Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Apparently, Mrs. Gavenston had a difficult time imagining it as well. She looked away. “I don’t know.”

  Kendra felt sorry for the other woman. Mrs. Gavenston had a fight on her hands to keep the brewery, with both her uncle and Fletcher circling like sharks. If the truth about Jeremy got out, it would be like chum in the water. Maybe it would be the very thing that they needed to wrest control away from her. The tide of history was already turning against women brewsters. Did Kendra really want to be responsible for helping Captain Sinclair and Fletcher?

  Kendra sighed. “It’s your secret,” she finally said, looking at Mrs. Gavenston. “I won’t say anything.”

  “I won’t either—if you answer one question,” Sam said.

  Mrs. Gavenston regarded the Bow Street Runner warily. “What is the question?”

  “Did you hire ruffians ter try ter kill Miss Donovan because you feared your secret was about ter be exposed?”

  Mrs. Gavenston’s lips parted in shock. “I did no such thing!”

  Sam watched her for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll keep your secret.”

  Mrs. Gavenston released a sigh. “Thank you.”

  Kendra put down the teacup and saucer and stood. “Goodbye, Mrs. Gavenston, and good luck.”

  She tried not to limp when she walked to the door with Sam. Her knee was really sore. She thought she might ask for another poultice when they got back to Grosvenor Square.

  “One more thing,” Kendra said, pausing to turn back to Mrs. Gavenston. “Be careful of your son-in-law. I think he might be selling your recipes to Mr. Fletcher.”

  Mrs. Gavenston’s lips twisted into a mirthless smile. “I know. He’s been selling what he thinks are Barrett Brewery recipes. I was surprised that Mr. Fletcher had tried to corrupt Jeremy. But I know about my son-in-law’s failings.” She gave a bitter laugh at the expression on Kendra’s face. “I’m not quite the fool you think I am, Miss Donovan. At least not when it comes to Barrett Brewery. It’s everywhere else that my wits have fled.”

  36

  Kendra waited until everyone—Alec, the Duke, Rebecca, and Muldoon—had gathered in the study before briefing them on what had transpired with Hester. First, though, she swore them to secrecy. Of course, Muldoon resisted, sensing that he would be letting a prime story slip through his fingers. Apparently Fleet Street reporters were as tenacious in the 19th century as they were in her day. It was only when Rebecca accused him of caring more about his wretched newspaper than the human beings involved that he grudgingly backed down.

  As Rebecca and Muldoon regarded each other, Kendra’s inner antennae quivered again. Maybe Mrs. Gavenston wasn’t the only one who failed to see a romance blooming beneath her nose. Kendra put aside her suspicions to tell them who’d murdered Pascoe—and why.

  The silence was profound when she finished, broken only by the crackle of logs in the hearth, the rain tapping against the windowpanes, the tick of the clock on the mantel. Kendra took a slow sip of brandy.

  “Dear heaven,” Rebecca finally breathed. “Poor Mrs. Gavenston. She must have been terrified when she realized that she was with child. There is no greater shame for a woman.”

  How different it would be in another two hundred years. Not everywhere, of course. But the stigma of having a child out of wedlock would no longer force a young mother to give away her baby to avoid becoming a social pariah. Every family reacted differently to such news, but society overall had changed. There was more sympathy, less censure. Thank God.

  Muldoon shook his head. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Gavenston paid for her indiscretion.”

  Rebecca let out a heavy sigh. “To think a secret from thirty years ago could cause so much destruction. Mrs. Gavenston could have had no idea what would happen between Hester and Jeremy.”

  Kendra wondered if Mrs. Gavenston should have considered the possibility. This was, after all, a society of tightly controlled courtships. How freeing it must have been for Hester and Jeremy to work closely together, to have their business relationship turn into a friendship to so easily fall in love. Siblings who grew up together rarely formed a sexual attraction. Not only were there societal taboos, but Finnish anthropologist Edvard Westermarck had come up with the hypothesis that children raised together from birth to six had a form of reverse sexual imprinting, giving them a sort of immunity from becoming attracted to each other. Yet there had been cases when siblings had met each other as adults and, unaware of their genetic connection, had fallen in love. Hello, Dr. Phil.

  “I wonder if we’re doing Hester any kindness by keeping the truth from her,” Rebecca said. “She will go to her grave believing the man that she loved had turned against her for no reason.”

  “Do you think it would be kinder for her to learn that the man she loved was her own brother?” Alec asked.

  “No, I suppose not.” Rebecca took a swallow of her sherry. “I dare say that’s why Mrs. Gavenston was so desperate to keep the secret that she hired someone to harm Kendra.”

  Kendra shook her head. “Mrs. Gavenston only learned today of the consequences of keeping Jeremy a secret.”

  “Aye. And I asked her about that, but she denied it,” said Sam.

  Muldoon shrugged. “She’s obviously lying. Conspiracy to commit murder is a serious charge. The woman would be in gaol or the madhouse along with her daughter.”

  Sam said nothing, his gaze on the glass of whiskey that he held.

  “Or it was Fletcher,” the reporter said, eyes narrowing. “He’s evil.”

  Kendra thought Muldoon was speaking more out of dislike for the brewer than a specific reason.

  “He would also have to be mad,” the Duke said with a steely note in his voice. “Kendra is a member of my family. Mr. Kelly, I want your men to continue to investigate the matter. Even though the danger most likely has passed, I want to know who was brazen enough to order these attacks.”

  Kendra’s throat tightened unexpectedly at his words.

  “Perhaps Miss Donovan already knows,” Alec murmured. He was sprawled on a chair, his legs outstretched, holding his whiskey. The pose appeared indolent, but his green eyes were sharp as he studied her. He sees too much, she thought.

  She cleared her throat and said, “If I knew, why would I keep it a secret? I want the person responsible for the attacks caught as well.”

  “Of course, you do. Mr. Kelly shall find the fiend.” Rebecca finished her sherry and set aside the glass. “I shall take my leave. Tomorrow night is the masquerade ball at Vauxhall—although I fear it may be cancelled if this rain continues.”

  “I doubt that. The party will simply be moved to inside,” the Duke said.

  Rebecca smiled a little. “It’s hardly the same, sir. I was quite looking forward to the dark walks in the pleasure gardens.”

  Alec shook his head. “Not without a chaperone.”

  “Don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Sutcliffe,” she said, pushing herself to her feet.

  Muldoon eyed her with interest. “And what is your costume?”

  “I shall be going as Athena.”

  He smiled. “Ah, the goddess of wisdom and war. It suits you. Maybe I ought to sneak in as Hercules. Would you grant me a dance?”

  The Duke and Alec stared at the reporter, surprised, while Rebecca blushed.

  “That would be very bold of you, Mr. Muldoon,” she said.

  “It would be very stupid of him,” Sam growled, glaring at the Irishman. “It ain’t for the likes of us.”

  Muldoon gave the Bow Street Runner a taunting look. “With everyone wearing masks, it will be difficult to distinguish a prince from a pauper. Vauxhall has as many common folks wandering the dark paths as gentry, you know. It only requires three-and-six-pence as the entrance fee.”

  That caught Kendra’s attention. “This is a public venue?”

  “Yes, with private parties, such as Sir Howe’s,” the Duke said.

  “How big are these entertainments at Vauxhall?” she asked.

  “It
depends on the entertainment.” The Duke glanced at the window, streaked in rain. “And the weather. When I was a young buck, Arabella and I attended the fancy-dress jubilee. More than sixty thousand attended that celebration.”

  “Sixty thousand? I didn’t realize it was so large a venue,” Kendra said, turning away to think it over. Easy access, everyone wearing masks. If she wanted to target someone, she couldn’t ask for a better location.

  “Who will you be going as, Miss Donovan?” Muldoon asked. He smiled when she glanced back at him. “Still thinking to dress up as a woman from the future?”

  “I think the future is out—for now. My costume… it’s a surprise.”

  The Duke raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you had time to shop for anything, my dear. I believe Caro purchased something for you to wear.”

  “Then I guess my costume is going to be a surprise for her as well.”

  The Duke cocked his head. “Do I need to be worried?”

  Kendra smiled. “There should be minimal bloodshed.”

  “Well, I’m intrigued to see what you have come up with, Miss Donovan,” Rebecca said. “Mama said that we shall be meeting here before we go to Vauxhall.”

  “I shall escort you to your carriage,” Muldoon offered, standing.

  “Me too,” Sam said, earning an irritated frown from the Irishman.

  The Duke waited until both men escorted Rebecca from the room. “Pray tell, you don’t think Mr. Muldoon was serious when he spoke of sneaking into the masquerade ball to dance with Becca, do you?”

  “It’s Muldoon,” Alec said with a shrug.

  “Hmm. Well, I suppose it is none of my affair.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Caro and Carlotta ought to be in the drawing room. Alec, I assume you will be staying for dinner.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Alec rose after the Duke left. He crossed the room to Kendra and lifted his hands to frame her face, looking into her eyes. “What are you plotting?”

  “Plotting?” Her eyes widened. “What makes you think I’m plotting anything?”

  “Because I’m not stupid. I saw your face when we were discussing who was behind the attacks, and when you asked about Vauxhall.”

  “I’ll never play poker with you.”

  “You have a lamentable tendency to try to take control of situations by yourself, Miss Donovan. I’d say you’re a managing female—”

  “You make it sound like an insult,” she interrupted, annoyed. “I’m used to managing my own life. It wasn’t until I came here, in this blasted backward century, that that became a problem.”

  “It’s not a problem. At least, not with me. What is a problem is your lack of trust in me.”

  “I trust you. No, seriously, I trust you,” she insisted when she saw the skepticism flash in his eyes. “But you don’t trust me to handle myself.”

  His thumb brushed the bruise on her cheek. “Maybe I don’t like to see this.”

  “I can’t say I like it either, but I handled myself. I need you to trust me to do that.”

  “And will you trust me enough to share your plan?”

  “I’m not planning anything yet—I’m thinking about a plan, though,” she admitted. “I want to get the person who tried to have me killed.”

  “Carlotta. That’s who you think is behind the attempts to harm you, isn’t it?”

  “Clever boy.” She smiled. “You’re halfway right. I want her accomplice.”

  * * *

  Later that night, as gusts of wind rattled the windowpanes, Molly helped Kendra out of the pink fringed evening dress and into her ivory lawn nightgown. She sat in front of the mirrored vanity and watched Molly brush out her hair.

  “Any gossip about Carlotta?” she asked the maid.

  “Miss Beckett says that Lady Atwood is lookin’ ter ’ire ’er a lady’s maid.”

  So, either the countess was tired of sharing her lady’s maid or she was softening to Carlotta’s claim to be Charlotte.

  “Do you know if Carlotta left here to go anywhere on her own?” Kendra asked.

  Molly frowned. “Like shopping?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Nay. Leastwise, Oi don’t think so. ’Er ladyship is usually with ’er when they go out.”

  Kendra frowned. Who is your accomplice, Carlotta? How do you communicate with him?

  “Has she sent messages out with the footman? Or a stable boy?”

  “Ter where?”

  “I don’t know. Anywhere.”

  “She’s went out ter the back gardens ter pick flowers.”

  “Are you sure she stayed in the garden?”

  “As far as Oi know.”

  “And no one met with her?”

  “Nay, Oi don’t think so.”

  Kendra said nothing. She’d managed to sneak out of the house on several occasions. It was sneaking back when she was usually spotted.

  “She accompanied the Duke to the Royal Society and went shopping with the countess,” she said. “She’s had opportunities to send or receive messages.”

  Molly eyed her as she set down the brush. “ ’Oo is she sending messages ter?”

  “I don’t know.” But she damned well knew that Carlotta wasn’t working alone.

  “Will that be all, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you, Molly. Good night.”

  Instead of crawling into bed, Kendra moved to the window. The nearly pitch-black darkness outside turned the wavy glass into a mirror, reflecting her pale face, the candles on the nightstand, the dancing flames in the fireplace. The events of the day suddenly washed over her, leaving her with a strange sense of despondency. Hester’s situation left her feeling sad. She knew how one moment could change your life forever.

  Behind her, the door opened. In the window’s reflection, she watched Alec slip into the room.

  “I was hoping you’d come,” she said, turning.

  He started to smile, but his lips fell as he searched her face. “What’s wrong?”

  She laughed softly. “I really can’t ever play poker with you.”

  He crossed the room, resting his hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

  “Nothing. Not really. I-I just can’t help but think Jeremy Pascoe wasn’t the only victim.” She slid her hands around his waist, pressing herself against him. His arms came around her immediately. “Can you just hold me? Tonight. Just hold me?”

  “Always.”

  “And I’ll tell you about my plan.”

  37

  A package came for you, miss.”

  Kendra had been wiping down the slate board, but now glanced over her shoulder at Harding, who had stepped into the study. “A package?”

  “Yes. From a Mrs. Browne in Cookham.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks. Where is it?”

  “Your maid brought it to your bedchamber.” He hesitated, looking at the now blank slate board. “It’s finished, then?”

  Kendra tossed the wet rag aside. “The investigation into Mr. Pascoe’s death is finished.”

  Harding nodded, then left.

  Kendra stood for a moment, her gaze traveling to the window. The rain from the previous evening had dissipated. The sun was out and the sky was dotted with layers of marshmallow clouds. If the weather didn’t change (and since this was England, that was always a possibility), she expected the masquerade at Vauxhall wouldn’t be limited indoors, but spill outside, into the dark walks.

  It’s not finished, she thought. But it soon will be.

  Molly had placed the package, wrapped in brown paper and tied together with raffia, on the bed, and was eyeing it with all the trepidation that a bomb disposal unit would an unattended backpack in an airport.

  “Lady Atwood ain’t gonna be pleased,” she warned. “We still ’ave time ter get ye a new costume.”

  “I don’t want a new costume. I want this costume.”

  Kendra untied the raffia, and pushed aside the paper to reveal leather boots, faun-colored
breeches, a gray and ivory embroidered silk waistcoat, white cravat, and cream shirt with lacy cuffs, and a deep burgundy frock coat. Kendra grinned. Mrs. Browne had even included a black tricorn hat and a black silk domino mask.

  Kendra kicked off her shoes. “Unbutton me. I need to make sure it fits.”

  Molly still didn’t look happy, but she obeyed. Kendra peeled off her clothes, except for her stockings and garters, slipped on the shirt, and shimmied into the breeches. After nine months of only wearing long dresses, it was strange to wear pants again. In many ways, she knew she’d been fortunate that the fashions of this era were better than other times in history. She didn’t even want to think of how fashion would change in the next couple of decades, with women literally strapped into cages as they donned crinoline hoops made out of steel and cotton beneath multiple petticoats and waists cinched into tight corsets to acquire the shape of a bell. She’d seen Gone with the Wind, so she had to admit that there was a certain visual appeal. Still, the trade-off—turning women into decorative dolls—was too much to contemplate.

  Kendra pushed the thought away. It was always weird to think about the future. She might not know what was going to happen in her life tomorrow—or tonight, for that matter—but she knew what would happen in a broad historical context. She knew that in four years the Regency would come to an end when King George died and his son, the Prince Regent, was crowned king. And King George IV would die only a decade later, his health rapidly deteriorating, confined to his bedchambers. But what good was that knowledge?

  “Oi don’t know how to tie this,” Molly said, interrupting her reverie. The maid was holding up the long silk cravat.

  She smiled. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Well, we’ll figure it out. Or I’ll borrow the Duke’s valet.”

  Molly laughed. “Oi’d like ter watch that!”

  “Mrs. Browne did a good job,” Kendra said, picking up the frock coat and slipping it on. It was about a size too big, but Kendra didn’t have any problem with that. The garment had what she wanted, something else that she’d taken for granted—pockets. “I won’t need to carry my reticule,” she said, slipping her hands into them.