Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(93)
William Ian Mackenzie (The Rake) 1780-1850
(12th Duke of Kilmorgan) = m. Lady Elizabeth Ross
|
Daniel Mackenzie, 13th Duke of Kilmorgan (1824-1874) (1st Duke of Kilmorgan, English from 1855) = m. Elspeth Cameron (d. 1864) |
Hart Mackenzie (b. 1844) 14th Duke of Kilmorgan from 1874
(2nd Duke of Kilmorgan, English) = m1. Lady Sarah Graham (d. 1876) |
(Hart Graham Mackenzie, d. 1876)
Hart Mackenzie = m2. Lady Eleanor Ramsay
|
Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie (b. 1885) Malcolm Ian Mackenzie (b. 1887)
Cameron Mackenzie
= m1. Lady Elizabeth Cavendish (d. 1866) |
Daniel Mackenzie = m. Violet Devereaux
Cameron Mackenzie = m2. Ainsley Douglas
|
Gavina Mackenzie (b. 1883) Stuart Mackenzie (b. 1885)
“Mac” (Roland Ferdinand) Mackenzie
= m. Lady Isabella Scranton
|
Aimee Mackenzie (b. 1879, adopted 1881) Eileen Mackenzie (b. 1882) Robert Mackenzie (b. 1883)
Ian Mackenzie = m. Beth Ackerley
|
Jamie Mackenzie (b. 1882) Isabella Elizabeth Mackenzie (Belle) (b. 1883) Megan Mackenzie (b. 1885)
Lloyd Fellows = m. Lady Louisa Scranton
|
Elizabeth Fellows (b. 1886) William Fellows (b. 1888) Matthew Fellows (b. 1889)
McBride Family
Patrick McBride = m. Rona McDougal
Sinclair McBride = m.1 Margaret Davies (d. 1878) |
Caitriona (b. 1875) Andrew (b. 1877)
Sinclair McBride = m.2 Roberta “Bertie” Frasier
Elliot McBride = m. Juliana St. John
Ainsley McBride = m.1 John Douglas (d. 1879) |
Gavina Douglas (d.)
= m.2 Lord Cameron Mackenzie
|
Gavina Mackenzie (b. 1883) Stuart Mackenzie (b. 1885)
Steven McBride (Captain, Army) = m. Rose Barclay
(Dowager Duchess of Southdown)
Note: Names in bold indicate main characters in the Mackenzies / McBrides series
Excerpt: Death Below Stairs
Kat Holloway Below Stairs Mysteries, Book 1
Read on for a look at the new historical mystery series by Jennifer Ashley!
London, March 1881
I had not been long at my post in Mount Street, Mayfair, when my employer’s sister came to some calamity.
I must say I was not shocked that such a thing happened, because when a woman takes on the dress and bad habits of a man, she cannot be surprised at the disapprobation of others when she is found out. Lady Cynthia’s difficulties, however, turned out to be only the beginning of a vast tangle and a long, dangerous business.
But I am ahead of myself. I am a cook, one of the finest in London if I do say it, and also one of the youngest to be made head cook in a lavish household. I worked some time in the winter at a house in Richmond, and it was a good position, but the family desired to sell up and move to the Lake District, and I was loath to leave the environs of London for my own rather private reasons.
Back went my name on the books, and the agency at last wrote to my new lodgings in Tottenham Court Road to say they had found a place that might suit. Taking their letter with me, I went along to the house of one Lord Rankin in Mount Street, descending from the omnibus at South Audley Street and walking the rest of the way.
I expected to speak to the housekeeper, but upon arrival, the butler, a tall, handsome specimen who rather preened himself, took me up the stairs to meet the lady of the house in her small study.
She was Lady Rankin, wife of the prodigiously wealthy baron who owned this abode. The baron’s wealth came not from the fact that he was an aristocrat, the butler, Mr. Davis, had already confided in me—the estate had been nearly bankrupt when Lord Rankin had inherited it. Rather, Lord Rankin was a deft dabbler in the City and had earned money by wise investment long before the cousin who’d held the title had died, conveniently childless.
When I first beheld Lady Rankin, I was surprised she’d asked for me, because she seemed too frail to hold up her head, let alone conduct an interview with a new cook.
“Mrs. Holloway, ma’am,” Mr. Davis said. He ushered me in, bowed, and withdrew.
The study in which I found myself was small and overtly feminine. The walls were covered in yellow moiré; the curtains at the windows were white lace. Framed mirrors and paintings of gardens and picturesque country lanes adorned the walls. A delicate, gilt-legged table from the last century reposed in the middle of the room, with an equally graceful chair behind it. A scroll-backed chaise covered with shawls sat near the desk.
Lady Rankin was in the act of rising from the chaise as we entered, as though she had grown weary waiting for me and retired to it. She moved listlessly to the chair behind her desk, sat upon it, and pulled a paper in front of her with a languid hand.
“Mrs. Holloway?” she asked.
Mr. Davis had just announced me, so there was no doubt who I was, but I nodded. Lady Rankin looked me over. I remained standing in the exact center of the carpet in my second-best frock, a brown wool jacket buttoned to my throat, and my second-best hat of light brown straw perching on my thick coil of dark hair.
Lady Rankin’s garment was white, filmy, and high necked, its bodice lined with seed pearls. Her hair was pale gold, her cheeks thin and bloodless. She could hardly be thirty summers, but rather than being childlike, she was ethereal, as though a gust of wind could puff her away.