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  Praise for Margaret Miles’s brilliant debut

  A WICKED WAY TO BURN

  “A BEWITCHING ADVENTURE … THIS NEW ENGLAND MYSTERY OF 1763 SHOULD CERTAINLY ROUND OUT THE HISTORICAL MYSTERY SCENE NICELY.”

  —Mastery Lovers Bookshop News

  “THE FIRST-TIME AUTHOR BRILLIANTLY PAINTS THE PROSPEROUS NEW ENGLAND LIFESTYLE. … AN INTRIGUING CASE OF HABEAS CORPUS IN THE CAPABLE HANDS OF ECCENTRIC PROTAGONISTS. EVEN THE VICTIM SHINES AS A CRAFTY CODGER AND HELPS TURN A STRONG STORY IDEA.”

  —Booknews from the Poisoned Pen

  “AN ENTERTAINING READ.”

  —Tales from a Red Herring

  “A COLONIAL SCULLY AND MULDER … KEEPS THE READER SAILING THROUGH THE PAGES.”

  —The Drood Review of Mystery

  “OUGHT TO APPEAL TO FANS OF MARGARET LAWRENCE’S POST-REVOLUTIONARY WAR SERIES.”

  —The Purloined Letter

  Also by Margaret Miles

  A WICKED WAY TO BURN

  Dedicated, with gratitude, to

  Kate Miciak, Amanda Clay Powers, and Stephanie Kip,

  who have guided my way—

  And especially to David Stewart Hull,

  who brought us all together.

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be drest,

  And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast.

  —ALEXANDER POPE, “Elegy to

  the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady”

  Chapter 1

  THE YEAR 1764 opened with a grim portent, when fire destroyed much of Harvard College during a blizzard one January eve—an event like none other since the creation of that great institution well over a century before.

  No one was quite sure how the blaze started; some put the blame on logs burning high into a chimney, others on a stealthy burrowing beneath a hearth. Fortunately, few scholars were endangered, for most of them had gone home for a month of rest. But the College did house temporary lodgers. And so, Governor Francis Bernard, members of the Massachusetts General Court, and notable alumnus John Hancock joined in the fight against the conflagration. (As Fate would have it, at least one would be well compensated for his losses that snowy night: before the year was out, the sudden death of his merchant uncle would make young Hancock the second wealthiest soul in all the colonies.)

  Yet a far greater threat stalked the province, which was the reason these men, representing towns across its breadth, had been driven over the Charles River to gather in Cambridge. For a dreaded and ancient plague had once again begun to rage. A dozen victims of smallpox had been discovered in Boston before Christmas; of these, all but two had died. Then more, and still more cases were dutifully reported, until the Neck was awash with a tide of people hurrying away, leaving flagged houses, feverish souls, and grieving families behind.

  Massachusetts was indeed unprotected, for most had been born after the last great epidemic of ’21, when one in twelve in Boston had died. Fewer had been taken during the smaller outbreaks in ’52 and ’60, But the town was aware of its continuing danger and inoculation was again debated, as it had been for over forty years.

  At first, afraid that a general application of the procedure might encourage the pestilence, the authorities refused to condone it. Later, when faced with an epidemic, they recanted. Now, sweet May breezes carried rising hopes that an end to the outbreak was in sight, and it was frequently agreed that Science, and Reason, had finally triumphed.

  There was no doubt that among thousands quickly inoculated only a few score had died, making death far less likely for the treated than for those who took the disease the old way. As the new cases were usually lighter, so, too, were complications and pocking. Yet in spite of inoculation’s obvious benefits, some stubborn individuals continued to reject the relatively safe and simple practice—as Richard Longfellow complained to Edmund Montagu one spring morning, while both rode along the Boston-Worcester road.

  “Arguing with Diana is much like trying to convince a cat,” said Longfellow as the two men traveled abreast on impatient stallions. Behind them, a black and white mare pulled an open chaise carrying two women. “Reason doesn’t have a great deal of effect,” he went on, “and one is eventually forced to offer rewards. In my sister’s case, she gave way only when I promised her a sea voyage and a large sum for her dressmakers. Now, Diana will be protected, in spite of her fear of scarring. I think you will find a useful lesson there,” he concluded.

  “Without a doubt,” mused the Englishman beside him. Captain Edward Montagu kept to himself his own suspicions of what lessons Diana Longfellow might have learned, and just how long ago. The captain glanced over the gilded epaulet on his right shoulder to catch the young lady’s eye. Odd, how Longfellow refused to see that his half-sister had grown into something more than a spoiled child. Today she was beautifully clad in pale yellow brocade patterned with raised roses, while her auburn hair was artfully arranged in a deceptively simple style. Diana was even more lovely than usual, Captain Montagu decided with a sigh.

  Unhappily, they had seen little of each other lately. Certainly, nothing had occurred to inflame him quite like last October’s meeting in Bracebridge, when he had found himself alone in her brother’s kitchen with the young temptress. He had come dangerously close to yielding to his passions; and perhaps he had lost his heart that evening, after all. Yet he wondered—how many others had Diana encouraged, before? Or even since?

  Captain Montagu touched his cocked hat and received a flirtatious answer from bright green eyes and loquacious lashes, as Miss Longfellow turned her head away. “He’ll always believe it was his doing,” she went on to the plainly dressed woman beside her who held the reins. “Which is all the better for me! Richard has increased my dress money without argument. Beyond that, I’ve extracted his promise to take me to view the Dutchmen in New York! Some weeks ago—I did tell you, Charlotte, that I visited in Newport for two weeks? Well, while I was there, I had a letter from Dr. Warren answering one I had sent to him, asking for his advice. After I considered his reasons, I decided to take the inoculation—not wanting, of course, to be the last one in town. They say nearly five thousand have lately submitted, while only a very few have succumbed …” As Diana’s anxious voice trailed away, Charlotte Willett gently turned the conversation.

  “Is Dr. Warren still on Castle Island?”

  “Yes, he is, inoculating the poor at the town’s expense. But rich men are also there, and I would imagine they pay him quite well—they’ll surely be a boon to his practice later. He’s been quarantined in the harbor for weeks now, and it’s said he will soon know the town from top to bottom, which will be a great waste of his time, in my opinion … though I have also heard Dr. Warren finds this amusing, heaven knows why! The best news, however; is that he’s to be married when all of this is over. Oh, yes! He’ll get a large fortune with Elizabeth Hooton, and she has a pretty face, too. Still, she’s only eighteen, and it seems to me that a wiser woman would wait a little longer; to see what mi
ght develop … but Elizabeth has already vowed to everyone that she’s in love with him, so I suppose she might as well. It’s a practical move for the doctor, certainly, though it saddens many ladies in Boston … and perhaps one or two out of it?”

  Diana bent for a glimpse of her friend’s face, hidden beneath a straw brim. But Charlotte ignored the look, though her eyes did soften. She could easily recall what it was to be just twenty, as Diana was, however different her own life had been five years before. Now, while the chaise took her closer to home, she thought back to the previous autumn.

  Last October, Dr. Joseph Warren had made his first visit to the village of Bracebridge, a place midway between Boston and the town of Worcester, at the invitation of Richard Longfellow. As a village selectman, Longfellow had asked Warren to examine the remains of a man rumored to have been murdered. Charlotte had soon decided the young physician would make a pleasant and useful acquaintance, and perhaps even a superior husband—though not for her. Four years had passed, yet her feelings for Aaron Willett were still strong, and his presence continued to make itself felt in ways that were difficult to ignore. She, too, had married young, when just eighteen. And she, too, had married for love.

  Feeling a familiar pain in her breast, Mrs. Willett silently wished Dr. Warren long life and happiness with his bride, while Diana twirled her parasol and relayed additional news of Boston society—such as it was these days, with most of it camping out somewhere else. Meanwhile, the wind caressed, the bright clouds flew, birds called to one another in the arrangement of their own affairs, and the trio of horses clopped along.

  Charlotte next noticed Longfellow’s enthusiasm in his discourse with Captain Montagu. The captain had often been in attendance during the past week at the home of Diana and her mother—once Longfellow’s home, as well. Though one day it would be Richard Longfellow’s again, the residence was today occupied solely by women, a fact that seemed to feed his tendency toward melancholy. Happily, exchanging barbs with Captain Montagu caused Longfellow’s hazel eyes to snap with electric sparks, and held off his darker moods. Edmund, too, seemed to be enjoying himself. The captain was certainly more affable than when they had all come together for the first time on this same road, little more than six months before. His natural reserve was less obvious, and his cold, aristocratic manner of speaking had softened. Though Diana seemed less inclined to pursue him as if he were a mouse and she a cat, Charlotte suspected her friend might increasingly be thinking of retaining this gentleman as a live prize. As for his own ideas—well, no one could ever be sure what Edmund Montagu really thought. Of course, an officer and agent of the Crown had duties and obligations not commonly understood—though she had also learned that in the case of this particular officer, much was kept hidden by design.

  It was probably for the best, thought Charlotte with lingering regret, that Edmund would soon leave them at the junction with the post road, to spend a few weeks in New Hampshire as one of a summer party, on an estate along the Merrimack. With tomorrow’s inoculation, Diana would surely be unlikely to appreciate visitors for some time.

  “What are those little things?” the young lady now demanded, pointing to the edge of the road.

  “Which?” asked Mrs. Willett. She squinted to see more clearly.

  “The yellow flowers, there in the grass. I believe I’ll soon have a bouquet. I wonder if they have a scent?”

  The captain coaxed his horse ahead, and dismounted. With a flourish, he removed his triangular hat and deposited it safely beneath one arm, causing his white tie-wig to glow in the sun. While the others watched, he bent to pinch several blooms from a clump of fragrant primroses at the highway’s edge; soon, he straightened with a handful. He then approached the chaise, which Mrs. Willett had brought to a halt.

  “May I suggest a brief walk, to say farewell?” Captain Montagu murmured, offering the bright bouquet to Miss Longfellow. He was rewarded with the young lady’s hand as she climbed down. He kept it while he guided her away from the road toward another wave of flowers. Moments later, he had captured an entire arm under his own.

  “I would like you to know,” he began haltingly, “that I … I have asked your brother for the favor of being called, in the event—if the unexpected should occur.” He finished stiffly, unsatisfied with his choice of words. Would he ever be able to speak plainly and simply to this woman? Or would their every meeting end with his feeling as if a loaded pistol were pointed at his head?

  “Called at my demise, do you mean? Or before?” she answered vaguely. The captain disengaged his arm.

  “In the event that you might want to see me. One last time,” he concluded, pleased at the feeling the cruel words gave him.

  “Well, I could wish to see you then, I suppose,” Diana replied. She leaned forward carefully, for her busk and stays restrained the movement of her slender waist. Then she picked a flower for herself and added it to those the captain had already given her. Though the act was somewhat difficult, its effect was graceful.

  “What,” she asked abruptly, “if I do not die, Edmund—but instead become disfigured? Then, what would your feelings be?”

  Both had seen women who had been ravaged by the disease. Though most of these unfortunate creatures chose to remain entombed at home forever, a few, usually poor and aged, freely exposed their twisted hands and scarred faces, frightening children and sometimes even their elders. After this epidemic, there would surely be more.

  Montagu was the first to shake off the disturbing vision. He patted puffs of dust from the arms of his new blue coat, whose wide military lapels were held back with many brass buttons set off by gold piping.

  “If you were to be seriously afflicted,” he replied, “then I would, of course, come to compliment your bravery—and to see if seclusion had made you any better at the whist table, where you still lack something as a partner.”

  “I knew you hated me because I would not help you win your fortune last winter, poor man! So, you must continue to survive on your meager pay, in spite of the family title.”

  “Very true,” he answered with a wry smile. This pretty thing could be cruel, as well, when she chose to be. It was common knowledge that Miss Longfellow’s dowry would be a large one. She would obviously expect, and deserve, to marry a man of wealth—wealth he himself did not possess.

  “It is possible, you know,” Diana continued airily, “that I only play poorly in order to spare my neighbors … and to keep their money from flowing back to London one day, with you! For do you not urge us to hold on to all the coin we can get?”

  “I did not realize economy was an interest of yours, Miss Longfellow,” he said politely, to irritate her further. When he’d achieved some success the captain went on in a practical vein, appealing to the lady’s intellect. It was a tactic that had been known to flatter (sometimes even to astonish) a female, especially an attractive one who was generally given only insipid conversation.

  “I would still encourage you to hold on to your reserves of both gold and silver, especially considering the upheaval in trade the coast has lately suffered,” he said seriously. “But what do you plan to give your dressmaker for your imported satins and silks? Potatoes? When I see the women of Boston wearing homespun wools and linens, I’ll know they have learned good sense and become true converts to sound economic policy. Though the Lord knows, the city’s politicians have been talking enough of self-sufficiency lately—largely, I suspect, for the satisfaction of obstructing British interests! But I have no wish to argue with you today, Miss Longfellow.”

  “Well, go and argue with someone who will listen in New Hampshire, then,” Diana replied, holding her head high as she affected a sulk. “I’m sure the ladies there will be no happier than I to hear you suggest we drape ourselves in sackcloth.”

  “Yet none in New Hampshire could appear more charming than one Boston lady I know, were she to wear brocade or burlap.”

  Diana tossed a curl away from her lovely face, dimpling with pl
easure though the very thought of sackcloth made her want to scratch.

  The captain was moved by this show of spirit, and by the lady’s rare ability to scoff at the future. It was something she did far better, and far more often, than he. Listening to her musical laugh, he noticed abruptly that the flowers in her hand had already begun to wilt and fade.

  He looked up, and took careful note of Diana Longfellow’s faultless complexion. Then, Edmund Montagu took her soft hand in his own once more, while he heard a trill of foreboding play upon his hopeful heart.

  AFTER THE CAPTAIN had made his final farewells and disappeared on the road leading north, under a blue stretch of increasing pressure that must have reached clear to Canada (as Longfellow, who had a new barometer, remarked to himself), the lone rider dropped back and bent to speak.

  “Carlotta,” he asked Mrs. Willett as they entered a wood full of scolding jays, “speaking of love, as I presume you were doing, have you spoken with Diana about the girl?”

  “Oh—Phoebe!” Charlotte exclaimed. In fact, she hadn’t, for while they were in Boston she had decided to keep Diana’s thoughts away from the procedure scheduled for tomorrow. Now, she turned her azure eyes to a sky of similar hue, trying to think of how to start.

  “Phoebe? Can the family of one of your rustics be familiar with the classics?” Diana returned, displaying her usual lack of respect for the countryside and its inhabitants.

  “Phoebe is a Concord rustic—not a Bracebridge one,” Charlotte responded evenly. This clarified the situation somewhat, for everyone knew that the residents of Concord showed a certain lack of common sense. “In a few months, she’s to wed Will Sloan. One of Hannah’s sons.”

  “Hannah Sloan!” Diana laughed haughtily. “A candidate to join the Harpies, if ever I saw one.”

  Charlotte drew a breath, then tried once more. “Recently, Will’s father and the boys added a new section to the house; then, Phoebe came to visit, bringing some of her own furnishings—but her father insists she be inoculated, and last week he ordered her back to Concord. Phoebe told Hannah she’d rather face the procedure here, and we thought you might appreciate her company while you’re recovering … so now, if you agree, she will be inoculated here in Bracebridge.”