“I served ’er nuncheon around two.” She looked to her mistress. “Ye sat down, and complained that the roast wasn’t seasoned ter yer likin’, remember? Afterward, I tidied up. Course it takes a considerable time, seein’ I ’ave all those pots and pans ter wash, without me ’aving any ’elp w’otsoever. Not even a scullery maid.”
Mrs. Stone rolled her eyes. “You manage quite well, Mrs. Trout. Better than when you were cleaning up after the patrons at the Queen’s Theater—at half the wage, I might add. Now, off with you!”
Mrs. Stone turned to smile at the Duke as her servant sniffed loudly and shuffled out of the drawing room. “Do you take cream and sugar, your Grace?”
Mrs. Stone took her time filling cups with cream, pouring the tea and stirring in lumps of sugar. Aware that all eyes were on her, she smiled as she passed around the teacups.
Kendra waited until the duty was finished to ask, “How long were you and Mr. Stone married?”
“Three years.”
“Where did you meet your husband? I don’t think you are originally from East Dingleford.”
“Oh, heavens no.” She laughed at that. “I’m from Manchester. As soon as Mr. Stone’s affairs are settled, I shall return there. Or mayhap I shall travel to London. I have always fancied living in that grand city.” She lifted her teacup and eyed the Duke. “I suppose you have a house there, your Grace?”
“I do, yes. Personally, I prefer the country.”
“Well, East Dingleford qualifies as country.”
“Mrs. Stone was an actress in Manchester before she married Mr. Stone,” Matthews spoke up.
Mrs. Stone lifted her chin, hearing the condemnation in his voice. “’Tis nothing I’m ashamed of, sir.”
Matthews pressed his lips together, and said nothing.
“The Queen’s Theater?” Kendra guessed.
“Yes. I was on the stage when I met Harry. He might not have been in his prime, but he was loose with his purse strings, if you know what I mean. We had a grand time.” She took a swallow of tea, and then set down her cup. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when he asked me to marry him.”
The Duke raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t think he had honorable intentions?”
Mrs. Stone laughed loudly. “Oh, dear. There was nothing honorable about Harry’s intentions, even after we married, your Grace. I wasn’t looking to become leg-shackled, mind you, but I’d have been a simpleton to turn him down. I barely made twenty pounds a year on stage!”
Aldridge concentrated on his tea for a moment. “And what is—was Mr. Stone’s annual income?” he asked, lowering his teacup.
“I’m not certain. I quizzed him about it, of course. Wouldn’t have been right if I didn’t, would it? Seeing how I was giving up my career. But Harry always told me that we’d be provided for. And he did seem well set. Just look at all these things!” Her gaze roved over the surfaces crowded with porcelain felines. “Harry was forever buying notions and putting them about.”
Kendra eyed a ceramic cat licking its paw. “So this was your husband’s collection?”
Mrs. Stone gave an inelegant snort. “Oh, yes, the collection was Harry’s. Personally, I wouldn’t give a farthing for the entire lot! It’s not like a pretty gown or a sparkler you can wear around your neck, now is it?” Her ringed fingers toyed with the emerald pendant. “Don’t know why Harry had such a fondness for such things either. Thought he was going daft. Old age does that to a person, you know.”
“Just because he collected objets d’art . . .” Kendra’s gaze was drawn to another cat, this one on its back, batting a ball of yarn. Okay, perhaps calling these ceramic figurines art was stretching it. “That doesn’t mean he was going senile.”
Mrs. Stone shrugged. “It wasn’t so much him collecting the things. But when he’d bring home another one, he’d find it all so bloody amusing. Harry has—had—a sly sense of humor. But I never understood this.” She waved a hand, jewelry glittering. “Thought he must have had one as a pet when he was a boy. I told him that we should get a real cat—better that than to spend all his blunt on these things. At least a cat could be a good mouser. But Harry told me that he couldn’t abide the things. He said they made his eyes itch something awful.”
“Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs. Stone?” Kendra asked, bringing the topic back to the reason they were there. Stone’s fetish for cat knickknacks was strange, but she doubted he’d been killed because of it. “Did someone threaten him recently?”
The widow bit her lip as she considered the matter. “Harry was a rogue, for sure. Wasn’t no secret. There wasn’t a dogfight or card game he wouldn’t gamble on, or a wench he wouldn’t bed at the twitch of her skirt. Yet for all his gaming, drinking, and whoring, he was a good husband.”
Kendra stared at her. What would the widow consider a bad husband? “Those are a lot of vices,” she finally said. “You’re saying he was unfaithful?”
“Oh, I would be surprised if he wasn’t. The man was a rascal.”
“And that didn’t bother you? I know plenty of wives who would’ve been angry to learn that their spouse was cheating on them.” Angry enough to bludgeon their husband to death, in fact, Kendra thought.
But Lavinia Stone didn’t seem to be one of them. Her ruby lips curved, the pale green eyes lit with bawdy humor. “Me and Harry had fun the first year, but I never expected him to become a proper husband. Not Harry.”
Was she lying? Kendra couldn’t tell. She’s an actress, she reminded herself. She’s used to fooling people for a living.
Kendra switched subjects. “Do you know why he went into the mill yesterday?”
Mrs. Stone frowned. “No, but he was in a bit of a temper yesterday morning, muttering under his breath.”
“What about?”
“I didn’t hear. I always found it best to ignore Harry when he was in a foul mood.”
“Were you leaving East Dingleford for a few days?”
“No.” She looked surprised. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Your husband told Mr. Biddle that he was leaving town for a few days. Maybe a business trip? He didn’t mention it to you?”
“Business—ha! Most likely ladybird business!” The widow scowled. “Blast him. He knew I would want to leave for a few days too!”
“Do you have any idea who the—the ladybird could have been?” Kendra asked. Mistresses, after all, had jealous streaks too.
Mrs. Stone shook her head, still looking put out over her dead husband’s inconsideration. “No, but I doubt the old devil planned to spend the time alone.”
Kendra waited a beat, then asked, “Did you hear about a farmer accusing him of cheating?”
“Hear about it—I was there! Oh, not in the card room. I was dancing, of course. But it caused quite a scene at the time. The constable and magistrate had to step in.” She flicked a look at Matthews. “Your father’s the magistrate, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” Matthews acknowledged stiffly.
Kendra eyed the other woman. “You don’t seem particularly upset that your husband was accused of cheating, or that he caused a scene.”
“Nothing was proven, was it?” Mrs. Stone huffed out a laugh. “And East Dingleford could use more scenes, if you ask me. Old Harry always knew how to cause excitement. Seems to me he still is.”
“Do you know the farmer’s name?”
“Hmm. Tanner? No, Turner! Yes, Turner, I think.”
Kendra switched to another line of questioning. “Can you tell me about Lord Bancroft? What kind of relationship did your husband have with him?”
Mrs. Stone made a face. “Oh, that one. Very high on the instep, isn’t he?”
“What do you mean?” asked Kendra.
“Mr. Stone and I have been married for three years, but I was only invited out to Falcon Court once for their ball. Once—when Lord Bancroft’s wife was still alive. She died of the fever shortly afterward.” For the first time, a note of bitterness crept int
o the other woman’s voice. “The earl is a cold, prideful man.”
“You and your husband never socialized with Lord Bancroft?”
“His lordship came here a few times to speak with Harry in his study. He barely acknowledged my presence, like I was dirt on his boot.” Mrs. Stone’s face tightened. The widow was clearly someone used to being flattered by male attention. “And his daughter, Lady Winifred . . .” She gave a sniff. “She is as cold and ill-mannered as he. We were introduced at the local assembly, but has she ever called upon me? Or left her card here for me to call upon her? No. The entire family is a bit stiff-rumped, if you ask me. I never met his other daughters, but I expect they’re like Lady Winifred. The only decent one in the lot is the viscount. I met him in the Assembly Rooms a year ago when he was down from Eton.”
Kendra eyed Mrs. Stone over the rim of her teacup. “The viscount?”
Matthews spoke up. “The earl’s son, Phillip—Viscount Drake. Lord Drake is studying at Eton, and will be going to Cambridge next year.”
“Harry found that amusing as well,” said Mrs. Stone.
“Why?” Kendra asked.
Mrs. Stone shrugged. “Harry wasn’t one for books. Maybe he thought anyone who was bookish like Lord Drake was a bit of a chucklehead. We didn’t discuss it, but I always thought the viscount was a sweet boy. He brought me a lemonade and we took a turn around the ballroom.”
“Lady Winifred lives here in East Dingleford?” asked Kendra, aware that they’d be dining with her and her father later tonight.
“For the moment. Lady Winifred’s husband died almost two years ago.” Mrs. Stone picked up her teacup and took a sip. “Lady Winifred married the Honorable Terence Hayward, who was in line to eventually inherit an earldom. But she only managed to produce a daughter, so, of course, there was no chance to inherit. She returned to Falcon Court.” She paused, and the ruby lips pouted. “I suppose she’s out of her widow’s weeds by now.”
The topic of Lady Winifred was obviously a hot button for Lavinia Stone.
“She acts as though I’m beneath her touch, because I was once on the stage, and had many admirers,” Mrs. Stone went on, tossing her head back in a defiant gesture.
Matthews muttered something under his breath, and Mrs. Stone turned on him, her green eyes flashing in temper. “I am not ashamed of my past, Mr. Matthews. Lady Winifred ought not forget that her own family isn’t without scandal. I know about Lord Bancroft. Harry told me all about his past!”
That caught Kendra’s attention. “What do you know about Lord Bancroft?”
She laughed, but even that had taken on a razor-like edge. “’Tis difficult to credit, but there was a time when his lordship was not so high in the instep as he is now. When he mixed with the common folk. Intimately.”
Matthews scowled. “’Tis ancient gossip.”
“It isn’t gossip,” Mrs. Stone said, her gaze locked on Matthews. “Everyone in East Dingleford knows about his indiscretion with Mrs. Bolton.”
“Mrs. Bolton?” Kendra exchanged a startled glance with the Duke. Whatever she’d expected the widow to say, that wasn’t it.
“Well, she wasn’t Mrs. Bolton back in those days. She was a farmer’s daughter. I heard that they were all set to elope to Gretna Green. Can you imagine? A farmer’s daughter running off with Quality?”
Kendra had a more egalitarian view of such things, but she had to admit that she was having a difficult time imagining the innkeeper’s wife in an illicit romance with the earl. “I guess that didn’t happen,” was all she said.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Bolton never ran away with the earl.” The widow’s lips curled, and Kendra recognized malice in the pale green eyes. “The high and mighty Lord Bancroft ran away instead.”
9
Only the most common minds would still be talking about such a thing,” Matthews sniffed, as they rode back to the Green Maiden. “The scandal happened well before I was even born. I am shocked that tongues continue to wag over the ancient incident.”
Kendra wasn’t shocked at all. A love affair between two people with such different pedigrees would capture the imagination. The affair’s unhappy end would serve well as a cautionary tale for those who wanted to keep the status quo in the country’s rigid class system. Kendra could imagine it being passed down from generation to generation, like family heirlooms—This is what happens to those who reach above themselves.
“What did Mrs. Stone mean when she said that Lord Bancroft ran away?” she asked.
“I actually do not know any specifics.” Matthews sounded affronted, as though she had accused him of being one of the gossipmongers.
“What do you know—in general?”
Matthews maneuvered the gig around two men unloading casks from a wagon outside a tavern. “I know that Lord Bancroft left East Dingleford for many years,” he said. “I believe he sailed to India. Or was it South America?” He shrugged. “Well, no matter. He returned when his father was dying. By then, he was the heir to the earldom, and Falcon Court is entailed. I was scarcely out of leading strings when this took place. If you are truly interested in the tale, you ought to quiz Mrs. Hearnshaw.”
“Who’s she?” asked Kendra.
“She used to be the housekeeper at Falcon Court until the old earl’s death. I think Lord Bancroft pensioned her off. She went to live at Goose Hill with her son’s family.”
“Goose Hill?” Kendra echoed. “Is that another village?”
“No, ’tis the name of her son’s farm, west of here, near the river. If you wish to speak to her, you should consider attending the local assembly on Monday night. She always attends with her family. Pray tell, what does any of this have to do with Mr. Stone’s murder?”
“Probably nothing,” Kendra admitted. But she filed away the information. In her experience, homicide investigations never followed a straight line, instead meandering through the past and present lives of suspects, witnesses, and victims. At the moment, Lord Bancroft interested her as a suspect. Maybe his former housekeeper could shed light on the man, introduce a viewpoint that his current staff, too afraid of dismissal, would be reluctant to share.
Matthews brought the gig to a halt next to the Green Maiden, and looked at the Duke. “What is our next course of action, sir?”
Kendra’s back stiffened with resentment. Sensing her annoyance, Aldridge put his hand on Kendra’s arm, and squeezed lightly. She didn’t know whether he was offering her sympathy, or stopping her from punching Matthews in the nose.
“We shall need a place of privacy,” the Duke replied. “I shall speak to Mr. Bolton about securing the private parlor or another chamber for the duration of our stay here. And we will need supplies. I can find most of them at the inn, I’m certain. But there is one thing . . .”
Matthews said, “I shall procure whatever you desire.”
“Excellent. Then would you be so good as to find us a slate board?”
10
Sitting at the vanity back in her room at the inn later that day, Kendra saw that the sun, framed by the bedchamber’s windows, was doing a swan dive toward the horizon. It had taken three hours to find a slate board and then set it up in the private parlor that would serve as their war room during the course of the investigation. Kendra had postponed filling the board with any notes, because she had to begin the long process of preparing for their evening at Falcon Court.
In the twenty-first century, it would have probably taken her forty-five minutes to prepare for a work function or date. An hour, tops. A hot shower. Toweling herself dry. Rubbing in body lotion, her standard routine for skincare. Blow-drying her long hair had been the most time-consuming part of the preparation. Styling it had been simple. For most of her life, her idea of the perfect hairstyle had meant pulling her hair into a ponytail. She’d never been heavy-handed with makeup, just a light application. The rest of her time would have been shuffling through her closet to select the appropriate clothes and shoes. Maybe she’d add a few pieces of jewelry.
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Here, she wore no makeup, and her clothes were selected for her. But nothing else was so easy. Setting up a bath was not a simple matter. It involved servants trudging up and down the stairs, hauling hot water for the copper bathtub. After washing her hair, the only way to speed up the drying process was to light a fire in the hearth and scoot her head as close as she dared without setting her hair ablaze or infusing it with a smoky stench. Once dry, Kendra submitted to Molly’s ministrations, which meant sitting in front of the vanity while the tweeny brushed her hair until the raven strands gleamed like starlight.
“They say ’is ’ead was gone,” Molly said, her voice caught on the sliding scale somewhere between enthralled and horrified.
Kendra met the maid’s wide eyes in the vanity mirror. “Jesus, is that what they’re saying?”
“Aye.” Molly set aside the brush and went to the fireplace, where she’d been heating up the curling tongs. “They also say that ’e was a regular rake.” She divided Kendra’s hair in sections, and began curling the ends.
“Well, that appears to be true,” Kendra conceded. “Did any of the gossip include an altercation with a farmer several months ago?”
Molly’s brow wrinkled. “An alter—w’ot?”
“An altercation—a fight.”
“Oh. Not that Oi remember. But the on dit is the bloke fought with a lot of people. Except maybe the ladies, if ye know wot Oi mean.”
Molly was fifteen. In many ways, Kendra found her to be fresh and innocent. And yet she wasn’t sheltered like many of the young girls in the upper classes. After all, the servants cleaned up after their so-called betters; there weren’t a lot of secrets that could be kept hidden from them, including infidelities and affairs. There were times when she wondered if Molly knew about her and Alec.
“And Oi ’eard that ’e didn’t care if they were married ladies either,” the maid added slyly.
“So there might be a jealous husband in the picture?”
“From w’ot Oi ’eard, more than one.”
Kendra sighed. “We might need more than one slate board.”
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