Envy Unchecked (Lady Mary Mysteries #1)

Chapter One

Lady Mary

If ever there was a man in need of a sound codswalloping, it was Mr. Enoch Ryder. I tossed The Times down in disgust, one corner of the paper landing on my plate of scones and the lavender strawberry jam that was dolloped upon them.

One of the footman of The Minerva Club glided up to my table and discreetly wiped at the jam on the paper.

He turned up the wick on my oil lamp, the gesture doing little to battle the gloom that seemed to descend upon my club after closing.

“Can I bring you more scones, Lady Mary? We also have a raspberry torte left over from our dinner service.”

“No, thank you.” I’d quite lost my appetite for dessert. “Have you ever seen a pagan ritual being performed in The Minerva Club, Bobby?”

“I can’t say that I have, milady,” the young man murmured smoothly, his handsome features remaining even. He began turning down the gas lamps that lined the Oriental papered walls.

I snatched up the paper again, and slapped my fingers on the offending opinion piece. “Or ’bouts of unbridled lasciviousness engaged in between the members’?”

Bobby’s lips twitched. “Well, there was that one time—”

“No, you have not.” I sniffed. The problem with treating one’s workers as part of a family was the impertinence that came along with it.

I’d started The Minerva Club as a way for women to gather for pleasant entertainment as we were forbidden from the hallowed halls of the men’s clubs of London.

My ladies’ club fostered conversation, lectures on philosophy and the natural sciences, tutorials on the necessary amount of oil an arrow was required to be saturated in order to keep it aflame until it hit its target.

Routine events like that. Devil-worshipping orgies were not a part of our programs.

“Has that Mr. Ryder written another article about your club?” Bobby narrowed his eyes. “He and that morality committee of his aren’t going to get us shut down, are they?”

“Of course not.” I grasped the jeweled handle of the cane resting on the chair next to mine and pushed myself to standing.

The cane was more affectation than necessity, but I felt it gave me a dramatic flair.

It wasn’t easy being a woman of a certain age in modern-day London.

Women, even the young and pretty ones, were too easily overlooked, and I was neither young nor pretty.

I wasn’t as old as my ivory hair might suggest; it had lost its color early, in my fourth decade, soon after I’d lost my husband.

And though I had never quite qualified as pretty, I did have some claim to still being called handsome on occasion.

I folded the paper and tucked it under my arm. At least I was the daughter of an earl and had married into a good family. A title made it much more difficult to ignore me. That, and my money.

“Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” Bobby stacked my dishes onto a tray.

It was past midnight, and the club had technically been closed for an hour, though I never let technicalities get in the way of people having a good time.

The Tea Room was empty except for me, Bobby, and the Lynton girl.

It hadn’t escaped my attention that the young woman had been darting glances my way all through my late night repast. I did hope she’d gather her nerve soon for whatever she had in mind.

“No, thank you. Have a good evening, Bobby.”

“And you’re sure we won’t be shut down.” He nodded to the paper. “I can go ’round and have a talking to that Ryder fellow, just say the word.”

That thought was altogether too tempting. “That won’t be necessary. Besides, once people read the other piece in the opinion section, no one will remember what Mr. Enoch Ryder has to think.”

Bobby grinned. “That tasty a morsel?”

A standing member of the House of Lords insinuating that another member was a milksop, controlled with sexual intimacies by his hoyden of a wife?

Yes, that was just the sort of gossip London society wanted to read about.

And as the wife in question was a member of The Minerva Club, I could only hope that the gossip didn’t invade my halls, as well.

“That prurient.” I pushed my spectacles back up my nose. “Good night.” I picked up the oil lamp and stalked out of the Tea Room, Miss Lynton peeling off behind me.

“Lady Mary?” She cleared her throat.

“Yes?” I kept walking, heading on my closing rounds.

I checked for damage to the rooms as I turned off the gas lamps and blew out any lit candles.

A wave of fatigue drifted over me. I’d suffered from ennui before, and opening and running my club had certainly alleviated that problem.

But keeping inventory, paying workers, paying off the loans of my investors, and now fending off morality committees was more demanding than I had anticipated.

I’d thought running a business would be like running a household, just on a larger scale.

I had been wrong.

Miss Lynton quickened her step and turned, walking backwards to face me as she spoke. “I was hoping to speak with you about my mother’s membership. Mrs. Lynton?”

“I know who your mother is.” My tone might have been a bit more peevish than it ought, but I didn’t like anyone questioning my mental faculties when it came to the management of my club.

There were other situations where pretending a slight softness of the mind could be useful, but not here. The Minerva Club was my second home, the one place in public where I could be completely myself. I knew the names, faces, and histories of every member.

“This is a matter of some discretion.” Miss Lynton pushed an errant strand of her glossy brown hair behind her ear. “But my mother and I are facing some financial difficulties.” She looked at the space beside my head. “I was hoping….”

I took her elbow and steered her away from the wall she was about to bump into.

“You were hoping for financial assistance with the membership dues.” I tried to hide my surprise.

The Lyntons were known throughout society as having had money troubles years ago.

Mr. Lynton’s success in logging had taken a sharp turn for the worse a decade past, but these last few years their fortunes had turned once again.

Even Mr. Lynton’s death last year hadn’t hurt the wealth of his wife and daughter, and they’d been members of high society for a while now.

It would be a shame if they were struggling again.

“Good Gad, no.” Miss Lynton looked horrified for a moment. She recovered quickly. “No, I thank you. I was hoping that you would tell my mother she was no longer welcome at the club. Perhaps that you’ve decided to limit the number of members and she didn’t meet your requirements?”

I stopped walking and stared at her a moment. “You’ve read the papers. You don’t want your family’s name associated with The Minerva Club any longer.” I cursed Enoch Ryder under my breath.

Miss Lynton’s eyebrows shot up. She cleared her throat. “That would be one way of putting it.”

My neck ached with how stiffly I was holding it.

I stepped through the doorway into the Great Room, the spacious hall we used for large assemblies.

We hadn’t had any events for several days so all the chairs were put away, leaning on the far wall.

It was a quick sweep of the eyes to make sure everything was in order before closing.

I strode for the lamps on the side wall.

“Your mother can make her own decisions about her associations, young lady. If she sees fit—” My hand paused on the base of the lamp, my eyes narrowing.

A low stage ran along the back of the room, used for the occasional play or concert.

A bundle of fabric lay crumpled in the middle of it.

“My mother doesn’t know what’s best for her,” Miss Lynton insisted. She trailed after me as I made my way to the stage. “She doesn’t… Lady Mary? What is that?” Her voice went low with dread.

We both knew. As much as I wanted my eyes to keep seeing a pile of cloth, my mind knew the truth. A kidskin boot pressed out from the skirts of a striped percale gown.

I climbed the two steps onto the stage, my legs heavy as lead, my heart pounding dully.

“Lady Mary?” Miss Lynton repeated faintly.

She had been strangled, the white cravat around her throat a sharp contrast with her purpling skin. My breath stalled. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen death, but I’d never witnessed one so violent before.

“Go see if Bobby has left yet,” I said. “Tell him to run for the constable. The Viscountess of Richford is dead.”