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BEAUTY IN BLACK

Young widow Marianne Hughes is to chaperone the even younger Louisa Crookshanks to London for her come-out. 

But, in a most awkward happenstance, it turns out that the one gentleman Louisa has set her sights on only has eyes for the darker, more demure beauty of Mrs. Hughes. Soon this Marquess of Gillingham finds himself entangled in a web of desire and deception—and begins to understand that Hell hath no fury like a debutante 
scorned. 

Awards

Reviews

This charming, character-driven novel links Byrd's Sinclair series and her newer Merry Widow series, but readers new to Byrd (who's actually the mother/daughter team Cheryl Zach and Michelle Nicole Place) should have no trouble untangling the family relationships. Despite its complexity, the story's disparate plot elements mesh seamlessly.

Heartwarming, humorous at times, and beautifully researched, BEAUTY IN BLACK is a well-written page-turner. Readers won't want to miss the latest adventures of the Hill/Sinclair families, which began with DEAR IMPOSTER and jumped a bit ahead with LADY IN WAITING.

Lord Gillingham never wanted to leave his country estate, but he needs a wife to continue the family line. He knew that showing his pockmarked face to the ton would be hard. He knew meeting his estranged brother would be unpleasant. He knew that he wouldn't fit in, but he never saw himself accidentally becoming engaged to the wrong woman. He also didn't realize that there was a killer on the loose. Beauty in Black is well written and has multifaceted characters who leap off the page. I was intrigued by the character relationships, especially that of Lord Gillingham and his brother. Lord Gillingham is a brilliantly written character. That Byrd can write a hero who is believably both light and dark is quite a feat. Louisa was equally well written as a spoiled young miss who is trying to better herself for love. And Marianne's attempt to stem her feelings so as not to hurt anyone nearly made me weep. 

Excerpt

The marquess of Gillingham traveled by night.

Everyone agreed that, in his dull black carriage with the faded crest on the door, bumping along a country lane by moonlight, the man whose face made babies cry appeared more comfortable with darkness. Some speculated he might feel uneasy with the stares his marred countenance evoked; others thought him indifferent to such vanity and suggested darker motives. Lurid rumors abounded as to why he preferred such a cloak of obscurity, tittle-tattle of devil worship and toasts made with virgins’ blood, all of which had spurred the vicar of the local church to preach endless sermons about the dangers of superstition and idle talk, but such liturgical warnings did little to stem the gossip. If anything, they appeared in a backward way to support it. Since the marquess never ventured far, traveling only to survey his large estate in Kent and note how his tenants fared, the whispers did not seem to bother him, though errant children on the edges of his county were sometimes threatened with his name.

“Crack another egg by swinging your basket like that, Jemmy, and I’ll feed you to the Black Beast of Gillin’am, I will.”

And the child in question would gulp and cross himself, or finger a scruffy charm hidden beneath his smock, and pay more mind to his chores.

The marquess himself, his scarred face habitually shrouded by darkness, stayed close to home, ensconced in a large, dim mansion, ill-cared for by the few servants who could be induced to stay with him.

Until that spring, when the chatter around the neighborhood took on a new note, incredulous and eager, whispered with lowered voices and wide eyes.

“The marquess is going to London!”

“The Beast is taking a bride!”

“I hear he is quite hideous,” Louisa Crookshank said, her tone complacent. She bit into a plump hothouse peach. The juice dripped down her fair skin, and she rubbed it away, shaking back golden curls as she did so.

Any other female would have looked quite unkempt, Marianne Hughes thought as she watched, but Louisa, even with her hair straying into her face and juice stains on her chin, managed to look as beautiful as always. Among Bath society, she had been dubbed The Comely Miss Crookshank, and it was likely her biggest misfortune.

“So why in the name of heaven are you contemplating his suit?” Louisa’s aunt by marriage, Caroline Hughes Crookshank, asked, sounding as usual slightly harassed. “Evan, put down that rock, and do not throw it at your sister!”

The small boy tossed the missile anyhow. His aim was off. The pebble hit the dove-gray skirts of their house guest, but there was little strength behind the pitch, and it bounced harmlessly away. Marianne smiled and moved her feet away from the path of an even smaller boy, who was pushing a wooden carriage pulled by two wooden horses. As much as Marianne loved her sister-in-law and her children, Caroline’s brood were a trifle unpredictable. Because the day was so fair, they were sitting outside by the rose garden, having tea on the lawn and letting the children run up and down the gravel walkways.

“Because Lucas Englewood jilted her, of course.” Cara Hughes, who was eleven, reached for another scone.

“He did not jilt me!” Louisa snapped. “And I shall box your ears if you again utter such a falsehood!”

“Only because he never proposed, but you thought he was going to,” Cara plunged ahead, despite frantic signals from her mother to desist. But although she grinned at her older cousin, the child took the precaution of retreating behind her aunt’s chair.

“Act your age, Louisa,” Marianne murmured as Louisa jumped to her feet, seeming ready to put her threat into words. “You are approaching one and twenty, not twelve.”

Louisa sat down again, but her perfect features twisted into a frown.

“I care nothing about Sir Lucas. He’s barely more than a child--”

“He’s two years older than you,” Cara muttered, but this time, mercifully, her cousin did not hear.

“I should like to meet someone more mature. Anyhow, why should I settle for a mere baronet when I could have someone whose title is inferior only to a duke’s? Perhaps I have a fancy to be a marchioness. And I’m told he’s ridiculously wealthy.”

“You don’t need money. And you still have to look at him,” the younger child argued.

“Cara, that is unkind,” her mother scolded. “You know what the vicar says about beauty lying inside a person, not out.”

But the vicar did not have to contemplate an ugly face over his morning tea, Marianne couldn’t help thinking; she had met the vicar’s plump, pretty wife, who was quite adorable with her round red cheeks and sweet smile. Then she scolded herself for being as shallow as Cara-besides, because of her tender years, the child had an excuse; Marianne did not.

Caroline finished her lecture, adding, “Since you have all finished your tea, I think it is time the children went back to the nursery. I shall check on them and on the baby before I change for dinner.”

Cara pouted, but she turned toward the house. The next oldest sibling was made of sterner stuff.

“But I wanted to play another round of bowls with Auntie Marianne,” Evan wailed, waving his handful of pebbles.

“Later, we will have another game,” Marianne promised as their mother wavered.

Fortunately, the governess, Miss Sweeney, who had all the firmness their doting mother sometimes lacked, said, “Come along, now. And drop those stones, Master Evan.”

She herded the children back toward the nursery suite. Their progress was reasonably peaceful--Evan only once reaching over to pinch his older sister, who shoved him away--until Louisa remarked, while the young ones were still in earshot, “Thank heavens, infants make such a noise.”

“I am not an infant!” Evan roared.

His younger brother, Thomas, took up the cry, bawling, too. “Not a ‘fant!”

Caroline winced. “Louisa, please don’t aggravate the children.”

Still bellowing, the children disappeared into the house, Miss Sweeney’s erect form just behind them. There was a moment of silence. A bird sang at the edge of the lawn, and a bee buzzed as it hovered above a nearby rosebush. The impassive footman offered them a selection of cakes from a silver tray.

Louisa looked innocent as she accepted a raisin cake. After “artless,” it was her second most practiced expression, Marianne thought, trying not to laugh.

“But seriously, Louisa, why would you consider his suit?” her aunt continued. “You haven’t even met the man. Looks aside, because he can hardly be judged on such a consideration, I have heard rumors that he is most unpleasant.”

“If you haven’t met him, how do you know he is interested in your hand?” Marianne asked, taking a sip of her cooling tea.

Louisa blinked. “He will be, when I do meet him. When I go to London!” The last was uttered in a rapturous tone, and she turned eagerly to their visitor. “It would be such an amusement for you, Aunt Marianne. I know your official mourning is long past, even if you do still wear such drab colors, and think how diverting it would be to chaperone me to all of the parties and amusements of the Season!”

Marianne glanced at her sister-in-law, who had the grace to blush. “So I’m to be waylaid, was that the plan? ‘Diverting’ would hardly begin to describe the role of chaperoning ‘the Comely Miss Crookshank.’”

“Please, please, Aunt Marianne. I will be so useful, never a bother to you. And I have been longing to go to London and do a proper Season. You know how many times I’ve had to put it off! First, because Papa was sure that my little cold would turn into lung fever if I left home, then the next spring Aunt Caroline was increasing, and then the next year there was poor Papa’s illness. Now that my own mourning is months past, as much as I miss dear Papa--” to her credit, the girl’s voice wavered a moment before she finished- “I know he would wish me to go and enjoy myself.”

The problem was, she was quite right. If her indulgent father had not pampered her so much, Marianne thought, Louisa might not be such a self-centered and naive young beauty. The girl’s mother had died years earlier, and her father had felt compelled to deny his golden girl nothing. And this was the result.

Marianne wished she was as young as Thomas and could enjoy a proper tantrum. She glanced again at her sister-in-law, who put down her embroidery.

“Louisa, why don’t you go and apologize to your cousins for calling them names while I have a chat with Marianne,” Caroline suggested.

Louisa’s brilliant smile flashed. “So you can plead my case? Oh, I will. I will be so good, you will see. Please, please say yes, dearest aunt. You will never be sorry!” She gave Marianne an impulsive hug that almost upset the teacup on the small table at her elbow, then floated off toward the house.

When the two women were left alone, Caroline waved away the servant and turned at last to face her guest.

“You might have warned me.” Marianne lifted her brows.

“I know, I did mean to,” Caroline said. “Please forgive me for thrusting you into this. I have tried to persuade her that she can enjoy a coming-out at home, but nothing will do for Louisa until she is able to taste the delights of London. And you remember that when she turns one and twenty, she will inherit that most respectable fortune, so I must entrust her to someone who will keep a sharp eye on her. I would not want her enthralled by the first fortune hunter she meets. And she has no aunts on her father’s side, only a great-uncle who is a bachelor and not on good terms with the family, anyhow. And she is, indeed, somewhat vulnerable at the moment because no matter what she says, I think she expected young Lucas to offer for her, and when he pulled away-and then, too, you are really the only person she actually listens to!”

The reasons tumbled out as if they had been often rehearsed. Marianne closed her eyes for a moment. The scene had seemed so peaceful, until now. In this quiet setting, she had hoped to escape the vague sense of frustration that had dogged her for months. And now-the prospect of having to ride herd on a high-spirited and somewhat self-centered young lady enjoying London for the first time--well, as she had said, diverting hardly described it.

“Caroline, why can’t you--” Marianne began, then paused and asked bluntly, “I know you don’t care for London, but-are you unwell?”

Caroline bit her lip. “I hated to beg off for such a reason, but the fact is I am increasing again, Marianne. I don’t think Louisa has discerned my condition, although with her, you never know--one moment acting so childish and the next, putting on airs like a matron.”

“Ah,” Marianne said. The baby in the nursery was barely a year old. No wonder Caroline was looking a little wan. “My felicitations!” She leaned across to give her sister-in-law a quick hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Wretched,” the other woman admitted. “I can barely keep anything down. And the thought of trying to negotiate a London Season in this condition-you know I much prefer the quieter pace of Bath.”

Marianne sighed. It looked as if she was well and truly snared. How could she say no when she saw that Caroline, her late husband’s sister as well as her oldest friend, was so pale and had barely touched her food as they had eaten. And in any case, who could blame her sister-in-law for wanting to delegate such a task? Louisa would be a challenge to a more resolute woman than the gentle Caroline, of whom Marianne was deeply fond. She still felt connected to her husband’s family, by affection if no longer by the marital vows. In addition, she and Caroline had been intimates since they were girls, growing up on neighboring estates in the West Country.

“Then I’d best be prepared. Tell me about this notorious marquess,” she said, giving in to the inevitable. “And why Louisa is so eager to captivate a perfect stranger.”

Looking more at ease, Caroline leaned back into her chair. “It’s all gossip, really, but you know how it is in Bath.”

Marianne grinned and sipped her tea. No answer was necessary. Gossip was as common in the watering place as the ill-tasting mineral waters which visitors sipped at the Pump Room.

“The local squire’s wife, in the village next to the marquess’ estate, wrote to our Mrs. Howard that the marquess was on his way to London to look for an eligible bride. Apparently, after inheriting the title on his father’s death, he feels it is time to set up his nursery. A perfectly normal decision.”

“And there are no eligible ladies in his neighborhood?” Marianne asked.

“I’m not sure any would have him,” her usually mild-spoken sister-in-law said.

Startled, Marianne looked up. “He’s that ill favored?”

“He contracted the small pox when he was a young man, as I understand it, and was left gravely scarred.”

Marianne blinked in surprise. Most people of means, in the progressive years of the early nineteenth century, were inoculated to avoid the killing, maiming, much-feared illness which once had struck down so many. Most saw that their servants and farm laborers were also protected. Her parents had made sure that it was done when Marianne was only little Evan’s age. But she had heard that the pricking of the arm did not work for everyone. And the phrase, “when he was young,” was also ominous; the man was old, as well as maimed?

“Oh, dear,” she muttered.

“And ill natured, I hear, which concerns me more,” Cara added. “I cannot allow Louisa to throw herself away on some rude boorish person, no matter if he has titles to spare.”

Marianne nodded. Even if the girl was a bit vain, none of them wished her to be unhappy in a poorly-conceived union, certainly not Marianne, who had had the rare choice of marrying her childhood sweetheart. It looked as if she would be forced, despite her better judgment, into the role of duenna.

She shook her head.

The other woman gave her a questioning look.

“Ironic,” Marianne explained. “After Harry died, I always thanked heaven that I was left with enough funds not to be forced to hire myself out as a governess.”

Caroline laughed. “Oh, come now. It will not be as bad as all that! You only have to go to parties with her and keep an eye on the men she meets.”

“And theaters and parks and breakfasts and teas and balls and who knows what, and the men will gather around her like bees to a fragrant flower. I shall be beating them off with a cane,” Marianne predicted. “Beauty and wealth, both? Louisa will be a bigger success than even she has imagined.”

If such a thing were possible.

But at least, it might induce the girl to forget her goal of conquering the unknown marquess, and it should certainly ease the pain of her rejection by her first suitor. Marianne sighed. “I must tell my maid to start packing. I’m sure Louisa expects to leave for London with scant delay. And you should lie down for a time before you have to change for dinner.”

Caroline, who had been trying to hide a yawn, did not argue. They both strolled toward the house, and inside, Marianne found her new charge lying in wait.

“Well?” Louisa demanded, jumping up from the chair where she had been sitting, apparently trying to look virtuous by stabbing the linen in her embroidery hoop with large, untidy stitches. “I have begged pardon of all my cousins, even Evan. Have you decided? Will you take me with you back to London, darling aunt?”

Marianne barely had time to nod before the girl grabbed her in a delighted hug. “Oh, you are the dearest aunt in the world. You won’t regret it! And you shall enjoy the diversions, too, you know. Aunt Caroline always says you should get out more. Even old people need some merriment.”

Caroline protested weakly, “Louisa!”

Marianne, who was two years past her thirtieth birthday, blinked. What on earth had she committed herself to?

She sat with Louisa for a time, listening to the girl natter on about all the delights of London that she could not wait to taste, everything from a visit to Vauxhall Gardens to her formal court presentation as she made her bow before royalty. Finally, Marianne reminded Louisa of the approaching dinner hour, and they both went up to change.

In her guest room Marianne tried to convince herself that it would indeed be diverting to have a younger companion for several months. “‘Old’ people needed such young things around them,” she told herself dryly, glancing into the looking glass as she changed into a dinner dress.

“The black with the silver trim?” her maid had inquired when Marianne came into the room.

Marianne shook her head. “Tonight, the lavender, I think. There is a concert after dinner at Sydney Gardens, and I know Louisa is set on going.”

Her maid hurrumphed at the idea of her mistress’s actions being directed by the younger woman’s wishes, but she took out the other dress.

Louisa’s comments had stung more than Marianne cared to admit. So she still owned several gowns of somber shades; gray and even black were perfectly becoming colors, and she was not so wealthy that she could replace her entire wardrobe every Season.

Did she look old? Her dark hair, which curved smoothly past her cheek, was not yet streaked by gray, and her gray-blue eyes had only a few laugh lines about their edges. Her complexion was clear.

If she had had a husband still, and a family, perhaps she would have given the passing years little thought. After her husband’s death, when she had been only a few years older than Louisa was now, Marianne had had the appalling image of her life as a rosebud destined never to fully open, a bud not allowed to bloom. Sometimes in the middle of the night when she lay alone in her bed, the idea recurred, to be pushed away along with the self-pity which followed behind it like a doleful ghost. All those dreams she had had. . . Not just the happy marriage, the children that would now never be born, but the other ambitions she had aspired to. . .musings she had rarely dared admit. Ladies of quality did not have such thoughts.

After all, she was luckier than many widows. She had a modest but adequate income, a small house in London, and the quiet pleasures of her books and her friends, as well as frequent visits to see Caroline and her family, and Marianne’s brother and his brood, who with Marianne’s widowed mother lived further west in Devon.

Old.

Sighing, Marianne told her lady’s maid about their new charge.

“She’ll lead you on a merry dance, that one will,” Hackett warned, her tone dire. But then, her abigail, who had been with Marianne’s family even before Marianne herself had let down her skirts, was always a pessimist. “She hasn’t the wits God gave a gnat, I sometimes think.”

“Please don’t make unpleasant comments about Miss Louisa, Hackett,” Marianne responded, her tone firm. All she needed was to see a feud set off between the girl and Marianne’s small household staff.

Her abigail sniffed, her long face twisted into a frown, and brushed her mistress’s dark hair back into a smooth French knot at the base of her neck.

When Marianne went down to dinner, she found her brother-in-law already apprized of the plan.

“And we shall start for town at once,” Louisa volunteered, her voice eager.

“That depends on your uncle,” Marianne warned. “It is his carriage we shall have to beg the use of, you know, unless you plan to take the common coach.” Marianne did not have the funds to keep her own carriage, so her visits were always planned to accommodate someone else’s comings and goings from London to the west. Fortunately, Charles Crookshank was a noted Bath barrister who often had business in the larger city, so it was usually easily enough done.

Louisa made a face and looked toward her uncle, who had become her guardian after her father’s death. The amiable Charles laughed.

“I think we can manage that, on Friday or Saturday, if not tomorrow.”

Louisa pouted at having to wait three whole days, but then she returned to her plans for her coming-out, which seemed to become more ambitious with every hour.

“I shall need a whole new wardrobe, of course,” she assured Cara, who looked sympathetic.

“I hope I can have a coming-out in London, too, when I am of age,” the child declared, throwing a glance toward her aunt.

Marianne bit back a rueful laugh, but the comment reminded her of more practical matters. A coming out would require substantial expenditure. Apparently, her brother-in-law had already considered the problem. After dinner, when Charles rejoined them in the drawing room, and the children, emitting their usual clamor, were brought down from the nursery to say good night, he drew Marianne aside.

“I shall have funds made available to you to cover the cost of Louisa’s Season, of course,” he told her. “She has a comfortable allowance, and you must make use of any sums you need, for your own wardrobe as well as hers, and for the cost of extra entertaining.”

Marianne gazed at him with affection. “I do not wish to profit from this temporary guardianship,” she protested.

He waved her qualms away. “Of course not; you know I trust you implicitly. But I do understand that such an upswing in social activity must increase your sartorial needs as well as Louisa’s.”

“Such wisdom from a mere man,” she teased him gently.

“A mere husband! I have not been married for so many years for nothing,” he assured her. Marianne laughed.

Then the two boys barreled into their papa, begging for a ride on his knee before the governess took them off to bed, and Charles allowed himself to be led away.

It seemed that her in-laws would give her no excuse to change her mind about this plan, Marianne thought, just a wee bit cynically. Apparently, she might as well put her mind at ease and enjoy the new charge.

It also appeared her chaperonage would begin at once, as Louisa was determined to attend the concert, and Caroline, yawning again, just as obviously wanted only her bed. So it was Marianne and Louisa who donned light cloaks and set off, in the Crookshank’s carriage, for the musical evening. Charles had volunteered to accompany them, but since Marianne knew perfectly well that he had a tin ear and did not care for opera tunes, she waved away his polite offer.

So he saw them off with obvious relief, and Louisa chatted about her wardrobe plans all the way through the short drive into Bath, until Marianne thought that if she heard any more discussion of pleated sleeves and lace trim, she might scream. And she enjoyed fashion as much as anyone, anyone except perhaps a young lady on the brink of her long-delayed coming-out.

By the time they had crossed the bridge and the horses were straining to climb another of Bath’s famous seven hills, Marianne was more than ready to be handed down in front of Sydney Gardens, the location of the night’s concert.

Louisa, who had been discussing how much Bath’s popularity, and thus its fashionableness, had declined over the years, seemed eager to step down, too, despite the “sad lack of the presence of people of real importance” which she had just explained to her aunt made Bath inferior to London.

They walked past the white columns and into the garden, where they found seats. Louisa sat for only a moment until she saw a friend, a younger lady with whom she was eager to share the exciting news about her imminent visit to London.

“Oh, Aunt Marianne, do you mind if I go over and chat with Amelia until the concert begins?”

“Not at all,” Marianne agreed.

So Louisa moved away, and Marianne fanned herself and looked around her. The musicians were tuning their instruments, the famed soprano had not yet appeared, and the seats gradually filled with men and women. Many of them were indeed somewhat inclined toward graying heads and paunchy silhouettes. Of course, Louisa would consign Marianne into the same category, she told herself, trying to laugh about it. Perhaps chaperonage was all she had left to enjoy, since her own girlhood was well behind her. Bad enough to feel the years slipping away, but to know that her innermost dreams would never be realized. . .

This thought was so melancholy she gave herself a mental shake and turned to see who sat on her other side. She found two older women, one short and stout and gray, the other a tall, still erect lady with lovely silver hair and a lorgnette.

Marianne smiled. “Good evening,” she said to the shorter woman. “I believe my sister-in-law, Mrs. Charles Crookshank, introduced us at the Pump Room?”

“Yes, indeed, I remember.” The other woman beamed at her. “I noticed the two of you when you sat down just now, and I thought I recognized your companion, the comely Miss Crookshank.”

Marianne managed not to laugh. Louisa would have been gratified to hear herself praised, but she was on the other side of the assembly at the moment, giggling and bending her head toward a short girl with reddish hair.

“I am Mrs. Knox, as you no doubt remember. This lady is Miss Sophie Hill, who has lately removed from London to Bath.”

The silver-haired matron gave a slight inclination of her head. “How do you do?”

Marianne returned the greeting. “I reside in London, myself,” she said. “But I enjoy Bath’s quieter pace.”

“Do you plan to stay long, then?”

“I had meant to,” Marianne explained. “But I have been given the task of playing chaperone to my niece by marriage, so I find that I will be going back to town sooner than I had planned. She is eager to be presented in London.”

Miss Hill gave a lady-like snort. “I have sustained that fate, myself,” she said. “With a pretty girl, and one of means, you will find your time never your own and too many simpletons aspiring for her hand. Of course, my niece was well worth the inconvenience, but I am happy enough to have her safely married at last.”

“I am sure that Louisa will not want for suitors,” Marianne agreed.

“Many of them a bunch of vain popinjays.” The older lady frowned. “One hopes she will not be disappointed in what she finds.”

Obviously a lady of strong opinions. Marianne couldn’t completely suppress her smile even as she gave a discreet signal with her fan in Louisa’s direction. The concert was about to start; it was time to take a seat.

Louisa whispered one last comment into her friend’s ear, then made her way back to Marianne. “I have told Amelia all about my wonderful adventure,” the girl said, her clear voice easily heard even above the first notes from the orchestra. “And about the marquess of Gillingham, and his plans to take a bride, a design which I intend to aid.”

“Hush,” Marianne told her. The girl subsided at last into her chair with an expression of respectful attention on her lovely face as she gazed toward the musicians, although Marianne had no doubt her charge’s expression simply concealed more daydreams of titled suitors and splendid new wardrobes.

“The marquess of Gillingham, you say?” The silver-haired lady on her other side inquired, for some reason frowning at the mention of the name.

“Yes,” Marianne said in surprise. “Do you know the gentleman? I understood he comes seldom to London.”

A pause as a violin trilled, then the other woman pursed her lips. “For good reason. You have undertaken a greater responsibility than you know, Mrs. Hughes.”

Marianne blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Your charge had best take care,” Miss Hill murmured, so low that Marianne was not sure she caught the words. “The marquess is not a man to be taken lightly.”

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