House of Croft, Book 4
Date Published: 06-17-2025
Acquitted of the crime he was accused of, Adrian Croft begins an investigation
that could link a duke to his sister’s death. But with a fresh series of
murders leading straight to Saint George’s Hospital, Adrian is torn between
his quest for revenge and the need to catch an active killer. For though he
may have sworn to yield his power in order to gain a pardon, all bets are off
when villains threaten his city.
Having proven her unfailing loyalty to her husband, Samantha Croft settles
into married life – an idyl that quickly crumbles when she and Adrian get
caught up in a new series of murders. As they follow a trail that leads them
through subterranean tunnels and to a secret organization, they face another
threat too: a ghost from Adrian’s past who’s about to bring war to their
doorstep.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
September 10th, 1818
The air was cool. Chilly even. A hint of mildew clung to it. Most likely because the room lacked windows and was hard to air out.
Lying on a narrow table, Polly Griffin took a deep breath and released it slowly. There was no need to fret. No reason for her pulse to be racing. She was in capable hands. All would be well. The surgeon whose help she’d sought came highly recommended. She’d been referred to him by her physician. A man who’d helped cure her ailments numerous times in the past. If he’d sent her here, then it was because he believed in the treatment she would receive.
And according to what she’d been told since she’d arrived here, the procedure she’d undergo would be quick. Not entirely painless, but simple enough that she would be able to get back to work tomorrow. This assurance had pleased her immensely for if there was one thing she’d no wish to do, then it was to disappoint her employer.
Lady Ottersburg was a lovely woman who treated all her servants well. Unlike other members of the peerage, the viscountess engaged her servants in conversation, even going so far as to take an in interest in their families. And the lady always remembered which footman had a sickly parent or if a maid was about to become an aunt. It was most impressive and helped instill a sense of worth in everyone who worked at Ottersburg House.
Polly had always considered it a distinct honor to serve there. Even if she feared her dream of becoming the viscountess’s personal lady’s maid would never be realized. Such promotions were rare. More so when Rose, who currently filled the position had not yet turned thirty and was far more qualified than Polly. Who’d only been employed to attend the downstairs.
Her day started early. By five o’clock she was in the parlor, opening the curtains to let in the morning light. The grate would be cleaned and the fire re-laid before she set about sweeping the rugs and wiping down every surface with a damp cloth before she moving on to the next room.
Lady Ottersburg often claimed her home to be the cleanest she’d ever set foot in. High praise that made Polly proud of her job. It also filled her with a desire to prove herself capable and worthy of the lady’s regard. To not disappoint her. As Polly feared she might if it became known that she’d gotten herself with child out of wedlock.
She’d have to leave Ottersburg House before she started to show. To prevent her sin from rubbing off on the family. Worse, to avoid the awkward conversations and pitiful looks that would likely precede her inevitable departure. Mama would never forgive her or the diminished financial support such an outcome would lead to. She herself would have to live with the guilt of knowing she’d ruined numerous lives in a foolish moment of weakness.
This was for the best. A quick procedure to help her take control of her future.
She turned her head and allowed her gaze to sweep the lime-washed walls of the room she was in. Until she found the man who stood nearby. Middle-aged with a hint of aristocracy to his overall bearing, he wore a kind expression that seemed to convey immense understanding for the predicament in which she found herself.
His back was to her as he bent over a smaller table on which she’d seen him place various supplies.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his voice soft. Gentle and soothing. “It’s important I make sure all of my tools are at the ready before we begin.”
Polly nodded, as best as she could. “Of course.”
He glanced at her and the pleasant smile curving his lips put her at ease. All would be well. No need to be anxious.
She wriggled her fingers and the rope that would hold her still while the surgeon worked chafed her wrists. Additional restraints had been used on her legs and ankles. A necessity, she’d been informed, since the slightest movement on her part could prove disastrous.
“Drink this.” The surgeon held a cup to her lips with one hand while using the other to lift her head.
A shiver of apprehension curled around Polly’s breast. “What is it?”
“Laudanum, to help you relax.”
“It smells different than usual.”
His expression was calm, his eyes full of understanding. “Because of the wine and herbs I added to mask the bitterness. Make the flavor a little more pleasant.”
A thoughtful notion, Polly decided. She’d always hated the way the stuff tasted. But if it was mixed with other ingredients, it might not be so bad.
She parted her lips and the liquid entered her mouth, surprising her with a hint of berries, ginger, possibly sage, and something she failed to identity. It was sweet too and not entirely unpleasant. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have guessed it contained any laudanum at all, had the surgeon not mentioned it.
“That’s it,” he murmured, tilting the cup a bit more to help her drink. “You’ll feel the effect of it soon.”
Polly lowered her head until she was staring up at the ceiling. The plaster was filled with fine cracks, like veins shooting out in every direction. She blinked, then blinked again when her vision blurred. It was as if a haze had descended over her eyes. A woozy sensation spread through her limbs, reminding her of that time years ago when she and her cousin had pilfered Uncle Theo’s bottle of brandy.
It had to be… Had to be…
She tried to think, but her brain was empty. Vacant. And then she was falling backward. Into herself. As the world around her vanished.
#
The fog creeping over the Thames had started retreating by the time the hackney Chief Constable Peter Kendrick had hired arrived at the docks. Dawn had broken nearly an hour ago but heavy cloud coverage cloaked the streets, reducing visibility.
The carriage slowed and Peter allowed himself a moment to reflect on the turn his life had taken in recent weeks while he waited for the carriage to pull to a halt. He’d been sacked. A young and competent Runner named Jackson, who presently sat on the bench beside him, had taken his place. Together, despite forces working against them, they’d managed to root out corruption within the legal system.
A judge was still under investigation for the part he’d played in convicting Adrian Croft of murder. Viscount Carver, who’d been one of the Prince Regent’s most trusted advisors, had fled the country. Peter’s former boss, Sir Nigel, had been stripped of his duties. And Mr. Croft himself had received a full pardon, though it had cost him the blackmail files that made so many people pray for his death.
Happily, the new chief magistrate, Mr. Hastings, had encouraged Peter’s return to Bow Street. A request Peter had gladly accepted even if it meant answering to a man he’d recently issued orders to.
Jackson, however, had instantly asked to resume his former duties at Runner so Peter could regain his title of chief constable. The younger man had joked that he’d rather someone else took the blame when a case went unsolved. As was, Peter hated admitting, far too often the case.
The carriage rocked, axels creaking as the carriage came to a standstill. Dressed in a greatcoat in case it rained, Peter thrust the door open and stepped down onto the uneven cobblestones. Jackson, followed him out.
“Ready?” Peter asked.
Jackson responded with a firm nod. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
They strode toward the spot where a small group of men had gathered. Two of the people were holding lanterns, which helped illuminate the area. The pungent smell of rotting seaweed clawed its way up Peter’s nose. He reached inside a pocket and pulled out the silver case that housed his cheroots. It took no more than five seconds before he was able to inhale the smooth taste of Indian tobacco.
A bell rang somewhere in the distance. Peter stepped forward with purpose, his attention going briefly to the obscure shape that lay at the edge of the dock before honing in on the man who stood nearest.
“Good morning.” Peter stuck out his hand and the man, a scruffy fellow with dark whisps of hair poking out from beneath his cap, shook it. “I’m Chief Constable Peter Kendrick and this is my colleague, Mr. Jackson. We’ve come in response to the message delivered to Bow Streat a short while ago. A body was mentioned.”
“Aye.” The man shoved both hands in his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders against the damp air while jutting his chin toward the shape on the ground. “We covered ‘er up. Out o’ respect.”
“It’s a woman then,” Jackson observed.
“Aye. Young one, by the looks o’ it. Shame really.”
Peter took a long drag from his cheroot, tilted his head back, and sent the smoke skyward before saying, “We’ll need all your names for our records.”
No one argued. The man he’d been speaking to straightened a little. “I’m Jones. First name, Randolph. This ‘ere’s Benjamin Clarence, David Lee, Finn Stevenson, and Ian Ackroyd.”
Jackson jotted the information down while Peter crossed to the body. It had been concealed beneath a large piece of canvas, possibly sack-cloth, judging from the coarse appearance. Peter dropped to a crouch and drew back the edge to reveal the woman. Mr. Jones was correct. She was indeed young. Most likely in her early twenties.
“I need more light,” Peter said while scanning her pasty skin. Her eyes were closed, as though in slumber, her dark hair slicked back due to wetness – a few strands partially pasted to her right cheek.
Footsteps approached and a soft glow spilled over Peter’s left shoulder, flooding the woman’s face. It was clear now, judging from her appearance, that she’d been in the water a while. At least a couple of days, Peter reckoned.
He glanced up at Jackson, who’d brought the lantern over, then shifted his gaze to the men still gathered behind him. “Which one of you found her?”
There was a long pause before Jones chose to speak up. “Clarence and me. We was preparing the boat we use to ferry goods across the river when we saw her floatin’ nearby.”
“A possible case of self-murder then,” Jackson murmured while Peter returned his attention to the dead woman.
The Runner wasn’t wrong to suppose such a thing. These types of deaths happened from time to time, especially on the river where those who wanted a way out of life would jump from one of the bridges. Victims of foul play were rarely found in the Thames, most likely because those guilty of murder were wise enough to weigh the bodies down. Make sure they were never discovered.
Peter pulled the sack-cloth back farther. The body appeared to be intact, so Jackson could be right. Were it not for a tiny detail that snared Peter’s attention. He lifted the woman’s wrist, turned it slightly, and waved Jackson closer with the light.
Sure enough, the skin in one spot looked raw with a purplish bruise directly beneath. Like something or someone had gripped her.
Of course, it could be nothing – no more than an accident of the woman’s own making. Peter had no intention of making assumptions. But he’d been at this long enough to know that this finding could be evidence of foul play.
As such, it warranted further investigation.
USA TODAY bestselling author Sophie Barnes writes historical romance novels in
which the characters break away from social expectations in their quest for
happiness and love. Having written for Avon, an imprint of Harper Collins, her
books have been published internationally in eight languages. With a fondness
for travel, Sophie has lived in six countries, on three continents, and speaks
English, Danish, French, Spanish, and Romanian with varying degrees of
fluency. Ever the romantic, she married the same man three times—in
three different countries and in three different dresses.
When she’s not busy dreaming up her next swoon worthy romance novel,
Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, practicing yoga, baking,
gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading.
