Today I’m gonna spoil you with an intriguing extract!

Synopsis

The only thing worse than a persistent suitor? A dead one on your lawn.

London, 1892. Alice, Duchess of Stortford, has returned to town determined to enjoy her first Season as a wealthy widow. But instead of balls, flirtation, and whispered gossip, she finds herself besieged by ambitious bachelors—none more persistent than the insufferably smooth-talking Miles Fonthill. When Alice firmly refuses his sudden proposal, she assumes the matter is settled.

Instead, he turns up dead in her garden.

The police are happy to call it a tragic accident. Alice is less convinced.

Why was Miles climbing over her garden wall in the middle of the night? Why had he become so determined to win her favour? And what did he really want?

As Alice begins to dig into Miles’ final days, her search leads her into the glittering heart of London society, where old loyalties run deep, secrets are guarded fiercely, and reputation matters more than truth. But when whispers of the mysterious Order of the Golden Key begin circling dangerously close to her own late husband’s name, Alice realises this death may be far more complicated than one unwelcome suitor meeting an unfortunate end.

And if someone is willing to kill to keep their secrets…this Season may prove positively deadly.

Perfect for fans of feisty female sleuths, Victorian High Society, and secret scandals, all served with a dash of humour and a cup of tea.

The extract

Intro

The morning after Alice, Duchess of Strotford, rejected Miles Fontill’s proposal begins with an unexpected disturbance. Before breakfast has even been served, she learns that something—or rather someone—has been discovered in her garden…

Extract

Alice opened her eyes to the dim light filtering through her bedroom curtains. Something felt off.

The house was never entirely silent—there was always some distant creak or settling, the muted rhythm of servants moving about their duties—but this was different. There were voices. Not the ordinary, unguarded cadence of work but something hushed and urgent.

Her gaze slid to the clock on the mantel. Seven on a Sunday morning. Far too early!

She lay still for a moment, straining to catch the whispered conversation taking place just beyond her door. The words remained frustratingly indistinct, but the tone carried clear instruction.

Sunday mornings at Darby House typically unfolded with leisurely precision—Aunt Cora never emerged before nine, and even the servants moved at a more relaxed pace. Whatever had the household stirring at this ungodly hour must be significant indeed.

“Curious,” Alice murmured to herself, reaching for the bell pull beside her bed. 

Barely three minutes passed before her bedroom door opened, revealing Maud with a tea tray already prepared. 

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Maud said, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual. She set the tray on the bedside table with hands that trembled just enough for Alice to notice. “I’ve brought your morning tea.”

“So I see,” Alice replied, watching as Maud poured with less than her usual grace, a few drops splashing onto the saucer. “You’re remarkably prompt this morning.”

Maud didn’t meet her eyes. “Cook had just boiled the kettle, ma’am.”

As Alice accepted the cup, she studied her lady’s maid over its rim. Maud’s cheeks were flushed, and a strand of hair had escaped her cap. She moved about the room with jerky, distracted motions—yanking open the curtains to reveal the pearly grey light of early morning, poking at the banked fire with unnecessary vigour, adjusting items on the dressing table that needed no adjustment.

What’s going on? “Lovely morning,” she said, taking a careful sip of her tea.

“Yes, ma’am.” Maud busied herself with the washstand, pouring water from the ewer with the concentration of a surgeon.

Alice set down her cup with a deliberate clink. “There seems to be a lot of activity in the house this morning.”

Maud’s hands stilled momentarily before she resumed laying out Alice’s washing things. “Does there, ma’am? I haven’t noticed.”

Really? Maud never not noticed anything.

Her maid glanced up—just for a fraction—and then looked away again.

Alice swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, the cool floor beneath her bare feet a welcome jolt to her senses. She padded across to the washstand and began washing herself. She watched Maud from the corner of her eye. 

Maud was chatty by nature. Her nattering normally filled Alice’s bedchamber the way a good fire did—warm, ordinary, reassuring.

Now there was no talking at all.

Only fussing—Maud was currently plumping pillows that didn’t need plumping.

Enough! Alice patted her face dry and turned to find Maud holding out her undergarments, her head bowed, still avoiding her gaze. “Maud,” Alice said firmly, “what’s wrong?”

The maid jumped as if she’d been pinched. “Nothing’s wrong, ma’am. Nothing at all.”

Alice fixed her with a look. “Nonsense. Something has clearly happened, and you—along with half the household, it seems—are aware of it. I’m not particularly fond of being the last to know what’s occurring in my own home.”

Maud’s shoulders slumped. “I told Mr Pratt and George that I couldn’t do it,” she blurted out. “I knew you’d see right through me. I’ve never been able to keep secrets from you.”

“And yet you’re trying valiantly this morning,” Alice replied dryly. “Come now, spit it out, Maud. Whatever it is can hardly be improved by stalling further.”

Maud took a breath and began helping Alice into her chemise and corset with quick, trembling hands. “I really shouldn’t say, ma’am. Mr Pratt wanted to tell you himself.”

A flicker of irritation sparked in Alice’s chest. She’d had quite enough of being managed, particularly by men who thought they knew better than she did about what information she should receive and when. “I’ll deal with Mr Pratt,” she said. “Now please tell me what has happened.”

Maud’s fingers fumbled with the corset laces as Alice turned to allow her to begin the familiar ritual of dressing. “There’s been a… discovery,” the maid finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “A body, ma’am.”

Alice froze with her arms half-lifted. “A body?” A cold, sick sensation ran down her spine. “Where?”

Maud paused. “Er… in the garden.”

Alice’s mouth went dry as she lowered her arms. “Which garden, exactly?” she asked, although she felt like she already knew the answer.

Maud’s fingers stilled. “Here,” she whispered. “In… in your garden, ma’am.”

Alice felt the room tilt slightly, as if the floor had shifted beneath the rug.

A body.

In her garden.

On a Sunday morning.

Her throat tightened, making it difficult to get the next words out. “Who is it?” she eventually managed.

Maud’s fingers pulled too hard on the laces. Alice barely felt it. “They think… They’re saying it’s Mr Fonthill.” The last words came out in a rush. “Dead as a post, ma’am.”