Murder in Postscript


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
 Published by Berkley
 An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
 penguinrandomhouse.com
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Mary Honerman
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 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Names: Winters, Mary, author.
 Title: Murder in postscript / Mary Winters.
 Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2023.
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022033478 (print) | LCCN 2022033479 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593548769 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593548776 (ebook)
 Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Regency fiction.
 Classification: LCC PS3601.N5535 M87 2023 (print) | LCC PS3601.N5535 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220808
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022033478
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022033479
 First Edition: March 2023
 Cover illustration by Lia Liao
 Cover design by Rita Frangie
 Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
 Interior art: quill © veronchick_84/Shutterstock Images
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 pid_prh_6.0_142907719_c0_r0
 
 
 
 For my mom, who always gave the best advice
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 
 London, England
 1860
 Amelia Amesbury hated to admit it, but she was bored. Mind-numbingly bored. She supposed this was what contentment felt like: a beautiful young charge, bless her heart, playing the pianoforte; a governess, prim and proper, turning pages; and three tiers of cakes to choose from in a tastefully papered drawing room. But if she was so content, why was she itching for the afternoon’s post?
 She glanced at the portrait of her dead husband above the fireplace mantel. She could put the brunt of the blame on him, bless his heart, too. When they met, she had no idea who he was. He presented himself like any young man in Somerset, looking for a room at her family’s respected inn, the Feathered Nest. Well, not exactly any young man. His manners were a little too refined, as were his features: smooth skin, straight nose, good teeth. When he revealed he was an earl, after she’d accepted his proposal, she was surprised, yes, but assumed that’s how it was done. Wealthy aristocrats had to protect themselves and their fortunes. Like Lancelot, Edgar Amesbury had come in disguise, and the subterfuge hadn’t bothered her in the least. In fact, it added to the excitement.
 Amelia set down her flowered teacup with a plunk, earning her a glance from the governess. Despite her last name, Amelia was no Amesbury. Yet here she was, now the widow of one of the wealthiest families in London, responsible for the upbringing of Edgar’s niece, Winifred. She was the reason he’d chosen a wife so quickly—that and his degenerative illness, which took him just two months after their marriage. He had wanted Winifred cared for when he was gone, and Amelia was doing a good job, if she did say so herself. Smart, well behaved, and kind, Winifred was, in every aspect except blood, her daughter. As Winifred tinkled her way through Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21, Amelia was so proud. And yet, there was the afternoon post at the door!
 “I’ll get it, Jones,” Amelia called to the butler. Winifred paused at the instrument. “Please continue, dear. You’re doing wonderfully.”
 The letters she’d been waiting for all afternoon were here, the letters addressed to Lady Agony, her secret pseudonym and life-giving alter ego. Amelia’s black dress rustled noisily as she alighted for the door. She opened it before the deliverer could knock.
 “Good afternoon,” greeted Amelia. “A lovely day to poke your head out for a breath, isn’t it?”
 The man blinked. “My lady.”
 Amelia inhaled the thick London air—and choked. It was no matter to her whether it was smoke filled, smelly, or rank, however. It was the thrum of the city that had enticed her to leave Somerset without protest. Mells, the small village where she grew up, delivered newspapers directly to the Feathered Nest—and into her small hands. She spent many afternoons poring over news from the city, young dreams arising in her heart even then, and when Edgar asked her if she would move to London, she answered with a resounding yes. “I’ll take that, thank you.”
 The deliverer bowed wordlessly, and Amelia shut the door, returning to the drawing room as she opened the parcel and thumbed the correspondence: one, two, three letters. They requested advice on love, labor, and life. Well, mostly love, but letters all the same. Correspondents needed help traversing the murky waters of life’s greatest unsolved mystery, and who better to guide them than a member of the social elite? Her title was the reason her responses were so popular—that and her honest advice. Times had changed, and readers were desperate to change with them, reaching for the next rung of the social pecking order. Plus, they and the ton wanted to know who Lady Agony really was and how she had become involved in writing in the first place.
 It was her childhood friend and fellow newspaper fiend, Grady Armstrong, now an editor at one of the most popular penny weeklies in London, who put her in touch with the task. No one but he and Amelia knew the true story. A year ago, his office was flooded with letters addressed to the magazine’s agony column, called such because of the angst in the