Lucy Andrew is a crime writer and crime fiction scholar who has an unhealthy fixation with Jane Austen. She has a PhD in English Literature from Cardiff University and was a Senior Lecturer in English Literature before leaving academia to concentrate on her writing. She lives in Wolverhampton with her septuagenarian tortoise (and her husband).

  Find out more about Lucy on her website:

  www.lucyandrew.com

  First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2026 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Copyright © Lucy Andrew, 2026

  The moral right of Lucy Andrew to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  No part of this book may be used in any manner in the learning, training or development of generative artificial intelligence technologies (including but not limited to machine learning models and large language models (LLMs)), whether by data scraping, data mining or use in any way to create or form a part of data sets or in any other way.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN: 978 1 80546 418 1

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 80546 419 8

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  For mum and dad.

  Thank you for believing in me and for always supporting my dreams.

  CHAPTER 1

  Rule number one: Don’t commit yourself to disposing of your client’s rivals unless you’re sure they deserve it (or you’ve been paid an obscene sum to do so).

  ‘Miss Harriet Smith?’

  Her booming voice reverberates around the room and it takes all my years of training not to flinch as she addresses me. She’s a dragon of a lady, with enough money to earn epithets like ‘distinguished’ and ‘refined’, and she has ice-cold eyes that look through you, as if you aren’t worth the bother of looking at. Which is a bit rich, given that she’s the one who summoned me. There’s a huge portrait of Mrs Churchill on the wall behind her – a younger, thinner incarnation in her wedding clothes, thirty-five years earlier – with that same glazed expression as the woman herself. It’s not quite as imposing as its flesh-andblood counterpart. She’s dressed in a charcoal-grey gown of half-mourning which adds to her gravitas. I wish there was something more between us than the narrow mahogany desk that wobbles dangerously as she leans across it, her fingernails tapping out an erratic rhythm. The teacup beside her rattles with every beat, setting my teeth on edge.

  I don’t let her see any of this, of course. Instead, I smile sweetly, inhaling the cloying scent of lavender that wafts through the room, and answer her question as cryptically as possible. ‘For now.’

  ‘Not your real name, I presume.’

  ‘That’s very astute of you, ma’am.’

  If she perceives my sarcasm, she doesn’t acknowledge it. She leans back in her plush, velvet chair, squinting against the sunlight that streams through the window. I think about offering to draw the curtains but, on second thoughts, I’d rather she didn’t look at me too closely.

  ‘Names are important among my set, you understand. A name can tell you a lot about a person, don’t you think?’ She pauses for a moment, as if she’s expecting a response, and so, of course, I say nothing.

  She continues, apparently unperturbed by my silence. ‘I knew a Smith once. Gardener,’ she booms, and this time, I nearly do flinch. ‘An odd fellow, but I never had any trouble with him. There was a regrettable incident involving his daughter and a member of the local regiment. Dreadful business. Naturally, I had to let him go. A shame, really. He was an artist with the pruning shears.’ She stares wistfully out of the window, presumably thinking of better days and neater rosebushes.

  ‘You may be wondering, Miss Smith,’ she says, her distaste for my pseudonym only too palpable in those two sharp syllables, ‘for what purpose you have been summoned.’

  I am curious, I’ll admit. (But not to her.)

  ‘You come to me by personal recommendation from a most distinguished individual.’

  She waits for this to impress me. It doesn’t. I’ve dealt with many distinguished individuals in my time and they’re all the same. Abrupt. Demanding. Looking as if they’d sat on a cactus but were far too well bred to do anything about it. And, considering that I’ve spent half my short life conning them out of their undeserved fortunes, I can’t imagine that many of them would be willing to give me a glowing reference for anything other than lying, thieving and, in recent years, seducing their husbands. Of course, since the Derbyshire disaster, I have stooped to taking on a few jobs on behalf of ladies and gentlemen who have a problem to solve and don’t want to get their hands dirty, but I doubt any of them would be likely to share their secret shame with Mrs Churchill.

  ‘I never do anything without personal recommendation, you understand,’ my would-be client continues.

  Rich people never do. I can think of a few recommendations I’d like to put to the lot of them, although none of these are polite enough to record here. Besides, it wouldn’t be professional.

  I offer her a deferential nod. ‘I’m honoured, ma’am, I’m sure.’

  Her eyes sweep over my face, taking in every detail. ‘I must say, I was expecting someone more experienced.’

  ‘I’m quite experienced enough, Mrs Churchill. I’ve been working in this business these past nine years.’

  I don’t mention the fact that I was eight years old when I started. My youth has given me many advantages in my line of work, but since I stopped working with my father and started seeking out my own clients to make my living, I’ve found it’s better to keep my seventeen years to myself.

  There’s a paper knife on the desk in front of her, its hilt bedecked with wonderful jewels – emeralds and rubies and pearls. Beautiful. Exotic. Completely over the top. I covet it. She sees me looking, perhaps, because her fingers are upon it as she continues. ‘My friend. The one who recommended you. She tells me. . . She tells me that you observe people. Find. Things. Out.’

  That’s one way of putting it. And I’ll give them this, if there’s one thing the rich excel at (besides taking and making recommendations) it’s a good euphemism. Observe people. Find. Things. Out.

  ‘That’s part of it, ma’am.’

  She squints at me over her pince-nez, bosom heaving as she leans across the desk again. ‘Of course, I know all about her little. . . problem.’

  I doubt that very much, whoever this mystery friend is.

  ‘I am her confidante in all things.’

  I doubt that too, but I don’t let on. ‘I’m relieved to hear it, ma’am.’

  ‘Relieved? Why should you be relieved?’ She brandishes the paper knife like a dagger and, with the pointy end a few inches from my face, I decide I don’t want it so much after all.

  I stay calm. Stand my ground. (Well, I’m sitting down, but you get the picture.)

  ‘Because, ma’am,’ I say, ignoring the paper knife, ‘it saves me from having to deny your request for the particulars of her little problem. Client confidentiality, you understand.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The paper knife retreats an inch or two. ‘She spoke highly of your. . .’ she searches for yet another of her charming little euphemisms, ‘discretion. What I am about to tell you goes no further.’

  ‘May I assume you’re ready to agree terms?’

  ‘You may be assured I will make it worth your while. We can settle the details later,’ she says with a wave of her hand. The paper knife comes perilously close to the end of my nose. I still don’t flinch.

  ‘I would prefer to settle them now, if you please.’ I take out my pocketbook and slide it across the table. ‘Here is a list of my rates.’

  ‘Rates?’ The letter opener makes a satisfying clank as it lands next to my pocketbook.

  ‘You will find them very reasonable, I’m sure.’ I give her my best Harriet Smith wide-eyed innocent look and flutter my eyelashes for good measure.

  ‘I shall review your rates at my leisure. In the meantime—’

  ‘I have taken the liberty of drawing up a contract for your convenience.’

  ‘Contract?’

  I push it towards her. ‘It only awaits your signature, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t you want to hear the details first?’

  ‘We can settle the details later, can we not? Besides, I never commit details to paper. It’s imprudent in my line of work.’

  Except for details of payment. That’s very important.

  She looks as if she’s about to raise an objection but, whatever it
is, she must have thought better of it, because she’s reaching for her pen now. ‘Very well.’ She dips the nib into the inkwell with such violence it makes me glad she’s not still holding the paper knife.

  ‘Emily!’ she barks.

  The maid is beside her mistress so quickly I can only assume she’s in the habit of listening at keyholes.

  ‘Mend my pen,’ Mrs Churchill demands. ‘Or, better still, fetch me a new one.’

  ‘Emily hasn’t been your maid for sixteen years, ma’am. I am not Emily,’ the maid remarks as she bends over to examine the pen, wrinkling her button nose. Her face would be pretty if it wasn’t for the permanent frown etched across it.

  ‘No, well, you couldn’t be, could you? Emily was far too well bred to answer back. If only she hadn’t run off with that dreadful coachman.’ Mrs Churchill stares off into the middle distance, her expression grave.

  ‘A lucky escape, I assure you,’ not-Emily says under her breath as she hands the pen back to her mistress.

  Mrs Churchill is roused by the tinkle of broken glass in the hallway. Not-Emily sighs. ‘That will be Matilda. Again. She’s not cut out to be a housemaid. I can’t imagine what tempted you to hire her in the first place.’

  ‘That is all,’ Mrs Churchill snaps, gesturing towards the door. The maid departs, taking her dark mutterings with her.

  Mrs Churchill sniffs loudly. The pen hovers as she squints at the contract. ‘An advance on expenses?’ she says with a frown.

  ‘Naturally, there will be expenses,’ I reply, keeping my expression neutral.

  And I have no money of my own to pay them.

  ‘I shall dictate the amount,’ she says, and I can’t exactly object, so I don’t.

  I love that sound. The scratching of pen against paper. It’s the sound of adventure. Possibility. The glorious satin reticule I absolutely can do without but, then, why should I when I have rich society ladies throwing money at me? Well, one, at least.

  She pushes the contract back towards me, determined not to look at it, as if any kind of financial transaction is beneath her notice. I sign my own name on the paper, blot it, fold it neatly and slip it into my pocketbook, leaving a second copy on the table for Mrs Churchill’s own records. To business, then.

  ‘Now, what is it I can do for you, Mrs Churchill?’

  She’s fiddling with the catch of a silver snuffox that looks as if it cost more than my entire wardrobe. Finally, it’s open and she takes from it a portrait miniature and flings it in my direction. The young woman in the picture has an elegant kind of beauty. Her face is pale and aristocratic, but there’s a softness to it which tells me she hasn’t lived among the Churchills of this world. The playful glint in her eyes and the curve of her lips suggests she’s privy to some tantalising secret – the kind of secret that, should she care to reveal it, would bond us together, for ever. I picture us walking through the Bath Assembly Rooms, arm in arm, fending off an army of eager suitors. The best of friends.

  ‘Her.’ Mrs Churchill leans forwards and taps a gaunt finger against my would-be best friend’s forehead. ‘Miss Jane Fairfax.’ She pronounces every syllable as if it’s poison on her tongue. ‘I want her gone.’

  ‘I think you misunderstand the nature of my business, Mrs Churchill.’

  ‘Jane Fairfax will soon be visiting her aunt in the village of Highbury. You have a contact in Highbury, I understand – a way in. It’s one of the reasons I chose you for the job. My friend said you can make problems go away. Well. Jane Fairfax is my problem. And I would like you to make her go away. I don’t care how you do it. Publicly humiliate her. Pay her off. Send some scoundrel in to seduce her, for all I care.’

  ‘Goodness. What has the poor girl done?’

  Mrs Churchill snorts. ‘Do not be fooled by her delicate looks, Miss Smith. She is not the sweet girl she would have everyone believe. She is like you.’

  Charming.

  ‘A swindler,’ Mrs Churchill clarifies when I don’t respond. ‘The other reason why I hired you.’

  ‘I prefer the term con artist.’

  ‘You can call it whatever you please. But the truth is, she’s managed to get her claws into my nephew—’

  ‘Frank Churchill?’

  ‘You know him?’ Mrs Churchill demands. She looks mildly alarmed at the prospect that I might move in the same social circles as her dear nephew.

  ‘I know of him, of course.’

  I know he’s an absolute scoundrel with a wandering eye and a gambling habit.

  She relaxes a little at this. It’s perfectly acceptable for me to gaze admiringly at Frank Churchill from a distance, it seems.

  ‘Well, this Fairfax girl has Frank in her power. They met in Weymouth last autumn and have corresponded ever since. In short, he means to marry the wretch.’

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  ‘I see. Has he announced his intentions?’

  ‘He has not,’ Mrs Churchill barks. ‘But I know what he is planning. He has been out at all hours. Smiling too much. Yesterday, I even caught him whistling,’ she adds, as if this is incontrovertible proof of his marital plans.

  ‘And what makes you think Jane Fairfax is a swindler? Could she not just be a girl in love?’

  ‘In love? She’s as poor as a church mouse.’

  ‘And poor women, of course, have no feelings.’

  Mrs Churchill’s eyelid twitches. ‘I think you understand me, Miss Smith. It would be a very good match for her. You are perhaps not aware that Frank is much more than my nephew. He is my ward. My husband’s sister was something of a free spirit. A rebellious girl who thought more of her own immediate pleasure than familial duty. She married a most unsuitable man – a Captain Weston – who could not keep her in the manner to which she had been accustomed. They lived beyond their means, were dreadfully unhappy and she died before her poor son Frank had left infancy. We offered to take him in, of course, and to make him heir to the Churchill fortune on the understanding that he took on the Churchill name. Well, his father was glad to be rid of him. So you see, it is vitally important that he marries the right sort. Frank will come into his inheritance at five-and-twenty. In less than two years, he will be master of this estate.’

  ‘I understand you perfectly, Mrs Churchill. But if marrying for money were a criminal offence, half the young women of England would be under lock and key.’

  ‘It is not about money, Miss Smith. It is about legacy. Frank must take a suitable wife for the preservation of the Churchill line. Of course, there is a stipulation that Frank will not inherit unless I approve of his choice—’

  ‘Then, pardon my ignorance, Mrs Churchill, but why do you need me? Why do you not just simply withhold your approval?’

  Mrs Churchill raises an eyebrow. ‘If I thought it were that easy. . . My nephew has inherited something of his mother’s stubbornness. I fear that if I oppose the match, he will surrender his claim to the Churchill estate and run away with the girl. And this house and everything that comes with it would pass to the Eddowes, a vulgar family, barely related to my husband, who are in trade and hail from Birmingham.’ There’s a tremor of rage in the final word. Birmingham is apparently a step too far for Mrs Churchill.

  ‘And so the Churchill line would come to an end,’ I muse. I see that this would be a fate worse than Jane Fairfax for Mrs Churchill. I know her type. She had married into the great Churchill family and out-Churchill’d them all. For there’s no one more zealous than a convert.

  ‘There is also the matter of the missing jewellery,’ Mrs Churchill says, eyes narrowed. ‘Two pearl necklaces, a gold locket, a pair of diamond earrings.’ She counts them off on her fingers. ‘Family heirlooms, passed down from my late husband’s great-grandmother. They would have gone to Frank’s bride eventually, but not to the likes of her.’

  ‘You think your nephew has given them to Jane?’

  ‘Where else would they have gone? She has bewitched him. He has lost all sense of reason and duty. You will retrieve the jewels. I will not have them round the neck of a mere lieutenant’s daughter,’ she says, conveniently forgetting that she is the daughter of a mere apothecary. (I do my research.) ‘I will not let her take Frank away from me. I will not—’ She breaks off in frustration, clearly sensing my lack of investment in her plight. ‘She is poisoning him against me.’