Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Good ter know, but Pascoe was most likely done in on Saturday,” Sam commented.

  “According to the servants, Hester spent both days in her bedroom, sick. But she could have sneaked out. White Pond Manor is big enough to do it without attracting attention, I think. Mrs. Gavenston was at the brewery on Saturday and at home on Sunday, although she went off riding. Again, she could have slipped out of the brewery or the manor with no one the wiser.”

  “Why would Hester kill Mr. Pascoe?” asked the Duke.

  “I’m just going through alibis—or non-alibis. Sabrina might have the best alibi, if she was shopping Saturday. Plenty of witnesses.”

  Sam scratched the side of his nose. “What I can’t figure is why Mr. Mercer would be so foolish as ter steal from Barrett Brewery. Even if he needed the blunt. Ain’t that a little like biting the hand that feeds you?”

  “Fletcher is going after Barrett Brewery,” Kendra replied. “Maybe Mercer thinks he will eventually win.”

  There was a soft knock at the door and Harding stepped in. “Sir, the watch has finished their search,” he told the Duke. “They found nothing.”

  The Duke sighed. “Thank you, Harding. You may retire.”

  Harding hesitated, then bowed slightly. “Very good, sir.” As he withdrew, he glanced at Kendra. She had no trouble deciphering that look. He blamed her for this latest craziness. Before she’d arrived, they’d never had drawing room windows shot out in the middle of the night.

  You—and your damnable determination to associate with the criminal element—nearly killed my brother.

  Sam took that as a signal, drained the last swallow of his whiskey, and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll take my leave.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Kelly,” Kendra said, then stopped abruptly. A day ago, she would never have been reticent about saying something in front of the Duke. But the relationship between the Duke and Carlotta had changed. And, by extension, her relationship with the Duke had changed.

  “Lass?” Sam gave her a quizzical look when she remained silent.

  Kendra cleared her throat. The Duke and Alec’s eyes were on her. She could feel her face grow hot, the moment becoming more uncomfortable. “Ah, actually… why don’t I walk you out, Mr. Kelly?”

  The Duke wasn’t fooled by her awkward attempt at 19th century manners. “Is there something you don’t wish me to know?” he asked, his tone mild.

  “No. Of course not.” She went quiet for a moment, then blew out a breath, impatient with herself. “Look, it occurred to me that Mr. Kelly’s men will be running around Spain trying to check out Carlotta’s story, which could be bogus.” Is more than likely bogus.

  “Bogus?” Alec lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Fake,” she explained. “Anyway, I wondered if there was a way to get out ahead of it. A shortcut of some kind.” She paused, then said pointedly, “If Carlotta is an imposter, she’s a very good imposter.”

  The Duke said nothing. Sam and Alec seemed like they were waiting for her to wow them with her insight.

  “It makes me wonder if she’s done this before,” she went on. “Or… or there’s another possibility. She knows how to play a part. In fact, I’d say she’s excellent in that regard.”

  Alec was the first to understand. “You think she’s an actress?”

  Kendra had seen the woman’s face pale at her comment about her acting skills. She chose her words carefully, keenly aware of the Duke’s solemn regard. “I think it’s a possibility. I think that in addition to knocking on doors checking out the story she gave us, Mr. Kelly’s men should go to theaters, show the sketches Rebecca drew of her—”

  The Duke interrupted, “Sketches?”

  “I thought it would be more helpful if Rebecca made a couple of sketches of Carlotta for them to show around as opposed to only giving her description.”

  “I see. I suppose that would be more helpful,” the Duke said, not smiling.

  Sam shifted uneasily and glanced between the Duke and Kendra. There was no denying the crackling tension that had sprung up between them.

  “Aye, well, I’d best be leavin’. But that’s good thinking, lass. I’ll send a message ter me men first thing.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll show you out, Mr. Kelly,” said the Duke. He smiled a little crookedly as he rose to his feet. “I have no hidden agenda behind my offer. I think everything that needed to be discussed has been discussed openly.”

  Kendra bit her lip. He’d never rebuked her like this before Carlotta.

  The Duke paused at the door, his expression stern as he gazed at his nephew. “As it’s late, Alec, I think you should give Mr. Kelly a ride to his home, on your way to yours.”

  Alec didn’t bat an eyelash. “Certainly,” he agreed, pushing himself to his feet. “I shall be with you both momentarily.”

  For a long moment, the Duke and Alec eyed each other.

  “We’ll be waiting,” his uncle finally said. He looked at Kendra. “Good evening, my dear.”

  Kendra mumbled a response.

  The Duke didn’t shut the door to allow them any privacy, but Alec crossed the room anyway and swept her up into a long kiss that left her breathless after he eased back. His green eyes were intense as he searched her face. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “Someone tried to kill you tonight, Kendra.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “The danger may have passed for tonight.” He brushed a stray tendril of hair from her face.

  There was nothing to say to that. She couldn’t reassure him that there would be no more danger, because whoever had fired the shot was still out there. Instead, she raised herself up on the balls of her feet to kiss him.

  “Good night, Alec,” she said softly. “His Grace is waiting.”

  “You’ll be going to bed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Technically, it’s already tomorrow morning.”

  He smiled a little at that and pressed a surprisingly chaste kiss on her forehead before he dropped his arms. His gaze, when he looked into her eyes, was too perceptive. “You mustn’t worry about my uncle, you know. He wants to find out the truth about Carlotta as much as anyone.”

  “Does he?” Kendra wondered quietly, her breath hitching only slightly before she managed to even it out. “Because I think he wants her to be his daughter.”

  “Wanting Carlotta to be Charlotte doesn’t mean he will turn a blind eye to the truth.”

  “Maybe.” She thought of what Lady Atwood had said the other night and repeated, “He might hate the messenger who tells him the truth.”

  Alec took her chin in his hand, tilting it so he could gaze into her eyes. “He will never hate you, Kendra. Don’t torment yourself in this way. He holds you in the highest regard.”

  Kendra swallowed against the hot lump that had risen in her throat. “Maybe before. But everything is changing. He is changing.”

  “Is he? Or are you? From where I’m standing, you are the one who hasn’t included him in the investigation into Carlotta.”

  “Maybe you need to move to another spot,” she retorted with some asperity. But was he right? The Duke had made the decision to take Carlotta with him to the Royal Society and around town instead of attending the inquest or talking to her about the investigation, but she hadn’t asked for his help either.

  “Think about it, love.” Alec kissed her again, a light, feathery touch, then headed for the door. When he reached it, he turned back, offering her a slight bow. “Good night, Miss Donovan. Stay away from the windows.”

  Twenty minutes later, Kendra crawled into bed with the pages of foolscap that she’d taken from the cottage. In the flickering light from the single candle on the nightstand and the flames that crackled in the fireplace, she tried to make sense of Pascoe’s writings. His penmanship was surprisingly good, so it wasn’t hard to read the wor
ds. But much of the scribblings were disjointed thoughts, just ideas and themes, many of which had to do with stars in the night sky. Hardly a new concept. Heavenly bodies had fired the imagination of writers throughout history. John Keats’s famous sonnet, “Bright Star,” which wouldn’t be published for another couple of years, had always been one of her favorites.

  She scanned the pages, which had many stanzas crossed over almost violently. A few sentences remained, almost untouched.

  I spend my days dreaming of the night

  For the Star that has bewitched me

  To chase away my darkness with thy light

  She didn’t know what she’d hoped to find. Notes on what was going on in Pascoe’s life, like pages in a diary? Clearly, Pascoe’s interest in poetry didn’t have anything to do with his murder. The only thing it did was give her insight into his state of mind at the time of his death—and even that was an assumption. The angry crossing out of words and torn foolscap could have been done at any time, really, not just the day of his murder.

  Exhaustion blurred the words on the page. She forced herself to continue to read for another ten minutes, but there were no hidden messages, no names written in the margins. She gathered up the foolscap into a neat stack and put it on the nightstand before blowing out the candle.

  Sleep didn’t come easily. Even though she was physically drained, her mind continued to race. The shooting had surprised her. Not that you could ever anticipate something like that, but it would make more sense if she actually felt like she was getting somewhere on Pascoe’s murder. Sure, she had plenty of theories, speculation… and a nagging sense that she was missing something vital. But nothing to deserve someone panicking and taking a shot at her.

  At least she didn’t think so.

  With a groan, she rolled over and burrowed into the pillows. Maybe the shooting would help. She couldn’t imagine Mrs. Gavenston or her daughters pulling the trigger. Or was she being sexist? How ironic would that be? But it was difficult to envision any of the women traveling to London, waiting in the cold and the dark, on the off chance that they’d spot her—or someone who they thought was her—in the window and shoot.

  So who would do such a thing?

  Albion Miller came to mind. He struck her as the kind of slimeball who’d enjoy waiting in the dark and shooting somebody in the back.

  Captain Sinclair was another possibility, given his military background.

  Oddly, despite Fletcher’s violent history, Kendra had a harder time imagining the brewer waiting for the opportunity to shoot at her. Same with Mercer. A vision rose up in her mind of him shooting at pigeons, but she just couldn’t see Mercer putting himself through the discomfort of the cold or having the patience to wait to pull the trigger.

  Of course, there was another possibility. Any one of them could have paid someone to do it. But why? Who thought she knew more than she did? Who was panicking?

  The problem with panic was that it was an emotional response, not a logical one. Anyone could give in to panic. She thought of her own reaction to Carlotta’s growing closeness to the Duke—and his affection for her. If that wasn’t panic, she didn’t know what was. She knew she was messing things up, but she didn’t know how to stop it.

  Carlotta’s words came back to her: You and I are the same, Miss Donovan. The woman was right. Against all odds, incredible odds, Kendra had found a home within the Duke’s household. It wasn’t always easy. It wasn’t always comfortable. But it was a haven. How would she have survived without the Duke’s generosity?

  Her last thought before sleep finally overtook her was that she’d once had a home… well, if not a home, then a house with two parents. She knew how quickly it could change, that all she could do was stand by and watch it all slip away.

  27

  The next morning, Molly took one look at the shadows beneath Kendra’s eyes as she determinedly went through her yoga routine, then pivoted and marched out the door again. She returned ten minutes later carrying a tray with—God bless her—a pot of coffee, a sugar bowl, and a cup. Kendra calculated she’d need the entire pot to feel human again, although yoga helped push a lot of the fuzziness from her brain. She drank her first cup—almost in one swallow—as Molly selected a walking dress of pale peach. A frill of lace edged the neckline and cuffs of the long sleeves. Delicate open embroidery decorated the hem.

  Kendra took her time with the second cup of coffee, enjoying the aroma as well as the punch of caffeine as it flooded her system, while Molly brushed and pinned up her hair.

  She was on her fourth cup by the time she finished dressing and made her way to the drawing room to inspect the damage from the previous night. She wasn’t entirely surprised to find Harding inside with one of the workers from the Yarborough residence. He was measuring the window.

  Harding glanced at her as she entered the room. “Miss Donovan, may I be of assistance?” he inquired, his tone carefully composed.

  “I just came to…” She trailed off and waved her hand in a vague gesture, encompassing the scene. Her eyes traveled from the window to the bookcase. Like the rest of the mansion, the ceilings were extraordinarily high here—at least fourteen feet—and the bookcase ran floor to ceiling. Setting her coffee cup down on a table, Kendra dragged one of the chairs over to the bookcase. It weighed a ton.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Harding demanded in alarm, starting forward. Kendra wasn’t sure if he was going to wrestle the chair away from her, but in the end, he helped her. Probably to avoid drag marks across the wooden floor.

  “Thanks,” she huffed, a little winded by the time they had the chair in position. As Harding and the worker stared at her in bewilderment, she clambered on top of the seat and raised herself to the tip of her toes. She still fell short of where she saw the bullet had burrowed into the bookcases’ crown molding.

  “I don’t suppose you have a rod or a stick about so big?” She made a small O shape to indicate the diameter with her thumb and forefinger.

  The worker scratched his head. “I could probably find one next door.”

  Harding asked, “Why?”

  “I just need…” She gave another vague gesture. But how could she explain bullet trajectory reconstruction? It wasn’t even her field of expertise. She’d always relied on real experts, who used lasers. Not an option here. Still, she might be able to ballpark it.

  Harding shook his head, obviously bewildered. But he told the worker, “Go down to the kitchens. Ask for Mrs. Danbury. She should be able to provide you with a dowel.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The man hurried from the room. Kendra considered jumping down, feeling awkward standing on the chair, but she’d just have to climb back up again when the worker came back. She was aware of Harding’s gaze on her. The silence pooled.

  She shifted on the chair and finally shrugged. “I might be able to figure out where the shooter was standing last night,” she finally told the butler.

  “And why would that matter, if I may ask? It doesn’t change what happened.”

  “Details always matter.”

  Harding looked skeptical. A footman came to the door and gave Kendra a sideways look, but then turned to the butler.

  “Mr. Kelly is at the door for Miss Donovan.” Another sideways look. “Where shall I put him?”

  Kendra said, “Bring him here.”

  The footman waited for Harding to nod and agree, “Yes, bring him here.”

  Five minutes later, the Bow Street Runner entered, then stopped when he saw Kendra standing on the chair. “Have you seen a mouse?”

  Kendra stared at him blankly.

  “In my experience, women jump on chairs when they see mice.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Actually, I’m trying to conduct an experiment. Ah, good.”

  The worker came back, carrying a wooden dowel about a yard long. He handed it to her and then stood back to watch, avid curiosity on his face.

  “Do you need help, lass?” Sa
m asked as she raised herself up on her toes again and attempted to shove the tip of the dowel into the hole.

  Sam wasn’t that much taller than she was. But Harding had maybe two more inches on the Bow Street Runner. She lowered her arms and looked at the butler. “Mr. Harding, you could actually be of assistance. Would you please try to stick this rod in that bullet hole?”

  He seemed to think it over. Whether he didn’t want to say no to the Duke’s ward or he was honestly intrigued, he agreed. He waited for her to jump off the chair before taking her place with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Kendra surveyed him as he stretched up. “Don’t force the rod in; follow path that was made by the bullet.”

  He fiddled a bit; the rod wobbled. Finally, the dowel steadied. Kendra studied it and then shifted her gaze to follow the trajectory to which the tip of the rod pointed.

  She crossed the room to the broken window. Outside, the sky was a solid whitish gray. The noise from the Yarborough construction zone drifted through the empty window frame. It was still early enough that the only people outside were servants—mostly milkmaids, kitchen maids, and laundresses, all carrying buckets and hemp bags.

  “What are you looking for?” the worker asked, joining her and Sam at the window.

  Kendra glanced back again at the direction the rod was pointing. “Based on the trajectory, I think the bullet struck here.” She pointed at a spot where the window had been. “If you follow the angle, the shooter was probably standing right there at the edge of the park, near that elm tree.”

  “Suppose that makes sense,” Sam said, scanning the trees and bushes. “Easy enough for the fiend ter hide in the shadows and wait for his chance.”

  Kendra replied, “I don’t think the shooter last night intended to kill me—or Carlotta, thinking she’s me.”

  Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Why do you say that, lass?”

  “Look at the trajectory.” Again, she made a motion with her finger from the window back to where Harding held the dowel. “It’s too high. I’d have to be at least eleven feet tall for him to hit me. So, either he missed on purpose or he’s the worst shot in England.”