For readers of Alison Goodman's Ill-Mannered Ladies series, Bridgerton meets Agatha Christie as this delicious Regency country estate mystery with a feminist twist introduces accidental detective Lady Miranda Harwood, a woman of great fortitude and admirable sleuthing skills, determined to save her family from ruin.

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Chapter One

Surrey, late June, 1814

It was a relief to see Godfrey Manor appear through the post-chaise’s dusty front window; after four hours on the road from London, Miranda’s whole body ached. Post-chaise was the quickest way to travel long distances, but they were called ‘yellow bounders’ for a reason. Thank Heaven they’d arrived.

The big oak doors were open, as they usually were in summer, and Mr  Bolton, her family’s cherished butler, came out to greet them, followed down the wide steps by two footmen.
The postilions leaped from their horses and went to the leaders’ heads, gravel crunching under their boots. Mr  Bolton directed the footmen to let down the steps.

Miranda alighted first and one of the footmen helped Cecy to the ground.

‘Thank you, Andrew.’ Miranda nodded to him. He smiled, perhaps pleased that she’d remembered his name, but of course she did. He’d worked at the Manor since he was a boy. Besides, once seen, never forgotten, as Aunt Phoebe said. Andrew was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on, although footmen were always chosen for their height and looks.

‘I didn’t remember it was so big!’ her stepdaughter Cecy said, gazing up at the Manor, eyes wide. She edged closer to Miranda and took her hand. Since her father’s death, she’d become perhaps too attached. Miranda gathered her up into a hug and set her back on her feet.

‘You’ll soon remember your way around, lamb.’

‘Mr Bolton.’ Miranda nodded to the butler, who smiled at her as he rarely smiled at anyone.

Then her sisters ran out.

Desdemona and Imogen—really, they all had the most ridiculous names, Shakespearian or not!—were unalike in everything except their intense enthusiasms and their Godfrey blue eyes.

At twenty, Dessie was buxom, red-headed and Dramatic. Imogen, who was seventeen, was slender, brown-haired, and Intense.

Their smiles, however, were equally warm. Desdemona danced down the steps while Imogen twirled as her feet hit the gravel of the drive.

‘She’s home! Gaudete! Beatitudo!’ she sang.

‘Dance with me, Cecy!’ Desdemona said, and the two of them whirled off into a waltz, Cecy giggling helplessly. Imogen hugged Miranda. She was wearing her hair à la Ancienne. This obsession with Ancient Rome was becoming a little excessive.

‘It’s wonderful to have you home, milady,’ Mr Bolton said, ignoring the silliness as he always did. Like most butlers, Mr Bolton had begun as a footman, so he also had height and good looks which, added to his now-grey hair and smooth manner, disguised his intelligence and focus.

‘I’m glad to be back.’

‘May we hope that you’ll be staying?’ His voice was hopeful. Dear man.

‘Of course she’ll be staying,’ Imogen said, tucking her hand into Miranda’s arm. ‘She hasn’t been here for years!’

Only two years, although her period of mourning felt like a lifetime. Miranda smiled at them both. ‘Until the end of August. I’ve taken a house in Bath for September.’

He bowed, seeming disappointed. Had he really expected her to stay permanently, to return to her childhood home as though she were an unmarried girl? She was a widow, not a poor relation.

The chaise started up, heading for the stables at the side where the horses and postilions would be cared for overnight before they returned to the posting inn. She didn’t bother to keep her own carriage now that George was dead.

She gathered Desdemona and Cecy with a gesture. She and Cecy went into the house hand-in-hand, Imogen on her other arm, and Desdemona arm-in-arm with Imogen.

‘The Godfrey girls!’ Desdemona said.

‘I’m not a Godfrey.’ Cecy’s voice was hesitant.

Imogen spun in front of her and used a hair comb to tap her on each shoulder.

‘Miss Cecelia Harwood, I dub you an honorary Godfrey!’ she intoned. Cecy beamed and skipped to keep up with them.

The sudden cool in the Hall was very welcome after the summer heat.

The Hall at Godfrey Manor was designed to impress. The two long, curving staircases marching up each wall, the coats of armour at the base of each stair, the huge fireplace at the back, big enough to take a full Yule log, and, most definitely Godfreyesque, the enormous stained-glass window above the stairs, showing Hamlet with Yorick’s skull. The scent of furniture polish and of the old tapestries on the side walls.

Miranda sighed again. It was so comfortable to be home. She pulled off her gloves with relief.

And there were Mama and Papa, coming out of the drawing room. ‘Miranda!’ Mama kissed her cheek, the familiar scent of lily-of-the-valley another welcome.

Her father smiled benignly and nodded to her but bowed solemnly to Cecy when she curtsied to him.

‘Welcome back,’ he said. Cecy beamed and curtseyed to Mama, who hugged her briefly.
Mama smiled kindly at Cecy. That was one thing Miranda could count on with relief: her parents always treated Cecelia as though she were a blood relation.

‘How nice to have you both here again.’ Mama’s brow wrinkled. ‘Your trip wasn’t too tiring? Perhaps you should rest.’

‘Tea in the drawing room when you’re ready,’ Papa said.

‘Oh, perhaps you’ll want to freshen yourselves first,’ Mama said, her hands fluttering uncertainly. ‘Or you could come in as you are …’

‘In all their dirt!’ Her father scoffed. ‘No, no, let them refresh themselves.’

‘Well, if you think so  … it’s probably best.’ Mama nodded acquiescence before they both went back into the drawing room, followed by Desdemona, who made a face at her on the way.

Good Lord, did Cecy and she smell? After five hours in a chaise, they probably did.

She did feel noticeably sticky. Certainly she would be more comfortable after changing her travelling clothes for a light morning gown and using the chamber pot. A wash was in order, for both of them, and it would give her a chance to show Cecy her new room and make sure she was happy there.

She turned towards the staircase, to go to her room, but Mr Bolton was hovering.

‘Is everything all right, Mr  Bolton?’ she asked. ‘My maid and luggage arrived as arranged? And Cecy’s nursemaid?’

The servants had set off earlier than she and Cecy in a travelling coach with the luggage.

‘Oh, yes, Miss Miranda, it’s just that …’

She put up one finger to pause him, but inwardly she sighed. She’d know she’d be deluged with questions once she was home, but surely they could let her wash first? She needed that po.

‘Cecy, go with Imogen to your room, have Dorothy help you wash and change, then come for tea in the drawing room.’

Dorothy, Cecy’s nursemaid, would take care of her; Cecy might not remember much of Godfrey Manor, since it had been two years since they’d been here, but Dorothy had been here many times and was on good terms with the other staff.

Cecy’s lip trembled.

‘Will you come soon, Mama?’ Oh, the poor pet. A flash of resentment speared through Miranda. They could at least wait until her daughter was settled before they descended on her.

‘Of course I will, lamb.’ Miranda knelt and whispered in her ear. 

‘I’ll get Cook to send up some cake and you and Dorothy can have a picnic.’

‘Cake!’

Cecy kissed her cheek, then bounced up and took Imogen’s outstretched hand.

‘Now, Mr Bolton,’ Miranda said.

Mr Bolton launched into a series of questions, ‘… given that your parents have been, er, busy today.’

Of course they were. Well, better than she handle everything than have things go wrong.

‘How many bedchambers should we prepare for the Play?’ Mr Bolton asked.

‘All of them, I imagine. The house is usually full.’

Mr Bolton went on. The timing of the lawn scything. The repair of the bridge over the stream. The problem of replacing a reliable chamber maid who had, a shocking thing, actually married a tenant farmer! Good for her, Miranda thought.

‘There’s an Irish girl who’s been working at the hotel in the village who might suit,’ Bolton said. ‘Maureen Cafferty.’

‘Let’s try her out. A six-month trial?’ Mr Bolton nodded.

In the middle of the conversation, Mrs Bidwell, the housekeeper, sailed out from behind the green baize door to the kitchens, menus in hand, to get her approval.

‘Surely my mother approved the menus for tonight?’ The two senior servants exchanged glances.

Miranda waited, her stomach churning a little. Surely Mama could at least accomplish a menu approval!

‘Well … milady said, since you were arriving today …’ Mrs Bidwell’s voice trailed off apologetically.

‘I see,’ Miranda said dryly. No doubt Mama had been putting off many issues ‘since Miranda was coming.’ She didn’t mind. Really. ‘Let me see.’ Perusing the menu, she frowned. ‘You and Cook have done an excellent job, as usual. There’s no need to change anything.’

‘Thank you, Miss Miranda.’

She ignored the misnaming. The servants who had known her all her life sometimes forgot to call her ‘my lady’, even though formally she’d been ‘Lady Miranda’ her whole life.

Mrs Bidwell had half a dozen other issues, which Miranda dealt with quickly, urged on by the pressure in her bladder.

‘It’s so good to have you home again,’ Mrs Bidwell said with heartfelt candour. Miranda bit her lip to stop smiling. Poor Mrs Bidwell dealt with so much from Mama. And Papa, come to that.

‘It’s good to be here,’ she said. ‘And now I really must change. Papa mentioned tea in the drawing room, Mrs Bidwell?’

‘Certain sure, miss. And Cook has made some nice currant lardy cake.’

Lardy cake was her favourite, and her cook in London just couldn’t make it.

‘Now I know I really am home. Could you send some up to Miss Cecelia?’

‘Of course I can!’

Mrs Bidwell and Mr Bolton beamed at her in unison, twin souls full of relief that she was there.

After the relief of using the chamber pot, and of having a moment to herself, Miranda had time to appreciate that her room had been refurbished with peacock silk embroidered hangings and curtains, glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. The furniture was mostly the same, except that the carved pineapple on one of the four posts of the bed had been replaced. Her younger brother Ben had knocked it off when he was a boy, playing with a rounders ball. How kind of … well, it could have been Mama, but more likely it was Desdemona. Peacock was a favourite colour of Dessie’s.

Her maid, Trenton, had already unpacked for her, and brought warm water from the kitchen. What a blessing it was to have an intelligent maid.

Standing in her chemise, washing the journey-dirt away, she wasn’t surprised when the door burst open and her sisters rushed in. Tea in the drawing room couldn’t compete with catch-up gossip.

Trenton quietly let herself out of the room to give them privacy, and her sisters immediately helped her into her lavender muslin gown and fastened the myriad of buttons at the back.

‘Miranda, why are you still wearing these dreary colours?’ Desdemona demanded. ‘It’s been two years. You’re out of mourning now.’

‘Well, yes, but this gown is quite light and comfortable. I don’t see that there’s any reason to get rid of it. It’s not as though it’s black.’ Miranda gestured to the new hangings on the bed. ‘Your idea?’

Desdemona dimpled. ‘You like the colour?’

‘Very much. Thank you, dearest.’

Her sister gave a little, satisfied nod. That was all, but they understood one another perfectly.

They sat on the bed, as they always had, Miranda’s back against the pillows, the girls each on a pillow propped against a post of the four-poster bed. Desdemona pushed the peacock silk hangings away impatiently.

She was peaked. Her cheeks were pale, there were circles under her eyes, and something about her gaiety felt forced. Miranda put the thought away. No use to ask her anything while Imogen was here.

‘You can buy a whole new wardrobe,’ Imogen said wistfully. Dessie snorted. ‘As though you couldn’t, if you asked.’

Indeed. Imogen could have all the clothes she wanted. Any of the Godfreys could.

‘Yes, but I have to go for fittings, and to be measured every three months, in case I haven’t stopped growing!’

At seventeen, Imogen was taller than Dessie, about the same height as Miranda herself.
‘Is that so bad?’

‘Mama …’ They all exchanged glances of understanding. Trying to get their mother to make up her mind about the style of a dress was … tiring.

‘How on Earth did you get her to agree to all this, Dessie?’ Miranda waved a hand at the curtains and hangings.

‘I didn’t ask. I’m not sure she even knows about it. But you know she always insists on coming clothes shopping with us, in case we choose something—’

They chorused together, ‘—quite ineligible!’ and collapsed into laughter.

‘It’s so wonderful to see you both!’ Miranda said; they both reached for her hand and the other’s so they could sit, in a circle of sisterhood, as they had done since the twelve-year-old Miranda had taught them how.

‘The circle unbreakable,’ Imogen said.

Desdemona didn’t smile. Miranda wondered if she had also thought: Death can break any circle.

Chapter Two

London, early July, 1814

Richard Whitehaven, Marquess of Elsingham, cut through the black wax seal on the letter. It had been addressed to him in a trembling hand, and his shoulders tensed in readiness for bad news.

My dear cousin-in-law Richard, I regret to inform you …

Yes. The news was bad. The worst possible at this point.

His cousin Gerald was dead of an ague, contracted while fly fishing. Very sudden, his wife wrote.

Richard dropped the letter on his desk and leant back in his chair, looking out his study windows to a blustery day, where fat drops of summer rain were lowering the London heat. He felt no great personal loss. He and Gerald barely knew each other.

The damnable thing was that Gerald was his only heir, since his brother Augustus had been killed at the Battle of Bayonne in April, fighting Bonaparte.

With Augustus dead, he had been counting on Gerald to be his heir. Gerald had three daughters, ranging in age from ten to sixteen, but he’d recently married a second, younger, wife after the death five years ago of his first. There was no reason he couldn’t have had half a dozen more children, including a son to take up the title.

There was no one else to inherit the marquessate.

He could get the lawyers onto finding some long-lost cousin—a great-uncle had gone to America and there were conceivably male heirs there.

Or, he could marry.

He scowled into the dead fireplace and loosened his cravat. London was too hot, and smelled. In a typical year, he’d be off at his estate in Hampshire, enjoying the salmon fishing. The celebration of victory over Bonaparte, however, had taken almost all of June, and as a peer and an active member of the House of Lords, he’d been expected to show his face to meet all the foreign dignitaries. He was not naturally a sociable person; the effort had been considerable.

If he went searching for a wife, he’d have to attend all of the ton’s parties, balls, routs—oh, God, even Almack’s! He had better things to do with his Wednesday nights than sip weak ratafia and be ogled by match-making mamas.

It would have to be faced, however. He couldn’t leave the estate without an heir. Perhaps he could find someone before the Season began? That would be best.

Turning back to his correspondence, he wrote a proper letter of condolence to his cousin’s wife, assuring her of whatever support she needed. He sealed and franked it and turned to the next letter.

The next was a surprise.

It was from Countess Godfrey. Oliver Godfrey’s wife, Anne. An invitation to the house party where Godfrey would stage his annual Shakespearian play. Why on Earth would the Godfreys invite him?

Because I am eligible now that Augustus is dead. People would expect him to wed, which made him a ‘catch’ on the Marriage Mart; a highly eligible parti. A feather in the Godfreys’ cap at the house party.

Ordinarily, he would write a polite refusal. This year, there were two reasons for attending. The first was this damnable need to find a wife. The Godfreys were sure to have several young women staying, as well as their own daughters. The second, and more important, was that this was a prime opportunity to get Godfrey on side with the new anti-slavery bill.

The work to end slavery once and for all on British territory was the most important cause any man could undertake, and he had devoted his political life to it ever since his father had sent him to Jamaica at twenty ‘to broaden your horizons’. The physical reality of the sugar plantations—all staffed by slaves, men, women and children—had shocked him deeply; what was equally shocking was that the British plantation owners were so casual about their cruelty and how brutally the system treated enslaved Africans. Casual and complacent.

Most people in England vaguely assumed that, now that the ocean trade in slaves was forbidden under British law, so also was slavery itself. Yet it persisted over all the British colonies. A blight and a stain on the honour of the empire. He would never give up trying to eradicate it.

Richard tapped the letter on the desk. Yes. Godfrey could sway quite a few votes. It was an old earldom—very old. So old, in fact, that no one knew how many Earls Godfrey there had been. Godfrey was also rich; but not rich through the slave trade, so he had nothing to lose by supporting the bill.

Two birds with one stone. Finding a wife had to be faced. He sighed and took paper to write his acceptance. At least it would be cooler in Surrey.

*****

Oliver Godfrey placed his fists squarely on his hips and glared at his children.
‘Oh good!’ Miranda whispered to her brother Hal. ‘It’s a Reproach.’ Hal grinned surreptitiously at her and she allowed the corner of her mouth to curve in response. They settled back to enjoy the show. She never loved her father so much as when he was delivering a Reproach. The last one, about the Mistaken Views of a certain theatre critic, had been uproariously funny. Even Mama had laughed.

‘I have called you all here to discuss A Matter Of Grave Importance,’ her father said. He surveyed the small family dining room, newly decorated in the latest striped wallpaper, also chosen by Dessie, no doubt. She must make sure that Dessie didn’t take on too much—they shouldn’t rely on her for things like that.

Papa frowned mightily. Who was he play-acting? The ghost of Hamlet’s father, more in sorrow than in anger?

‘I thought we were here for the Play.’ Hal, as the eldest, was usually accorded the right to interrupt, but not today. Papa glared at him, and he subsided.

‘Now, Henry,’ Mama said. ‘This is  … significant. Do I mean that? Urgent? No. Important.’ Mama gazed sternly at him over her spectacles. It wasn’t a look she gave very often. ‘More important than the Play.’ Good Lord. All around the table, her siblings sat up straight. When Mama called Hal ‘Henry’, it was serious. Moreover, Papa didn’t think anything was more important than his summer Shakespeare production.

‘Your mother and I have given you all everything! The elegancies of life. The best education possible—even for you girls! Allowances for each of you, allowing you to set yourself up in life in a suitable manner. And what has been our recompense? Nothing!’ He put both hands in his grizzled grey hair and tugged it in apparent despair, then groaned in a heart-wrenching manner. Ah. He was being Lear.

This was an excellent Reproach, but Miranda wasn’t quite sure what had prompted it.
Papa slammed his hands flat on the table.

‘NOTHING! Why are you not married? Why are you not established, with households of your own? Where are your spouses?’

She felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach. Before she could react, Desdemona jumped to her feet, her chair falling backwards, her red curls bouncing.

‘Papa! How could you? How could you say such a thing with Miranda sitting there, barely out of her widow’s weeds? How could you be So Cruel? Papa, I’m ashamed of you!’ Her voice throbbed with emotion. More emotion than Miranda would expect. How kind of Dessie, especially after her own loss. Augustus Whitehaven’s death in battle had sunk her into deep grief.

Her father stopped dead. He pulled his beard in dismay. Cleared his throat.

‘Of course Miranda knows I’m not talking about her!’ Papa recovered quickly. ‘Don’t you, Miranda?’

Desdemona’s outburst had given Miranda time to recover herself and show nothing but her normal, calm self. Although her husband George had been dead two years now, thinking of him still hurt.

‘If you say so, Papa.’ She couldn’t help a slight edge to her tone, but as usual, Papa was oblivious.

‘Right!’ He returned to glaring at the rest of them; especially Desdemona. She wasn’t going to be hurried. She waited for Andrew the footman to stand up her chair, sat gracefully, and turned her face toward her father. Andrew was hiding a grin, but that was fair. The servants loved Papa’s Reproaches as much as the family. Mr Bolton was hovering by the sideboard, pretending to rearrange the glasses and the decanter.

‘Please go on, Papa.’

That was all the encouragement he needed. For the next ten minutes, he delivered an excellent Reproach, one of the best Miranda had heard. Partly, she realised, because he meant it. It wasn’t an Attitude he’d adopted to have an enjoyable rant, like the one last night at dinner, on the Degradation of Modern Education. He really wanted them all married. Well, all the rest.

‘Why are you so concerned about this now, Papa?’ she asked as he wound down.

‘Well, you must realise … er, your father and I want to go abroad.’ Mama put her embroidery on the table and surveyed them all with none of her habitual vagueness. ‘Now that monster Bonaparte has been imprisoned on Corsica—’

‘Elba,’ they all chorused.

‘Elba, is it?’ Mama was unperturbed. ‘In any case, the Continent is available to us again. It has been far too long since we were able to travel.’

‘Indeed,’ her father agreed. ‘Obviously, however, we can’t leave while your futures are still so uncertain.’

Translation: they didn’t want to be called back from their travels in order to sign settlements and attend weddings. Mama did love to travel, and it boosted her spirits to a remarkable degree.

‘I shall be going too,’ Imogen declared. ‘Since Mama thinks I am too young to wed. I shall be visiting Rome.’

She said the word as if it meant ‘Heaven’.

‘Which is why this summer’s house party will be full of eligible partis—one or more for each of you still unwed, except for Imogen,’ Papa continued. ‘Plus more coming for the Play. And I expect a positive slew of engagements before the month is out! Do I make myself clear?’

‘But Papa!’

‘Oh, really, that’s too bad!’

‘Must I sacrifice myself on the altar of Hestia so that Imogen may gallivant?’ Desdemona definitely won that one, but Ben kept talking right over the top of her.

‘I may never marry!’ He glared at his father, and they all fell silent. ‘And you know why!’

Of course they knew why. Mama had once admitted to Miranda that they had made a mistake calling him Antonio Benedick. The countess was referring obliquely to Antonio in Twelfth Night’s unrequited love for Sebastian. As though the name had predestined Ben to become uninterested in women.

‘One doesn’t have to love a woman to marry her!’ their father riposted. ‘Look at your mother and me.’ Mama cleared her throat, and he hastened to add. ‘One comes to love one’s spouse, of course. All one has to do is one’s duty by her.’

Translation: give her children. Presumably Ben could? She really had no idea and she wasn’t about to ask him.

‘Who is coming, Papa?’ That was Hal, usually calm but now remarkably flustered. He ran his fingers through his perfect hair—and it wasn’t even the fashionable Windswept style! He must be concerned. Hal luxuriated in an indolent life in London, rarely awake before noon, rarely abed before dawn. He had a growing reputation as ‘unsafe’ for young debutantes, which unfortunately meant that they pursued him relentlessly.

‘Enough eligibles to make sure you have a choice over the Play Week!’ Her father beamed at them. ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased. And most of them will have a part in The Play.’

A warmth centred in Miranda’s stomach. The Play. Everything else in her life might have changed, but the Play remained. Every summer, the Godfrey Shakespearean production occurred. A private (of course!) performance of one of the Bard’s masterpieces. An invitation to the performance was coveted by the ton, the best of Society, and an invitation to participate was just as eagerly sought.

Everyone loved playacting, after all, but it was usually considered so scandalous that Society women could never take part. Somehow, through sheer force of personality, her father had convinced Society that this was an exception. That being in a Godfrey Shakespeare added to one’s reputation, rather than destroying it.

Which was wonderful, because Miranda loved acting, and had sorely missed it these last two years. Playacting while in mourning was one step too far, even for a member of this family. George would have spun in his grave; he’d never been keen on her participating, but had been wise enough to know that forbidding it would have set her entire family against him. Including her.

But this year, it was doubly wonderful: back to acting, and they were staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

‘I am so glad we’re doing The Dream,’ Imogen breathed. Of course Imogen loved the idea. The play being notionally set in a Greek city, she could waft around in a chiton for the whole summer and claim she was rehearsing. Miranda foresaw a trip to Greece would be added to their parents’ itinerary.

‘Hmmm …’ Desdemona nodded. ‘I’ve always felt one could get more comedy out of Helena …’

‘Puck!’ Ben said.

‘Theseus …’ her father mused. ‘And Hippolyta.’ Her parents smiled at one other. Theseus and Hipployta only had small parts in the play, but they were the highest ranked.

‘And Miranda shall play Titania,’ Mama said. ‘At least, I suppose you will? There are other parts … and really Titania isn’t the most important … but if Dessie is playing Helena …’ She trailed off.

Papa ignored her and slapped the table. ‘The Dream! Wonderful. 

Lots of parts for your prospective spouses, and easy to create a romantic atmosphere. Mind you, I want at least three betrothals before the whole thing is over! Here are your parts.’

He put a list on the table and waltzed out with Mama on his arm. The rest of them were left, suddenly serious.

‘He dashed well means it!’ Ben buried his head in his hands.

‘He can mean it all he likes, he can’t force you!’ Miranda tried to be the voice of reason, but the Godfreys, almost to a person, preferred drama to reason.

‘I shall die if I must marry someone who isn’t simpatico!’ Desdemona wailed. There was just the hint of real tears behind that. This must be flicking her on the raw.

‘One can’t just choose to love someone because one’s forced to marry them!’ Ben declared.

‘I’m the one this is aimed at,’ Hal said, kicking the table leg. ‘He wants me to sire an heir to carry on the title. I’m a bloody stud stallion!’

The others regarded one another and burst out laughing, and even Hal grinned. Miranda felt the growing bubble of hilarity, and welcomed it, although she kept her composure.
It felt as though she were coming alive again, after her two years of mourning. She felt vaguely guilty about that. She had loved George. She should still be sad about his death. She knew, without a question, that Desdemona would be grieving Augustus until the day she died. Was she so shallow, to recover so quickly?

Yet she wasn’t sure she wanted to feel that soul-deep passion for a man. It must be most uncomfortable.

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When the eldest daughter of the aristocratic Godfrey family, Lady Miranda Harwood, rejoins her family for the annual lauded performance of Shakespeare at their country estate, it is a welcome reprieve from two years of widow's weeds. And so entertaining! The young debutantes of the Ton and their mamas flock to take part in the play and find good matches, and there are dramas, fights and love affairs aplenty, on and off stage.

It's even more enjoyable when the devilishly handsome Richard, Lord Elsingham, falls for her. She knows it can only be a summer fling - a barren woman cannot help Elsingham in his quest to produce an heir. A pity, but at least they can have some fun.

Then Mrs Willoughby, mother of the season's Diamond and a practised blackmailer, is murdered. A deadly game is afoot, and Miranda and Richard join forces to find the killer and save Miranda's family from disgrace. But instead of no suspects, they have been gifted too many...is everyone in the ton being blackmailed? And can Miranda and Richard stay alive long enough to uncover the murderer, and save the play and the family's reputation by summer's end?

Find out more