“He is well. Working.” A wry look entered his eyes. “That is, when he’s not off doing what he bloody well pleases.”
“Ah.” I knew Daniel wanted me to smile, so I did not. “What brings you to Richmond?”
“Hope.” Daniel’s gaze fixed on me. “I want us to be friends again, Kat. Like before.”
“Oh, do you now?” I laid down the list of foodstuffs and clicked the pencil next to it. “Well, I’m certain you would feel much better if I agreed. If I forgive you, you will be much relieved.”
Daniel lost his forced, polite look. “Damn it, Kat.”
He came to me and pulled me around to face him, holding my arms with his hard hands. I felt the solid lip of the table behind me as I looked up into his angry face. Daniel’s eyes had a dangerous glint in them. I had no idea what he was about to do, but I lifted my chin.
“Threatening me will not help your cause,” I said crisply. “Remember, I’m a dab hand with a knife.”
Rage turned to frustrated amusement. Daniel cupped my face with a firm hand, leaned down, and kissed my mouth. “I could fall in love with you, Kat Holloway,” he said, his voice low.
My heart fluttered like a dove’s wings. However, I refused to let him know that I could fall stupidly in love with him in return.
“The lady in Oxford Street might be a bit put out,” I said. “Mr. McAdam dallying with a cook? Not the done thing.”
Daniel made an impatient noise. “The lady in Oxford Street is—was—an assignment. Like Sir Lionel. Both of those are finished.”
“Are they?” My heart beat thickly, and I could barely think. The kiss had been a rather fine one, Daniel stood close, and my coherence was running away. “You should be on to the next thing then.”
“I am. Unfortunately. But I had to ...” Daniel trailed off, his fingers on my face softening. “I wanted to make sure you were well, Kat.”
“I am,” I said, surprised my voice was so steady. “As you can see. This is a fine kitchen.”
“It is.” Daniel drew a breath, lowered his hand, and deliberately stepped away from me. “What is it you prepare tonight, Mrs. Holloway?”
I had to consult my list, because my menu had just gone clean out of my head. “Beef bourguignon. Sorrel soup, fish in white wine, and lemon tart to finish.”
“Ah, Kat, you make my mouth water.” Daniel kissed his fingers to me, slanting me his wicked look. “If I happen to be passing in my delivery wagon after supper, might I beg a scrap or two to sustain me?”
He wanted to transform back to the Daniel I knew best, did he? “What about this?” I asked, waving my hand at his suit. “This … banker’s clerk, or whatever you are? Where will he be?”
“Gone after this evening, I’m afraid.”
“I see. Will I ever, perchance, meet the real Daniel McAdam?”
Daniel lost his smile. “Perhaps one day. Yes, definitely one day, I’ll bare my soul to you, Kat. I promise.”
My voice went quiet. “Will I like what I see when you do?”
“I don’t know.” The words rang true. “But I believe I am willing to risk it.”
I had no idea what to say to that, or what I ought to do. Forgive him? Turn my back on him forever? Do neither, and go on with him as though nothing had happened?
One thing was certain—there was far more to Daniel than met the eye. I was curious enough, blast it, to want to learn everything I could about the man.
“In that case,” I said, taking up my pencil again. “If you are not too late, I might save back a bit of lemon tart for you.”
Daniel’s smile returned. “I would enjoy that very much.”
We shared a look. Daniel took up his hat and gloves, giving me a bow.
“You have more skills than cooking,” he said. “Perhaps you will help me on another hunt someday.”
I shivered. “Indeed no. Once was enough for me.”
“Was it?” Daniel carefully pulled on his gloves. “We’ll see. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holloway. I look forward to speaking with you again.”
And I, you, I wanted to say, but held my tongue. “Good afternoon, Mr. McAdam.”
He shot me a grin, came back to me, kissed me on the lips, and strode out, whistling.
End
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading! A Soupçon of Poison was one of the first historical mysteries I wrote—or at least started to write. I found the opening chapter for this story stuck in a file in a box when cleaning out my flooded house. I enjoyed the chapters and remembered my plans for the characters of Kat and Daniel, so I dusted off the story (literally) and wrote the rest of it.
I originally published Soupçon in a collection called Murder Most Historical, along with a couple of other stories I found in the same box. Because of the great response from readers to Kat Holloway and Daniel, I decided to continue her series as I’d planned to do before my writing career went in a different direction.
While Soupçon of Poison is a novella, the remaining books in the series will be full-length novels.
Kat’s adventures continue in A Dollop of Death. I hope you enjoy this heroine and series!
All my best,
Ashley Gardner
Mysteries by Ashley Gardner
Kat Holloway Victorian Mysteries
A Soupçon of Poison
A Dollop of Death
And more to come!
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair
A Body in Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Murder in Grosvenor Square
The Thames River Murders
The Alexandria Affair
The Gentleman's Walking Stick
(short stories)
And more to come!
Save $ by purchasing Boxed Sets
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 1
Includes
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Gentleman’s Walking Stick
(short story collection)
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 2
Includes
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair
A Body in Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 3
Includes
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Murder in Grosvenor Square
More boxed sets will follow as the series grows
Also by Ashley Gardner
Murder Most Historical
(A Collection of Short Historical Mysteries)
Read on for an
Excerpt of
The Hanover Square Affair
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries
Book 1
by Ashley Gardner
Chapter One
London, April 1816
Sharp as a whip-crack, a shot echoed through the mists in Hanover Square.
The mob in the square boiled apart, flinging sticks and pieces of brick as they fled the line of cavalrymen who’d entered the far side of the square. I hugged a rain-soaked wall as people poured past me, bumping and shoving in their panic as though I weren’t six feet tall and plenty solid.
The square and the streets that led to it had been bottled with traffic all afternoon: carts, carriages, horses, wagons, and those on foot who’d been running errands or passing through, as well as street vendors crying their wares. The mob had stopped traffic in all directions, trapping inside the square those now desperate to get out. They scrambled to get away from the cavalry and their deadly guns, and bystanders scrambled to flee the mob.
I scraped my way alon
g the wall, rough stone tearing my cheap gloves, going against the stream of bodies that tried to carry me along. Inside the square, in the eye of the storm, the cavalrymen waited, the blues and reds and canary yellows of their uniforms stark against the fog.
The man who stood in their gun sights had led the mob the better part of the afternoon: shouting, cursing, flinging stones and pieces of brick at the unfortunate house that was number 22, Hanover Square. Now he faced the cavalrymen, his back straight, his gray hair dark with rain.
I recognized the lieutenant in charge, Lord Arthur Gale of the Twenty-Fourth Light Dragoons. A few years before, on a Portuguese battlefield, I’d dragged young Gale out from under a dead horse and sent him on his way. That incident, however, had not formed any camaraderie between us. Gale was the son of a marquis and already a social success, and I, the only son of an impoverished gentleman, mattered little to the Gale family.
I did not trust Gale’s judgment one whit. He had once led a charge so hard that he’d broken through a solid line of French infantry but then found himself and his men behind enemy lines and too winded to get back. Gale had been one of the few who’d returned from that charge, leaving most of the others, horses and men alike, dead.
“Gentlemen,” the old man said to the cavalrymen. “I thank you for coming. We must have him out. He must pay for what he’s done.”
He pointed at the house—number 22, ground-floor windows smashed, front door’s black paint gouged.
Gale sneered down at him. “Get along, man, or we’ll take you to a magistrate.”
“Not I, gentlemen. He should face justice. Take him from his house. Bring him out to me. I beg of you.”
I studied the house in some surprise. Any man who could afford to own, or lease, a house in Hanover Square must be wealthy and powerful. I assumed he was some peer in the House of Lords, or at least a rich MP, who had proposed some unpopular bill or movement, inspiring a riot against him. The rising price of bread, as well as the horde of soldiers pouring back into England after Waterloo, had created a smoldering rage in those who suddenly found themselves with nothing. The anger flared every now and then into a riot. It was not difficult these days to turn a crowd into a violent mob in the space of an instant.
I had no idea who lived in number 22 or what were his political leanings. I had simply been trying to pass through Hanover Square on my way to Brook Street, deeper into Mayfair. But the elderly man’s quiet despair and incongruous air of respectability drew me to him. I always, Louisa Brandon had once told me, had a soft spot for the desperate.
Gale’s eyes were dark and hard. “If you do not move along, I will have to arrest you for breach of the King’s peace.”
“Breach of the King’s peace?” the man shouted. “When a man sins against another, is that not a breach of the King’s peace? Shall we let them take our daughters while we weep? Shall I let him sit in his fine house while mine is ruined with grief?”
Gale made a sharp gesture to the cavalryman next to him. The man obediently dismounted and strode toward the gray-haired rioter.
The older man watched him come with more astonishment than fear. “Is it justice that I pay for his sins?”
“I advise you to go home, sir,” Gale repeated.
“No, I tell you, you must have him out! He must face you and confess what he’s done.”
His desperation reached me as white mists moved to swallow the scene. The blue and red of the cavalry uniforms, the black of the man’s suit, the bays and browns of the horses began to dull against the smudge of white.
“What has he done?” I asked.
The man swung around. Strands of hair matted to his face, and thin lines of dried blood caked his skin as though he’d scratched himself in his fury. “You would listen to me? You would help me?”
“Get out of it, Captain,” Gale said, his mouth a grim line.
I regretted speaking, unsure I wanted to engage myself in what might be a political affair, but the man’s anger and despair seemed more than mob fury over the price of food. Gale would no doubt arrest him and drag him off to wait in a cold cell for the magistrate’s pleasure. Perhaps one person should hear him speak.
“What has the man in number 22 done to you?” I repeated.
The old man took a step toward me, eyes burning. “He has sinned. He has stolen from me the most precious thing I own. He has killed me!”
I watched madness well up in his eyes. With a fierce cry, he turned and launched himself at the door of number 22.
End of Excerpt
About the Author
USA Today bestselling Ashley Gardner is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Ashley. Under both names—and a third, Allyson James—Ashley has written more than 85 published novels and novellas in mystery and romance, including the bestselling Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries series. Her books have won several RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Historical Mystery for The Sudbury School Murders), and Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year). Ashley's books have been translated into more than a dozen different languages and have earned starred reviews in Booklist. When she isn’t writing, she indulges her love for history by researching and building miniature houses and furniture from many periods.
More about the Kat Holloway and Captain Lacey series can be found at the website: www.gardnermysteries.com. Or email Ashley Gardner at
[email protected] A Soupçon of Poison Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Excerpt of The Hanover Square Affair, by Ashley Gardner Copyright © 2003, 2011
Cover design by Kim Killion
Jennifer Ashley, A Soupçon of Poison
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