Betrayal in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Kendra saw the trap that the Countess had laid, and could almost admire it. She’d maneuvered her nephew neatly out of the Duke’s house. There would be no sneaking into Kendra’s bedchamber in the dead of night. While she and Alec had always been careful about keeping their relationship secret, Kendra had wondered what the Countess suspected. For whatever reason, she’d clearly turned a blind eye to their nocturnal activity at Aldridge Castle. Apparently, that was going to end in town.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, my lady,” Alec said, his expression inscrutable.

  If the Countess heard the razor-sharp edge in her nephew’s voice, she chose to ignore it. Instead, she smiled. “Always know that I have your best interests at heart.” She gave him a pointed look before saying, “Now, off with you. Both of you.”

  “I’ll walk with you to the door,” Kendra said, and put down the piece of slate.

  Once they were out of the study and away from Lady Atwood’s eagle eye, Alec put a hand on Kendra’s arm, slowing her stride. Rebecca glanced over her shoulder at them, but kept walking.

  Alec muttered, “My aunt is an interfering biddy.”

  “I think she’s probably as good a strategist as Sir Giles. If she had worked for your War Department, Napoleon would probably have been defeated a lot sooner.” She gave him a poke. “See what happens when you ignore the contributions and skills of half the population?”

  “If you married me—”

  “Sh-sh. That’s not possible.”

  “It’s entirely possible if you weren’t so bloody-minded.”

  “You have a unique way of trying to win me over.”

  “Kendra,” he said, and she could hear the frustration in the way he said her name, in the heat in his green eyes as he looked down at her.

  Because she didn’t know what to say, she said nothing. They walked in silence, and it wasn’t until they began descending the stairs that he tried again. “Perhaps I can come back later tonight. I have a key—”

  “No,” Kendra said sharply, and quickly lowered her voice. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t want some footman shooting you thinking you are a bloody housebreaker.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the stairs. The butler was waiting ahead of them with Alec’s coat, hat, and gloves. Rebecca was pretending to have a sudden fascination for the pink and gray marble floor.

  Jaw clenched tight, Alec took his greatcoat from Harding and shrugged into it. Afterward, he offered Kendra a mocking bow. “Good evening, Miss Donovan. I hope you sleep well.”

  Kendra chewed on her lower lip as she watched Alec offer his arm to Rebecca, and they swept out the door into the snowy night. Briefly, Rebecca shot her a quick, assessing glance, but Alec never looked back.

  She sighed. When she became aware of Harding’s eyes on her, she made an effort to pull herself together, and retraced her footsteps to the stairs.

  Guilt assailed her. Lady Atwood’s manipulation to remove Alec had surprised Kendra, but she was also relieved. Because a plan had come to her, and she knew that if Alec found out what she was going to do, he would do everything in his power to stop her.

  12

  Sam Kelly hunched his shoulders against the cold and the steadily falling snow as he waited outside the servant’s entrance of the most exclusive gentleman’s club in town. Ten minutes ago, he’d knocked on the front door of White’s, and had been directed to go to the back entrance to wait for the night porter.

  For a club that could trace its roots back to Italian immigrant Francesco Bianco, who’d served hot chocolate to folks under the banner of Mrs. White’s Chocolate House, Sam found it ironic that few of those early patrons would have been allowed through its exalted doors today. Of course, Mrs. White’s Chocolate House had vanished long ago, when its owners recognized that catering to London’s elite was more profitable than serving up cups of cocoa to the well-off masses and, if the rumors were true, a few highwaymen whose nocturnal habits had given them plump pockets.

  In the last century, the newly christened White’s had moved from Chesterfield Street to the fashionable St. James’s Street. After being burnt down, rebuilt, and remodeled, the current club boasted three stories of Portland stone and a Palladian façade with its famous street-level bow window. Sam wasn’t an avid follower of the fashionable set, but even he knew that the table in front of that particular window was reserved for the Ton’s arbiter of style, Beau Brummell. From that coveted perch, Brummell could observe the parade of stylish pedestrians walking on the pavement outside the window. And probably even more important, Sam thought, it allowed the Beau Monde to observe Brummell.

  Sam’s lip curled. He’d long since given up trying to figure out the peculiarities of his betters.

  A noise made Sam turn. It was only rats scurrying inside an open barrel, probably trying to get warm. God’s teeth, it was cold. Colder now than it had been an hour ago. His feet had gone numb, and he stomped them to regain feeling. Where was the bloody porter? He had half a mind to go around again to the front entrance and pound on the fancy black door. The only thing holding him back from being so raggedy-mannered was the fear that such an action would be reported to his superior, Sir Nathaniel.

  Hell, it might not even have to be reported to him. The Bow Street Magistrate could be in White’s at this very moment, dining on smoked eel or roasted grouse.

  Before Sam could fully envision such a nightmare, the back door opened, and a tall man wearing an old-fashioned powdered periwig and dark gray livery stepped outside. He’d taken the time to toss a multilayered greatcoat over his shoulders, wearing it like a cape.

  “Mr. Kelly?” the man inquired in lofty tones. “I am Mr. Durst.”

  Sam had to bite back a nasty reply. Who else did the man think had been waiting out here in the dark and cold for him? For some reason, the porter’s elegant cravat and starched collar points grated on Sam’s nerves. Maybe because he felt disheveled in comparison.

  “Aye, I am Sam Kelly of Bow Street.” He managed to keep a civil tongue, and yanked out his baton. The gold of its tip caught the light from the nearby gas lamppost and two gas lamps bolted on either side of the back door. “Good evening ter you, sir. I have a few questions regarding Sir Giles, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, I was informed. Shocking. I heard someone strangled him. Is that true?”

  Even though the information would probably be in the Morning Chronicle, Sam was reluctant to confide such a detail to the night porter. “I’m not at liberty ter say. We’re lookin’ into Sir Giles’s activities last evening. His coachman said that he left his master here at half past six. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. He dines at the club on Tuesday and Wednesday. Sometimes on Thursday nights as well.”

  Sam noticed that the night porter was referring to Sir Giles in the present tense, but he didn’t bother correcting him. It took some folks a little more time to absorb the truth. He asked, “When he arrived, how was his mood? Did he seem concerned, preoccupied, or worried about anything?”

  Durst frowned. “I did not notice him overly worried, but Sir Giles is a deep man. He’s never been inclined to wear his emotions on his sleeve, as it were.”

  “If you don’t mind, tell me what happened after he got ter the club. Did he speak to anyone in particular?”

  “He came right into the dining room and was seated near the west wall. He nodded at the other patrons, but he did not speak to them, nor did they approach him. Our members are respectful of each other’s privacy. He sat down and ordered his meal.” The night porter hesitated. “He was joined by a gentleman.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “He had a dinner companion? Who?”

  Again, Durst hesitated, and his obvious reticence was long enough to annoy Sam. “I am not a curiosity seeker, Mr. Durst,” he snapped. “This is a murder investigation.”

  “I am aware, Mr. Kelly,” the night porter said stiffly. “The gentleman in question was Lord Cross. He did not dine. He did order a brandy, but seemed more i
nterested in speaking to Sir Giles. They appeared to be engaged in a rather intense discussion.”

  “I see.” As Sam watched, the snowflakes fell and melted into the night porter’s periwig. “An intense discussion. Are you saying that they were arguing?”

  Durst’s nostril’s flared in annoyance. “No, I did not say that. It was an intense discussion. Lord Cross appeared to be agitated.”

  “What was their relationship like?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Did they often dine together, or engage in conversation? Did you notice if they have ever had similar intense discussions in the past?”

  “No. They have exchanged pleasantries, I believe, but nothing more. Sir Giles is considerably older than Lord Cross. I cannot imagine that they would have much in common, and until last evening I had not noticed any connection between them. Although . . .”

  “Although?” Sam controlled his impatience.

  “Lord Cross only recently came into his viscountcy. Prior to that, his elder brother held the title. I believe Lord Cross served in the military for several years. He may have known Sir Giles through that connection.”

  Sam made note of that, and asked, “Do you know what they discussed?”

  “That I cannot say.” The night porter straightened, and looked down his long nose at Sam. “We do not make it a habit of eavesdropping on our members, Mr. Kelly.”

  “How did they end their discussion?”

  “Lord Cross departed—barely having touched his brandy, I might add. Sir Giles remained to finish his dinner, and a very fine port. But one could plainly see that he was wool gathering, not responding when other members offered him a greeting.”

  “Lord Cross left before Sir Giles?”

  “I believe I did just say that, yes.”

  Sam ignored the sarcasm. “What time was that?”

  “I think it was around eight.”

  “When did Sir Giles leave?”

  “Nine o’clock, I believe. After he received the note.”

  Sam’s brows shot upward. “Note?”

  “A young boy delivered a message, requesting that it be given to Sir Giles.” The night porter drew his greatcoat closer as snowflakes snuck past his collar. “I delivered it to Sir Giles personally, and he left shortly afterward.”

  “Who was the note from?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Did you see what was written on it?”

  “Of course not! Only the most uncouth would dare open a message meant for someone else.”

  There was enough outrage in the night porter’s voice to convince Sam that he was being sincere. “How did Sir Giles react when he read the contents of the note? Did you notice?”

  Durst was silent as he considered it. “I told you that he is—forgive me, was—not the type of man to wear his feelings on his sleeve. But he appeared . . . disturbed. He left immediately.”

  “Did he seem afraid?”

  “Certainly not.” The night porter sounded offended by the idea. “Sir Giles was not a man to be afraid. I offered to hail him a hackney, but as luck would have it, a hackney had only just pulled up when we stepped outside. It was very fortuitous.”

  The back of Sam’s neck prickled. It wasn’t fortuitous if the killer was driving the hackney, he thought.

  He asked, “Did Lord Cross have his own carriage?”

  “No. I offered to secure him a hackney, as well, but he chose to walk. If you remember, last evening was clear, compared to tonight.” He turned his face upward, and grimaced when he was struck by the lightly falling snow. He wiped a quick hand across his brow. “Will that be all, Mr. Kelly? I have duties to attend to inside.”

  Sam pressed his lips together to stop himself from pointing out that he’d been freezing in the alley as he’d waited for the stiff-rumped night porter; the man could spare him a few more minutes. But he swallowed the words, asking instead, “What do you know of Sir Giles’s relationship with his son, Gerard Holbrooke?”

  Durst eyed him warily. “Why would I know anything about their relationship?”

  “Because even though you don’t listen deliberately ter conversations between club members, you’re not deaf, Mr. Durst. Did you happen ter overhear any gossip about them?”

  Durst’s mouth puckered. “There was talk of their . . . estrangement,” he finally admitted. “I believe wagers were being placed on the outcome. Gentlemen tend to gamble on everything.”

  Sam snorted. He may never have been through the hallowed doors of the club, but Sam had heard about the outrageous betting that went on inside. There was a rumor that some nobleman had bet twenty thousand pounds over whether one raindrop would hit the bottom of the windowpane before another. Most of the wagers, though, were centered around marriage, whether a lord or lady would get leg-shackled. A few of the more outrageous bets ended in bankruptcy, sometimes resulting in the nobleman blowing his brains out.

  Sam asked now, “What were people wagering?”

  “The odds were that Sir Giles would cut off Mr. Holbrooke come summer.”

  “Is Mr. Holbrooke a member here?”

  Distaste crossed the other man’s face. “No. I believe he considers this club far too sedate for his taste. And . . .”

  “And?” Sam pressed.

  “I got the impression that Mr. Holbrooke had no interest in joining any club of which his father would be a member.”

  Sam took off his hat, knocked the snow off its brim. “Did you hear about the incident where Mr. Holbrooke attacked his father?” he asked, settling his hat back on his head.

  For a moment, Durst looked confused. Then his brow cleared. “Ah, you are referring to the incident at Tattersalls? Yes. Outrageous behavior. Word is the young man was as drunk as a wheelbarrow.” He suddenly stiffened, eyes widening. “You cannot possibly believe that Mr. Holbrooke killed his own father, Mr. Kelly!”

  “Is that so impossible?”

  “Well, certainly. Mr. Holbrooke is like so many of the other young pups in town. Good heavens, if every one of the scapegraces killed their father over an argument on gambling and poor behavior, you would be a very busy man, Mr. Kelly. Very busy indeed.”

  As far as Sam was concerned, he was already too busy. He touched the tip of his hat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Durst. Please send word ter me at Bow Street if you should think of anything else regarding Sir Giles.”

  “I have told you everything. Good evening.”

  Sam waited until the night porter turned and slipped back through the door into the club. Slowly, he pivoted, and made his way down the alley to the street. The evening’s chill was seeping into his bones, which had him contemplating a hot whiskey at the Brown Bear or Pig & Whistle, or any of the many establishments that would accept the likes of him through their front doors.

  13

  The scullery maids were the only ones moving about when Kendra rolled out of bed the next morning. Hurriedly, she slipped out of her nightdress, and pulled on chemise, stays, and silky white stockings. Shivering—the fire in the hearth had gone out sometime in the middle of the night, and the temperature in the bedchamber would’ve kept an ice sculpture from melting—she shrugged into her robe and went about the task of tying the garters below the knee and rolling down the stocking to secure the ribbons. Straightening, she crossed the room to grab her half boots, pausing by the window.

  At six A.M., Grosvenor Square appeared otherworldly. In the early morning light, fog was scuttling across the snow-covered ground. Last night’s snowfall clung like crushed diamonds to dead branches and evergreens in the park on the other side of the street.

  It was peaceful. But Kendra knew the peace wouldn’t last. In another hour, the silence would give way to the clatter of wagons delivering milk and coal to the households along the square. Servants would be the first to emerge, striking out for the city’s various markets and shops and bringing back fish, meats, and vegetables for the kitchen staff and chefs to chop, marinate, boil, and broil
for the meals throughout the day.

  In the 21st century, fresh, organic food had become big business. Here it was everyday life.

  Everything old is new again.

  By noon, the world would change again, when the Beau Monde woke in their canopied beds, demanding their cocoa, coffee, or tea.

  The Duke did not follow the Ton’s ritual of lying in bed all morning. She needed to get moving.

  Tying the sash of her robe more securely around her waist, she crossed the floor to the dresser. Last night, she’d laid out her reticule, muff pistol, and a handful of coins.

  Kendra scooped up the coins, dropping them into the pouch with quiet satisfaction. She’d earned this money herself by investing in the Exchange. It wasn’t quite the fortune she’d anticipated when she’d borrowed money from the Duke to invest. To her surprise, she’d learned that being from the future didn’t necessarily give her the advantage that she had thought it would. Macroeconomics versus microeconomics—she was aware of the bigger picture. Diesel engines would be huge—but not for another fifty-plus years. You couldn’t invest in technology that hadn’t yet been invented.

  And knowing about an upcoming trend wasn’t quite a sure bet, either, because the stock market wasn’t about trends—it was about companies. And a company may survive, even continue to thrive in the 21st century, but that didn’t mean that same company didn’t go through highs and lows along the way.

  Still, she’d managed to earn enough to pay back the Duke, and save a tidy sum for herself. Her sense of accomplishment and her need to earn her own money baffled the Duke and Alec. It was an area in which they would probably never see eye to eye.

  Like now. They’d never understand what she was about to do. And when they did find out . . . well, she would deal with it then.

  She slipped the muff pistol into the reticule and left the bedchamber. The soles of her half boots barely made a sound against the runner as she moved down the shadowy hallway.