Devonshire, England

December 1813

Lady Lucianna Constantine sat beside her dearest friend, Lady Tilda Abercorn, formally Miss Tilda Guthton—at least before her morning wedding to Lord Abercorn, a duke. Luci wanted to be happy for Tilda; she longed to feel an ounce of the joy and merriment evident in her other friends—Lady Edith and Lady Ophelia—but she simply could not find the emotion within her. So, for the moment, she settled a less than genuine smile on her face and prepared to send Tilda off for her first glimpse of what a marriage bed held.

If Tilda’s shoulders appeared a bit too stiff or her posture a bit too straight, none of her friends mentioned it.

“I truly must return to my chambers before His Grace suspects I have slipped out…before our marriage was so much as consummated.” Tilda leapt to her feet from the lounge.

When Lady Ophelia giggled, Lucianna joined in. The sound far lighter than her normally husky chuckle. It should be Luci preparing for her wedding night, not Tilda, the mere daughter of a baronet. As the daughter of the Marquis of Camden, Luci had always thought she would make a match long before Tilda. Or even Edith and Ophelia. It irked her to see her friend find a match before her father had even so much as mentioned any possible suitors for her.

Not that Luci would ever consider taking Abercorn, a man old enough to be her father, as husband; however, she’d always imagined she would be the first one to share all the delectable secrets found behind a closed bedchamber door.

The tall clock nestled between the bay windows had chimed midnight at least five minutes earlier.

“You will tell us everything on the morrow? At breakfast and not a moment later. I truly must know if everything is as I’ve been told.” Luci suggestively raised one brow, wrapping Tilda in a tight embrace before withdrawing and taking in her appearance from head to stocking-covered toes. “You look breathtakingly innocent.”

And utterly terrified.

Quite possibly ready to expire from her nervousness.

The other women liked to think Tilda possessed a backbone of fortified whalebone, but Luci knew differently. They’d been bosom friends since they could barely toddle about in their families’ townhouses in Mayfair.

It was Edith’s turn to console Tilda. “You are beautiful. You are smart. And today was a perfect way to start your married life. I only hope Ophelia, Luci, and I are blessed with such generous husbands.”

Generous husbands? Tilda’s spouse would be lucky to see another five years upon this earth. Luci hoped the man didn’t pass to the hereafter, leaving his widow to care for an unruly horde of children—or worse yet, no offspring, and needing to find a new home when Abercorn’s closest relative and heir came to claim his due.

“Thank you, Edith. You have always been a great friend.” Tilda found compassion in Edith’s arms, melting into the blond-haired English rose’s hug. It was an emotion Luci struggled to offer—empathy for others.

She’d been taught from a young age that one fought for what they wanted. If they did not get what they desired, then it was because they hadn’t wanted it badly enough. Or so her father, Lord Camden, had drilled into his four children’s heads since they were knee-high.

Tilda pulled back, her smile wobbling. “I must hurry. It will not do for my husband to arrive in my room to find that I have fled.”

Luci slipped her arms through Tilda’s, while Ophelia retrieved her book and followed a few paces behind them. Luci knew Ophelia was there because the girl, no matter how many times she’d been scolded, did not see the need to lift her feet high enough to avoid shuffling.

“I will extinguish the candles,” Edith called.

“Always the responsible one,” Luci said over her shoulder with a smirk. The only thing that irritated her more than Ophelia’s sluggish footsteps was Edith’s sensible demeanor.

Luci pulled Tilda close as they walked toward the main staircase. “Now, Tilly, when I said I want to hear every word, I meant every detail!” she cooed. “Since you insisted on wedding first and rushing the ceremony before your first Season was even half over, you owe us.”

Tilda’s feet slowed, and the stare she turned on Luci was laced with concern…and doubt. “You know as well as I this match was my father’s doing, not my own. I would have gladly waited until the end of the Season to announce my betrothal.”

She placed a quick kiss on Tilda’s cheek. “I know, I know. My father would have done the same had Abercorn shown an interest in me.” Luci gently turned Tilda toward the stairs and swatted her bum. “Now, get up there and greet your new husband properly.”

“Luci!” Tilda hissed. “I must admit, I have no notion what you mean by that.”

It did not irk her at all that Abercorn favored demure, reserved, soft brunette beauties over Luci’s tall, slender frame and midnight-black hair falling all the way down her backside. No, Luci had no doubt she’d claim a dashingly handsome, witty lord as her husband. She could already picture the envious stares from other eligible men—and unattached ladies. Maybe a prince…

Tilda started up the stairs, hesitant at first, but Luci gave her a wink when Tilly glanced down at her, which gave the woman the confidence to dash up toward the final landing.

A shadow stepped into view at the top of the staircase, a hand grasping Tilda’s arm.

Luci moved to better see who had stopped her friend. All the other guests had been in their chambers abed for several hours. Not even a servant had been seen since a footman had stoked the hearth over two hours before.

“No, I swear to it. I did not…” Tilda’s whine sounded from atop of the stairs, a firm shake from her companion muting the remainder of Luci’s friend’s words.

A shock of greying hair over a red dressing robe came into view, the man’s face coming within an inch of Tilda’s as she pulled back.

“Tilly?” Luci called as her friend’s foot slipped from the top stair, sending Tilda’s arms swirling as her body fell backwards.

Tilda’s mouth opened, a bone-deep scream escaping before her head hit the ground, returning the manor house to the silent stillness of a moment before. Then, Tilda’s body thumped three times, finally settling on the polished floor at Luci’s feet.

Luci stood silently for a moment, her mind racing to catch up with what she’d just witnessed.

Glancing up once more, she expected the man to hurry down the stairs to help Tilda, but all she saw was a flash of red and then…nothing. He was gone, vanished.

Her stomach turned as her mind raced to connect what she’d seen at the top of the stairs.

“Edith!” Lucianna’s pulse raced, her scream high-pitched as she knelt by Tilda. “Ophelia!”

Another thump sounded on the floor.

Luci looked up to see Ophelia frozen in her place, her book splayed open at her feet, causing the final thump. Edith rushed in a step behind her.

“Luci.” Edith stepped around Ophelia. “What is it—“

She stood, shaking her head gently.

“No, no, no,” Edith sobbed as she hurried to Tilda. “This cannot be—“

“He did this.” Luci couldn’t hold back the accusation in her tone. Edith looked away from Tilda to where Luci stood. She pointed toward the top of the stairs, leaving no doubt who had been responsible for this.

Following Luci’s indicated direction, Edith narrowed her eyes on the darkened landing above them, but Luci knew her friend would see no one lingering in the shadows.

Abercorn had fled.

“Whom?” Ophelia squeaked, walking forward to stand behind Edith.

“That is not important at this moment,” Edith whispered, kneeling beside Tilda, much as Luci had done a moment before. “We must wake her up, make sure she is all right and call for the duke—and a physician.”

“There is no point.” Luci knelt next to Edith, sweeping Tilda’s hair from her face. “She is gone.”

Luci held in the sob that threatened to escape. It was imperative that she contain her emotions, at least until the magistrate was called and an accounting of the fall recorded.

Her dear friend, so nervous—yet alive—only moments before, now stared up at the ceiling, her sightless, vacant, chestnut-brown eyes forever frozen in terror.

Anger ignited within Luci, and she begged her simmering blood to cool—at least long enough for her to speak.

“They argued.” Luci grasped Edith’s arm as she reached forward to touch Tilda. “He was up there, and he pushed her. I swear it.”

Luci was helpless to do anything as Edith took in the mangled sight of Tilda, her white nightshift tangled between her legs, and her head tilted at an odd angle.

“Wha-wha-what should we do?” Ophelia wailed.

“We will rouse the house and tell them all what the duke did!” Lucianna shot to her feet once more. “Someone must have heard the commotion.”

The foyer was deserted except for Luci, Ophelia, Edith, and, of course, Tilda.

“You are correct. I heard her scream and then the thump”—Edith visibly cringed at her choice of word, and Luci wanted to comfort her—“as she fell down.”

“She did not fall.” Lucianna knew her voice reached a dangerously high pitch as she narrowed her glare on Edith; however, she was helpless to calm the rage within her. “She was pushed. By Abercorn!”

Luci stared between her two remaining friends, her eyes softening, begging them to believe her.

“How could this happen?” Ophelia asked, collecting her book from the ground.

“That is a question for him. You saw him, right, Ophelia?” Luci looked toward Ophelia, her loose hair cascading over her shoulder.

The color drained from the girl’s face, making her pale complexion turn almost green.

“Tell her what you saw,” Luci demanded. “You were standing right here.”

“I—I—I was reading.” Ophelia turned to Edith, her book held tightly as if it could protect her. “I swear it, Edith, I did not see anything. I was reading about Xavier and—“

“What is going on here?” Townsend, the Abercorn butler, bustled into the foyer, his hair askew as if the noise had pulled him from slumber. “Your Grace!” His eyes widened on Tilda as he rushed across the room to where she lay. His hands moved to find her wrist and settled. “No pulse. She has no pulse!”

The servant shuffled to his feet, teetering for a moment before gaining his balance after the shock of seeing his new mistress dead at the bottom of the grand staircase—on her wedding night.

“Petunia, Petunia!” Townsend shouted, his tiny feet rushing toward the kitchens. “Petunia! We must summon His Grace. Petunia, where in all that is holy are you, woman?”

Doors opened, and voices sounded above from the guests’ wing as Townsend continued calling for Petunia.

In any other situation, the scene before Luci would have incited a least a slight chuckle as the butler mimicked a bird in flight. There was no humor to be found—for anyone.

“Oh, Your Grace!” Townsend said, staring toward the top of the stairs. “Please, do not look. This is not for your eyes.”

The duke stepped into view at the top of the stairs. He’d likely only retreated to the shadows down the upper hall and waited for the alarm to be sounded. However, he was still garbed in his wedding day finery with a tumbler in his hand. It could not be… He’d worn a red robe only moments before. He started down the stairs, a grey lock of hair falling before his narrowed glare as he scrutinized the scene below.

As if he hadn’t watched Tilda fall backwards after pushing her.

Luci’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and her face heated in rage.

The man had pushed his new bride down the stairs and had the audacity to lumber upon the scene as if he were unaware of the death his shove had caused.

Tilda deserved better. Certainly more than the devil-may-care attitude of the scoundrel she’d wed.

Luci would see the man punished, if it were the last thing she ever accomplished.