A ghost of a smile crossed Alec’s lips. “I believe you are right, Miss Donovan. But Mr. Fitzpatrick was the only spy that Sir Giles mentioned might have been following him. Mr. Fitzpatrick, or one of his associates.”
Kendra lifted her eyebrows. “Well, that changes things. If Fitzpatrick had Sir Giles under surveillance, he’d know Sir Giles’s routine. Know where he would be on Wednesday night.” She wrote the name on the slate board, then stepped back, jiggling the piece of slate as she considered the fresh angle. “An Irish spy would know something about invisible ink, I’d think. The Irish conflict has a lot to do with Catholicism, or the Irish refusing to convert to the Church of England, right?”
“In its most simplistic form, yes,” the Duke said. “But religion and politics tend to be intricately linked, where it is impossible to see where one ends and the other begins. The head of England’s monarchy is also the head of the Church of England. By refusing to convert, the Irish are essentially rejecting the monarchy, which is treason.” He leaned back in the chair, clearly troubled. “Needless to say, the conflict goes back centuries. But I see your point, my dear. The crucifix drawn on Sir Giles certainly appears to cast a religious light on his murder.”
“And he was left in a Catholic church,” Alec reminded them.
Kendra began to pace. “It’s a thread. We’ll know more after you talk to him, but on the surface, Fitzpatrick checks a few boxes. The crosses, if tied to Catholicism. The invisible ink ties to intelligence work. Even the method of the murder tends to be military. But cutting out the tongue, leaving the body naked? That’s more personal.
“Intelligence work isn’t personal,” she continued slowly. “You can be passionate about king and country and all that, but it’s more about strategy. Outsmarting the other side. If Sir Giles had discovered something that endangered Mr. Fitzpatrick’s operation, I can see one operative killing the other. But what was done to Sir Giles . . . that doesn’t fit for me.”
Alec said, “D’Ambray seemed to think there was something more between Sir Giles and Mr. Fitzpatrick. But that was an impression, nothing more.”
“Okay,” Kendra said, nodding. “We’ll need to find out more about Mr. Fitzpatrick’s background. Did d’Ambray say anything about Sir Giles’s behavior recently?”
“He thought he was troubled, and confided that Sir Giles had received information that disturbed him.”
“What sort of information?”
“Sir Giles didn’t say, and d’Ambray wasn’t certain the two—Sir Giles’s mood and the information he’d received—were connected.”
The Duke frowned. “How could they not be?”
“D’Ambray said that Sir Giles’s mood may have had more to do with the anniversary of the death of a recruit—Evert Larson, the son of a friend. Apparently the friendship died with Evert.”
Aldridge asked, “How did the boy die, Alec?”
“I’m not sure. An incident in Spain, near the end of the war.”
“Seems like a long time ago ter have anything ter do with Sir Giles’s murder,” said Sam.
“I would have said the same thing, except for Lord Cross. He and another man, Captain Mobray, were the only two survivors from the incident in Spain.”
The back of Kendra’s neck prickled. “That’s a little too coincidental.” She strode back to the slate board to write down the new names. “We’ll need more information on what happened in Spain. Who’s Evert Larson’s father?”
“Mr. Bertel Larson. He owns an apothecary shop on Cromwell Road in Kensington.”
“Larson & Son!” Sam snapped his fingers. “I’m familiar with the shop. Even have a few of its remedies at home.”
Alec nodded as he stood again. “Apparently the man is a successful merchant.”
Kendra looked at him as he wandered to the window. “And he blames Sir Giles for his son’s death?”
“From my understanding, Mr. Larson blamed Sir Giles for persuading Evert to join his network of spies in the first place. Evert was reportedly a brilliant man.”
“I can understand Mr. Larson blaming Sir Giles for his son’s death,” said the Duke. He tapped the bowl of his pipe against his palm, his gaze traveling to the slate board. “I would say that would be very personal.”
Kendra nodded, jiggling the slate. “I agree.”
“Aye, but why now?” Sam said. “Not ter make light of the young man’s death, but the war was over last year, and the Peninsular campaign before that. If Mr. Larson was harboring ill will toward Sir Giles, wouldn’t he have done something before last night?”
“There is no time limit on grief, Mr. Kelly,” Aldridge said softly.
No one said anything. In the hushed silence, Kendra turned back to the slate board to add the new information, acutely conscious of the scrape of slate against slate as the only sound in the room. She cleared her throat. “We’re probably dealing with a recent trigger,” she said finally. “Maybe whatever happened a month ago. It’s something to pursue.”
Her gaze shifted to the name she’d written last night. Gerard Holbrook. A nervous knot twisted in her stomach. She couldn’t put off sharing her information.
“I’ve learned that the estrangement between Sir Giles and his son might have been more severe than we realized,” she said, turning to face her audience. “Holbrooke may have impregnated a housemaid.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Where’d you learn that, lass?”
Kendra ignored the question, continuing, “That might have been the last straw for Sir Giles. He was making plans to send Holbrooke to India.”
Sam’s eyebrows were already high, but now they practically disappeared into his hairline. “India?”
“Apparently that’s motive right there,” she said dryly. She looked at the clock, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Alec. “I have to go. With any luck, Lady Holbrooke will be able to clear up some of our questions.”
“One moment.”
Alec didn’t raise his voice, but there was a lethal bite to the two words that sent a shiver of apprehension dancing down her spine. Shit. “I really don’t have a moment—”
“I’m curious how you came by this information, Miss Donovan?” he cut in.
Reluctantly, she looked at him, and had to control a wince. His expression was enigmatic, but she recognized the temper that brightened the flecks of gold in his green eyes. He lifted a silky brow as he regarded her. “’Tis morning,” he pointed out unnecessarily. “How did you acquire this sordid gossip since we last spoke? I cannot imagine anyone in the Duke’s household having that information, much less imparting it to you.”
She drew in a deep breath and reminded herself that she had done nothing wrong.
The Duke pushed himself to his feet. “I think that Mr. Kelly and I shall give you both a moment of privacy.”
“Aye.” Sam stood hastily.
Kendra chewed on her bottom lip as the two men departed. “Okay. Promise me you won’t go crazy?”
“What did you do?”
“Snake discovered the body,” she reminded him, and was pleased that she sounded calm. Never let them see you sweat. “This is how investigations work, Alec. An investigator needs to interview the first person on the scene.” Too defensive. “I needed to talk to Snake, but it’s not like I have his address.”
Alec stared at her. Kendra’s gaze was drawn to the muscle jumping in his jaw. She swallowed, and waited. The sudden quiet scraped across her already raw nerves. She could hear her own breathing, the pulse throbbing through her veins, the clock ticking. That was why silence was so effective as an interview technique. She had to stifle the desire to continue to talk, to beg for forgiveness, to fill the quiet. Christ, civilizations could have fallen and risen again as Alec simply looked at her.
She sucked in another breath, then said, “Here’s the deal. I spoke to Bear this morning so he could pass on a message to Snake.”
“You spoke to Bear.”
Kendra pressed a hand to her stomach
, realized what she was doing, and dropped it. “Yes.”
“You spoke to Bear—an underworld criminal.”
“Look, I know that you’re upset. But you don’t have to worry about my reputation. I dressed as a maid. No one noticed me.” She attempted a smile, but Alec stared back at her stonily. Hell, she’d seen happier expressions on death row inmates.
“Do you think that is what I’m upset about?” he finally said. “Your reputation?” He raked agitated fingers through his hair as he paced across the room, then stopped and swung around to face her. “Are you mad? Bear is dangerous. He could have—” He swallowed, his gaze locking on hers. “My God, he threatened to rape you last year. Did you forget that?”
“And I threatened to blow off his balls,” she shot back. “The way I look at it, we’re even.” She threw up her hands. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you, Alec. The Duke already lectured me.” And those words still stung. “Let’s focus on what’s important.”
Green fire leaped in his eyes. “Bullocks to that! Let’s focus on you trying to kill yourself. Or driving me to Bedlam!”
Kendra pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, frustration welling up. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not a child! I knew what I was doing. Bear and I have an understanding of sorts.”
“God in heaven,” Alec muttered, and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “What understanding could you possibly have reached with that ruffian?”
“If I cross him, he’ll try to kill me, and if he crosses me, I’ll try to kill him. Mutually assured destruction.”
“Christ.” Alec scrubbed a hand across his jaw like it ached.
“Did you take your valet with you when you met your contact this morning?”
He glared at her. “Don’t be stupid. My contact isn’t a three-hundred-pound madman who has previously threatened me with grievous injury.”
She sighed, and then they were both silent for a long moment. Slowly, Kendra closed the space between them. She reached out and touched his arms, the muscles rigid beneath her fingertips. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” she said carefully. “That was not my intention.”
His lips twisted. “But you’re not sorry for disguising yourself as a maid and sneaking off to see a crime lord?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, thinking. “I’m not sorry for needing a little bit more freedom than most women here,” she finally said.
“Married ladies have more freedom.”
“Only if their husbands permit it.” She cocked her head. “Widows have probably the most freedom.”
His jaw relaxed enough to allow his mouth to curve into a slight smile. “So if I ever do get you to the altar, I will have to sleep with one eye open?”
She huffed out a laugh. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Beneath her hand, she could feel his arm relax. “Alec.” She slid her hand down to link her fingers with his. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Before or after I’m thrown into the lunatic asylum?”
She smiled. “Hopefully before.” She let go of his hand to reach up and smooth down the collar of his jacket. She fixed her gaze on his. “Are we good?”
He blew out a breath. “I should lock you in some tower somewhere.”
“That’s very medieval of you. But you forget that picking locks is a skill of mine.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said, his tone gruff. His gaze searched her face as his arms came around her. “I missed you last night.”
“I missed you too.” She flicked a glance at the closed door. “I think we’ve got about five minutes before the Duke returns.”
He lifted a dark eyebrow, and his green eyes brightened between spiky lashes. “Oh? Do you have indecent designs upon my person, Miss Donovan? Maybe I need the chaperone.”
She laughed, her mood suddenly light. “Oh, I most definitely have indecent designs upon your person, my lord. I don’t think we can make up for last night, but let’s see what we can accomplish in five minutes.”
17
Kendra’s lips were still numb when the carriage swung around to pick up Rebecca at her parents’ residence on Half Moon Street. She smiled at Rebecca as she climbed into the carriage and settled into the seat opposite Kendra. “Good morning.”
Rebecca eyed her closely. “Pray tell, why are you so cheerful?”
“What? I’m not.” But she wanted to squirm as Rebecca continued to study her.
“Hmm. You are . . . glowing.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be ridiculous,” Kendra muttered, and was relieved when the carriage jerked forward.
The vehicle’s wheels made a slushy sound as it advanced down the street. The sun had chased away the earlier fog, and brought the temperature high enough to melt the previous evening’s snow, leaving London soggy and muddy. An army of street sweepers—mostly young children—were busily clearing the guck off the cobblestones with brooms, seeming to make a game out of leaping out of the way so as not to get hit by oncoming traffic.
Sir Giles’s residence was located in the upscale Berkeley Square area of London. Kendra used the journey to update Rebecca on the investigation. She didn’t mention her meeting with Bear. Not because she didn’t feel justified in approaching the criminal, but because she damn well didn’t need another lecture on the matter.
“Do you think that whatever happened to disturb Sir Giles has anything to do with his murder?” Rebecca asked when she finished.
“I don’t like coincidences, but it’s also a mistake to make assumptions. It’s an avenue that we need to pursue.” She chewed on her lower lip, her gaze traveling to the window. They’d entered Berkeley Square, and, as always, Kendra felt a queer sense of déjà vu. She’d driven through this area in the 21st century. It would continue to be upscale, but many of the old buildings had been—would be—converted into commercial spaces, for offices and retail stores. Now, though, the square was lined with grand Georgian houses and terraces. Sir Giles’s home was a stately four-story redbrick mansion detailed with white cornices, tall window frames, and dormer windows jutting out near the pitched roof. A flagstone path, wet from melting snow, led to the steps and a wide portico. Yew shrubbery and dead rosebushes surrounded the porch. A black sash had been tied to the lion’s head door knocker to signify a death in the household.
When Benjamin halted the carriage and came around to fold down the steps, Rebecca handed him her card. She looked at Kendra. “Our visit is rather unorthodox. Lady Holbrooke could be laid low with grief. She may not be receiving anyone.”
They didn’t have to wait long. Benjamin returned moments later with Lady Holbrooke’s “at home” status. An elderly butler held open the door. As they swept inside, Kendra scanned the foyer, which was festooned in black crepe. A maid stepped forward to take their coats, bonnets, and gloves. Kendra kept hold of her reticule, mainly because she hadn’t thought to remove the muff pistol.
The butler led them up the stairs and down the hall to a large, airy drawing room with pale green silk walls, and furniture styled in the Grecian period, with feet carved into serpents. More black crepe hung from paintings and mirrors. A coal fire blazed in an elegant fireplace with an intricate marble chimney piece, providing a modicum of warmth against the chill of the day.
Lady Holbrooke stood near one of the long windows, a petite, fragile-looking woman with tawny-colored hair tucked under a matron’s lace cap. She’d donned an unadorned black gown, the symbol of widowhood. In her hands, she held a cup of tea. Kendra let her gaze travel over the woman’s perfectly composed features. At forty-six, Lady Holbrooke was a decade younger than her husband, but she looked another dozen years younger than that. The only lines marring her flawless complexion were two vertical indentions between her winged eyebrows, as though she spent a great deal of her time scowling.
Or worrying, Kendra amended.
Still, her brown eyes were clear. If she’d spent yesterday weeping over her husband’s death, she
’d done an excellent job covering it up.
Rebecca moved toward the matron, her cornflower blue eyes sympathetic. “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Lady Holbrooke. We know this is a difficult time for you. Please accept our condolences.” She turned, and lifted a hand to indicate Kendra. “This is my friend, Miss Donovan.”
Lady Holbrooke inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I am slightly acquainted with your parents, Lady Rebecca.”
“I had not realized,” Rebecca murmured.
The older woman was already shifting her gaze to Kendra. “But I do not think this is a condolence call, is it? I am aware of your connection to the Duke of Aldridge, Miss Donovan. I am also aware of the rumors that you and His Grace assisted Bow Street last year. Such gossip seemed too unbelievable to be true. Yet here you are.” She paused, her gaze fixed on Kendra’s face. “I read the Morning Chronicle,” she said simply. “You are here about my husband’s death.”
“Yes.” Since she didn’t seem angered by that, Kendra continued, “I realize that Mr. Kelly has already spoken to you, but it would be helpful if you could answer a few more questions.”
Lady Holbrooke turned, gliding over to the table that held a porcelain teapot, and replenished the cup she held. “I have ordered more tea,” she told them, calmly adding sugar from the sugar bowl. The small spoon clinked against the china teacup as she stirred. She looked over at them. “Shall we be seated?”
They were settling into the chairs when a young maid arrived with a tea tray. Kendra noticed that the girl’s eyes were red, and wondered if she’d been crying over her master’s death—and then wondered about the widow who obviously had not.
“When did you last see your husband, ma’am?” Kendra asked once the tea had been distributed and the maid had left.
Lady Holbrooke’s brows drew together, deepening the lines between them. “I spoke to Mr. Kelly about this. We had breakfast together on Wednesday morning before my husband left for his office in Whitehall. I never saw him again.” Her gaze dropped to her teacup, her lips pursed. “I did not realize anything was amiss until yesterday morning, when he was not at the breakfast table. I sent Stevens up to my husband’s bedchamber, and then Mr. Kelly arrived . . . with the news.”
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