He made her happy. And sad. And confused. Was that love? And even if she was in love with Alec—and that was a big if—that didn’t mean she was willing to forget about returning to her own era. If the opportunity to return to the twenty-first century presented itself—again, another big if—she’d take it. Of course she’d take it.
Wouldn’t she?
The cold returned her to the present, and she looked outside again. The mystery woman had disappeared into the barn. At least she was probably getting warm now.
But then, there she was, already emerging from the building. Kendra frowned. How long had the woman been inside? Five minutes, maybe; less than ten, definitely. So not a romantic rendezvous, after all. Or a very disappointing one.
Kendra watched the woman retrace her footsteps back to the inn. Her head was bent, her face obscured by the shadow of her hood. Then, as though sensing eyes on her, the woman lifted her head to look up. With some surprise, Kendra stared at Mrs. Bolton’s upturned face, illuminated by the light of the moon.
As her gaze locked on the old woman’s face, Kendra remembered an article she’d read once about how the human eye couldn’t actually detect wrinkles. What the eye saw was the shadow created by a wrinkle. It was why aging actresses often had their lighting cranked up to a white-hot glare. Now looking down at Mrs. Bolton, with her face tilted up and washed bright by the moon, Kendra saw the young, beautiful girl that had captured Lord Bancroft’s heart a half century ago.
Kendra didn’t think the other woman could see her in her darkened window, but she found herself holding her breath. Then Mrs. Bolton ducked her head down and resumed walking, quick, furtive. In the next second, she disappeared from view.
Though her feet were now numb with cold, Kendra lingered at the window, waiting to see if anyone else came out of the stone building. She didn’t know how long she stood there, but no one appeared. Discomfort finally drove her back to the bed, and she hauled the blankets over her chilled body.
Kendra was an urbanite. The only farms she’d spent any time at were the six body farms in the United States, each holding dozens, if not hundreds, of bodies in all states of decomposition. Gruesome, certainly, but hugely educational for anyone in law enforcement. But she’d never been on a traditional farm. Maybe Mrs. Bolton had chickens to feed, or animals to tend to. It was possible. But Kendra didn’t think so.
She closed her eyes, wanting to drift into slumber. She thought of picturesque East Dingleford, with its twisting cobblestone streets and aged gray stone buildings. But beneath that pretty image was something else: secrets and lies, and a bubbling anger.
And something insidious.
Something dangerous.
Someone dangerous.
19
Sometime during the night, the clouds scuttled in, leaving the morning a dreary gray beyond the windows of the private parlor where Kendra and the Duke sat having breakfast.
“We’re all hopin’ that by later this afternoon the sun will shine again,” said Tessa, Mrs. Bolton’s granddaughter. She poured coffee into Kendra’s cup, and cast a worried look at the window. Her lips were threatening to pout. “If it doesn’t clear up, we may have ter cancel tonight’s assembly, and that would be most unfair. We’ve been waitin’ ever so long for it. The next bit of fun will be Guy Fawkes Night. The squire allows us ter build a bonfire in his paddock near the river, and tinkers and hawkers from all over come ter set up. There’s music and dancin’ and fireworks.” She stood for a moment, coffeepot clutched to her chest, her pretty eyes glazed. Then she seemed to recollect herself. “Oh, pardon me. More tea, your Grace?”
“Yes, thank you.” He held up his teacup, while the maid switched pots. He glanced over at Kendra. “Guy Fawkes was a seventeenth century revolutionary who attempted to blow up the House of Lords.”
“I know who he is.”
“Oh. I wasn’t certain if his memory survived in . . . your America.”
“He’s in the history books,” Kendra decided it was safe to say that in Tessa’s presence. “It’s not a known celebration in America. I think they celebrate it in Canada. I’ve never participated.”
“Oh, it’s ever so exciting, miss,” Tessa said after pouring tea for the Duke, and setting the pot down. “It’ll be next Sunday. Will you still be here for the celebration?”
Next Sunday—November 5. That was the day the British had marked on the calendar to celebrate the failed gunpowder plot. Kendra’s stomach tightened. November. Time is moving too fast.
The Duke answered, “It is entirely possible, my dear.”
Kendra noticed how the girl’s gaze traveled to the slate board, its contents hidden behind a linen sheet.
“Will you be at the assembly tonight?” Tessa asked, her bright eyes swinging back to them.
“Yes. I’m looking forward to it.” Kendra hid her smile as she picked up her coffee cup. She wasn’t telling a lie. The way she saw it, the local event would give her unprecedented access to interview the villagers.
“Who usually attends the assemblies?” she asked Tessa.
The girl shrugged. “Most everybody. We used ter hold them here at the inn until the Assembly Rooms were built. Will you be needin’ anything else, your Grace, Miss Donovan?”
“No, but thank you.” The Duke picked up a bun, and began buttering it.
Tessa curtsied, and moved to the door. She nearly ran into her grandfather, who came into the room. “Sir, Lord Bancroft sent a messenger to deliver this to you, sir.” He held out a folded piece of paper.
The Duke put down his buttered bun, and wiped his fingers with his napkin before reaching for the note. Mr. Bolton waited while he scanned the scrawled words. He looked at Kendra. “The earl is inviting us to Falcon Court later this morning to show us the gas lighting installation designs.”
“Oh, wow. The fun just never stops, does it?”
The Duke’s lips twitched. “Do not mind my ward, Mr. Bolton,” he told the innkeeper when he caught the other man staring. “Miss Donovan has a perverse sense of humor. Please send word to the earl that I shall be delighted to join him at Falcon Court after I have finished my breakfast. Miss Donovan, however, will decline. No doubt she has her pianoforte to practice.”
Mr. Bolton looked startled. “But we do not have a pianoforte, yer Grace.”
Kendra laughed. “Now who has the perverse sense of humor?”
“I was only joking,” the Duke told the innkeeper.
“Ah. I see.” He laughed even though it was clear that he didn’t understand what the joke was. “I shall send word to Falcon Court, your Grace.”
“I suppose gas lighting must appear antiquated to your eyes,” Aldridge commented once they were alone again. He picked up his knife and fork to attack the thick slices of ham.
Kendra knew he was fishing, but she answered anyway. The Duke was powerful, but it wasn’t like he could build an entire power grid in England, and change history. “Gas is still used in many things, including heating homes. But lighting is usually electricity.”
“Electricity?” His blue eyes brightened. “When I was a boy, the Leyden Jar appeared almost magical. Of course, now I understand electrical currents. No one has been able to harness electricity with any reliability though. It makes sense that there will be innovation in this regard. Where does the source of the electricity come from? Water?”
“Some. It depends. Coal, natural gas, wind, solar, nuclear . . . it’s become a matter of debate in my time on what method is the best to power our energy needs. Some power sources are very reliable but aren’t necessarily good for the overall environment, others aren’t very reliable but appear to be good for the overall environment.”
“What is nuclear electricity?”
Leave it to the Duke to pick out that word. “It’s . . . that might be a discussion for another time.”
“I see. And you say people argue over these things?”
“Oh, yeah. Sometimes violently. Everybody has an opinion.”
&n
bsp; The Duke was silent for a moment. “It reminds me of the Luddite movement here,” he said slowly. “Everyone has an opinion on that as well. Sometimes violently expressed. There appear to be many new inventions these days to make the factories run more efficiently.”
“With fewer men.”
“Yes. But mankind cannot stand still, Miss Donovan. Progress has a cost, I think.” His gaze was troubled as he picked up his teacup. “Even the gas lighting craze will eventually eliminate the role of the lamplighters. What will happen to them?”
Kendra gave a shrug. There was no way to avoid the cycle of change, in this century or in hers. “Eventually there will be new jobs, new needs,” she said. “It’s never easy for people to make the transition to new industries. But eventually people adapt.” They had to.
They were quiet for the rest of the meal. The gray world outside seemed to have an oppressive effect. Or maybe it was an awareness that the fundamentals never seemed to change. Will mankind always be engaged in the same battles, over and over?
The Duke pushed away his empty plate, striving for a lighter note. “What will you be doing while I investigate Falcon Court’s gas lighting?”
“I’ll work on my notes. I’d like to see Mrs. Stone again. Maybe she knows what arrangement her husband had with Mr. Turner to pay off his debt.”
Aldridge gave her a dubious look. “Do you think she’ll know? She didn’t seem too . . .”
“Smart?”
“Involved with her husband’s business,” he finished smoothly.
“Maybe without the distraction of a duke in the room, she’ll be more forthcoming,” Kendra pointed out with a crooked smile.
Aldridge laughed, and rose to his feet. “Point taken. You are welcome to take the carriage. Benjamin will drive you. I’m certain Mr. Bolton will be able to loan me a horse.”
“I’m certain too. But it’s not necessary. I thought I’d walk. Get a feel for the village.”
“You will take your lady’s maid?”
“Worried about my reputation here in East Dingleford?”
He gave her a look. “Whoever murdered Mr. Stone is still out there. And the fiend most assuredly knows you are investigating, Miss Donovan.”
“He knows we are investigating—and probably dismisses most of my contributions because I’m a woman. I think I’ll be safe without Molly . . .” she waved her hand to stave off the argument she saw in his eyes. “But I could use the company. It’s no fun walking alone.”
The Duke smiled. “Thank you, Miss Donovan. I know you can protect yourself, but if the murderer is watching you, he may hesitate to attack two women.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Who’s going to be accompanying you as you ride out to Falcon Court?” She stood up, some of her humor vanishing. It was frustrating that even someone as enlightened as the Duke didn’t seem to understand how annoying it was to have such restrictions imposed on half of the population—because the restrictions weren’t placed on his half of the population. “You’ll be alone,” she pointed out now. “The murderer knows you’re part of the investigation.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “I hadn’t thought of it.”
“I know.”
“Miss Donovan—”
“Don’t worry,” she cut him off. “I’ll bring Molly. Save the village of East Dingleford the shock of seeing a woman walking down the street all by herself. Oh, the horror.”
“Actually, I was going to remind you to bring your umbrella. It might rain.”
“Oh.” Kendra glanced at the window, with its low potbelly clouds. “Good point.”
20
It was standard practice for a lady’s maid to walk several steps behind her lady. She was supposed to be seen by everyone but the lady she was accompanying, and not heard at all. While Kendra would have liked to ditch the chaperone thing altogether, she wasn’t about to have anyone trail after her like some nineteenth-century Sherpa. Molly had adapted to Kendra’s more modern sensibility fairly quickly, and strode enthusiastically beside her, her blue eyes darting left and right to take in the scenery of East Dingleford, her face shining with excitement. Kendra often forgot that the girl was only fifteen. Until a month ago, she had never been outside Aldridge Village.
“Do ye think there’ll be an assembly tonight, miss?” she asked.
Kendra glanced at the sky. Gray—except she thought she could detect a faint ribbon of blue on the horizon. “If the wind doesn’t change direction, it might clear some of these clouds out, so . . . maybe.”
But Molly was no longer listening. The maid’s attention had been drawn by three boys, who looked to be about her age, across the street. They were hauling down burlap sacks from a cart harnessed to a mangy-looking pony. A blush spread across Molly’s face when they paused to return her regard with bold looks and leering grins. For just a moment, Kendra had a mental image of the same boys in her own era. They’d probably be wearing jeans and hoodies, sporting tattoos and maybe an earring or too. Different clothes, but their expressions would be the same. The Duke was right. They may not have given testosterone and hormones a name just yet, but they had always been a part of the human experience.
When Molly began to slow, glancing over her shoulder at the boys, Kendra grabbed the girl’s arm and hurried her along. Who’s really the chaperone here?
They walked along High Street with its collection of shops, passing a haberdashery and two coffee shops. Villagers were conducting business or walking along the street. But Kendra could feel the prick of curious eyes that charted her and Molly’s progress up the slanting hill.
Kendra summoned up a mental picture of the route Matthews had taken. “This way,” she said, and swerved right, down another winding street. The shops faded away and houses rose up in their place. At the top of another hill, Kendra recognized the narrow lane, which would take them to the Elizabethan-styled house at the end of the street. A breeze stirred the trees and a few brilliant red and gold leaves sailed on the current to the ground. Birds trilled from their nests. The faint cry of a baby drifted to them from one of the houses they passed.
The Stone residence had a forlorn look about it. Maybe it was the gloomy sky, but Kendra suspected the sensation of neglect came more from this era’s imposed mourning rituals. All the windows were either shuttered or had the curtains drawn. A black ribbon had been tied to the brass knocker.
“Oi wonder if Mrs. Stone will be goin’ back ter work on the stage,” Molly whispered as they approached the door.
“How did you know she was an actress?”
“Tessa spoke of it. She said Mrs. Stone was at every assembly and festivity, and she’s gonna ’ate ’aving ter be in mourning for an ’ole year an’ a ’alf. She won’t be able ter dance or nothin’. Oi don’t even know if she’s supposed ter ’ave any callers.”
Kendra thought of the vivacious woman she’d met the other day, and silently agreed with young Tessa. Lavinia Stone was not cut out for the seclusion required of widows to honor their dead husbands. “She might be eager for our company, then,” she said, lifting the knocker and banging it against the door panel.
They waited.
Kendra knocked again. “When we came the other day, Mrs. Trout—the housekeeper—was dyeing dresses in the kitchen. It took her a while to answer the door.”
A minute passed. And another. Molly glanced at Kendra out of the corner of her eyes. “Maybe they don’t want ter be disturbed, seeing ’ow they’re in mourning.”
“Or maybe they’re down in the wine cellar because the mourning period here has got to be freaking boring.” Kendra hesitated, then tried the door. It was locked. “Come on.”
Molly stared at her. “Where are ye goin’, miss?”
“Around back, to the servant’s entrance. I might be able to get Mrs. Trout’s attention better from there.”
She had to push her way through the overgrown weeds and shrubs to the back of the house. The garden wasn’t any
better here. Apparently neither Mrs. Trout nor Mrs. Stone had a green thumb. Dying rosebushes and tall heather crowded the path that led to the portico and servant’s entrance. The branches from the raggedy bushes snagged at Kendra’s dark brown pelisse as she walked by. She used the umbrella to swat back the greedy vegetation as she approached the back door.
“Mrs. Trout?” she called out. Since there was no knocker here, she used her fist to thump on the door. “Mrs. Trout, are you in there? It’s Kendra Donovan! I need to speak to you!”
Birds continued to chirp from the trees and eaves, and the wind whispered through the foliage. Had the temperature dropped? Kendra suddenly felt chilled.
“Maybe we should leave, miss,” Molly said from behind her. “Nobody’s ’ome.”
Kendra ignored the maid. She knocked again, and rattled the doorknob out of habit. She was surprised when it actually opened. “Mrs. Trout? Are you here?” She poked her head in and froze.
“Miss, Oi don’t think—” Molly began, and gave a shocked gasp when Kendra reeled back and dropped the umbrella. She slid the reticule off her wrist, opening its strings, and retrieved the muff pistol.
Molly’s eyes widened. “W’ot are ye doin’?”
“Shush,” she whispered. “Molly, do you know how to get back to the Green Maiden?”
“W’ot? Aye . . . w-why?”
Kendra snagged the maid’s wrist and bent down to capture her frightened gaze. “Go to the Green Maiden, and ask Mr. Bolton to send for the Duke.” She hesitated “And the constable.”
“Miss?”
“Go!” Kendra dropped Molly’s wrist. She waited until the maid finally stepped back, and then, in a flurry of skirts, fled. She inhaled sharply, held her breath, and let it out. Steadier, she automatically checked the small gun, and then stepped through the door into a hallway.
It was long and shadowed. On the right, there were three doors, all closed. Kendra saw that in one quick scan, her attention already focusing on the open doorway on the left—the kitchen. She could see cupboards lining one wall.
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