Free Death Comes to London by Catherine Lloyd

there and inhale the fresh wind blowing in from the coast and the tartness of a spring morning.
    When he reached Fenton’s he paid off the hackney cab and made his way up the stairs to his room. Foley was bustling around in his bedchamber laying his clothes out on the bed.
    “I wish you’d communicate your plans to me, Major. How am I supposed to get you all packed up before the Broughton carriage returns?”
    “What?”
    Foley gave him a reproachful stare. “The Countess of Broughton sent a message that you were moving into Broughton House today.”
    “I don’t remember agreeing to that.” He frowned. “And why would they want me there when there’s just been a death in the family?”
    “Well, the lady seemed quite convinced that she needed you and it was hardly my place to disagree with her.” Foley paused as he folded Robert’s long starched cravats into a neat pile. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind. I’m almost done!”
    Robert sighed. “I suppose we might as well go. It will certainly help me to keep an eye on Broughton and ward off Miss Chingford.”
    “I beg your pardon, sir?”
    “It’s of no matter.” Robert waved his hand at the bed. “Carry on.”
     
    Robert handed his hat to the butler at the Hathaways’ residence and slowly climbed the stairs to the drawing room on the first floor. It wasn’t the correct time of day to pay a call, but he assumed the Harringtons and the Hathaways would be too keen to hear his news to worry about such social niceties.
    “Major Kurland, ma’am.”
    As he’d expected, they were all there, clustered around one of the scandal sheets that proliferated in the city streets. He was always amazed at how quickly the printers managed to discover and distribute the latest gossip about the upper classes. Miss Harrington turned to him and put down the sheet she’d been reading aloud from.
    “Good morning, Major Kurland. How are the Broughtons bearing up on this sad day?”
    He took the chair opposite her and surreptitiously stretched out his left leg to the warmth of the fire. His muscles were aching on such a damp morning and every step was a jarring agony.
    “I believe they are still rather shocked. And just to make matters worse, Broughton was taken ill last night and the family physician was called to the house.”
    “Oh dear, ” Anna said. “Is he all right?”
    “The doctor was still with him when I left, but I believe he was on the mend.” He hesitated. “The Countess of Broughton asked me if I’d stay at the house while Broughton was ill. I could hardly say no.”
    “Of course you couldn’t. She will need your support.” Miss Harrington took off her spectacles and held up the long sheet of paper. “Have you seen what the scandal sheets are saying?”
    “No, I haven’t. Why?”
    “They are suggesting that Miss Chingford deliberately enraged the dowager countess to cause her death and that she laughed afterward and”—she consulted the sheet—“danced the night away without a care practically on the dowager’s grave.”
    Robert snorted. “If anything killed that woman, it was her own spite and venom.”
    “Miss Chingford will be mortified to have her name associated with such a terrible tragedy.”
    “I doubt it will bother her in the slightest.”
    “Then you don’t understand how precious a woman’s reputation is in this very judgmental world.”
    “Are you defending Miss Chingford, Miss Harrington?”
    “I suppose I am.” She hesitated. “While you were dealing with the Broughtons last night, I spoke to the physician who confirmed the dowager’s death.”
    “And?”
    “He said that it seemed odd to him that the dowager had died like that.”
    “Of a heart attack?”
    She frowned. “No one mentioned the dowager had a weak heart.”
    “Broughton told me she was not in the best of health, that’s probably what he meant. Miss Harrington, are you trying to make a scandal out of nothing?”
    “Of course not,