Mist of Midnight by Sandra Byrd

one of them was his mother!
    Miss Dainley waited until there was a break in the conversation and then introduced me. “Baron Lewis Ashby, may I present Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw.”
    Lord Ashby’s face was smooth but for a spotty beard, his hair thinning and trimmed into a Roman style: short fringes atop a wide forehead. He took my hand and kissed it. “Miss Ravenshaw. We have all been looking forward to meeting you.”
    â€œIn fact, we thought we already had,” came a quiet voice from one of the three harpies; I turned but was not quick enough to see who’d said it.
    I raised my chin and ignored it. “How do you do, Lord Ashby.”
    â€œI should very much like to hear about your recent experience in India,” he said. Then he grew red and hastily added, “Before the Mutiny, of course.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. If I were the Baroness of Blunder, here then was the Baron. His misstep put me at ease and I was thankful for it.
    There was no trace of irony or sarcasm in his voice or on his earnest face. “I look forward to speaking with you about it.” He offered his arm to me and led me to a set of seats near the edge of the music room and gestured for some champagne. We sat down and he began to talk of local properties, and horse breeding, which made me slightly uncomfortable during a first conversation with a gentleman. I responded in kind with some facts about the food in India and the weather, and answered his questions about how miraculous it was, indeed, to be able to wrap a long length of fabric into a sari.
    â€œI suddenly feel a little dizzy,” I said. “I think it may be the champagne. Perhaps I should walk outside for a while.”
    â€œThe doctor is close by.” Ashby pointed out a dignified man loitering near a table with several pretty young ladies. “Shall we ask him?” He motioned for the doctor to join us.
    â€œNo, please,” I said. “I’m sure I’m fine. Just fatigue and . . .”
    Too late. The doctor made his way over. “Hello, Ashby. And this lovely woman must be a guest of yours?”
    Ashby shook his head. “No, indeed. This is the mistress of the house. May I present Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw? Miss Ravenshaw, Dr. Roger Floyd.”
    The doctor took a reflexive step back. “How curious.” Beads of sweat lined his forehead like seed pearls. “A relative of the young woman who died here earlier this year?”
    â€œIndeed no,” I said. “I am the only Rebecca Ravenshaw. How do you do?” I held out my hand. “Perhaps you alone can shed some light on this confusing subject.”
    â€œWhich is . . . ?” He drew his arms across his chest.
    â€œThe woman who was here, months ago, impersonating me. I’m most eager to learn who she was.”
    The doctor glanced across the room. I followed his gazeuntil it met with Captain Whitfield’s. They locked eyes for a moment and then Dr. Floyd took out a handkerchief. After blotting his forehead he said, “I’m afraid there is not much to share. The young woman arrived with an Indian maid. Some months later, she took her own life. I examined her, determined the cause of death, and signed the certificate. Captain Whitfield and the maids seemed to have the situation well in hand before I even arrived.”
    â€œThe cause of death . . .” I started. But Dr. Floyd spoke up.
    â€œThat’s all there is to share, Miss . . . Ravenshaw,” he said. “Professional confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.” He bowed curtly, closing off any further conversation, and made his way back to the young ladies whence he came.
    Ashby looked at Whitfield, whose head was down, and then back to me. “More champagne, Miss Ravenshaw?”
    â€œNo, thank you, Baron, I cannot selfishly monopolize your conversation all evening; I shall take some cool air on the