his hind legs to rest his front paws on the skirt of her white empire dress.

“We’d best go inside.” She bent to lift the dog into her arms. “Oh, look how you’ve soiled my dress,” she said upon seeing the muddy prints her pup had left on the white material.

The little dog responded by licking her face.

Bridget giggled and showered him with kisses before starting back up the hill toward her home.

As she approached the house, she turned to see that a dark cloud had settled over the lake.

It seemed the storm had grown perilous. Bridget shivered.

She hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come.

It had been three weeks since her papa had departed for London to attend to some business, and she’d yet to hear a word from him.

Now, she’d started to worry in earnest. He’d been distracted for months prior to his trip and seemed in low spirits when he’d left for London.

It terrified her to think that all was not well with Papa.

Her beautiful and spirited mama had died after she’d fallen ill when Bridget was four.

Since then, she’d feared losing her papa too.

After her mama’s death, she’d become so clingy toward her father that his widowed sister left her home in Dorset and moved in with them to assist her brother and care for his child when he traveled.

But despite her aunt’s presence in the home, and even though she was now an adult of one-and-twenty, Bridget continued to worry every time her father left Windermere.

Oh, Papa, why haven’t you written? Bridget inspected the clouds and then dropped her gaze to the two giant stone gargoyles that flanked the entrance to Villa De Lacey, guarding it against evildoers while inviting friends and neighbors to venture up the long, winding carriageway that led to the villa.

Come on, Papa. Do send word soon. And then, as if she’d conjured it with her thoughts, a black coach turned into the property, slipping past the gargoyles and snaking its way up the gravel path. Bridget’s heart leapt.

At last!

Bijou struggled in her arms and barked at the approaching vehicle. “Shh!” she soothed the little dog while tightening her grip on him, fearing that he’d race toward the carriage and get caught under its wheels.

As the carriage drew closer, Bridget saw that it bore the mark of the local magistrate, and her heart stilled.

Perhaps he’d come to check on her and her aunt, or mayhap he’d had word from Papa.

That thought gave her pause. Why would Papa message the magistrate?

He’d never done so before. In all likelihood, Magistrate Hunt’s presence could only mean one thing—bad news.

She stood paralyzed as the coach stopped in front of her home and the magistrate stepped out. He was a portly man with round blue eyes and a bulbous nose. A few sparse gray hairs populated his mostly bald head, which was oddly accompanied by bushy sideburns and a full beard.

Bridget found her feet and stepped forward. “Magistrate Hunt. How do you do?” She greeted the gentleman and restrained herself from rudely blurting out the questions that ran through her mind.

“Miss De Lacey.” The magistrate bowed in greeting. And Bridget saw that he looked notably somber—an observation she found rather unsettling. A cheerful magistrate on a social call was less likely to be the bearer of bad news.

Bijou continued to yip and struggle to be put down. Bridget stroked her pup’s fur, calming him.

“Is your aunt also at home by chance?” the magistrate asked. “I should like to speak with both of you.”

“Yes, of course, she’s inside.” Fear rose in Bridget’s chest, and she could no longer restrain herself from interrogating the gentleman there and then. “But why do you wish to speak with us? Is something the matter, sir? Have you had word from my papa?”

“I will be happy to address all of your questions inside, if you don’t mind, miss.” The magistrate’s grave expression did little to calm Bridget’s nerves.

“Of course.” Bridget felt the color rise to her cheeks even as her heart sank. She’d always had a hard time practicing patience. “Do come in.”

“Thank you,” the magistrate said, removing his top hat as he followed her inside, where they were greeted by the housekeeper Eliza Moon.

She was a petite, middle-aged spinster with a small, pale face, thin lips, deep-set brown eyes, and stringy brown hair, which she kept partially tucked under a white bonnet.

Eliza had served the family faithfully since before Bridget’s birth and now filled both the roles of housekeeper and lady’s maid.

Papa had long ago done away with the butler and a host of other servants who were no longer needed after he’d shut eleven of the eighteen rooms in the house to save expenses.

“Is my aunt in the drawing room, by chance, Eliza?” Bridget asked.

“She is, miss.” Eliza’s dark eyes narrowed as she saw the magistrate follow Bridget inside.

“Take the magistrate’s hat and coat, please, Eliza. And then bring some tea to the drawing room.” Bridget smiled at her maid, who she suspected felt the same trepidation at the magistrate’s presence as she did.

“That’s not necessary,” Magistrate Hunt said. “I shan’t be here long.”

Bridget quivered inside. The magistrate’s refusal to leave his coat and hat was ominous, indeed.

This was not a social visit. And as the bearer of bad news, the magistrate would want to make a quick escape.

“Bring the tea anyway,” she told her maid.

“I am feeling quite thirsty. And you’d best take Bijou to the kitchen while I speak with the magistrate.

” She lifted the terrier and kissed his nose.

“Cook is sure to have some meat scraps for you, my sweet,” she said before handing the wriggling pup to Eliza.

Eliza took the dog and curtsied before departing.

“Follow me, sir,” Bridget said, leading the magistrate to the drawing room. Before stepping inside, she called out to her aunt.

“Bridget?” Her aunt looked up from her embroidery. She wore a long-sleeved burgundy day dress with a ruffled white collar and bonnet.

“I have a guest with me, Aunt. It’s Mr. Hunt, the magistrate. He would like to speak with you—us. He’d like to speak with us.”

“What about?” Her aunt put her sewing down. “Did something happen?”

Bridget entered the drawing room with the magistrate in tow.

“Mrs. Brixton.” The magistrate bowed in greeting to her aunt.

“Do come and sit down, sir,” Bridget said, seating herself on the pale-blue velvet sofa next to her aunt.

The magistrate fiddled with the rim of his top hat and hesitated as though sitting down would commit him to staying longer than he wished. Bridget could see that something heavy weighed on his mind, and it caused her heart to drum against the wall of her chest.

“Please, magistrate. Sit.” Aunt Marianne gestured toward an upholstered velvet chair. “You’ll take some tea with us, won’t you?” she asked as Eliza entered the drawing room with a tea tray.

Magistrate Hunt cleared his throat and nodded as if coming to his senses. “Of course. Yes, thank you.” He relented and seated himself as Eliza set the tray on the table.

“You may leave it. Thank you, Eliza,” Aunt Marianne said as the maid started to pour the tea.

Eliza hesitated and glanced nervously at the magistrate.

“Thank you, Eliza,” Aunt Marianne said again.

Eliza curtsied, and retreated with obvious reluctance.

Aunt Marianne then busied herself, pouring three cups of tea. “Cream and sugar, magistrate?”

“Oh yes, two lumps of sugar for me. I enjoy a sweet cup.”

Aunt Marianne smiled and plopped two lumps of sugar into his cup.

Bridget noticed that the man’s hand trembled slightly as he accepted the tea from her aunt. He took a small sip before placing the cup back in its saucer on the table.

Bridget’s stomach twisted. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Something awful had happened.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Magistrate Hunt said, “I’m afraid that I have some bad news.”

His words sounded like a death knoll in Bridget’s ears. She placed her teacup on the table and folded her hands in her lap, steadying herself. “Is it Papa?” she asked, her voice quivering.

Magistrate Hunt nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said, and Bridget could see the pity in his blue eyes.

“Not Bernard!” her aunt squeaked. “Has something happened to my brother?”

Bridget reached for her aunt’s hand. “Tell us, sir. Please.”

Magistrate Hunt ran a hand over his full beard. “I received word early this morning, via letter, that Mr. De Lacey is”—he swallowed—“deceased.”

“No!” The exclamation came from the hallway, and Bridget looked up to see Eliza standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, and her hand clapped over her mouth.

But Bridget didn’t have the time or the energy to reprimand the housekeeper for eavesdropping.

She was too busy trying to absorb the magistrate’s words, which seemed unreal.

Aunt Marianne’s quiet sobs sounded beside her, but she could not make sense of them. She felt as though she was trapped in a nonsensical dream.

“Deceased, you say?” Bridget repeated the magistrate’s words, not quite able to accept them. That can’t be right. Not Papa. I must be having a terrible dream. This can’t be real. She pinched her arm. None of it is real. She pinched herself again. Wake up, Bridget! Wake up!

“Miss De Lacey! Why are you pinching your skin? Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.” The magistrate was by her side, hovering over her.

Papa dead! How? It can’t be true! The room seemed to swim before Bridget’s eyes. She felt the nausea rise in her throat.

“Miss De Lacey?” The magistrate raised his voice. “Shall I call for Doctor Elias?”

She shook her head, determined to regain control of her senses. “No, thank you. I’m quite well. It’s just the shock.”

“Here, take a sip of tea.” He picked up her cup and handed it to her. She took it with shaky hands and forced herself to sip the liquid if only to appease the magistrate. Her ploy must have worked because he returned to his seat.

Beside her, Aunt Marianne dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Bridget managed to say, although she still did not believe it to be true. She was sure there had been some terrible mix-up, and her papa would walk through the door any minute.

The magistrate pressed his lips together. “Do you have anyone whom I can call—a male relative—who can help—”

“No,” Bridget said, anxious to know why the magistrate seemed to be stalling. “You know very well there is no one. It’s only me, Aunt Marianne, and Papa…” Her voice faltered. She sucked in her breath. “Now, please tell us what accident has befallen Papa.”

Magistrate Hunt tugged at his collar as if it choked him. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact.

“Magistrate Hunt, please! I need to know what has happened to my father. How did he—how did it happen?” Bridget said, still convinced the magistrate had made a mistake.

Once she knew the details, then she’d be able to point out that it was all a misunderstanding.

Her papa wasn’t dead. Whoever had sent over that message had made a terrible mistake.

Aunt Marianne gave another loud sob and buried her nose in her handkerchief.

“I’m afraid that Mr. De Lacey”—he paused—“took his own life.”

“What?” Bridget’s stomach plummeted. She felt as though she’d been pushed off the tallest peak in Westmorland and was falling unprotected and uncontrollably down to bottomless earth.

Her aunt lowered her handkerchief and stared at the magistrate, shaking her head. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

A crushing weight slammed into Bridget’s chest as she made her harsh landing back to reality. “That’s impossible,” she said. “You must have the wrong man. Papa would never do such a thing. What explanation could there be for him to take his own life?”

“It seems he lost his entire fortune in a series of card games”—he swallowed—“including this villa.”

Bridget heard a loud gasp, but she wasn’t sure if it came from her own throat or her aunt’s.

“Villa De Lacey?” she asked, stunned. “He lost our home?”

“It was his last hope. He gambled the villa in the hope of winning back his money, but he lost it to the Earl of Westerly, whose family name is Squires.”

The room swirled before Bridget’s eyes. She was vaguely aware of her aunt sobbing beside her and of the magistrate talking, but his voice grew distant as the room continued to whirl.

“Papa dead. Villa De Lacey lost to an earl by the name of Squires,” Bridget echoed in a whisper before everything went black.