The Scandalous Widow (Gothic Brides Book 3)

  Scandal proves deadly in this dark, emotional Gothic Regency Romance

  Lady Jemma Forster knows all too well how ruthless gossip-mongers can be. She sacrificed her own happiness to restore her family’s reputation. Her marriage of convenience to an affluent earl meant saying goodbye to passion, and any chance at love with the dashing lawman who set her soul aflame. She leads a sedate, practical life as the Countess of Wolverston. Until her husband is murdered, and the only man who can bring his killers to justice is her former love.

  Bow Street Runner Gabriel Sinclair has spent the last three years trying to forget about smart, beautiful Lady Jemma, who broke his heart when she married his best friend. The Earl of Wolverston’s death thrusts Gabriel and Jemma back together, as they work to find his murderer. Their investigation takes them into the darkest, most dangerous parts of London, with threats coming from all sides. They’re perfect partners for solving crimes, but can they be partners in love too?

  Previously released in It Started with a Whisper

  GOTHIC BRIDES

  BOOK 3

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  THE SCANDALOUS WIDOW

  Copyright © 2018 by Erica Monroe

  Excerpt from The Mad Countess copyright 2016 by Erica Monroe

  Cover design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer/The Midnight Muse

  Cover photo copyright © by Novel Stock

  Quillfire Publishing

  All rights reserved. The author has provided this book for personal use only. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For information, address Erica Monroe at ericamonroe.com.

  Dedication

  To Christy Carlyle

  Thank you for never giving up on me.

  "If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms."

  -William Shakespeare,

  Measure for Measure (Act III, Scene I, Line 82)

  PROLOGUE

  The cruel, senseless murder of the dashing Earl of Wolverston has rocked Hill Street—and not just because Wolverston leaves behind a beautiful widow! Our secret sources tell us the earl was killed outside of one of Covent Garden’s most notorious houses of ill repute.

  -Whispers from Lady X, June 1816

  West End, London, England

  June 1816

  Zero days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston

  Gabriel Sinclair had grown accustomed to the glossy sheen of blood splashed upon narrow London alleys. The sickly-sweet scent mottled with the reek of decomposition, the stench almost overpowering. He sucked in small, barely-sustaining breaths to keep from gagging, regretting the ale he’d drank at the Brown Bear before he’d received the message he was needed in Soho Square.

  Although the patrolman who’d initially found the bodies spewed his dinner in the courtyard, Gabriel remained poised and alert in the face of such gore. In his ten years with the Bow Street Runners, he had seen far, far worse. Two middle-aged men—one dressed in high-quality clothing, and the other in little more than rags—rated tame in comparison. Robbery was common enough in Soho Square, and apparently, the cause for this crime. A man claimed he had been leaving the brothel with his brother and a blackguard had attacked them. A scuffle had occurred, and the assailant overpowered the older brother, murdering him. The younger brother was lucky to be alive—he’d managed to get the knife from their attacker and stabbed him.

  Frowning, Gabriel’s gaze darted from the two corpses to where the witness sat with his back pushed up against the White House brothel, watched over by another policeman. Patrolman Green had taken the man’s statement and reported a quick summary to Gabriel. The man’s story seemed valid—he had the defensive wounds to attest to the struggle—but Gabriel still wanted to investigate further. Once he’d examined the bodies, he’d return to the station house on Bow Street with the witness and question him more.

  But for now, he had more pressing matters.

  Every minute that passed changed minute details, making it harder to recreate the murder in his mind. When he’d started as a patrolman, the others had teased him for his meticulous examination. Now that he’d been promoted to Principal Officer, no one questioned his methods.

  Gabriel calmly removed his gloves and knelt down to inspect the bodies. He had no formal medical training, but he could at least make note of the injuries and possible cause of death before the coroner arrived. He’d start with the rich man first, since he appeared to be the victim.

  To the average man, death was something to be feared. A failure. An ending.

  But for men like Gabriel, death was business as usual.

  He had work to do. Emotions only clouded the facts, leaving one blind to any clues that might not fit one’s preconceived notions of the case. When he was at work—and Gabriel was always at work, these last three years—he thought of nothing else but getting justice for the victims of a crime. It was easier that way. No time to ponder past regrets, to recall the tinkling laughter of the woman whose smile had always made him feel as though he could accomplish anything. Be anything.

  The man was face-down, his arms and legs flung out, bent unnaturally. His gray-streaked brown hair was matted with blood. Gingerly, Gabriel pushed at the hair, revealing a gaping aperture, approximately the size of a club. Most likely the fatal blow, given the viscera clotting the hole. He let the hair fall back with a silent prayer that the man had died quickly—all the while knowing such was improbable. The man’s body bore too many wounds for that to have been the first hit.

  Gabriel’s brows furrowed as he examined the man’s torn cutaway tail coat. Dirt and blood marred the blue pinstripes, but even in its disheveled state he could tell that the coat had been expertly tailored to the wearer’s somewhat corpulent frame. The silk was smooth to the touch, still retaining some of its naturally bright sheen. And there, right at his waist, were two dangling threads where gold buttons must have adorned the coat. He checked the sleeves, noting those buttons had been cut too. He’d have to examine the clothing, but so far this all confirmed the brother’s statement.

  “But you weren’t so lucky,” Gabriel murmured. “Must have been a hell of a fight. Miracle your brother survived.”

  The clip-clop of horse’s hooves against the cobblestones made Gabriel rise quickly. Dawn was approaching, and soon the streets would be full of early morning traffic. The news would spread like wildfire, due to the crime occurring outside the infamous White House, where Mrs. Theresa Berkeley and her girls catered to a clientele that achieved sexual satisfaction through flagellation. The scandal sheets would delight in that on-dit.

  Even now, he kept seeing curtains move at the brothel, as prostitutes and their patrons realized what was going on outside. People’s curiosity would soon surpass their desire to keep their sexual proclivities private, and there would be a mass exodus.

  Time to start closing off the brothel so they could question everyone. He motioned to Patrolman Green to guide the brother back inside, and then he called to the other patrolman who had first found the bodies. “Wilcox?”

  Once he’d finished ridding himself of mutton, Wilcox had stationed himself at the corner, claiming he was looking for the coroner. Gabriel had allowed him to save face with the pretense. But now he needed the younger man’s help.

  Wilcox wiped the arm of his sleeve across his mouth, abashedly returning his stare. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t ha
ppen again. It was just—”

  “Your first dead body.” Gabriel nodded swiftly. Wilcox hadn’t been on the job more than a week, whereas Patrolman Green had served four years already. “Happens to us all. Nothing to be ashamed of. Here, help me turn him over, would you? I’d like to get a look at his wounds before the coroner comes.”

  Wilcox’s lower lip shook, and his skin began to take on that puce hue again.

  “Steady, lad,” Gabriel said encouragingly, as he grabbed hold of one side of the corpse.

  Wilcox set his shoulders back, notched up his chin, and grasped the other side. Together, they rolled the man over, careful to not disturb his wounds.

  “There we go. Very good, Wilcox.” Gabriel patted the patrolman’s arm, half to ensure the man wouldn’t run off and retch again and half to praise him.

  “Bloody hell, he looks bad.” Wilcox’s voice only shook a little bit, so Gabriel released the man’s arm and turned his attention back to the scene.

  Bad was an appropriate estimation of this victim’s state. The dead man had defensive wounds on his arms and hands, as if he’d thrown his hands up to protect his face. A blade of some sort had slashed into his skin, leaving behind shallow cuts. Likely, the same blade that had ended the attacker’s life. He’d verify that later with the coroner.

  The pools of blood corresponded to his current position, so Gabriel doubted he’d been moved since the final blow. And his purse was empty of coin. That too supported the companion’s story.

  Yet, something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t shake the niggling sensation that he was missing something.

  Gabriel frowned, letting his gaze travel from one end of the street to the other. He took it all in: the stink of the pre-dawn emptying of the brothel’s chamber pots by the maid, the blood splattered on the stones and on the front wall and door of the White House, the bruises purpling the dead man’s face and neck. There was so much damage done to his face it was harder to imagine what he would have looked like before.

  Even with the disfigurement, he seemed familiar. But why? His dress marked him as far outside of Gabriel’s current social circle. He squinted. Unless he’d met the man before he’d joined Bow Street, back when he was nothing more than the unfettered fourth son of a viscount, desperate to find a purpose for his life.

  He reached into the man’s pockets, hoping to find something identifying. Luck was with him, for in the man’s pocket was a silken handkerchief embroidered with a crest.

  When he unfolded the fabric and saw the sword with a wolf on either side of the blade, the ale in his stomach lurched precariously, and he barely stopped himself from suffering the same fate as Wilcox.

  God, he’d been a fool. He should have asked Green for the victim’s name immediately. He’d been so consumed with detailing the scene, he’d missed the obvious. “Wilcox, go tell Mrs. Berkeley no one is to leave the brothel. This is the Earl of Wolverston.”

  “Oh, bollocks,” Wilcox cursed, summarizing Gabriel’s feelings well.

  Here he was, staring at the corpse of a man he’d once considered a friend. A man who had married the only woman Gabriel had ever loved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  One can expect large crowds at the funeral of the beloved Earl of Wolverston today, as anyone who is anyone in the Upper Ten Thousand will be flocking to the village of Monmorte. Word has it Prinny is even making a special trip from Brighton to memorialize his old friend...

  -Whispers from Lady X, June 1816

  Wolverston Estate

  Essex, England

  Four days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston

  On the day that Jemma Forster, Countess of Wolverston, buried her husband, the rain poured down from the sky at a torrential rate. It was as if the heavens too needed to express their devastation at the loss. The large droplets pounded upon the steepled roof of Wolverston Estate, a steady drum-drum-drum that reminded Jemma of the dirges that had been played so long ago at the funeral for a drowned groomsman on her parents’ estate.

  She had been a child then, as innocent as the lily-white gowns she wore, and as wild as her untamed brown curls. At seven years of age, she had already scared off two governesses, for she did not like to listen, and she could not be persuaded to do as she did not want. She was thus oft confined to her bedroom, as little girls who refused to be sensible were not granted the privilege of being seen or heard by adults.

  When the clock struck the witching hour that fateful night, her governess had long passed into slumber, leaving Jemma free to creep from bed unnoticed, and slide over to the nursery’s big bay window that overlooked the garden. She saw a man, cloaked all in black instead of his hunter green livery, striding across the back gardens toward the fog-shrouded pond. The silver full moon illuminated him, reflected off the water to cast the shadows of the trees as nefarious arms, snagging his coat in their eager grip.

  She did not cry out her window for him to stop as he waded into the lake. She had not known she should. It seemed like a great game as he submerged entirely, only the barest hint of his top hat visible in the murky water. She watched and she waited with wide eyes and a delighted smile for him to reemerge. Of all the nights she had sneaked from bed, this was by far the most interesting.

  Then, she had not understood what it meant to die. She could not piece together that the man she had seen floating in the pond was the reason why the butler bore the same expression as cousin Nicholas when he’d been punched in the gut by a neighbor boy. When finally her governess took pity on her and endeavored to explain, she had been left with more questions than answers. For months after that talk, she had expected the groom to spring from the tack room bearing shiny red apples for her favorite pony, as he had always done.

  She had not learned to fear death yet. Like most children, she knew only the immediate. The permanence of death escaped her.

  Now, she understood it all too well. When Jemma was sixteen, her mother contracted a fatal influenza. A year ago, her father had passed from acute heart failure.

  But neither of those losses had shaken her the way this one did. She had not been particularly close to her parents—they had been distant figures in her youth, more than happy to delegate the raising of Jemma and her younger sister Rose to a legion of governesses and tutors. She mourned their loss, and then she moved on.

  This…this was different. Her husband was dead, his blood spilled on the cobblestones of Soho Square. His body, soon to be laid to rest in a knot-free elm coffin lined with white fine-weaved crepe. All that was left of him, soon to be placed in a dark, dank hole in the ground.

  No, Jemma did not need any more reminders of the constancy of death.

  What she needed was justice.

  And nothing—not the threat of scandal, not the disapproval of Philip’s family, not the pain of past mistakes—would keep her from getting it. She prayed so fervently that all her efforts would be for naught, and Philip’s death would prove to be as random as everyone else claimed.

  As she set down another completed rosemary bundle onto the silver tray on the table, she couldn’t shake the sick sensation that Philip’s death hadn’t been just another Covent Garden robbery. And if she was right—then he’d been killed by the very man who should have protected him.

  His brother.

  The same brother who’d inherited everything Philip owned, except for the small townhouse in London that Jemma would relocate to tomorrow.

  She placed a hand on her stomach, willing her breakfast to stay down. She had to remain calm. Focus on the funeral.

  The preparations were all in order. Yards and yards of black fabric had been brought from London to Wolverston Estate for the funeral: dull bombazine to cover the mirrors in the house, cloaks for the chief mourners, baize draped all over the room where Philip’s body was laid out. Black cloth even covered the interior of the Church of All Souls, where the funeral would take place.

  Upon entering Wolverston Estate, the guests would be given the rosemary cuttings,
each trimmed to three inches. The bundles contained three sprigs, tied together by a black silk ribbon. Each mourner would deposit his rosemary onto Philip’s coffin to ensure that his memory would not be forgotten by the living.

  Rosemary for remembrance. So the old custom dictated, but Jemma had never needed help remembering. Her memory was impeccable; she recalled everything. Even the things she wished so badly she could forget, like a kiss from the man she hadn’t seen in three years, but would have to call on tomorrow.

  She tied a bow around another cutting and dropped it on the tray. Most of the guests were not coming to honor Philip’s memory. Their sharp words were like the talons of vultures, picking at the bones of her pain to glean on dits for their friends. They’d done it when her sister Rose had been ruined, and they’d do it again today.

  As if to prove her point, Philip’s cousin, Georgina, sauntered into the room. Georgina Harding Middleton never walked anywhere when she could glide; she never spoke plainly when she could lecture.

  “Why are you handling the gifts for the mourners, Jemma? You have servants for that.”

  Jemma continued assembling the bundles, ignoring the reproach. She had to pretend that everything was normal—as normal as it could be, given her husband’s death. “I wanted something to do. Besides, the servants are busy preparing for the guests.”

  “Harrumph.” Georgina made throat clearing sound like a cut direct. “I told you that you should have hired more servants for this. Are the handkerchiefs ready?”

  Jemma nodded. “Wrapped in silk cloth and placed by the door already, to be given to the guests along with the rosemary sprigs.” The black silk handkerchiefs for the favors had been specially ordered from Philip’s favorite haberdasher in Bond Street.