If it was the former, then Mrs. Gavenston had lied to her. She’d downplayed the argument, all but dismissed it. But if Pascoe was still so enraged that he’d taken his quill-pen to the pages, then there was clearly more to it than she was willing to let on.
Kendra jiggled the slate in her hand again as she pondered that. From what they’d pieced together so far about Pascoe, he had been a nice, even-tempered kind of guy. Even if Mrs. Gavenston was telling the truth, that they’d argued over displacing workers with machines, would that really have pushed Pascoe into such a fury that he would walk off his job and more than an hour later begin violently marking up his work?
Times were tough. The loss of a job could mean the workhouse, debtor’s prison, starvation. There was no social safety net to capture those who fell. Maybe Pascoe had caught the spark of revolution, like the Luddites in the North.
It was a stretch, she decided. Which left her with the alternative: Mrs. Gavenston wasn’t being truthful.
People lied. They lied to law enforcement; they lied to themselves. Everyone had secrets that they didn’t want exposed. Hell, she was a freaking poster child for that.
She thought of Carlotta. Another person who had secrets, she was sure.
Focus.
She returned to the board and wrote, Suspects. She hesitated for just a second, then put Mrs. Gavenston’s name in that category. Beneath the brewery owner, she wrote, Albion Miller. Now that was a man everyone seemed to dislike. From what little she’d seen of him at the Tower, he had struck her as a blowhard and a bully. Yet his connection seemed more to Mrs. Gavenston than Pascoe. At least on the surface.
But it was the stuff beneath the surface that made all the difference.
She needed to speak to Captain Sinclair and Mr. Logan—maybe split them up with Sam. She’d take Sinclair and the Bow Street Runner could take the farmer. Those were the only two men with whom Pascoe had argued. So far.
She sighed. Hopefully, Sam would get more information from the town gossip, Mrs. Doyle. Something to point them in a direction. Tomorrow she’d try to talk to Pascoe’s friend, Mr. Elwes. Maybe Pascoe had confided to him what was going on in his life.
Kendra started pacing again, thinking about the crime itself. This was not a random attack. The killer had to know that Pascoe was at the abandoned cottage—or would be at some point on Saturday. Of course, Cookham was a small village. How hard would it be to figure out where Pascoe spent his time?
The door opened. Smiling, Kendra turned, expecting to see the Duke walk through the door. Her face fell when a footman entered instead. She hastily composed her expression as she met the servant’s eyes.
“Pardon, miss,” he apologized. “I was ter see ter the candles and fire. Thought everyone had went ter bed.”
Kendra glanced at the clock, startled to see that it was nearly midnight.
“I’ll come back later,” he said and began to withdraw.
“No, that’s all right. I’m leaving.” She moved to the desk, concentrating on the task of gathering up Jeremy Pascoe’s writings rather than the disappointment that had rushed through her. It was not like she had expected the Duke to check in on her.
Her head was beginning to pound as she left the study and exhaustion made her steps heavy by the time she opened the door to her bedchamber. She had a momentary twinge of guilt when her gaze fell on Molly, sleeping on the striped satin divan near the fireplace, knowing that the maid had fallen asleep waiting to help her undress.
Molly’s eyes popped open the minute Kendra shut the door with a soft click. “Ack, sorry, miss. Oi must’ve dozed off.” She yawned hugely and stretched before standing.
“I’m the one who should be sorry.” Kendra dumped the foolscap on the bed. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”
Molly gave her a strange look. “Ye’re my mistress. ’Tis me duty ter take care of ye.”
“Well, I apologize nevertheless,” Kendra said, presenting her back to the maid, feeling the tug and release of the material as Molly began unbuttoning the gown. “Any more gossip about Carlotta?”
“She’s good at playin’ the pianoforte and singin’.”
“I knew it.” Kendra huffed, aggravated. She caught Molly’s eyes on her as she stepped out of the evening gown. “Is that what they did tonight?”
“Aye. Mr. ’Arding said she entertained ’Is Grace and ’er ladyship with some foreign songs. ’E said ’e didn’t know w’ot she was singing, but she sang it very well.” Molly went to the wardrobe and hung up the gown, returning with a filmy ivory nightdress. “ ’Er ladyship is gonna bring ’er ter ’er dressmaker for a new wardrobe tomorrow,” she added, waiting as Kendra stripped off her stockings, shift, stays, and petticoat. “Miss Beckett says ’er clothes are fine quality, but outdated.”
“Hmm. How does the wife of a carpenter afford such nice clothes?” Kendra wondered, slipping on the nightdress. She carefully took off her arrowhead pendant and placed it on top of the vanity dresser before sitting down in front of the mirror.
Molly shrugged, coming up behind her to take the flowers and pins out of her hair, putting them in a small jeweled box. “Second’and shops.”
“You still have to have money to buy the clothes,” Kendra murmured. “She said that she worked as a seamstress for a time. I suppose she could have made them herself.”
“Aye, that’s possible. Even could ’ave gotten better quality material in ’er shop. Spain ’as nobility like us. Least-wise, Oi think they do. They weren’t loppin’ off their betters ’eads like the Froggies were.” She picked up a silver-backed hairbrush and began brushing Kendra’s hair. “Polite Society is gonna want fine fabrics.”
“Here, let me do that.” Kendra held up a hand for the brush. “It’s late. Go to bed.”
“It ain’t no trouble.”
Kendra smiled. “It’s no trouble for me to brush my own hair either. Goodnight, Molly,” she said firmly and waited for the maid to hand over the brush. Before leaving, Molly added another log to the fire.
Kendra was on the fourth brushstroke when the door opened again. Her heart accelerated when Alec slipped into the shadowy bedchamber and a strange sort of giddiness assailed her as their eyes met in the mirror.
“You took long enough,” he murmured huskily, shedding his greatcoat, hat, and gloves.
“I didn’t realize you were waiting for me.” She turned, gazing at him as he sat on the bed and tugged off his boots. “What if someone caught you skulking in the halls?”
His white teeth glimmered in a half smile. “First of all, I am a lord, and lords don’t skulk. Second, I spent many months on the continent during the war operating as an intelligence officer. I was never caught.”
She rose, going to him. “I’ll bet you didn’t have to hide from someone like Mrs. Danbury or Mr. Harding.”
“I confess my uncle’s servants offer more of a challenge than Napoleon’s army. Still, I spent a great deal of my childhood in this house.” He shrugged out of his jacket. “I know where the hiding places are. Besides…” He grasped her waist, smiling at her. “Some things are worth the risk.” He shifted his position, turning his head when he heard the pages of foolscap crackle on the bed. He lifted a brow. “What’s this?”
“A little late-night reading—until I found something better to do.”
She grinned at him, allowing herself the indulgence of threading her fingers through his silky dark hair. Alec swept his hand across the bedspread, sending the papers flying and fluttering to the floor. Kendra laughed as he took hold of her, rolling her beneath him in a fluid movement and nuzzling a particularly sensitive spot on her neck.
“I thought you said that I needed rest,” she murmured breathlessly.
Alec lifted his head to gaze down at her. “Shall I go?”
She grabbed his arms when he began pushing himself off her. “Hell, no. Sleep is overrated.”
17
Of course, he was gone in the morning. Kendra pushed aside the twinge
of regret and slipped out of bed to retrieve her shift and stays. She donned the undergarments and picked up the pages of foolscap that were scattered on the floor. Putting them on the small, elegant writing desk in the corner of the room, she began stretching. She was halfway through her yoga routine when Molly came into the bedchamber, carrying a folded note.
“This came for ye,” the maid said.
Surprised, Kendra straightened out of warrior pose and snatched the note. She scanned the contents. “I need to get dressed.”
“ ’Oo’s it from?”
“Phineas Muldoon.”
“Ain’t ’e the scribbler from the Mornin’ Chronicle?”
“Yes.” And because it was impossible to get dressed in less than five minutes, Kendra crossed the room to the desk. She wrote a quick reply and gave the note to Molly. “Have a footman take this to Mr. Muldoon across the street in the park.”
“ ’E’s in the park?”
“Yes, but probably not for long. So, hurry.” Kendra watched Molly dash out of the room, and nearly shook her head. This is how people sent messages before texting, she thought wryly. Would she ever get used to it?
She tugged on her stockings, anchoring them with garters, and was pulling a green-sprigged walking dress over her head when Molly jogged back into the room. Efficient as always, Molly had dashed up to her room in the servant’s quarters to retrieve her wool coat.
“ ’Ere, let me button ye up.” Molly dropped the coat on the bed before she scooted behind Kendra, tugging the gown into place so she could button it. “W’ot does Mr. Muldoon want with ye, miss?”
“I’m not sure. He said that he knows about the investigation and wants to meet. Where are my shoes?”
Molly pulled open a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe to reveal a neat row of them. She retrieved a pair of low-heeled leather shoes. “Oi ’ave ter still do up yer ’air, miss.”
There was no point in arguing. Her maid could be surprisingly obstinate about such things. With a sigh, Kendra plopped down to let Molly brush and twist her hair into a low chignon. As soon as she stepped back to survey her handiwork, Kendra thrust herself to her feet, moving to the wardrobe to grab a dark gray pelisse trimmed with mink and a simple bonnet—really, what was the point of styling your hair if you were just going to cover it up again?—before heading downstairs. Molly followed. It was still early enough—not quite eight—for there to be only two maids sweeping and polishing in the entrance hall.
Outside, Kendra paused on the front steps, blinking in the strong morning sunshine. The sky was an Easter egg blue, but Kendra could see gray-tinged clouds boiling on the horizon, along with the strange yellowish smog that was part of daily life in London. The clatter of construction from the Yarborough residence had already begun, disturbing the normally peaceful square.
Kendra spotted the Scotsman from yesterday. When he caught her gaze on him, he doffed his knit cap and called out, “A fine day to you, lass!”
Kendra grinned. “Good morning.”
Molly scowled at the man as they walked past him. “Forward cove, ’e is, talkin’ ter ’is betters. Ye really shouldn’t encourage ’im, miss. ’E’s beneath yer touch.”
Kendra raised an eyebrow. “We barely exchanged pleasantries.”
Molly had begun to adopt the snobbery that many upstairs servants had for what they considered the lower classes. The maid colored but lifted her chin. “ ’E’s got a shifty look about ’im.”
Ignoring the maid, Kendra looked across the street to the park. Muldoon lounged with one shoulder propped carelessly against an ancient oak, near the entrance. His face was shadowed both by the outstretched leafy branches and the battered tricorn cap that he’d squashed on his bright red-gold curls. Even at that distance, Kendra thought she could see the gleam of crafty intelligence in his cerulean blue eyes.
She’d first met Phineas—Finn—Muldoon a couple of months earlier, in the course of another murder investigation. She’d found him to be both irreverent and resourceful.
“Miss Donovan.” He swept off his hat as they approached and gave a bow that was mocking in its flamboyance. “Your humble servant.”
Kendra snorted. “Humble is not a description I’d use for you, Mr. Muldoon. You said in your note that you knew I was investigating a murder. How’d you find that out? Listening at doors again?”
He grinned at her. “I have ears. I use them. Which is how I heard that you requested Dr. Munroe’s assistance for an autopsy in Cookham. You could say my curiosity was piqued.”
“Ah. You talked to Barts,” she guessed, naming Munroe’s pale, weak-chinned apprentice.
Muldoon tapped his finger against the side of his nose. “I shall never tell. I came here hoping you’d reply to my note, but I didn’t expect an audience. Shall we walk?”
“I’m not the queen.” Still, she put her hand on his arm when he offered her a courtly elbow.
“Praise the saints, as that poor woman is stuck with the mad king.”
“Walk and talk,” Kendra said.
He laughed, and they began strolling on the pale, pebbly path that cut through and curved around trees and shrubbery inside the park. Molly trailed after them, close enough to chaperone but far enough not to intrude. Kendra scanned the area. She could still see the blue sky above, but the trees transformed the space into a cool, green oasis. Birds trilled from outstretched tree branches. Insects buzzed. The construction noise and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rumble of wagon wheels on cobblestone, all faded into the background.
“We’re walking, but you’re not talking,” Kendra pointed out after several beats of silence.
Muldoon laughed again. “I had forgotten how forthright you are, Miss Donovan. It’s refreshing. No doubt it’s because you’re an American.” He waited, but when Kendra said nothing, he went on, “I heard Mr. Jeremy Pascoe was murdered. Gutted like a fish, they say.”
“Graphic. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
His blue eyes lit up. “So, it’s true then?”
Kendra realized her mistake. “Clever, Mr. Muldoon. I have just confirmed what had only been a rumor to you.”
“I would have found out the information eventually,” he said graciously.
Kendra considered the tall Irishman. The reporter had his uses, one of which was his knack for ferreting out information. And right now, she needed information.
“Why does this murder interest you, Mr. Muldoon? I thought you wrote about government intrigue and corruption. Mr. Pascoe wasn’t part of government.”
“My interests are wide and varied.”
“Mr. Muldoon?”
“Yes?”
She met his eyes. “Stop the bullshit. How’s that for being forthright?”
He looked startled, but chuckled. “Very forthright. Not very ladylike, but—” He held up a hand when she gave him a stony stare. “I confess I know very little at this point, except that Mr. Pascoe was an employee of Barrett Brewery. What do you know about the company or the brewery business?”
“The brewery industry, next to nothing,” she admitted. “Barrett Brewery… I know it’s a woman-owned business, run by Mrs. Gavenston.”
“I can tell that appeals to you. You have radical leanings, Miss Donovan.”
She rolled her eyes. “Having businesses run by women shouldn’t be viewed as radical, Mr. Muldoon. Besides, I’ve been told that brewers in this country have always been women.”
“Brewster—that’s the correct terminology when you speak of a female brewer. That is true. Did you know that in the last century, nearly eighty percent of the brewery licenses in the kingdom were actually held by women?”
“No. And how do you know it?” She regarded him curiously.
“I’m a scribbler, Miss Donovan. I know a great many things.” He gave her a quick smile. “Monks began brewing ale in their monasteries and selling it to passing travelers. However, alewives were the ones tasked with brewing beer locally.”<
br />
“But? I sense a but coming.”
“But a revolution is taking place in this country, Miss Donovan. Our world is changing before our very eyes. Cottage industries and craftsmen are being crushed by soulless factories powered by steam, companies whose thirst for profits are destroying the common folk. Ale is no longer a domestic art, brewed by women in their households to serve to their family and friends and sell to local taverns. It’s become a business.”
“It was always a business. It’s just become a big business,” Kendra corrected. Muldoon’s argument was one she’d heard often enough in the 21st century. Corporate Goliaths crushing the little guy. The more things change, the more they stay the same. “As fascinating as the history of beer making is, what does it have to do with Mr. Pascoe’s murder?”
“Maybe nothing. Or maybe something.”
They’d walked full circle and were coming to the entrance of the park again. It allowed them a view of the street, and the sleek yellow carriage parked in front of the Duke’s residence. The coachman had already released the steps, opened the door, and was assisting Lady Rebecca to the ground. She spotted them as she shook out her heavy wool carriage skirt, the color of apricots and trimmed with ivory ribbons. She waited until a wagon loaded with bricks, obviously meant for the Yarborough residence, lumbered past, then she briskly crossed the cobblestone street to meet them.
“Ah, good morning, Princess,” Muldoon greeted, his lips twisting into a roguish grin.
Kendra expected Rebecca to fire back with a cutting retort over the Irishman’s flippant and overly familiar manner, but was surprised to see her friend’s cheeks color faintly.
“Mr. Muldoon.” Rebecca inclined her head graciously. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
“Apparently, Mr. Muldoon felt the urgent need to give me a lesson on the beer industry,” Kendra remarked drily. “Although I’m still not sure why it’s relevant to Mr. Pascoe’s murder.”
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