Lady Winifred abruptly quit playing, and in the sudden silence, the Duke’s words seemed to hang in the air, a dark promise. For just an instant, Kendra wondered if that had been the other woman’s intent, to create drama by her sudden cessation at the pianoforte. Then she noticed that Lady Winifred’s attention was not on them, but on the door, where the butler had materialized.
“Dinner is served,” Crawford announced quietly.
Bancroft was the first to get to his feet. His black eyes glinted as he offered Kendra his arm. She had no choice but to stand and slip her hand through the crook of his elbow.
“Shall we continue this fascinating discussion in the dining room, Miss Donovan, your Grace?” the old man said. “I believe my appetite has been wheted.”
12
They were seated at a dining room table that looked as though it could easily seat thirty people. Like the courtyard with its gargoyles, Kendra thought the room had a certain gothic atmosphere in its preponderance of dark mahogany, from its paneled walls to the heavy furnishings, to the fireplace mantel intricately carved with winged dragons. Gas lamps hissed on the walls, but the white-clothed table held several silver candelabras, the flickering light from the long tapers passing over the bone china bowls and wide silver spoons.
The butler brought the wine forward for Lord Bancroft to approve, and then moved silently around the table, filling their goblets. A tall footman arrived, carrying a silver tureen. Another footman accompanied him to serve the brisket of beef soup, its tantalizing aroma curling around the table.
“I knew your father, your Grace,” Lord Bancroft told the Duke.
Aldridge was seated across from Kendra. He looked at their host. “Oh? How were you acquainted with my father? I don’t recall him mentioning you.”
“No, I should rephrase. Our meeting was brief.” Bancroft picked up his spoon. “Thirty-seven years ago, at Aldridge Castle,” he ruminated, and a small, funny smile played around his mouth. “You were not in the castle at the time, but two of your sisters were there, as was your brother.”
Aldridge’s blue eyes softened. “I would have been eighteen. I imagine I was in London at the time, where I had the great fortune of meeting my future wife during a lecture at the Royal Society.”
“That is a happy memory. I apologize—I don’t recall her name.”
“Arabella,” Aldridge said quietly.
“No doubt you swept her off her feet.”
The Duke smiled. “No, I was forced to wait. Arabella was only fifteen at the time. Her father was a squire at a small estate in Somerset, and had only been visiting London. We spent the next three years corresponding until she was launched into her first season. I was determined to make it her last.”
“Her family would hardly turn down the heir to a dukedom,” said Bancroft.
Lady Winifred looked at the Duke. “Where is your wife, your Grace?”
“My wife died many years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured with a certain coolness, which indicated that her sympathy had more to do with social etiquette than any genuine feeling.
Kendra looked at Bancroft. “You never said how long you knew Mr. Stone, my lord. Did you know him before he came to East Dingleford and served as the manager to your mill?”
Bancroft dipped his spoon into the soup, then brought it to his mouth. Kendra wondered if he was doing what she and the Duke had done in the drawing room, deliberately sipping their wine to buy time to get their stories straight.
“No,” he finally said. He plunged his spoon into the soup again. His black eyes glittered. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard that you had employed another mill manager before Mr. Stone.” She paused to taste the soup as well. “A lot of people were surprised when you fired him and hired Mr. Stone.”
“You have uncovered a lot of information in a short time, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra smiled, and said nothing. Again, her skin prickled as she met his dark eyes, and caught the mocking gleam in them.
“Of course, not all your information is correct,” he continued. “I did not dismiss Mr. Murray. He offered his resignation, and I accepted it—with much regret, I might add. He had been the manager of Bancroft Mills from the day it opened in 1789. However, Mr. Murray recommended Mr. Stone as his replacement.”
Kendra frowned. “I was under the impression that Mr. Murray was a rather pious man. And Mr. Stone was . . . not.”
Bancroft’s lips curved into something near a smile. “One does not offer employment recommendations because they admire another man’s soul, Miss Donovan, but rather on that man’s skill in business.”
“From what I’ve heard, Mr. Stone wasn’t very good at either.”
The earl set down his spoon and picked up his wineglass. “Mr. Stone was not well-liked, in many ways because he was good in business.”
“You mean because he was good at laying people off.”
“Such things must be done.” Bancroft shrugged. “Especially with the advancements in machinery. The mill is not a charity house.”
“Still, I heard he enjoyed that part of his job.”
Bancroft returned his attention to his soup. “As I keep telling you, Mr. Stone was my mill manager, but we were not friends.”
Lady Winifred gave a small, tight smile. “The very notion is absurd. We do not share the same social circles as Mr. Stone and his wife.”
The way she said wife, with a note of sharp condescension, reminded Kendra of the resentment Lavinia Stone had displayed when she spoke of Bancroft and his daughter. Looking at Lady Winifred’s scornful expression, Kendra could see why Lavinia Stone had disliked the other woman.
“But you must have known that Mr. Stone wasn’t a conscientious worker,” she persisted. “You hired Mr. Biddle.”
Bancroft pushed away his empty bowl. “I had been planning to hire an assistant manager for Mr. Murray. Bancroft Mills is a large enterprise; it makes sense to have more than one manager running it.”
“Will you promote Mr. Biddle now to the top manager position?” asked Kendra.
“Possibly. I haven’t given it much thought.”
“He’s handled the majority of the responsibilities of running the mill. We heard Mr. Stone spent most of his time in other pursuits.”
Bancroft regarded her with what looked like amusement. “Again, I am in awe of the amount of information you collected in such a short time, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra was saved from making any sort of retort by the return of the butler and footmen to clear the table for the second course. She sat back and watched, still fascinated at the grand production the aristocracy made of their evening meal. Savory scents blanketed the room as the servants returned with platters boasting squab pigeons and stewed hares, and side dishes of julienned carrots, boiled potatoes, and brussels sprouts. Gravy boats filled with dark brown sauce, melted butter, and an assortment of jellies accompanied each dish.
“Did you know that Mr. Stone had a reputation at cheating at cards?” she asked after the butler had replenished their wine and withdrawn.
“Rumors and innuendo,” Bancroft dismissed. He picked up his knife and fork, making short work of the pigeon on his plate.
“Rumors of being a cardsharp should not be dismissed lightly,” the Duke said. “Did you at least investigate the accusations, my lord?”
Bancroft chewed and swallowed the slice of meat before replying. He seemed to weigh his words carefully. “I think you are referring to the incident in the Assembly Rooms. Last spring, I believe it was.”
“Yes,” Kendra said.
The earl stabbed a sprout with his knife. He took a bite of the vegetable, and chewed thoughtfully. “A farmer accused Mr. Stone of cheating him during a game, from what I recollect. Winifred, do you recall the man’s name?”
“Really, Papa.” She gave a pained smile, picking up her wineglass. “You do not expect me to know the name of a farmer, do you?”
“Turner! Yes, Mr. Turner.” B
ancroft looked at Kendra. “I do not have more than a passing acquaintance with him, but he has a reputation for being a thoroughly disagreeable character. You would do well to look into him.”
“We’ll do that.” Kendra sampled the julienned carrots. The food was decent, but she decided that she’d become spoiled by Monsieur Anton. “Where were you yesterday, my lord, between three and six?”
There was no way to soften the question, and she was curious to see Bancroft’s reaction. Realizing that one had come under scrutiny in an investigation elicited various reactions from shock to insult.
Bancroft merely looked curious. “Is that when Mr. Stone is thought to have died?”
“It is.”
“How do you know Mr. Stone was killed within those hours?” he wondered.
“The physical evidence suggests that’s the window we’re working with,” she said, choosing her words with care. “Mr. Biddle said he was with Stone until approximately two-thirty—half past two.” She opted for the British usage, then continued. “The constable is in the process of interviewing workers to see if anybody saw Mr. Stone after that time. Maybe we can narrow down our window even more.”
Bancroft eyed her. “You are a most unusual female, Miss Donovan.”
What did you say to that? It was, as far as Kendra was concerned, equal to being called a freak.
The earl picked up his wineglass, hesitated. “Hmm. Between three and six, you say?”
Bancroft swirled his glass, his eyes lowered to the eddy he created inside the cut crystal. Candlelight was supposed to be kind to women after a certain age—it wasn’t kind to Lord Bancroft. The light played across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes, and across his forehead. The loose flesh of his jaw hung over his cravat. In this setting, he had the look of a feeble old man. But Kendra knew that was deceiving. The earl might be old, but there was nothing feeble about him. Beneath his aged flesh was a strength and purpose that made her watch him as if he was a coiled snake, ready to strike.
“I worked in my study the entire afternoon,” Bancroft said finally, lifting his gaze to lock on hers. “At six, I retired to my dressing room to prepare for dinner. Naturally, Winifred joined me for the meal. We dined at seven, as we do every evening. Is that not correct, Winifred?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Can anyone verify that you were in your study all afternoon?” Kendra asked.
“My land steward was with me in the early hours, but, unfortunately, he departed at around half past two. My valet can confirm that I was in my bedchamber at six. You have my permission to quiz my manservant if you don’t believe me, Miss Donovan.”
“What is this?” Lady Winifred’s dark eyes moved from her father to Kendra. She suddenly seemed to understand the direction the conversation had taken. Her nostrils flared in indignation as she looked at Kendra. “Are you suggesting that my father may have anything to do with Mr. Stone’s death, Miss Donovan? That is outrageous!”
Kendra met the widow’s dark eyes. If the evening progressed in the typical fashion for this era, the men would stay behind at the table to take port and possibly smoke, while the women moved into the drawing room. She hoped that particular ritual would be abandoned this evening.
“Do not fuss, Winifred,” said Bancroft. “I have nothing to hide.”
His daughter let out a sharp breath. “Of course you do not.”
The Duke asked, “Where is your study located, my lord?”
“On the ground floor, near the morning room. It would be easy enough, I imagine, for me to sneak outside. It has French doors that lead to the verandah and the gardens in the back of the manor.” He smiled at them as he sipped his wine. “But to sneak off the grounds and make my way over the moors to the mill without being seen? I do not think so.”
As the butler and footmen returned to clear the table for the third course of fruits and cheeses, Kendra regarded the old man. He didn’t seem to care whether he was a murder suspect. She wondered if that was because he was innocent, or because he was very clever.
The wineglasses were filled again. She sipped, and summoned a mental picture of the surrounding geography. The mill was less than two miles away. By Bancroft’s own account, he had at least three hours to make it to the mill, kill Stone, and return home for dinner.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, and met his dark eyes with a smile as cool as his own. “It would depend on the motivation, I think.”
“Ah, but you make my point, Miss Donovan.” He picked up his refilled glass, and wagged a playful finger at her. “I have no motivation to kill the manager of my mill. In fact, the entire incident inconveniences me dreadfully.”
“Inconvenience has never been a good alibi for murder.”
Bancroft’s mouth curved into a thin, sharp smile. “Nevertheless, I had no reason to murder Mr. Stone.”
Kendra held his eyes for a beat. “Do you know why Mr. Stone went into the mill yesterday? Was he working on anything specific?”
“No. Mr. Biddle would be the person to ask.”
She asked, “Who do you think may have had reason to kill him?”
“I can’t imagine. Although now that I think of it, Mr. Turner certainly had a grievance against him. I had thought the whole incident was in the past, but perhaps not. Mr. Turner has a reputation as having a violent temper. What was done to Mr. Stone was certainly violent.” He paused, then smiled. “Of course, if anyone else comes to mind, I shall certainly send word. Now . . . shall we retire to the drawing room and have another drink?”
“What are you thinking, my dear?” the Duke asked from the opposite seat as the carriage rolled back to East Dingleford. He’d turned on the small brass lamp in the corner, enough light to see the frown on Kendra’s face.
“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.” Kendra leaned forward. Her head was swimming; the godawful swaying of the carriage wasn’t helping matters. She gripped her head with both hands. “God.”
Aldridge eyed her warily. “If you are going to be ill, I shall tell Benjamin to pull off to the side of the road immediately.”
“No . . . well, I’ll let you know.” She slid her hands to her cheeks. “It’s actually embarrassing to know that someone like Lady Winifred can drink me under the table.”
The Duke smiled slightly. “I don’t think you are giving Lady Winifred a compliment.”
Kendra pulled herself upright. “I’d like to know a lot more about the Earl of Langfrey. You never met him in London?”
“Even before Arabella—before the accident, we preferred the country. Though the Langfrey name does ring a distant bell. I find it interesting that he is not the local magistrate, given his obvious wealth. Then again, financials are easy to disguise.” He cocked his head. “What troubles you about him, my dear?”
She had to think about that. “He’s arrogant, condescending.”
“Unfortunately, that is typical of men in his position.”
She regarded him. “You’re in a higher position, but you aren’t like that.”
“I had an older brother until I was thirteen,” he said. “I was never meant to inherit Aldridge Castle, and was allowed to develop my interests in natural philosophy. I only came in line to inherit the dukedom after Richard was struck down with brain fever while at Cambridge.”
There was so much they didn’t know about each other.
“It was a long time ago,” Aldridge continued. “My point is, I wasn’t being groomed to be a duke from birth. And I fell in love with Arabella. Her father was a squire—landed gentry, not nobility. Our view of the world is shaped by the people around us and our experiences, is it not?”
Kendra was quiet for a moment. “I wonder what shaped Bancroft while he was gone from East Dingleford?” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t like him. I feel like he’s toying with me in some way.”
Aldridge considered that. “I didn’t find Lord Bancroft particularly evasive.”
“You think it�
�s my imagination?”
“Not necessarily.”
She frowned. Was she letting her dislike for Bancroft cloud her judgment? “He certainly pushed Mr. Turner as a possible suspect, didn’t he? He barely remembered the man initially, but then suddenly recalled his violent temper.”
“You think Lord Bancroft is being devious?”
“I think everyone is being devious. I also think that the simplest way to deflect suspicion away from yourself is to point a finger at somebody else.”
13
The next morning, Kendra found herself in the private parlor, a cup of coffee in hand, in front of a newly acquired slate board. She wondered where Matthews had dug it up. There was a hushed quality to the Green Maiden that reminded her of the preternaturally still hours just before dawn, though sun poured through the window. Many of the travelers had left on Saturday, not wanting to offend God—or society—by being caught on the highway on Sunday. The remaining guests had either left for church services, like the Duke, or were still in bed.
Kendra lifted the coffee cup and took a long swallow. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure, appreciating the jolt of caffeine as much as the silence. When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell on the first column on the slate board: victimology, filled with scribbles.
She sighed again, but this time there was nothing pleasurable about it. She could easily just write asshole. Mr. Harold “Harry” Stone was the kind of victim that law enforcement dreaded, a guy whose personality and lifestyle generated a long list of suspects. He’d been a womanizer and libertine, before and after his marriage, and jealousy was always a motivator. Wives were normally at the top of the suspect list, but Lavinia Stone’s alibi was solid. And she wasn’t ringing any bells for Kendra. Mrs. Stone had displayed more jealousy and anger toward Lady Winifred and Lord Bancroft than her husband’s infidelity.
Kendra’s gaze slid down the list. Stone had been a gambler and, if the rumors held, not averse to cheating. Gambling was high-risk behavior. Even if Stone hadn’t swindled anyone, Kendra often found that people didn’t like losing their money. And if he had cheated . . . She thought of what the Duke had said, that many gentlemen resolved their differences on the dueling field. Maybe the offended party in this case had chosen to bludgeon Stone with a bronze statue, rather than challenge him with dueling pistols.
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