She kept her tone light. “I’m not complaining, you know.”
“Kendra . . .”
“If you start talking about my reputation, you’ll be killing the mood, fast.”
Alec was silent for a long moment. “Shall we speak about you accepting my proposal instead?” he finally asked.
Kendra sighed. “Okay, now you have killed the mood.”
He shifted so he could look into her eyes. “I love you.”
Kendra’s heart leaped into her throat. She should have been getting used to the words by now, but they still came as a shock. Who had ever loved her? Certainly, not her parents, only concerned with how well she’d score on the next test. Love didn’t belong in the laboratory. How could she trust such a nebulous emotion?
“What do you want from me, Alec?”
“I want what most men want—to have the woman I love return my affection. To marry her, so as to not to hide or sneak around. Did I tell you that you looked beautiful tonight?”
Kendra frowned at the non sequitur. “I’m not looking for compliments, Alec.”
He ignored that, skimming one long finger down her throat. “Still . . . I would have wished to give you my mother’s jewels to complement your beauty.”
“I’m not looking for jewelry either.”
“I realize that. My point is that I am not free to give you my mother’s jewels, or any other jewelry, because it would announce our relationship to the nasty gossips of the world. You would be viewed as my mistress—”
“I’m not your mistress,” she cut him off, jaw tightening. “You are not keeping me. We’re equal partners in this relationship.”
“We would be equal partners in marriage.”
Kendra gave him a wry look. “One thing that I’ve learned about this era is there is no such thing, at least not in England. Married women are property. Husbands control their wives’ lives, their fortunes, their bodies, everything.”
“You don’t have a fortune to control.”
“Thank you so much for reminding me,” she snapped. But he was right. Alec might not be keeping her, but the Duke was. Everything she had was because of the Duke’s generosity. She released a frustrated sigh. “I’ve always made my own money and controlled my own destiny, since I was fourteen. I don’t want an allowance from the Duke, to know that everything that I have in this world is because he allows it.”
Alec frowned. “Duke does not begrudge taking care of you, Kendra. He is not a cheeseparing man. In fact, I’m certain he has already considered settling a portion on you to ensure that you are not left penniless.”
“That’s not the point!” Kendra struggled to keep her voice low even as her stomach twisted in frustration. How could she explain to Alec, or anyone here, how important it was to have financial control over her own future?
She rolled onto her back and stared at the swaying shadows on the ceiling. Outside, the wind had picked up, making the trees creak and rattling the windowpanes. They should be cuddling or making love. Instead, Kendra was contemplating how money meant freedom, the one constant that held true, regardless of time and place. She broke out in a cold sweat when she remembered her parents’ abandonment. She’d had a trust fund to ensure her education, but it had taken her a while to find her footing. A professor had hired her to help code a computer program. The money hadn’t been much, only a couple hundred dollars. But it had come with the realization that she had the skills to take care of herself. It meant that she didn’t need anyone. And now, as long as she lived here—in the upper-class world—that basic desire would always be denied her.
She sighed. “I want to earn my own money,” she said. “I want to pay for my own dresses and food . . .”
She realized belatedly that she was talking as if she was staying here, as if she’d given up hope of going home.
“There’s no need—”
“And what if I had the opportunity to return home?” she asked suddenly, turning to stare into his eyes. “What then, Alec?”
He shook his head. “It’s a false hope, sweet.”
“You don’t know that.”
He swung his long legs out of the bed and pushed himself to his feet.
“I can’t just give up,” she said softly, scooting up into a sitting position. She clutched the blankets against her breasts, and tried not to get distracted by the way his sleek muscles rippled in the firelight as he walked, naked, across the room. “You know I don’t belong here, Alec.”
“But you are here. Mayhap you ought to reconcile yourself to the possibility of staying.” He shrugged on his robe, tying the belt with obvious irritability.
Kendra sighed and scrambled out of bed, dragging the sheet with her to stand before him. “If the opportunity presented itself for me to go home—”
“Sweetheart . . .”
“—would you come with me?”
“What?” His head jerked up and he stared at her.
“Would you come back to the twenty-first century with me?”
He raked his fingers through his hair, agitated. “Why are we discussing a hypothetical?”
She had to smile, but it was without humor. “First lesson in behavioral science: avoid a question by asking another question.”
“I’m not avoiding your question. I simply see no point in having a discussion about something that has little chance of happening.” He came toward her, sliding his arms around her waist. He leaned in and nuzzled her ear. “I love you.”
“Second lesson: avoid the question by distraction,” she murmured, but leaned into him, turning her head to meet his lips. She could feel her temper slip away.
He drew back slightly to peer down at her. His spiky lashes veiled his eyes, but Kendra thought she caught the gleam of humor. “Is it working?”
She grinned up at him and put her palms on his chest. “Hell, no. I’m a trained agent in the FBI.”
He yanked her against him, kissing her hard. Without breaking the embrace, he walked her backward until her legs hit the bed, and she fell on the feather mattress. Alec followed, trailing biting kisses down her throat.
“Okay . . .” She was beginning to sound breathless. “Maybe now it’s working.”
The fire had almost died out by the time Alec left the bed for the second time. Kendra watched him through lowered lashes, careful to keep her breathing modulated as though she were still sleeping. He put on his robe and then kneeled down, adding another log and spending the next few minutes building up the fire again. When he stood up, she hurriedly closed her eyes. She heard the light slither of the silk robe, and knew he’d turned to look at her. Her skin prickled with awareness, but she continued her ruse. The moments stretched on endlessly. She was on the verge of giving up her pretense when she sensed him turning away from her toward the door.
“Is the third lesson on avoidance to pretend that one is asleep?” he asked, a thread of laughter in his voice. “Lock the door, my love.”
Kendra opened her eyes, but he was already gone. Releasing a sigh, she turned and pressed her face into the pillow. Alec’s scent clung to the fabric.
She’d always prided herself on being logical. But there was nothing logical about her relationship with Alec. Even if she factored in love, the negatives far outweighed the positives in that emotion. If she allowed herself to be persuaded into a marriage with Alec, how long would it be before he woke up one morning and realized he’d made a mistake? How long before he looked across the ballroom and saw a lady—a real lady—more ideally suited to be his wife? To be a marchioness . . . a future duchess?
She would always be a freak—in her own time, in this time. How long before Alec realized that and abandoned her?
And then what would she do?
29
The next morning, Kendra pushed aside her personal anxiety to focus on the investigation. They gathered around a buffet of salted kippers, stewed tomatoes, scrambled eggs, black pudding, mushrooms, and toast points. The grisly topic of murder never put o
ff her nineteenth-century counterparts from their meal, she noticed. As her gaze drifted to her own plate, filled with everything except the black pudding—pork blood boiled with fat and oats and made into a sausage would never be appealing to her—Kendra reflected with some amusement that her appetite wasn’t affected either. She was famished.
“I found the Stones’ groom, but he didn’t know anything,” Sam informed them, lifting a tankard of ale and taking a swallow. “I also learned the name of the mill where Mr. Murray is employed, and thought ter ride to Manchester today.”
The Duke looked at the Bow Street Runner as he reached over to splash cream into his empty teacup. “What information do you think to gain from the mill manager? He has been gone from East Dingleford for more than twenty years.”
“Lord Bancroft said that Mr. Murray was the one who recommended Mr. Stone for the position at his mill,” Kendra supplied. “He’s the only one who may know of Stone’s background.”
“You’re still hoping to find a link between Lord Bancroft and Mr. Stone before he became the mill manager,” the Duke speculated, lifting the silver teapot and pouring the strong China blend into his cup.
“It’s not a matter of hope. It’s a matter of following threads and tying them off. Same reason I want to speak to Biddle again.” She sipped her coffee. “He failed to mention that he was at the card game where Turner accused Stone of cheating.”
Sam looked at her. “Why do you think that is?”
“I’m not sure. It could mean nothing. Or he might be trying to distance himself from the investigation. Or he might be hiding something.”
“You know, there’s another possibility why Lord Bancroft didn’t dismiss Mr. Stone,” said Sam, circling back to the earlier point. “He could have discovered somethin’ about his lordship after he began his position at the mill, rather than a previous acquaintance.”
Kendra thought about that, and nodded. “You’re right, Mr. Kelly. But we’d still be dealing with blackmail, something Stone held over the earl’s head. Maybe Mr. Murray will be able to shed some light on it. He worked for Bancroft for six years.”
“Aye,” Sam said. “Mr. Murray may have as much to say about the character of his lordship as he does about Mr. Stone.”
“What about the seven mill workers who were recently dismissed?” asked the Duke.
“The constable said he spoke ter them, and their whereabouts are accounted for,” Sam said. “He gave me the list, if you want me ter follow up with them as well.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Kendra said. “They were never a high priority. The crime scene puts our unsub in a position behind Stone. Would you allow a disgruntled worker to stand behind you?”
“Nay.” Sam shook his head. “You’d want ter keep your peepers on them.”
“Exactly,” Kendra said. “I also don’t see why any employee—former or not—would have murdered Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Trout.”
“I talked ter a couple of workers last night,” Sam said slowly. “They’re not jest angry about the dismissal of workers and new frames. They had plenty of complaints on how the mill’s fallin’ apart with shoddy equipment, and how they’ve been bringing in cheaper cotton—which, they say, is causin’ more lung infections.”
Alec leaned back in his chair, regarding the Bow Street Runner. “Is that Mr. Stone’s fault, or Lord Bancroft’s?”
“Aye, that’s what I asked. They said they brought their complaints ter Mr. Biddle, and Mr. Biddle took them ter Stone. They seemed ter think Mr. Stone might not have even told his lordship.” Sam stabbed a plump mushroom with his knife and popped it in his mouth. “With Mr. Stone gone, maybe Mr. Biddle will be able ter help the folks. Assuming his lordship promotes him ter manager.”
They were quiet for a moment as they ate their breakfast.
Five minutes later, the Duke set down his knife and fork. “I think we mustn’t forget about what was on the desk that the killer took.”
“I’m not forgetting it,” said Kendra. “It may have been the trigger.” She glanced at the clock, and set down her coffee cup. “But right now, I need to interview Mrs. Turner. Maybe without her husband around, she’ll tell us where Turner really was on Friday night.”
Alec borrowed a cart and horse from Mr. Bolton to drive her to the Turner farm. But when they were near, she ordered him to drop her off so she could walk the rest of the way herself. Abused women like Mrs. Turner tended to be skittish, especially around strange men. She was already anticipating an interview process that would need a delicate touch; she didn’t want to throw up any more obstacles than necessary.
As she approached the house, she thought that the farm looked the same as the other day. The chickens were pecking outside the sagging barn—one fewer than the day before.
The day was cool, but the sun was out. By the time she walked the distance to the house and knocked on the door, Kendra felt sweaty beneath the velvet pelisse and blue-and-white paisley walking dress. She waited. She knocked again, and listened. She imagined that she could hear breathing on the other side of the door.
“Mrs. Turner,” she called out, and knocked again. “It’s Kendra Donovan. We met the other day. The Duke of Aldridge is . . . is my guardian.” Christ, she was twenty-six years old—it felt stupid to call the Duke her guardian. “Mrs. T—”
The door swung in so suddenly, she stumbled back in surprise.
Mrs. Turner clutched at the door, her aquamarine eyes anxious as she stared at Kendra. “Ye shouldn’t be here.”
Kendra studied the other woman’s delicate face. The bruise had faded from purple into bluish green. She was wearing a mop cap and the same faded dress as the other day, beneath an apron dusted with flour.
“My husband—” Mrs. Turner tried.
“Is at the market. I know. That’s why I’m here. I need to talk to you.”
Mrs. Turner shook her head frantically. “Nay! He’ll be displeased. He doesn’t like it when I have visitors. A-and I have me chores ter do.” She began closing the door, but Kendra stepped forward, wedging her foot and part of her leg between the door and the frame.
“Please, Mrs. Turner.” She fixed her gaze on the other woman’s. “I need to talk to you. This is important.”
“I don’t have anythin’ ter say.”
Kendra knew that she could easily push her way inside the house, but that wasn’t the way to do it. Force was what Mrs. Turner was used to. Deliberately, she let go of the door and stepped back. “I think you have more to say than you realize, Mrs. Turner,” she said quietly. “Please.”
Mrs. Turner said nothing. Kendra took it as a good sign that she hadn’t slammed the door shut on her. Yet.
“This will be a private conversation—just between you and me,” she promised, keeping her voice low and even, like she was approaching a wild animal caught in a trap. “What’s your name?” Mrs. Turner frowned, puzzled, and Kendra clarified, “Your first name?” Familiarity was important to coaxing someone to let down their guard. “Call me Kendra.”
Something flickered behind the aquamarine eyes. “Flora,” Mrs. Turner finally whispered.
Kendra forced a smile. “Flora. That’s a pretty name.”
Flora said nothing. There was only the guarded look of someone trapped.
“I need to speak to you. Can I come in? Three people are dead, Flora—”
“Three?”
Kendra stared at her. “You didn’t know?”
Flora shook her head.
“Mrs. Stone and her housekeeper were killed,” Kendra said.
Flora’s hand went to her throat. “Dear heaven. How?”
“May I come in?”
Flora hesitated, then stepped back from the door. “I still have ter do me chores,” she said. “Mr. Turner could be back any moment.”
“Thank you.”
Kendra followed Flora inside. The door opened into a roomy kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the two windows, over whitewashed walls and oak cupboards that held a v
ariety of bowls filled with onions, potatoes, and turnips. Kendra noticed a wooden bucket with a washboard sticking out of the grayish water near the stone fireplace. A man’s smock shirt was spread out in front of the hearth to dry. A cast iron stove, much smaller than the one at Aldridge Castle or even the Green Maiden, was against one wall. It tilted slightly to one side, which Kendra attributed to a missing leg. Someone had shoved a stone in its place. A pot was on one of the burners. Kendra could smell cinnamon cloves, apples, and something spicy.
Flora hurried over to the sturdy oak table in the center of the room, which dominated the space. The surface was already dusted with flour and held a rolling pin, a large earthenware bowl filled with flour and what appeared to be two slabs of lard—Kendra recognized the thick, whitish substance from her time working in Aldridge Castle kitchens—and two other smaller containers with lids. Now Mrs. Turner lifted one of the lids to reveal either salt or sugar. She took a pinch and tossed it in with the flour and lard.
Kendra asked, “Was your husband at home between three and six last Friday afternoon, Flora?”
The other woman hesitated, then busied herself by rolling up her sleeves. Kendra saw again the bruises circling the other woman’s wrist, before she plunged her hands into the flour and lard mixture, kneading it. “Nay.” Her eyes were locked on her hands in bowl. “He left early . . . He didn’t return until the next morning.”
“Where did he go? Do you know?”
Another hesitation. Then Flora shook her head. “I thought the fog kept him away.”
“Okay. Tell me about Sunday, Flora. What did you and your husband do?”
Flora finally lifted her eyes to look at Kendra. She didn’t stop her movement, continuing to work the flour into the lard. “’Twas the Sabbath. We went ter church in the morning.”
“And after church? What did you do?”
“There’s always chores ter do on a farm, Miss Donovan.” Her mouth twisted.
“Oh, I’m sure you always have chores,” Kendra said, and couldn’t quite keep the bite out of her voice. “But what about your husband?”
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