“And life was good until Harry Stone.”
“I should have killed the son of a bitch when he first approached me. But I couldn’t take that chance.”
“I still don’t understand what Stone could have done. He was a . . . ‘sewer rat.’ You had assumed the identity of an earl. Aristocracy wins the battle against a commoner in this era.”
“You haven’t been here long, Kendra, but surely you know how this world operates?” He gave her a contemptuous look, then took a swallow of brandy before continuing. “Rumor and innuendo can destroy reputations. Many of my fellow investors are sanctimonious little pricks. If there was even a hint of scandal, even a thought that I was an imposter, doors would close, and my line of credit would dry up. The scandal would destroy my son. Everything I worked for would be lost.”
Kendra wasn’t buying it. “Harry must have had more than your word against his.”
He said nothing for a moment. “I have a tattoo on my chest that could be incriminating,” he finally admitted. “If Millie had testified in court that her former lover, Mateo Hernández, had such a tattoo, it might have been difficult to explain away.”
Kendra thought about that. Not just one voice, but many voices whispering that Bancroft was an imposter. “I can see where that could ignite rumors. Just curious, what’s the tattoo?”
“A panther.”
She nodded, then said, “I wondered what motivated Stone’s strange collection. He did it to taunt you.”
A muscle bunched in Bancroft’s jaw. “Yes.”
They fell silent for a long moment, their eyes fixed on each other. “So, you’ve told me your story,” she said finally. “What now? Are you going to shoot me here in your study? Think of the blood. The servants will talk.”
His mouth curved. “I don’t want to shoot you at all, Kendra. Fate brought you to me. Think about it. If Biddle hadn’t murdered Harry, you would have left the next morning, after the fog lifted. Our paths would never have crossed.”
“Yeah, things have worked out so well for me,” she said acidly.
“You and I are connected. We share something unique, a bond that cannot be denied. Think about that, Kendra!”
Kendra said nothing. He was right. They had a history—or, rather, a future.
“I have been alone here for thirty-eight years.” His eyes took on a feverish glow. “I have never been able to speak the way I am now with anyone. We could marry.” His lips twisted when he saw her jolt. “I know I’m old to you, Kendra, but I am the only man on this earth—in this time—that truly understands you. That is powerful.”
She was surprised to feel sadness well up inside her. She’d shared her secret with the Duke and Alec, yes, but they could never truly understand her like the man sitting across the desk from her. She and Bancroft—Hernández—shared a common existence.
“Consider what I am saying very carefully, Kendra.”
She had to clear her throat. “Or else?”
He was eyeing her closely. “Or else we shall take a walk out those French door to a secluded spot in the woods. There’s a small lake, and a gazebo that my wife Victoria had built.”
“I see. Would I be buried or thrown in the lake?”
“The gardeners would notice freshly turned earth, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, the lake, then,” she murmured. Her heart beat heavily, painfully. She wanted to cry. She forced herself to shake off the malaise. “You’re quite the planner, aren’t you, Mateo?”
Humor gleamed in the dark eyes, and he smiled. “I always plan—”
The bullet ripped apart the fabric of the reticule when she squeezed the trigger. She’d managed to work her hand into the purse during their conversation, but she wasn’t able to aim. She’d tilted the gun into a position that she calculated would send the ball’s trajectory into his chest. Center mass. If she was wrong . . . well, the servants would have some cleaning up to do. Bancroft wouldn’t be bringing her to the lake. At least not alive.
Her calculations were wrong; the trajectory was higher. The ball hit Bancroft in the middle of his forehead. The scent of sulfur hung like a rotting blanket in the air. Her stomach clenched as she stared into Bancroft’s wide eyes. She remembered when their eyes had met across Sir Jeremy’s body.
Bancroft fell forward, crashing onto his desk. The brandy glass shattered. The gun, still clenched in his hand, clattered against the surface of the desk. Kendra sprang to her feet and dove out of the way, just in case the pistol went off accidentally. Being shot by a dead man would be such a waste.
Slowly, she straightened. Her ears were ringing. She stared at Nathan Bancroft—Mateo Hernández. Whatever.
“I guess you didn’t plan for everything, did you?”
52
Alec was opening the door to Lord Bancroft’s mansion when he heard the gunshot. Ice-cold fear lanced through him. He sent one panic-stricken glance behind him. The Duke and Sam were only now galloping into the courtyard, yanking hard on their reins, causing their horses to snort and buck. Alec tore down the hall. He saw the light wavering from a half-open door, and aimed his body toward it. His shoulder connected with the sturdy panel, the door slamming loudly against the wall as he burst into the room.
“Kendra!”
Relief flooded through him as his gaze focused on her. She was standing—God, that was all that mattered—while Bancroft lay slumped across his desk. Bancroft was unnaturally still, but Alec’s fingers tightened around the blunderbuss he’d borrowed from Benjamin, just in case.
“He’s dead,” Kendra said with eerie calmness. “I’m going to need a new purse.”
“My God.” Alec set the blunderbuss down on a chair. He turned and gathered her into his arms when the Duke and Sam came running into the room. Despite Kendra’s composure, Alec could feel the tremors racing through her body. “Are you all right? You’re not injured?”
“No . . . no, I’m fine.” Her arms went around him. “God . . .”
Sam walked over to the body, shifting Bancroft so that his head flopped back. He whistled low, staring at the bullet hole in the earl’s head. His golden eyes narrowed as he scanned the room, his gaze landing on the reticule with the blackened hole punched through the bottom. “Clearly self-defense. I reckon the constable and the magistrate need ter be sent for, although Jameson is busy at the moment with Mr. Turner.”
“Bancroft shot Turner.” Kendra looked at them. “Flora found you.”
It wasn’t a question, but Sam nodded. “Seemed ter think you were in danger from her husband. Mr. Turner told us that the earl shot him.”
“He’s alive, then?”
“Aye. Don’t know for how much longer though.”
The Duke added, “Dr. Poole was summoned, but we didn’t stay to find out. You were our first priority, my dear. We feared we’d already lost too much time getting here.”
Alec tightened his arms around Kendra. They’d been forced to run back to the Green Maiden to saddle their horses to travel to Falcon Court. They’d left Benjamin to round up the constable and Dr. Poole for Turner. “It was a hell of a ride,” he murmured. With a sigh of regret, he loosened his arms from around Kendra, but didn’t let go altogether, proprieties be damned.
The Duke asked, “Can you tell us what happened, my dear?”
Alec could feel Kendra’s chest rise and fall. She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting to Bancroft’s body. “It’s a hell of a story.”
There were two stories, of course.
The first began thirty-two years ago, when Nat Bancroft lost his life at the hands of a ruthless man. Stone’s letter detailed how the man he’d known as Mateo Hernández had taken over Nat’s identity. He’d included the times, dates, and crimes.
In the guise of Lord Bancroft, Mateo had built a mill that the town of East Dingleford had come to rely on. He’d created an empire with tentacles in investment firms and conglomerates across England. The ownership of the mill and stock in his many business interests would most lik
ely go to his son, Phillip. The kid wouldn’t be destitute, Kendra knew, but he would be devastated. How could he not be? He’d lose Falcon Court and the earldom. He’d also lose the memory of the man he’d always thought of as his father.
When the scandal broke, it would break over the entire family. Kendra might not like Lady Winifred, but her father’s perfidy would affect her and her daughter, and her sisters and their children. How many lives would be destroyed if the truth came out?
Kendra didn’t want to think about it. She was almost glad when Dr. Poole and Constable Jameson arrived fifteen minutes later, forcing her to focus on them—especially since Jameson wanted to arrest her for murder. He spotted her blackened and shredded reticule, which he declared damning evidence against her, conveniently overlooking the gun still in the dead man’s hand until the Duke, Sam, and Alec all pointed it out. Surprisingly, Dr. Poole spoke up in her defense, of a sort, reminding Jameson that the earl had gone mad earlier and shot Mr. Turner. The sheep farmer had died no less than twenty minutes earlier.
That announcement left Kendra feeling a little queasy, mostly because she was empty of any sort of sympathy over the man’s death. At least she wasn’t rejoicing at the news. Maybe she hadn’t gone over to the dark side—yet.
Dr. Poole examined Bancroft’s body briefly. He examined the letter, which the Duke handed over to him, for much longer. Kendra watched the doctor’s fuzzy brows dip lower and lower as he scanned the contents, but his expression remained as grumpy as ever. When he finally finished, he declared the matter urgent enough to wake the magistrate.
“W’ot does it say?” demanded Constable Jameson, eyeing the letter suspiciously.
Dr. Poole ignored him, his gaze passing over the others as he pocketed the letter. Then he turned and looked at Bancroft. Kendra suspected he wasn’t seeing the slain man, but the friend he’d known. Maybe he was also thinking about the real Nat, dead in a shallow grave somewhere. After a moment, he sighed.
“Nothing else to do here. We must wake the squire, and tomorrow summon an inquest. Again.” He spoke to the constable. “The jurors can come here to look at the body, see the crime scene. Let’s turn off the gas lamps and close up the room.”
It felt strange to close the door to the study and walk down the hall to the foyer knowing that Bancroft would remain where he was, slowly stiffening with rigor mortis, until the jurors came tomorrow to examine him. But Kendra was too tired to argue.
Three men from East Dingleford had come with the constable, and were standing on the step outside. Kendra recognized one of the men from their first evening in the village—Freddie, who had been so eager to bring the Luddites to justice. The servants had begun to trickle back to Falcon Court from the Guy Fawkes celebrations, as well, shaken to be greeted with the news of their master’s death.
Lady Winifred followed five minutes later. Her beautiful face went white with shock when Constable Jameson informed her of her father’s death. Dr. Poole and Lady Winifred’s maid hustled her off to her bedchamber, and no doubt into the mindless slumber of laudanum.
Kendra noticed that Dr. Poole didn’t show Lady Winifred the letter. Maybe he would tomorrow, after she’d had a chance to absorb the shock of her father’s death. Maybe he never would. Kendra supposed it depended on what Squire Matthews decided.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning by the time they made their way to Acker Manor. The butler was surprised, but didn’t question Dr. Poole, who demanded that the butler rouse his master while they waited in the drawing room.
Ten minutes later, the magistrate was carried in by two footmen. He was wearing a ruby dressing gown over his nightshirt and a nightcap. One foot was clad in a slipper. The other was propped up, swollen big toe thrust into the air. Oliver Matthews joined them, wearing a rather flamboyant turquoise and green floral silk dressing gown. Mr. Shannon was right, Kendra decided. The younger Matthews was definitely a tulip.
Dr. Poole made tsking noises as he inspected the squire’s big toe. “Have you refrained from drinking alcohol and eating red meat as I instructed you over two weeks ago?”
The son said, “Father had tripe for dinner and a bottle of red wine.”
“Poppycock! Half a bottle.”
“A bottle.”
“Bah! Unless Dr. Poole is suddenly making house calls in the middle of the bloody night—with an entourage—I suspect he’s not here to lecture me about my menu,” the squire snapped at his son. He frowned at his unwelcome guests. “What is this about, and why couldn’t it wait until morning?”
Jameson said, “Lord Bancroft is dead.”
“Good God!” Squire Matthews’s eyes widened. “What? How?”
“I shot him,” Kendra replied, earning a frown from the doctor.
The squire stared at her. “Why would you go and do that?”
“Lord Bancroft murdered Mrs. Stone and her housekeeper,” the Duke spoke up. “He was searching for evidence that would incriminate him. Miss Donovan had recently come into possession of that evidence.”
“What evidence?”
Dr. Poole handed him the letter. “This is the evidence his Grace is referring to. If you read it, I think you shall see what motivated Lord Bancroft . . .” He hesitated, lips twisting as he realized the title was misplaced. “What motivated the man to kill.”
While his father read the letter, Matthews poured drinks and encouraged everyone to take a seat. Kendra took him up on the suggestion, feeling suddenly exhausted. The night’s events were beginning to weigh her down. Bancroft—Hernández—had been a psychopath. But they’d shared a link that went beyond time and space. Hernández had recognized that. It was why he’d offered her a choice. Of course, if she’d told him no, she’d be the one with a bullet in her head. Was that really a choice?
“Hell and damnation,” the squire finally uttered, his gaze lifting to view his audience. “This is . . . this is . . . quite incredible.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Dr. Poole.
Matthews looked at his father. “What is it?”
The squire pursed his lips. He ignored his son, looking at everyone. “Who has read this letter?”
“Miss Donovan, my nephew, Mr. Kelly, and myself,” said the Duke.
“And I,” Dr. Poole added.
“W’ot’s in the bloody thing?” Jameson demanded, irritated at being kept out of the loop.
“Something I must consider carefully,” the squire said. “I shall tell you what I decide tomorrow. For now, I suggest we go to bed. Miss Donovan, you will most likely need to give a statement tomorrow on Lord . . . ah, Bancroft’s death, since he died by your hand.”
Kendra was surprised when Dr. Poole said, “I shall be announcing my verdict tomorrow at the inquest. A clear case of self-defense.”
“It was self-defense,” she said.
Dr. Poole stood, and he looked over at Kendra with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps you ought to take up more ladylike pursuits in the future, Miss Donovan,” he said nastily. “Then you wouldn’t be embroiled in an inquest, needing to claim self-defense at all, would you?”
There was, of course, the second story.
Kendra was forced to wait until Sam finally bid them goodnight before she was able to tell the Duke and Alec. It was near three o’clock in the morning by then. They’d rehashed Bancroft’s deception, and his part in the murders, until nothing more could be said. The way Sam fixed her with his cop-like stare before he finally departed made her think that he knew she was holding something back.
She felt a pang of guilt over that. She knew what it was like to be an outsider. But how could she tell him that Hernández had been a time traveler? How could she tell him that she was?
“All right, my dear,” the Duke said, and settled his intelligent blue eyes on her after the door closed. “I sense you have something else to discuss privately.”
“Yes.” Her gaze fell on the glass she held in her hand, which still held a splash of Mrs. Bolton’s homemade apricot brandy. She h
ad also been half drunk with brandy when she’d first told Alec about being a time traveler.
She lifted her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and told them Mateo Hernández’s story.
“This is . . . extraordinary,” the Duke marveled fifteen minutes later. “Two of you? And he followed you into the stairwell? Why didn’t he come out when you did? Why did his journey through your wormhole take him further into the past?”
Kendra gave a weak laugh. “Christ, I wish I knew. But I’m as much in the dark about this as you are. I think it’s safe to say that traveling through time is precarious.” And if I ever went into another vortex, there’s no guarantee where I’d end up.
Her eyes met Alec’s gaze across the room. He’d taken up his habitual position against the fireplace mantel. And if Alec joined me, there would be no guarantee that we’d end up together.
The thought made her shudder.
She said softly, “He didn’t want to kill me. He didn’t want to lose the connection to our world. It’s hard to know that I am the one who cut the link in that chain.”
“You had no choice,” Alec said, his voice harsh. “He would have killed you.”
“I know that, but . . .” She lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. She couldn’t explain the sadness she was feeling, even to herself. “I didn’t know that he existed until a couple of hours ago, but I feel like I lost something. He and I were the same.”
“No.” The Duke shook his head. “You may come from the same period of time, but you are nothing alike. Since you came through the wormhole, your instinct has always been to save lives. To stop evil. When Lord—when Hernández came through, he stole and killed, exactly as he had done when he had lived in the future as an assassin.
“He stole a young man’s life,” he added quietly, his blue eyes filled with sorrow. “Everything he built as Lord Bancroft was built upon a horrible lie.”
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