A shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly outdoor temperature raced down her arms. Once you started giving up pieces of yourself here and there in order to adapt to society’s rules, how long before you had nothing left?
She pushed the thought away, mainly because she had no answers. The clomp-clomp-clomp of horses’ hooves caught her attention. She looked down the street to see Lady Rebecca expertly maneuvering her mare down the cobblestone street. A young groom trailed behind her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Donovan,” Rebecca greeted her with a bright smile, pulling up her reins. “Where are you going?”
“Across the street. Sutcliffe and the Duke are riding in Hyde Park. Care to walk with me?”
“I would be delighted. Today is one of the best days we’ve had this winter,” she said, flicking aside her riding habit’s long, heavy skirt. The groom hurried around to help her dismount. “Take Sophia around to the Duke’s stables,” she instructed, handing the groom the reins. She turned to Kendra. “I wanted to come earlier, but my parents insisted on paying a call to my mother’s sister in Richmond.”
Kendra studied Rebecca’s dark blue riding habit. The bodice and sleeves were exquisitely tailored to conform to Rebecca’s body, but the skirt was full, with a long, asymmetrical train that only made sense if one was sitting sidesaddle on a horse, but probably wasn’t so great when walking.
“Can you walk in that thing?”
“I can manage,” Rebecca laughed, and gathered the train, tossing it over her arm like a bridal dress. “So, what have you been doing today?”
Kendra realized that Rebecca hadn’t been told about Cross. “Lord Cross was murdered last night,” she said.
“Good heavens.” Rebecca stumbled to a stop in the street. There wasn’t any traffic to mow them down, but Kendra took Rebecca’s arm and tugged her toward the pavement on the other side. The cornflower blue eyes narrowed on Kendra. “How? What happened?”
“Strangled, like Sir Giles. Tongue cut out. The killer used his knife to mark the body with a cross—or a t. In truth, this one looked more like a t. But the unsub was in a hurry, so that might account for the slight variation. Cross was with a girl in an alley, and she fled, screaming her head off. I assume the killer realized he could be caught any second by the people in the Bell & Swan.”
Rebecca shook her head. “’Tis either very bold or very foolish for the fiend to kill Lord Cross right in front of the soiled dove with so little time for discovery.”
“Yeah, that’s what worries me. I don’t think he’s foolish. In fact, I think he’s very clever. He wasn’t deterred by a potential witness . . .”
Ella’s words came back to Kendra now: ’Is face wasn’t right, red and all scaly-like. ’Is eyes were black as pitch . . . evil.
“What?” Rebecca demanded. “You have that look on your face. There’s something else you’re not telling me.”
Kendra hesitated, feeling like there was something else, a shadow in the back of her mind that was trying to take shape and solidify. “No,” she finally said. “Not really. The woman was drunk off her ass. And I know that I’m not supposed to say ass.”
Rebecca’s lips twitched and her eyes danced with merriment. “It certainly would be frowned upon in Polite Society. However, I’m not exactly the arbiter of Polite Society.” She waved her free hand in such a way as to dismiss the topic. “You’re saying that the woman’s intoxication prevented her from seeing anything?”
“Oh, she saw something. She said the devil killed Cross.”
“The devil?”
“Yeah, you know, the guy from Hell. Red, reptilian face. Black eyes. The only thing she didn’t mention was his horns.”
Rebecca said nothing for a moment. Then she glanced sideways at Kendra. “You went to the Bell & Swan last night?”
“Mr. Kelly sent word, and the Duke and I met him there. Unless new information comes out, we can eliminate Holbrooke.”
“I daresay that—” She paused, and frowned suddenly. “What is he doing here?”
“Who? Oh.” Kendra’s gaze traveled to the tall man standing with his hands thrust into his shabby greatcoat. A battered tricorn hat was squashed over his reddish curls, his cerulean blue eyes narrowed as he watched them approach.
“You!” Rebecca’s long skirt didn’t hinder her as she strode forward, her quick gait aggressive enough to have Muldoon falling back a step. “Spying again, are we, Mr. Muldoon?”
His lips curled in a delighted smile. “Not at all, Princess. I—”
“Stop calling me that!” she said through clenched teeth, her eyes flashing with dangerous heat. “You ill-bred buffoon!”
“I asked him to meet me,” Kendra put in, a little taken aback by Rebecca’s vehemence.
Muldoon shot them a cocky grin and swept off his hat in a melodramatic gesture as he bowed. “At your service, Miss Donovan. And delighted to see you again, Pr—” He coughed, and corrected himself, meeting her glare. “Ah, Lady Rebecca.”
“Can we get down to business?” Kendra pressed. “This isn’t a social call.”
He swung his gaze back to Kendra, his good humor vanishing. “No, I didn’t think it was. It’s about Lord Cross’s murder, isn’t it?”
“Indirectly. Did you manage to get the official report yet on what happened in Spain?”
Muldoon cocked his head as he regarded her. “I may have.”
“Do you care to share?” she asked sarcastically. “Or do you expect me to read your mind?”
He huffed out a surprised laugh. “Since you asked so nicely. Lord Cross and Captain Mobray were part of the Fifty-Second Regiment of Foot—”
“You already told me that.”
“Yes, well, I’m telling you again. This is my story, Miss Donovan, in my words. Do you wish to hear it?”
Kendra rolled her eyes. “Sensitive. Go on.”
“As I was saying, they were part of the Fifty-Second Regiment of Foot. The company that the captain commanded split off in the mountains and was captured.”
“Wait a minute. Captain Mobray was the leader of the regiment that was captured?”
“Not regiment—company. A company is smaller. But yes, Captain Mobray was the unit’s leader. They were involved in a particularly nasty battle in the Spanish mountains near the Maya Pass. According to the report, the French launched a surprise attack, split the company, and slaughtered most of the poor sods. The remaining dozen were taken to the French camp as prisoners of war—including Cross and Mobray.”
Muldoon’s mouth tightened, his eyes turning to blue stones. The expression allowed Kendra to glimpse something beyond the man’s charming façade. The reporter had plenty of cheeky wit, but he wasn’t all cheeky wit, she decided. He cared about what he was writing.
“The conditions were inhuman,” he continued. “The soldiers were there two months. According to the report, half of those men died in the camp within the first week.”
“Dear heaven.” Rebecca’s hand went to her throat. “How?”
Muldoon shrugged. “The French officers who ran the camp were products of their country’s revolution.”
Kendra frowned. “What does that mean?”
Muldoon looked at her. “The French Revolution wasn’t like your American war, Miss Donovan. Your countrymen fought to overthrow an outside nation that was controlling them, much like Ireland wants to do. But France overthrew their own people. Just as they toppled their monarchy and aristocracy, they shattered the hierarchy in the army. It became the citizen army. They didn’t view those who fought against them as soldiers to be defeated; they viewed the opposition as an evil that needed to be destroyed.” He made a disgusted sound in his throat, and shook his head. “Bloodlust was rampant, which was evident by how often la guillotine was used.”
Rebecca gave the journalist a sour smile. “I’m surprised you object to the French revolution, considering your own Whig sentiments, Mr. Muldoon.”
“I find the end goals of both the American and the
French revolutions admirable, your ladyship. However, only a fool thinks self-government is easy to achieve, or that mob rule is best.”
“Okay, okay.” Kendra waved her hand to get the reporter’s attention. “What does this have to do with what happened in the French prisoner of war camp?”
“Before the citizen army took over in France, there were rules on how to treat prisoners of war. But the French revolution changed that. The new army viewed all prisoners of war as evil, and therefore their treatment became vicious. Prisoners were shot or tortured for sport. Napoleon may be a mad little tyrant, but he returned the military to the prerevolutionary code, insisting that prisoners of war must be treated with dignity and respect.”
Kendra thought that over. “The French army that captured Mobray and his men operated more like a citizen army than Napoleon’s army?”
Muldoon spread his ink-stained hands. “According to the government reports.”
“Which were written by Captain Mobray and Lord Cross.”
“Yes.” He lifted an inquiring eyebrow at her. “Do you have cause to doubt their veracity?”
She was getting tired of that question. She ignored it. “What else did the report say?”
“Ah, there the details become sparse. Larson was captured. The next day, he attempted to escape, and in the process there was a fire, which set fire to the armory at the camp.”
“Hence the explosion,” Kendra put in.
Muldoon nodded. “Captain Mobray and Lord Cross were in a tent that was being guarded by French soldiers. When the explosion happened, the guards ran to help, and in the confusion, Captain Mobray and Lord Cross managed to escape.”
“What about the other British prisoners with them?”
“According to the report, there were only three left. They were held in another tent, and when they tried to flee, they were shot down by the French.”
“But not Mobray and Cross.” Kendra said nothing for a moment, then became aware that the reporter was studying her. “How did Evert Larson end up in the camp?”
“The French had set up camp near Ximenia, a small village in the mountains. Larson was there to conduct surveillance of the camp, which, as I mentioned, had a sizable armory.”
She frowned. “That was in the report from Mobray?”
Muldoon looked impressed. “You are very good, Miss Donovan. No, that was not in the report. That came from Sir Giles’s report on the situation. He was the one who’d sent Larson there. The last report Larson sent back with the courier was how he’d infiltrated the camp pretending to be one of the villagers bringing in food. On that mission, he’d discovered English prisoners of war being held at the camp. He was dead shortly thereafter.”
“Did he mention that he planned to rescue the English prisoners?”
“No. But given what happened, he must have tried to do that, and been discovered.”
“Did he make contact with Mobray or Cross?”
“No. At least, that was not in either report.”
“Who recognized Larson?”
“There wasn’t anything in the report, but I assume it was Lord Cross. The two had been in Eton together.”
“Why was Evert held separately? And Mobray and Cross from the other British soldiers.”
“I don’t know about Mobray and Cross, but Larson was a spy.” He hesitated. “The French most likely wanted to find out what he knew and what he’d shared before they caught him.”
“Torture?” But Kendra knew.
Muldoon nodded reluctantly. “Most likely.”
Kendra said, “If this is coming from the report by Mobray and Cross, how do they know Evert Larson died in the explosion?”
“How do they know?” Muldoon lifted his eyebrows. “I suppose they saw him go into the tent that exploded.”
“While they were running for their lives?”
“The explosion happened first. That’s how they escaped. In the chaos,” he reminded her, and met her gaze. “What are you thinking, Miss Donovan?”
“I thought Mobray and Cross were being held in a tent under guard, and they escaped when their guards left because of the explosion. As you said, in the chaos. But how did they know Evert caused or perished in the explosion? By their own account, they had no contact with him. They were being held in a tent. I don’t remember tents having windows. So how did they know what was happening outside the tent?”
Muldoon’s lips parted in surprise. “I’m not certain,” he said slowly. “You make a good point. But why would Cross and Mobray lie about such a thing?”
She ignored the question. “Do you know what happened after Mobray and Cross escaped? Did they put in their report where they went?”
“They made it to an ally encampment.”
“How long did it take them to get there? What were their physical conditions?”
There was a shrewd gleam in his blue eyes. “That wasn’t in their report, but I’ll do a little investigating. There must be more. Or I’ll find someone who was at the ally base when they arrived.”
Kendra smiled. “That sounds like a plan. Let me know what you find out.” She turned and began walking toward the gated entrance to the park. Rebecca hurried to catch up.
“Wait! You can’t leave it like that, Miss Donovan.” Muldoon’s long strides ate up the distance, and he fell into step beside them. “Tell me what’s going on. What do Captain Mobray’s and Lord Cross’s imprisonment and escape in Spain have to do with the murders? What are you thinking, Miss Donovan?”
“Get me that report from the ally camp or an eyewitness account, and we’ll talk,” she said as they exited the park.
“Why don’t you tell me now?” He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Do you think Evert Larson might be alive?”
She gave Muldoon’s hand on her arm a pointed glance. He let her go with a sheepish look. “This isn’t about Evert Larson,” she finally said. “It’s about what happened in Spain. Something’s not adding up.”
Muldoon pushed up his tricorn hat as he regarded her with a strange intensity. “Who are you, Miss Donovan?”
Kendra pulled back from him. The last thing she needed was this reporter to turn his inquisitive eyes in her direction. “This isn’t about me, either, Mr. Muldoon,” she snapped. “Save your questions until you get your hands on that report.”
He grinned at her. “Can’t help it if I find you an enigma, Miss Donovan. I’m just a poor scribbler with a curious mind.”
Rebecca sniffed. “You are beginning to repeat yourself, Mr. Muldoon. You have used that excuse before.”
Muldoon laughed.
Kendra spotted a familiar figure walking toward them.
“Good afternoon, Miss Donovan, milady,” Sam Kelly greeted them as he came up beside them. He eyed the journalist warily. “Muldoon. What are you doin’ here?”
“I asked to see him,” Kendra told him. “Mr. Muldoon has promised to look into a few things.”
Muldoon cocked an eyebrow at the Bow Street Runner. “And what are you doing here, Mr. Kelly, on this fine Sunday afternoon?”
Sam scowled. “Nothing I’m going ter share with you.”
“You wound me, sir!”
Rebecca rolled her eyes at Muldoon. “I am surprised you never tried to make your living on the stage, sir. You have a flare for melodrama.”
“Thank you, Princess.”
When Rebecca’s eyes narrowed, Kendra grabbed her elbow, and shifted her toward the street. “We’ll see you inside, Mr. Kelly,” she said, then looked back to the reporter. “Send me word when you have anything more to report, Mr. Muldoon.”
“She’s a spirited creature, isn’t she?” Muldoon said, his gaze on the two ladies as they crossed the street and walked up the path to the Duke’s mansion.
Sam swung around to face the reporter. “She may be an American, but she’s above your touch, Muldoon. Besides, Lord Sutcliffe might have something ter say about it.”
“Ah, is that the way of it?” He looked thoughtful.
“Have you discovered anything new?” Sam demanded.
“I read the official reports and have told Miss Donovan everything I know. She actually made a few good points about the reports themselves. Obviously, Captain Mobray provided the information for the French prison camp he was held at. But whether he was entirely honest in his account . . . that is the question.”
“You don’t think he was honest in his account?”
“Not after speaking with Miss Donovan. And now Lord Cross was murdered. It’s a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”
Sam studied the reporter. Muldoon played the fool sometimes, but Sam was well aware that behind his often insolent frivolity was an impressive intelligence. He grunted. “Everything seems suspicious ter me. When you read the reports, did it mention a woman named Magdalena?”
Muldoon’s eyebrows rose. “Not that I recollect. Who is Magdalena?”
“Somebody I’m hoping to find. Keep an eye out.”
“You realize I work for the Morning Chronicle, don’t you?” Muldoon groused, and took two steps down the pavement before pausing to look again at Sam. The light was back in the blue eyes, which should have warned him.
“You know, when I said that she was a spirited creature, I wasn’t talking about Miss Donovan.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “She’s above your touch, too!” he called out, but the younger man had already pivoted around, whistling a jaunty tune as he walked down the street.
40
Five minutes later, Kendra, Rebecca, and Sam were settling themselves in the study when a footman came in to add more kindling and logs to the fireplace. Straightening, he looked over at Kendra. “Would you like me to light the candles, miss?”
“Oh.” For the first time, she realized that the shadows in the room were growing longer. “Yes, thank you.”
Rebecca crossed to the side table stocked with decanters. Pulling out a stopper, she glanced at Sam, lifting her eyebrows. “Mr. Kelly? Would you like a whiskey?” She didn’t wait for his affirmative, splashing a generous three fingers into a crystal glass and bringing it to him.
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