Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “You know, for someone who is not even paying me, you’re a little demanding,” Kendra said lightly.

  Mrs. Gavenston looked startled. “You aren’t suggesting you wish to be paid?”

  “Heavens no. Why would I want that?” Kendra said, knowing her sarcastic tone bewildered the other woman even more. “I’m joking.”

  Mrs. Gavenston eyed her dubiously.

  “Miss Donovan is an American,” Rebecca remarked, hiding her smile behind her cup of hot chocolate. But Kendra caught the glint of laughter in Rebecca’s eyes.

  Kendra said, “I’ll keep you updated about what I find out, Mrs. Gavenston.”

  The woman nodded, satisfied. “Thank you, Miss Donovan. You shall be able to find me at White Pond Manor or Barrett Brewery.” She reached for the dainty teapot and poured. “What will you do first? Speak to Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe?”

  “It’s a good starting point.” Kendra glanced at the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. Rebecca had wanted to go to the Royal Menagerie in the morning because her mother had insisted that she accompany her on morning calls—which were done mostly in the afternoon. Go figure. It was now twenty minutes past ten o’clock.

  “Where exactly is Maidenhead?” she asked.

  “No more than an hour from London. Half of that, if you take a wherry.”

  Getting from Point A to Point B was a pain in the ass in the 19th century, especially for a woman—and especially woman who hadn’t learned to ride a damn horse. But the boat option was appealing.

  “I can go this afternoon,” she said. “Do you have any objection if I call in a Bow Street Runner to assist me?” Her mind flashed to Sam Kelly, the Bow Street Runner who she’d come to trust. “We’d cover more ground together.”

  Mrs. Gavenston looked surprised but shook her head. “Of course not. As I told you, I had intended to hire a thief-taker. I shall pay him whatever he requires.”

  Kendra stifled the urge to roll her eyes. Sure, I’m supposed to work for free while Sam gets paid.

  Putting her exasperation aside, she asked, “Did you check the public coaches to see if Mr. Pascoe left on his own accord?”

  Another glint of surprise. “It never occurred to me,” Mrs. Gavenston admitted.

  “Did Mr. Pascoe have a horse or carriage?”

  “No. He doesn’t need one. The cottage is near enough to the brewery to walk. Of course, he is allowed to use the stables at White Pond Manor, but he prefers walking.”

  Rebecca spoke up. “You ought to quiz the wherrymen as well, if Mr. Pascoe chose to leave by boat.”

  “Good idea.” Kendra slipped Mrs. Gavenston’s calling card into her reticule, which was heavy with the muff pistol inside. She looked at the older woman. “I’ll see what I can do to find Mr. Pascoe, but I’m going to warn you. You might not like what I uncover.”

  Mrs. Gavenston looked genuinely puzzled. “Why ever not?”

  Kendra could think of various scenarios. Mrs. Gavenston obviously had a high regard for her business manager, but if Pascoe had gone off in a temper, maybe he was on a bender, drunk or on drugs, or shacked up with a woman. In her experience, those who put people on pedestals were often disappointed.

  She shrugged, deciding to forego that conversation for the moment. “If you need to contact me, I’m at Number 29, Grosvenor Square.”

  For the first time, a small smile flitted around Mrs. Gavenston’s mouth. “Everyone knows the Duke of Aldridge’s London residence, Miss Donovan.” She fished out several coins from her reticule and left them on the table as she pushed herself to her feet. She paused, allowing her gaze to move from Rebecca to Kendra. “Thank you, Miss Donovan. Our meeting was fortuitous.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Kendra cautioned. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Mrs. Gavenston nodded, then glanced at Rebecca. “My lady.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Gavenston,” Rebecca said.

  Kendra was silent as she watched Mrs. Gavenston thread her way through the tables. She glanced over and met Rebecca’s amused eyes.

  “What?” Kendra asked.

  “I must say, Miss Donovan, the unexpected always seems to happen around you,” she replied with a grin. “Do you think you shall find the elusive Mr. Pascoe?”

  “Unless he’s deliberately hiding, I don’t think it will be that difficult.” Except she wouldn’t be able to track the missing man through his credit cards, cell phone, or social media posts. This search would have to be done the old-fashioned way, questioning his friends, family, and acquaintances.

  Excitement thrummed through her veins as she stood up. It was grunt work, really. But it beat the hell out of spending the afternoon embroidering.

  3

  Normally, Grosvenor Square, the wealthy enclave where the Duke’s sprawling mansion was located, was a haven of tranquility in the clatter of London. But upon arriving in London the afternoon before, the Duke’s household had been vaguely appalled to realize that they would be living next to a construction zone. Lord and Lady Yarborough had decided to renovate their residence, disrupting the peace of the square with hammering, sawing, and the shouts of the mason workers who had invaded the space next to Number 29.

  After waving goodbye to Rebecca, Kendra paused to study the construction. The mansion was early Georgian, with traditional exposed red brick, white sash windows, and ornate pilasters on either side of the door. But the Yarboroughs had been swept up in the Greco-Roman craze that had come to dominate the architecture of the time, a trend pushed by celebrated designers like John Nash. In addition to expanding the mansion by bumping out walls, the workmen were changing the exterior by slathering on stucco, which would eventually be painted a creamy white. It would be, Kendra knew, the style most familiar to anyone who lived in or visited London in the 21st century.

  Her skin prickled. A disorienting sensation swept through her. The city is changing before my eyes. It was strange to know already what London would look like after the transformation was complete.

  She took a step back and nearly collided with one of the masons maneuvering a wheelbarrow filled with bricks. The wheelbarrow wobbled.

  “Whoa! Careful there, lass!” warned the workman. He had a soft Scottish burr that went with his red hair. His bright blue eyes twinkled as he grinned with cheeky familiarity. “You are too bonnie a lass ter take a tumble. Although I suppose that would allow me ter play the knight and sweep you up in me arms.”

  A true gentlewoman of the time would have been offended by the man’s overfamiliarity. They’d probably have delivered a stinging set-down. Kendra, who’d endured some colorful catcalls walking past a few construction sites in her own era, ignored him. Instead, she nodded at the work being done on the Yarboroughs’ residence.

  “When do you think the construction will be finished?” she asked.

  The man looked surprised that she’d spoken to him. “Can’t rightly say. Couple of months, maybe.”

  “Wonderful,” Kendra muttered as another round of hammering pierced the air. “Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you around.”

  She walked up the path toward the Duke’s residence, but a tingle between her shoulder blades made her look back. The Scotsman was staring after her with a strange expression on his face. Kendra’s lips quirked. Undoubtedly he had expected to shock her with his forwardness, but she’d been the one to surprise him.

  Feeling oddly satisfied by the encounter, she hurried the rest of the way up the path, then climbed the steps and slipped through the door. Inside the entrance hall, the noise from next door was reduced to a muffled pounding.

  “Has His Grace returned from the Royal Society?” she asked Harding, the Duke’s solemn-faced butler, when he materialized out of one of the doorways.

  “His Grace and Lady Atwood are having tea in the morning room.”

  A very good reason to avoid the morning room, she decided. “I need to send a message to Mr. Kelly.”

  Harding’s expression remained perfectly blank. “Is there something
amiss?”

  “Not really. I just need his assistance on a matter that has come up. I’ll write a note. Can you have someone deliver it to Bow Street?”

  “Certainly. I shall inform His Grace.”

  She scowled at the butler. “I wasn’t planning on hiding it from the Duke, you know.”

  “Of course not, miss.”

  She started for the grand staircase, aware that Harding was watching her. “I’ll be in the study.”

  “Ring the bell when you need your message delivered.”

  She jogged up the sweeping staircase and down the hall to the Duke’s study. Daylight poured through the three glazed windows. Though the clanging and banging from the construction zone penetrated the walls, as an urbanite, she was used to city noises. At least she didn’t have to listen to the abrasive thud of jackhammers or high-pitched whine of a power saw.

  She dropped her reticule on one of the damask chairs with legs carved into a griffin’s talons, dispensed with her gloves, bonnet, and pelisse, and sat down at the Duke’s desk. She found foolscap in the center drawer and went through the lengthy process of scribbling a note to Sam with quill pen and ink, sanding the paper to dry the ink faster, then folding the sheet into a small square. The Duke walked in while she was pressing a wax wafer to seal the missive.

  The Duke was a man of average height with blond hair fading to gray and thinning on top. His face was longish, with a bold nose and pale grayish blue eyes that often sparkled with intelligence and curiosity—both of which she recognized in their depths now.

  “Is that the note for Mr. Kelly?” he asked, glancing at the now neatly folded piece of foolscap in her hand. He pivoted over to the bellpull, yanking the braided cord.

  The butler must have gone straight to the morning room. “Harding told you,” she said.

  “He said that you required assistance from Mr. Kelly, but not why.”

  She grinned. “I’ve got a case. Missing person.”

  “Who is missing? How did this come about? I thought you and Rebecca went to the Royal Menagerie this morning.”

  “We did.” She stood up and told him about Mrs. Gavenston and the disappearance of her business manager. “He hasn’t been gone for very long. He’s an adult—twenty-nine. I think Mrs. Gavenston is feeling guilty and that, in turn, is making her anxious.”

  “Why would she feel guilty?”

  Kendra leaned a hip against the desk. “I’m not really sure. She admitted that they had argued on Saturday. She said it was about business.”

  He eyed her with interest. “But you don’t believe her?”

  “I believe her when she said that they argued. But whether it’s about business…” She shrugged. “I feel like she’s hiding something.”

  She straightened when there was a soft knock at the door. The footman entered and she crossed the room to hand him the note. “Make sure this gets to Mr. Sam Kelly,” she directed.

  The Duke settled into the chair behind his desk. “Still, I can understand Mrs. Gavenston’s concern,” he said. “If he was supposed to be at work on Monday but failed to show up… well, that is not the usual, especially in this time when too many Englishmen are finding work scarce and fighting for survival. Who would be so blasé about their position of employment?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that. But Mr. Pascoe is an educated man. He worked at a bank before Mrs. Gavenston hired him to be the brewery’s business manager. I would think he would find other employment if he left.”

  “How will you go about trying to locate him?” the Duke asked.

  “The usual way. Talk to his family and friends. Neighbors. Co-workers.”

  “I thought you said that Mrs. Gavenston had already spoken to Mr. Pascoe’s family.”

  “She did, and they told her that they didn’t know where he was. But that’s only one question, and the least significant one. Most parents probably don’t know where their grown children are after they’ve moved away from home.” She paused. “Assuming they even told Mrs. Gavenston the truth.”

  The Duke opened a drawer, retrieving his clay pipe and tobacco bag. “Why would they lie?” he asked.

  She watched him open the hemp bag and carefully tip the dried tobacco leaves into the bowl. “To cover for their son, who doesn’t want to speak to his employer after an argument, maybe,” she said. “I’ll know more after I talk to them.”

  “And if they genuinely do not know where their son is?”

  “Then I need them to tell me who their son is.” She sat on the arm of one of the chairs facing the desk. “What he might be capable of.”

  The Duke glanced up from the process of tamping down the dried leaves into the pipe’s bowl. “What do you mean?”

  “When an adult goes missing, their state of mind is important. Were they upset? Depressed? Anxious? Afraid? There are a lot of reasons why an adult male—or female, for that matter—might want to disappear from their everyday life. It doesn’t have to mean something sinister happened.”

  “He could have had an accident.”

  Kendra nodded. “That’s definitely a possibility.” She glanced at the clock, feeling the press of time. “Mrs. Gavenston said Cookham and Maidenhead aren’t far, faster by water.”

  “By wherry, yes. I shall accompany you.”

  “That’s not necessary. I don’t want to interfere with your schedule at the Royal Society. I know that’s why we came to London.”

  The Duke smiled. “The Royal Society will be there tomorrow. Once Mr. Kelly arrives—” He broke off when Harding came into the room.

  “Forgive the interruption, Your Grace, but a young lady is at the door, demanding to speak to you.” The butler frowned in disapproval. “She has no calling card. However, she is quite insistent that she see you, sir. She says that it is a matter of great importance. Shall I tell her that you are not at home?”

  The Duke raised an eyebrow in Kendra’s direction, his eyes brightening with amusement. “Well, my dear, it would seem to be a day of unexpected encounters.” He turned back to the butler. “What is the young lady’s name?”

  “She would not say,” Harding sniffed, then hesitated. “She does not appear low-born, but she is alone, sir. Quite unusual, if I do say so.”

  “Hmm. How odd.” The Duke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, send her up, Harding. I shall deal with her.”

  “But, Your Grace…” The butler looked horrified at the suggestion. “I can put her in one of the lesser drawing rooms, sir.”

  “That will not be necessary.” He glanced at Kendra and smiled. “Miss Donovan shall act as my chaperone.”

  Kendra laughed and wandered to the window. The sky remained a clear azure, which boded well for travel, although the lack of breeze might not be a good thing if they planned to sail down the Thames. She was pondering that when Harding returned with their unexpected guest.

  Kendra had wondered why Harding hadn’t chased the woman off without bringing her to the Duke’s attention, but now she thought she understood. The woman had the kind of fragile beauty that would always have men running to help her if she showed the tiniest bit of distress. Beneath the plain, rose-colored bonnet, her hair was raven black, and pulled back in a severe bun that did nothing to detract from the creamy cameo of her face. Her dark brown eyes were wide and thickly lashed under winged brows, her nose delicate above a mouth that could be described as lush, her cheekbones high, colored with the faintest blush—natural, not from a jar. Her gaze swept the room, touching briefly on Kendra before fixing on the Duke. Some emotion—Apprehension? Excitement?—flared in the dark depths of the stranger’s eyes as the Duke pushed himself to his feet, his expression politely quizzical.

  Kendra took stock of the rest of the woman. Gray wool cloak trimmed with fur at the collar. Well-made, Kendra thought, but showing signs of age. Underneath, her gown was a lavender muslin, pale from being laundered countless times. The woman’s hands were small, encased in kid gloves, and clenched tightly on the gray velvet ret
icule that she held.

  The Duke said politely, “How do you do?”

  “Your Grace,” the woman began, then bit her lip, looking uncertain. “Forgive me, but I do not know where to begin.”

  She had a lovely voice, low and husky. Unconsciously seductive, with a faint accent. Spanish, Kendra thought.

  The Duke offered her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you begin by telling us your name?” he suggested gently.

  The woman stared at him, transfixed for a long moment. Then she drew in a trembling breath, deep enough to raise her small breasts. Slowly, she exhaled.

  “My name…” She hesitated, then tried again. “The name that I was raised with was Carlotta. Carlotta Garcia Desoto. Yet that is not the name I was given at birth.”

  She looked at the Duke expectantly. For some reason, Kendra felt a chill. She found herself holding her breath, a strange trepidation washing through her as she waited to hear what the woman would say.

  “My name… I am…” Carlotta let out a hiss. One hand let go of the reticule to press against her abdomen as though she were trying to push the words out. Her large, dark eyes remained locked on the Duke.

  “I am… I am Charlotte, Your Grace. Your daughter.”

  4

  Aldridge stared at the woman, shock rippling across his skin like the electrical currents in a Leyden jar. Maybe he hadn’t heard her correctly. Maybe…

  His gaze flicked to the bookshelf that held two miniature portraits. The beloved faces of his wife and daughter stared back at him, immortalized in oil. His chest tightened with white-hot pain that slowly ebbed, and then was replaced by rage. He had to clench his jaw to control his fury. He trembled with the urge to leap across the room to where the brazen creature stood and shake her senseless for her cruelty.