A Most Novel Revenge

 

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For Allison Dodson,

My cousin, best friend, and reader from the beginning.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AS EVER, MY
sincerest thanks to all the people who have made an impact on every step of this book's journey. To my wonderful family and friends; my agent, Ann Collette; and Jennifer Letwack and the fantastic teams at Thomas Dunne and Minotaur, I offer my continued gratitude. And to my new editor, Anne Brewer, my heartfelt appreciation for your expert guidance on this project. I can't thank you all enough for all you do!

 

1

ENGLAND, FEBRUARY 1933

“WELL, DARLING, WHO
do you suppose will turn up dead this time?”

This sudden and wildly inappropriate question had come from my husband, who didn't bother to take his eyes from the winding, snow-lined road as we drove along, the bright afternoon sunlight glinting off the drifts that lined it on either side.

“Milo! What a dreadful thing to say.”

He was, as usual, unapologetic. “You must admit that people have had a habit of turning up dead in your company this past year.”

He had a point, though I didn't like to admit it. Over the course of the last several months, I had been involved in two murder investigations, both of which had ended with my confronting killers at gunpoint.

What was more, I was not altogether certain that our current jaunt to the country would prove entirely without incident. The way this trip had begun, I was worried there might indeed be more trouble.

The entire thing had started two days ago upon receipt of the morning post. I had recognized the violet envelope and scrawling penmanship at once. A letter from my cousin Laurel.

I sliced open the envelope to find a hastily penned note, the contents of which had been overtly mysterious.

I didn't want to send a wire, as that might call unwanted attention, but consider this just as urgent of a summons. You must come to Lyonsgate at once. I won't tell you why. Perhaps that will entice you.

Below this she had scribbled in a more hasty hand:

Don't let my flippancy persuade you that I am not in earnest. You must come immediately.

Laurel

P.S. Bring Milo if you must.

The letter, in and of itself, was not especially unusual. Laurel had a flair for the dramatic, a trait which often manifested itself in her correspondence. This time, however, it was what the letter didn't say that intrigued me. I could think of no conceivable reason why she should have chosen to set foot at Lyonsgate again. Not after what had happened there.

Seven years before, while Laurel was staying as a guest, the manor had been the scene of a tragic accident, the result of a weekend of revelry gone awry. It had caused a scandal that had reverberated throughout the country and had affected my cousin deeply.

Suffice it to say, the letter had served its purpose. And that was how we had come to be driving toward Shropshire at reckless speeds in Milo's new Aston Martin Le Mans. The sleek black automobile had been his Christmas gift to himself, and he had insisted on driving us to the country. Markham, our driver, had been, I think, a bit put out by this development, as he was anxiously awaiting his time at the wheel. Markham needn't have worried, however, for I was quite sure that the novelty of Milo driving himself would quickly wear off.

Luckily, he was still enamored enough of his vehicle that the allure of long stretches of open road had enticed him into agreeing to the journey. He initially had not been at all keen on going to Lyonsgate. His idea had been to winter in Italy, and I was certain this weekend would prove a poor substitute, on several levels.

“I really haven't the faintest idea why I agreed to come along,” Milo said, as though following my train of thought. “I've no desire to spend the week at a drafty house in the middle of nowhere with a lot of tiresome people.”

My husband was not much of one to spend a quiet weekend in the country. He was, in fact, rather known for his extensive social forays, a trait which had contributed to the near ruin of our marriage only last year. We had come to terms, however, and I had waited with bated breath to see if his reformation would take. Thus far I had not been disappointed.

“I'm sure we shall be back in London before the week is out,” I assured him. “There's no reason to suppose that there is actually anything amiss. You know how Laurel is.”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “What I don't know is why you insist on indulging her.”

Laurel's less than enthusiastic invitation to Milo in her letter's postscript was, on the whole, indicative of the relationship between my cousin and my husband. Milo and Laurel had never been exceptionally fond of one another, though they normally did their best to be civil with varying results.

“You must admit it is curious,” I said. “What on earth could have induced her to go back to Lyonsgate?”

“It's been, what, six years now? I'm certain the horror has worn off.”

“Seven years. From the way she spoke about it at the time, I was sure she'd never even set foot in Shropshire again.”

“If she doesn't want to be there, I'm not sure why we should. Do you even know Reginald Lyons?”

“No.” While I didn't know the man who would be our host, I certainly knew
of
him. In fact, most of the country knew the name of Lyons, mainly because of what had taken place at their country home, Lyonsgate, during that fateful weekend in 1925.

It was only by happenstance that Laurel had been there. She had never run with a wild set, but she had been friends with Reggie Lyons and his sister, Beatrice, since they were quite young. Their father and his young wife had both succumbed to influenza while he was still in France, and Reggie had inherited the estate and the care of his sisters upon his return. I think it had been something of an adventure for my cousin to be invited to attend a weekend at Lyonsgate, which had become the unofficial headquarters of one of England's premier young social groups after Reggie had fallen in with a woman called Isobel Van Allen.

The undisputed leader of her clique, Isobel Van Allen had been something of a legend in her own time. Of humble and mysterious beginnings, she had propelled herself into fashionable society with a winning combination of startling beauty, sharp wit, and a will of iron. By the time she had come into Reggie Lyons's life she had been several years older than the others in their set, with a worldly allure none of them could resist.

She had a great many wild friends, and when Reggie Lyons had become her lover, she had introduced him to them. His estate, Lyonsgate, had begun to host fabulous parties, the details of which made their way into the gossip columns. There had been photographs of outlandish-themed revels, and rumors of drugs and other illicit conduct had surfaced. They were not, of course, the only group of well-off young people drawn into a spiral of reckless hedonism in the years following the Great War, but the tragedy at Lyonsgate had made them one of the more infamous.

The days leading up to that particular event had no doubt seemed to indicate it would be a weekend like any other, but by the time the weekend was over, a young man was dead and the lives of the others had never been the same.

Milo took the next turn entirely too quickly, bringing my attention back to the present.

“I'd rather not end up in the ditch, if it's all the same to you,” I said lightly.

“Of course not. I wouldn't put the car in jeopardy.”

“That's comforting.”

He shot a smile at me. “Or you either, darling.”

“There must be some reason why Laurel has asked me to come so urgently,” I said, still preoccupied. “I think it might have something to do with Edwin Green's death.”

Accounts varied of what had actually occurred that night at Lyonsgate. What was never contested was the fact that on a cold, dark morning after an evening of drunken revels, Edwin Green's body had been found, nearly naked, on the frozen ground halfway between the summerhouse and the manor.

The inquest had declared it heart failure brought on by hypothermia and a combination of extreme inebriation and a deadly cocktail of drugs, the remnants of which had been found scattered about the summerhouse.

It might always have been seen as an unfortunate accident, the tragic consequences of a life lived too recklessly, had it not been for Isobel Van Allen. While the others had done their best to keep things quiet, she had spoken frequently with the press, alluding to the fact that there was more to the tragedy than met the eye.

She had always had an affinity for sensationalism and a gift for words, and she used them to her advantage. Six months after Edwin Green's death, she had released a novel called
The Dead of Winter
. It had been touted as nothing more than fiction, but everyone knew the truth, that it was the account of what had happened at Lyonsgate.

Everyone who had been there had been drawn quite clearly, with different names, of course, all their vices and secrets brought to life in colorful prose.

It wasn't so much the way the book had been done that caused the fuss. What had caused the scandal was that she had insinuated that Edwin Green's death had not been an accidental overdose and hypothermia as the coroner's inquest had ruled. Instead, she claimed it had been murder on the part of a young man called Bradford Glenn who had been Edwin Green's rival for the affections of Beatrice Lyons. Bradford had, the book alleged, taken advantage of Edwin Green's condition and purposefully dragged him into the cold to die.

No legal measures had ever been taken, of course. There was no proof. But Mr. Glenn had been ruined, nonetheless, and had disappeared from society.

As for Isobel Van Allen, her book had had the opposite effect than she had intended. Though she had made a great deal of money, she had been ostracized and snubbed at every turn by those who enjoyed the book in private but shunned it publicly as nothing more than vulgar exploitation. Eventually she had gone off to Kenya. That was the last I had heard of her.