A Knightsbridge Scandal Read online

  A KNIGHTSBRIDGE SCANDAL

  Anita Davison

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

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  About A Knightsbridge Scandal

  1903 London is bustling and glamourous. With troubling secrets simmering and worrying signs of war Flora Maguire must solve a deadly mystery which leads right to the heart of the corridors of power.

  Flora Maguire has escaped the country to enjoy some time in fashionable Knightsbridge, London. Extravagant shops, exuberant theatres and decadent restaurants mean 1903's London is a thrilling adventure, but there are dark secrets threatening from the continent.

  When the body of a London socialite, and leading light of the burgeoning women’s movement, is found outside The Grenadier public house, Flora can’t resist investigating.

  Mysterious letters are discovered in the victim’s belongings, strange links to the foreign office and why do the clues keep coming back to the assassination of a Baltic king?

  As Flora closes in on the killer, it soon becomes clear she is no longer safe in London, but will her husband Bunny be able to get to her before it’s too late?

  For Alexandra – who is stronger that she seems, braver than she believes, more beautiful than she imagines and more loved than she knows.

  And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,

  Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

  from ‘Evangeline’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About A Knightsbridge Scandal

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgements

  About Anita Davison

  About the Flora Maguire Mysteries

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Flora alighted onto the platform into clouds of white smoke from the steam engine that hissed beneath the massive iron and glass canopy of Waterloo Station. Porters darted between travellers pushing squeaky-wheeled trolleys loaded with luggage towards the line of hansom cabs that waited beside the platform; the odours of hot horseflesh wet leather and manure mixed with the sweet fragrance of dried lavender from the flower seller’s stalls.

  Flora handed her maid a portmanteau, then followed in the wake of the porter who had careened off with their luggage, her neck craned to keep him in sight. Disembarking passengers jostled on the platform as Flora carved her way through ladies in wide hats and harassed looking nurses holding dawdling children by the hand. The soot smuts on their faces reminded her of childhood train journeys spent with her head stuck out of the window, eyes narrowed against the wind as it tugged at her hair; something every child should do at least once.

  Sally hurried along the platform beside her, the bag hefted on one hand and three hatboxes bouncing like balloons on their strings in the other.

  Suitcases bumped Flora’s shins, their owners making no effort to move aside, reducing her progress to a series of shuffling steps and starts. Spotting a gap in the crowd, she dodged between two slow-moving matrons, only to collide with a man in a black homburg hurrying in the opposite direction. He barely paused to apologize, simply lifted his hat an inch before disappearing into the crowd.

  Flora glared at the miscreant over her shoulder, muttering at his lack of manners as her turn arrived at the barrier.

  The guard clipped their tickets with a machine hung around his neck, releasing them into the arched cathedral roof of the main hall. Coming to an uncertain halt as the crowd disbursed into the vast expanse of the station, she glanced up at the monochrome, four-sided clock that hung from the ceiling,

  ‘He said he would be here to meet us.’ She bit her lip as the first pangs of anxiety gnawed at her. ‘Our train arrived on time, so where is he?’

  What if he had forgotten her? Would she be able to find his apartment unaided?

  ‘He must have been held up.’ Sally transferred the cumbersome bag to her other hand, flexing her fingers with a grimace. ‘Don’t fret, Miss Flora, I expect he’ll be here directly.’

  ‘I’m not fretting.’ Flora fidgeted, irritated at having been so transparent. ‘I’m merely surprised he isn’t here waiting for us.’ For the tenth time since leaving Richmond, she wondered if it had been wise to agree to this visit on her own; misgivings her husband had dismissed.

  ‘I would accompany you, my love, but I’ve a complicated legal case on at the moment. After all, William is hardly a stranger; you’ve known him all your life.’ His reasoning had not acknowledged her anxiety at all.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Though not as my father, a voice inside her head reminded her. The last time she had seen William, her behaviour had been less than cordial. When the truth of her parentage had come to light, she had laid the blame squarely on him, fairly or not. Circumstances had kept them apart since then, though his invitation to stay at his London apartment came as no surprise, but one Flora had thus far avoided. Now she would have to prepare herself to face him all over again.

  ‘Where’d that porter go?’ Sally dropped the portmanteau at Flora’s feet with a relieved grunt. ‘I’ll have something to say if he’s run off with our luggage.’

  ‘I very much doubt that. He has a job to do, and not everyone is disreputable.’

  ‘You weren’t dragged up in Flower and Dean Street,’ Sally muttered darkly. ‘Can’t trust no one down there.’

  Flora pretended not to hear, immune to Sally’s tendency for drama and a belief that lurid stories of a childhood in Whitechapel gave her notoriety among those who had led more affluent lives; a judgement made on virtually everyone. Flora raised herself on tiptoe, her eyes narrowed in an effort to locate the porter’s face among the noise, smoke, and clamour of the busy station that had begun to make her head pound.

  ‘There it is!’ Sally pointed to where Flora’s elephant grey trunk with its military style fastenings sat on a trolley, their porter idling in conversation with the news seller, apparently confident of his fee.

  Sally hurried towards him, her voice raised in protest as she heaved the bag she carried onto the trunk, piling the hatboxes on top. The largest tumbled off again and rolled across the concourse floor. With a theatrical groan and slump of her shoulders, she gave chase and after a tussle with an urchin boy who got there first, grudgingly parted with a coin before stomping back to the trolley and returned the box to the pile.

  ‘Mrs Harrington?’ An unfamiliar voice drew Flora’s attention from the comic sight of her annoyed maid to where a man stood a few feet away; a bowler hat held in both hands at waist level.

  ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Harrington.’ She gave the concourse a final, swift glance in a last effort to locate William, then turned to the young man. ‘May I help you?’

  She judged him to be somew
here in his mid-twenties, and definitely someone she had never met before. Standing an inch or two taller than she, with a compact, but substantial build. Symmetrical features sat beneath arched brows with startling eyes so dark, the pupils looked the same colour as the irises.

  ‘And who might you be then?’ Sally stepped between Flora and the stranger, her chin lifted in challenge.

  ‘My name is Peter Gordon.’ He took in Sally’s belligerent expression with a wry smile of amusement. ‘I’m an associate of Mr William Osborne; he sent me to meet you.’

  Flora had expected him to have an accent to go with his Mediterranean looks, but his diction was pure Home Counties.

  ‘Can yer prove it?’ Sally demanded.

  ‘Sally,’ Flora warned, sotto voce. ‘Although my maid does have a point, sir. I was not expecting to be met by a stranger.’ Despite her uneasiness, there was something compelling about him.

  ‘But of course.’ He withdrew a rectangle of pasteboard from an inside pocket and handed it to her.

  William’s name was embossed in black cursive script. She read the line beneath and stared at him, confused. ‘It says here he’s a “Secretary to the Foreign Office?” To her knowledge, William had spent most of his life on estates and plantations all over the world. She had never imagined him as a civil servant.

  ‘Indeed so, Madam. I’m Mr Osborne’s assistant, and all I know is that his duties prevent his presence here. I’m sure he’ll make everything clear in due course.’

  ‘I suppose it cannot be helped.’ Flora sighed, disappointed.

  ‘Is this your luggage?’ Mr Gordon eyed the trolley, then without waiting for her response, clicked his fingers to attract the porter’s attention. ‘I’ve a cab waiting if you'll follow me.’

  He took a step toward the exit, then halted, one eyebrow raised at Sally who stood in his way.

  Sally returned his silent request to stand aside by standing her ground, her wide brown eyes narrowed on Mr Gordon’s black ones, while passengers swept past them towards the exits, shrill whistles sounded and engines chuntered into the station.

  Flora rolled her eyes but offered no comment, speculating on which of them would yield first.

  Finally, Mr Gordon gave a resigned sigh, skirted round Sally and set off across the busy concourse.

  ‘I’d watch that one if I were you, Missus,’ Sally whispered when he was out of earshot. ‘He looks foreign to me.’

  ‘I cannot imagine there’s any reason to be distrustful if William sent him.’ Flora slanted an irritated, sideways look at her. ‘Maybe he simply isn’t used to being challenged by saucy lady’s maids? Incidentally, you were quite rude to him just then.’

  Sally sniffed, but ignored the reprimand. ‘Still, I always keeps a hatpin sharpened for these occasions.’

  ‘We’d better go, or we’ll lose him.’ Flora gestured her to follow, while at the same time wondered what she meant by “these occasions” but was too tired to make an issue of it.

  Beneath the wrought iron canopy of the Praed Street entrance, the wide main road was crowded with hansom cabs, private carriages, and carts. It was barely four in the afternoon, but the gaslights had already been lit, their sulphurous light barely penetrating the fog, giving the street an eerie quality.

  Mr Gordon stood beside a gleaming black motor taxi, the luggage piled at his feet. Unlike a hansom, the driver’s seat was located beneath an open-sided canopy over the front tyres instead of perched at a precarious angle above the rear.

  ‘Where’s the ’orse?’ Sally eyed the vehicle with suspicion, alarm flattening her vowels. ‘I’ve never been in one o’ those.’

  ‘Really, Sally,’ Flora chided. ‘This is one of the French-built Prunels.’ She turned a smile on Mr Gordon, delighted with his look of surprised admiration at her knowledge. ‘My husband is convinced motor cars are no longer a strange novelty. That they will take over from the horse-drawn hansoms completely in the next few years.

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ Sally’s brown eyes narrowed and she took a step backward.

  ‘Sally, really! You’ve seen Mr Bunny’s motor car a dozen times.’ Flora called over her shoulder as she climbed inside, ‘Come along. It’s freezing out here.’

  ‘Still, don’t like ’em,’ Sally grunted, but obeyed, tugging the hatboxes onto her lap.

  The door slammed shut leaving Mr Gordon on the pavement, a hazy figure illuminated by the yellow arc of a street light.

  ‘Are you not coming with us?’ Flora asked through the lowered window.

  ‘Ah no.’ He stood to attention, his hands behind his back. ‘My instructions were to see you safely into a taxi. However, should you arrive at Prince Albert Mansions before Mr Osborne, his butler, Randall, expects you.’ At his curt wave, the driver pulled away from the kerb, straight into the path of a horse-drawn hansom cab.

  Flora made a grab for the leather strap above her head, wincing at Sally’s high-pitched shriek as the taxi steered expertly out of the vehicle’s path.

  With disaster successfully averted, Flora inhaled a relieved breath and looked back through the rear window at the receding station. The pavement stood empty with no sign of Mr Gordon.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Are you sure we’re still in London?’ Sally pressed her nose against the window, wide-eyed at the expanse of parkland set behind black railings. ‘We might be in the country.’ The grass had died off to winter brown and a layer of grey mist hovered at the tree line.

  ‘That’s Hyde Park.’ Flora eased closer to share the view. ‘Have you never been here before?’ Sally’s rapid shake of her head came as a surprise, but then what reason would a girl from Whitechapel have to venture into this part of London. ‘It must be quite different from where you come from?’

  ‘Nothing but soot and filth down there, hardly a tree or flower to be seen. Is this where Mr William lives?’

  ‘On the other side of the park in Knightsbridge, yes. I expect the driver will take us all the way round, so you’ll get to see a more elegant side of your home town, Sally. There’s a picturesque lake in the middle with ducks and a charming bridge which I’ll take you to see while we are here.’

  ‘Mr William must be very rich to live here,’ she said, adding gleefully, ‘Richer than the old Missus at any rate.’

  A smile tugged at Flora’s mouth in silent agreement as she scooted across the seat. Since Beatrice Harrington’s discovery that Flora was not the daughter of a butler, but William Osborne, wealthy brother of a countess, she was deprived of the pleasure of looking down on Flora for reasons of her lowly background.

  ‘Miss Flora? Might I ask you something?’

  ‘Depends what it is.’ Flora shot a look at the driver, hoping Sally wasn’t going to be indiscreet, though the man did not appear to be listening.

  ‘Is Mr William really your dad?’ Sally whispered.

  Goodness, can the girl mind-read? ‘Yes, Sally, he is.’ Not that she expected to keep it secret in a house full of servants, though Sally was the only one with the nerve to ask outright.

  ‘That came as a surprise to me, Missus, ’cos the housekeeper told me you was raised by a butler.’

  ‘I was, Sally. I had no knowledge that Riordan Maguire wasn’t my real father until a year ago, and no, I don’t intend to explain the circumstances.’ She turned to stare out of her side of the taxi, hoping Sally might lose interest in the subject.

  ‘Don’t have to.’ Sally sniffed. ‘The cook told me all about it. Mr William is Lady Vaughn’s brother, ain’t he?’

  ‘Isn’t he. And as I have already said, I’m not going to explain.’

  ‘And I said you didn’t have to, so’s I’m telling you what I heard.’ She kept her voice to a discreet whisper. ‘You wouldn’t want outright lies doing the rounds in the servants’ hall, would you?’

  ‘Well, no, but—’ Flora broke off, aware she had been outmanoeuvred. ‘Thank you, Sally.’ I think. Flora had not yet cultivated that mixture of disdain and distance the aristocr
acy used with regard to their servants, though neither avoidance nor sharp reprimand worked with the girl.

  ‘So.’ Sally huffed a breath and settled her hands in her lap. ‘Your mother married the head butler because you were on the way?’

  Aware she was already on entirely the wrong path with Sally, Flora decided she could hardly make things worse so might as well be candid. ‘My mother died when I was six and Riordan Maguire raised me. And yes, he was the Vaughn’s head butler.’ She did not bother to explain that Lily Maguire had disappeared, a fact which would make no difference. Flora harboured no regrets about her life, other than the fact she had been lied to for most of it.

  ‘You should count yerself lucky, Missus. I was one of ten and none of us knew who our dads were.’ Sally rubbed condensation from the window with one hand. ‘At least you’ve been given a chance to know yours.’

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at the situation,’ Flora replied.

  The taxi halted outside the wide façade of a building that stretched across several shop fronts. ‘Prince Albert Mansions, Miss. That’s right ain’t it?’ the driver addressed her over one shoulder

  ‘Is this the place?’ Sally ducked her head and peered through the window on Flora’s side, her eyes wide. ‘It looks like a hotel.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ Flora murmured, her earlier anxiety reappearing. ‘And yes, thank you, driver.’

  Five storeys high, Prince Albert Mansions was built of pristine, cream coloured stonework, its wide windows set in arched embrasures declaring it to be newer than the surrounding buildings, having yet to take on the layer of black soot characteristic of most city structures.

  The double set of glazed doors swung open but instead of a uniformed doorman, William appeared at a run, took the front steps at a sideways leap and tugged open the taxi door.

  ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the station to meet you, Flora.’ Pulling her bodily from the cab, he encircled her waist with one arm and held her free hand with the other. ‘Had this tiresome meeting I could not get out of. Gordon found you all right then, did he?’ Without waiting for her response, he guided her up the short flight of steps, through the front doors and into a lobby that could have graced one of the city’s best hotels.