“If we double up, it shall be faster, my dear.” The Duke’s blue eyes twinkled down at her as though he’d read her thoughts and was amused. “There’s nothing to fear.”
“Who says I’m afraid?”
He smiled. “We ought to leave for London immediately.”
Kendra blew out a breath. He was right, damn it. She reached up to clasp the hand he was offering. “Okay. Let’s go.”
4
Ye’ll be dealin’ with another murder, then?” Molly paused in her task of pulling gowns out of the large mahogany wardrobe to glance over her shoulder at Kendra.
The maid’s matter-of-fact expression spoke volumes. It occurred to Kendra that five months ago, Molly would have been wide-eyed and horrified at the thought of a murder having been committed. But being Kendra’s lady’s maid had obviously hardened the fifteen-year-old to the grisly side of life. I’m not the only one who’s adapting, Kendra thought suddenly. We’re changing each other.
“Mr. Kelly has asked for our help. He found a body.” Kendra crossed the room to the mirrored vanity. Opening one of the side drawers, she retrieved a cedar chest, and set it on the vanity.
Molly sniffed. “’Tis London Town. Oi’d wager they’re always finding bodies.”
“Apparently there was something strange about this particular homicide.”
“Like w’ot?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Kendra lifted the chest’s lid and surveyed the muff pistol resting against the velvet lining. Compared to the firepower available in the 21st century, it was a nonentity. But she knew that the dainty weapon with its polished walnut stock and exquisitely engraved gold plate could be deadly. She’d used the weapon to defend herself not more than four months ago.
“’E didn’t say?” Molly asked.
“No.”
The Duke hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that the Bow Street Runner had been scant on detail. She’d read more descriptive messages in fortune cookies.
Your Grace, I most humbly request the presence of you and your ward, Miss Donovan, in London. A man of consequence has been murdered in a most peculiar fashion. The body is at Dr. Munroe’s anatomy school in Covent Garden. I eagerly await your response.
The Duke’s response had been to have his carriage readied for the journey to London. Because there was no such thing as a quick trip in the early 19th century—it would take four hours to travel by carriage (if the snow didn’t hinder them)—Kendra knew that they wouldn’t be returning to Aldridge Castle tonight. Or anytime soon. They would stay in town, at the Duke’s mansion at No. 29 Grosvenor Square. That meant trunks were now being packed, and Mrs. Danbury, the Duke’s frighteningly efficient housekeeper, was divvying up the servants into those who would stay behind at the castle and those who would travel to London. After all, a duke couldn’t be expected to get his own cup of tea.
“It’ll be excitin’ ter return ter London,” Molly admitted as she began searching through the mountain of gowns she’d thrown on the bed. With a smile of triumph, she pulled out a small drawstring pouch decorated with roses and ribbons. The accessory was called a reticule because it was considered ridiculous as a fashion accessory, too tiny to be truly serviceable. Yet Kendra had found it the perfect size for a pistol designed to fit into a muff or a pocket.
“Thanks,” she said as Molly handed her the reticule.
Kendra was in the process of stuffing the pistol into the purse when the door suddenly opened, and the Duke’s formidable sister, Lady Caroline Atwood, sailed into the bedchamber. Oh, crap.
“A word, if you please.” The Countess’s tone was needle-sharp. She didn’t spare Molly so much as a glance, but the former tweeny didn’t need a verbal command to know that she was being ordered to leave the room. Hurriedly, the maid squeezed around the bed, and vanished out the door like a puff of smoke.
Coward, Kendra wanted to call after her. Yet she knew that the number one rule for household staff in this era was to operate in the background, to blend in with the furniture. Meeting Lady Atwood’s hard gaze, Kendra only wished she could join Molly in her escape.
The Countess had the same blue eyes as her brother, eyes that could appear gray in a certain light or certain moods, and their fair hair was slowly turning silver in their fifth decade. But the resemblance ended there, at least as far as Kendra was concerned. Whereas the Duke always regarded her with sharp intelligence, gentle humor, and overall goodwill, Lady Atwood viewed her with deep suspicion bordering on dislike.
Part of Lady Atwood’s dislike stemmed from the Duke appointing himself Kendra’s guardian, which had always struck Kendra as ironic, since she’d thought that needing a guardian at the age of twenty-six was both ridiculous and insulting in the first place. But it would have been a major scandal if she’d remained at Aldridge Castle without being part of the household staff, so the solution was either to become the Duke’s ward or be kicked out on her ass. Kendra knew which one Lady Atwood would have preferred.
They’d reached an uneasy truce during the Christmas holidays, but by the older woman’s stiff expression, Kendra suspected those days were over.
“Aldridge has told me that you shall be departing for Town momentarily,” the Countess said.
“That’s the plan,” Kendra agreed carefully.
Lady Atwood arched her neatly plucked eyebrows. “Indeed. And is it also the plan to embroil my brother in yet another one of your outrageous investigations, Miss Donovan? Bertie is the Duke of Aldridge, not a costermonger to brush up against criminal society!”
“Mr. Kelly was the one who asked for His Grace’s assistance,” Kendra said. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“Don’t be stupid. It has everything to do with you. Bertie would never have made this thief-taker’s acquaintance if it hadn’t been for you.” The Countess’s nostrils flared as she sucked in a furious breath. “Before your appearance in his life, my brother’s only interest was investigating the natural world, not this unnatural world of cutthroats and scapegraces. Bertie informed me of your disgraceful adventure several months ago in Yorkshire, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra had to count to ten before she answered. “Someone was murdered, your ladyship, and Mr. Kelly is asking for our help. I think you know that His Grace isn’t the kind of man to refuse such a request.”
The older woman’s eyes flashed a dangerous blue. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, young lady, or tell me what kind of man my brother is! I know his character far better than you.”
Ah, and wasn’t that the crux of the issue? Among her sisters, Lady Atwood had always been the closest to her brother. Kendra knew that the older woman thought she was brazen and odd, and way too common to associate with their ancient Rutherford bloodlines. But what really irked her was the closeness that had formed between Kendra and the Duke. What Lady Atwood didn’t know—and never could—was the secret over which their bond had been forged.
“Bertie has always been intellectually curious,” the Countess was saying. Her lips thinned as she appraised Kendra. “But his pursuits have been socially acceptable. He is a member of the Royal Society, for heaven’s sakes! But your influence has brought him into contact with the most common, crass element of society.”
Kendra didn’t know how to respond. This was a world where the upper classes found it embarrassing if one of their members was caught working in trade, where doctors distanced themselves from surgeons because it was considered ill-bred to work with one’s hands.
“You have bewitched my brother, Miss Donovan,” Lady Atwood went on furiously. “But have care. He shall come to his senses one day. And you . . .” She let her angry gaze roll over Kendra. “You are like one of those automated toys Bertie was intrigued by when he was a child. Personally, I cannot comprehend what it is about you that so entrances him, but like those toys, his interest will undoubtedly wane.”
Kendra’s gaze fell to the muff pistol inside the reticule. Slowly she pulled the drawstrings sh
ut, concealing the weapon. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you think I can do.”
Lady Atwood let out an exasperated hiss. “If you truly cared about my brother, you would refuse the thief-taker’s request. You would insist Bertie not involve himself in this folly. You—” Lady Atwood broke off when a knock came at the door, and Rebecca came into the room.
“Kendra, I came to—Oh.” Rebecca stared in surprise at the Countess. “Forgive the interruption, my lady. I only wanted to inform Miss Donovan that I shall be accompanying her on the journey to London.”
Lady Atwood frowned. “Your father has given you permission?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rebecca said with a polite smile, unoffended by the comment.
At twenty-three, Rebecca was still living at home, subject to her father’s authority. Most ladies of the same age and station would have already been establishing their own households as married women. The reason for Rebecca’s single status was on her face, which was pockmarked as the result of having suffered from smallpox when she’d been six years old.
Kendra had often wondered if she would have ever met Rebecca if the other woman hadn’t been disfigured. The aristocrat’s life would have been completely different, managing a household and raising a family. Or if they had met, would Rebecca have shared Lady Atwood’s opinion of Kendra?
It was impossible to imagine Rebecca as anything other than the independent woman she was, but if she hadn’t suffered from smallpox, and the resulting disfigurement, her parents might not have felt the need to compensate by encouraging their only child in her intellectual and artistic pursuits. They might have pressured her to conform to the rules that governed women of the day.
Before and after, Kendra thought again. She wasn’t the only person who had an event change her life completely.
“Papa is speaking with our coachman,” Rebecca told the Countess. “As soon as the servants have finished packing the trunks, they will follow, and open up our town house.”
“Hmm.” Lady Atwood shot Kendra a disapproving look, as though Lord and Lady Blackburn’s decision to allow their daughter to go to London was her fault as well. She released a put-upon sigh. “I suppose nothing can be done except prepare for the journey.”
Kendra’s heart sank at the implication. “You’re not staying at Aldridge Castle, my lady?”
The older woman’s lips knotted into a sour smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
With all my heart. But Kendra said nothing.
Lady Atwood narrowed her eyes. “Someone must manage the household and ensure that Bertie doesn’t forget his place in society. Besides, London is not without its amusements. The Season began several weeks ago. Our family has obligations, Miss Donovan.”
The Countess retraced her footsteps to the door. She paused there, and Kendra’s stomach tightened when she looked back at her and smiled slowly. “You can no longer claim you don’t know how to dance, Miss Donovan. As the Duke of Aldridge’s ward, you have responsibilities as well. I shall be on hand to make certain you fulfill them.”
Kendra kept her lips pressed together until Lady Atwood left. Then she sagged against the bedpost. “Oh, my God. Did you see that smile? It was evil.”
Rebecca laughed.
“I think she’s looking forward to torturing me,” Kendra said. “It almost sounded like a threat.”
“Oh, my dear,” Rebecca said, and grinned. “There is no almost about it. It was most definitely a threat.”
5
Fifteen minutes later, Kendra was tugging on her kid gloves as she left her bedchamber. The heavy, blue-velvet carriage dress that Molly had insisted she wear for the journey made a swishing sound against the floor as she moved down the hallway. That was joined a moment later by the light but firm tread of a man’s boot. Kendra wasn’t surprised when Alec emerged from a shadowy alcove and fell into step beside her.
“It’s about bloody time,” he muttered, his straight dark brows pulling together in a scowl. “I’ve been waiting to have a word with you.”
Kendra shot him a sideways look. In this era, ‘bloody’ was considered a profanity, never to be spoken in the presence of a lady. Even though Alec often relaxed his own code of etiquette when they were alone, especially given her own propensity toward colorful language, she suspected that it was irritation behind his lapse this time. She didn’t resist when he grasped her elbow and steered her to a stop against the wall.
He fixed his eyes on her. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to send Mr. Kelly a polite refusal?”
He was six feet tall, tall enough that she had to tilt her head up to gaze at him. Sunshine streamed in from a nearby window, delineating the hard planes of Alec’s face: the square jaw, sculpted cheekbones, and straight, narrow nose. Kendra had a ridiculous urge to brush back the silky dark lock that fell over his brow. They’d been together for more than four months, and she’d thought the crazy physical attraction would have faded a little by now. But it was just as strong as ever. As she met his green eyes, her stomach gave a delicious flutter.
She huffed out a sigh. “Why does everyone think I’m in the position to refuse? Mr. Kelly sent the note to His Grace. Why don’t you talk to your uncle?”
“Don’t play coy, Kendra. We both know Mr. Kelly’s true purpose in sending the letter. Just as we both know you want to go.”
He knew her too well. “Alec . . .” She was close enough to see the gold flecks around the pupils. “This is what I do.”
By the way his lips pressed together, Kendra could see that her answer didn’t please him. She nearly sighed again, but managed to stifle the sound.
It was odd, but despite the centuries that separated them, they’d actually had similar childhoods. After his mother, Alexandria, an Italian countess, had died when Alec was still an infant, his father, Edward, had remarried. When he’d died, Alec’s stepmother, a cold, controlling woman, had shipped him off to boarding school as soon as she was able. The Duke had invited his nephew to spend the holidays at Aldridge Castle, but still, Kendra knew that Alec’s childhood had been as lonely as hers.
And like her, he’d been born with a destiny in mind. His was to fill his father’s shoes as the Marquis of Sutcliffe and run the estate he’d inherited in Northamptonshire. The weight of responsibility on Alec’s shoulders had increased when the Duke lost his wife and daughter twenty years before. The Duke’s refusal to remarry meant Alec was in line for the dukedom, a duty that included the stewardship of Aldridge Castle and surrounding lands, and the livelihoods of all the people who lived there. It also meant ensuring that the estate and his lineage survived into the future by marrying and producing children—male children. Wives, mothers, and daughters had no right to inherit their family’s entailed estates. If they were lucky, they’d receive a stipend that would allow them some sort of independence. If they were unlucky, they’d be forced to find work as a companion to the more affluent ladies in their family tree.
Kendra drew in an unsteady breath and lifted her gloved hands to press against Alec’s chest. The reticule that had been dangling from her wrist slid down, weighted with the pistol inside. She kept her gaze on his. “Alec, this is who I am.”
And that was the root of their problem, wasn’t it? In spite of the strange parallels in their upbringing, Alec was very much a man of the early 19th century. He wanted to marry her, to protect and provide for her. He didn’t understand her determination to be self-reliant, her desire to keep her independence. She’d had a purpose in the 21st century. Maybe it wasn’t the one that her parents had envisioned, but she’d felt useful. She still wanted that feeling here.
“I know.” He put his hands over hers. He leaned down and rested his forehead against hers. “I know this is important to you, but I dislike the thought of you becoming involved in another murder. Of placing yourself in danger.”
“There might not be any danger.”
He straightened, then raised a skeptical brow. “Do you take me for a flat?”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“A gullible fool.”
“Oh. No. But I can ask the same of you. I’m not a child, Alec.” She lifted her reticule and pressed it against him so he could feel the weight of the gun. “I know how to take care of myself. You should know that better than anyone.”
He was silent for a long moment, then he released a sigh. She heard frustration and capitulation in the sound.
“Promise me you will be careful,” he said. “Promise me that whatever happens, you shall not take any unnecessary risks.”
Kendra smiled. “Of course.”
She started to step away, but he grabbed her elbow, his gaze locked on hers. “Promise me.”
Kendra nearly gave a flippant response, was opening her mouth to do just that. But something in his face stopped her. This time she was the one who capitulated. Is this love? she wondered. This give and take?
She leaned into him, her hands settling on his shoulders as she kissed him softly. “I promise,” she whispered.
She meant it. But no one was more aware than she that life could change in a second. Before and after. And promises, no matter how sincere, could be too easily broken.
London might not have grown to the size it would become in the 21st century, its urban sprawl gobbling up towns that in this day stood on their own, surrounded by vast swathes of countryside, but the city was still massive. Kendra had forgotten the noise, the people, the pollution, the poverty.
The colder temperature and snow seemed to mute the noise somewhat, muffling the clip-clop of horses’ hooves that carried riders and pulled carriages, hackneys, and wagons loaded down with supplies and coal. The streams of pedestrians were thinner, and there didn’t seem to be as many costermongers about, pushing their carts and trying to cajole the public into buying their wares. As the Duke’s carriage joined the city traffic, Kendra gazed at figures huddled in doorways and alleys—chapped, red hands worrying the edges of raggedy blankets, or standing around barrels in which wood and coal burned, to keep warm. The smoke pumping out of the city’s million chimneys for those lucky enough to have a home and a hearth darkened the afternoon sky into an early twilight. The air was heavy with the acrid stench, as well as other odors, ranging from the god-awful—something that smelled like rotten eggs, dung, and decaying vegetation—to the more pleasant smells of roasting chestnuts, meats, and pies.
Betrayal in Time Page 3