Now she gets to share that love with you.
Keep reading for an excerpt of The Sign of the Raven, the next of Ash and Juliana’s adventures,
available August 2021.
The Sign of the Raven
by L.C. Sharp
Chapter One
April, 1749
The dead man lay on his front, irregular light from the last of the fireworks flickering over him. The bloody, blackened hole in his back told its own story. Before the bullet had spoiled it, the coat had been a fine one in red figured velvet. The color helped to disguise the blood, which was still seeping out, turning the grass a deeper shade. The heavy shadows, here beneath the makeshift stands erected for the show, cast the scene into morbid gloom.
“Oh my God!”
Whoever said that had brought light, one of the torches set in holders around the arena. The hot glare seared over the scene, bringing it into bright reality.
More blood, pooling around the victim. His hands were sprawled out either side of him. His bald head gleamed in the light of the torches, his wig and hat lying a foot away.
“Is he dead?” someone said, his voice hushed. If Juliana hadn’t been standing so close to her footman, she wouldn’t have heard him. The noise outside almost drowned the sound here, creating an island of horror.
“Stay there. Make sure nobody else comes in.” Her husband, having finished his orders to the hastily gathered officials, came across the damp grass to join her.
A relieved member of Vauxhall Gardens’ staff had rushed up to them five minutes before. “Sir Edmund! There’s been an incident. Please come to see.”
At Ash’s raised brow, the man added, “I saw you at Bow Street last year. And you, ma’am.” Such was fame, although of the notorious kind. “Please help us now. We don’t know what to do.”
Fighting against the crowd, Ash and Juliana, followed by Ash’s sister Amelia and brother Gregory, followed the man back to the stands, erected for the spectators of the firework display. The show done, people surged to the exit, all trying to get to the ferrymen first. The occasional shout of “God save the King!” reminded everyone that while King George had not fought every battle personally, he’d been instrumental in making the peace that this display was to celebrate. This was only the rehearsal for the main celebration, but it had been spectacular. And hugely successful. Everything had worked, the music played on cue, the fireworks creating a wonderland of sparkling sensation.
Not here, in this shadowed, small space created from the corner between two of the stands.
Outside this space, barely private, enough for a quick discussion, people milled around, shouting, laughing. Inside, nobody laughed. They stood in a secret place. But at least two people had known of it.
This man hadn’t killed himself. The tang of freshly spilled blood mixed with the stink of burned powder tainted the air, and made her nostrils itch. She’d smelled the burning all evening, but the blood was a new addition. Not a good one.
Ash bent and touched his fingers to the man’s wrist, then his neck. He straightened, his face devoid of expression. “He’s dead.”
Obviously, but he had to confirm it.
He exchanged a glance with her and the tiny muscles at the corners of his mouth tightened. Not a smile, but a wry acknowledgment. Anyone shot in the back behind the heart had no chance of surviving. Ash studied her briefly, and she nodded, a silent assurance that she was fine. Then he walked past to take control of the situation. Somebody had to.
From her position at the small gap between the stands, her sister-in-law Amelia gasped and pulled her young brother back by his collar when he would have rushed inside. “Come, Gregory. We’re only in the way here. Juliana, will you come with us?”
Juliana turned around to see Amelia doing her best to block her younger brother’s view. The wide skirts helped. “Such a tragic ending to the evening!” She glanced at the man, then away, shuddering. “Did you know him?”
Gregory dodged, trying to get around them to see. Amelia took his shoulders firmly and forcibly turned him away. She wouldn’t be able to do that much longer. At twelve, Gregory was already shooting up like a beanstalk.
“I have no idea,” Juliana said. “He’s lying on his stomach with his head buried in the grass.” But the victim’s rich costume indicated a degree of privilege.
Until recently, Juliana had moved in the highest circles. Even so, the aristocracy did not have the monopoly on expensive fashion. This man could be from anywhere.
She heard Ash giving orders for them to bring light and create a barrier so spectators would not see the man. For some, it would make the perfect, scandalous end to a good evening’s entertainment.
The audience for tonight’s spectacle had nothing else to do while they were waiting in the lines for the ferry.
They had arrived at Vauxhall Gardens by water, but the jam of ferries and other boats had rivalled the carriages, packed end to end. All London had wanted to come here tonight to view the fireworks, a rehearsal for the celebration set to take place in Green Park shortly. That one would attract even more traffic. Workmen were building the pavilion, a monstrous palace in timber, as the backdrop to the celebrations. One dead man wouldn’t stop that.
The dead man’s bald head gleamed in the flickering light from the torches, his fine wig and gold braided cocked hat beside it. He’d fallen with force, like a tree cut down in the forest. A sudden attack? Perhaps a cutpurse panicking at being caught. But cutpurses didn’t carry firearms. Pistols were expensive and heavy. Cumbersome for the nimbleness cutpurses needed.
Ash returned, came to Juliana’s side. “You’ll stay, then?”
She was flattered that he asked. Nobody had concerned
