Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “What’s that for?” he asked, as she folded the sheets and tucked them into her reticule.

  “A visual reminder of what we’re dealing with,” she said.

  Constable Leech edged toward the door. “Ah, well, I don’t think I need to be here for the postmortem.”

  “If you wait, I’ll walk out with you,” Kendra said.

  Munroe raised his dark brows in surprise. “You’re leaving, Miss Donovan?”

  Normally, she would have stayed. But she thought about Carlotta having already moved into the Duke’s mansion. She wanted to be on hand for dinner. Besides, an idea had come to her that might aid Sam’s men with their investigation in Spain.

  But she only said, “I’ve got a few things to do; I’ll touch base with you tomorrow.”

  “I shall be testifying at the inquest along with Mr. Hobbs,” he told her.

  “When is the inquest?” Kendra asked.

  Constable Leech said, “I’ve sent word to the parish coroner to find out. Considering Mr. Pascoe ain’t exactly smellin’ like a posy, it’ll probably be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll send word when I hear.”

  As soon as Kendra, Alec, Sam, and Constable Leech stepped into the hall, Mrs. Hobbs materialized with their outwear. “Such a dreadful thing to happen to Mr. Pascoe,” she murmured, watching them as they put on their coats and hats.

  “How well did you know him?” Kendra asked, tying the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin.

  Mrs. Hobbs shook her head. “Not well at all. We danced at a few assemblies and at White Pond Manor’s annual ball. I never heard that he was involved in anything scandalous. I cannot believe that someone from Cookham did this vile thing.”

  No one wanted to believe that, but everyone had the capacity to kill. In self-defense. To protect someone else. To protect one’s country. In cold blood. In a hot flash of temper.

  Kendra didn’t try to reassure the woman. Instead, she said, “If you hear of anything, let me know.”

  Outside, the shadows had grown longer, and the temperature chilly enough to prompt Kendra to draw her fur-lined collar closer. She looked at Constable Leech. “Did you find out anything in the village?”

  “Nay. Been querying the tradesmen along High Street, but everyone who met the man said the same thing I told you. He was a pleasant fellow. The worst I heard about him was he could be frugal with his coin. But I’ll keep askin’.”

  Sam spoke up. “I’ll pay a visit ter a couple of the taverns in the area before I return ter London Town. I’ve found that folks talk more freely in pubs, with a few pints in them.”

  Kendra grinned. “Excellent idea, Mr. Kelly. I’ve been told that Mrs. Doyle at the Green Knight would be a good person to talk to.”

  “Aye, she would be,” the constable said, and touched his hat before hurrying off to his horse tied near the stables.

  “I’ll take the gig and return it ter the stables in Maidenhead,” offered Sam.

  Kendra looked at him. “When are your men leaving for Spain?”

  “They’ve booked passage on a galleon ship tomorrow at noon.”

  “Good. I’m hoping Rebecca will be available for dinner tonight so she can meet Carlotta. I want her to do a couple of sketches for your men to take with them and show around.”

  Sam smiled. “Lady Rebecca is a clever artist. Her sketches will help considerably.”

  “You can pick them up tomorrow morning and tell me what you learned from Mrs. Doyle.”

  “Aye, lass. Milord. Good evening.” Sam gave them a little salute and climbed up onto the gig.

  Benjamin was already folding down the steps to the carriage, and he opened the door when they approached. Molly looked at them when they ducked inside.

  “Are we off ter London, then?” she asked hopefully.

  “Yes. You’ll be coming to dinner, my lord?” Kendra asked, her gaze meeting Alec’s as he settled into the seat across from her. His handsome face hardened, at odds with the smile that curved his mouth. Unless you noticed how predatory that smile actually was, Kendra thought.

  “Oh, I shall come,” he said softly. “I am eager to meet my little cousin again.”

  14

  While Kendra dashed off a note to Rebecca explaining why she was inviting her to dinner and letting her know that Alec would pick her up if she was so inclined, Molly went about the task of having servants haul up buckets of steaming water for the copper bathtub in the dressing room. Once they were alone, Kendra stripped as Molly sprinkled bath salts into the water. The scent of honeysuckle floated up in the steam.

  “We’ll need ter wash yer ’air as well, miss,” the maid said, picking up a bowl and vigorously whisking.

  Kendra let out a hiss as she eased herself into the hot water. After the initial shock, the hot water felt wonderful against her skin. She sank down, leaning her head against the lip of the tub, eyeing the bowl. She knew what was in it—egg whites. Unless she wanted to wash her hair with the lump of rose-scented soap made out of lye, egg whites were the preferred method of washing one’s hair in this era. The first time she’d asked for shampoo, Molly had tried to massage her head with scented oil. It was only then that she’d learned that shampoo or, rather, champo, was the practice of oil massages that British traders had brought back with them from India and had nothing to do with washing one’s hair. She was learning something new every day.

  “Oi ’eard that Lady Atwood put the foreign lady in the Chinese bedchamber,” Molly said, kneeling down to rub the frothy mixture into Kendra scalp.

  Kendra closed her eyes. “Anything else you heard?”

  “The ’ouse’old is in a right dither about whether she’s ’Is Grace’s daughter come back from the dead.”

  “I can imagine. How many of the household were here when Charlotte was alive?”

  “Oh, Mr. ’Arding, for certain. But ’e was a first footmen back then. Or maybe ’e was the under butler. And Cook. But Oi don’t think she was the cook then either. Gor, it’s been some twenty years, ain’t it?” Molly pushed herself to her feet. “Oi’ll go on down ter the kitchens ter make the rinse.”

  The rinse was equal parts rum and rose water. Kendra really only needed two cucumber slices for her eyes and a pumpkin mask slathered on her face to feel like she was in a high-priced spa in the 21st century.

  “Oi’ll take yer clothes for the laundry.”

  “I would suggest burning them. I can smell them from here. What on earth were you doing? Rolling about in a pigsty?”

  Kendra gave a startled jolt, opening her eyes. The Duke’s formidable sister, Lady Atwood, was standing in the doorway of the dressing room. Oh, shit. Kendra briefly entertained the idea of submerging herself underwater, but the countess would just wait her out.

  Or take the opportunity to hold her head under the water.

  Lady Atwood was not one of her admirers, though she’d begun to thaw a bit after their last visit to London, when Kendra—despite being involved in investigating the murder of a prominent citizen—had become a moderate success with Polite Society. Or, rather, because she was investigating the murder, she’d become a success. Human nature was surprisingly—sometimes depressingly—consistent. People loved rubbing shoulders with individuals who thumbed their noses at conventions. Still, people had their limits. Lord Byron had been a darling of society, but only last month word had reached Aldridge Castle that the poet had left the country because the Beau Monde had begun to shun him over his possible bisexuality and rumors of incest with his half-sister.

  It was that fear that Kendra would cross the line—and, by association, bring the Duke down as well—that made Lady Atwood’s face rigid with disapproval. Molly eyed the countess nervously as she scooped up the offending clothes and fled.

  “So, you’ve been at it again, Miss Donovan,” Lady Atwood sniffed, moving into the room. She was already in her evening dress, a Prussian blue silk brocade trimmed with black lace around the neckline and cuffs of her long sleeves. The material shimmered richly in the sof
t light cast by the many candles and oil lamps. She’d hidden her graying blond hair beneath one of the many turbans that she favored. A three-tiered pearl necklace centered with a sapphire the size of a robin’s egg encircled her throat.

  The countess was not the kind of person who believed in dressing down, even for family dinners.

  Kendra hunched her shoulders, trying not to feel stupid sitting there naked, with her hair slicked back with egg whites. “I don’t suppose you could be a little more specific?”

  “Don’t be glib with me, young lady.” Her grayish blue eyes—the exact same shade as her brother’s—sparkled with annoyance. “I have been told that you are involving yourself in yet another murder. A manager of a brewery, of all things.”

  Kendra wondered what offended Lady Atwood’s sensibility more, the fact that she was investigating a murder or that the victim was not a member of society. There was no cachet in being involved with the merchant class.

  The countess gave an imperial wave of her hand as though to dismiss the subject, and her diamond and sapphire rings glittered. “But that is not why I have sought you out.” She looked away for a moment, frowning. “I am here about this other thing.”

  “Carlotta,” Kendra guessed. “Have you met her yet?”

  “Of course. Bertie told me about her claim and introduced me to her when she arrived. She resembles Arabella.”

  “It would be hard for her to pass herself off as His Grace’s daughter if she were blond-haired and blue-eyed.” Kendra felt ridiculous sitting in the rapidly cooling water without doing anything, so she reached for the square linen rag and lump of soap that Molly had placed on the three-legged stool near the tub and began to wash. She still felt self-conscious. “What do you think of her story?”

  Lady Atwood toyed with the large sapphire at her throat. “ ’Tis far-fetched, to say the least. And yet she seems to know information.” She frowned. “I remember Charlotte’s nonsense for tapping three times and believing it was magic. How could she know that?”

  “The same way you know. It was discussed, witnessed by family, friends… servants. I’m having Mr. Kelly send a couple of men to Spain to see if they can verify her story. Oh, and I’ve invited Rebecca to dinner tonight.”

  The countess regarded her coolly. “You take a great deal upon yourself, Miss Donovan.”

  Kendra shrugged, sending ripples through the bathwater. “I’d like Rebecca to meet her.”

  “Rebecca was three years younger than Charlotte. I’m not certain she remembers anything about her.”

  “Still, it might be interesting to see what Carlotta remembers about Rebecca. I was thinking more about Rebecca’s artistic skill, anyway. It would be helpful for Mr. Kelly’s men to have a drawing of Carlotta.”

  Lady Atwood’s eyes brightened, and she nodded. “Clever.” She bit her lip, then said, “I’m worried that Bertie is too eager to believe that this woman is his daughter. My brother can be too easily swayed by a pretty face and a story of misfortune.”

  Kendra saw the pointed look that Lady Atwood leveled at her and stiffened. “I’ve never asked His Grace for anything.”

  The older woman raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. “And yet here you are, in a bedchamber far away from the servant’s quarters. Last August, you arrived at Aldridge Castle claiming to be a lady’s maid. Now you are the Duke of Aldridge’s ward.”

  “Also something I never asked for,” Kendra muttered, but she knew where this was heading. “What do you want me to do about Carlotta? I’m already sending Runners to Spain to see what they can find out about her and to Atwood Village to find out if anyone has been around, asking questions.”

  “You appear to enjoy solving puzzles. Instead of finding out who killed this strange man you know nothing about, mayhap you ought to focus your attention on this brazen creature who is claiming to be my niece.”

  “I can do both,” Kendra retorted, then drew in a steadying breath. Arguing with the countess—especially when she was sitting naked in a bathtub—would get her nowhere. “What do you remember about Charlotte?”

  Lady Atwood was silent for a long moment as she considered the question. “She was a delightful child,” she finally said, “although at the time I was raising my own family at Atwood’s estate in Somerset, so I wasn’t as well acquainted with her as I would have wished. It was something I regretted after…” Pain darkened her eyes. “Charlotte was very much like her mother—quick of wit, beautiful, generous, and endlessly curious. Arabella and my brother suited each other perfectly. The deaths of his wife and child very nearly destroyed Bertie. I will not have this woman hurt him.”

  Kendra said slowly, “Are you so sure that Carlotta is an imposter?”

  Emotions, too quick to identify, flitted across the countess’s face. She let out a troubled sigh. “No,” she finally admitted. “As I said, she has the look of Charlotte. And those mannerisms. What do you think, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra was a little surprised that Lady Atwood would ask her for her opinion, but shook her head. “My gut says no. The story she gave about her childhood will be hard to verify—so hard that it makes me think it’s deliberate. Or at least designed to slow down the investigation.”

  “For what purpose? Never mind.” Lady Atwood shook her head. “I know the purpose. To work her way into this household and my brother’s good graces. If Bertie begins to believe the creature, there will be nothing that he won’t do for her.”

  For reasons that Kendra didn’t quite understand, the idea of the Duke becoming entranced by the woman claiming to be his daughter formed a hot, hard lump in her throat.

  Lady Atwood surveyed her. “This puts us in a very odd position, does it not, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra eyed her uneasily. “What is that?”

  There was nothing friendly in Lady Atwood’s smile. “Why, on the same side, of course. We want the truth, Miss Donovan, no matter what that truth may be. No matter if the person who we’re trying to protect will not thank us for that truth. On some level, my brother wants this woman to be Charlotte.”

  Kendra said nothing; Lady Atwood was right.

  The countess pivoted toward the door, silken skirts flaring. “Stop dawdling, girl, and help your mistress finish her bath,” she snapped at Molly, who had been hovering at the dressing room door, holding an earthenware jug filled with the rum and rosewater rinse. “Dinner will be served at half past eight.”

  Lady Atwood glanced back at Kendra. “And, Miss Donovan, do try to refrain from speaking of your gut. Whatever you were in America, you are now the ward of the Duke of Aldridge—not a fishwife.”

  15

  It took a full two hours to get Kendra’s hair washed, dried, and styled into an elegant bouffant, silk violets complimenting the sumptuous velvet evening gown Molly had chosen. Kendra had been in this era for almost a year, but she still found it surreal to look in the mirror and see a version of herself that resembled a fairytale princess with flowers in her hair.

  She thought of the classic black dress she had tucked away in the bedroom closet at her spacious Arlington apartment. She’d bought it for the occasional formal affair that the Bureau had, and the even less frequent date. That, too, was velvet, but the design was short, sleeveless, and sexy. What a difference a couple of centuries made when it came to fashion.

  What happened to it? she wondered now. And the rest of her things? The FBI would have gone through her apartment with the proverbial fine-tooth comb, then her landlord had likely contacted her next of kin. Neither one of her parents would have wanted anything. The little black dress, along with everything else, had probably been donated to Goodwill. Or her landlord had given the cocktail dress to his wife or kid.

  A chill danced across her flesh. It was a little like being dead, knowing your stuff had been sifted through, sorted, and dispersed to strangers or thrown in the trash. If she returned to her own timeline right now, would she feel like a ghost, drifting through a life that once had been hers?

&nbs
p; Then again, she hadn’t planned on returning home after going rogue. Maybe she would have been too busy being on the run, hiding in the shadows, too busy being someone else to think about her former life. Here, she didn’t have to change her name, but she was still living a life of subterfuge, pretending to be someone she was not.

  Her mind flashed to Carlotta. Someone else who was pretending to be someone she was not. Or is she? Miracles happened. Or, at least, events that were so bizarre and improbable that they looked like miracles. As the Duke had pointed out, her own circumstance could be classified as both miraculous and improbable. What were the odds that the Duke would be connected to two improbable occurrences? Kendra didn’t need to do the calculations in her head to know that they were astronomical.

  Of course, so was the possibility of being sucked into a vortex and transported to another time. But it had happened. If that could happen, who was she to say that a child presumably lost at sea had not been rescued and lived most of her life in another country? Really, which was the most fantastical? If Kendra was being honest with herself, Carlotta’s story made a hell of a lot more sense than her own.

  Kendra stifled a sigh and left the bedchamber. A liveried footman was standing outside the drawing room and opened the door for her. The Duke, Carlotta, and Lady Atwood were sitting in front of a crackling fire, drinking sherry. At her entrance, the Duke rose to his feet, smiling at her.

  “Ah, my dear. You are looking well after your ordeal this afternoon. I heard that your missing young man is no longer missing.” He searched her face. “Do you want a sherry? Or Madeira?”

  “Sherry is fine.” Kendra shifted her gaze to Carlotta. The other woman had swept up her gleaming raven hair into the familiar topknot, leaving thick sausage curls to frame her pale, beautiful face. Kendra wondered who’d styled it. For that matter, she wondered who’d helped her into the heavy cream silk gown she was wearing. Getting dressed was always a chore for women in this timeline. “Have you settled in, Mrs. Garcia Desoto?”