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Lady Rample Spies A Clue: Lady Rample Mysteries, #2
Lady Rample Spies A Clue: Lady Rample Mysteries, #2
Lady Rample Spies A Clue: Lady Rample Mysteries, #2
Ebook175 pages4 hoursLady Rample Mysteries

Lady Rample Spies A Clue: Lady Rample Mysteries, #2

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A house party in Devon, England takes a turn for the murderous.

Lady Rample and her eccentric Aunt Butty escape the broiling heat of a London summer for the cooler climes of the English countryside. But the idyllic holiday is not all cocktails and lawn croquet. And when a man is found dead in their host’s study, she knows there’s more going on than a simple break-in.

With spies lurking in the bushes, her maid locked up in the local jail, and danger at every turn, Lady Rample is not one to give up or give in when there’s a mystery afoot. Armed with cocktails, lipstick, and plenty of sex appeal, she’s going to catch the spies, solve the murder, and set things right. Unless the killer gets to her first.

From the author of Lady Rample Steps Out comes the delightful second installment of the Lady Rample Mysteries set in 1930s jazz-era London.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherSunwalker Press
Release dateApr 5, 2018
ISBN9781386467373
Lady Rample Spies A Clue: Lady Rample Mysteries, #2
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Author

Shéa MacLeod

Author of the international best selling paranormal series, Sunwalker Saga. Native of Portlandia. Addicted to lemon curd and Ancient Aliens.

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    Lady Rample Spies A Clue - Shéa MacLeod

    This one’s for Julie M.

    Because she loves Devon as much as I do.

    Chapter 1

    Y ou’re going to kill us all!

    Don’t be dramatic. I gave Aunt Butty the side-eye as she clutched her hat firmly to her head. Today’s monstrosity was ivory felt covered in so many pearls it was a wonder she could hold her head upright. An enormous, white ostrich feather poked wildly from the back. I hadn’t the heart to tell her the tip had been crushed against the roof of my beloved motorcar.

    Eyes on the road! she shrieked, bosom heaving.

    I did so in time to discover a hedgerow looming rather closer than I was comfortable with. Yanking the wheel hard to the right, I managed to avoid scraping the paint of the cobalt blue Mercedes Roadster—a gift from my late husband, Lord Rample. Unfortunately, I nearly took out a lorry coming the other direction. The driver blared his horn and shook a fist as he rumbled past.

    We’re fine, Aunt. If my heart had lodged itself somewhere in my throat, I’d never admit it. Instead I gave her a bright smile and forced myself to relax my grip on the steering wheel. Not much further now. I can see the church spire in the distance. Our destination, the village of Stickleberry in Devon, was practically just around the corner. In fact, I could already smell the fresh sea air.

    Too far for my taste, Aunt Butty muttered. I noticed she hadn’t let go of the door handle or her hat. And you don’t fool me one bit, Ophelia.

    I’d no doubt of that. Aunt Butty knew me far too well. She was my favorite—if only—aunt, after all, and—when I was sixteen—had saved me from a dastardly dull life and ushered me into the realm of the glitterati. If anyone in this world knew me, it was her.

    Two ornate wrought iron gates appeared just ahead. They were firmly placed in an ancient stone wall swathed in ivy. Next to the gates, a neatly carved stone newly imbedded in the wall declared this to be Wit’s End. There, you see. As I said. I tooted the horn as we approached, and the gates swung open almost as if by magic. That is, if magic were powered by a uniformed gateman with an impossibly enormous handlebar moustache and eyebrows that could have had their own post code.

    He waved us through with a flourish, and I zipped up the drive, winding beneath the spread of oak trees. It was as if we were passing through a long, green tunnel. Green-tinted dappled light filtered through the leaves, creating a dream-like world that beckoned us onward. The cool, shaded air was a welcome relief to the stifling summer heat. It was unseasonably warm even for July.

    We burst out of the tunnel and into full daylight once again.

    Good gracious, it’s magnificent, isn’t it? Aunt Butty stopped clutching at her hat to eyeball the edifice looming above us.

    The manor was Georgian, whitewashed, and gleaming. A small portico supported by simple, elegant pillars stood guard over the front steps. Small, square windows glinted like jewels in the sun. We swept up the drive, around a large fountain containing a fat, naked cherub spewing a stream of water from his nether regions and came to a stop by the front door in a spray of gravel.

    Aunt Butty let out a sigh of relief and leaned back weakly against the seat. I managed to hold back a snort at her theatrics.

    The manor door itself was the same white as the stone walls, as if it could blend into the facade. Wisteria—only a few of the lush, purple blooms left this late in the season—trailed up and over the portico before spilling down in an elegant swath. The door swung open and a black-garbed butler stepped out and strode across the drive, his pace even, unhurried. As if there were all the time in the world. He swung open the passenger door for my aunt even as my own opened and a liveried chauffeur grinned down at me.

    My lady. May I assist you? He had a marked accent, vaguely European, and a dimple in his cheek. I imagine he had half the ladies of Stickleberry swoony, despite the distrust of country fold for anything foreign.

    He helped me from the car with all the deference due my station and then some. Before I knew it, I found myself standing in front of the stiff, unapproving butler. His collar was so starched, it was a wonder he didn’t put his own eye out.

    Welcome to Wit’s End. He said it with an absolutely straight face and with as much flourish as one might announce Buckingham Palace or Balmoral.

    What a dashed odd name for a manor house, Aunt Butty muttered. Harry must have been feeling a bit cheeky. I approve.

    Ophelia, Lady Rample. And this is my aunt, Lady Lucas. Technically speaking, Aunt Butty was a mere Mrs. Trent. It was the second of her three husbands who’d been Lord Lucas, but my aunt much preferred the title—not to mention the second husband—and used it when she could, whether it was hers or not. After all, as she put it, Lord Lucas was dead as a doornail and without heirs, so who was to complain?

    The butler bowed deeply. I am Jarvis.

    Of course, you are, my aunt muttered. I nudged her with my elbow, and she shot me an aggrieved look.

    There was more bowing and scraping nonsense before we were ushered inside while the chauffeur drove away with my car. I did hope he treated her right. She was a thing of beauty. A single scratch and I would have his head, dimple or no dimple.

    The front door led directly into a large foyer with a smooth floor of white marble shot through with gray. Directly in front of us was a wide, sweeping staircase leading upward, the polished wooden treads covered in a red and gold carpet runner that looked practically new. To the right was an ornately carved mahogany hall tree complete with bench and cloudy antique mirror. To the left was a tall pillar in the same marble as the floor with a white bust of some famous person or other perched on top. It looked like possibly Mozart, but it could have been any number of big-wigged historical gentlemen. In any case, the bust was currently graced by a tri-horn hat tipped cockily over one eye.

    We were turned over to the housekeeper who ushered us upstairs in a jangle of keys and swish of crinolines. Really, who wore crinoline these days? It was 1932, for mercy’s sake. And summer! Far too hot for such nonsense.

    Bates was a short, round woman with an impressive head of iron-gray curls shoved up under a starched white cap. She wore a black dress—just as starched and stiff as the butler’s collar—that looked like it had come from the last century. I wondered vaguely if our host liked his staff to play dress-up, or if these particular servants just preferred the old ways. At least they’d eschewed powdered wigs.

    Has my maid arrived? I asked Bates’s ramrod straight back.

    She arrived this morning, my lady. Along with your luggage. I believe she is currently unpacking.

    Well, that was alright then. I’d been a little worried. Maddie was an excellent maid, if a little odd and a bit forthright. However, I’d never had the opportunity to travel with her, and sending her on ahead with both my and Aunt Butty’s luggage—her own maid, Flora, being left behind in London—had made me a touch nervous.

    Up the broad stairs—past portraits of grim ancestors—and to the right, a further turn left, and Bates left us in front of a door. This will be your room, Lady Rample. Lady Lucas, yours is just across the hall. Dinner will be served at 8pm sharp. Her beady eyes latched onto me in an almost accusing manner. As if I’d ever been late for a meal in my life.

    I don’t suppose you could manage to send up a pot of tea in the meantime, I said dryly. Perhaps a bite to eat. My aunt and I have had quite the trip.

    Of course, my lady, Bates said grudgingly. And with that, she did a sharp one-eighty and bustled down the hall.

    Well, I never, Aunt Butty said with understandable outrage as the rustle of crinolines retreated.

    Maybe she doesn’t care for guests.

    She’s paid to care, Aunt Butty said stiffly. Believe me, I shall bring this up with Harry.

    Harry deVane being our host. Although lacking a title or any sort of pedigree, somehow the man had made an insane amount of money, purchased this manor house in Devon from an impoverished peer, and inserted himself into upper crust British society while still maintaining an edge of mystery and, dare I say, danger. He was just Aunt Butty’s sort of person. Which, no doubt, was how she’d managed to wrangle an invite for both of us. Aunt Butty certainly had her ways.

    Personally, I’d never met the man, but I’d been more than happy to leave London and my townhouse stewing in the summer heat while I escaped for a fortnight to the relative cool and fresh air of the country. Not to mention I’d heard rumors of Harry deVane’s parties, and I’d been at something of a loss for good entertainment since my favorite jazz club had been shut down.

    My dearest friend, Chaz, had tried desperately to introduce me to all sorts of hedonistic delights in the guise of music clubs and house parties, but none of them could rouse me from my funk. I refused to consider that it might not be lack of entertainment at all, but lack of one specific person who was probably swanning about France and had forgotten all about me.

    Giving myself a stern internal order to quit messing about and get on with it, I pushed open the door to my room. It was lovely. One end of the room held a large, comfortable looking walnut-framed bed piled high with a rose-colored satin quilt and far too many pillows for one person. At the foot of the bed was a cozy, overstuffed armchair in violet blue. To the right was a chaise longue that matched the bed and an armoire, also walnut, from which a bony chintz-covered backside currently extended, and a rather tuneless humming emanated.

    Maddie?

    There was a squeak, and the backside disappeared to be replaced by a whole person. Maddie’s narrow face was flushed from exertion and her hickory brown hair stuck up in several directions, having escaped the braids wrapped around her head like a milkmaid. She was a little thing, no more than twenty-five, with dark eyes far too shrewd for one so young. M’lady. You’ve come. She sounded astonished as if she’d expected me to get lost somewhere on the road between London and Devon.

    Of course, I have. It’s gone three. I calmly pulled off my gloves and handed them to her along with my handbag.

    Right. She turned and stuffed my possessions into the wardrobe. ‘Course. Er, I haven’t finished putting away for her ladyship.

    Lady Lucas? I asked.

    Right. Lady Lucas. Maddie shot my aunt an apologetic look. Sorry, your ladyship. I’ll get to it soon as ever I can.

    No worries. Aunt Butty waved a beringed hand as she plopped down onto the chaise longue and arranged herself artfully as if posing for a painting. If the stories she told were true, this wouldn’t be the first time she’d struck such a pose. Although this time she was likely wearing more clothing. I shall rest here until you are finished. I feel in dire need of a rest.

    In reality, she probably just didn’t want to miss out on tea. Not that I blamed her. I was famished.

    I’ll be finished in a tick, Maddie promised, turning back to the wardrobe.

    No rush, I assured her. Although what she’d been doing

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