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  Lady Rample Spies a Clue

  Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Two

  Shéa MacLeod

  Lady Rample Spies a Clue

  Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Two

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Designs

  Editing by Alin Silverwood

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Also by Shéa MacLeod

  Cupcake Goddess

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  Nothing Tastes As Good

  Soulfully Sweet

  A Stitch In Time (A Cupcake Goddess Novelette)

  Dragon Wars

  Dragon Warrior

  Dragon Lord

  Dragon Goddess

  Green Witch

  Dragon Corps

  Dragon Mage

  Dragon's Angel

  Dragon Wars Boxed Sets

  Dragon Wars - Three Complete Novels Boxed Set

  Dragon Wars 2: Three Complete Novels Boxed Set

  Lady Rample Mysteries

  Lady Rample Steps Out

  Lady Rample Spies A Clue

  Lady Rample and the Silver Screen

  Notting Hill Diaries

  To Kiss A Prince

  Kissing Frogs

  Kiss Me, Chloe

  Kiss Me, Stupid

  Kissing Mr. Darcy

  Omicron ZX

  A Rage of Angels

  Omicron ZX - Prequel

  Omicron Zed-X

  Sunwalker Saga

  Kissed by Blood

  Kissed by Destiny

  Sunwalker Saga: Soulshifter Trilogy

  Haunted

  Soulshifter

  Fearless

  Sunwalker Saga: Witchblood

  Spellwalker

  Deathwalker

  Mistwalker

  Dreamwalker

  Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries

  The Corpse in the Cabana

  The Stiff in the Study

  The Poison in the Pudding

  The Body in the Bathtub

  The Venom in the Valentine

  The Remains in the Rectory

  The Death in the Drink

  Write Novels Fast

  Write Novels Fast: Writing Faster With Art Journaling

  Write Novels Fast: Down and Dirty Draft

  Standalone

  Ride the Dragon: A Paranormal/Science Fiction Boxed Set

  Angel's Fall

  Watch for more at Shéa MacLeod’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Lady Rample Spies A Clue (Lady Rample Mysteries, #2)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Note from the Author

  About Shéa MacLeod

  Other books by Shéa MacLeod

  This one’s for Julie M.

  Because she loves Devon as much as I do.

  Chapter 1

  “You’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.
<
br />   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 all this time, I’d no idea. I’d sent her down on the early morning train, so she should have arrived a good two hours ago. No doubt she’d been napping. Or reading one of the romance novels she’d filched from my library.

  A few more trips back and forth to the pile of luggage near the door and she had stuffed everything in the wardrobe. The small vanity was already crammed with all my lotions and cosmetics. With a final nod she declared, “I shall have the footmen remove the luggage. I’ll go unpack for Lady Butty.”

  “Lady Lucas,” I corrected, but I was talking to the door.

  “I swear, these girls never learn. Now fork over that flask. I know you have one.” Aunt Butty gave me a knowing look.

  With a sigh, I opened my handbag and pulled out a silver flask—another gift from my late husband, Lord Rample—which, naturally, contained whiskey. If anyone asked, I considered it medic
inal. Which, without ginger ale, it was.

  Aunty Butty took a deep swig and let out a sigh. “Much better. My nerves are overwrought. Your driving is enough to lead a nun to sin.”

  I eyed her askance as I took the flask back. “You exaggerate.”

  “Hardly.” She scowled. “Whoever taught you to drive has a lot to answer for. Now where is that tea?”

  “You’d think they’d have proper afternoon tea at a house party,” I said. “This is quite a posh estate. Why aren’t we being served in the drawing room? Or at least on the lawn?”

  “DeVane is an Original. He does things on his own time and in his own way. He didn’t get where he is by kowtowing to the masses.”

  “He’d do better to kowtow to his guests,” I muttered as my stomach gave an unholy growl. I was beyond hungry and in desperate need of a cocktail.

  I knew little of our host. He was a crony of Aunt Butty’s, one of those sorts who, while having no title himself, was richer than God and somehow had half the peerage dancing to his tune. According to Butty, he’d acquired Wit’s End some time ago, but had only recently finished fixing it up. This fortnight-long party was an excuse to show it off to a few friends and associates before throwing open the doors at the end of the party for a ball to impress the neighbors. As far as I was concerned, it was an excuse to get out of the blast furnace that was London in the summer.

  I could have gone to my house in the south of France, of course. I’d yet to visit since Felix—Lord Rample—had shuffled off to the great poker game in the sky. But I’d been reluctant to leave the country, though I refused to admit it might have something to do with a certain musician who had wandered off to Paris a couple of months ago leaving me high and dry.

  That wasn’t entirely fair of me. Hale Davis was a working man and, once the Astoria Club in London closed, putting him out of a job, he had to go where the work was. I supposed I could have followed, but that seemed a little desperate. I am not the sort of woman to follow anyone.