Free A Bride by Moonlight by Liz Carlyle

government clerk’s daughter.
    And suddenly, Napier wondered how he’d afforded it. Not just the house, but their entire way of life. So far as he could remember, his late mother had dressed as finely as any lady. They had dined well—sometimes even lavishly—and even entertained on occasion.
    How? How had it been accomplished? In the back of his mind, he had often wondered.
    Perhaps he need wonder no longer.
    On a flash of irritation, he hurled the file aside and went into the drawing room to pour himself a generous splash of brandy, damning Lazonby to hell.
    It was not possible. He would not think of it.
    Napier set the decanter back down on the side table with a thunk! After tossing the brandy back with rather too much relish, he lifted away his afternoon copy of the Gazette , and began to sort meticulously through the post which always lay neatly stacked beneath it.
    There was nothing save a couple of routine bills—statements from his haberdasher and his vintner—already slit open and unfolded for his review, along with an invitation to a musicale at the home of a superintendent in the General Register Office, a fellow whose means were far outstripped by his social aspirations.
    Such invitations had come more regularly since vague rumors of Napier’s family connections had begun to worm their way through Whitehall. His friendship with Lady Anisha had merely added fuel to the fires of speculation, for her brother was a marquess, and a personal favorite of the Queen.
    Still, the fact that he might suddenly be in demand made Napier snort with laughter. He pushed the invitation away to see what lay beneath it, and went a little cold.
    “ Jolley! ” he shouted.
    At once, footsteps came softly up the stairs, and within moments the servant appeared, looking rather like a wraith with his cloud of white hair, wooly white muttonchops, and long white work apron over his stark black suit. It was a deceptive appearance, to be sure. Jolley was utterly of this world.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “This letter.” Napier set a fingertip upon the offending paper. “When did it arrive?”
    “Why, with the morning post.” Jolley looked mystified.
    “And did no one question to whom it was addressed?”
    Jolley looked more closely. “Gor blimey!”
    Napier looked down at it again. The words taunted him:
    Lord Saint-Bryce
    22 Eaton Square
    London
    “You did not open it,” Napier remarked.
    “No, sir,” he said. “It seemed of a personal nature.”
    Napier took up a nearby penknife, slit the seal, and snapped the letter open. His gaze swept over the crabbed handwriting that listed badly starboard, and used only the topmost third of the page:
    My Lord,
    I wonder if You oughtn’t come home to Burlingame? If we might prevale upon You to do so, it might be for the best. Doubtless London is Great Fun, but things here continue passing strange cince the mysterious Deaths and Some of us remain Most Troubled that some Wickedness is afoot.
    Yr. humble servent,
    A Concerned Citizen
    “A concerned citizen ?” Napier tossed the letter back down. “ Wickedness —?”
    “May I, sir?”
    At Napier’s curt nod, Jolley reached past him, and picked it up. “Well,” he said after reading it, “at least it’s not total rambling nonsense like poor old Hepplewood’s piece.”
    “No, but it’s just as full of innuendo,” Napier growled.
    “And that’s a business I still don’t like, sir,” said Jolley. “Gentlemen like Hepplewood do make enemies.”
    “But Saint-Bryce had none,” Napier pointed out. “He was just like every other country gentleman moldering away in Wiltshire: paunchy, balding, and obsessed with tromping around in wet grass shooting at things. Where’s the wickedness in that?”
    Jolley’s brow furrowed. “No connection between the titles, is there?” he asked. “I mean, otherwise, sir—well, put it like this—you’d be the only one ter gain by Saint-Bryce’s death.”
    “Only you, Jolley, would have the gall