“The squire also patronizes my shop, of course,” Mr. Shannon went on, “but he does not have his son’s sense of style.”
“I can see why you have all the gentleman in East Dingleford as your customers, Mr. Shannon—your skill as a tailor is obvious,” Alec complimented, allowing his gaze to wash over the embryonic jacket on the headless dummy. “It is comparable to London proprietors.”
“Oh, thank you, sir! I do try.” He beamed, but the smile faded quickly. “However, to be perfectly honest, I cannot claim that every gentleman in East Dingleford patronizes my shop. Since returning to the village, Lord Bancroft has chosen to travel to Manchester for his wardrobe.” This last was said with pursed lips.
Alec raised an eyebrow. “That is odd. It seems an unnecessary journey.”
Mr. Shannon frowned. “I agree. I cannot conceive what we did to offend him. Shannon & Son has been in my family for three generations. My father and my father’s father served the late Earl of Langfrey and his father—well, before he chose to make his home in London Town. We served Nat before he had his dreadful falling out with his father, and left East Dingleford. All over a young girl who should have known better. So silly!”
“Love can make you do silly things,” Alec drawled, and deliberately caught Kendra’s eye.
Kendra focused on the tailor, ignoring the leap in her pulse. “You knew the earl as Nat?”
“We grew up together. Oh, we belong in different social spheres, but East Dingleford was much smaller back then, and . . . well, the earl was not the man that he is today. In fact, I shouldn’t speak of him in such a slipshod manner. He has not been Nat for many years, not since he returned to Falcon Court as a viscount, when his father was dying.”
“I heard Lord Bancroft’s father died a week after he returned, falling down the stairs,” Kendra said, her gaze on the tailor.
“Yes. Such a tragedy! My father and I attended the funeral, of course.” He frowned. “Perhaps we were too free in our memories with Nat . . . Lord Bancroft. Too familiar. We may have overstepped our place, remembering Lord Bancroft as a boy, not seeing him as the man he’d become.”
“Funerals often bring forth memories,” Alec said. “It’s odd that Lord Bancroft would be offended for you doing so.”
“But that’s just it. I remember him being perfectly pleasant.” Mr. Shannon paused, then shook his head. “But we are talking many years ago. And my memory is not as good as it once was. I only know Lord Bancroft does not patronize my shop—although his son, Lord Drake, has come in for several fittings over the years. Still, he is rarely in East Dingleford, since the earl sent him away to school as a young boy.”
Kendra asked, “Did Mr. Stone ever speak about Lord Bancroft?” She wasn’t familiar with how long a gentleman’s fittings might last. But maybe tailors were like bartenders; their customers might use them to vent or gossip.
Mr. Shannon returned to pinning the horsehair canvas to the lining of the jacket. “Mr. Stone was an excellent customer, but he was not a gentleman,” he said, casting a sideways glance at Kendra. “I’m not referring to his status. I’m speaking of his manner. He could be coarse. I must admit that when Mr. Biddle first pointed him in my direction, I rather thought of him as—forgive the pun—an unpolished stone.”
“I see.” Kendra arched her brows. “And you managed to polish him?”
“I’m a tailor, Miss Donovan, not an alchemist.”
Kendra had to smile. “But did Mr. Stone talk about the earl?”
“Not in a flattering light. He would talk about Lady Bancroft more often.” A dull flush rose up on the tailor’s face, and he glanced quickly at Kendra. “I cannot speak of what he said in your presence, Miss Donovan. Mr. Stone was a rake when it came to the ladies.”
“That’s all right. I have a pretty good idea what he was saying about the ladies. Did he ever mention meeting Lord Bancroft before he came to East Dingleford?”
He looked surprised. “No. Did they have a previous connection?”
Kendra ignored his question, asking instead, “Is there anything else you can tell us about Mr. Stone? Anything you noticed about him?”
“He lived life to excess. Throughout the years, he required more material.”
“Did Mr. Stone ever tell you where he was from? Where he was born? His family?”
Mr. Shannon finished pinning the material, and looked at her. “He did not mention family, but I know he was from the London area. He spoke of the amusements he’d found there, and often lamented the lack of such frivolities to be found here.”
“If he was so bored with village life, why do you think he stayed?”
Mr. Shannon lifted one shoulder, and let it drop. “I cannot say, but for all his complaints, Mr. Stone appeared content.”
Kendra changed the subject. “Did he mention his altercation with Mr. Turner?”
Mr. Shannon frowned. “Turner . . . I do not recall the name.”
Kendra waited—sometimes it took a second for people to remember—but when Shannon said nothing more, she asked, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Stone?”
“A fortnight ago.”
“A week before he was murdered,” Kendra specified.
Instead of answering immediately, the tailor crossed the room and opened a drawer. He removed a thick, leather-covered ledger, and brought it to the table. Kendra watched as he thumbed his way through the pages until he found the one he wanted.
“Mr. Stone had an appointment on Thursday, October 19, to pick up an order. Two white shirts, a vermillion waistcoat, and a new puce-colored greatcoat for the winter, with a lovely sable collar, and three caplets. It was really quite grand.”
Kendra exchanged a look with Alec. “Would you say that it was more extravagant than usual for Mr. Stone?” she asked Mr. Shannon.
“What do you mean?”
“Was Mr. Stone spending more than usual?”
He rubbed his chin. “No,” he said slowly. “I cannot say I observed any such a change. As I said, Mr. Stone was an excellent customer. He allowed me to . . . shall we say, guide him in selecting his wardrobe. He never balked at any of my recommendations, although I did not exploit the situation and persuade him into purchasing something he should not have. And his credit was always good. I never feared that he would not pay his account.”
“When Mr. Stone came in for his last appointment,” Kendra said, “can you describe his mood?”
“I remember him to be in high spirits. He had planned a journey to Manchester.” Mr. Shannon hesitated, and blushed again. “I got the impression he would not be there alone.”
Kendra said, “You mean, he wouldn’t be there with his wife.”
It wasn’t a question, but Mr. Shannon nodded. “Yes. I made the error of mentioning Mrs. Stone and Mr. Stone laughed, and made the comment that there are certain matters best done without a wife in tow. I assumed he had other entertainment in mind, but I did not inquire.” He closed the ledger, and returned it to the drawer. “In my profession, discretion is vital.”
Kendra eyed the tailor closely. “When Mr. Stone was here, did he mention anything about money or jewels? Or finding something valuable?”
The black eyes behind the spectacles glinted. “No. But that would certainly be interesting.”
“Do you think Mr. Stone was the kind of man to keep a secret like that?”
Mr. Shannon pressed his lips together. “I suppose it would depend on how Mr. Stone came into the fortune. However . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve always found that sooner or later, secrets tend to come out. If Mr. Stone had such a secret, I think he would have eventually told someone.”
Maybe he did, Kendra thought. Maybe he told his killer.
37
Something was taken from Stone’s desk. Lavinia Stone was tortured for a reason. Those two facts were irrefutable, Kendra reflected. She could also reasonably assume that the missing item had been valuable. People did not commit torture and murder over worthless items. But that didn’t mea
n it had to be gems or coins or anything of monetary value. By pursuing that angle, were they going down a rabbit hole? In her own time, she’d chased down plenty of leads that had turned into dead ends. Of course, then she could take some comfort in being part of a task force, with multiple agencies involved, as someone else could’ve uncovered something important where she’d failed. Here, she could only continue her inquiries, and hope something would work its way to the surface, like a sliver under the skin.
At least that was what she thought later that evening, when she found herself again seated at Lord Bancroft’s elegant table, spooning up her bouillabaisse. As rain tapped at the windowpanes, Kendra’s gaze traveled the length of the table to where Bancroft sat as the host. The rest of the seating arrangements were typical of the era, assorted by rank. The Duke and Alec flanked Bancroft. Seated next to Alec was Lady Winifred, looking beautiful in a flimsy, low-cut gown of the palest lavender. A simple pearl necklace circled her throat. The firelight in the room teased out the gold in her tawny hair, which had been swept up in an elaborate style of braids and curls and sprinkled with seed pearls, and cast a golden haze over Lady Winifred’s alabaster skin.
Of which there is a considerable amount showing, Kendra thought with some asperity. The woman’s breasts seemed to defy gravity, the way they swelled out of her bodice. Her sleeves were long, but transparent, tied with ribbons at her delicate wrists. Kendra caught the flash of Lady Winifred’s pale skin whenever she moved her arms, which she did often, lifting her hand to lightly touch Alec’s sleeve as she spoke to him. The woman would be out of her half-mourning period soon and destined for London, to hunt for husband Number Two. If the woman’s flirtatious manner was anything to go by, Kendra suspected she was getting a jump on her search for a new spouse.
Kendra had never been one for jealousy—partially because she’d never had cause to be jealous—but she realized that was what she was feeling now, a slow burn in her stomach. Deliberately, she yanked her gaze away from the pair. Mr. Matthews sat opposite Lady Winifred. His father had been invited, Kendra knew, but the squire’s gout kept him housebound. Without the squire, the numbers were uneven, with Dr. Poole and his wife facing each other. Kendra was in the unfortunate position of sitting next to the grumpy doctor, who was currently quizzing Matthews on whether the squire was following the diet that he’d prescribed.
Kendra furtively studied the doctor’s wife, mainly because she couldn’t imagine living with Dr. Poole. Mrs. Poole was a stout woman, who looked to be around her husband’s age. She wore a gauzy yellow gown that, even to Kendra’s less discerning eye, seemed to be at least a decade out of date. She’d concealed her décolletage with a lace fichu that matched the full lace cap that covered her gray hair. Her face was plain, her expression pleasant. Kendra wondered if the pleasantness was a façade, something the woman had adopted as a form of defense over her husband’s more quarrelsome demeanor. Or maybe she’d taken to using a couple of drops of laudanum, which Kendra had discovered wasn’t unheard of for women in this period of time.
The conversation at the table was light and gossipy throughout the first course, with Lady Winifred quizzing the Duke and Alec about the latest happenings in London. It didn’t surprise Kendra that they knew some of the same people. While the Duke and Alec had never met Lady Winifred or Lord Bancroft, they belonged to the same social circles, and therefore had overlapping acquaintances. Lady Winifred appeared to have a better understanding of the London social scene than her father. Lord Bancroft remained silent, alternately sipping his soup and his wine, leaving his daughter to carry the conversation.
Every once in a while, though, Kendra caught the earl’s dark eyes on her, his expression intense but impossible to read. During those times, Kendra strove to keep her own expression indecipherable. She refused to look away or be intimidated. Bancroft’s gaze would eventually slide away, but not before she saw a thin smile curve his mouth. It both made her shiver and pissed her off. She was even more certain that he was playing some strange game with her.
Kendra remained quiet until the first course was cleared away, and the main course, which consisted of a variety of meats—roast beef and several platters of partridge and pheasant—and jellies was served.
“I’m curious, Lord Bancroft . . .” She picked up her wineglass and surveyed the nobleman over the rim. He wasn’t the only one who could play a game. “Where did you travel after you left East Dingleford?”
He paused in cutting into his roast beef. “It was such a long time ago, Miss Donovan.”
“Still, it must have been an exciting time. You couldn’t have forgotten.” She lifted her eyebrows to telegraph her skepticism.
“No, but I have more pressing concerns to occupy myself these days.”
She smiled. “Well, we know that you were around London in those days.”
He studied her from across the table. Kendra wondered if she imagined his sudden tension or not. “And how do you know such a thing?” he asked, his tone revealing nothing.
She took a sip of wine before she answered. “You said that you met the Duke’s father at Aldridge Castle,” she reminded him.
Something flickered in his eyes, then was gone. “Ah, yes. I think I told you that it was a brief encounter. I was passing through Aldridge Village at the time.” He waved his hand, a gesture of dismissal. He turned to the Duke. “Your father invited me to share a glass of wine with him in his study. Unusual room, from what I remember. Octagonal in shape.”
The Duke nodded. “It was part of the castle’s original construction, when my ancestors fought for William the Conqueror.”
“We discovered Mr. Stone was originally from outside London,” Kendra lied, watching Bancroft closely. “You never had an encounter with him during your time there?”
Bancroft huffed out a dry laugh. “London has millions of people, Miss Donovan. If I had a chance encounter with Mr. Stone, I do not remember it.”
Lady Winifred looked at Kendra. “Why do you persist in trying to see some sort of connection between my father and Mr. Stone, Miss Donovan? The very idea is absurd. I told you, Mr. Stone did not occupy our social sphere.”
“Maybe I’m curious why a man like Mr. Stone, who enjoyed the pleasures of London, ended up in a village like East Dingleford.” She kept her gaze on Bancroft. “Something must have lured him here.”
Dr. Poole grunted. “I would imagine a lucrative position as manager of the mill.”
“This is not appropriate dinner table talk,” Lady Winifred cut in firmly. “I still shudder to think what happened to Mr. Stone and his wife.”
“And Mrs. Trout,” said Kendra.
Lady Winifred flicked her a look, then turned to the table at large. “I fear Mrs. Poole and I lack Miss Donovan’s robust nerves. I must insist that we speak of less grisly topics while having our meal. Now, my lord . . .” She brushed her fingertips against Alec’s arm, as she leaned in close, “Tell me, is there any truth to the rumor that Lady Byron fears her husband is quite mad . . . ?”
“Where do your people hail from, Miss Donovan?”
Surprised, Kendra looked at Mrs. Poole. The old woman hadn’t said one word at dinner. Throughout the many courses and stilted conversation, she’d kept her pleasant expression focused on the courses laid out by the footmen.
Now the women were in the Chinese drawing room while the men lingered in the dining room with their port and pipes. A footman came around with a tray, serving cut crystal glasses about the size of a shot glass filled with Madeira to the women.
“America,” she told the old woman. “Virginia.”
“I have a cousin who immigrated to America after the war. The first one. Not this recent skirmish,” she said placidly, and took a sip of her Madeira. “Donovan is an Irish name. Do you have family in Ireland?”
Kendra was lifting her glass to take a sip of the Madeira, as well, but her hand froze midway to her mouth. It had never occurred to her that she might actually have family in this world, t
hat she might not actually be alone. Holy crap, her ancestors were alive. Her parents had always been interested in their genetic history, not their ancestry. But she could travel to Ireland and meet her great-great—hell, how many greats would that be?—grandmother or grandfather. The Donovan family wouldn’t immigrate to the United States until around 1840, when the potato famine would force five million desperate souls to flee the island.
She could meet them, study their personalities . . . and completely screw up her own familial timeline. It was the Grandfather Paradox—taking an action in this era that could ultimately prevent her own birth.
“Are you all right, Miss Donovan?” Mrs. Poole was looking at her with concern.
“Yes.” No. Hell, so much for her robust nerves. She tossed back the Madeira like she was at a bachelorette party in Vegas. A footman hurried forward and refilled her glass. A strange sensation stole over her as she met the servant’s dark eyes. Then the footman retreated, and she had to stop herself from downing that drink too. She became aware of Lady Winifred regarding her with curious eyes.
Get a grip, Donovan. She drew in a deep breath, and let it out.
“I’m foolish,” Mrs. Poole shook her head. “Of course, you don’t have family in Ireland. If you did, your father would never have asked his Grace to be your guardian. You are fortunate. His Grace will undoubtedly provide a substantial dowry on you. That should help your circumstance.”
Kendra took a sip of wine so she didn’t have to answer. She’d never get used to being considered ancient at twenty-six. In her own era, she’d had to work hard to overcome the stigma of being too young to lead an investigation.
“It’s not too late for you to marry and set up a nursery,” Mrs. Poole continued cheerfully. “Do not be discouraged, my dear.”
“Do you and Dr. Poole have children?” Kendra asked a bit desperately.
“Oh, children and grandchildren, and now a great-grandchild.” Mrs. Poole’s eyes misted with her happiness. “Our granddaughter recently had a baby. A son, thank heavens! Unfortunately, Dr. Poole and I only had girls. Five of them, all a blessing, to be sure. But it was my greatest disappointment never to provide Dr. Poole with a son to carry on the family name and profession.” The old woman glanced at Lady Winifred. “How is your daughter, my dear? Jane, is it not?”
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