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  DARING DUPLICITY

  THE WELLINGTON MYSTERIES, VOL. 1: ADVENTURES OF A LESBIAN VICTORIAN DETECTIVE

  EDALE LANE

  PAST AND PROLOGUE PRESS

  Daring Duplicity, the Wellington Mysteries, Vol. 1

  By Edale Lane

  Published by Past and Prologue Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without

  written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Melodie Romeo

  Cover art by Enggar Adirasa

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition January 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by Edale Lane

  Printed in the United States of America

  Created with Vellum

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  The Blackmailed Female

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Bludgeoned Ballerina

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Wayward Wife

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Lost Night

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Perilous Train Ride

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Exclusive!

  Other Books by Edale Lane

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I wish to thank Samantha and Megan Derr of Less than Three Press for initially publishing my novella, Mr. X and the Blackmailed Female in their anthology Private Dicks: Packing Heat. Your faith in my work inspired me to go on to write Heart of Sherwood and many other Edale Lane novels. Spelling is not my forte, and I must thank Laure Dherbecourt for her brilliant proof-reading expertise, along with beta reader Michele Fuller-Hallauer who caught the oddities others missed. I have made friends in the indie publishing business and offer a special thanks to Stephen Zimmer and J. Scott Coatsworth for their continuing contributions to my publishing process, along with Enggar Adirasa for the lovely cover art. No acknowledgements would be complete without recognizing the daily aid offered to me by my partner, Johanna White, as she catches the vast majority of my transposed words, letters, numbers, and other dyslexic errors. In conclusion, I live in appreciation of my mother, Patty Burns, who passed on to bigger and better things in 2000. She loved mysteries, and I grew up with Agatha Christie, Sir Authur Conan Doyle, and Edgar Allan Poe as a members of the household (figuratively speaking, of course.) Thank you, Mama, for the intrigue, interest, and inspiration you fostered in a daughter who started out in life as a slow reader.

  THE BLACKMAILED FEMALE

  Late in the reign of Queen Victoria, London, England

  CHAPTER 1

  Thick, black smoke billowed from the huge iron horse as it whistled impatiently at the people crowding the London rail station on a Tuesday afternoon. Ace detective Xavier Wellington wove through the throng, stealthily shadowing the man with an inky mustache and bowler hat. His subject was nervous, throwing looks over his shoulder, darting left and right as if to throw any pursuer off his trail. The once red brick terminal, now inky with soot stains, roared with the chug of engines, screams of escaping steam, and the din of the crowd, but that did not prevent Wellington's keen senses from realizing he was being followed as well. His quarry must have had an accomplice who would need to be dealt with before Wellington could complete his mission.

  Noting which railcar the miscreant stepped into, Wellington moved away from the bustle to draw his stalker out. The same unshaven, sandy-haired thug in the russet Palmerston coat loitered near him, pretending to check his pocket watch. An amused smirk played across Wellington's face between the brown fuzz of muttonchops extending from beneath a crop of pecan hair, and a twinkle shone in cognac eyes as he adjusted his Homburg. He nonchalantly turned and began to stroll back toward the platform, listening carefully for the footsteps that followed.

  "’Old it right ‘ere," spat out a gruff voice. Wellington felt the iron barrel jab below his right shoulder. The weight of his own Ulster Bulldog hanging in his charcoal overcoat pocket was reassuring, but this was not the time for that.

  Wellington reacted with feigned surprise, raising empty hands to shoulder level. "I don't have any cash on my person," came the reply.

  "Ya don't fool me," the thug hissed. "Yer following—"

  He never finished his phrase. Wellington spun with lightning speed, left forearm smashing into the man's gun arm causing his grip to falter. Astonishment seized the man while Wellington stuck his temple with a right elbow, stomped his foot with a heavy boot, and followed through with a left hook to his jaw. The goon dropped his pistol, which discharged upon slamming to the pavement, and he stumbled back against the brick wall, dazed and confused. Wellington threw one more punch. Upon hearing the constable's whistle blow, he decided a quick exit was needed. He raced onto the train car in hopes it still contained the criminal he pursued. It was in the nick of time, too; the attendant made his last call for boarding.

  Sharp eyes scanned the car and spotted the same man with the black mustache standing to place his bag in the overhead compartment. Wellington slowly winded his way up the aisle and casually bumped the fellow. "We are getting off this train now, Worsham." His tone was low, commanding, and deliberate, but it was the cold, hard barrel of the Bulldog against the felon's back that persuaded him.

  "I can cut you in," Worsham said in an unsteady voice. "I have a buyer. Highest discretion. We can be partners, you and I, right?"

  "Wrong." He jammed the palm-sized revolver more forcefully into Worsham's ribs. "Let's go."

  Ten minutes later, a street urchin trotted up to a bobby outside the rail station. "Sir, a bloke paid me a farthin' ter give this ter ya." His dirty little hand stretched out to present a cloth bag.

  The officer viewed the lad suspiciously, but took the package and almost fainted when he looked inside. "Well, I'll be buggered!" he exclaimed, wide-eyed. The bag was filled with diamonds! A card also laid within, which he brought out to read. "'These are from yesterday's robbery. You will find the thief tied to a hitching post around the corner to your right. Regards, Mr. X'." The other side of the card bore the printed words, "Xavier Wellington Private Investigations," and the address, "193B, Haverstock Hill Street, London."

  "Well, I'll be!" he repeated in disbelief.

  Late that evening on Piccadilly Street, Jewel Ashton needed to get away from her parents' ball. She had courteously danced with every eligible young gentleman, and even a few widowers, and had engaged in all the polite conversation she could stand. As she tried to make her escape toward the main staircase, a handsome dark-haired suitor accosted her. "Lady Ashton," he called hopefully.

  She stopped at the foot of the steps, cursed silently under her breath, and put on a façade of charm and grace. "Yes, Lord Barnsley?" she inquired as she tur
ned to face him with a smile. He looked expectant, and quite debonair in his Beau Brummell suit.

  "Well, I didn't intend to interrupt you. I mean, if you needed to powder your nose or whatever young women do. I mean, I was just hoping," he stammered, seemingly incapable of successfully conversing with a woman.

  She wanted more than anything to rap him on the head out of sheer frustration, but that was not an option. So she broadened her smile even more. "I do need to retreat very briefly, but I assure you I will be back to enjoy the evening momentarily. Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

  "Well, begging your pardon, but I was wondering if you have decided to accept my offer to escort you to the Winslow ball next Saturday. I would be greatly honored if you saw fit to do so."

  I can’t think about stupid balls now! The thought rushed through her mind as imminent dread charged through her emotions. I haven't time for such frivolity! But she was obliged to answer. She could not recall ever attending a ball with the dashing Barnsley before, so maybe he would do. She made a point of not granting any of the potentials more attention than the rest, playing them off one another as often as possible to forestall any getting their sights set upon a marriage proposal.

  "Why, I would love to," she replied, batting the lashes of her brilliant green eyes. "Now if you will kindly excuse me for a moment, we can discuss all the details when I return." She collected her spruce silk skirts and proceeded up the steps.

  His face brightened to a shining glow. "Yes, that would be most agreeable. I will wait right here!"

  Oh, lovely! Jewel thought, but remained poised and cheery until well out of his sight. She started toward the water closet, then skittered past to the servants' stairs to double back down to the main floor on the opposite end of the house.

  Jewel made her way soundlessly through the dark of the mansion until she reached the entry to her father's study. Good—unlocked! He seldom locked it anyway, so that was not of much concern. She slid in and closed the door behind her, the scent of pipe tobacco and old leather-bound books permeating the room. There was enough moonlight for her to find a candle and strike a match to it. Her mission was urgent and must remain secret, so this was the best time for her to gain the needed information.

  Jewel hurried over to her father's desk, glancing back at the door nervously, and then searched around until she found his card box. She sat at the desk, placed the candle beside the box, and thumbed through the array of business cards until she came to one that read, "Xavier Wellington, Private Investigations." Eureka! She set the address to memory, replaced the card, blew out the light, and returned to the ball with none being the wiser. This had better work, she thought, continuing to dwell on her crisis, or we are all ruined!

  CHAPTER 2

  Twenty-eight-year-old Stetson Goody sat at a walnut office desk sipping tea and reading the morning's copy of The Times in her office at 193B, Haverstock Hill Street. Across from her a pair of comfortable armchairs sat before a large plate-glass window trimmed with maroon curtains. To her right was the entry and behind her desk chair a door labeled "private." Her flame-red hair was arranged in a neat, business-like bun, but a short sweep of bangs and two delicate ringlets fell in front of her ears. She wore a conservatively cut earth-tone suit, complete with floor-length skirt, high-collared blouse, and tailored jacket. The building, outwardly as stained with soot as the rest of London, was divided into four offices, each with apartments above, shared between a stockbroker, an insurance agent, a photography shop, and Xavier Wellington's Private Investigations.

  Her mouth curved into a satisfied grin as she read about the apprehension of the diamond thief and the return of the precious gems, when a hard, swift knock rapped at the door. She hastily laid the paper down and jostled on her gold-rimmed spectacles before rising to her full height, which was unusually tall for a woman. "Come in," she called, and began an unhurried stroll toward the entry.

  The door quickly opened, and instead of seeing the usual middle-aged man, her eyes fell upon a beautiful young lady who scurried in and closed the door behind herself. "Do come in," she offered politely, even though the potential client was already inside. "Do you require the detective's services, Miss…?"

  "Ashton," she replied in a nervous voice. "Jewel Ashton. And, yes, I would like to hire Mr. Wellington on a matter of the greatest urgency and delicacy."

  And a jewel she was indeed! Stetson's heart leapt in her throat as she drank in the vision standing before her: ruby lips set on porcelain skin, brilliant emerald eyes, hair of spun gold, and an hour-glass figure poured into a simple cobalt blue polonaise dress. Not wanting to appear completely dumbfounded, Stetson filled the silent void. "Oh? Are you a relation of Lord Cecil Ashton of Parliament?"

  "I am his daughter," she breathed, as if she didn't want anyone to hear.

  "Come, dear, and have a seat," she invited, motioning to the chair opposite her desk. "I am Miss Goody, Mr. Wellington's assistant." Stetson settled behind her desk as Jewel sat across from her. "And how can the investigator be of service to you, Lady Jewel Ashton?"

  Jewel gripped her own gloved hands and scanned the room anxiously. "It is a matter of the utmost discretion," she began in a tone much more demanding than she had intended. "It is of a personal nature, you see," she continued more gently and forced a polite smile. "May I speak with Mr. Wellington in private?"

  Miss Goody responded with a pleasant smile of her own. "I'm afraid that will not be possible. Mr. X is extremely successful in foiling criminals because of his anonymity. In fact, no one has ever seen him but me. All correspondence between the investigator and the clients goes through his assistant—me. So how this works is, you tell me the specifics, I talk to him, and he gives me a list of questions to ask, and so forth. I assure you, anything you say to me will be kept in the strictest of confidence, just as if you were conversing with the detective himself."

  "I see." The assistant paused for a moment before continuing and her attention fell on Miss Goody for the first time, being specifically drawn to ample breasts squeezed into her buttoned waist coat. It required conscious effort for Jewel to raise her gaze, but doing so she became captivated by two warm, caring cognac eyes. "Very well, then. I am being blackmailed, and the nature of the information being held over me makes it impossible to go to Scotland Yard, or a constable, or even my father, for the money. I receive an allowance, not enough to meet the foul villain's demands, but sufficient to cover your agency's fees and expenses I'm sure."

  "I see," she replied with a soft expression of compassion. "Was the man you were seen with married, or simply from the wrong side of the tracks?"

  "Well," Jewel stammered, cleared her throat, and fixed her gaze on a painting on the wall. "Not exactly. And he has a photograph."

  Miss Goody sighed and leaned forward, her palms on the desk top. "Now, Lady Jewel Ashton, if we are to find this blackmailer and save your reputation, you cannot hold anything back. How can Mr. Wellington help you if you won't tell us the whole story?"

  "It is not my reputation I am concerned with," she admitted, a hint of real fear trembling in her voice. "My whole family could be ruined, utterly ruined, and destroy my father's political career. We would be forced to retreat to our estate in the countryside. I cannot allow shame to come upon my family for one moment's indiscretion."

  Miss Goody met her eyes. "I assure you if you provide Mr. X all the information he needs, he can find this scoundrel, take back the photo and the plates, and give him every reason to keep his deceitful mouth closed on the matter."

  Jewel held her gaze for a long moment, and believing her sincerity, made a decision—the only one she could really make. She opened her reticule and withdrew a tan envelope. "Someone left this in my carriage while I was shopping. My driver said he didn't see or hear a thing." She placed the parcel on the desk within Miss Goody's reach and held her breath.

  Stetson opened the envelope and spilled its contents out onto the desk. Inside was a note and a photograph, no
t of Jewel kissing a married man, but another young woman! For an instant, time stood still. A flush rose in Jewel's cheeks while Stetson's mouth absently fell agape as she stared dumbfounded at the image. Stetson's mind raced almost as fast as her heart. Could it be that this beautiful gem who walked in this morning has the same inclination as myself? Could there actually be other women who love women, that I am not a singular oddity? She not only had these thoughts, but acted on them! She had never met another like-minded woman—not to mention one whose looks could stop a locomotive in its tracks like Jewel Ashton.

  She was roused from her musings when she heard a desperate voice from across the desk. "So now you see the urgency and delicacy of the matter."

  She quickly shoved the note and the photograph back into the envelope and replied with sincerity. "Do not be distressed, Lady Jewel Ashton. We will take care of this with great expediency. I shall show these to the detective and he will know just what to do. Wait here. I'll return anon."