London, 1889
Johnathan Albert Ellis, second son of the Earl of Ashby, and director of the Metropolitan Police’s Criminal Investigation Department, took in the gathered mourners at Mr. David Duvall’s funeral. His regrettably late arrival placed him at the rear of the old chapel, which gave him an unobstructed view of several political dignitaries of note—people he’d not been aware were acquainted with the Duvall family.
He’d not noticed them straightaway, however; his eyes had immediately gone to the family gathered in the front two pews, and to one person in particular whose thick, braided twists and curls were dark red in the chapel’s dim light, but which he knew would shine like a deep red wine shot through with gold in sunlight.
Charlotte had returned.
Charlotte Duvall, niece of Sally Hampton (of the Notorious Branch of the Hampton family), and cousin to the wives of two of the CID’s best detectives. Amelie, Eva, and Charlotte—the Hampton trio had been missing its third piece in recent years, and John, to his surprise, had noted her absence keenly.
Charlotte was a force of nature once her mind was set on a task. To her benefit, and those around her, her judgment was usually sound. That which she couldn’t understand or master, she pursued until she could. Her move to America was proof. She’d felt the better education, especially for a woman, lay across the Atlantic, and after a year of training in London, she’d gone after it.
She turned her head, revealing her profile. Her black hat, rather than giving her a morose appearance, merely accentuated her red curls. The hem of the attached mesh veil hung just below her eyes, obstructing their intense emerald green. What a shame it would be if the world were denied a glimpse of that color. Knowing Charlotte as well as he did, he knew she’d not tolerate the veil for long.
He noted the subtle strain on her face as she leaned closer to Sally Hampton, listening to something her aunt whispered. John didn’t know how close Charlotte had been to her late father, but he didn’t imagine it was a joy to return home for a funeral rather than a reunion.
Five years earlier, Detective Michael Baker had met the Hampton House cousins, who became embroiled in an investigation, resulting in a near death and then a marriage for Amelie Hampton and the detective. The following summer, Detective Nathan Winston had entertained Eva Caldwell at a seaside holiday where she’d nearly died. They’d married that December.
The detectives and the cousins had made a comfortable social set of six, with John and Charlotte as the only unmarried pair. Platonic, the two of them? Absolutely. They’d not nearly died or fallen in love. Fond of one another? He comfortably assumed he could speak for himself and Charlotte if he also answered “absolutely” to that question. They’d become friends, and he cherished their friendship. A regular exchange of letters during the last four years had only solidified the friendship. She was straightforward, honest, and, beneath a fairly blunt exterior, was unfailingly kind at her core. She was fiercely protective of family and friends, and he would unhesitatingly call upon her in an emergency.
Then Charlotte had gone away for school, building a new life far away, and he didn’t know if she’d be returning to it. It wouldn’t signify to him, not really, if she left again. The Bakers now had two young children, and the Winstons had one toddler in addition to an adopted fourteen-year-old son, Sammy; the days of attending the theater and enjoying dinners into the late evening hours were a thing of the past. Their social lives had shifted, and it was not as though John ever felt like a fifth wheel to his friends. He didn’t need Charlotte to stay behind to again round out the group; besides, his career didn’t allow for much socializing. Seeing her again now, however, sent a pang through his heart as he realized how much he’d noted—and tried to ignore—her absence.
Charlotte turned her face forward, head bowed, and John willed the vicar to bring the service to an end. Mr. Duvall’s body would be interred in the small cemetery outside, and close guests would retire to the family home for condolences and food. While he couldn’t deny the prospect of good food was a motivator for his impatience, he also didn’t want Charlotte to be sad for a moment longer than necessary. She was vibrance; she was life. She was not one for wallowing in despair, and as her friend, he hoped she would soon find solace in work or other pursuits. It was always better to look forward than back.
The organ struck a chord, and with a quiet sigh of relief, John stood with the congregation. He fumbled through a hymnal to find the closing song, mumbled through the words, and finally gave it up for lost and closed his mouth. He was at the back of the chapel—nobody would notice the breech of propriety. He saw so much death in the course of his career that he had little love for funerals. The hymns always seemed like cold comfort, the words hollow. Sentiments like “eternal rest in the arms of the Divine” did not fill the gaping hole left behind when someone died. Perhaps the only consolation here was that Mr. Duvall had lived a full life, a father to six sons and a daughter. At least he’d not been cut down in his prime.
The song drew to a close, and guests remained standing as the casket was carried down the aisle. The family walked slowly behind, a long slew of Charlotte’s brothers and their wives, followed by Sally, who threaded her arm through Charlotte’s. Their faces were solemn, and John noted the quiet breath Charlotte blew from between pursed lips.
He willed her to look up as they neared, and miraculously, she did. His late arrival had meant he’d not had an opportunity to speak with her, and he wanted her to know that he cared enough to be there. He saw the moment when she recognized him. She lifted the veil with black gloved fingers, and her eyes brightened. He swallowed. She was leaner and carried more of an air of maturity than when he’d last seen her. The stress around her eyes and mouth were obvious, but even still, the corner of her lips turned up as her gaze locked on his, and she put her hand to her chest as if to say, “Thank you.”
He tipped his head to her and offered a small smile as she passed. His eyes followed her as she exited the building, and he absently registered Amelie and Eva walking behind her. It had been some time since the six friends had been together; his own schedule was tight, as were Michael’s and Nathan’s, but perhaps they might find an evening to reconnect.
During the internment, Michael found his two friends—technically his subordinates at the CID but friends nonetheless—who stood some distance back as the family gathered close to the grave. He quietly joined them, and they moved apart to accommodate him.
“Good of you to join us,” Michael Baker whispered out of the side of his mouth, which tilted in a partial smile.
John considered offering the man a rude gesture but refrained. They stood on sacred church grounds, after all. “Where are your hellions?” he whispered instead.
“With Winston’s sisters at the country house.”
Nathan Winston nodded. “They’ve given us carte blanche to enjoy the evening all to ourselves.”
“What will you do?” John asked.
“A lot of nothing, hopefully.” Nathan rotated his head and massaged the back of his neck. “Except supper somewhere quiet.”
John’s lips twitched. Fatherhood had settled well on his friends, and he had to admit, the children were quite adorable, but the noise.
Mercy, the noise.
It wasn’t as though he didn’t imagine himself married someday, but it remained theoretical, a far-off notion. He simply hadn’t the time. His profession ate up most of his waking hours, and sometimes his sleeping hours as well, and what little socializing he did was either as part of his work duties or at the behest of his mother, who was disappointed with his decision to pursue law enforcement rather than a military commission, as all good second sons were expected to do. He was required, regrettably, to natter at all political and social levels, and more often than not, found the process tedious. That his mother frequently found ways to introduce him to eligible ladies on the marriage hunt only made him dread the events even more.
At least Winston’s mother had given Nathan fair warning of her intentions to move the matrimonial train along, and while Mrs. Winston may not have introduced him to Eva, her machinations proved a success.
The crowd shifted, and John caught a glimpse of the three cousins, their backs to him, standing together by the grave. He was happy for his friends, and their wives were amazing women he was glad to call friends. He relied heavily on Amelie to keep his office and schedule organized; her weekly visits saved his sanity, and she was worth every penny of her salary. His gaze rested on Charlotte, who stood between Eva and Amelie. She leaned forward and tossed a clump of earth onto the casket as the vicar droned on, and then straightened, rotating her head on her shoulders. John smiled. It was her telltale sign of impatience. Amelie put an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and gave a squeeze.
Finally, the service was complete, and the crowd began dispersing. Amelie and Eva wove through the guests with relative ease, while Charlotte was caught multiple times by well-wishers. The five friends waited for her to eventually find a clear path to them, and as she neared, John noted her fatigue.
She extended her hands to him. “Hello, John,” she said, her polite smile softening as it reached her eyes.
“Hello, friend.” He took her hands and kissed her cheek. “Condolences that you must arrive home to a sad occasion.”
She straightened and squeezed his fingers. Her eyes grew bright through tears he’d rarely seen her shed. “I’ve missed you all so much. Come to the house, won’t you?”
“Of course,” John said, pleased when she threaded her hand through his arm as they began to walk to the carriages.
“Your letters these last years have been a boon,” she said, looking up at him. “Something from at least one of you five seemed to arrive on days when I needed it most.”
“Grueling?” John put his free hand on hers where it rested against his arm.
“Extremely.” She nodded. “But I did it.”
“Absolutely, you did it,” Michael said. “Never doubted you for a minute.”
As they neared the carriages, a light rain began falling. They all quickened their steps. She would probably ride with family back to the house, and John realized it might be some time before they would be able to fully converse. There were many things he wanted to ask about her experiences, but the most important question of all hovered on his tongue and he couldn’t hold it back.
“Are you staying here?” he asked. “Permanently, I mean? Or will you be returning to New York?”
The others paused, and he wondered if they’d all been thinking the same thing.
She frowned. “I initially thought to return straightaway, but there are”—she paused, brow wrinkling—“issues to settle here. Additionally, I’m uncertain whether the clinic will be able to hold my position for me.” She offered a wan smile. “Competition is fierce.”
“We are all well-connected,” Winston said to her. “We shall see your career flourish here if you wish it.”
She nodded but didn’t confirm an intention to stay in England. Now that she was here, John realized he didn’t like the idea of her leaving again. Her face at Nathan’s suggestion, however, shifted to an expression John recognized. It was a light in her eyes, the notion that there was a plan of action in place she could follow.
“Thank you, Nathan. Very much. Will you all ride with me? Let’s find a larger carriage.”
They walked through the guests until they found a conveyance that would accommodate them all comfortably. The couples took opposite sides, with John and Charlotte sitting across from each other. As he settled in, John observed her. Something was bothering her. She had just lost her father, and her career in a new land across the ocean was now in question. And yet, he sensed it was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He narrowed his eyes as the carriage rocked into motion, and Charlotte rested her head against Eva’s shoulder. She exhaled quietly and rubbed a furrow between her eyebrows. She caught John studying her, and she sat up straight with a tired smile.
“What is it?” she asked.
“That is what I am wondering.” He lifted a brow.
“My mind is full of many, many things.”
“Understandably.”
“So much has happened in the span of a few days.”
“Of course.”
She chuckled. “You are interrogating me, Director Ellis.”
He smiled. “I most certainly am not.”
“You are asking questions using minimal phrasing and then waiting for the subject to fill the silence.”
John stretched his leg across the carriage, resting his foot beside hers. If they hadn’t been friends, the familiarity might have been unseemly, but there was something on her mind, and he was frustrated at his lack of ability to simply take her hand and lead her off somewhere to talk about it. Encourage her blunt honesty.
He nudged her foot gently. “What is it?”
She sighed through her nose. “I received a letter from my father that prompted my return. I was already on my way home when Thomas sent word of his death.” She paused, and the silence lengthened. “My father said something about my mother’s death, implied that it was not as it seemed. Said he had compiled a ‘packet of evidence,’ but I have no idea where it is or what it contains. However, Robert said my father had been going through old papers and journals, moving things from the attic to his bedroom.”
Eva looked at her, frowning in question. “What sort of things?”
Charlotte returned her gaze. “My mother’s things.” She paused and looked again at John. “I fear much of my life has been a lie.”