Murder at Almack's: A Regency Romantic Suspense Short Story by Sharon Louise

 
    Chapter One
     
    London, 1814
     
    Lady Eliza Marie Alicia Framphampton stared at the front entrance of Almack’s, the ton dancing past her as she stood at the edge of the dance floor, the twirling dresses fanning her as they passed, fluttering the primrose flounces on her elegant gown, enjoyment and frivolity all around her.
    But not for Eliza. Her gaze slipped to the clock beside the front doors, the clock tall and gold and encased in gleaming mahogany and used by the patronesses of Almack’s to deny entry to even the highest born if they dared arrive after eleven p.m. Slowly—too slowly, Eliza’s heart beat so hard, so impatiently, so fearfully—the minute hand neared the hour.
    Eight minutes.
    She clutched her satin reticule with trembling, taut fingers, her serene mask of a face hiding her urgent need. Eight minutes, and the doors would close. She would be safe for another night. Another night in which a miracle might occur.
    Something silky but firm tapped her bare shoulder.
    Eliza started. Her pulse still racing, she gathered herself and eased her face—don’t let the ton see her fear, oh, the gossip would destroy Mama—and she turned toward her mother, whose blue, silk-and-lace fan had given her shoulder another tap, less gently, more peremptorily, this time.
    “Lady Suthers was describing the new exhibition at Somerset House, dearest,” her mother, the Dowager Countess of Goodfield, said, her face serene, all but her eyes, which implored Eliza to be serene, too, to be at ease, gracious and charming as befit a duke’s future wife. “The one to which His Grace the Duke of Belville escorted us. Tell her ladyship his droll remarks on the painting of the lady in the pink dress, my child.”
    Lady Suthers glanced at the front doors as if she, too, was expecting the duke, all of London, it seemed, knew of his return today to town from his principal seat in Surrey, then she turned inquisitive eyes, eyes that could quickly become malicious and cruel, toward Eliza.
    Eliza’s heart beat out the seconds. Her mind shouted ‘ Close and lock the door ’ to the ramrod-straight footman stationed beside the clock, whose duty was to do just that. Now, her mind shouted.
    Now, her heart beat.
    “His Grace said the woman’s bosom was too small,” her mouth said to Lady Suthers, her voice soft and gentle and as serene as her face. But Lady Suthers’s attention was on the front door.
    The orchestra ended the quadrille.
    The dancers stilled, bowed and curtseyed.
    The ton in attendance hushed.
    Dread crushing her chest, Eliza turned.
    With two minutes to spare, His Grace the Duke of Belville strode toward her from Almack’s still-open front doors.
    ***
    Derrick Albrecht Alphonse Trulington slipped through Almack’s front doors a careful distance behind His Grace the Duke of Belville with less than a minute to spare. He adjusted his cravat with an impatient tweak—damned nuisance, these foppish, dandy ways—and gave his forged voucher to the liveried footman just inside the door.
    The man, his bearing that of a soldier, perhaps one that had been wounded in the war with France, glanced with sharp eyes at the voucher—really, the small, rectangular card was perfect, some of Derrick’s best work, signed ostensibly by the Countess de Lieven, the countess conveniently out of town with her ambassador husband—then the footman gave Derrick a quick review, then a deferential nod he didn’t deserve, and returned the voucher.
    Damn the man, no one here deserved that kind of deference but those who’d served in the war. Derrick tucked the voucher into the exquisitely embroidered waistcoat he’d stolen in France that would feed a hundred score of starving families for a year and strode into the throng that was a Wednesday night at Almack’s.
    He didn’t get far. Lady Eliza Marie Alicia Framphampton was staring in his direction, her blue-eyed gaze on the duke ahead of him. With an instinct that had saved his life more than