Chapter One
Hessleham Hall, North Yorkshire – Saturday 20th December 1924
Evelyn Christie paused in the great entrance hall of Hessleham Hall and allowed herself a moment to admire the decorations. The guests for this year’s Christmas Ball would not arrive for another two hours, which—if she had judged it correctly—gave her time to make a final circuit of the reception rooms before going upstairs to the nursery to see her daughters, and then dressing for the evening.
The oak panelling shone with fresh polish, the black-and-white marble floor gleamed beneath her feet, and the sweeping staircase was dressed in garlands of holly and ivy, the red berries bright against the dark leaves as they caught the lamplight.
Off to the right of the large open space stood the Christmas tree—magnificent, impossibly tall, and hung with glass baubles, strands of silver tinsel, and real candles not yet lit. The scent of pine and beeswax filled the air.
It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
“Well?” Tommy’s voice came from just behind her left shoulder, warm with amusement. “Will it do?”
Evelyn turned to find her husband regarding her with that particular expression—half fond, half teasing—that never failed to make her heart lift.
“It will more than do,” she said. “It’s magnificent.”
“All thanks to you.” Tommy stepped forward to stand beside her, his hand finding the small of her back in a gesture of gentle affection. “And to Penrose, of course. The man has been a marvel these past months, but particularly recently.”
As if summoned by his name, Arthur Penrose appeared from the direction of the servants’ passage, moving with the swift, silent efficiency that had made him invaluable since his arrival at Hessleham Hall earlier that year. He was a handsome man in his early thirties, with dark hair and the smooth confidence of someone keenly aware of his own worth.
“Lord Northmoor, Lady Northmoor.” He inclined his head with precisely the correct degree of deference. “The musicians have arrived and are setting up in the ballroom. Cook reports that all is proceeding to schedule in the kitchens.”
“Excellent.” Evelyn consulted the small notebook she’d been carrying all day, though at this point she hardly needed to refer to it. Every detail had been checked and rechecked. “And the flowers?”
“The arrangements are being placed in the dining room as we speak.” A flicker of something Evelyn couldn’t quite identify crossed Penrose’s face. “May I say, my lady, your choice of white roses and winter jasmine complement the greenery beautifully.”
“Thank you.” Evelyn smiled at him despite the slight feeling of unease that occasionally came over her when conversing with Arthur Penrose.
It had been Tommy’s suggestion that they employ a House Steward. After Lady Eugenia’s birth earlier that year, and with the already lively Lady Isabelle demanding much of her attention, he had gently proposed that Evelyn delegate more of the household management. The endless round of menus, inventory lists, and staff schedules had threatened to overwhelm her in those first exhausting months of new motherhood. Arthur Penrose—recommended by Tommy’s land agent, David Ryder—had stepped into the role with calm authority, and under his hand the household had run more smoothly than ever.
She wondered, occasionally, if she ought to feel guilty about that. Perhaps a proper countess would have spent less time in the nursery and more time managing her household. But she’d never wanted to be that sort of mother, and Tommy had been so reassuring about it: “Darling, we’re fortunate enough to have help. Why on earth wouldn’t we use it so we can spend as much time as possible actually enjoying our children, and less worrying about correspondence, household accounts, and staffing issues?”
Still, there were moments—like now—when she felt the faint prickle of disquiet. Arthur Penrose had always been perfectly polite and deferential towards her. He’d never put so much as the tip of a perfectly shined shoe wrong, and yet there was something about him that Evelyn didn’t quite trust. However, as time had gone on and he’d performed his role to an exceptionally high standard, she’d been forced to set aside that uneasy feeling.
Yet now she was sure that Penrose was nervous. It showed in the way he held himself, just slightly too rigid; in the rapid flick of his eyes as they swept the ballroom, cataloguing and assessing; in the faint sheen of perspiration at his temples despite the winter chill that crept through the gaps in Hessleham Hall’s large oak door.
“Penrose,” she said, keeping her voice gentle, “is everything quite all right?”
His gaze snapped to hers, and for just an instant, she saw something there—a flash of what might have been fear, or guilt, or desperate determination. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual professional composure.
“Perfectly all right, my lady. Simply eager to ensure the evening goes smoothly.” He managed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not every day one has the honour of organising a Christmas Ball for such a prestigious family in such a glorious setting.”
“Well, you’ve done a splendid job.” Tommy’s voice was hearty, seemingly oblivious to any undercurrent. “Seriously, I don’t know how we managed before you arrived. The place would probably have fallen down around our ears if you hadn’t come along when you did.”
“You’re very kind, my lord.”
Evelyn studied Penrose for a moment longer. His hands, she noticed, were clenched at his sides—not casually, but with white-knuckled tension. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“Penrose—” she began.
“Darling.” Tommy’s hand pressed gently against her back, a subtle warning. His voice remained cheerful, but she heard the underlying message. “Perhaps we should visit the nursery before dressing for the evening?”
Evelyn hesitated. Every instinct was telling her that something was wrong. That Penrose’s nervousness was more than simple pre-event jitters. That she should press, should investigate—
But Tommy was right, wasn’t he? It was Penrose’s first time organising such a large function. It was only natural he was on edge.
“Of course,” she said, closing her notebook with a decisive snap. “You’re quite right.” She turned to Penrose. “Thank you, Penrose. Everything looks wonderful. You’ve done a quite magnificent job.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He gave a small bow before leaving as quickly and quietly as he’d arrived.
“Darling,” Tommy said as they walked back toward the main staircase, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to start interrogating people.” His tone was fond but firm. “Penrose is fine. He’s just nervous about the Ball. You can’t investigate the servants. It’s Christmas!”
Evelyn laughed despite herself. “I wasn’t going to investigate anyone.”
“Weren’t you?” Tommy raised an eyebrow as they reached the landing. “Because it looked distinctly like your detective face to me.”
“I don’t have a detective face,” she told him with a smile, doing her best to put her misgivings to one side.
“You most certainly do!” he retorted, then spun her around at the top of the staircase. “Ah yes, there it is. A most strategically placed piece of mistletoe, even if I do say so myself.”
When Tommy dipped his head to kiss her, all worries about their House Steward flew from her mind.
***
Tommy Christie knew that the receiving line at formal events was necessary, but he had never learned to be comfortable being the one greeting guests knowing that they would be judging both him, his home, and his hospitality.
That night, however, standing beside Evelyn and Aunt Em in the entrance hall with its soaring ceiling and ancient tapestries, he found himself enjoying the performance more than usual. Perhaps it was the way the candlelight caught the diamonds at his wife’s throat. Perhaps it was the scent of pine and cinnamon that filled the air, or the distant sound of the musicians tuning their instruments in the ballroom.
Or perhaps it was simply that for once, he wasn’t investigating anyone. He was merely a man hosting a Christmas Ball with his wife.
“Do relax, Tommy,” Aunt Em hissed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were on your way to the gallows, not waiting to greet your friends and neighbours.”
“It’s all just so awkward,” he complained.
“It’s also expected of a family in our position, so do please try and smile. At present you resemble a man bracing for unpleasant news from his doctor.”
Evelyn smiled at Aunt Em, then turned to him, adjusting her gloves as she did so. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” He squared his shoulders, and nodded at Malton, the butler. “Very well, Malton.”
Malton opened the heavy door, letting in a gust of December cold along with their first guests. Two footmen stood ready to take cloaks and wraps.
“Sir Edmund and Lady Thornbury,” Malton announced.
Tommy gave a practiced smile. “Sir Edmund, Lady Thornbury. How good of you to brave the weather.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Northmoor.” Sir Edmund, ruddy-faced and jovial, pumped Tommy’s hand with enthusiasm. “This always used to be the finest Christmas Ball in the county, everyone said so. One hopes you’ll keep up the tradition this evening.”
They moved through, and the next guests appeared. Then the next. Familiar faces, mostly local gentry and county families whom Tommy had known for years.
But then came a name Tommy didn’t recognise.
“Mrs Clara Denholm,”
Evelyn leaned towards him slightly. “It’s Penrose’s mother, darling. She’s in the area to see him for Christmas, and when he asked if she might attend the ball as a special favour, I couldn’t very well refuse—not after everything he’s done for us.”
A woman in her late fifties stepped forward, and Tommy’s first impression was of careful, anxious respectability. Her gown was well-made but not fashionable, her jewellery modest. She moved slowly as though terrified she would trip or commit some horrendous faux pas.
“Mrs Denholm.” Tommy bowed over her hand. “We’re delighted you could join us.”
Evelyn’s voice was warm, gracious. “Mrs Denholm—Arthur speaks so fondly of you. It’s a pleasure to have you with us.”
The woman’s face flushed with what might have been pleasure or embarrassment. “Your ladyship is very kind. I—I’m honoured to be here. Arthur has spoken so highly of you both.”
“We feel fortunate to have found him,” Evelyn said, which despite her misgivings was certainly true. “Do go through to the drawing room — there’s a good fire, and drinks.”
She looked up the corridor and gave a small nod as she moved away. It struck him as odd—not just that she walked with confidence, but that she did so without hesitation, as though she already knew exactly where the drawing room was.
As Mrs Denholm disappeared from view, Aunt Em tapped him on the arm. “Who was that woman?”
“Arthur Penrose’s mother,” Tommy whispered, then clarified, “Penrose, the House Steward.”
“I’m certain that I’ve seen her before.”
“Surely not, Aunt Em,” Tommy said doubtfully. “I can’t imagine she moves in the same circles as you.”
“Well of course she doesn’t,” Aunt Em said haughtily. “That should go without saying. But even so—tonight is not the first time I’ve set eyes on that woman.”
Then: “Captain Leonard Gresham and Mrs Gresham.”
Tommy felt a jolt of surprise that must have shown on his face. “Is there something wrong?” Evelyn murmured.
He looked at her. “No, not at all. It was very sweet of you to invite Captain Gresham. However did you know to invite him? I don’t recall ever mentioning him to you.”
Evelyn bit her lip. “He was not on the list I gave Penrose. I assumed Captain Gresham was on yours.”
Their confused conversation stopped as Captain Gresham walked up to them with a soldier’s precision. Even had Tommy not known the man’s title, his military bearing would have been unmistakable — the way he moved, his neatly trimmed moustache, the slightly weathered look of a man who had seen things no one ought to and survived them.
“Lord Northmoor. Lady Northmoor. Very good of you to invite us.” He paused, just a fraction too long for comfort, before adding, “It’s good to be here for a celebration—not for the sorrow that marked my last visit.”
“Captain Gresham.” Tommy shook his hand, his mind racing. “I share your sentiments. Welcome back to Hessleham Hall.”
His attention shifted to the woman at Captain Gresham’s side. She was a good deal younger than her husband and while dressed appropriately, somehow seemed overdressed at the same time. Her smile was bright and fixed and utterly determined.
“Lord Northmoor!” She seized his hand with both of hers, an overfamiliarity that almost made him step back. “How wonderful to finally see Hessleham Hall! I’ve heard so much about it. Captain Gresham has told me all about his visit after—after—” She faltered slightly, her smile wavering. “—the war.”
“We’re delighted you could join us, Mrs Gresham,” Evelyn said smoothly, covering the awkwardness with her easy graciousness.
As they moved on, Mrs Gresham’s voice floated back to them as she exclaimed loudly over the tapestries and portraits.
“Now him I definitely remember,” Aunt Em murmured. “I always thought it said a great deal about the man’s character to come all the way to Hessleham to pay his respects after we lost poor Billy in that dreadful battle.”
“Did you ask Penrose to send him an invite?” Evelyn asked.
“Of course not,” Aunt Em said with a definite shake of her head. “Lovely manners, but not the sort of fellow one generally encounters at a gathering of this calibre.”
“So, who did invite him?”
“There’s only one person it could be,” Evelyn said grimly. “Penrose must have invited him. Which is most peculiar, wouldn’t you say?”
It was odd. Very odd indeed. The guest list for an event like this was carefully curated—family, close friends, important county families. Not random acquaintances of the house steward.
“How many other guests has he added?” Tommy asked quietly as he smiled at the latest arrivals.
“I don’t know.” Evelyn’s jaw tightened fractionally. “I gave him the list after I’d written the invites for close family and friends. Naturally I assumed he would write and then send those invites out as directed.”
“Mr Basil Trent,” Malton announced.
A man Tommy had never seen before stepped forward. He was around the same age as him, slim and elegant, with the kind of face that was difficult to read—handsome but somehow at the same time unmemorable. His evening clothes were perfectly cut, his manner assured without being presumptuous.
“Lord Northmoor, Lady Northmoor. So kind of you to include me.” His voice was smooth and clearly educated but without any particular accent.
“Of course,” Tommy said automatically, with the expected courtesy. “Welcome to Hessleham Hall.”
Trent moved on, and Tommy watched him accept the champagne and drift toward the drawing room with the easy confidence of someone completely comfortable in grand houses.
“I don’t know him either,” Evelyn murmured.
“Nor I.”
“I thought he seemed distinctly second-rate,” Aunt Em said.
Another unfamiliar face appeared—a young woman, striking rather than pretty, with sharp eyes and an air of barely concealed excitement. Malton waited until he was sure Tommy was ready to receive the newcomer. “Miss Verity Langton.”
Tommy had no idea who Miss Verity Langton was, or why she was at his Christmas Ball.
By the time the last guests had arrived and been ushered through to the drawing room, Tommy had counted at least five people he was sure hadn’t been invited by either Evelyn or himself.
“We need to speak with Penrose,” he said quietly to Evelyn as they finally left their post by the door. His earlier benevolence towards the House Steward had evaporated as the suspicion Evelyn had felt earlier flowed through him.
“We do.” Evelyn’s detective face was firmly in place now. “But not yet. We have a ball to host first. Penrose will have to wait until tomorrow. Let’s perhaps take a moment, though, before we join our guests.”
“Of course.” Tommy offered her his arm, then turned to offer the other to Aunt Em. “Shall we, ladies?”
Aunt Em linked her arm through his with approval. “A moment’s fortification before the onslaught would not go amiss.”
Evelyn gave a brief nod. “The billiard room, then. We’ll join the others shortly.”
Malton silently positioned himself in the doorway of the drawing room so they could ease behind him without being seen by any of their guests. They hurried past the warmth and noise drifting from the drawing room, and along the corridor to the billiard room.
***
Tommy closed the billiard room door behind them with a soft click and leaned against it, exhaling slowly.
Aunt Em wrinkled her nose. “It smells like cigars and men in here.”
“It does,” Tommy agreed. “But it has its advantages. No demanding guests—and a fully stocked drinks trolley.”
Aunt Em’s lips curved faintly. “Then by all means, let us take advantage while we can.”
“Five minutes,” he said. “We can spare five minutes, surely.”
Evelyn had already crossed to the window, pulling aside the heavy velvet curtain to peer outside. “We absolutely cannot,” she said, though she made no move to leave. “We’ve abandoned our guests. They’ll think us terribly rude.”
“They’ll think we’re ensuring everything is perfect for dinner, and the rest of the evening.” Tommy loosened his collar fractionally as he made drinks for the three of them with practiced ease.
Evelyn let the curtain fall and turned to accept the drink Tommy handed her, a cool unease settling in as her thoughts returned to their House Steward and the uninvited guests. “Tommy—what is Arthur Penrose playing at? It’s most unsettling.”
“Captain Gresham I can almost accept, though I’m certain I never spoke to Penrose about his kindness to the family. After all, his visit here was years ago, and I would have no reason to mention it to Penrose.”
“That doesn’t explain the Trent fellow, or Miss Langton.” Evelyn looked at Aunt Em. “Or Aunt Em’s certainty that she’s seen Penrose’s mother before. Or why he invited Captain Gresham without talking to you first.”
Tommy remained standing, drifting restlessly toward the billiard table. Someone had set the balls out for a game that would never be played tonight. He reached out and spun the cue ball with one finger.
“You know,” he said quietly, “if Billy hadn’t died at Passchendaele, we’d be here tonight as guests. We’d still be living in that little cottage in the village. Our children would go to the local school when the time came.” He paused. “And there would be no social expectation that you, my darling, should keep having children until you produce an heir.”
Evelyn hated the melancholy in his voice. She knew better than anyone how hard he had found the sudden shift to life as Lord Northmoor—with its title, its responsibilities, and the constant scrutiny that came with both. One moment they had been irregular visitors to their current home, attending events when it was expected of them, but never really feeling comfortable in the grand old house. Then one fateful weekend, it had all become theirs and their lives had never been the same since. It had its advantages, of course, but it also had a weight of expectation that sometimes threatened to suffocate them.
“But he did die,” Aunt Em said firmly. “And like a marriage, for better or worse, the responsibilities of the title landed rather unexpectedly with you. As you are already aware, poor Florence was absolutely worn out trying to do her duty and provide your Uncle Charles with an heir. I completely trust that you have more consideration for your wife than to do the same to her.”
Evelyn drank her gin and tonic and placed her glass on a side table. “Eugenia’s arrival so quickly after Isabelle’s was rather unexpected. However, I’m sure you will agree, our children are a constant delight to us all, so we would really rather like to have more children in the future. But, that said, we’d like to take a few years to enjoy our girls first.”
Aunt Em shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “This conversation has taken on a rather personal note.”
Evelyn turned to look at the family portraits that lined the billiard room walls to hide a smile at Aunt Em’s primness. She stopped at the one of William Christie, Billy’s father. “Tell me about Uncle William.”
“Oh, he was the very opposite of Billy. He was stern, completely without Billy’s enthusiasm. I would say he was reserved and uncommunicative. He rather kept himself to himself.”
“He wasn’t always like that,” Aunt Em said. “He married young, to a particularly beautiful and spirited girl. Rosamund Ashford was her name.”
Evelyn frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone talk about her. What was she like?”
“Oh, she was certainly where Billy got his sparkle from,” Aunt Em said with a fond smile. “However, after a few years of living here, the zest for life that made her who she was had dimmed. My brother Edward died, which left Charles as the new Earl of Northmoor. I’m afraid to say that it was a very difficult time for Rosamund. Billy was only young, I think I’m right in saying he was about two. Charles and Florence had their girls but at that time no son.”
“I have a feeling there is going to be a sad ending to this story.” Evelyn walked over to stand next to Tommy.
“I suppose there is,” Aunt Em agreed. “Though I don’t know the end of Rosamund’s story. She disliked Charles, and particularly the way he treated poor Florence. One morning we awoke to discover she’d left a letter for William and had left Hessleham Hall.”
“Left?” Evelyn echoed. “Where did she go?”
Aunt Em shook her head. “If William ever knew, he never said.”
“She left her son?” Evelyn couldn’t comprehend how a mother could do such a thing.
“She did,” Aunt Em confirmed. “And it changed William. As I said, he was simply never the same after Rosamund left. I often wonder if he would have ended up serving in the Boer War if she’d stayed.”
Evelyn knew that William had died during that conflict, when Billy had been just a teenager. She had been right, it was a dreadfully sad story.
“This is William here,” Tommy said, indicating a bronze bust sitting proudly on a shelf to the left of the fireplace.
“Please tell me you won’t ever have one of the awful things made of yourself.” Evelyn looked at Aunt Em. “That isn’t a family tradition is it, Aunt Em?”
“Thankfully not.” Aunt Em shuddered.
Evelyn leaned forward to examine the bust more closely. It was skilfully made, capturing William Christie’s unsmiling face with unforgiving accuracy. The same cool eyes, the same hard mouth, as in his portrait. Despite standing next to the fireplace, she shivered, though she wasn’t quite sure why.
“Let’s get back to our guests,” she said. “I find this room distinctly unsettling.”
Tommy held out an arm to help Aunt Em to her feet, and as they left the billiard room Evelyn released a quiet sigh of relief. Laughter drifted from the drawing room, and beyond it the musicians in the ballroom were tuning their instruments, giving the promise of a fun evening ahead.
She pushed aside the lingering sense of foreboding and resolved to enjoy herself, especially now they had closed the door on the watchful eyes of the Christies from the past.
Chapter Two
The Christmas Ball had reached that perfect pitch of festivity where champagne and warmth and music combined into something almost magical.
Tommy Christie stood at the edge of the dance floor, a glass of punch in his hand that he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes and watched his guests whirl past in a kaleidoscope of silk and jewels. The orchestra—an excellent ensemble from London that had cost a small fortune—was playing a Viennese waltz with infectious energy. The great chandelier blazed overhead, scattering light across the polished floor.
It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Which was, Tommy reflected with the cynicism of a former policeman and major in the army, usually when things went spectacularly wrong.
He spotted Evelyn across the room, partnered with Alexander Ryder and laughing at something his brother-in-law had said. Her silver gown caught the light as she turned, and Tommy felt the familiar warmth of affection and pride. Marrying Evelyn Hamilton really had been the very best decision of his life.
Tommy turned from the dance floor as something in his peripheral vision caught his eye. To his astonishment, Arthur Penrose was walking into the middle of the dance floor. For a few beats, dancers manoeuvred their way around him. Eventually, however, they stopped and stared at the House Steward in confusion.
As though responding to an unseen signal, the orchestra fell silent, and Arthur Penrose scanned the room until his gaze found Tommy. Tommy’s stomach dropped as the unease he had felt earlier in the evening surged back, tenfold.
Puzzled murmurs rippled through the room, and he felt rather than saw Evelyn rush to his side. The House Steward raised a hand for silence and waited until every eye in the room was upon him before smiling.
It was not a pleasant smile.
It was the smile of a hunter before he killed his prey; a man about to burn down the world, stand back, and enjoy the flames.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying easily in the sudden quiet. “I apologise for the interruption to your festivities. But I have an announcement to make. One that is already years overdue and simply cannot wait any longer.”
Tommy was already moving, threading between the frozen guests. “Penrose—”
“My name,” Penrose said, speaking over Tommy, “is not Penrose. It is Christie. Arthur Christie.”
It sounded as though every single guest gasped at the same time. Evelyn stepped in beside him, close enough that their hands brushed. She caught his fingers for a brief moment, a silent pledge of support, and then let them fall apart again.
Without waiting for questions, the House Steward went on. “I am the younger brother of William, or, as he was better known Billy, Christie and the son of William and Rosamund Christie. I was born five months after my mother fled this house and the terrible people who lived here.”
“This is absurd—” Tommy managed.
“I have proof.” Arthur reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a folded document. His hand, Tommy noticed, was perfectly steady. His own, on the other hand, were shaking with barely contained fury as well as a healthy dose of trepidation. “This is my birth certificate, which was issued in Scarborough. It lists my mother as Rosamund Christie, née Ashford, and my father as William Edward Christie, who as I’m sure you all know, was the second son of Edward Christie, the fourth Earl of Northmoor.”
“That can’t be right.” Tommy reached for the document, recalling as he did so the information Aunt Em had shared in the billiard room.
The document looked real enough. Dread crept up his spine. Was this really happening? He had not always wanted his position as the seventh Earl of Northmoor, but now that it looked in real danger of being taken away from him, he suddenly wanted it very much.
The guests began to talk amongst themselves now the initial shock of Penrose’s announcement had begun to wear off.
“I am the true Earl of Northmoor,” Arthur hissed. “And I intend to pursue my claim legally all the way through to its logical conclusion. You, Thomas Christie, will then be removed.”
With a great effort, Tommy kept his voice low. “Perhaps we could talk about this in private?”
“Why?” Arthur’s eyes glittered with triumph. “So you can sweep it under the carpet? Pay me off? Make me disappear? No, my lord.” The title was mocking, deliberate. “No, I think I’ve been invisible long enough. I intend to take my rightful place.”
“If you are who you claim,” Evelyn said, in a glacial tone Tommy had rarely, if ever, heard her use. “then there are proper channels for such matters. Solicitors. Documentation. Legal processes. Not public announcements at Christmas Balls.”
“Proper channels.” Arthur laughed, short and bitter. “I do apologise, my lady, have I embarrassed you in front of your friends?”
Tommy’s hands balled into fists at his side. It was one thing for the man to have been rude to him, but quite another to speak to Evelyn in such an impertinent manner.
Evelyn glared at him. “No, Mr Penrose. Or whoever you are. The only person you have embarrassed is yourself.”
“You could have come to us,” Tommy said, though even as he spoke, he knew how hollow it sounded. “If you genuinely believed—”
“Believed?” Arthur’s composure cracked slightly, showing the turbulent emotions beneath his calm demeanour. “I know. I’ve always known. My mother has told me the story my entire life. How William Christie married her when she was barely eighteen. How he forced her to live in a house with people who were cold and cruel and impossible to please. How she endured it until she knew she was expecting me, and then she fled rather than raise me in this house.” His voice rose. “She protected me. Gave up everything—her name, her position, her respectability—to keep me safe from this family. Didn’t you, mother?”
He held out a hand and Clara Denholm moved to stand beside her son, silent tears streaming down her face.
“Penrose,” Tommy tried again, “even if this is all true—and I’m not conceding that it is—you must see this isn’t the way—”
“It’s the only way.” Arthur’s jaw set. “I’ve spent months in this house. Months seeing you two play lord and lady. Watching you live in the home that should have been mine. My father’s house. My inheritance.” He gestured around the ballroom, at the portraits, the chandelier, and the silk-panelled walls. “All of this—it’s mine by right of birth. And I mean to have it.”
The crowd’s murmurings had become a dull roar. Tommy caught fragments—“extraordinary”— “scandal”— “but if he’s legitimate”— “the title”— “surely not”—
“You don’t resemble either of your parents,” Aunt Em said as she eyed Arthur, and then his mother, with a shrewd gaze.
“I have documentation,” Arthur said coldly. “Not just the birth certificate, but letters. My father corresponded with my mother for years. I also have witness statements.” He turned back to Tommy, and for just a moment, something that might have been regret flickered across his face. “You’ve actually been decent to me. Kind, in fact, but kindness doesn’t change the law. I am William Christie’s legitimate and only surviving son. Which makes me the rightful Seventh Earl of Northmoor. And makes you—” he gestured at Tommy, “—nobody at all.”
Tommy straightened his shoulders and looked Arthur directly in the eye. “If you have additional documentation, then produce it. Now. Let us settle this matter between ourselves tonight.”
For a moment, he thought Arthur would refuse. Then the man nodded slowly. “Very well. I shall fetch it from my room—the documents are too valuable for me to have carried them on my person all evening. “Give me ten minutes. Then we can discuss this matter properly. In the library, perhaps? With witnesses?”
“All right, we shall meet you in the library in ten minutes,” Tommy agreed, because what else could he say?
“Excellent.” Arthur executed a small, mocking bow. “I shall return directly.”
He turned and walked toward the door. The crowd parted before him like water before the prow of a ship.
The silence stretched out, fraying Tommy’s frazzled nerves still further.
Then everyone started talking at once.
“—never heard anything so outrageous—”
“—but if there’s proof—”
“—poor Lord Northmoor—”
“—scandal of the decade—”
Tommy felt Evelyn’s hand tighten on his arm. When he looked at her, her face was pale but composed, her eyes blazing with controlled fury.
“Whatever happens, whatever he claims, whatever his evidence—we will handle this. Together. Do you understand?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
She turned to address the room, her voice ringing out clear and calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll understand that Lord Northmoor and I require a few moments to consult privately. Please, do continue to enjoy the refreshments, and dancing. We shall return to continue to host the rest of the evening as soon as we are able.”
She did not wait for a response but steered him firmly towards the door. For once, he allowed his wife to take charge and lead him away from the uproar Arthur’s proclamation had unleashed.
***
Tommy sank into the nearest chair while Evelyn poured brandy with shaking hands. The billiard room—where they’d stood just hours ago, discussing Billy and William—seemed to mock them now with its normalcy.
“It could be true,” he said. “Couldn’t it? It could actually be true.”
“I don’t know.” Evelyn pressed the glass into his hand. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her husband so shaken. “Drink.”
“William’s sons would have been next in line after Eddie,” Tommy said slowly, working through the implications. “Billy predeceased Eddie which would have left this hypothetical second son of William’s as the heir apparent. If Penrose can prove his claim, he’s right, I’m a nobody.”
“What nonsense,” Evelyn snapped, annoyed at Tommy’s despondence. “You will always be a somebody, Thomas Christie. Your worth is not, and never has been, dependent on your title.”
Tommy tipped back his head and drank his brandy. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I always swore I wouldn’t let this title, or this place, change me. But sometimes, when I’m in the middle of the day-to-day running of the estate it’s quite easy to forget who I used to be.”
“Don’t worry.” Evelyn put a hand on his shoulder. “Should you ever forget and change into someone I no longer recognise, I would be sure to tell you.”
The grandfather clock in the corner of the room chimed the half hour. Nine-thirty. The time they had agreed to meet Arthur Penrose—or whatever his name was—in the library.
“We should go.” Tommy got to his feet and reached out a hand to cup Evelyn’s cheek. “If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll simply move back to the village. We’ll have each other, and our girls. That’s so much more than many people have.”
“Of course it is,” she said stoutly, glad that Tommy sounded more like his usual self, and less defeated. “Our happiness is much more important than titles and a stuffy old house.”
She said the words with gusto, as though she completely meant them. But the house meant more to her now than it had when they were mere visitors. It had become her home, and despite her original misgivings, she had come to care deeply for it. More than that, the people that lived and worked within its walls were also extremely dear to her. She blinked away tears at the thought of leaving them behind.
“Now who is suffering with an abundance of emotion?” he asked fondly.
Her smile was a little wobbly. “I rather like this old place.”
“So do I, darling. So do I.” He held out his arm for her. “Shall we?”
Together, they left the billiard room and walked along the corridor to the library and whatever truth awaited them there.
Behind them, forgotten on the mantelpiece, the bronze bust of William Christie gazed down with cold judgement.
***
Tommy nodded at those assembled in the library. David Ryder—who not only was married to his cousin, Madeleine, but who was also his land agent and family solicitor. Aunt Em was there, as well as his Aunt Victoria—both women had lived in the house with William and Rosamund. He had also asked his younger brother, Harry, to be there.
“Have you seen him?”
David shook his head. “No sign of him, or his mother, since we left the ballroom.”
“Perhaps he’s left, having behaved exactly as his character would suggest,” Aunt Em said dismissively.
Ten minutes became twenty. Still the library door remained closed, the promised documentation unrevealed, the architect of this disaster conspicuously absent.
“He should have been back by now.” Tommy’s nerves were tighter than the orchestra’s violin strings. He’d chatted with David about the legal implications of Penrose’s claims while doing his best to remain calm, but his patience was at an end. “It’s all very well to make claims like that, but one might at least have the decency to return and prove them.”
“Maybe Aunt Em is right,” David said grimly. “Perhaps he’s got cold feet and he’s fled.”
“Where’s his mother?” Evelyn asked. “Surely she will know where he is. After all, she must have known what he was going to do tonight.”
“You’re right,” Tommy agreed with a nod. “We shall go look for her.”
They left the library and Tommy began to stride up the corridor in the direction of the ballroom. “Wait.”
“What is it?”
Evelyn pointed back up the corridor. “When we left the billiard room, we closed the door, didn’t we?”
“I’m quite certain we did.”
“It’s slightly ajar now,” she said quietly.
“I don’t like this whole business.” Tommy grimaced. “Stay behind me.”
He marched along the corridor and stopped at the door to the billiard room. Using the toe of one perfectly polished shoe, he pushed the door open wider, wary of what he would find behind the partially open door.
Arthur Penrose—Arthur Christie—or whoever he had been—lay face-down on the floor. One arm was flung out, fingers curled as if reaching for something just out of grasp. A pool of blood was spreading around his head.
“Tommy?”
He pushed the door fully open and stepped inside the room so Evelyn could see what he had already seen—though his brain was still computing the terrible sight.
With sudden clarity, he knew what he must do next. Tommy hurried to the body and knelt beside Penrose, avoiding the blood as he did so. He pressed his fingers to Arthur’s neck and held his breath, as though that would help him determine his House Steward’s fate.
“Is he…is he dead?” Evelyn asked hesitantly.
“Yes.” Tommy kept his fingers pressed to Arthur’s neck for another moment, though he already knew. No pulse. The skin was still warm—death was recent, very recent—but the absolute stillness beneath his hand was unmistakable. “I’m very much afraid that he is.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Oh dear, Tommy. This won’t look good for us.”
“No.” He got to his feet. “It will not.”
Evelyn put a hand over her mouth. “I can hardly believe I said that. Penrose’s poor mother will be devastated.”
“It’s quite natural your first thought was how this will affect us,” Tommy said. “I’ll lock the door and then go immediately to telephone the police.”
“I should continue looking for Mrs Denholm,” Evelyn said. “I must—”
Tommy shook his head. “No, I think it is better you go back to the library and stay with the family. Let the police handle the notifications. That’s definitely not your responsibility and in the circumstances, it would be best that we take a step back and let the police do their job.”
“Oh Tommy, you can’t mean that?”
“I most certainly do.” The last thing he wanted was for Evelyn to go wondering about the house looking for Penrose’s mother when the house was full of people and there was a murderer prowling the halls of Hessleham Hall.
“We can solve this much faster than the police,” she said. “I have complete confidence in our ability.”
“As do I.” He smiled at her, unable to help a flicker of amusement at her indignation — as though the crime itself had committed the greater offence by daring to require official intervention. “I’m sure there will be time for that later. But, for now, it would be better if we face the police as a united front, let them commence their preliminary enquiries, then we will commence our investigation.”
She gave a quick, firm nod. “That’s a very reasonable plan. For one awful moment I thought you were going to say we shouldn’t involve ourselves at all.”
“Would I ever suggest such nonsense to you, my darling?”
“One should hope not,” she replied tartly. “Now, before we leave the room, tell me what you see.”
As always, Evelyn tested him at the time when he needed it most. Working through the evidence now, while the scene was in front of them, was the best thing they could do. He turned his attention away from his wife, and back to the body.
“He’s lying face-down,” he began, falling into the old rhythm of observation and deduction. “It looks like a single blow to the back of the head. Given the damage to the skull, death would have been immediate, or near enough. No defensive wounds on his hands that I can see and no signs of a struggle.”
“The murder weapon carries a rather cruel symmetry, doesn’t it?”
The bronze bust of William Christie lay beside Arthur’s head, one corner dark and wet with blood. The face—that stern, unforgiving face Tommy had looked at countless times without really seeing—now seemed to stare at its victim with eternal judgment.
“It’s rather poetic, isn’t it? Killed by a statue of the man he claimed was his father.”
“We were in here just before the time we’d agreed to meet,” Evelyn said as she glanced at the clock. “That doesn’t leave a lot of time for the murder to take place and us discover it. Whoever did it was dicing with danger in more ways than one.”
Tommy walked around the body, standing near Penrose’s head and facing the door. “Does it look to you that he must have had his back to the door when he was attacked?”
“It does look that way.”
“Then we can suppose that he knew whoever attacked him, felt comfortable in their company. Comfortable enough to turn his back on them, do you think?”
“I think that’s a fair assessment,” Evelyn agreed. “I’m not sure that narrows down the suspects, though. It seems he invited several people this evening that he knows and we do not.”
“He made enemies tonight,” Tommy said. “By announcing to a room full of people he was intending to steal an earldom.”
“Most of the family will be suspects.”
The words hung in the air for a moment before Tommy could bring himself to respond. “Yes. Including us. We have the strongest motive of anyone. Our entire way of life was threatened by his claim. And, as heir presumptive, Harry’s too. Detective Inspector Andrews will see that immediately.”
“This is a strange sort of mirroring of the events that led to him investigating murder in this house for the very first time.” Evelyn gave a little shudder. “I hate that this is happening in our home, with our children asleep upstairs.”
He moved back to stand beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Before I telephone the police, I will ask Malton to personally go up to the nursery and see the children. He can then put your mind at rest so you can concentrate on what comes next. I fear it’s going to be very unpleasant.”
Evelyn leaned her head on his shoulder for a brief moment before straightening. Her jaw was set at that particularly determined angle that he knew well—she was preparing for battle.
“Let’s get out of this ghastly room and put things into motion.” She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes. “Then, when this is all over, you must promise me we will thoroughly redecorate this room. These dreadful busts can live in the cellar with the other things no one in their right mind would choose to display.”
“As usual, my darling, you are quite right.” He looked around the room realising for the first time how dark and foreboding it was. “It shall be our top priority for the New Year.”
“Now,” Evelyn said firmly, “let’s ensure we uncover the perpetrator—otherwise all our plans for redecoration will be quite beside the point.”
Enjoyed these sample chapters? You can buy your copy below, either from Amazon or directly here on my website. Murder at the Christmas Ball will also be available in Kindle Unlimited from 1st April 2026.
