A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Mayhem - Manda Collins

Prologue

London, 1865

If Sir Horace did not desist from his asinine talk about what constituted appropriate conversation for a lady, she would do one of them an injury, thought Lady Katherine Bascomb, hiding her scowl behind her fan.

She was quite fond of his wife, Millie, who’d been a friend since the two ladies had made their debuts together, but it really was hard work to endure the company of Sir Horace Fairchild as a condition of seeing her friend.

Kate had allowed herself to be persuaded away from the evening she’d had planned of catching up on the latest news of the murderer who was currently roaming the streets of the metropolis, the so-called “Commandments Killer,” in order to make up the numbers for Millie’s dinner party.

A decision she’d regretted as soon as she was ushered into the Fairchild townhouse on Belgrave Square and saw that the guests were among the most stiff-rumped in London.

She’d suffered through dinner, where she’d politely listened to a member of Parliament drone on about the need for something to be done about the coarseness of language in the English press—it never having occurred to him that she was, herself, owner of one of those newspapers. (Or perhaps it had but he did not care. Men were far less prone to diplomacy in their conversation than ladies, in Kate’s experience.)

Then, thinking to find some more sensible conversation when the ladies withdrew to leave the gentlemen to their port, she’d been trapped in a corner of the drawing room with Mrs. Elspeth Symes, who’d talked of nothing but purgatives and remedies for digestive ailments for nearly a quarter hour without pausing for breath.

The reappearance of the gentlemen had given her a chance to escape Mrs. Symes, but no sooner had she accepted a cup of tea and a plate of what looked to be delicious biscuits than Sir Horace began to speak.

If this was what one had to endure to maintain friendships, Kate thought crossly, then really it was better to remain at home alone.

“Not if I do him an injury first,” said a voice from beside her. And to her horror, Kate realized she’d spoken aloud.

Turning, she saw that a dark-haired young woman had taken the seat beside her.

“Caroline Hardcastle.” She offered her gloved hand. “My friends call me Caro. We met before dinner, but really, anyone who is capable of remembering names after one introduction is not worth knowing, don’t you agree?”

Kate blinked. Miss Hardcastle was a tiny creature with large dark eyes and a pointed chin. She was exactly what Kate’s mind would have conjured if she’d tried to imagine a woodland sprite in exquisitely tailored silk.

“These are quite good,” Miss Hardcastle continued, biting into a biscuit. “I detect a hint of lemon, but it’s not enough to overpower. And the shortbread is exceptional. There’s not enough butter, but one can’t have everything, I suppose.”

“I’m Lady Katherine Bascomb.” She felt as if she should say something, and there were so many options that Kate decided to go with the most obvious.

“Oh, I know who you are.” Caro discreetly brushed the crumbs from her hands. “I read your column in The Gazette religiously. I’m something of a writer myself, but my work is mostly about cookery. I was pleased to learn you would be a guest tonight, so I could meet you.”

Kate opened her mouth to demur at the compliment, then Caro’s words sank in. “Caroline Hardcastle. You don’t mean to say you’re C. E. Hardcastle, the cookbook author? I think you’re too modest! There’s not a housewife in London without one of your recipe books in her home.”

But Miss Hardcastle waved away the praise. “It’s little more than trial and error coupled with writing down observations. I daresay anyone could do it if they felt the inclination.”

It was the sort of modesty that was expected of ladies, but Kate disliked seeing someone as obviously talented as Miss Hardcastle so dismissive of her own talent. “Your books are more than just recipes, though. There are bits of history and cultural notes. I’ve read all of them, and I only set foot in the kitchen to give instructions to my cook.”

Flags of color appeared in Caro’s cheeks. “Thank you. Coming from you, that’s praise indeed.”

Clearly uncomfortable with the discussion of her own writing, Caro changed the subject. “It seems we were both captured by less than entertaining conversationalists before we found each other.” She cast her eyes in the direction of their host, who was speaking to the