A Most Agreeable Murder (Beatrice Steele, #1)

by Julia Seales

For Beatrice was curious by nature, and therefore noticed too much, felt too much, and wondered too much about life outside her village.

Only a morally corrupt city would accept her, and once she made it to Paris, she would surely be robbed by a mime and left for dead.

Beatrice Steele harbored a dark secret: She was obsessed with murder. Not the act of committing it, but the act of solving it. She loved nothing more than to consider the intricacies of a suspect’s motivations, determine the killer, and then watch this killer be brought to justice.

And perhaps deep down she reasoned that if she knew what evil lurked in the world, she might be prepared to face it.

Beatrice would have to grow up and become a respectable woman for the sake of herself and her family. This would likely occur next week, she always assured herself. Or, possibly, the week after.

Therefore, should Mr. Steele ever fall into his soup and not pop up cackling,

Mrs. Susan Steele was a formidable (albeit short) woman. What she lacked in height she made up for in loudness of voice, confidence of demeanor, and a seven-inch updo.

She found Arabella self-important and snobbish.

It is a fact known throughout Swampshire that a rich gentleman is prey hunted by every young woman.

Beatrice joined her, taking an absentminded sip of tea from a cup on her bedside table and then spitting it out upon realizing that it had fermented.

Mary’s from goodness knew, whatever caused a dress to rip completely in half.

“It’s very tragic,” Louisa said. “They had just moved to a new mansion in Bath with fifty-nine bedrooms. Unfortunately, the two of them got lost on their way to breakfast. Their servants didn’t find them until it was too late—they had wasted away.”

Louisa pulled her hand away from Beatrice, looking uncomfortable. Beatrice’s empty palm felt suddenly clammy. Did her sister not believe her?

“One must always consider

If anyone knew that she was writing to Sir Huxley, that she was reading crime articles, Beatrice would be declared unmarriageable, be socially exiled, be sent away to some unknown land, tarnish Louisa’s reputation by association, and cause her family to waste away in despair. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance.

She would think not at all of murder or crime. She would be the perfect sister, the perfect lady, and their family would be saved.

Mary had her own bedroom, which she forbade anyone else from entering. They gladly followed this rule, as there was always a smell of raw meat emanating from within, and everything inside was covered by an unexplained layer of fur.

Mary did not understand this—she had developed a heightened sense of smell but a dampened sense of finance.

She is a werewolf?

An inspector must know how to fence.”

“Wait,” Mrs. Steele said, grabbing Beatrice’s arm to stop her. “He could be a murderer, or worse, a Frenchman!”

“Jolly good. You are most intelligent, sir!” Mr. Steele said. He never could dislike anyone for long, and certainly not someone so quick on his feet.

Few could resist Mrs. Steele when she used this tone; such was the gift of a mother.

acutely aware of his body heat.

ooo is she now

“Lilies are also toxic to cats,” Mary said, breaking the awkward pause. “A perfect flower.”

Of course, there have been less jovial rumors that Baron Ashbrook built such a large home because he was “compensating,” but this particular gossip has been disputed.

All feeling slightly dented,

They shed their cloaks and did a routine check for ice bruising. Thankfully, there was none, except on Mary, but no one noticed.

“It seems someone in Swampshire has broken the rules,” Drake said, raising an eyebrow. “How dare you, sir,” Mrs. Steele gasped. “They would never!”

it allowed them to both see and be seen.

“When battles of wits are scarce, sometimes one’s best opponent is oneself,” Beatrice said with a pained smile.

A knot of confusion and frustration formed in Beatrice’s stomach and tightened as she watched the two.

“I hope he has a good sense of humor,” he said. “I have been very disappointed by the lack of merriment displayed by most of the gentlemen in this town lately.” “The gentlemen here are perfectly merry,” Mrs. Steele said, irritated.

Comfort and security were much more important, and more realistic, than flights of fancy.

its scent oddly similar to that of coins.

Mrs. Steele raised her eyebrows as if to say, Your life will be short if you don’t get married.

“That must be why you are glancing at everyone’s shoes, because of dancing. Certainly not because you are wondering who tracked in the honeysuckle and mud.”

Oooo we like him

She was unnerved to find that the touch set her entire body aflame.

Fondly, Daniel

Fondly??? Oh boy

Miss Bolton adored Beatrice, and Beatrice suspected this was because Miss Bolton viewed her as yet another stray.

“Naturally, you couldn’t confront her about it, because you had only seen it due to the impropriety of arriving early.”

She knew the words must be true as she spoke them but could not help feeling disappointed.

Some even speculated that he was about to almost think about considering making her an offer of marriage.

It seemed like a strange omen—of what, she did not yet know.

She never used to notice such things—and I prefer it that way.

but Beatrice knew better than to become bamboozled by his charms. Too many young women were taken in only to have their hearts broken; Frank was a notorious rake.

Beatrice had the impression that he knew exactly how roguish it made him appear.

“I’m sure my mother would never speak of marriage,” she said dryly. “She hardly thinks of it, except on days ending with ‘y.’ ”

“I had a touch of the fainties.”

Tonight did feel different.

They pried them open and in came… A flurry of hail pellets. But after the hail strode… Mr. Edmund Croaksworth.