The Hexing Miss Helena (The Society of Scandalous Witches #2)

Chapter 1

Cynthia was well and truly vexed. She strode along the hallway, ignoring the pleasant swish of her cotton petticoats as they swirled around her calves.

The warm sunlight streaming through the window did not match her black mood.

Neither did the sweet hyacinth blooms or the lazy buzz of a bumblebee droning outside the open window.

‘The very nerve of that man! To sack my maid without even bothering to consult me,’ Cynthia muttered, building up steam for the tirade that had been brewing for ten years.

Ten years of keeping her mouth shut. Ten years of being the dutiful wife her husband required.

Ten years carving off pieces of herself until she was the shining example of feminine perfection everyone expected.

No more. I will not continue to live this way.

Hubert taking control of household decisions, the one domain where she held a smidge of autonomy, was beyond the pale. She was going to confront him this time. She would not back down. She would not be dismissed. She would not crumble under the pressure of expectation.

It was time her husband explained himself. And not just about the maid.

Much was broken between them. Mistresses were one thing, and to be expected, but the rest was untenable.

Days – sometimes weeks – where he disappeared, only to return reeking of stale gin and cheap perfume.

Hushed meetings with his solicitors resulting in such a foul temper, Cynthia kept to her wing of their Mayfair home to avoid becoming an easy target for his ire.

Refusing to acknowledge her unless they were at a public event.

And now this. Dismissing her favourite maid without so much as consulting Cynthia.

She had done her best to paint a smile on her lips. She put on her social armour right along with her shift, corset, stays, and fashionable gowns. Swanning about at all the desirable events with the beau monde, she strove to prove nothing was amiss. All was well in her perfect society marriage.

But something changed when she called for her maid that morning, only to have Mrs Higgins, the housekeeper, arrive instead. With crimson cheeks and a lowered gaze, she told Cynthia Lily had been dismissed.

Not only had Hubert made her a fool; her husband hurt Cynthia with his actions.

Lily was an excellent maid. Cynthia had grown very fond of the girl.

She would have been confused and dismayed at being dismissed without Cynthia saying a word in her defence.

Hubert could be cruel with his petty vendettas, but Cynthia hadn’t done anything to displease him of late.

Even if she had, Lily shouldn’t suffer for it.

His behaviour was abominable, and she was finally ready to confront him.

Her righteous anger felt glorious, pumping adrenaline-soaked blood through her system at a remarkable pace as she pushed open the door to his study.

But he wasn’t sitting at his desk.

He wasn’t reviewing letters of business.

He wasn’t even debauching some trussed-up light skirt as Cynthia dreaded.

He was sprawled face down on the thick Aubusson rug. Blood pooled around him like a large crimson lake.

Something broke in Cynthia as lightning cracked in the cloudless blue sky. Which was odd, given that it was mid-summer in London and hardly a stormy season.

But she couldn’t think about the weather just now. She needed to concentrate. On her husband. Who was very much dead.

A scream tore from her throat as she rushed to his side. Crouching down, heedless of the blood, she touched his cheek. Ice-cold.

Time ceased to operate normally. Everything inside her froze. Conversely, the world around her sped up in a dizzy blur.

The butler hurried into the room, took one look at Lord Hubert Burrows, and swiftly tossed up his accounts in the potted palm by the door.

He was followed by two footmen. One went white as a sheet and collapsed. The other looked from Cynthia to her husband and back again. His eyes grew wide, and he held his hands in front of him, like a horse trainer attempting to calm a wild mare.

It took Cynthia a moment to realise she was the wild mare.

‘I am quite well.’ Which was absurd. She was anything but well. Yet she kept saying it. ‘I am quite well. Quite well.’ She repeated the words until they lost all meaning and became nothing but sound.

The room kept filling with people. More footmen.

Various maids shrieking and causing all manner of fuss.

Mrs Higgins, who ushered the hysterical maids out and came back with a tray of tea, forcing the hot cup into Cynthia’s shaking hand.

A constable whose moustache twitched like the tail of an irritated cat.

Another bobby insisting Cynthia sit when she really wanted to run.

Far, and fast, and forever with the wind pulling at her hair and the rain washing her clean in cold rivers.

A summer storm raged outside the window. Thunder boomed, loud enough to rattle the glass. Black clouds covered the bright sun, causing another round of shrieking from the maids.

Haze descended, and Cynthia found herself lost in a mire of racing thoughts, shouting voices, insistent hands pulling her in different directions, and an odd keening sound that only stopped when she took in ragged breaths.

Eventually, the low, calm rumble of a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

‘Cynthia, darling…’

Cynthia blinked, and everyone disappeared.

Magic.

To be caught in a cyclone one moment and standing in calm the next.

I’m living in the eye of a storm.

Her brother stood in front of her, his black hair askew, his green eyes flashing with something akin to fear. He seemed at a loss for words, something he had never been before.

‘Thomas. What are you doing here?’

Another man stepped into her line of vision.

His mess of curly hair was in direct contrast to the crisp white cravat, starched collar and smart jacket of Superintendent Lachlan MacDougal.

He held a cup of tea in his hands. Which was very strange indeed.

She had never seen the superintendent drink tea. Hadn’t she had tea?

‘Superintendent. I wasn’t expecting your company.

I must tell Mrs Higgins to—’ She stopped abruptly.

This wasn’t right. She hadn’t invited anyone over this afternoon.

And the superintendent never accepted her invitations at any rate.

Her brother’s best friend – the man who had carried poor Thomas across battlefields littered with dead men so that he could be patched up and sent home to her over a decade ago – had only come to dinner once.

But now he stood in front of her, offering Cynthia a porcelain cup painted with dusky pink roses.

Ah. So, the tea is for me.

But I don’t want this cup of tea. I didn’t want the last cup of tea.

I want all of this to make sense.

She must be waking from a dream. Or perhaps it was a nightmare.

Shaking her head, she tried to recall what had occurred, but the day was a muddle of images and sounds. The peach upholstery beneath her fingers was soft as she rubbed in rhythmic circles.

When had she walked to her front parlour?

Soothing cream walls with sage printed vines were nothing like the dark wood panelling of her husband’s office. She remembered choosing the wallpaper because it felt wild and free. But now, the vines were wrapping around her chest, tightening, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

‘Why am I here?’ She forced herself to focus on her brother’s clear green eyes.

‘I was looking for Hubert. He—’ She looked down, staring at a crimson stain on her satin skirt.

Shaking her head, she turned to Superintendent MacDougal.

Lines creased either side of his mouth, which was turned down in a slight frown.

His thick brows drew together over eyes the colour of freshly turned soil.

And then it all came crashing back.

Her husband, face down on the rug. His eyes open, staring sightlessly. His skin a ghastly grey. Blood pooling around him like blackberry cordial.

Nausea rolled from her belly up her throat. She gagged, pressing her hand against her mouth. A proper lady did not become ill in front of gentlemen.

Thomas sat down next to her on the couch, patting her on the back with awkward thumps. ‘I told you she needed time. Damn it, Lachlan. Must we do this now?’

Superintendent MacDougal set down the tea.

‘Just breathe, Cyn.’ It was an old nickname her brother hadn’t used since they were children, which seemed appropriate as she felt very little just now. And very scared.

Thomas fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled packet of sweets. ‘Here.’ He thrust the bag at her. ‘Clio swears these help settle her stomach when she’s a wee bit peaky.’

Cynthia whipped her head up. ‘Is she here?’ Because what she needed more than any of these fumbling men was a woman. A friend.

She met Clio Blair five months prior, when the young lady had been investigating a case with Cynthia’s brother.

Predictably, Thomas and Clio fell in love and were recently married.

They were planning a wedding tour, but mercifully, Clio wanted to wait until the fall.

Which meant all spring and summer, she had only been a short carriage ride away.

Cynthia loved her sister-in-law dearly and very much wanted the comfort of her company.

‘She is in the other room.’

‘Can you fetch her, Superintendent?’

‘Drink your tea, Lady Burrows.’

Cynthia wrinkled her nose before remembering a lady did not dislike tea. But she had always secretly hated the drink. She preferred coffee, a scandalous admission. Cynthia had never refused a dish of tea in her life, but she couldn’t force herself to pick up the delicate cup. Not today.

‘Lachlan.’ Her brother’s strangled response stiffened her spine.

Something was wrong.

Quite a lot is wrong! My husband is dead in the other room.

Which concerned her deeply. But perhaps not enough. Maybe that is why Superintendent MacDougal was looking at her in such an odd manner. She was no actress. She couldn’t possibly mimic the response of a heartbroken, devastated woman. Those were not the emotions presently filling her.

Shock? Certainly.

Dismay? Of course.

Relief? Well. That’s hardly something one would admit.

Yet, as the horror of his death started to diminish, a new understanding sank into her like water into thirsty soil.

She was free.

Cynthia didn’t love her husband. Nor did Hubert ever love Cynthia. She had entertained the possibility of friendship during their brief courtship. But even that mild emotion died days after their wedding when his true nature emerged.

If she did feel a breath of liberation at his demise, it was only because she no longer had to pretend her society marriage was whole and happy. Or that she was whole and happy, for that matter.

Which didn’t mean she wished ill upon Hubert. A mild malaise, perhaps. Boils on his willy for all his philandering. A burning case of gout. Some sense of humiliation for his horrific behaviour. But bleeding to death on the rug in his study seemed rather more than necessary.

‘The man was prone to excess,’ Cynthia murmured. It occurred to her she might not be in her right mind. ‘Probably the shock.’

‘What was that?’ Superintendent MacDougal leaned closer, and the vines around her ribs tightened once more.

‘Nothing.’

Cynthia had never experienced a premonition. But the cold fingers of fate stroked along her neck as Superintendent MacDougal’s gaze shifted away from her. She shivered as a draught blew over her skin.

Something wicked this way comes.

She shook her head. This was hardly the time for Shakespeare.

‘Have you any suspects in Hubert’s murder?’ She feared she knew the superintendent’s answer. ‘It’s clear he didn’t die from natural causes.’

Superintendent MacDougal swallowed, his gaze resolute on the fresh fire crackling in the grate. Mrs Higgins must have lit it, which was mad for mid-July. Cynthia resisted the urge to move closer. Usually, the parlour was sweltering in the afternoon heat, but today she was shivering.

‘Lady Burrows, it gives me no pleasure to ask, but I must. Is there any reason you might want your husband dead?’

Oh dear.

Because she could think of hundreds of reasons.