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  Lady Rample and Cupid’s Kiss

  Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Six

  Shéa MacLeod

  Lady Rample and Cupid’s Kiss

  Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Six

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 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

  Lady Rample Sits In

  Lady Rample and the Ghost of Christmas Past

  Lady Rample and Cupid's Kiss

  Lady Rample Box Set One

  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 Moonlight

  Kissed by Ice

  Kissed by Eternity

  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

  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

  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

  Chapter 1

  A silk slip flew through the air and landed on my head. Pushing the soft fabric out of my face, I turned to stare at my maid who stood, hands on hips, glaring at me in a ferocious manner.

  “M’lady, you are going to be late!” And apparently Maddie was having none of it.

  Her foot tapped against the wood floor in an imperious manner. Really, if she’d worked for anyone but me, she’d have been sacked by now. She was dreadfully bossy.

  “It’s just Varant,” I said, calmly removing the slip and inspecting my wave to make sure she hadn’t knocked anything askew. Miraculously she hadn’t, so I focused on swiping on lipstick. It was a new shade for me: pale rose. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but it did go rather well with my dress, newly arrived from Paris. The Madeleine Vionette was a dream of silk georgette which floated around my curvaceous figure in a surprisingly elegant way.

  “Just Varant?” she squawked, cheeks pink, eyes bulging. “He ain’t a ‘just’ anything. He’s a Lord.”

  As if that settled the matter. And I suppose it should have. We were the perfect match, at least on paper. Lord Peter Varant was of the upper classes and almost as rich as I was. He had admired me since probably the first moment we met, though I was still married at the time. He was also surprisingly enlightened for a man. And yet...

  I sighed. “You’re right, of course. I should be more excited. Unfortunately, I find myself able to manage it.”

  Maddie snorted.

  Fortunately, the man himself chose that moment to ring the bell, saving me from more of my maid’s remonstrations. After throwing me a final rather tart look, she marched her narrow behind out my bedroom door and down the stairs to let him in.

  Heaving a sigh, I stared into the mirror, ensuring everything was in place and pretending I wasn’t wishing that tonight’s escort was someone else entirely. I knew I was being a ninny. It was over with Hale and me. He’d married someone else. Nothing to do but move on.

  Squaring my shoulders, I rose from the vanity, grabbing my bag and wrap on the way to greet my date. The smile on my face may have been plastered on, but one would never know to look at me.

  My name is Ophelia, Lady Rample. I’m considered by most to be a merry widow with too much money and not enough consideration for the gravity of my station. My natural curiosity—or perhaps suspicion—had led me to solve the odd crime on more than one occasion.

  Varant greeted me in the foyer, my coat out and ready for me. “Good evening, Ophelia. You’re looking lovely.”

  “Thank you. As are you.” And he was. Varant was the sort of man every girl dreams of: tall, dark, handsome, and virile. He cut quite the figure in his dark dinner jacket and matching trousers, dark hair—lightly peppered with silver—perfectly pomaded. Yes, every inch the gentleman.

  He helped me on with my coat, then ushered me out the door and to his waiting Bentley, which he drove himself. He wasn’t one to waste money, and chauffeurs were a waste of money as far as he was concerned. Which was a shame, really. There were probably loads of men who could have used such a job, what with the economy the way it was. Not that I was one to talk. I much preferred to drive myself. More fun.

  It was a chill night, and the air held an edge of ice. Dirty snow still lingered along the curb, though the streets themselves were clear. The weak light of the streetlamps cast eerie shadows, turning simple, barren tree branches into daunting witches’ fingers.

  January was never my favorite month. The holidays were over, taking with them their numerous parties and cheerful atmosphere. Spring had yet to peek from beneath snow banks. It was that gloomy in-the-middle time, and my mood matched it perfectly.

  I refused to consider that my mood could b
e in part because the man currently sitting next to me in the motorcar was not the man I wished was sitting there. Naturally I told myself not to be a dumb Dora. That boat had sailed. Alas, I wasn’t particularly listening to myself.

  What I needed was a distraction. I just wasn’t sure Varant would be up to the task. A good murder. Yes, that’s what I needed. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for the victims—murders weren’t exactly thick on the ground at present.

  “You seem to be in deep thought this evening.” Varant’s voice interrupted my thoughts. He’d a nice voice, posh accent and all, but it wasn’t that rich, low rumble with the American twang I liked so very much.

  “Just reflecting upon the season,” I said with forced cheer. “Spring is just around the corner.”

  “Spring is at least two months away,” he said dryly.

  “Don’t rain on my parade.” I gave a light laugh that sounded false even to my ears. “Now, tell me, what have we got planned for tonight?”

  “It’s a surprise. I think you’ll like it.”

  I lifted a brow but didn’t press him further. I knew from experience he wouldn’t say another word, and nothing I could say or do would convince him otherwise.

  Eventually, the car pulled up to the curb next to a plain brick building on Wardour Street. It had started drizzling, and a doorman with an umbrella dashed over to help me out of the Bentley. Varant joined me under the striped awning, shaking water drops from his overcoat.

  “I hope you like this place. It’s new.” He held open the door for me before the poor doorman had a chance.

  Inside, the foyer was covered in a thick carpet of red swirled with black. The walls were papered in cream with a gold geometric pattern which matched the chandelier hanging above. A young man in the black-and-white uniform of the waitstaff appeared as if from nowhere to take our coats. An older man in the same uniform arrived to show us to our seats.

  He led us through a pair of massive double doors inlaid with brass lions in the Art Deco style. Before us was a wide set of carpeted stairs leading down to a large room, also carpeted except for the wooden dance floor near the stage which sat at one end. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, dripping with faceted clear and red crystals the size of my fist. Below it spread dozens of intimate tables set for two, and huddled against the walls were cozy velvet upholstered booths that could handle up to four people.

  The stage had been set up for a band with a black grand piano and stands for sheet music, but it was currently occupied by a single harpist. The middle-aged woman was dressed in a simple, dark blue evening gown and played with a great deal of panache.

  We were led down the stairs to one of the booths near the front with a good view of the stage, particularly the piano. Once seated, Varant ordered drinks before I could so much as open my mouth. Something which irritated me no end. He hadn’t even asked what I’d prefer. Nor had I heard him over the music. I shot him a glare, which he ignored with his usual aplomb.

  I wanted to berate him, but the music was so lovely, I watched the musician instead. I could see why Varant would bring me to such a place. It was sophisticated and elegant, just like him. It was not, however, my sort of place. I preferred jazz clubs and speakeasies, low class as that might be.

  The waiter returned almost immediately with a silver tray upon which sat two filled glasses. I lifted an eyebrow as he sat the drinks in front of us. “Old Fashioneds?” I do love my whiskey, as Varant knew, but I didn’t drink Old Fashioneds customarily.

  “Boulevardiers. Much more interesting,” he assured me.

  I took a sip. It was indeed intriguing, if not particularly to my taste. The flavor was rich and slightly sweet, but with the odd herbal tang of Campari which ruined it for me. “Thank you.” What else was there to say?

  “I hope you will approve of the rest of the evening as well,” he said, though I’d never claimed to approve of his cocktail selection. His tone was meaningful. I took his hint but ignored it. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that just yet. Not with him, at any rate.

  The harpist finished her song, took a bow, and exited the stage, her place taken by what I could only assume was a Master of Ceremonies. He bowed slightly. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to The Lion Club. I hope you all have a most pleasant evening. And now, for our main entertainment. Hale Davis and his band.”

  I froze, glass half-way to my lips. Hale was here? I took a deep gulp of my drink, feeling the burn all the way to my stomach where the warmth spread out, easing my sudden discomfort. Had Varant known?

  “Didn’t know he was playing,” Varant muttered. Although his expression remained completely calm, there was a tightening of the skin around his eyes. It was so slight, I would have missed it if I wasn’t eyeing him so closely.

  I guess that settled the matter. He hadn’t known. And it didn’t look like he was happy about it. Had he guessed I still carried a torch for my former love?

  Five men strolled onto the stage, four black and one white. They took up their positions at various instruments, Hale taking a seat at the piano. It had been months since I’d seen him last. He looked...good. His suit fit him perfectly, showing off broad shoulders and a nipped-in waist. His hair was cropped close and carefully oiled, shoes shined within an inch of their lives. His dark skin glowed against the white of his shirt. My heartrate kicked up a notch.

  His supple fingers danced over the keys, trilling out a series of sweet notes before plunging into one of the popular jazz songs of the year. I recognized it as New Orleans written by Hoagy Carmichael. It had a nice feel to it, but I couldn’t focus on the music. I could only focus on Hale.

  Hale Davis was my former paramour, for lack of a better word. We’d met at a jazz club where he was playing, and one thing had led to another. Perhaps it wouldn’t have gone as far as it did if one of the club owners hadn’t been murdered and Hale’s band mates hadn’t been accused of the crime. But our relationship had unfurled even as the investigation had and, between one thing and another, we’d had a very happy few months together.

  Until some woman had shown up claiming he was the father of her unborn child, and he’d gone off to do the noble thing. I had almost convinced myself I was over him.

  I knew the moment he spotted me. There wasn’t even a fraction of hesitation in his music, but his eyes bored into mine, burrowing holes all the way to my soul. I jerked my attention away, focusing on my drink. Suddenly aware I was sharing my booth with another man.

  Varant heaved a sigh. “You’ll never be over him, will you?”

  To that I had no answer.

  “We can leave if you like.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want Hale to think he’d broken my heart. He hadn’t. Although it had come close. He still might, if I let him.

  As the evening progressed, I began to feel a nice, heady buzz. “Come, darling,” I said, holding out my hand to Varant. “Dance with me.”

  He gave me an indulgent smile and took my hand, leading me to the floor where several other couples danced. He took up a position dead center, naturally, making sure that Hale saw us together. Part of me felt a little thrill that Varant was so surprisingly territorial, and part of me was irked about it. I was no one’s plaything.

  But perhaps Varant didn’t realize what he’d done. Or perhaps I hadn’t given him enough credit. For he’d situated in just the right spot, so I could get a clear view of Hale, who never took his eyes off me through the entire song.

  What did it mean?

  It didn’t mean anything. He was a married man now and had no business giving me google eyes.

  The song came to a close, and the Master of Ceremonies appeared to announce the intermission. Hale didn’t even wait for him to finish but sprang off the stage and strode toward me. He was barely ten feet away when a woman screeched, “There you are! Is that your whore?”

  The entire restaurant turned to stare at the woman stomping across the carpeted floor. Her skin was a warm, pale beige, b
arely darker than my own, and her dark brown hair was done up in tidy waves under her cheap russet hat. She wore a matching coat, well worn, over a printed cotton day dress, far too light for the season. Her shoes, too, were scuffed and worn, though obviously they’d been cleaned and polished regularly.

  She definitely didn’t belong here, but she marched straight up to Hale and thrust herself between us. “Is this her?” she demanded, pointing quite rudely at me, her voice shrill enough to call the neighborhood dogs.

  Hale took her arm and tried gently to steer her away. “Dottie, this is neither the time nor the place. I’m working.”

  She snorted, turning up her pert nose at me, hazel eyes snapping with fire. “Working, my ass.”

  An older woman dripping in diamonds gasped and teetered on a swoon. I thought her reaction a bit much, but Dottie’s behavior was shocking.

  “Excuse me, Lord Varant, Lady Rample, my wife isn’t feeling well.” The dark stains on Hale’s cheeks spoke to his embarrassment and anger.

  “Oh, lords and ladies, is it? Well, la di da. No time for your own wife.” Her tone was an ugly snarl and her expression one to match.

  I did not envy Hale having to live with this ghastly woman. But he’d made his bed. Both literally and figuratively.

  He dragged her toward one of the doors which I could only assume led backstage, Dottie struggling all the way. Before he could force her through, she tore herself out of his grasp and ran at me, hands curled into claws. I stared, stunned. Her behavior was so beyond the pale, I could hardly register it. Fortunately, Varant remained alert

  Before Dottie could rake her nails across my face, Varant picked me up bodily and swung me out of the way. The entire restaurant gasped. The Master of Ceremonies bustled over, two large men in tow. Between them, they wrestled the angry, spitting Dottie into submission.

  “I think we should get out of here,” Varant said, guiding me gently toward the stairs. “The evening seems to have soured.”

  I agreed wholeheartedly. If I never saw Dottie Davis again, it would be too soon.