And here is an extract to tempt you!

Synopsis

Lady Beatrice should be finalising her wedding vows — not investigating murder.

With just weeks to go before she marries Richard Fitzwilliam, Bea is helping put the finishing touches to Three Lakes, a rehabilitation centre for veterans, when a senior staff member dies in a late-night lift malfunction.

At first, it looks like a tragic accident. Until the toxicology results suggest otherwise.

With the centre’s opening looming and scandal threatening to overshadow both Three Lakes and her wedding, Bea can’t help getting involved. While Rich helps with the official investigation, Bea and the others have a few theories of their own. And while Perry obsesses over lift mechanics and Simon insists he’s staying out of it (he isn’t), Daisy uncovers a clue everyone else missed.

As they dig deeper, they discover buried secrets, old resentments, and a grievance someone may have carried for years.

Some loyalties last a lifetime. So do some grudges.

A warm, cozy mystery with loyal friends, buried secrets, a determined little dog, and exactly the sort of trouble Bea should be avoiding before her wedding.

The extract

Intro

With the grand opening of Three Lakes, a new rehabilitation centre for military veterans, just weeks away, everything appears to be falling into place. Lord Frederick Astley, Duke of Bute, is visiting the centre to check on progress with its director, Matt Renshaw. But as the two men make their way through the nearly completed building, they’re about to discover that not everything is running quite as smoothly as they’d hoped…

Extract

“It’s all on track then,” Lord Frederick Astley, Duke of Bute, confirmed. 

Matt Renshaw nodded. “The accommodation is complete apart from a few snagging issues that Perry Juke and your sister are dealing with. The clinical rooms are ready. The kitchens passed their final inspection last week. Hydrotherapy is waiting on one part, but I’m assured it’s coming today.” Matt hesitated. “I’ve learned not to ask which today. Apparently, that irritates suppliers.”

Fred’s mouth twitched. 

“We’ll be ready,” Matt stated confidently.

They circled back and entered the building through the automatic doors, which slid open with a soft sigh. Warmth met them at once along with the faint smells of fresh paint, new flooring, and industrial-strength cleaning products.

The reception area was broad and light, with a curved desk positioned to be visible but not imposing. Behind it, the wall bore the Three Lakes crest: three simple overlapping circles above the words: Recovery. Strength. Purpose.

Matt gestured towards the desk. “We’ll have staff here from seven until seven every day and security overnight.” 

Fred nodded, taking it in. “You’re doing an excellent job, Matt,” he said after a few minutes.

The words were low and matter-of-fact. Matt looked away first, pretending to examine a stack of papers on the reception desk. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot.”

Fred said nothing more, which was one of the reasons Matt liked him. The duke understood when to leave a sentiment alone.

Matt glanced at his watch. “There’s one more thing I’d like you to see,” he said. “The residents’ mess room on the first floor. It was still being fitted out last time you were here. It was only finished on Wednesday, and I don’t think you’ve seen it since the furniture went in.”

“That would be great,” Fred said as he followed Matt across the foyer. “Press coverage has been fairly decent so far.”

“Better than decent,” Matt replied. “On the whole, it’s been very supportive. We’ve had some regional news pieces that were very positive. The national papers are circling now too.”

“Of course they are,” Fred agreed dryly.

“They like the story,” Matt told him. “Veterans’ rehabilitation. New model of care. Public-private partnership. Royal connection and led by a handsome duke with a philanthropic mission.”

Fred gave him a look.

“I’m quoting the press office,” Matt said innocently as they passed the reception desk.

“I’m sure you are.”

Matt pressed the lift button.

For a second nothing happened, then the doors slid open.

They saw the shoes first.

Polished black shoes, one of them at an odd angle.

Then a trouser leg.

A hand resting palm-up against the floor.

And finally the man himself, crumpled inside the lift as if he’d folded where he’d stood, never to rise again.

Neither Matt nor Fred moved.

Neither spoke.

The lift’s interior light hummed overhead, unwavering, illuminating the scene before them.

Then the doors began to close.

Matt’s hand shot out—not panicked, not rushed, exactly as fast as it needed to be—and caught the edge of the door before it could seal. The mechanism whirred in protest, then yielded, sliding open again to the same tableau.