Chapter One
Westmorland, England
Spring 1821
Planting the daffodilshad been Bridget’s idea, and what a good idea it was, she told herself as she stepped outside and inhaled the crisp early morning air. The sea of yellow that now dominated the front edge of Villa De Lacey’s Garden looked spectacular against the backdrop of Lake Windermere’s sparkling blue waters and lush green fells. They were the perfect greeting for all who entered the gates of Villa De Lacey. After all, this was the land of the lakes, home to William Wordsworth, and what could better honor Westmorland’s greatest poet—and greatest poem—than a field of daffodils?
But it wasn’t only the daffodils’ beauty and symbolism that had made them attractive to Bridget—they also served a purpose. The flowers were a distraction from the villa’s notorious Venus fountain and adjacent rose beds, tucked away to the far right of the garden. The area had been the scene of one of two crimes that had taken place at Villa De Lacey during the previous summer. And rather than repelling potential customers to her luxurious inn on the shores of Lake Windermere, the murders had drawn a host of curious guests, eager to stay at what had now become known as the infamous “murder inn.”
Bridget shook the morbid memory from her mind and smiled at the small white terrier who trotted by her side. An orange butterfly fluttered past his face, skimming the tip of his little black nose. He responded by barking and chasing after it, his tail wagging as heromped across the grass. She laughed at her pup and took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh, sweet scents of spring. The smell of blossoming flowers and new grass filled her nostrils. Bridget smiled to herself. Just like the world emerging from winter, bursting with new life and color, her future was filled with renewed promise—a stark contrast to her world just one year earlier when she’d experienced the darkest day of her life.
That was the day she had received news of her papa’s death—and worst of all—been told that he’d died by his own hand. That day, her world had turned as black as the treacherous storm clouds she’d feared as a child. She’d not only become an orphan, her mama having died when she was a little girl, but she had almost lost the home she’d shared with her papa and aunt. Her papa had gambled their beloved Villa De Lacey in a card game, losing it to a wealthy earl, and he had not been able to cope with that catastrophe—a catastrophe that had been building for years, due to a secret gambling habit that Bridget had known nothing about. Her papa had been devoted to her and her aunt, and she imagined the shame of what he had done was too much for him to bear. So, he’d chosen the worst option possible, leaving this world and all his problems behind him. Bridget had tried to reconcile why her devoted father would leave her and her aunt to fend for themselves. And she knew in her heart it was because he believed she would find a husband to provide for them.
But Bridget had refused to give up and leave the only place she had ever called home. Villa De Lacey had been built by her French grandfather, who’d fallen in love with the remote Lake District while visiting the area. Wanting to live out his days in the exquisite region but still missing his home country, he’d built himself a three-story, eighteen-room French villa from Parisian Lutetian stone. Trimmed with pale blue shutters, a matching two-paneled double door, and a fleur-de-lis railing that wrapped around the raised portico, it was a piece of home in a new land.
Villa De Lacey was the only home Bridget had ever known, and she loved it with all her heart. She’d dreaded facing its new owner—the man who’d not only taken her home but her father’s dignity and, ultimately, his life. But things are not always what they seem. The Earl of Westerly had won Villa De Lacey, but he’d forced it upon his wayward brother, Nathaniel Squires, in a bid to banish him from London. And just two months after her papa’s death, Nate had arrived to claim his new home. But Nate was nothing like the ogre she had imagined the new owner to be. He was charming, kind-hearted, and determined to gain independence from his controlling older brother, who’d banished him from London and forced him to Westmorland. So, Bridget developed a plan that allowed her to stay in her home and gave Nate the independence he craved.
It so happened that Nate’s arrival at Villa De Lacey coincided with the publication of Wordsworth’s new guidebook to the region, which had sent wealthy visitors flocking to Westmorland. An exclusive inn was precisely what Westmorland needed, and Villa De Lacey, sitting on the shores of the magnificent Lake Windermere, was the perfect location. Nate had agreed to try Bridget’s plan and appointed her hostess of their new inn.
That had been a mere eight months ago, and the transition of her ancestral home into an inn had not been smooth. Scandalous behavior, theft, and murder had plagued them soon after they opened their doors to the public, forcing Bridget and Nate to become investigators in their own home. But all those troubles now seemed far behind them. Although she ached for her papa every day, Villa De Lacey was thriving, and her future seemed to hold promise once again.
Bijou’s high-pitched bark caught Bridget’s attention, and she shielded her face with her hand as she scanned the garden for her terrier. Shock seized her heart when she spotted him standing at the very edge of the massive field of daffodils.
“Come, boy!” Bridget ran toward Bijou, her heart racing. He knewnot to go near the daffodils—indeed, he had avoided them like the plague ever since a recent foray into the sea of flowers had made him sick. On that day, he’d chewed on a flower petal and suffered for it. That was the day Bridget had discovered a sinister side to the beautiful spring flowers. She had not known the pretty yellow daffodils could harm her dog, and neither had Thomas, her gardener. After the incident, she’d considered asking Thomas to rip them from the ground, but it turned out to be unnecessary because Bijou had learned his lesson and kept his distance from the flowers.So, what is drawing him there now?
Bijou continued to bark, but stayed at the edge of the daffodil field, not daring to venture inside.
“What is it, boy? What have you found?” Bridget said as she neared the daffodils.It’s likely another field vole.Bridget shuddered, remembering the last terrified little creature Bijou had dropped at her feet. The poor thing had been paralyzed with fear. But luckily, Bijou had not injured it. He was a hunter but not a killer. She’d scooped the furry little creature up in the palm of her hand and carried it back to the thicket that surrounded the garden, where it had disappeared among the grass and trees as soon as she’d set it down.
Bridget hoisted Bijou off the ground, tucking him safely under her arm, and then peered into the sea of flowers. Bijou whined. “Shh,” she said soothingly. Then she saw something that made her momentarily freeze.
A person lay among the daffodils.
Bridget could see the form of a man’s body and his thick blond hair, cascading in waves at the back of his head. Recognizing the lush, yellow hair, she relaxed and smiled. “It’s George,” she said, planting a kiss on Bijou’s snout. “Just silly old George.”
She skipped through the daffodils toward the young poet, who’d become a frequent visitor and entertainer at Villa De Lacey.What wonders is George dreaming up among those daffodils whilst contemplatingthe clouds?she thought happily. But as she neared her friend, she stopped abruptly. Something was wrong.
George’s thick, yellow hair was matted with what looked like wet soil or dirt. His arm lay stretched out behind his head, and his stiff hand grasped at the air.
“George?” she said, inching forward. Then she gasped out loud. George’s white shirt had been ripped open, and his chest was smeared with dried blood—or something that resembled blood. Bridget covered her mouth with her hand and turned abruptly away from the body, her heart beating wildly.
This is one of his tricks. It must be.The young poet was known for his dramatic flair and grand gestures in the name of art. Was this some form of grim artistic expression? Had he staged his own gruesome death for the sake of his writing? Was George making a point about his body being one with nature? Or was this inspiration for a masterpiece that was currently forming in his mind?
“George!” she said sternly, her back still to the poet. “You know I support your art, but this will scare our guests.”Or perhaps it will delight them, she thought cynically. When no answer came, she turned and took a cautious step toward the body, her mind doubting her eyes and her heart racing. “George!” she snapped.
Just then, two black crows swooped in front of Bridget’s face, causing her to stumble backward. She tried to shoo them away, but the birds, seemingly unflustered by her frantic hand waving and Bijou’s barking, landed on George and started pecking at what looked like a cavity in his chest.
Bridget put her hand to her throat as a wave of nausea hit her. The ground swayed beneath her feet as she raced out of the daffodil field. This was no act. George was dead!
*
Nate saw Bridgetgo down from his bedroom window.
Drawing open the curtains and stretching in front of the exquisite view whilst taking in the sun’s rays had become part of Nate’s early morning routine since he’d moved to Westmorland. And when he did so this morning, he saw Bridget running through the field of daffodils with Bijou under her arm. Then he watched her fall. Bijou flew out of her arms and rolled, then he turned and rushed back to Bridget, barking madly. One minute she’d been standing on her own two feet, and the next she was on the ground. Had she fainted?
The fact that he was in a state of undress did not stop Nate from rushing outside to her aid. He threw on his trousers and shirt, stuffed his feet into his shoes, and ordered his startled valet, who’d just brought in his morning tea, to fetch the smelling salts before he raced outside.
Bijou circled Bridget, pawing at her body and whining.
