A Bitter Cut (Lady Darby Mysteries #14)

Chapter 1

When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills,

And I must minister the like to you.

—William Shakespeare

Warwickshire, England

Perhaps it was my own fault for allowing my mind to wander rather than fully focusing on the task before me.

But when the door burst open, causing me to nearly snip the tip of my finger off along with the stem of the rose I was trimming, I was more inclined to blame the intruder.

Especially when I discovered it was my sister.

I opened my mouth to berate her, but she actually had the temerity to shush me.

So I glowered instead, ready to ignore this order.

That is, until the oddity of her behavior stopped me.

Alana now stood with her back pressed to the door as if to hold it shut in preparation of a siege.

Her chest rose and fell with each swift inhalation as she turned her ear to the wood, presumably listening for noise on the other side.

I ascertained that I had not, in fact, amputated a digit, and lowered my pruning shears to the table, before puzzling over her conduct.

Clearly, she was hiding from someone. My first guess was that it might be her own children.

She was known to play games like hide-and-go-seek with her brood from time to time.

However, the last I’d heard, all the children had tramped out to the gardens with their nursemaids to enjoy the lovely weather we were having.

It was hard to imagine my fierce older sister hiding from anyone else.

As the Countess of Cromarty, Alana often outranked everyone.

Though she’d also faced down duchesses and society’s starchiest matrons with ease.

But it seemed, in this instance, she might have met her match.

And I had a sneaking suspicion of just who had driven her to seek refuge with me in the dining room.

After a tense few moments, she must have decided the coast was clear, for she released the door handle and pressed a hand to her chest. Stepping away from the door, she smoothed a stray strand of chestnut brown hair back into place.

She fluffed her lilac and pale rose muslin skirts, before offering me a wide smile, for all the world as if she hadn’t just appeared to be running for her life.

“Ah, Kiera. Here you are,” Alana declared breezily.

I arched a single eyebrow to let her know that I didn’t believe for an instant that she’d actually been searching for me.

“Arranging flowers for dinner tonight?”

When my sister began stating the obvious, it was a clear indication she didn’t wish to discuss something. So like the good little sister I was, I called her to account.

“Hiding from Mrs. Birnam, are you?” I remarked, adding the pale cream shrub rose I’d just pruned to the cut-glass vase at the center of the long oak table.

Various smaller sprays of blooms were arranged down the length of the runner interspersed with candlesticks, baskets of fruit, and crystal vessels waiting to be filled.

A faint furrow etched Alana’s brow. “Don’t tell me you’re not doing the exact same thing. It’s perfectly obvious why you’re in here arranging flowers when you have members of your staff who are capable of the task.”

I didn’t attempt to deny it, but unlike Alana, I also didn’t try to pretend otherwise. Instead, I focused on pruning the thorns from another rose before finding a place for it between a soft pink peony and a lavender phlox.

Alana rounded the table to stand next to me, picking up a coral daylily to examine it. “I thought you hated floral arranging.”

“I don’t hate it.” I tilted my head, scrutinizing my work.

“Though I admit it was never my favorite pastime.” If given the choice, I’d always preferred painting and sketching or, barring that, practicing my viola or embroidery to anything gardening related.

But our mother and later our governess had made certain my sister and I were educated in all the feminine arts, not just the ones we favored, and that included arranging flowers.

“It does provide a convenient excuse to escape the drawing room.” Alana sighed. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

My lips quirked. “But as hostess, I would never dream of asking such a thing of one of my guests.”

She narrowed her eyes at my teasing before picking up a stem I’d discarded earlier. “Perhaps you should if you’re using larkspur in the dining room. You do know it’s poisonous.”

Her imperious tone pricked my irritation. “That’s why it’s over there and not in this vase. It must have gotten mixed in with the other blooms when the gardener was selecting them.”

The hum of her voice sounded unconvinced.

I snapped up the daylily she’d set down. “Now you’re beginning to sound like Mrs. Birnam,” I needled.

She scowled, but her annoyance at me quickly gave way to vexation at the woman in question. “That woman is insufferable. Have you ever met anyone who thought so highly of their own opinion? Not even the patronesses of Almack’s are so puffed up with importance. Without cause!”

I shushed her. “Someone might overhear.”

“Oh, let them. She’d probably think I’m complimenting her.”

“Maybe. But think of Miss Birnam. She seems a kind girl, and Trevor is awfully sweet on her. You know what he intends.”

When our brother had told me three months prior that he’d met the woman he wished to marry, I’d been overjoyed for him.

However, he’d also been nervous to confess that her father was in trade.

I’d personally not cared a fig about this fact, though I knew many among our class looked down on tradesmen and self-made men, no matter how wealthy they’d become.

But Alana, who was far more of a stickler to society’s rules—not entirely without reason—had voiced concerns.

It was she who’d suggested I invite the Birnams to the house party I proposed to host at Bevington Park so that we might have a chance to get to know them before Trevor took any irreversible steps.

I’d had to concede that this was a wise proposal and a reasonable request. After all, I was well aware that marriage was not something to be entered into lightly.

My first marriage to Sir Anthony Darby had turned out to be the worst decision of my life and a complete nightmare.

Of course, Sir Anthony had been deliberately duplicitous.

I knew my father would never have arranged the marriage had he known Sir Anthony’s real intentions.

But the fact remained that if the courtship had lasted longer and we’d all spent more time with my first husband before our wedding, there was a chance we might have realized his true nature sooner.

I trusted that Matilda Birnam wasn’t being similarly deceitful, but one couldn’t always be certain.

Thus far, Alana’s and my plans to get to know her better had been foiled by her abrasive and overbearing mother.

I didn’t believe I’d managed to exchange more than half a dozen sentences with Matilda before being interrupted by Mrs. Birnam.

Given that, we’d hardly progressed beyond the state of cordial acquaintances.

Alana cast me a long-suffering look as she handed me another rose. “Miss Birnam is aware of her mother’s deficiencies. It’s writ all over her face every time Mrs. Birnam utters one of her vainglorious platitudes.”

“That doesn’t mean she should be subjected to your ungracious complaining,” I stated as I adjusted the position of some of the flowers. “If, as you say, she already knows, I should hate to subject her to further pain by overhearing our complaints.”

My sister grumbled under her breath before relenting. “I suppose you’re right.” She crossed her arms and turned away from the table, allowing her critical gaze to sweep over the arrangement on the sideboard behind us. “But I’m not sure this is going to work.”

I glanced over my shoulder, trying to follow her stare, until I realized she wasn’t speaking of the decorations but a union between our brother and Matilda Birnam. “Maybe they’re nervous. You know how terribly awkward I am at social events, particularly with people I don’t know.”

“You’ve improved markedly,” she said in my defense.

“Yes, but only because I’ve gotten better at emulating what everyone expects even if it seems ridiculous to me.” I shrugged one shoulder. “And I feel more at ease with Gage by my side.”

Alana’s face softened. “Love has a way of doing that.”

“Yes, plus I figure more people are looking at him than me.”

It was in no way an exaggeration to say that my husband, Sebastian Gage, was an attractive man. Combined with his legendary charm and competent bearing, he was rather difficult to overlook.

“But the Birnams don’t have someone like Gage to ease their way.” I pressed my point. “Perhaps they’re just awkward, too. After all, they haven’t grown up in this world like us.”

My sister’s voice turned biting. “Kiera, there’s a difference between awkward and a trifle…unwitting…”

I assumed this was her delicate way of describing my inadequacies.

“…and being consciously gauche and downright rude.”

It was difficult to dismiss some of the Birnams’ behavior as merely bumbling.

Perhaps one or two of the vulgar remarks Mrs. Birnam had made about money could be ignored, but not her constant comparisons.

Mr. Birnam, for his part, was almost belligerent in asserting his opinions.

I’d feared that he and my father-in-law might actually come to blows more than once over the way Mr. Birnam preferred to dominate the conversation.

The younger Mr. Birnam—their son, Jemmy—was quieter but no less snide in his facial expressions and commentary.

Of the four of them, only Matilda appeared versed in how to conduct herself pleasantly.

“And don’t pretend you don’t know the difference,” Alana charged when I didn’t respond. “Or pretend that they’re not the reason why you haven’t given us a tour of the finished dower house yet.”