Betrayal in Time

by Julie McElwain

  But why should I care? she wondered with a peevishness that was not normal to her nature. It wasn’t as though she wanted to court society’s approval. In truth, she’d always preferred country life to the restrictions of town.

  Of course, it wasn’t only the restrictions of town that scraped at her nerves. If she were being entirely honest with herself, Rebecca knew there was more. She was well aware that behind every fluttering fan, the cats of society whispered about her flawed face. Sometimes they didn’t bother to hide behind their fans. Rebecca thought back to a well-meaning matron, who’d advised her to paint her face with the white lead used by the ladies of two generations ago, having apparently forgotten that many of those ladies had succumbed to mystery illnesses where they’d doubled over in agony, or shrieked at any slight, imagined or otherwise.

  Rebecca didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, Polite Society could go to Jericho. But being separated and isolated from her friends was another matter entirely.

  She took another sip of her wine, but it seemed bitter on her tongue. For heaven’s sakes, she was three and twenty—no longer a young girl to be taunted and tormented by unkind playmates. She was a woman. Nearly a spinster. And wasn’t that the problem? It was her unmarried state that restricted her from entering Dr. Munroe’s autopsy chamber.

  So why was Kendra Donovan in that forbidden room? Why was she allowed to break those rules imposed on unmarried ladies? This wasn’t the first time that Rebecca had cause to ponder the mystery surrounding the American.

  Just who was Kendra Donovan?

  They were friends—Kendra had even saved her life last year when she’d nearly drowned. One moment she’d been in the Thames, icy water rushing over her, and then the next, she had cast up her accounts on the riverbank. She’d been told Kendra had used some trick to bring her back to life. Impossible, of course. What could bring someone back from the dead?

  The whole thing reminded her of the newspaper accounts she’d read long ago about Italian physicist Giovanni Aldini’s experiments with electricity. She’d only been ten at the time, but she still remembered the way her skin had tingled with horror as she’d read about his visit to Newgate. Aldini had placed metal rods into the mouth and ears of a recently hanged murderer, causing the corpse’s jaw to contort, and one of his eyes to pop open. The newspaper account had even reported that the dead man had raised his right hand in a fist.

  Rebecca shuddered, and she had to remind herself that once the metal rods were removed, the corpse had gone back to being dead. Aldini’s exhibition had simply been a bizarre hoax. Whatever had happened, she most certainly had not cocked up her toes.

  Impatiently, she pushed thoughts of dying or nearly dying away, and resumed pacing. Kendra Donovan was remarkably reticent about speaking of her past, her family. Whenever Rebecca quizzed the American about her life before England, she always gave vague answers.

  It was frustrating, especially when she saw the looks so often exchanged between Kendra and the Duke, and Kendra and Alec. She was well aware of the amusement in their eyes when nothing had been said that warranted the reaction. Then, like now, she was on the outside, isolated. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She knew what it was like to stand on the sidelines, to not be included, but not with Alec, the Duke, and Kendra.

  Her skirt swished again as she pivoted, retracing her footsteps. My God, they were treating her like some feeble-minded female. It was galling.

  Rebecca came to a halt at one of the windows and peered down at the street. Daylight was slowly receding, leaving thickening shadows in its wake. Despite the cold, the area was congested with carriages and people, many of whom were drawn to the entertainment provided by the nearby Royal Opera House.

  And other entertainments. She was aware of Covent Garden’s more lurid reputation. Even as she watched, a man and woman disappeared into one of the dark alleys. The man’s dress indicated that he was a gentleman, or at least a wealthier merchant. However, Rebecca could see by the woman’s more garish clothing that she was not a lady.

  Rebecca spun away from the window, her thoughts returning to Kendra. Why wasn’t the Duke concerned with Kendra’s reputation? Why did he always let her do as she pleased?

  She hesitated mid-stride, recognizing the fallacy of that argument immediately. The Duke was concerned with his ward’s reputation. She’d seen it in his eyes. She’d heard him argue with Kendra on points of etiquette. She knew that he feared that Kendra would someday cross a line and be ostracized from Polite Society, where even his title and position couldn’t protect her. If the Duke—or Alec—had their wish, Kendra would be in this room, pacing right alongside Rebecca.

  But the Duke didn’t allow the American to do anything. Kendra made her own decisions, despite His Grace’s arguments. She never appeared to be intimidated by the possible consequences of those decisions. Or if she was, she never let on.

  Rebecca’s gaze fell on the wineglass as her mind raced. As difficult as it was to admit, she had only herself to blame for prowling Dr. Munroe’s office instead of being downstairs with everyone in the autopsy chamber. She wasn’t a child. And yet she continued to allow herself to be treated like one.

  So what am I going to do?

  She drew in a long breath. Despite reading—and advocating for—Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, as well as French playwright Olympe de Gouges’s Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen, the argument had always been a philosophical one for Rebecca. Until Kendra had appeared in their lives, she’d never actually had a reason to defy the rules. Or to stand up to her father—and the Duke.

  Her stomach churned. The harsh reality was that she didn’t want to be an outcast in society. She might not venture to London often, but she couldn’t imagine being cut dead by the town’s matrons. Still, she could probably face that more than she could face disappointing her father or mother.

  On the other hand, she didn’t want to disappoint herself. Maybe the time had come to put into practice what had been so easy for her to preach.

  She let out a shaky breath, squared her shoulders, and moved toward the door. Her heart seemed to bounce around in her chest, and she paused in an attempt to steady her nerves. Good heavens, she’d never been one of those silly chits to have vapors, and she wouldn’t begin now. Tightening her jaw, she hurriedly moved into the hall. Her fingers convulsed around the wineglass. She frowned. She’d forgotten that she was holding it until that moment. Briefly, she considered returning the glass to Dr. Munroe’s office, but was too afraid that her nerves would fail her, and she’d never leave the room.

  Keep going. She marched down the corridor, and was forced to open doors, peering into shadowy rooms until she found the door on the opposite end of the building that opened to a stone staircase leading down into the subterranean chambers. A shiver darted down her spine as cold, dank air rose up to greet her. The rough stone walls reminded her of the caverns she’d explored as a child. At the bottom, the corridor was wide, though; the flickering light from the torches revealed three doors cut into the stone.

  And something else. Rebecca stifled a gasp as her gaze traveled to the far end of the hallway, locking on the man standing outside a slightly ajar door. He was wearing a rumpled brown greatcoat and a battered tricorn hat. His hessians were scuffed white around the toe and heel. His head was cocked to the side, revealing his profile. Straight nose, prominent chin. From what she could see of it, his hair appeared to be a bright reddish gold. Given the fact that he had his ear nearly pressed to the door, it was quite obvious that the stranger was eavesdropping on whatever conversation was going on inside.

  Outrage swelled Rebecca’s bosom. She didn’t even realize that she’d begun moving again until she was halfway down the corridor. “Here there, you scoundrel!” she yelled, and her arm came up in an instinctive swing as the stranger pivoted around to face her. She’d forgotten about the glass that she had been holding until it went sailing through the air. Rebec
ca caught a flash of cerulean blue as the man’s eyes widened, then they squeezed shut as the wineglass and the droplets of remaining wine hit him above his left brow with a loud thunk, before bouncing off and shattering on the stone floor.

  “Ow! Bloody hell!” the man cried out, slapping his hand over the injury. He took a step back—probably because Rebecca was still striding toward him—but he’d forgotten about the partially open door. His sudden weight sent it flying inward with a loud bang, and the man lost his balance. He yelped as he went down in an ignominious heap on the floor.

  “What the devil? Who the blazes are you?”

  Though her heart was pounding in her ears, Rebecca recognized Alec’s voice.

  “He was spying!” she announced breathlessly, her gaze fixed on the man sprawled on the ground.

  “I was not!” The man had a faint Irish lilt.

  Rebecca glared down at him. He was younger than she’d realized, no more than thirty. “I saw you. You had your ear pressed to the door!”

  He gave her a crooked grin, pushing himself to his elbows but making no other attempt to get up. “I didn’t want to interrupt, and was merely judging the best time to make my entrance. How would I know that these gates would be protected by a Cerberus?”

  Rebecca gasped, indignation rising up and nearly strangling her. It took her a moment to find her voice. “How dare you, sir!”

  “’Tis not meant to be literal, but rather in spirit—a guardian.” Wincing, the man finally thrust himself to his feet, and dusted off his hands. “My manners may be rough, but I am not so ill-bred as to make such a comparison, Princess. Although my wits may have fled after you brained me with your glass.” He rubbed his forehead. “A simple shout would have sufficed, you know.”

  Rebecca’s pulse throbbed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this furious. The man was obviously an insufferable lout. It took every ounce of her control to stop herself from screaming at him. “Lady Rebecca. My father is Lord Blackburn. And I did call out. I suspect your wits had fled before I brained you—most likely years ago.”

  She was confounded when he laughed.

  “Who the devil are you?” Alec repeated, his green eyes darkening with temper. “What were you doing eavesdropping?”

  “Which is quite ill-bred,” Rebecca put in testily, sweeping past him into the room. The smell hit her then, and she nearly reeled back, her eyes watering. “Dear heaven,” she muttered, and quickly opened the embroidered reticule dangling from her wrist to retrieve a blue silk and lace handkerchief to press to her nose.

  “Phineas Muldoon,” Sam said before the stranger could reply. He scowled darkly at the young man. “He works for the Morning Chronicle.”

  The man whipped off his tricorn hat and bowed deeply. For some reason, that annoyed Rebecca all the more.

  He said, “I prefer Finn, if you should call me by my Christian name. Good afternoon, one and all.”

  Sam kept his flat gaze on the younger man. “What are you doing here, Muldoon? Listening at doors?”

  Muldoon’s eyebrows wriggled mischievously. “Some interesting information comes from listening at doors,” he quipped, unrepentant. “I heard Sir Giles had stuck his spoon in the wall—with a little help from an assailant—and was transported here.” His gaze shifted to the body on the table.

  Handkerchief still pressed to her nose, Rebecca followed his gaze with some trepidation. Never, not even under threat of torture, would she confess to being relieved that a sheet covered the cadaver’s nether region. It didn’t even occur to her that she was more concerned about the dead man’s state of undress than the injuries he’d sustained. Now, as her eyes traveled to the poor wretch’s swollen face, it took all her will power not to react with horror.

  The reporter continued, “As you are undoubtedly aware, Sir Giles is—was—an important figure in Whitehall. His murder is being remarked upon. Was he really found as naked as the day he was born in a church in Trevelyan Square?”

  “Who’s saying that?” Sam demanded.

  Muldoon put a finger to the side of his nose and winked. “I picked it up on the wind.” His gaze drifted back to the body, and he let out a low whistle. “It looks like the other whispers are true, and the fiend did cut out Sir Giles’s tongue. Apparently, the killer has a sense of humor.”

  “Humor?” The sharp word came from Kendra. She stepped toward him, studying the reporter with interest. “What’s humorous about that, Mr. Muldoon?”

  Rebecca was baffled as to how Kendra could bear being in this chamber without a handkerchief to protect her from the stench. How could any of them ignore the ghastly smell in the room? Even with her handkerchief, she had to struggle not to gag.

  Muldoon was giving Kendra equal measure. “You must be Miss Donovan. There’s been whispers about you as well—ow!” He yelped when Sam grabbed his collar and wrist, twisting the younger man’s arm behind his back and using it as leverage to propel the reporter to the door.

  “Never you mind who she is,” the Bow Street Runner growled. “Go on. Off with you!”

  “You helped with the investigation into the murder of Lady Dover last year, didn’t you?” Muldoon called over his shoulder at Kendra. “We haven’t been properly introduced!”

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Kelly,” Kendra said. The Bow Street Runner paused, but didn’t let go of the journalist. She asked again, “What do you mean the killer had a sense of humor?”

  “Now, see, I’m having a difficult time thinking, what with my arm being twisted about behind my back like it is.”

  “Speak or I’ll be twisting more than your arm,” Sam warned.

  Kendra waved her hand. “You can let him go, Mr. Kelly. I’ve dealt with the press before.”

  “Have you now?” Muldoon lifted a brow, his eyes curious. He gave Kendra a roguish grin as Sam released him.

  Rebecca could feel her lips thinning as she regarded the reporter. She still held the handkerchief pinched to her nose as she said, “Try not to be any more of a simpleton than you already are, Mr. Muldoon. A man is dead.” Rebecca was surprised when that reminder appeared to sober him.

  “Right you are, milady,” he agreed, glancing at her. Then he turned his attention back to Kendra. “I often write about Parliament and politics for the newspaper. Sir Giles has a certain reputation.”

  Kendra looked at him. “And what was that?”

  “He was willing to do anything for king and country.”

  The Duke frowned. “I would expect nothing less, given his position.”

  “Ah, well.” The reporter tugged on his ear. “Given the king’s state of mind . . .”

  “You would do well to be careful in that regard, Mr. Muldoon,” Rebecca snapped. “What you say may be perilously close to treason.”

  Muldoon shot her a lopsided grin. “I didn’t say the king was mad,” he pointed out, eyes twinkling.

  “Muldoon,” Sam growled, and made a move toward him.

  The reporter threw up his hands to ward off the Bow Street Runner. “All right! It has been whispered that Sir Giles orchestrated campaigns against anyone he deemed a threat to the kingdom.”

  Kendra frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Politics at its most base, Miss Donovan.” Muldoon’s humor vanished. He looked grim. “There is plenty of dissatisfaction in this country, but men like Sir Giles have deliberately sowed lies about people and causes that they disagree with in order to keep them under their thumb. They’re terrified that England will have a revolution to throw off the yoke of monarchy, like France or America. Making rebels into monsters is a relatively simple way to rally the masses. And it very cleverly deafens the masses to what the rebels might be saying.”

  Some of his humor returned as he added, “How do you think the milkmaid in Devonshire or the farmer in Kent comes to believe that Americans have forked tails and cloven hooves, Miss Donovan? Or that the Irish, if given their independence, will murder the English in their beds?”

  “You’r
e saying Sir Giles was responsible for churning out government propaganda,” Kendra said slowly. “And someone cut out his tongue because he spread lies.”

  Muldoon rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug. “It sends a message, doesn’t it?”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You heard that, did you?”

  The reporter wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “Do you know who would want to kill Sir Giles?” Kendra asked bluntly.

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  “I want more than stories.”

  Muldoon went quiet for a long moment. “Someone comes to mind,” he finally said. “But I can’t imagine him doing what was done to Sir Giles.”

  Kendra regarded him closely. “Why not?”

  “Because I speak of Mr. Gerard Holbrooke—Sir Giles’s son.” Muldoon’s gaze traveled to the body on the table again, and Rebecca was surprised to see a shadow pass across his countenance. He shook his head. “What son could ever cut out his father’s tongue? ’Tis unimaginable.”

  9

  Kendra wasn’t sure what it said about her that she could too easily imagine a son cutting out his father’s tongue. Her work in the 21st century had been filled with such atrocities. Now she eyed the reporter. “Why do you think Mr. Holbrooke killed his father?”

  “Ah—I told you that I actually do not think he killed his father,” he reminded her. “However, about two weeks ago, the two were involved in a rather public argument at Tattersalls.”

  “So what? People argue all the time. It doesn’t necessarily lead to murder.”

  “Yes, but more than sharp words were exchanged. I wasn’t there, but I was told that Mr. Holbrooke became violent against his father.”

  Kendra perked up. “In what way?”

  “He tried to plant a facer on Sir Giles, but apparently Mr. Holbrooke was deep in his cups at the time, so one could say his aim was off.” Muldoon grinned. “The two scuffled a bit before Mr. Holbrooke’s friends dragged the young buck away. The way I heard it, Sir Giles stalked off, embarrassed and livid.”