“Mr. Pascoe’s attempt to become a poet, I believe,” she replied, and shrugged. “Nothing that would help us find him.”
And because it felt a little invasive, Kendra slid the sheets back and closed the drawer.
“The lad cleans up after himself, right enough,” Sam said, looking around the drawing room. “Everything was tucked away in the kitchen as well.”
“Could ’ave a maid-of-all-work ter come in and tidy up for ’im,” Molly put in, running a finger along the sideboard. She wrinkled her freckled nose critically as she inspected her smudged finger. “Needs more polishin’. Mrs. Danbury would ’ave ’er ’ead ter leave it like this.”
“If he has a maid, maybe she only comes once a week,” Kendra speculated, and looked at the Bow Street Runner. “What about food? Any perishables?”
“Nay. Tea kettle full of water on the stove, but that’s all.”
“That only means he doesn’t cook much. Mrs. Gavenston said that he often ate in the taverns with his friend, Mr. Elwes.” Kendra crossed the room to the door. “All right. Let’s check the bedrooms upstairs.”
There were only two bedchambers. The first door Kendra opened revealed a room that was furnished but clearly unoccupied, the bed stripped of its linens. More light dust covered the furniture.
“Pascoe definitely has a maid,” Kendra said before closing the door. The wooden floor creaked beneath their feet as they walked across the hallway to the chamber that had been claimed by Pascoe.
“How’d you reckon?” asked Sam.
“Mrs. Gavenston said that she’s employed Pascoe for over a year. There would be a lot more dust in the spare bedroom if someone didn’t occasionally come in and wipe down the furniture. And I don’t see a man dusting an unoccupied room, do you?”
Sam cocked his head, gold eyes gleaming. “Nay, but I can’t say that I see a man dusting an occupied chamber either.”
Kendra’s lips quirked. “In all fairness, I don’t see a woman doing it either. Not unless you were paid to do it. What’s the point?”
Unless you were anal about cleanliness, which would mean no dust at all. She made a mental note to find and interview the maid.
Kendra opened the other door and surveyed Pascoe’s bedchamber. The bed had been made, but not particularly well. The probability was high that Pascoe had done it himself; a maid would have done a better job. The ceiling was slanted, dormer windows letting in the light. In the corner was a wooden washstand with a mirror, a towel, toiletries for shaving, toothbrush and powder, and a comb.
She joined Sam, who was opening the doors of a large wardrobe. Inside were several jackets, shirts, and pantaloons on hooks. Two pairs of shoes were tucked at the wardrobe’s bottom. Kendra opened the drawer to reveal a neatly folded nightshirt and cravats.
“Well, it looks like Pascoe is planning on coming back.” Kendra closed the drawer and looked around the bedchamber again. “You don’t leave without taking your things.”
Molly looked at her wide-eyed. “Do ye think something ’appened ter the gent, then?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe he’s stranded somewhere. Or needed a couple of days away.” Although he would have taken his toiletries if he planned an overnighter, she thought. “There is the possibility that he had an accident.”
Kendra moved to the windows, which overlooked a tiny patch of land separated from the neighbor’s backyard by a low gray stone wall. A gnarled oak tree provided shade. Birds hopped on the branches, trilling to each other.
She turned abruptly and hurried out of the bedchamber. She retraced her footsteps to the ground level. Frowning, she went to each window.
“What are you doin’, lass?” Sam asked, puzzled, as he watched her push aside the gauzy curtains in the kitchen to stare out at the gnarled oak tree.
She let the curtains drop, turning to look at the Bow Street Runner. “We need to find Pascoe’s other place.”
Molly stared at her. “W’ot other place, miss?”
“The one where he’s been writing. The one where he told his mother that he can look out the window and see rolling green hills and sheep.”
The maid frowned. “But there ain’t any ’ills and sheep ’ere.”
“Exactly.”
8
Kendra walked outside, and stopped abruptly, her gaze immediately going to the handsome man sitting astride a beautiful Arabian stallion.
“Miss Donovan.”
Alec Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe, swept the hat off his head in greeting. The breeze ruffled the dark hair framing a face that could easily have graced one of the sexy designer ads that dominated Times Square in the 21st century. Straight nose, chiseled cheekbones, square jaw with the shallow dent in the chin. The sensual mouth was now curved in a rakish smile. His eyes—at a distance, the same shade as his forest green riding habit, although close up she knew there were gold flecks radiating around the pupil—met hers. That smile and the accompanying gleam in his eyes still had the power to steal her breath and start a delicious flutter in her stomach.
“Milord,” Sam hailed when he stepped outside. “I reckon your appearance here ain’t a coincidence.”
“His Grace informed me of your quest to find a young man who has disappeared.” He raised an eyebrow at Kendra. “Always a surprise, Miss Donovan.”
“How did you find us?” she asked.
“Duke gave me Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe’s address in Maidenhead. I spoke with Mrs. Pascoe, who sent me here.” He looked beyond them at the cottage. “I assume you did not find Mr. Pascoe?”
“Not yet.”
“How do you plan on finding him?”
Kendra smiled. “Right now, we need to start knocking on doors. You can help.”
Alec swung down from his horse, tying up the reins to a nearby hitching post. He gave her a slight bow. “I am your servant, Miss Donovan.”
They divided up the neighboring houses, with Sam and Alec taking the side of the street that Pascoe’s house was on, and Kendra, followed by Molly, taking the other. No one answered the door to the pretty stone cottage directly across from Pascoe’s residence. She moved on to the next house on the right, and a middle-aged woman wearing a black lace cap and black bombazine gown came to the door. Obviously still in the deep stages of mourning, but probably at the end of that period, since no black wreath or ribbons decorated the door.
“Hi… ah, good day.” Kendra offered a friendly smile. “My name is Kendra Donovan. I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re looking for Mr. Pascoe. He lives across the street. Do you know him, Mrs.—?”
The widow’s eyebrows rose. It probably wasn’t every day an American knocked on her door looking for her neighbor. The rules governing introductions in this era were complicated; Kendra knew she was breaking them. As she watched, the other woman’s gaze slid past her to rest briefly on Molly. She seemed reassured by the maid’s presence, but kept her hand on the door, ready to slam it shut if Kendra made the wrong move.
“Mrs. Bunting,” the older woman finally answered, her expression still suspicious. “I am only slightly acquainted with Mr. Pascoe. He works for Barrett Brewery. I expect you’ll be able to find him there.”
“He hasn’t been to work in a few days. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Oh, dear.” Concern—or maybe it was just the desire to gossip—made Mrs. Bunting open the door wider, revealing a small foyer that was painted mint-green and smelled of lemons. “Has something happened to him?”
“We’re just trying to locate him. It would help if you could tell us the last time you saw him.”
Mrs. Bunting frowned. “Walking home from the brewery, I should imagine. Last week… Wednesday? Or possibly Thursday. I’m not certain. The days speed by so quickly. ’Tis difficult to remember specifics.”
“You didn’t see him on Saturday?”
“I wasn’t at home. My first grandchild was born, and I was there helping with her birth until Monday afternoon.”
“Did you hear if Mr. Pascoe
mentioned leaving town for a few days? Maybe he said something to you in passing, or one of your neighbors.”
“No. And I’d think he would have told Mrs. Gavenston if he planned to do such a thing.”
“What about mentioning another place where he liked to write?”
“I assume you are referring to his poetry?”
If this had been the 21st century, Mrs. Bunting would have made quotation marks with her fingers, Kendra thought. Clearly the widow didn’t think much about his extracurricular activity.
“He told you that he wanted to be a poet? I thought you were barely acquainted.”
“That’s true, but I encountered him at the circulating library. He had a volume of poems by Robert Burns. When I mentioned his interest in poetry, he confessed that it had always been a passion of his. You can imagine my surprise when he admitted to dabbling in verse himself.” She wrinkled her nose. “One would think Mr. Pascoe would be too old to dream of such things.”
Kendra wasn’t sure at what age a person was supposed to give up on their dreams but shifted to a more relevant question. “Can you tell me where I might find sheep around here within walking distance?”
Mrs. Bunting stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Sheep?”
“Sheep and rolling green hills.”
“Well, if you’re interested in sheep, Miss Donovan, you ought to find them on the commons or Squire Prebble’s lands, as he’s got a fair amount of the beasts. However, have care. You don’t want to be downwind from them.”
“And those would be where?”
“The squire’s land is to the west. The commons is northwest.”
“Rolling green hills?”
She gave Kendra a quizzical look. “Both have hills.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bunting.”
They left the widow and retraced their footsteps to the street, where Sam and Alec were waiting. Sam looked at Kendra and said, “I spoke ter a lady who says she saw Mr. Pascoe take off down the street Saturday afternoon. She said he was carrying a satchel.”
Kendra frowned. “A satchel? Then he did leave town.”
“Nay, I don’t think so. Mrs. Booth said that was his habit ter go off early in the mornin’ with a satchel slung over his shoulder, though normally on Sunday mornings.”
“What time exactly? Did she say?” asked Kendra.
“Mrs. Booth thought it was near three, but couldn’t be certain of the exact time, as she wasn’t near a clock.”
“That is the same information I was given,” Alec said with a nod. “Except Mr. Gayle said that Mr. Pascoe appeared blue-deviled about something. He was working on his rosebushes when he saw Mr. Pascoe leaving. Called out a greeting, but Mr. Pascoe either ignored him or didn’t hear.”
“Aye. Mrs. Booth thought he looked upset as well.”
Kendra pursed her lips. “Mrs. Gavenston said they had a disagreement about her decision to bring in machines.”
Alec studied Kendra’s face. “You don’t believe her?”
“I don’t know. Something seems off.” She shifted her gaze to the west, imagining rolling green hills dotted with sheep. “Mrs. Bunting said that we can find sheep on the commons or Squire Prebble’s land. I think we can eliminate the commons. It sounds like Pascoe was looking for the privacy and inspiration of a bucolic setting. He wouldn’t get the former on the commons.”
Sam nodded. “Aye. You’d have every farmer bringing their cattle in ter feed.”
“We’re also looking for an abandoned structure of some kind—maybe it’s just a shack. Something that Pascoe felt comfortable taking over as a writer’s retreat. I don’t know how much Mrs. Gavenston was paying him, but I doubt it was so much that he could afford two residences.”
“I thought Barrett Brewery owned this one,” Sam said.
“Good point. I don’t know if he pays rent to Mrs. Gavenston or not. But I still don’t see him renting another residence.”
The Bow Street Runner regarded Kendra with a puzzled frown. “Doesn’t make sense. He’s got a perfectly fine cottage here. Why’d he need another one?”
“Maybe he just wanted space, a different environment to get the creative juices flowing,” Kendra said with a shrug. “Let’s see how much ground we can cover in the next couple of hours.”
* * *
Squire Prebble’s estate was nearly nine hundred acres, a fact that Sam learned when he stopped by the local stables to get directions. That translated into roughly 1.4 square miles. The size, Kendra knew, of New York’s Central Park. She also knew that it was going to be a long walk, especially for someone wearing thin-soled shoes and a dress.
They started at the point nearest to Pascoe’s cottage in the village and farthest from where the squire’s manor was located. Within walking distance from his house, and yet still isolated. They hobbled the horses near the low stone wall that marked the boundary to the squire’s land, then Sam peeled off to the left while Alec, Kendra, and Molly headed in the opposite direction.
Kendra would have pointed out to Alec that his decision to walk beside her was not the most efficient use of their time, but this was her first opportunity to talk to him privately. Molly was far enough behind to give them privacy and yet still perform her chaperone duties by keeping them in her line of sight. People in the 21st century chafed about losing their privacy by having cameras everywhere. They should try being a single, upper-class woman in the 19th century with a permanent shadow.
They were both quiet as they set off across Squire Prebble’s land. Kendra’s gaze roved over the hills and hallows stretched before them. Above, the sky reminded her of skim milk, white with a bluish tinge. Wildflowers dotted the lush greenery. Woods nestled in valleys. No sheep that she could see, but the grass was short enough to make her think the animals had been around within the last couple of weeks.
She broke the silence, glancing at Alec out of the corner of her eye. “Have you talked to the Duke about his new guest?”
“Yes.” His mouth tightened. “He was waiting for the woman to return.”
Kendra watched a series of emotions flit across his handsome face. Anger, she recognized. And worry.
He looked at her. “You met with the woman. What do you think?”
“I think she’s a clever con artist,” she said bluntly. “But I have nothing to base that on.”
She paused as she maneuvered over a rocky patch, accepting Alec’s hand when he reached out to steady her.
It was becoming natural to accept his assistance. She wondered if that should concern her. She’d fought so hard to become self-reliant in her own era. When her parents had discarded her, she’d felt helpless. She never wanted to feel that helpless again. So it was ironic that she’d been forced to accept help in one form or another since she’d arrived in this timeline. She’d borrowed a little money from the Duke to invest in the Exchange and made enough to pay him back and create a small savings account for herself. But the clothes on her back were still purchased at the Duke’s largesse. She lived in luxury because of the Duke, not her own efforts. And she knew that she was allowed to question members of the Ton because of her connection to the Duke of Aldridge. Even Sam, who was a servant of the Crown, didn’t have that kind of access.
Aware that Alec was looking at her, Kendra forced her thoughts back to Carlotta.
“Physically, she could be his daughter,” she said. “Black hair, dark brown eyes. She’s very pretty. Charlotte was only six when she was lost at sea.”
Kendra had worked a few times with artists specializing in age-progression and remembered what they had told her.
“Children change the most at seven and eight years old. They lose their baby teeth, which changes the shape of the mouth and jaw. Facial bones also grow and change the most during those ages.”
“Duke says the resemblance is uncanny.”
“The Duke may be seeing what he wants to see. But based on the paintings of Charlotte and Arabella, there is a resemblance,” Kendra admitted relu
ctantly. “The resemblance is probably more striking with Arabella, but that makes sense. Charlotte took after her mother. I’ve hired Mr. Kelly to send men to Spain to check out Carlotta’s story.”
Alec nodded. “I shall take care of the expenses.”
Kendra smiled slightly. “The Duke also offered. I’m less worried about the expense than I am about the investigation. The history she gave is conveniently scarce in specifics. Everyone who could corroborate her account is either dead or lost. I think she’s relying on the war as cover.”
Alec frowned. “No matter what is discovered, it could take a long time.”
Kendra sighed in frustration. “I know. And it pisses me off, because in that time, she’s going to be working on the Duke.”
“Working on?”
“Trying to convince him that she’s his daughter. She didn’t even have to try to get him to invite her to stay with him. He offered immediately. I think that surprised her.”
“You can’t expect him to leave her at an inn?”
“No, probably not. But now she’s under his roof. I don’t like it.”
For several minutes, they trudged along in silence except for the breeze whispering through the blades of grass, the occasional trill and tweet of birds in the trees. Behind them, Molly paused every now and then to pick a wildflower.
“Mr. Kelly is also going to send someone to Aldridge Village,” Kendra told Alec. “Carlotta knew things that would require research. And that kind of research would mean talking to villagers and the staff at the castle. That could be her downfall.”
At least she hoped so.
Alec looked over at Kendra as they began to climb a hill. “What if her claim is true?”
Kendra stumbled. Alec’s hand flashed out, caught her elbow.
“You can’t believe that!”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he admitted and shook his head. “It is incredible to think Charlotte may have survived her ordeal, that she may be alive. And yet people do survive shipwrecks, you know.”
“Twenty years later?”
He gave a shrug. “She was a child and Spain was at war.”
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