Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “You speak of me taking advantage of His Grace’s generosity,” she went on. “But what of you? The clothes on your back were purchased with his coin. I know you were a servant before His Grace made you his ward.” She laughed suddenly, but there was no humor in the sound. “Ah, I can see that surprises you.”

  “I guess somebody’s been talking,” said Kendra, careful to keep all expression off her face and out of her voice. Never let them see you sweat.

  Carlotta’s smile was catty. “You are a hypocrite, Miss Donovan. An upstart from the colonies who has managed to ingratiate herself into the household of one of the wealthiest men in England.”

  “I have never lied to His Grace.” Not since admitting to being from the future, she amended silently. “I’ve never asked him for anything.”

  Kendra was assailed by a sense of déjà vu. She’d had the same argument with Lady Atwood.

  “And I sure as hell didn’t want to be here,” she concluded. At least that was completely true.

  Carlotta raised an eyebrow. “And yet I do not see you attempting to leave.”

  Kendra said nothing. What could she say?

  Carlotta’s dark eyes searched her face. “You and I are the same, Miss Donovan,” she said finally. “We have both been adrift in a world that can be cruel to women. Why do you begrudge me the comfort of a loving family and home that you yourself have found?”

  “Because I never pretended to be the Duke’s daughter.” She drew in an unsteady breath. “Are you admitting that you are not Charlotte?”

  They stared at each other, measuring each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Then Carlotta laughed. “Certainly not! I am Charlotte.”

  “I’ll find out the truth,” Kendra said again, the warning unmistakable. “It’s something I am quite good at, you know.”

  “Because you sent your Bow Street Runners to Spain?”

  Kendra remembered the footsteps, the skirt disappearing around the corner. “What are you going to do when they find out who you really are?” she pressed.

  “What makes you think that they will find out anything that does not support my claim?” Carlotta replied, adopting a coy look. “I wish you would believe me, Miss Donovan. I wish we could be friends. When my father publicly acknowledges me, I will not look kindly on those who have distressed me.”

  Kendra raised her glass, but kept her eyes leveled on Carlotta as she took a deliberate sip of cognac. “Are you threatening me?”

  “What an imagination you have, Miss Donovan! I wonder, though… who would His Grace choose if things became too strained in his household? His daughter or his ward?”

  The question was so closely aligned to her earlier thoughts that all Kendra could do was frown. Carlotta smiled.

  “What are you two whispering about?” the Duke asked as he strolled toward them.

  Carlotta’s smile widened as she stepped toward him, threading her hand in the crook of his arm. “Women’s gossip. Tell me, what should I wear tomorrow at the Royal Society?”

  Kendra watched as Carlotta maneuvered the Duke away from her. Was it a warning? Or was she reading too much into it? Becoming paranoid?

  Her stomach churned and her head began to pound. Carlotta had the instincts of a street fighter. Certainly, she’d drawn blood when she’d called Kendra a hypocrite. Kendra finished her cognac, which probably wouldn’t help either her stomach or her headache and set down the glass on a nearby table. She wasn’t good at this family stuff. She needed to get back to work, to focus on Pascoe’s murder. That was what she was good at, what she was trained to do.

  She was formulating her excuses when Carlotta screamed and shoved the Duke to the floor. Kendra froze, her heart leaping into her throat. In the next second, there was the crack of a gunshot and the window that Carlotta and the Duke had been standing in front of exploded, glass shards showering down on them. The bookcase on the other wall splintered.

  “Get down! Get down!” Kendra yelled, and dove for the floor.

  26

  Kendra’s heart was galloping in her chest as she lifted her head just enough to scan the room. Alec had yanked Lady Atwood to the floor, half covering her with his body. Carlotta was doing the same with the Duke. There’d only been one shot, but Kendra felt like they were in a war zone.

  The door flew open and Harding and two footmen came through at a jog.

  “Get down!” Kendra shouted at them and waved wildly. All three crouched and ducked, wide eyes darting around the drawing room, trying to find the enemy.

  Alec shifted his weight and looked across the room at Kendra. “I think the danger has passed,” he said and before Kendra could protest, he pushed himself to his feet with lithe grace. After a moment, she did the same. They moved swiftly to the window. Alec pressed his body against the wall, angling his head to peer out the shattered window. Kendra did the same from the other side of the window. All she could see was darkness. Cold night air blew into the drawing room, chilling her cheeks and making her eyes water.

  “Call the watch,” the Duke ordered Harding as he got to his feet. He helped Carlotta up, then his sister.

  “Yes, sir,” the butler said, snapping his fingers at one of the footmen, who ran from the room.

  “And send word to Mr. Kelly,” Kendra yelled after him. Adrenaline continued to thrum through her bloodstream. She clenched and unclenched her hands as she gazed out into the darkness.

  “He’s gone,” Alec said, correctly interpreting the look on her face.

  Harding said, “I shall find supplies to board up the window tonight.”

  He didn’t ask what had caused the window to break. He’d heard the report of the shotgun blast and was even now frowning at the splintered wood and hole in the bookcase.

  After Harding and the footman left, Kendra whipped around to look at Carlotta. “What happened?”

  “Do we need to discuss this now?” the Duke asked, putting his arm around Carlotta, who was shaking violently. “Her nerves are shattered.”

  “Then get her some smelling salts,” Kendra said tersely. “What did you see, Carlotta? You screamed—”

  “She saved Bertie’s life,” said Lady Atwood. She looked as white and shaken as Carlotta. She stumbled to a chair, sank down. “Dear heavens…”

  Alec poured two glasses of brandy, which he brought to his aunt and Carlotta. “This might be better than smelling salts.”

  The countess tossed back most of the contents in a shocking display of unladylike behavior. The Duke led Carlotta to the sofa.

  “I… we were talking… I do not even remember what we were talking about, Your Grace…” Carlotta took a sip of brandy. Her hands were trembling so violently that the liquid sloshed dangerously in the glass. She gave a little laugh that had just a touch of hysteria in it. “Perdóname—forgive me. I-I… looked out the window just for a moment. I saw a man standing across the street. H-he had a rifle.”

  “It’s dark,” Kendra pointed out.

  Carlotta nodded. “I don’t think I would have noticed, except he lifted the weapon. It wasn’t the man, but the motion that I saw.”

  “So, you couldn’t see whether the shooter was a man or a woman?” Kendra asked.

  Carlotta’s mouth parted in surprise. “But it must have been a man. It couldn’t have been a woman.”

  “Why? A woman can shoot a rifle as well as a man.”

  “But…” Carlotta seemed shocked by the possibility but shook her head. “I really didn’t see anything.”

  Alec observed, “You reacted swiftly.”

  Carlotta smiled slightly. “It is perhaps the benefits of growing up in war.” Then her smile vanished, and she shook her head, bewildered. “What is happening?” She looked at the Duke. “Why would anyone shoot at you, Your Grace?”

  “I don’t believe they were shooting at His Grace,” Alec said slowly.

  Carlotta’s eyebrows rose. “I have made no enemies in England.”

  “Are you so sure about that?” Kendra asked. I
t was a nasty thing to say, she supposed, because she didn’t think anyone had been shooting at Carlotta. She opened her mouth to take back what she’d said, but Lady Atwood spoke first.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped. The brandy had fortified her. She glared at Kendra. “We know what happened. Look at you two.” She wave her hand to indicate Kendra and Carlotta. “From a distance, you could be sisters. The monster was not shooting at Carlotta, he was shooting at you, Miss Donovan. You—and your damnable determination to associate with the criminal element—nearly killed my brother.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Sam had arrived at the house and Kendra, Sam, Alec, and the Duke had ventured to the study after seeing Carlotta and the countess off to bed and dealing with the watch, who promised to scour the area that very night for the fiend.

  Kendra hadn’t bothered voicing her opinion that they wouldn’t find anything. The sniper was long gone. They’d left Harding to supervise the footmen boarding up the window.

  “You’re making someone nervous, lass,” Sam said, looking across the study to where Kendra stood in front of the slate board.

  She looked back at the Bow Street Runner and didn’t deny what he said. It was the only thing that made sense.

  “Who?” asked the Duke.

  Kendra rolled her shoulders. “I don’t know. We’ve just begun questioning possible suspects. That’s always… sensitive.”

  The Duke said, “People object to being thought a murderer.”

  Kendra laughed. “That’s one way to look at it. Another is that I just piss people off.” She felt a spasm of anxiety when Alec strolled to the window. “How about everyone stay away from all windows for the rest of the night?”

  “The watch is in the park, at least six men. I can see their lanterns. I think we’re quite safe tonight,” Alec said, but complied with her wishes. His expression turned brooding. “I think most of us are safe except for you, Miss Donovan.”

  “I…” Can take care of myself, she almost said, but she knew that annoyed Alec. She instead tried, “I promise to be extra careful.”

  Sam said, “It’s fortunate that Mrs. Garcia Desoto was there to push you to the side, Your Grace. Although it’s unfortunate that she didn’t see the sniper.”

  “I owe Carlotta a debt that I can never repay,” the Duke agreed quietly.

  There was a moment of silence. In her mind, Kendra heard Lady Atwood’s accusing words again: You—and your damnable determination to associate with the criminal element—nearly killed my brother. Guilt pierced her.

  Kendra looked at the slate board, then at Sam. “Did you learn anything from Mrs. Doyle, Mr. Kelly?” The question shocked her audience.

  Frowning, the Duke glanced at the clock. “It’s past midnight. Perhaps we ought to wait until tomorrow morning to pursue this matter?”

  “If someone shot at me because of my investigation into Pascoe’s murder, then Mr. Kelly is right—I’m making someone nervous.” She rubbed her arms, feeling chilled. “I don’t want to waste time. Mr. Kelly is here. All I need is ten minutes for him to brief me on what he learned.”

  The Duke seemed ready to voice another objection, but then instead nodded slowly. “Very well. Ten minutes. Mr. Kelly, do you want a whiskey?”

  Sam’s face brightened. “Well, if it ain’t no trouble…”

  Kendra picked up a jagged piece of slate, jiggling it while she waited for the Bow Street Runner to settle in with his drink. The Duke sank into the seat behind his desk, while Alec dropped into another chair, stretching out his long legs, his fingers laced together and resting on his flat stomach as he regarded her. The pose appeared as lazy as the tiger at the Royal Menagerie and, Kendra thought, just as deceptive.

  Sam said, “Mrs. Doyle gave me a history lesson of Barrett Brewery—which I’ll speak more about tomorrow, if it’s important. She said that Mr. Mercer eloped with Mrs. Gavenston’s youngest daughter ter Gretna Green.”

  Kendra nodded. She’d heard people gossip about Gretna Green. It was, she thought, the Las Vegas of her day.

  “Mr. Mercer’s family cut him off, but sounds like they don’t have a feather ter fly with anyways.”

  “We met Mercer and his wife,” Alec spoke up. “Mercer undoubtedly was attracted to the fortune she brought, but they appear to have genuine affection for each other.”

  “Mrs. Doyle is of the mind that Mr. Mercer is going through that fortune fast. Which brings me ter my conversation later with Mr. Logan. He said he quarreled with Mr. Pascoe, wantin’ ter change the price he was getting for his grain, because his crops failed and prices rose after the cold weather. Mrs. Gavenston negotiated a price with him last year. He said Mr. Fletcher offered him more.”

  “Fletcher is trying to cut off Mrs. Gavenston’s supply line,” Kendra mused.

  Sam nodded. “I think we can eliminate Mr. Logan from the list. He admits he had words with Mr. Pascoe, but he was going forward with the deal this year. Mrs. Gavenston will have more difficulty with him next year. But there wasn’t no reason for him ter approach Mr. Pascoe ter talk further on it. He didn’t even seem ter know that Mr. Pascoe was making use of the cottage on the squire’s land.” He took a swallow of whiskey. “And I don’t see the farmer comin’ here and shootin’ at you, lass.”

  “Logan was never high on the list, and I agree with you on all counts.” Kendra grabbed a linen rag and wet it with water from the jug on the side table.

  “How does Mercer connect to the farmer?” asked Alec.

  “ ’Cause Mr. Logan happened to see Mr. Mercer meeting with Mr. Fletcher.”

  “What?” Kendra paused in scrubbing down the slate board.

  “Mr. Logan saw Mr. Mercer—”

  “Yeah, I get that,” she cut him off, frowning. “I spoke with Hester today. She said that Fletcher approached Pascoe about stealing Barrett Brewery recipes, but Pascoe refused.”

  The Duke looked at her. “You believe Mr. Fletcher approached Mr. Mercer to steal Barrett Brewery recipes?”

  “I doubt if Fletcher would have stopped at Pascoe. And Mr. Mercer would have access,” she pointed out with a shrug. “If he needed money and Fletcher offered it in exchange for a little corporate espionage…”

  “They most likely have an allowance of some kind, maybe shares in the business,” Sam said, “but it ain’t always enough. And money has a way of tempting saints ter become sinners.”

  “Mercer didn’t strike me as a saint to begin with,” Kendra said drily. “He’s charming and self-indulgent. How long ago did he marry Sabrina?”

  “Two years,” Sam supplied.

  Alec stared at the tips of his shoes. “I’ve known plenty a lord who’ve laid waste to their fortunes in far less time. Mercer is a dandy. His coat and hessians were high quality. And those James Purdy weapons are very expensive. If he attends mills on a regular basis as he did at the Tip & Ship, he most likely is placing wagers.”

  “His wife isn’t frugal, either,” Kendra added. “She likes shopping and doesn’t seem to be on a budget. You’d think that someone as astute as Mrs. Gavenston would know that her son-in-law has gone through her daughter’s money.”

  “Maybe she does know,” said the Duke. “ ’Tis not something you would want bandied about.”

  Alec met Kendra’s eyes. “Tomorrow I shall see what I can find out about Mr. Mercer’s financial situation.”

  “How will you do that?”

  He gave her a lazy smile. “My club, of course. As the son of Lord Redgrave, Mr. Mercer’s marriage and financial situation has undoubtedly been thoroughly dissected and discussed.”

  Kendra thought about Captain Sinclair’s comment about how much business was conducted in gentleman’s clubs. She nodded. “Anything you can find out would be helpful.”

  “Are we certain Mr. Fletcher approached Mr. Mercer about stealing Mrs. Gavenston’s recipes?” the Duke asked. “Or did Mr. Logan misinterpret a meeting between Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Mercer?”

  “Mr. L
ogan said that he saw them together once outside the Tip & Ship in a deep discussion—but he admitted that could’ve been nothin’ more than the typical friendliness one finds in such places,” Sam explained. “But he also spotted Mr. Mercer leaving Appleton Ale. Mr. Logan had driven up ter see Mr. Fletcher shortly after Fletcher had approached him about purchasing his harvest. He saw Mr. Mercer and asked about it. Fletcher said he must’ve been mistaken.”

  The Duke frowned. “If Mr. Pascoe found out about it, that might be a motive for murder.”

  Kendra jiggled the piece of slate again, mulling it over. “If Pascoe learned of Mercer’s theft, he might have said something to Mercer. Mercer could have gone to the cottage to try to reason with him.” She paused. “Or his wife could have done it.”

  Alec’s eyebrows shot up. “You think Mrs. Mercer may have killed Mr. Pascoe?”

  “Why not? And don’t say because she’s a woman,” Kendra warned.

  He shrugged. “She seems a foolish creature.”

  “We’re not dealing with a criminal mastermind here.”

  That earned a crooked smile from Alec. “Even so, if she had stabbed Mr. Pascoe in a moment of passion, I’d think she would have been in hysterics afterward. She spoke to you of the latest fashions, for God’s sake.”

  “I don’t think one has to do with the other. People compartmentalize. Some people are really good at playacting…”

  Another thought, unrelated to Pascoe’s murder, crossed her mind, and Kendra frowned. She put it aside for the moment, then cleared her throat and continued, “If Sabrina knew that her husband stole the recipes for Fletcher and Pascoe found out, she could have gone to the cottage to reason with him. There is nothing that precludes her from being the murderer.”

  No one said anything, but Kendra sensed their skepticism. She shrugged. “She’s low on the list, but we can’t ignore her. I’m going to visit her dressmaker tomorrow in Cookham about her alibi. If the dressmaker confirms her whereabouts, we can cross her off. Molly confirmed from the other servants that both Mercer and his wife were at the manor pigeon shooting on Sunday, like they said.”