Death of a Duchess by Nellie Steele (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📗

Also by Nellie H. Steele

Cate Kensie Mysteries:

The Secret of Dunhaven Castle

Murder at Dunhaven Castle

Holiday Heist at Dunhaven Castle

Shadow Slayer Stories:

Shadows of the Past

Stolen Portrait Stolen Soul

Gone

Maggie Edwards Adventures:

Cleopatra’s Tomb

Death of a DuchessA Duchess of Blackmoore Mystery

Nellie H. Steele

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Nellie H. Steele

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

For my Aunt Michelle

Contents

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

A Note from the Author

The Secret of Dunhaven Castle Synopsis

The Secret of Dunhaven Castle Excerpt

Acknowledgments

A HUGE thank you to everyone who helped get this book published! Special shout outs to: Stephanie Sovak, Paul Sovak, Michelle Cheplic, Cathi Colas, Mark D’Angelo and Lori D’Angelo.

Finally, a HUGE thank you to you, the reader!

Chapter 1

The imposing silhouette of Blackmoore Castle rose from the mist, standing in stark contrast against the ominous gray sky. Its grand towers and turrets with banners waving rose high above the landscape. The castle, perched on the cliffs, beckoned me home as my carriage trundled up the path toward it.

It still had the power to take my breath away as it did when I first laid eyes upon it, drenched in moonlight, some three months ago when I arrived. I recalled the journey into the Scottish Highlands as though it were yesterday. Filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation of what would become of me, I rode in silence with my traveling companion, Henry Langford, a middle-aged estate agent with a kind face in the service of Duke Blackmoore, the castle’s proprietor.

The foreboding façade of the castle may have sent shivers up the spine of most women my age. However, the turmoil of my short life of eighteen years and two months created within me a façade almost as formidable as the castle’s, if not more so. Instead, the brooding castle with its gothic design and blackened stones generated a stirring of home inside me. And despite my questioning mind regarding what would become of me, I feared not what secrets the ominous castle held within its walls.

As the carriage bounced over the rocky pathway to the castle, I closed my eyes, recalling the night I had first arrived. My day had started like any other, with no indication of difference from the days before it. At the orphanage, my home for ten years, six months and three weeks, days were rarely unique. Mundaneness and routine thrived at the orphanage above all things. I passed most of my time reading and learning. I had, in fact, been returning from the orphanage’s paltry library on that morning when I overheard the tail end of the conversation between Duke Blackmoore’s man and the headmistress. I shall make clear one thing: I was not eavesdropping. However, upon passing through the foyer to the staircase leading to bedrooms, I overheard my name. Naturally intrigued, I stopped to listen.

Headmistress Williamson protested, “There are far better girls beyond Miss Hastings in this orphanage for this sort of thing.”

“Far better for what?” my mind questioned. Though her comment did not surprise me. Her dislike for me was well known. She despised my quick wit among other aspects of my personality. As much as she hoped to rid herself of me, she sabotaged every possibility of my departure. I had long since resigned myself to becoming a teacher at the orphanage.

I did not recognize the voice that answered her. “Miss Williamson, I am not here to ask your opinion, merely to pay for any expenses Miss Hastings accumulated during her time at your facility and to retrieve her,” he argued.

My brow furrowed at the mention of retrieving me. Who was this mystery man, I wondered, and what right of claim did he have to me? He wasn’t my father, of this much I was sure. An uncle, perhaps. My mind wandered from possibility to possibility as the doors to Headmistress Williamson’s office flung open.

Headmistress Williamson spotted me in an instant, her eyes wide as she noted my proximity to her office doors. Her mouth set itself into its usual scowl as her eyes settled on me. Her mousy brown hair, pulled back into its low bun at the nape of her neck, added to the dour expression on her face.

“Miss Hastings,” she growled, glowering at me with those fiery emerald eyes, “how fortuitous to find you here. Mr. Langford,” she said, motioning to the man who stepped behind her to fill the doorway, “is here to collect you.”

I glanced to the man, exploring his features as I searched them for an answer. None came. Instead of explanations, what came was a quick swat on my upper arm. “Do not stand there dumbfounded, girl!” Headmistress Williamson exclaimed. “Mr. Langford does not have all day. He’d like to get as early a start as possible!”

The headmistress offering a contrite glance to Mr. Langford before spinning me on my feet and shoving me up the stairs. She huffed as we hurried down the hall toward the bedroom I occupied with seven other girls. “Quickly, now, Lenora, pack your things. You won’t be needing this.” She ripped the book still clutched in my hands away, discarding it on a nearby dresser.

I had come to the orphanage with a small, well-worn suitcase which I kept shoved under my sagging mattress. Retrieving it from its hiding spot, I