Carlotta hesitated only for a second, then inclined her head in acceptance. “I would be honored, sir,” she said, smiling as she put her hand on the crook of his elbow and allowed him to usher her through the packed ballroom.
The Duke led Carlotta to an older gentleman, who bowed while Carlotta curtsied. There was something terribly intimate about the scene. Kendra felt like she was standing outside a window, her nose pressed up against the glass, watching a father proudly introduce his daughter to an old friend.
The flutter she’d felt earlier in the pit of her stomach spread to her chest. There was no denying the expression that she saw on the Duke’s face. Protective, proud… loving.
A strange desire to weep assailed her. It stunned her even as she swallowed hard to overcome it. She never cried. What the hell was wrong with her?
“Miss Donovan, would you like—What’s the matter?” Alec’s voice sharpened as he came up next to her, his gaze fixed on her face.
“I…” Her breath hitched. She had to force herself to swallow. “They look like they belong together, don’t they?”
He didn’t ask who. Instead, he turned to scan the ballroom, his eyes narrowing when he found his uncle and Carlotta.
“Do you want to get married?” Kendra blurted out, and she was shocked as soon as the words left her mouth. What the hell did I just say? It was like some alien had invaded her body, hijacked her emotions, taken control of her mouth.
Alec’s head whipped around, his green eyes intense as he locked his gaze on her. “Pardon?”
Her blood thundered in her ears and she had to lick her suddenly dry lips. She could take it back. Say it was a joke. Say that she had a brain tumor. Maybe she did have a brain tumor.
But she heard herself say, “Marry. Let’s get married.”
Alec stared at her. From a long distance, she heard the music of the orchestra, the laughter and murmur of conversation swirling around her. He didn’t respond. He glanced again at the Duke and Carlotta before shifting his eyes back to her. Why wasn’t he saying anything? The earlier panic that had flooded Kendra was now sliding into something else, something that might be described as acute embarrassment. They were in the middle of a bloody ballroom, although—thank God—everyone was well occupied with their own conversations. No one to witness her mental breakdown. No one except Alec, who was staring at her like she’d just suggested they steal the crown jewels.
“No,” Alec finally said.
She sucked in a surprisingly painful breath and took a step back.
“Kendra—”
“No.” She jerked away when he tried to capture her hand with his. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”
“Devil take it,” he hissed. “Listen—”
“No. No, I—”
“You know that I—”
“Sutcliffe! Miss Donovan!” Lady Rebecca materialized beside them, holding a glass of lemonade. “Dear heaven, I think everyone in Town is here this evening. Lady Roberta is holding a musical recital. I can’t imagine anyone is there.” She smiled, but it began to falter as she peered at Kendra and Alec. “What’s the matter? Did you learn something about Mr. Pascoe’s murder?”
“Yes.” Kendra managed to keep her voice steady. She didn’t look at Alec. “I’ll tell you later, but now Sutcliffe would love to dance with you.”
“Oh.” Rebecca appeared nonplussed.
“Miss Donovan—”
Kendra forced herself to look at Alec now. “I need a moment.” She thought she sounded fine—at least, not as desperate as she felt.
Whatever Alec saw on her face, he nodded slowly, then glanced at Rebecca. “I would be honored if you would accompany to the dance floor, Becca,” he said, offering his hand.
Rebecca narrowed her eyes at both of them.
“I’ll take your glass for you,” Kendra offered. Please, please, go, she prayed silently. She needed a moment to compose herself, and she couldn’t do it with Alec staring at her or, worse, apologizing for his rejection.
“Very well,” Rebecca agreed finally, handing Kendra her glass. She gave her a pointed look. “We shall have a word afterward, though.” She put her hand on Alec’s arm. “Come along, Sutcliffe.”
He hesitated, his eyes still on Kendra.
“Sutcliffe…” Rebecca tugged on his arm and Alec reluctantly turned away.
Kendra gave a sigh of relief. Alec glanced back once as he led Rebecca out onto the dance floor where the set was forming. Mr. Humphrey was probably returning with her glass of lemonade, but she needed to escape the stiflingly hot ballroom. She took a sip of Rebecca’s lemonade to ease the dryness of her throat and slipped out the French doors. The evening air was wonderfully cold against her feverish cheeks. The verandah was empty, but she needed more distance between here and her recent humiliation. She kept walking, down the steps, into the gardens full of dense foliage. Clouds drifted across the moon, which made the shadows even deeper. She craved the dark right now. What have I done?
Pausing next to a marble bench in front of a rose bush, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. She needed to find a sense of equilibrium in a world that had spun dangerously out of control.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so focused inward on her embarrassment over making a complete fool of herself, she would have been more aware of her surroundings. But she heard nothing until the man was right behind her, his hot, foul breath feathering her ear.
“Look at w’ot we got here, eh? She came right ter us, all on her own,” he said in a guttural voice. “It must be our lucky night. It ain’t yer lucky night, though, is it, bitch?”
Kendra froze when she heard the ominous click of a hammer being pulled back and the cold metal of the pistol’s barrel as it was pressed against the back of her head.
Kendra dropped the glass, what was left of the lemonade soaking into the grass. “What’s this about?” she demanded and was pleased that her voice remained cool and measured, revealing none of the inner tension that sent her pulse beating in a wild tattoo at her wrists and throat.
There were two men, dressed in rough wools. The one who held the gun pointed at the base of her skull now pushed her so that she marched in front of him through the gardens to the street.
“Shut it!” he snarled.
“Yer certain that she’s the one?” whispered his partner. He was the taller of the two, with a long weaselly face and a nervous tic that caused his right eye to wink at her periodically and his mouth to spasm.
“She matches the description,” said gunman. He was a little shorter than Weasel Face, with a heftier build. He had thick lips and heavy jowls. He was the more menacing of the two. Still, if she had to have a gun pointed at the back of her skull, Kendra thought Jowls was a better choice than his skittish pal. If Weasel Face’s tic extended to his trigger finger, he could accidentally blow her head off.
On the other hand, Jowls might have not any compunction about pulling the trigger. She was in an unenviable catch-22 situation.
“If it’s money you’re after, I can pay,” she said.
“Didn’t I tell ye ter shut yer hole?” Jowls shoved her forward with his free hand.
Kendra stumbled, but caught herself from falling flat on her face. Picking up her skirts with one hand, she scurried forward. Her mind raced with possibilities. It wasn’t a good sign that the two criminals didn’t feel the need to hide their identities. Either they were walking her away from the Merriweather mansion because they had been ordered to bring her to the mastermind behind the kidnapping or they wanted more privacy to kill her and dispose of her body.
Her heart pounded in her chest and there was a vinegary taste in her mouth that she recognized as fear. Not good. Fear could be as deadly as the bullets in the double-chambered flintlock pointed at her head.
She drew in a slow, deep breath, and felt her lungs expand and her mind clear. She let it out. Negotiate first. They’d been hired, obviously. That meant money was the motivating factor. Jowls might not be thinking t
oo clearly himself. She had to remind herself that they were most likely dealing with the same wild adrenaline rush that she was. Except they had a weapon. They were in control.
The vegetation cleared and they emerged in a narrow alley that ran along the backside of the Merriweather property. There were three streetlamps burning, the yellowish glow limning the carriage waiting next to the curb. A hulking figure was on top of the carriage, his hands fisted around the reins, controlling the two horses.
“ ’Urry up, ye bastards,” the coachman growled from his seat.
Weasel Face rushed forward to open the door. Inside, a brass lamp revealed a black interior that smelled like dirty socks. Weasel Face grabbed her arm with surprising strength and threw her inside. Kendra managed to right herself on the leather seat before her abductors scrambled in behind her, slamming the door. They settled on the seat opposite her, Weasel Face directly across from her and Jowls next to him. Instead of the back of her skull, the pistol was now trained on her forehead.
“Go!” Jowls yelled. The carriage jolted forward.
“Do you know who I am?” Kendra tried again.
Jowls’s thick lips twisted into an unpleasant smile. “The Nob’s ward.” He let his eyes rove over her. The shadows in the carriage couldn’t hide the lascivious glint. “Yer a prime article, ter be sure. Maybe we’ll have some fun.”
Kendra began calmly to remove her long white gloves. Fingers and fingernails could be turned into weapons if you knew the proper defense strategies. “You both look like businessmen.” If your business was crime. “We should be able to negotiate.”
“W’ot are ye doing?” demanded Weasel Face. He blinked rapidly as he looked at his partner. “W’ot’s she doin’?”
“Looks like she’s preparing ter negotiate.”
Kendra smiled. The carriage was rolling at a steady pace, roughly three miles an hour. She glanced at Weasel Face. He didn’t seem to have a weapon. The coachman most likely had a blunderbuss, as that seemed standard for coachmen. But Jowls was her immediate concern. The gun in his hand hadn’t wavered.
“How much money do you want?” she said. “I’ll double whatever you were offered.”
“Aye, and once ye bring us the blunt, ye’ll just be on yer merry way? Ye won’t be goin’ ter the nearest beak or ask yer Bow Street Runner ter find us? We won’t be sent ter meet Jack Ketch?”
Jack Ketch was the name used in this era for all of England’s executioners. She tilted her head as she considered Jowls. He wasn’t stupid. And she wasn’t a good enough an actress to convince him otherwise.
“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” she admitted. She inhaled again, let it out slowly as she gathered her nerve for what she must do. When the carriage stopped, she suspected there would be more men waiting. Right now, she was outnumbered two to one, not counting the coachman outside. She didn’t want to increase those odds against her, which meant it would have to be now or never.
“Think we’re fokking stupid,” said Jowls.
“Aye, she thinks we’re stupid—”
Weasel Face started to chortle and Kendra sprang forward, striking out with brutal efficiency. The soft tracheal cartilage of his throat dipped beneath the force of her fingers, cutting off his words abruptly. He gasped and choked, his hands coming up too late to protect his throat.
She was already launching herself across the seat at Jowls, grasping the hand that was holding the pistol. Kendra managed to thrust the weapon upward just as he squeezed the trigger. The shot was loud enough to make her ears ring and the bullet tore through the carriage’s ceiling. The coachman screamed and the horses bolted. The burst of speed over cobblestone made the carriage swing dangerously from side to side. But Kendra barely noticed the teetering carriage as she and Jowls grappled for the gun.
“Bitch!” he shouted and swung at her with enough force to break her jaw, had she not dodged to the side.
Kendra countered with her own attack, striking him on the nose, and blood spurted from it. She aimed for the groin with her knee, but he managed to throw her off him. She landed hard on the other seat and scrambled up just as he raised the gun. He had one shot left, but at this range, there was no way he’d miss. Kendra sucked in a breath, tensing for the impact of the bullet.
The carriage, already wobbling wildly, jerked sharply to the left. She saw Jowls’s eyes widen in horror, and then all three of them went flying as the carriage began to roll. Their screams mingled with the high-pitched shriek of the horses. The glass on the brass lamps and the windows shattered as the carriage tumbled, then began to career on its side, the horses dragging it down the street. Kendra covered her head with her arms, trying to protect it as her body slammed into the carriage’s wall, which was now the floor. Jowls and Weasel Face fell beside her, shouting and groaning. There was an ominous snap as the harness broke. No longer attached to the panicking beasts, the carriage spun like a top for three dizzying rotations. Finally it came to a stop.
Kendra lay where she was for a second, her entire body pulsing with pain. Slowly, she became aware that she wasn’t the only one breathing in the dark confines of the carriage. Shit. Gritting her teeth, she forced her limbs to move before her captors revived and tried to stop her.
The door was now above them. Kendra pushed herself to her feet, stepping on something soft—maybe the leather seat, maybe a stomach—and thrust open the door above her like it was a hatch in a submarine. She saw the outline of the moon through a thin curtain of clouds. She grasped the sides of the door and began to heave herself up.
“Fokking bitch, where do ye think ye’re going?” Jowls growled.
Kendra gasped as thick fingers closed over her ankle. She kicked out hard. Jowls grunted and cursed, and the fingers fell away. Her arms trembled with the effort as she hoisted herself through the door.
“Get the bitch!” Weasel Face croaked in a broken voice. “I’m gonna cut her!”
Damn. Kendra had hoped at least he’d be dead. She rolled off the carriage and dropped to the ground. Pain sang up her legs, jarring her bones. Fuck! Blood, warm and sticky, trickled down the side of her face and oozed out of cuts and scrapes on her body. She wiped it out of her eyes, glancing wildly around. Her gaze landed on the coachman. He was lying on the ground, his legs crushed under the carriage, blood caking his battered face. His eyes were open, glassy with death.
She dragged her gaze away, trying to get her bearings. They were obviously in one of the business sections of London. Flickering streetlamps revealed dark, shuttered retail shops lining one side of the cobblestone lane. On the other side was a medieval-looking church. Next to it were black, iron-wrought gates, and more ironwork arching across the entrance that showed the name: Saint Michael Cemetery.
Inside the carriage, Jowls and Weasel Face were moving around, cursing and muttering. She saw shadowy hands reach out of the opening to grasp the frame of the carriage doors.
Time’s up.
Hoping it wasn’t a bad omen, Kendra began limping toward the cemetery.
31
Alec finished the intricate dance steps and bowed over Becca’s hand. His gaze traveled the length of the ballroom for the third time since leading Becca out on the floor, but once again he did not see Kendra. Devil take it, where was the blasted woman?
“If it’s any consolation, I do not see her either,” Rebecca murmured.
His gaze returned to Rebecca. He smiled wryly. “I am being unpardonably rude.”
“Don’t be stupid. Are you going to tell me what you two are having a row about?” she asked as they moved off the dance floor and threaded their way through the crowds to the periphery of the ballroom.
“We aren’t having a row,” he said, and avoided Rebecca’s too-perceptive gaze by searching the room for Kendra. Uneasiness prickled the back of his neck when he couldn’t find her. “Do you want a lemonade?”
“Not particularly, but let’s go there. Perhaps Miss Donovan is getting a refreshment,” Rebecca said drily.
Rebecca offered, “I’ll look in the ladies withdrawing rooms.”
Alec nodded. “Thank you.”
As she hurried down the hall, Alec leaned against the wall, absently nodding at the many familiar faces that greeted him as they walked by. Carefully, he schooled his features into a cold aloofness that discouraged anyone from tarrying to speak with him. It wasn’t difficult; his mind was replaying the earlier scene with Kendra.
Marry. Let’s get married.
Like a bloody fool, he’d just gaped at her. Hell and damnation! She’d caught him flat-footed. What lady proposed to a gentleman in the middle of a ball? What lady proposed to a gentleman ever?
Kendra Donovan, that was who.
He almost regretted not taking advantage of her momentary weakness… except he’d known that it had been a weakness. He’d seen her looking at the Duke and Carlotta. He’d seen something in her eyes that looked perilously close to fear. Not fear that Carlotta was a charlatan, but that she was not.
For such an intelligent woman, Kendra could be shockingly foolish. While she placed a great deal of value on her skills as an investigator—and rightly so—she placed almost no value on herself as a human being. On one level it baffled him how easily she thought she could be replaced in his uncle’s heart, and yet on another, he understood. She’d told him how her parents had left her to fend for herself when she’d disagreed with the path that they’d laid out for her. She always adopted a nonchalant tone when she spoke of that time, but he’d been cognizant of the pain beneath the surface, a wound that outwardly had healed but deep inside still festered.
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