“He was afraid what Cross might say,” Alec said.
“Yeah,” she agreed with a nod. “Cross gave us an alibi for where he was after he left Sir Giles. We’ll need to check it out, of course. And I’d like to interview Cross again. Without the possibility of being interrupted.” She thought of his blinking and the sheen of sweat on the viscount’s upper lip, and didn’t think she’d have to apply too much pressure to break him.
Rebecca frowned, her gaze on the slate board. “You have Mrs. Larson’s name up there as well. You can’t possibly imagine she killed Sir Giles?”
“I saw nothing that would rule her out. She’s tall enough to have been the unsub. Garroting is more a matter of leverage. As I said before, it requires some strength, but not above average.”
“And to strike the hackney driver and carry him into a doorway?”
“Nobody said he was carried into a doorway. He could have been dragged. Just as Sir Giles could have been dragged after he’d been strangled. The killer’s identity was concealed by the outerwear. It could have been a woman.” She looked at Alec, but he shook his head.
“I’m afraid I cannot agree. I don’t think a woman could have done this.”
Kendra decided to let it go for now. “It’s too bad we can’t verify Evert Larson’s death,” she murmured.
Rebecca looked at her, shocked. “But you cannot believe he fabricated his death! For what purpose?”
Alec raised an eyebrow at Kendra. “That is a rather incredible notion.”
“I’m not saying he did. I’m only saying that it would be nice to verify.” She shrugged. “It’s a loose thread.”
“But do you believe it’s a possibility?” Rebecca pressed.
Kendra considered it for a long moment. “Not really,” she finally said. “It doesn’t fit what we know. The Larsons are a loving family. Evert’s death traumatized them.” She remembered the sorrow that had etched deep grooves in Bertel’s face. “Still traumatizes them. I can’t imagine Evert would allow his parents and brother to suffer in such a way.”
“He would have to be a monster,” said Rebecca.
“Not exactly the description we’ve been given.”
Kendra turned back to the slate board, then glanced around when the study door opened and Lady Atwood sailed in with such a quick gait that her lace cap looked in danger of flying off. Her eyes were bright as they fixed on Kendra, and without the usual censure that Kendra associated with the countess.
The older woman actually smiled at Kendra. “Miss Donovan, you must ready yourself. You have callers.”
Kendra felt her lips part in surprise. “What?”
“You have callers,” she repeated. “Gentleman callers.”
Kendra stared at her.
Lady Atwood went on, “Despite my misgivings, you did not embarrass our family at last evening’s ball. Mr. Humphrey and Mr. Roland have come to call. They are in the morning room. Tea and cakes are being served. Now, you must go and change at once!”
“What?”
The countess’s blue eyes sharpened. “Will you stop saying that in such a ridiculous manner, Miss Donovan? And close your mouth. It is most unbecoming for you to stand there looking as though you are about to catch flies. You have callers. Mr. Humphrey’s father is Lord Adder, but as he has two older brothers, he is not in line for the earldom. Mr. Roland, however, is in line to inherit. His father is a viscount, and one day will be Lord Oglethorpe. Unfortunately, the on-dit is that the family’s estate is impoverished. Undoubtedly he is on the hunt for an heiress, so we shan’t encourage his suit any more than necessary.”
We? thought Kendra, dazed. Suit?
Lady Atwood glanced over at Rebecca. “What is wrong with the creature?”
“I believe she’s in shock at the notion of gentleman callers, ma’am.”
“I confess I have been taken by surprise as well.” The countess’s hand fluttered to her bosom. “She isn’t exactly a young maid. Now go and tidy yourself up, Miss Donovan. I expect you to be downstairs in ten minutes.”
“I shall help her,” Rebecca promised, earning a bright smile from Lady Atwood.
“Bless you, child.” She shifted her gaze toward Alec, and frowned. “Mayhap you ought to take yourself off, Sutcliffe.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, well.” His aunt appeared to realize she wouldn’t get her way. “Then you must behave yourself.” She hurried toward the door, but paused to throw Kendra a stern look. “Ten minutes, Miss Donovan!”
“Shit,” Kendra muttered after Lady Atwood left. “I don’t have time for this.” She really didn’t. She could feel the muscles in her neck knot again.
Rebecca laughed. “It won’t take that much time. It would be ill-bred for any gentleman to stay longer than thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes? What am I going to talk to them about for thirty fuc—ah, minutes?”
“Pleasantries—without any profanity. And it might only be fifteen minutes. Come along. You must prepare for your London beaux.”
Shit, Kendra thought again. She allowed Rebecca to tug her toward the door, but shot a look back at Alec, who didn’t look any happier at this unexpected development than she did. If she wasn’t so afraid of what Lady Atwood would do, she’d be inclined to send a note down to the morning room to tell her callers to go home.
She let out a long sigh. “Okay. Let’s get this damn thing over with then.”
27
There were rules—of course, there were rules—for this strange ritual. With impatience thrumming in her blood, Kendra listened to Rebecca tell her that the gentleman waiting for her in the drawing room must have been introduced to her last evening. “Gentleman do not call upon ladies with whom they have not been introduced.”
“So you’re saying that I brought this on myself by dancing last night,” Kendra grumbled from the dressing room as she quickly washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and patted both dry with a towel hooked on the arm of the washstand. She hurried back into the bedchamber, plopping down in front of the vanity to allow Molly to tidy her hair by pinning up stray tendrils. “I knew that was a mistake—ow!” She jolted when Molly reached down and pinched her cheeks. “What the hell? What was that for?”
“Her ladyship said Oi was ter do it, seeing ’ow it will give ye roses in yer cheeks, miss.”
“It will give me bruises in my cheeks.”
“Come along,” Rebecca said, and tried to stifle her laughter as she hauled Kendra out of the chair, dragging her into the hallway. She continued, “It shan’t be too long. As I told you, calls by gentlemen last from fifteen to thirty minutes.”
“Got it.”
“There are topics that can be discussed, and topics that cannot be discussed.”
“Figures.”
“Do not flatter the gentlemen in their appearance.”
“What if they are looking especially fine today?”
Rebecca cut her a sidelong look as they walked down the hallway. “I believe you are joking, so I shall ignore that. If they remark upon your looks, that is also considered ill-mannered.”
“So if they tell me I look nice, that is actually rude?”
“Yes. Compliments are only for intimate friends and family. And one should not comment on any public scandal or gossip that’s making the rounds.”
“Got it. Nothing fun.”
Rebecca laughed. “And please do not discuss bodily functions, like pregnancy, childbirth, or disease.”
“I’m not sure why I’d discuss any of those, but it might be easier for you to tell me what we can talk about.” They’d reached the stairs, and started down.
“Well, if you wish, you may retrieve your embroidery hoop to do a little fancy work to occupy yourself.”
“Look at you joking too.”
Rebecca smiled. “Maybe a little.”
“Well, at least one of us is finding the situation funny,” Kendra muttered as they approached the morning room. A footman ha
d been standing nearby, and now leapt forward to open the door.
At their entrance, Mr. Humphrey and Mr. Roland set aside their teacups and plates and stood. Alec was already standing, having taken up a careless pose against the mantel of the fireplace. Kendra felt a jolt of warmth when she met his eyes from across the room, a strangely intimate moment despite the distance and their audience. Then Lady Atwood broke the spell when she introduced the gentlemen to Rebecca and insisted that everyone sit down. Kendra noticed that the countess had brought her embroidery to do fancywork.
Kendra pulled her gaze away from Alec and responded to the men’s abbreviated bows with a brief curtsy. Mr. Humphrey had the same affable expression on his face that he had the night before. Mr. Roland was the gentleman she’d pegged as a fortune hunter. At least she’d been spared the lascivious attentions of the lord who’d stared at her bosom throughout their dance, and the Heart-Attack-Waiting-To-Happen guy.
“Is His Grace well?” Humphrey made the first stab at conversation as they sat down, smiling at Kendra.
“Of course.” Kendra frowned. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
Humphrey’s face went blank.
“His Grace is very well, thank you,” Rebecca put in. Her lips trembled suspiciously, then cleared her throat. “He is currently attending an engagement at the Natural History Society. One of Miss Donovan’s countrymen is speaking.”
“Are you acquainted with the speaker, Miss Donovan?” Mr. Roland asked, his oily gaze settling on Kendra.
“No.” Kendra racked her brain for something more to say, but came up blank.
After an awkward beat of silence, Humphrey said, “How are you enjoying London, Miss Donovan . . . Lady Rebecca?” His gaze turned to include Rebecca.
“I confess I prefer the country,” Rebecca said politely. “But London has much to offer.”
“And you, Miss Donovan?” Mr. Roland pressed. “Is London to your taste?”
Kendra thought of Sir Giles laid out on the autopsy table. “It’s certainly interesting,” she said. She snuck a veiled glance at the clock and was dismayed to realize only a couple of minutes had ticked by. At this rate, she was going to want to jump out a window in another five minutes. Unfortunately, they were on the ground floor. Kendra envisioned excusing herself to go upstairs, and then tossing herself out of a window.
“Miss Donovan!”
Kendra realized Lady Atwood had been saying her name. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Mr. Roland asked you a question,” she said, and her eyes fixed on Kendra with unmistakable warning.
“Sorry.” She turned to look at the fortune hunter. “What did you say, Mr. Roland? I’m afraid I was thinking about something else.”
His lips stretched into a smile that could only be described as condescending. “Not at all. I realize that females have more delicate constitutions.”
Kendra raised an eyebrow. “You realize that, do you?”
“Exactly how do you view a woman’s delicate constitutions, sir?” Rebecca put in with a sweetness that was belied by the dangerous glint in her eyes.
“To be protected, of course!” Mr. Roland turned his patronizing smile on Rebecca. “And guided in the more taxing decisions of life.”
Lady Atwood cleared her throat loudly, apparently recognizing the hazardous turn the conversation had taken. “Tell me, Mr. Humphrey, how is your father, Lord Adder?” she inquired with a practiced smile, steering the conversation to safer topics.
“Ah, as robust as ever.”
“And Lady Adder?”
“My mother enjoys good health as well.” He slid a look at Kendra. “Would you care to ride with me tomorrow in Hyde Park, Miss Donovan? If the weather holds, of course.”
Kendra blinked. “On a horse?”
“Well, ah . . . yes.”
“Unfortunately, riding is not a skill that Miss Donovan has acquired yet,” Alec drawled from his position by the fireplace. “Pray tell, are you a Corinthian, Mr. Humphrey?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare align myself with that set. They are superb whips. However—” He paused when a soft knock preceded Harding’s entrance. He carried a bouquet of flowers, and a small box wrapped in white tissue paper tied together with a silky black ribbon.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” the butler said, his eyes on Lady Atwood. “These have just arrived for Miss Donovan.”
“Oh, my. How lovely.” Rising, Lady Atwood shot a glance at Humphrey and Roland that made Kendra wonder if the countess was behind the unexpected gifts. Lady Atwood set aside her embroidery and moved toward the butler. “Miss Donovan has many admirers,” she proclaimed to no one in particular.
“I can well imagine,” Humphrey said, smiling at Kendra. “There is much to admire about Miss Donovan.”
Kendra liked Humphrey, but it took an effort not to roll her eyes at him.
“Please find a vase for the flowers, Harding, and put them in the foyer,” Lady Atwood instructed.
“Very good, ma’am.” The butler handed her the gift box, inclined his head, and glided out of the room.
“’Tis rather forward to send gifts, and not call themselves,” Roland said, with a disapproving frown. “Very brazen.”
Alec straightened, his dark brows pulling together in a scowl. “Who sent them?”
Lady Atwood turned the box over. “I do not see a note.”
“Perhaps the note is inside the box?” Rebecca suggested.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Kendra said with some asperity. The very last thing she needed was another admirer. As far as she was concerned, there were two too many in this room already. “Why don’t you open it?”
The countess didn’t need any more encouragement. With quick fingers, she pulled at the silk bow, allowing the tissue paper to fall away. “It is most likely a posy or perhaps some sweets,” she said, smiling as she pried open the box lid to look inside. “Marzipan, or . . .” Her eyes widened in shock, her features quivering in horror. She reeled backward, dropping the box as she gave an ear-splitting screech.
“What the hell?” Kendra leapt up from her seat.
Alec bolted forward and caught his aunt before she crashed to the floor in a dead faint. “What the devil is it?” he demanded, swinging Lady Atwood around and dumping her in the nearest chair.
Everyone was on their feet, staring at the overturned box. “Don’t touch it!” Roland ordered as Kendra bent down. She ignored him, carefully lifting the box and tissue paper to stare down at the object that now rested on the Persian carpet. It was roughly two-and-a-half inches long, squared off on its thicker end, tapering down and rounded on the other end. There had been a time when it had been a healthy pink, she knew. But it was now blackened and slightly shriveled, curling at the sides.
Beside her, Humphrey gave a yelp, backpedaling away from the object like it might suddenly leap up at him. Roland stayed where he was, but his face twisted in horror and revulsion. “Good God, is that . . .?”
Kendra nodded slowly. “I think we may have just found Sir Giles’s tongue.”
28
Dark clouds had begun to knit together in the distance, a dire promise that London might be in for either sleet or snow. But for now, Sam considered himself a lucky man. The sun was still shining above, and his visit to the Holbrooke stables earlier had borne unexpected fruit. He’d anticipated a long day of hunting for the Holbrookes’ dismissed maid, Betty, but the stable lads had been surprisingly forthcoming, and given him directions to her new address. Apparently, the maid had been fortunate enough to be taken in by her sister and brother-in-law.
After he dashed off a note for the Duke and Miss Donovan to let them know about his good fortune, Sam made his way to Betty’s new home with her relations on Earl Street, and was directed by Betty’s sister to the King’s Arms in Chatham Square, about ten paces from the Blackfriars Bridge, where Betty now worked as a barmaid.
At least a dozen customers were in the pub’s low-ceilinged, darkly panele
d interior. Wherrymen and dock workers, Sam identified by assessing their coarse dress. But he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a smuggler or two in the crowd as well. They had that look, rough and ready for a brawl. Devious, too, given the cagey way they regarded him. In public rooms, he was inclined to sit with his back against a wall and his eye on the room, but he decided that with this crowd, it wasn’t just a preference, but a necessity.
As he made his way across the room, the aroma of eggs and greasy bacon and frying onions assailed him, along with the less pleasant smells of stale beer, smoke, sweat, and urine. He slid into an empty booth, his gaze drawn to the comely barmaid working the tap. Her hair was so pale it was almost white, and caught up in a colorful red, yellow, and green handkerchief that showed off both the graceful curve of her long white neck and the rounded shoulders revealed by the peasant smock she wore. The wall lamps and crackling fire in the hearth transformed much of that ivory flesh into gold.
The barmaid flashed him a bold smile when she caught him staring. After sliding the tankard she’d been filling to a bulky fellow standing at the end of the counter, she came around, crossing the room toward Sam with an indolent roll of her hips. She was winsome enough in face, Sam thought, to distract from the slight swell of her belly.
“What’d ye want, good sir?” she said, and her eyes widened in appreciation when he laid a crown on the table.
“Are you Betty?”
Her smile faded, and the pretty face suddenly hardened. “Who wants ter know?”
“Sam Kelly.” Carefully, he brought the tip of his baton out of his pocket to allow her to see it.
Her eyes widened again, but this time not in appreciation. He recognized fear. “What’re ye doin’?” she hissed. “Put that thing away!” She glanced quickly behind her to see if anyone had noticed.
“They don’t have their peepers on me, lass,” Sam assured her. He didn’t have to tell her where a few of the men’s eyes were trained. “I just want a word with you.”
“What about?”
Sam pushed the crown a bit forward with his index finger, watching her gaze narrow in on the movement. She looked around again, then shrugged, sliding into the booth. Her small hand swept the coin up to be held clenched beneath the table. “I don’t peach on anybody,” she warned.
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