Chapter One

As she departed the first-class carriage, Lady Marigold Grey was startled by a blinding flash of light. Acting on instinct, she raised her left arm to shield her face while her right hand swiftly reached into her handbag for her pearl-handled pistol.
But as she reached for it to defend herself, three things happened that gave her pause
First, a sharp clicking sound caught her ear.
Then another dazzling burst of light temporarily blinded her.
And finally, she detected the faint, acrid tang of smoke lingering in the air.
Vivid swirls and shimmering stars danced across her vision, obscuring her view of the bustling platform.
Drawing upon her keen senses, meticulously honed during her time as a spy in the Great War, Marigold quickly deduced that her assailant’s weapon of choice was not a gun.
It was a camera!
With a rueful smile, she relinquished her grip on the pistol and snapped her handbag shut, silently admonishing herself for the momentary overreaction.
Blinking rapidly to clear the lingering spots from her vision, she scanned the crowded platform, her eyes searching for the camera and its operator amidst a sea of tweed caps, cloche hats, and the occasional fea- thered accessory.
Her gaze settled upon a lanky young man with a shock of fiery red hair.
He was standing at the foot of the carriage steps, precariously balancing a large black camera on his bony shoulder.
As their eyes met, a deep, rosy blush crept up his neck.
‘Begging your pardon, milady,’ he said, his voice cracking with nervousness. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you with the flash.’
Marigold’s lips curved into an amused smile as she smoothed a stray lock of her dark bobbed hair. ‘Apology accepted, but perhaps a bit of forewarning next time might be prudent. I’d prefer you captured
my most flattering angle.’
Before the young photographer could muster a response, a short, portly, middle-aged man in a tweed suit and trilby hat elbowed his way to the front of the carriage steps, blocking Marigold’s path off the train. With a cigarette tucked behind each ear and a smirk on his face, he produced a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. ‘Lady Marigold? Bernie Pestwick-Yorkshire Post. Might I have a word?’
Her smile was quick and practised. ‘Goodness. This is unexpected. Surely your newspaper has more interesting things to report on than me? And may I ask how you knew I’d be on this train?’
‘I’ve got my sources, my lady, and they have some interesting things to say about you.’ The reporter’s bold claim intrigued her, but she knew better than to let him rattle her. ‘What is it you want to speak to me about?’ she said coolly.
He tapped his pencil against the cleft in his chin.
‘Our readers are keen to know more about the new mistress of Mayfair Manor. And to get the scoop on what your cousin thinks about you swiping his inheritance right from under him.’
Marigold’s gloved fingers tightened around the cold metal of the handrail, the pressure sending a slight tingle up her arm.
‘I’ll have you know, Mr Pestwick, that I ‘swiped’ nothing. Mayfair Manor is a private estate, and my uncle was well within his rights to bequeath it to whomever he saw fit-in this case, yours truly.’
The reporter scoffed, his scepticism unmistakable. ‘Come now, milady, everyone expected your cousin to inherit, being the sole male heir and all. Must’ve caused quite the scandal when your uncle left every- thing to you instead?’
Marigold had pondered this question many times since learning of her unexpected inheritance, but she wasn’t about to let Pestwick in on her doubts.
She studied his face, attempting to predict what he might ask next.
Despite his bravado, she was reasonably certain he had no inkling of the true reason behind her return to Yorkshire.
If he did, he’d have surely led with the tantalising titbit about her butler discovering a skeleton at the
manor.
Pestwick’s beady eyes raked over Marigold’s ensemble, taking in every detail from the cloche hat on her bobbed hair to the wide-legged wool trousers peeking out from under her coat.
‘You’re a right modern woman, aren’t you? Not sure that’ll go over too well around these parts. How do you expect to run a grand estate like Mayfair dressed like that? Folk might not take too kindly to it.’
It took every ounce of Marigold’s self-control not to roll her eyes at him. Instead, she descended the carriage steps, hoping he might take the hint and step aside. When he remained firmly planted in her way, she paused on the bottom step, her hazel eyes meeting his unblinkingly.
‘I’ve always found that respect is earned through one’s actions and character, not by something as trivial as clothing. And who knows? Perhaps the women of Yorkshire will come to appreciate the practicality and comfort of trousers and shorter hair-as I have,’ she said.
Pestwick scribbled in his notebook. Without looking up, he said, ‘Word on the street is you’re bringing two orphans to Mayfair with you. Care to comment on that?’
With a dismissive wave of her hand, she replied, ‘It would seem, Mr Pestwick, that very little escapes your notice. However, not everything falls within the purview of the press.’
She gestured to a porter who was standing nearby with her luggage.
‘I must go. I have a connecting train to Kellerton. If you’d be so kind as to let me pass…’
But the reporter was not to be deterred. He tapped his pencil against his notebook, a glint of determin- ation in his eye.
‘A lady returning home with two mysterious children in her charge? Now that’s a story worth telling, wouldn’t you say?’
Marigold’s patience was wearing thin, but she refused to let Pestwick get a rise out of her.
‘If you must know, I’m helping them to locate their English relatives. That’s all I’ll say on the matter. You may write what you wish about me, but I kindly ask that you leave the children alone.’
She nimbly sidestepped him, but he called after her, ‘Just looking out for their well-being, milady. There’s talk about you keeping company with some unsavoury types. Surely that can’t be good for the young ones, can it?’
Marigold’s step faltered, and a muscle in her jaw twitched at the man’s audacity.
For a moment, she entertained the notion of snatching the pencil from his hand and giving him a good rap on the nose with it.
Instead, she fixed him with a steely gaze and asked, ‘What does that mean?’
‘Is it true you’ve got a German woman as your maid? People are talking, and they’re none too happy about it—and rightly so. The war may be over, but the wounds are still fresh. It’s just not proper if you ask
me.’
Marigold took a step closer to Pestwick, the scent of his tobacco-and-whiskey-tinged breath assaulting her nostrils.
‘Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Mr Pestwick. Miss Müller is my assistant, not my maid. She risked her life to aid our cause during the war, and this country owes her a great debt. I won’t stand for anyone speaking ill of her or questioning her integrity.’
Pestwick appeared momentarily taken aback by Marigold’s fierce defence of her assistant, but he quickly
composure.
regained his ‘Rumour has it you were involved in some sort of dark deed on a train in Europe. A murder, they say. Care to shed some light on that little mystery?’ Marigold had reached the end of her rope.
With a curt shake of her head, she replied, “That’s a matter for the proper authorities, and I have no comment on it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this conversation is over.’
As she turned to leave, a flicker of movement caught her eye. The young photographer was trying to repair his camera, his face a mask of frustration.
Despite her eagerness to put some distance between herself and Pestwick, Marigold’s curiosity got the better of her.
‘It appears you’re having some trouble with your equipment. Perhaps I could offer some assistance, Mister…?’
The photographer looked up, his freckled face flushing an even deeper shade of red as he met Marigold’s gaze.
‘O’Neill, milady. Eddie O’Neill.’
Pointing to the camera, he said, ‘It’s the shutter. It’s been giving me grief all morning, and I can’t seem to get it sorted.’
He demonstrated by pressing the button, his shoulders slumping when the mechanism failed to respond.
Marigold leaned in for a closer look. ‘Hmm. I have a bit of experience with this model. May I?’
Eddie nodded eagerly, stepping aside to allow Marigold access to the camera.
She removed her gloves, handing them to the awestruck young man, and set to work examining the troublesome shutter.
With a few deft adjustments, she had the mechanism working smoothly once more.
“The key is to find the perfect balance. Too loose, and the shutter won’t close properly-too tight, and you risk damaging the entire apparatus. Try it now,’ she said.
Eddie raised the camera to his eye and peered through the viewfinder.
He pressed the button, and the shutter clicked and whirred. His face lit up with a triumphant grin. “Thank you, miss—I mean, milady. You’re a right marvel, you are.’
Marigold couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm as she slipped her gloves back on.
‘Think nothing of it, Eddie. Just promise me you’ll give a girl a bit of warning before you start snapping away next time, hmm?’
The young man’s blush deepened, his ears turning crimson. ‘Of course, milady. Won’t happen again, I swear it.’ The clock above the ticket office chimed the hour and Marigold turned to leave, but Pestwick’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
‘One more question, if you don’t mind, milady?’
But Marigold was having none of it. With a polite but firm shake of her head, she replied, ‘I’m afraid I really must be going, Mr Pestwick. I look forward to reading your article. Be sure to quote me accurately, won’t you? Good day.’
As the final chime of the clock faded away, Marigold turned to the porter with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.’
The porter tipped his cap, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners.
‘Not at all, milady. Your train to Kellerton is ready and waiting, and your luggage has been safely stowed. If you’ll just follow me to your carriage.’
Marigold nodded her thanks, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Pestwick.
The reporter stood watching her, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
She knew she had probably said more than was wise, but at least the secret of the skeleton hidden away
at Mayfair Manor was safe.
For now.