“Hmm.” Hawkings eyed the shillings, rubbing his chin. “’Twas a bang-up night. We h’ad more’n two ’undred blokes wagerin’. Mr. Dorin’ brung ’is bird—a bloomin’ big bastard. Undefeatable, ’e is. ’Tis a problem, that. No one wants ter bet against ’im.”
“Aye, I can see how that would be a problem. But I’m not interested in the outcome, Mr. Hawkings. I want ter know if Lord Gabriel and Captain Harcourt was there.”
“Lemme think. Seems ter me that both gents came in. Oi think I saw ’em for the first fight.” He rolled his massive shoulders. “Don’t remember ’em after that.”
“What time did the first fight start?”
“’Alf past nine. Starts the same time every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday.”
“How long have you been in Aldridge Village, Mr. Hawkings?”
“Since Oi got caught in the parson’s mousetrap—nigh on fifteen years ago, Mr. Kelly.”
“Ever hear of any lasses gone missing or cockin’ up their toes like the one in the lake?”
Uneasiness flashed across the publican’s face. “Nay, not like thata one, Mr. Kelly.”
Sam pushed the extra shillings toward Hawkings. “Thank you, sir. I’d appreciate it if you kept an eye and ear out for any gossip pertaining ter Lord Gabriel and Captain Harcourt.”
“Aye, guv.” Again he scooped up the coins with thick fingers, and began turning away. He hesitated, then pivoted back, leaning in close. “Oi dunno nothing about Lord Gabriel, but the Cap’n . . . ’e’s under the ’atches.”
“How’dya know that, Mr. Hawkings? He’s from London Town.”
“Aye, but ’e’s got a huntin’ lodge about these parts. ’E comes in ’ere frequent-like. ’E’s tryin’ ter keep ’is circumstances quiet, but ’e needs to pay cash. No credit.”
“Afraid he’d leave you hanging, eh?”
“Oi’m more ’fraid of what me wife would do if ’e did!” Hawkings laughed heartily and moved away.
Sam slowly sipped his beer. Captain Harcourt being in dun territory was an interesting tidbit. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have lured the whore—the way he saw it, the appearance of wealth was the key. Sam had been a Runner long enough to know that many of the Ton lived on credit. Like Brummel. That lad had dined with royalty until he’d had his falling out with the Prince Regent. He still moved in high circles, but if the whispers on the street were true—and Sam suspected they were—the dandy was quite penniless.
As far as Sam was concerned, Captain Harcourt still fit Miss Donovan’s profile, and neither he nor Lord Gabriel had a firm alibi for last Sunday night. Sam pondered that for a bit before his mind shifted to another puzzle: the American. Who was she?
He’d heard the gossip. She’d been a lady’s maid before suffering a demotion to below stairs maid, and then an unprecedented elevation to Lady Rebecca’s companion. ’Twas damned unusual, much like the lass. In fact, if he hadn’t known any better, he’d think she was one of the fancy. Except for her peculiar knowledge of murder. He didn’t know who she was, but knew what she was: Kendra Donovan was a liar.
34
The Duke’s carriage rattled down the dirt country roads toward Morland’s home of Tinley Park. Only four miles separated the two holdings, but the rural landscape seemed to stretch endlessly. The world really has gotten much smaller during my time, Kendra thought.
She reached for the brass rail to hold when the carriage turned down the lane and into the park. Glancing out the window, Kendra was surprised by her first glimpse of the manor. It looked like the White House, with its fluted columns, portico, and classic triangle pediment. The stones hadn’t been painted white, but left in their natural state, the color a warm honey that seemed to glow in the sun’s rays.
Then she remembered that in this era, there was no White House. The British had burned that structure down a year ago.
“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” the Duke said, misinterpreting her expression.
“Ah. Yeah. Yes, it is.”
“Mr. Morland’s grandfather, Henry Richford, the Earl of Whilmont, had an excess of passion for ancient civilizations, Greece, in particular. When he bought Tinley Park, he tore down the previous manor and built what you see now.”
“It’s not something you expect to see in the English countryside.”
Something in the silence that followed had her shifting her attention from the window to Aldridge. He was eyeing her oddly.
Panic flared. What did I say? she wondered. It took her a moment, then she remembered that England had a Greek Revival movement that had begun in the eighteenth century. Tinley Park wasn’t so unusual after all. Damn, and double damn.
“I meant to say, it doesn’t seem very English,” she amended. That sounded lame, even to her own ears. She felt her face heat at the Duke’s scrutiny.
“Well, the earl preferred ancient Greece over anything English, including its legends. We had many discussions on the subject, although I must confess my interest lies more in the Greek civilization and contributions to natural philosophy than in its myths. What of you, Miss Donovan? Do you have any interest in Greek mythology?”
“Not particularly, no.”
The carriage rolled to a jerky stop in front of the manor and the coachman jumped down. Kendra made a scooting move toward the door, but the Duke held up his hand, his expression amused.
“We may be here to conduct our inquiries, but we still must observe the social necessities.” He produced a slim silver case from his inside coat pocket. Opening it, he extracted what looked to Kendra to be a business card, which he handed to his coachman. “My calling card,” he explained.
Kendra sat back, frowning. “Now what?”
“Now we wait to see whether Mr. Morland is at home to us.”
“We couldn’t have just knocked on the door to find that out?”
Aldridge’s lips twitched. “Only if we are uncouth—which we are not. No need to fret, my dear. If the gentleman is at home, he won’t decline to see us. That would be foolish.”
“I see. Is anyone not at home to someone who has a title?”
“That would depend on whether the person one calling upon has a more elevated title.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Surely it is the same in America—if not with titles, then with people of consequence?”
Kendra didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know too much about societal etiquette in nineteenth-century America. Her calling card had been her FBI badge, now as out of touch as the moon. Just thinking about it depressed her.
The servant returned with the expected response—Mr. Morland was at home. Morland’s butler met them in the enormous foyer, a cavern of icy-gray-veined marble floors and columns, and fixtures trimmed in gilt. A fresco had been painted across the vaulted ceiling, depicting a toga-clad man showing off his physical prowess by shooting an arrow into a tree, splitting it as another man leapt out from its shattered core toward a woman in flowing white. The Duke hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that the late earl had been enamored with Greek mythology.
He followed her eyes to the ceiling as they ascended the circular stairs. “’Tis striking, is it not?”
“It should be in a museum.” Then again, everything here should be in a museum, she thought.
The butler led them to a drawing room painted in airy pastels. The Greek influence extended to the silk-covered furnishings, classically carved cabinets, and scrolling volutes atop Ionic pilasters. Another fresco dominated the ceiling, this one of a regal couple seated on thrones in the middle of big, billowing clouds.
Zeus and Hera, Kendra identified, the chief god and goddess of Greek mythology.
“Mr. Morland shall be in shortly,” the servant told them. “Please be seated. May I offer you a drink? A sherry or brandy, mayhap? Or tea?”
“A cup of tea, thank you,” the Duke smiled. “Miss Donovan?”
“Oh . . . sure. Yes. Thank you.”
“I shall bring a tray at once, Your Grace.” The butler
bowed and departed.
Clasping her hands behind her back, Kendra circled the room. On the far wall were several paintings, mostly portraits, and a few landscapes. The middle portrait was the largest, roughly sixty inches by forty-eight, featuring a woman in a flowing, toga-like white dress. Her dark hair was unbound, tumbling past her shoulders. She was leaning against a stone pillar, her dark eyes pensive. Dark clouds boiled in the background. Kendra was in the process of trying to figure out which goddess or demigoddess she represented when the Duke came up beside her.
“Lady Anne,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He nodded toward the painting. “’Tis Morland’s mother, Lady Anne. Of course, this painting was commissioned at least twenty-five years ago.”
Kendra studied the figure more closely. “She’s beautiful.” She slanted a glance at the Duke, and wondered if he realized that the woman bore a striking resemblance to Jane Doe.
“Your Grace . . . Miss Donovan.” They turned as Morland strode into the room. He sent Kendra an enigmatic glance, probably wondering what the hell a paid companion was doing with the Duke. “Welcome. This is a rare pleasure.”
“Your home is very impressive,” Kendra said.
A wry look crossed Morland’s face as he lifted his gaze to the painted ceiling. “I’m afraid that I am less interested in Greek legends than my grandfather or mother. I’ve considered refurbishing, but I fear it would upset Mother.”
“How is Lady Anne?” asked Aldridge. “Will she be joining us?”
Morland looked down at his hands, his expression tightening. “No. I fear my mother is unwell.”
“Oh, my dear boy, I am distressed to hear this. If you have need of any remedies, we have an excellent stillroom maid at the castle.”
“You are most kind, sir.” His gaze flickered up, then away. “However, I fear there is no remedy for what ails my mother.”
Behind them the door opened and the butler entered, followed by a maid carrying the tea service.
“Ah, excellent.” Morland seemed relieved at the interruption. “Let us sit, shall we?”
The maid set down the tray on a nearby table, curtsied, and left. The butler stayed behind to pour.
“How do you take your tea, sir?”
“Two sugars. Cream.”
“Miss?”
“Black. One sugar.”
The butler doctored the tea, passed around the cups. He obviously knew Morland’s preferences, handing him a cup and saucer without inquiring.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. You may go, Adams.” As the butler closed the door behind him, Morland raised his brows. “Is this visit about the soiled dove? Has the Bow Street Runner returned?”
Aldridge’s expression pulled into grave lines. “As a matter of fact, he has.”
“Has he learned the identity of the chit?”
Kendra watched him closely, but couldn’t detect anything other than curiosity in his gaze. “No, but he uncovered something significant. Prostitutes similar to the girl found in the lake have vanished from London over the last four years.”
“Vanished? I don’t understand. If they were not found murdered, pray tell, how can you make the correlation between those prostitutes and the dead girl in the lake?”
The Duke answered. “It’s difficult to explain. However, based on the evidence, I am confident that there is a connection.”
Kendra looked at Morland. “Where were you Sunday night, Mr. Morland? I understand that you were at Lady Atwood’s dinner party, but where did you go after?”
For a moment, he simply stared at her. As though he hadn’t heard her correctly. Then his gaze swiveled to the Duke. “What does my whereabouts have to do with this, Your Grace?”
Aldridge sighed. “I apologize for our impertinence. Miss Donovan has convinced me that this line of inquiry is necessary.”
“Miss Donovan has persuaded you to believe I am capable of this—this barbarism?”
“We’re questioning several people, Mr. Morland,” she stated calmly. “It’s procedure.”
“Procedure? What procedure? I’m the bloody magistrate!”
“Think of it as your civic duty.”
“My—” A muscle worked in his jaw. “This is absurd!”
The Duke sighed again. “I truly was hoping you would not take insult. Nevertheless, I’d like an answer.”
His tone was mild, but Kendra recognized the steel beneath it. She was reminded again of the power the Duke wielded in this world. Better than a badge.
Morland put his teacup down and surged to his feet. Spine rigid, he stalked to the window. When he answered, his voice was abrupt. “I returned home from the dinner party. After Monsieur Anton’s most excellent dinner, I took a turn around the garden. Then I read in the library before retiring to my bedchamber.”
“Can anyone verify your whereabouts?”
He flicked her a hard look. “It was late. Mayhap the servants observed my nocturnal activity. Mayhap they did not.”
“What about your valet?” Kendra asked, remembering Rebecca’s question to Dalton. “Wouldn’t he have helped you get ready for bed?”
“He assisted me before I occupied myself reading in the library. I did not need his assistance later.”
“What book did you read?”
He frowned, puzzled. “What does my reading material have to do with anything?”
“I realize this is confusing, but I’d appreciate an answer.”
He continued to frown at her for several more seconds as though trying to figure out the reason behind the question, then shrugged. “Tom Jones. Have you read it, Miss Donovan?”
“Yes. It’s an old book.” Even in this time period.
Morland said nothing.
Kendra continued, “You are familiar with London, my Lord?”
“Of course. I have a town house that I make use of, especially during the season. As does most of the Ton, including His Grace.”
Aldridge acknowledged that point with a nod. “It’s been many years since I made use of my townhome, but my sisters and their families often use it for their sojourns to Town.”
For the first time since they’d begun the interview, Morland’s eyes glinted with amusement. “If, by your query, you are wondering about my escapades in London, Miss Donovan, I shall admit to sowing my wild oats. But that was when I was a young buck. And if being a rascal is now a crime then the entire aristocracy is at risk of deportation or the gallows. With the exception, of course, of the Duke of Aldridge.”
“But you go back and forth between your home here and London?”
He gave a shrug. “I suppose. No more or less than anyone else though, including Lord Sutcliffe and his brother, Lord Gabriel.”
“Thank you for answering our questions, Mr. Morland.”
He raised a brow, surprised. “We are at the end of the interrogation?”
“I prefer to call it an interview.”
“I suppose that depends on who is asking the questions, does it not?”
Taking that as a signal, Aldridge set aside his teacup and stood up. “Again, I apologize for any inconvenience, Mr. Morland. My sister has orchestrated a dinner and dance tonight. I hope this will not influence your decision to attend?”
“Not at all, Your Grace.” The magistrate was back to being affable, even managing a smile as he opened the door and ushered them out into the hall. “’Tis not easy to be quizzed about a harlot’s murder, but one must make allowances. I certainly want this villain caught.”
“That is what we all want, I daresay,” the Duke agreed.
As they stepped out in the hall, Kendra caught the flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she felt a jolt of surprise as a creature right out of a horror movie raced toward them. The woman’s skin so pale that it glowed as luminescent as the moon, yet was almost fleshless against the sharp bones of her face. The only color in that bloodless countenance was the dark half-moons beneath her sunk
en eyes, and the eyes themselves, glittering like black agates. Her hair was the color of dull ash, falling in a tangled disarray down her back. She wore what appeared to be a shapeless white gown, yards of fabric fluttering around her skinny legs as she ran. Her slender feet, Kendra noticed, were bare and dirty.
Kendra heard the Duke’s swift intake of breath, then the woman was throwing herself into Morland’s arms, oblivious to everyone else.
“Oh, Adonis! Where have you been? The harpy is here!”
Morland brought his hands up to grip the woman’s upper arms, trying to disengage himself from her clutching fingers, but she wrapped herself around him like lichen. “Mama, where is Mrs. Marks?”
Shocked, Kendra thought of the portrait in the drawing room. There was no resemblance between that beautiful girl and this old crone.
“My God,” Aldridge breathed.
Morland shot him an anguished look.
“He mustn’t find us,” Lady Anne whispered. “We must flee before it’s too late.”
“Hush, Mama. You should not be out of your rooms. You are unwell.”
She began to pat his face with veined, speckled hands. “Adonis. My Adonis,” she crooned. “We shall flee to Mount Olympus. He shall never know.”
Morland grasped her wrists. “Mama, you must return to your rooms. ’Tis not safe for you to wander about.”
“Oh, sir!” A woman built like a fire station and wearing a maid’s uniform came trotting down the hall. “I’m most dreadfully sorry. She got away from me!”
Morland glared at her. “Obviously. We shall speak of this later, Mrs. Marks. Now, please take my mother back to her rooms.”
“Oh, aye, Mr. Morland.”
Lady Anne glanced around, her eyes widening in fear. “No! No!” She clutched at Morland. “She’s a harpy. Please, Adonis—”
Mrs. Marks’s beefy hands came down on the old woman’s frail shoulders, pulling her away from her son. “Ma’am, we mustn’t disturb Mr. Morland,” she said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Come along, dearie. Let’s get you back to your rooms.”
The black eyes blinked in confusion. Her face went slack as she stared at her son. “Who are you?” she whispered.
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