House of Croft, Book 4
Date Published: 06-17-2025
Acquitted of the crime he was accused of, Adrian Croft begins an investigation that could link a duke to his sister's death. But with a fresh series of murders leading straight to Saint George's Hospital, Adrian is torn between his quest for revenge and the need to catch an active killer. For though he may have sworn to yield his power in order to gain a pardon, all bets are off when villains threaten his city.
Having proven her unfailing loyalty to her husband, Samantha Croft settles into married life - an idyl that quickly crumbles when she and Adrian get caught up in a new series of murders. As they follow a trail that leads them through subterranean tunnels and to a secret organization, they face another threat too: a ghost from Adrian's past who's about to bring war to their doorstep.
Chapter One
September
10th, 1818
The
air was cool. Chilly even. A hint of mildew clung to it. Most likely because
the room lacked windows and was hard to air out.
Lying
on a narrow table, Polly Griffin took a deep breath and released it slowly. There
was no need to fret. No reason for her pulse to be racing. She was in capable
hands. All would be well. The surgeon whose help she’d sought came highly
recommended. She’d been referred to him by her physician. A man who’d helped
cure her ailments numerous times in the past. If he’d sent her here, then it
was because he believed in the treatment she would receive.
And
according to what she’d been told since she’d arrived here, the procedure she’d
undergo would be quick. Not entirely painless, but simple enough that she would
be able to get back to work tomorrow. This assurance had pleased her immensely
for if there was one thing she’d no wish to do, then it was to disappoint her
employer.
Lady
Ottersburg was a lovely woman who treated all her servants well. Unlike other
members of the peerage, the viscountess engaged her servants in conversation,
even going so far as to take an in interest in their families. And the lady
always remembered which footman had a sickly parent or if a maid was about to
become an aunt. It was most impressive and helped instill a sense of worth in
everyone who worked at Ottersburg House.
Polly
had always considered it a distinct honor to serve there. Even if she feared
her dream of becoming the viscountess’s personal lady’s maid would never be
realized. Such promotions were rare. More so when Rose, who currently filled
the position had not yet turned thirty and was far more qualified than Polly.
Who’d only been employed to attend the downstairs.
Her
day started early. By five o’clock she was in the parlor, opening the curtains
to let in the morning light. The grate would be cleaned and the fire re-laid
before she set about sweeping the rugs and wiping down every surface with a
damp cloth before she moving on to the next room.
Lady
Ottersburg often claimed her home to be the cleanest she’d ever set foot in.
High praise that made Polly proud of her job. It also filled her with a desire
to prove herself capable and worthy of the lady’s regard. To not disappoint
her. As Polly feared she might if it became known that she’d gotten herself
with child out of wedlock.
She’d
have to leave Ottersburg House before she started to show. To prevent her sin
from rubbing off on the family. Worse, to avoid the awkward conversations and
pitiful looks that would likely precede her inevitable departure. Mama would
never forgive her or the diminished financial support such an outcome would
lead to. She herself would have to live with the guilt of knowing she’d ruined
numerous lives in a foolish moment of weakness.
This
was for the best. A quick procedure to help her take control of her future.
She
turned her head and allowed her gaze to sweep the lime-washed walls of the room
she was in. Until she found the man who stood nearby. Middle-aged with a hint
of aristocracy to his overall bearing, he wore a kind expression that seemed to
convey immense understanding for the predicament in which she found herself.
His
back was to her as he bent over a smaller table on which she’d seen him place
various supplies.
“I’m
sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his voice soft. Gentle and soothing. “It’s
important I make sure all of my tools are at the ready before we begin.”
Polly
nodded, as best as she could. “Of course.”
He
glanced at her and the pleasant smile curving his lips put her at ease. All
would be well. No need to be anxious.
She
wriggled her fingers and the rope that would hold her still while the surgeon
worked chafed her wrists. Additional restraints had been used on her legs and
ankles. A necessity, she’d been informed, since the slightest movement on her
part could prove disastrous.
“Drink
this.” The surgeon held a cup to her lips with one hand while using the other
to lift her head.
A
shiver of apprehension curled around Polly’s breast. “What is it?”
“Laudanum,
to help you relax.”
“It
smells different than usual.”
His
expression was calm, his eyes full of understanding. “Because of the wine and
herbs I added to mask the bitterness. Make the flavor a little more pleasant.”
A
thoughtful notion, Polly decided. She’d always hated the way the stuff tasted.
But if it was mixed with other ingredients, it might not be so bad.
She
parted her lips and the liquid entered her mouth, surprising her with a hint of
berries, ginger, possibly sage, and something she failed to identity. It was
sweet too and not entirely unpleasant. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have guessed
it contained any laudanum at all, had the surgeon not mentioned it.
“That’s it,” he murmured, tilting the cup a
bit more to help her drink. “You’ll feel the effect of it soon.”
Polly
lowered her head until she was staring up at the ceiling. The plaster was
filled with fine cracks, like veins shooting out in every direction. She
blinked, then blinked again when her vision blurred. It was as if a haze had descended
over her eyes. A woozy sensation spread through her limbs, reminding her of
that time years ago when she and her cousin had pilfered Uncle Theo’s bottle of
brandy.
It
had to be… Had to be…
She
tried to think, but her brain was empty. Vacant. And then she was falling
backward. Into herself. As the world around her vanished.
#
The
fog creeping over the Thames had started retreating by the time the hackney
Chief Constable Peter Kendrick had hired arrived at the docks. Dawn had broken
nearly an hour ago but heavy cloud coverage cloaked the streets, reducing
visibility.
The
carriage slowed and Peter allowed himself a moment to reflect on the turn his
life had taken in recent weeks while he waited for the carriage to pull to a
halt. He’d been sacked. A young and competent Runner named Jackson, who
presently sat on the bench beside him, had taken his place. Together, despite
forces working against them, they’d managed to root out corruption within the
legal system.
A
judge was still under investigation for the part he’d played in convicting
Adrian Croft of murder. Viscount Carver, who’d been one of the Prince Regent’s
most trusted advisors, had fled the country. Peter’s former boss, Sir Nigel,
had been stripped of his duties. And Mr. Croft himself had received a full
pardon, though it had cost him the blackmail files that made so many people
pray for his death.
Happily,
the new chief magistrate, Mr. Hastings, had encouraged Peter’s return to Bow
Street. A request Peter had gladly accepted even if it meant answering to a man
he’d recently issued orders to.
Jackson,
however, had instantly asked to resume his former duties at Runner so Peter
could regain his title of chief constable. The younger man had joked that he’d
rather someone else took the blame when a case went unsolved. As was, Peter
hated admitting, far too often the case.
The
carriage rocked, axels creaking as the carriage came to a standstill. Dressed
in a greatcoat in case it rained, Peter thrust the door open and stepped down
onto the uneven cobblestones. Jackson, followed him out.
“Ready?”
Peter asked.
Jackson
responded with a firm nod. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
They
strode toward the spot where a small group of men had gathered. Two of the
people were holding lanterns, which helped illuminate the area. The pungent
smell of rotting seaweed clawed its way up Peter’s nose. He reached inside a
pocket and pulled out the silver case that housed his cheroots. It took no more
than five seconds before he was able to inhale the smooth taste of Indian
tobacco.
A
bell rang somewhere in the distance. Peter stepped forward with purpose, his
attention going briefly to the obscure shape that lay at the edge of the dock
before honing in on the man who stood nearest.
“Good
morning.” Peter stuck out his hand and the man, a scruffy fellow with dark
whisps of hair poking out from beneath his cap, shook it. “I’m Chief Constable
Peter Kendrick and this is my colleague, Mr. Jackson. We’ve come in response to
the message delivered to Bow Streat a short while ago. A body was mentioned.”
“Aye.”
The man shoved both hands in his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders
against the damp air while jutting his chin toward the shape on the ground. “We
covered ‘er up. Out o’ respect.”
“It’s
a woman then,” Jackson observed.
“Aye.
Young one, by the looks o’ it. Shame really.”
Peter
took a long drag from his cheroot, tilted his head back, and sent the smoke
skyward before saying, “We’ll need all your names for our records.”
No
one argued. The man he’d been speaking to straightened a little. “I’m Jones.
First name, Randolph. This ‘ere’s Benjamin Clarence, David Lee, Finn Stevenson,
and Ian Ackroyd.”
Jackson
jotted the information down while Peter crossed to the body. It had been
concealed beneath a large piece of canvas, possibly sack-cloth, judging from
the coarse appearance. Peter dropped to a crouch and drew back the edge to
reveal the woman. Mr. Jones was correct. She was indeed young. Most likely in
her early twenties.
“I
need more light,” Peter said while scanning her pasty skin. Her eyes were
closed, as though in slumber, her dark hair slicked back due to wetness – a few
strands partially pasted to her right cheek.
Footsteps
approached and a soft glow spilled over Peter’s left shoulder, flooding the
woman’s face. It was clear now, judging from her appearance, that she’d been in
the water a while. At least a couple of days, Peter reckoned.
He
glanced up at Jackson, who’d brought the lantern over, then shifted his gaze to
the men still gathered behind him. “Which one of you found her?”
There
was a long pause before Jones chose to speak up. “Clarence and me. We was
preparing the boat we use to ferry goods across the river when we saw her
floatin’ nearby.”
“A
possible case of self-murder then,” Jackson murmured while Peter returned his
attention to the dead woman.
The
Runner wasn’t wrong to suppose such a thing. These types of deaths happened
from time to time, especially on the river where those who wanted a way out of
life would jump from one of the bridges. Victims of foul play were rarely found
in the Thames, most likely because those guilty of murder were wise enough to
weigh the bodies down. Make sure they were never discovered.
Peter
pulled the sack-cloth back farther. The body appeared to be intact, so Jackson
could be right. Were it not for a tiny detail that snared Peter’s attention. He
lifted the woman’s wrist, turned it slightly, and waved Jackson closer with the
light.
Sure
enough, the skin in one spot looked raw with a purplish bruise directly
beneath. Like something or someone had gripped her.
Of
course, it could be nothing – no more than an accident of the woman’s own
making. Peter had no intention of making assumptions. But he’d been at this
long enough to know that this finding could be evidence of foul play.
As
such, it warranted further investigation.
USA TODAY bestselling author Sophie Barnes writes historical romance novels in which the characters break away from social expectations in their quest for happiness and love. Having written for Avon, an imprint of Harper Collins, her books have been published internationally in eight languages. With a fondness for travel, Sophie has lived in six countries, on three continents, and speaks English, Danish, French, Spanish, and Romanian with varying degrees of fluency. Ever the romantic, she married the same man three times—in three different countries and in three different dresses.
When she’s not busy dreaming up her next swoon worthy romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, practicing yoga, baking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment