“And Captain Mobray?”
She met Alec’s gaze. “He’s much better.”
24
What did you tell them?”
Cross glanced uneasily at Mobray. The captain never raised his voice when he was in a fury. He lowered it, like the whisper of a blade before you found it embedded in your gut. He couldn’t quite control his shudder as he met Mobray’s flat gaze in the dim light of the carriage as it jolted down the street, the coachman maneuvering the vehicle in the evening’s heavy traffic and winding streets.
“Nothing, I tell you.” Cross swallowed against the hard lump of fear that had risen in this throat. “They are inquiring into Sir Giles’s death.”
“I’m aware of that. I read the Morning Chronicle. No names were given, but I was in town last year when the most interesting rumors came to light about the Duke of Aldridge and his ward investigating the death of Lady Dover.”
“I recall the rumors,” Cross said. “But I didn’t give it any credence for a peer of the realm to be pursuing such matters. And a female. Who would believe it?”
“Miss Donovan is a bold piece of baggage,” Mobray agreed as he took out his snuffbox.
“An American.” Cross allowed his lip to curl. “If she is an example of womanhood in that dreadfully backward country, the men ought to gird their loins.”
The captain dipped a finger into his snuffbox, added a pinch to each nostril, and inhaled. Cross regarded him somewhat enviously. He’d never been able to take snuff without a fit of sneezing.
“I agree, but I think it would be folly to underestimate the creature,” Mobray said, returning the snuffbox to his inside pocket. “There was something about her pointed inquiries regarding Spain.”
“She cannot know—”
“She would not know anything if you had stayed away from Sir Giles,” Mobray snapped. Cross flinched. “I specifically recall telling you to stay away from him.”
“But . . . I had to see him. He called upon me. He asked me about Spain.” Cross pressed a finger near his right eye, which had begun twitching. “I-I had to make him see reason. Nothing can be changed of the past.”
Mobray regarded him with contempt. “You sodding fool. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I swear!”
“Sir Giles called upon me, as well, but I had the situation well in hand.”
Cross drew in a sharp breath as he stared at the man seated across from him. “My God—did you kill him?”
Mobray stared at his companion for a long moment. “Don’t be absurd,” he said finally.
Sweat broke out on Cross’s palms, and he wished that he could believe the other man’s denial. His mind drifted back to Spain. He’d been a coward, he knew. But Mobray . . . Mobray had been . . . evil. A chill raced down his arms.
Cross forced himself to laugh, aware that the captain was watching him with hooded eyes. “Of course, even if you had,” he said, licking his suddenly dry lips, “it would be completely understandable. You are highly regarded in Whitehall, and in political circles.” He was talking too much, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “I have heard you may soon be sitting in the House of Commons.”
Mobray said nothing, merely looked across the carriage at him. Tension prickled along Cross’s spine, and he nearly sagged in relief when Mobray finally spoke.
“You are correct, my lord,” the captain said slowly. “I have much to lose if what happened in Spain ever comes to light. But your position is equally tenuous, I believe. Soon you will be hunting for a wife from a respectable family. If your actions ever became known, the doors to Polite Society will close. Your shame would extend to your family.” He paused, his gaze fixed on Cross. “I wonder, how would your father react to such a thing?”
Cross had to suppress another shiver. His father would give him no quarter, he knew. The only reason he’d been in Spain in the first place was because his older brother had been alive, and his father had bought him a commission. The earl had declared that no son of his would become an idle popinjay, pursuing the pleasures of Town.
Now he lifted a hand in supplication. “We are on the same side, Captain. I have no more desire to see the past come to light than you do.” But did you take action to stop that from happening? he wondered. “We have no quarrel,” he assured the other man.
Mobray fixed his gaze on him. Cross had the unsettling thought that he could see right into his skull. “Good,” Mobray said, and leaned forward slightly to rap on the ceiling, signaling his coachman to pull aside. “I must beg your leave now.”
Cross gaped at the other man, jerking forward to glance out the window. They’d pulled up on the curb near the Bath Hotel at Piccadilly. “You are leaving me on the street?”
“There are plenty of hackneys for you to hail in the area. I have other appointments that I must see to. And you . . . you need to relax, my lord. Go and find yourself a wench. You are much too tense.”
Cross opened his mouth to deny it, then pressed his lips together. He was tense. He grasped the leather strap and hoisted himself up. The coachman had come around to open the door.
“And my lord?”
Cross paused to look back at Mobray. “Yes?”
“In the future, have a care with your tongue . . . lest someone be tempted to cut it off.”
25
The next morning, Kendra and the Duke tossed aside all social proprieties in favor of old-fashioned police work, which meant knocking on the door of Mr. Bertel Larson at the unseemly hour of 9:30. Or, rather, having Benjamin knock on the door, with the Duke’s calling card.
The early morning visit was apparently unusual enough for the Larsons’ butler to not immediately accept the card, but rather poke his head out the door so he could study the crest on the Duke’s carriage with his own eyes. Kendra got the impression that he was assuring himself that he wasn’t the object of some strange prank.
Kendra surveyed the five-story, redbrick Georgian mansion. Above, the sky was the color of denim washed a hundred times, with just the faintest sepia tone. The air quality in the morning always seemed better, with the yellowish smog building up by late afternoon. The cooler temperatures helped, too, Kendra thought, and a light breeze. The day was starting out much like yesterday, cold but pleasant. But she’d been in England long enough now to know that the weather was mercurial, and by the afternoon they could be dealing with rain or snow. Without the cheerful TV meteorologist and satellite maps, there was no way to predict it. And even in the 21st century, predicting the weather was still a toss-up.
“The apothecary business must be doing very well,” she said, continuing to eye the house.
“’Tis not that surprising. More people can afford apothecaries than doctors,” the Duke replied. “And given Lady St. James’s patronage of their shop, we can assume they have an affluent clientele.”
Benjamin returned with news that the Larsons were at home. The butler met them near the door, and after dealing with their outerwear, ushered them down a wide hallway, past a grand staircase, and through tall doors that opened into a spacious, interesting drawing room. Not English, although Kendra recognized a few English pieces in the Chippendale sideboard and tables. Most of the furnishing had been appropriated from ancient Rome, their scrolled arms and legs carved into lion head footings. Kendra also noticed pieces that paid homage to the Larsons’ Scandinavian ancestry: side cabinets with traditional Rosemaling, drawers and doors hand-painted in stylized geometric-like flowers and leaves.
A tall, statuesque woman stood in front of one of the drawing room’s large Palladian windows, gazing outside. When the butler announced them, she turned and surveyed them with eyes as cool and blue as the fjords that her ancestors had no doubt once sailed. She wore a pale linen cap, but a few stray curls, the color of ripe wheat, brushed against alabaster cheeks. Kendra estimated Astrid Larson to be in her mid-forties. She was beautiful, but hers was an intimidating beauty, with a long nose and high, sharply sculpted cheekbones that could have
been carved by Michelangelo himself. Her full mouth was unsmiling. Kendra recalled Gerard’s mockery that Evert had claimed that his kin had descended from Norse gods. Looking at Astrid Larson now, she could believe it.
“Forgive us for intruding upon you at such an indecent hour, Mrs. Larson,” the Duke began with quiet courtesy.
“Do not trouble yourself, Your Grace. My husband and I have always been unfashionably early risers. Although, I confess, entertaining a duke—morning or afternoon—is something of a novelty.” Her lips curved into a faint smile, which disappeared when her gaze slid back to the window. “My husband will be joining us momentarily. Let us sit by the fire. I have ordered tea. Unless you prefer ale?”
Glancing outside, Kendra was surprised to see an enormous glass-paned building attached to a wing of the house. “You have a conservatory,” she remarked, stepping over to the window.
“My husband and son are apothecaries,” Astrid said. “We grow many medicinal plants and herbs that we use in our proprietary blends.”
It was actually ingenious, thought Kendra. She suspected that when the back gardens weren’t covered in snow, they were also less ornamental than the Larsons’ neighbors.
In the distance, she noticed a solitary figure, his back to the window, facing a long slab of stone. He wore a greatcoat, but no hat, and his brown hair fluttered in the cold breeze. For a second, Kendra wondered if the man was David. But she realized her mistake when a young maid ran out to him, and he turned around. Despite the distance, she could see that he was an older man, with deep lines etched into his handsome countenance.
“That is an interesting sculpture,” the Duke observed. The slab was painted red and covered in patterns.
“’Tis a runestone, Your Grace. My husband thought to erect it in memory of our son, Evert,” Astrid said quietly, and turned away, walking toward the sofa and chairs in front of the fireplace. Kendra followed, her gaze lifting to the enormous oil painting above the fireplace. It was a family portrait, with Astrid sitting on a gilt carved chair, looking magnificent and imperial. Her husband, Bertel, stood on one side, resting one hand on her shoulder. On the other side were their two sons, Evert and David. Visually, the entire family was stunning.
“We had that painting commissioned five years ago,” Astrid said, following Kendra’s gaze. “In happier times.”
“Good morning.” Behind them, Bertel Larson entered the room, bringing with him the fresh scent of snow and cold. He’d shed his greatcoat, and wore an expertly tailored jacket, waistcoat, and pantaloons, the last tucked into scuffed Hessian boots. David took after his father in the planes of his face, chiseled mouth, the cut of his chin. Bertel’s brown hair was lighter, woven with silver. His blue eyes, paler than his wife’s and son’s, reflected a haunting melancholy.
Kendra thought of how he hadn’t been in to his shop for about a month. His illness wasn’t of the body, but of the soul.
“The Duke of Aldridge and Miss Donovan have come to call,” Astrid said. Unnecessarily, Kendra thought, since the maid had most likely told him.
“My apologies for the early visit,” the Duke said.
Bertel regarded him steadily. “This is about Giles, isn’t it?”
Astrid spoke before they could answer. “Please, let us be seated.” She sank down onto the sofa, arranging her burnished brown skirts around her legs as she waited for her husband to join her. The door opened just as Kendra and the Duke settled into chairs and a young maid entered, carrying a tea tray. She carefully deposited the tray on the table next to Astrid, and waited silently as Astrid inquired on her guests’ preferences. After Astrid filled each teacup, the maid passed them around.
Astrid waited for the servant to leave before she looked at Kendra. “David told us that you were at the shop yesterday, Miss Donovan. He said that you were investigating Sir Giles’s murder.”
“Yes.” Kendra glanced at Bertel. “When was the last time you saw Sir Giles, Mr. Larson?”
A muscle jumped in Bertel’s jaw. “We had words after I received news that Evert had been killed. Two years ago.”
“You haven’t seen him since then?”
He hesitated. “He has attempted to see me, but I have . . . had little to say to the man.”
“When did he try to see you? Recently?”
Astrid laid her hand over her husband’s. “Sir Giles came to this house several weeks ago, but we were not at home to meet him,” she said.
“So you never spoke with Sir Giles then?” Kendra asked.
“No,” Astrid said.
Kendra looked at Bertel. “You blamed Sir Giles for your son’s death?”
His expression hardened. “He was responsible.”
Kendra’s gaze drifted again to the portrait hanging above the fireplace. Evert and David could have practically been twins, but the artist had added a certain vibrancy to Evert’s features compared to David’s sober composure.
“Evert was provided for,” Bertel continued. “He did not need to join the military like someone from an impoverished family or a second son. Giles was the one who persuaded him to risk his life on the Continent.”
Kendra brought her gaze back to Bertel’s face. “How did you and Sir Giles know each other?”
His brows pulled together, as though confused over why that should matter, but he answered, “We were lads in Hammersmith together. When the colonists revolted, we signed on.” His lip curled in self-mockery. “It was a burst of patriotic fervor, which I discovered faded rapidly with the blood on the battlefield. Although Giles . . . Giles came into his own, proving to our superiors that he had a talent for stratagems. He rose through the ranks quickly.”
“And was rewarded with a title,” remarked the Duke.
Bertel nodded. “Giles continued his service to the government. He was always ambitious.” His gaze fell to the teacup he held, his expression softening at the memory. “There was a time when I admired that, was proud of him.”
Kendra waited. The only sound in the drawing room was the crackling of logs in the hearth. She finally prompted, “But that changed when he recruited your son?”
Bertel lifted his eyes, and Kendra saw the glow of rage in the pale depths. “He didn’t recruit Evert; he dazzled him. He played upon my son’s honorable nature, his thirst for adventure and natural curiosity. I tried to convince Evert that his zeal was misplaced. But he would hear none of it.” The hand that held the teacup shook, rattling the china. He hastily put it aside.
Astrid laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “It was not your fault.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. His handsome features twisted in pain. “God help me, I encouraged their association. When Evert was a boy, it seemed of little consequence. And as he matured, Giles was in a better position to introduce Evert to connections beyond my social circle.” He clenched his hands. “I did not know my good friend would persuade my son to put himself in harm’s way. I had always thought he regarded Evert as his own.”
“Even more than his own son?” Kendra asked curiously.
Bertel looked startled at the question. “Not more than, no. Gerard is his flesh and blood.” He paused, then pushed himself to his feet. Astrid’s comforting hand fell away. Kendra saw the concern on her beautiful face as she watched her husband wander to the window to stare outside. Kendra wondered if he was looking at the runestone he’d put up in his son’s memory. “Evert and Gerard were of the same age,” he said slowly. “All the boys played together, even David. David idolized the boys.”
Happier times, Kendra thought.
“But it soon became apparent that Evert excelled in many subjects.” Bertel turned away from the window to look at them. “Giles took notice. He began to spend more time with him. Evert dreamed of becoming a barrister, and Giles fostered that dream.”
Kendra asked, “How did Gerard react to his father’s interest in your son?”
“I think there may have been some resentment. Gerard could be a petulant child, with a tendency to b
e spiteful. Some boys are that way.” Bertel shrugged dismissively.
“Unfortunately, Jane—Lady Holbrooke—indulged the boy,” Astrid said quietly, sipping her tea.
An uncomfortable silence fell. Kendra said, “Your son is a hero. We heard he died trying to save captured soldiers.”
“And is that supposed to comfort me?” Bertel snapped, his nostrils flaring in his anger. “My son died alone, tormented.”
Astrid set aside her teacup and rose, hurrying to her husband’s side. “My love,” she murmured, touching his arm, as though to steady him.
He ignored her, his gaze fixed on Kendra. “You are still a maiden, Miss Donovan. You do not know what it is like to have your child taken from you. Evert was full-grown, but he was my child. And to not even be able to give him a decent burial . . .” He spun away, a shudder wracking his body. “You do not know.”
The Duke frowned. “Your son’s remains were not returned to you?”
Emotions, too quick to identify, flickered over Astrid’s striking face. “There was an explosion and a fire,” she said simply.
“I understand your anguish.” Aldridge’s blue eyes darkened, and Kendra knew he was thinking of his six-year-old daughter, Charlotte, who’d died in a boating accident with his wife. Arabella’s body had been found ashore, but his daughter had been swept out to sea. “I, too, have lost a child, and have no gravesite to visit.” He let out a shaky breath. “I have only my memories of what had been, my yearning for what can never be.”
Bertel slowly pivoted to look at the Duke. “Was your child sacrificed because of a good friend’s ambition, Your Grace?”
“No. It was a dreadful accident.”
“Then you really cannot understand my anguish, sir. My son’s death was no accident.”
The Duke appeared at loss on how to respond to the bitterness in the other man’s voice.
Astrid filled in the silence. “Evert’s death could have nothing to do with Sir Giles’s murder. What do you want from us?”
Betrayal in Time Page 22