Death Among the Ruins

 

“What a delicious and delightful tale! The Regency world is turned upside down—and much refreshed—by a decidedly unorthodox heroine. Pamela Christie writes with wit and verve, gifting readers with a vision of the period at once marvelously scandalous and oh-so tempting. I adore clever, spunky Arabella and look forward to her future adventures.”

—Sara Poole, author of
The Borgia Mistress

 

“Channel your inner Jane Austen and mix with a dash of the Happy Hooker (wink, wink) for a pleasingly witty and light debut. It’s leisurely paced, laced with narrator asides, and plot-assisted by diary entries. All in all, very PG and what romance readers might call ‘sweet.’ ”

 

“A clever, funny, engaging read reminiscent of Fidelis Morgan’s
Unnatural Fire
. Pamela Christie deftly combines the conventions of the Regency-era novel with the fast pace and careful attention to characterization found in the best modern historical mysteries.”

—Kate Emerson, author of
The King’s Damsel

 

“Historical mystery gets a sexy twist in Pamela Christie’s
Death and the Courtesan
. This is a quirky, tongue-in-cheek story of a ‘scandalous’ courtesan and would-be detective that will make you laugh, and the twists will keep you guessing.”

 

“With cleverness and humor, Pamela Christie brings to life a colorful world that would’ve been at the same time familiar and scandalous to Jane Austen and her readers
.
”

—Anna Loan-Wilsey, author of
A Lack of Temperance

 

“Christie has a lot of fun with her characters in her debut, and the milieu is entertaining.”

 

“A smart, witty and thoroughly entertaining read! It reminds me of some of my favorite series on
Masterpiece Theatre
.”

—Diane Haeger, author of
I, Jane

 

“A delectable treat for the historical mystery lover to savor. . . . You will be left eager for Arabella’s next adventure!”

—Teresa Grant, author of
The Paris Affair

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

 

PAMELA CHRISTIE

 

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

 

T
O
V
ANESSA
P
EPOY
,

 

for technological acumen
and for friendship beyond value,
this book is warmly dedicated.

 

 

“W
ell,” said Belinda, “you have not sought my opinion, but I think he would look remarkably fearsome emerging from the shrubbery, all hard and excited. From that vantage point, anyone sitting in the pergola might imagine herself about to be ravished.”

“Perhaps,” replied Arabella, pensively. “All the same, I believe I shall place him on a pedestal, in the center of the reflecting pool.”

The Beaumont sisters were poring over a letter, and admiring the sender’s enclosed sketch of an ancient bronze. This, the letter asserted modestly, was only a crude portrait of the magnificent statue that had been recently discovered in the bowels of Herculaneum, an Italian city buried centuries earlier in a volcanic eruption. The author of the letter and the artist of the sketch were one and the same: a dealer in plundered antiquities who gratefully acknowledged receipt of the full purchase price.

“The workmen will have to tunnel in and bring it out, you see,” Arabella explained. “And the removal will be extremely dangerous, because of cave-ins and poisonous gas pockets. I expect that is why I was charged so much for it.”

“Well, for that,” said Belinda, “and for the extra bit.”

They studied the picture again. Arabella, who always liked to examine certain features in the best possible light, was using the magnifier.

“Yes,” she said. “I have seen hundreds, if not thousands of statues depicting naked manhood, Bunny, but this is the first I have ever beheld with
two
manhoods.”

“Hmm . . .” mused Belinda. “That short, slender one on top, and then the longer, thicker one beneath it . . . whatever must the sculptor have been thinking?”

“Oh, come now; you know very well what he was thinking! And once I install this piece in my garden, everyone else will be thinking it, too. Yes,” she said with a sigh, “you are probably right; I expect I
have
been charged more for the extra bit. And because the piece is so old,” she added, “and extremely beautiful.”

“. . . And because you are rich,” finished Belinda. “All the same, something about this does not feel quite right. Oughtn’t the statue to stay in the ground, with its dead owner? I mean, it is a kind of memorial now, is it not?”

Arabella put down the magnifier. “I wish you would not be so morbid, Bunny. The owner may very well have escaped the cataclysm, you know, and died years later, in Tarraconen-sis or someplace. Besides, this is
Pan!
Pan, in an amorous attitude! A
doubly
amorous attitude! Even if the owner
did
suffocate at home, what sort of memorial would that be?”

“I don’t know—a memorial to the perpetually stiff, perhaps.”

Peals of girlish laughter flowed out through the library door and along the passage, where the peerless Doyle was headed upstairs with an armful of freshly ironed flannel nightgowns, and the incomparable Fielding was toting a load of wood to the drawing room fireplace. It was autumn, and the nights were chilly now. So were the days, for the matter of that, and the one currently drawing to its close had pulled a thick mist over Brompton Park like a new shroud; all of a piece, without any holes, yet fitting so closely as to reveal the sharper angles of the trees and houses beneath it.

Arabella loved this season. The rich smell of the woods in Regent’s Park gladdened her heart when she took her walks there, the flame-colored leaves bringing out the deep auburn tones of her hair. She enjoyed reading by the fire, with a quilt thrown over her legs, and few events could so reliably elevate her spirits like donning a fur-lined, fur-trimmed pelisse before stepping into her carriage on her way to the theater. Most of all, though, she loved what autumn did to men—the way it made them want to snuggle up next to some warm female body and reward the owner of said body for favors bestowed. Gentlemen of her acquaintance were apt to be especially generous in the autumn.

The Duke of Glen
deen,
for example, her own particular protector when he wasn’t off fighting naval battles, had just presented her with six magnificent horses of a most unusual color. Hides like golden toast they had, with black manes and tails. Three of them, anyway. The other three were cream-colored, but they, too, had the dark manes and tails. Arabella had started a regular trend in carriage horses with these beauties: three each of two complementary colors, as opposed to the more traditional, perfectly matched sets. The idea was very new and widely imitated. And all she had done was to murmur one morning, as she and the duke lay together after a particularly vigorous quarter of an hour, that her carriage horses were tiring more easily, now that they were older. Puddles was always a generous patron—Arabella never wanted for anything—but
six
horses! And it wasn’t even her birthday! Yes, she adored the autumn.

Belinda did, too. But then, Belinda loved all the seasons, as she loved the whole world, being by nature a happy, tender, appreciative creature. The poor child was a trifle morose this evening, however, for the capricious princess regent had abruptly terminated their friendship without giving a reason, and Arabella had shewn her sister the sketch of the naughty statue to cheer her up. It had worked for a few minutes, but now that Belinda had seen it, enjoyed a laugh over it, and offered her opinion on where to put it, she was wistful again.

“I should be glad this has happened, I know; the woman is selfish and vulgar, and I am well rid of her.”

“Yes, you are! Only consider,” said Arabella. “What was the princess wearing, the last time that you saw her?”

“Oh! A profusion of colors, which jumped and clashed together like I do not know what, covered by an ill-fitting spencer of lilac satin! Her gown was cut so low that the tops of her nipples were exposed! I cannot recall the rest.”

“Not even her shoes?”

“Oh, yes! Half boots! Primrose-yellow ones, with the flesh of her fat legs hanging over the tops, and a cap like a pudding bag—with the pudding still in it!”

“Wait a bit,” cried Arabella. “Shakespeare has described that very thing!”

She opened
The Taming of the Shrew,
which she was reading for the fourth or fifth time, and leafed through it till she found Petrucchio’s scene with the haberdasher.

“A custard coffin!” she said triumphantly. “One would think the bard was describing modern apparel! How ever does he
do
that?”

But Belinda, briefly revived by the amusing memory, had grown listless again. “I was hoping that the princess would introduce me to someone I might marry—I do so hate being a burden on you, Bell!”

“You could not possibly be a burden, dear! You are a wonderful, darling companion, and the longer you stay with me, the better I shall be pleased.”

“Truly? Oh, I am glad
somebody
wants my company. Because it
is
humiliating to be dropped, even by a person as horrid as the Wolfen Buttock!” (This was the Beaumonts’ private nickname for the princess, whose title before her marriage was Caroline of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel.)

“Of course it is humiliating, Bunny. But you must try to forget about it. Because Lord Carrington is on the brink of proposing to you, and you need to look as pink-cheeked and sparkling-eyed as you possibly can, for him.”

Belinda smiled at this, and there stole across her countenance such an expression of dreamy contentment that it did her sister’s heart good to see it. But Bunny’s heavenward gaze was interrupted in its journey up the library wall by the portrait of Oliver Wedge that hung there, and her smile faded.

“Bell,” she said. “I own I do not understand why you keep that thing!”

Arabella regarded the picture with wistful affection.

“For three good reasons and one foolish one: as the last bequest of a condemned man, as a warning not to trust in surface appearances, and as a reminder to believe in myself—to recall that I may, with application, accomplish miracles.”

“With application . . . and
my
assistance, d’you mean?”

“Of course, Bunny! I should never have tried to save myself from the gallows, but for your urging!”

“And the fourth reason?”

Arabella rose and began to pace the room. “You have just had the three good ones. Can you not be satisfied with those?”

“No! I want the foolish one, as well!”

Arabella sighed with feigned reluctance—for really, she was all eagerness to tell it. “Because,” said she, stopping beneath the portrait, and gazing up at it, “he was the best lover I have ever had, or am ever likely to have.”

“Oh, Bell; how can you say so? With only one encounter, on an untidy desktop? It was probably just the danger that somebody might walk in upon you.”

“Pooh! I should not have cared if they had! But there is something in what you say: the danger.” She glanced out her window at the misty garden. “When . . . he was strangling me, I was certain I should die. But when he stopped, just for a moment, I felt . . . as though . . . I wanted to have his child.”

Belinda was shocked to the core. “That is the most perverted statement I have ever heard you utter!”

“I know. As I said, it was only for a moment. The feeling passed. But the memory of the feeling haunts me still.”

“Some people are addicted to danger,” said Belinda. “They seek it out, because it gives them a kind of thrill not otherwise obtainable. I truly hope that you are not one of those people—they have a tendency to die years before their time.”

“Me? Heavens, Bunny; what nonsense! I am perfectly happy as I am. Home at Lustings, with my library and my cook, my trout stream, my parchment ponies, and my aviatory. What more could I possibly want?”

“I’m sure
I
could not say, if
you
could not,” said Belinda with an injured air.

“I shall tell you, then,” said Arabella, pulling her sister up from the chair and enfolding her in her arms. “The love and constant support of the best, the dearest little sister in all the world!”

Belinda, mollified, returned her embrace, glancing down over Arabella’s shoulder at the sketch of the statue.

“Perhaps we should place him in the aviatory.”

“Oh, no, dear; he would be coated with droppings inside of a week!”

“Birds fly over the garden, too.”

“Yes, but he stands more of a chance outside.” Arabella picked up the letter and gazed at the little sketch with fond affection. “Now, why could not
this
have been the deity who created man in His own image?”

“Because,” said Belinda gravely. “Life is not fair.”