He grinned. “Thank you, m’lady.”
“Miss Donovan, a sherry?”
“Thanks.”
Sam took a sip of his whiskey, watching the footman as he finished lighting the candles. Once the servant left the room, he turned to look at Kendra. “Me men found four women named Magdalena.”
She nearly dropped the wineglass Rebecca was handing her. “What?”
“Me men found—”
“I heard you,” she said impatiently, taking the wineglass from Rebecca and setting it down on the nearby table so she didn’t spill it. She looked at Sam. “Go on.”
“Not much ter tell. One woman was eighty, if she was a day. Two were still in leading strings. And one was a nun. I quizzed the old woman and the nun. They’d never heard of Sir Giles. The old woman had been in England for nearly twenty years. The nun nigh on five years.”
“Are you sure?” Kendra said. “Maybe they were lying.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “The nun?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Perhaps. But I believed her. Both of them.” He lifted his whiskey glass and regarded her over the rim. “Don’t be discouraged, lass. ’Tis early days yet. I’ve got me men spreading out into other neighborhoods.”
“It seems an impossible task,” Rebecca admitted, sitting down on the sofa near the fire with her glass of sherry. “You can’t even be certain she’s Spanish.”
Kendra chewed on her lower lip. “She could be French. The prisoner of war camp was in the Maya Pass, which borders France.”
“A camp follower, mayhap.” Rebecca’s brows pulled together as she sipped her wine. “Can we even be certain Magdalena is connected to what happened to Evert Larson in Spain?” she wondered, lowering her glass. “Mr. Holbrooke is a rake. Perhaps this letter was about him, and Sir Giles was forced to deal with another of his son’s peccadillos.”
“I don’t think so,” Kendra replied. “When I mentioned the name to Captain Mobray and the Larsons, they reacted. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She’s connected. I’m certain of it.”
Sam said, “I went back ter the Holbrooke stables, asked the coachman if he’d taken his master ter anywhere peculiar in the last month.”
Kendra remembered thinking Sam was a good cop. She was right. “Good thinking, Mr. Kelly. What did he say?”
“Nothin’ much,” he sighed, and took a swallow of whiskey. “The coachman said it wasn’t strange ter bring Sir Giles all over London Town, even unsavory places. Nothin’ seemed unusual ter him about their travels.”
“Unsavory places?” Kendra asked. “Sir Giles had a habit of going into rough neighborhoods?”
“Aye. Gin and opium dens, rookeries of the worst sort. Like Rats’ Castle, the flash house on the docks.”
“Rats’ Castle?” Kendra wondered if she’d misheard.
Sam grinned at her. “Aye, lass. I suppose he dealt with a lot of ruffians, being a spymaster. He couldn’t meet up with them in the nicer sections of the city without attracting some attention. Sir Giles would have ter go ter them if he wanted information.”
Kendra frowned, then picked up the glass of sherry and sipped. “Do you think the coachman can give us a list of places that Sir Giles went to this last month?”
“You’re thinking of goin’ ter each one. Aye, I’ll see what I can do, lass.”
“At least it’s a plan.” Absently, she tapped her finger against her wineglass, and her gaze drifted to the slate board. She thought about the name that was no longer there. “You know,” she said slowly, “there’s another person who might know what Sir Giles had been up to. Fitzpatrick.”
Sam’s eyebrows popped up. “Fitzpatrick?” But even as he said the name, he was nodding, golden eyes brightening. “You might be right.”
Rebecca frowned, looking at them. “What do you think Mr. Fitzpatrick will say that Sir Giles’s coachman could not?”
“Sir Giles’s coachman can only tell us where Sir Giles asked to be driven. But if he wanted privacy, he might have taken a hackney or rode a horse. If Fitzpatrick was spying on him, who knows what he saw?”
“I daresay he would have wanted privacy to see this Magdalena,” Rebecca murmured.
“Yeah. Mr. Kelly, what are you doing tomorrow?”
“You want ter go to the Liber, lass?”
“I think it’s time for me to meet this Irish spy.”
A little while later, Sam and Rebecca left and the Duke and Alec returned from their ride. Kendra briefed them on what both Muldoon and the Bow Street Runner had said, finishing up with her decision to make a call on Fitzpatrick.
“Do you really think Mr. Fitzpatrick will be able to help?” the Duke asked, fiddling with his pipe behind his desk.
Alec said, “Perhaps the question ought to be whether he would want to help. I’m not certain he would admit to watching Sir Giles.”
He was sprawled in a chair next to the fireplace, his hands balancing a crystal glass filled with brandy on his flat stomach. The flickering firelight played across his chiseled features, teasing out hidden lights in his dark hair. He’d been staring at his brandy glass, but he suddenly lifted his eyes, catching Kendra’s gaze on him.
“You won’t be speaking to Mr. Fitzpatrick alone,” he said.
She’d had other thoughts going through her head while she stared at him. But his words and the imperative tone jerked her back to reality. She scowled. “That sounds oddly like a command.”
“It’s a statement of fact,” he returned coolly.
“Are you making that statement because of the ridiculous rules placed on women here or because you don’t think I can handle myself with Fitzpatrick?”
He hesitated briefly. “Both.”
“How would you handle this in your time, my dear?” Aldridge asked, undoubtedly hoping to prevent the argument he saw brewing—and because he was genuinely interested.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t need a chaperone to interview a subject,” she snapped, then rubbed her temples. She’d almost forgotten about the dull ache behind her eyes. “Sorry. Touchy subject.” She took a breath and then let it out slowly. “I wouldn’t be going into a dangerous situation alone,” she answered honestly. “But this isn’t a dangerous situation. For Christ’s sake, it’s a coffee shop. There will be other customers around.”
Alec frowned, but said nothing.
“I’ll be going with Mr. Kelly,” she added. “I won’t be alone.”
The Duke’s intelligent eyes seemed more gray than blue as he looked at her. “And you don’t want us to go with you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t want to crowd Fitzpatrick. He’s not under suspicion, but he might feel itchy if he had four pairs of eyes trained on him.”
The Duke smiled slightly. “Itchy?”
“Paranoid,” she said, turning when someone knocked at the door. Her stomach skittered a little when Lady Atwood swept into the room. The firelight danced across the deep maroon evening dress she wore. She’d tucked her hair into a silver turban embellished with two curling feathers that fluttered with each step she took. Kendra hadn’t spoken to the countess since the incident with the tongue.
“Good evening,” Lady Atwood greeted everyone, sounding surprisingly upbeat for someone who’d declared the family ruined only yesterday. “Dinner will be in twenty minutes,” she announced, and frowned when Alec rose to his feet in a lithe movement. “Normally, I do not approve of wearing riding habits at the dinner table, Sutcliffe. But we shall dine en famille, so I shall overlook the gaucheness.”
Alec gave a mocking bow. “I am forever your servant, ma’am.”
“Insolent boy.” But she said it with affection, her lips curving.
The Duke regarded his sister. “You appear to be in remarkably fine spirits this evening. Earlier you were still cast down because of—”
“Do not remind me of . . . of the incident,” she warned her brother, her mouth pulling tight. “I swear I shall have nightmares for mont
hs. But you are correct, Bertie. My mood has improved. Do you see these?”
For the first time, Kendra noticed that the other woman clutched what appeared to be a thick stack of ivory- and cream-colored cards in her hand.
“All is not lost!” the countess declared with a triumphant smile.
“What do you have there?” her brother asked curiously.
“Invitations, Bertie! They have been arriving all day. Invitations to upcoming balls, soirees, salons, and musical recitals. And, oh, my, look here!” She extracted a small card to wave around, her expression more animated than Kendra had ever seen.
The Duke came around his desk, snatching the card from his sister to scan it. “I can hardly read it with you waving it about.”
“It’s an invitation to Almack’s!”
The name rang a bell, Kendra thought, but not from her own timeline. She’d heard the name mentioned in conversations in the past six months. “That’s a social club, right?”
“It is the social club, Miss Donovan,” Lady Atwood corrected haughtily. “It is the most exclusive assembly room in London, with the most sought-after vouchers. The Prince Regent himself has been known to attend.”
Kendra said, “Congratulations. I hope you have a wonderful time.”
“Your name is on the invitation as well, Miss Donovan,” the Duke pointed out mildly.
The temperature in the room hadn’t changed, but Kendra could have sworn it was becoming hotter. “But I don’t have to go, do I?” she asked a bit desperately, and then was annoyed at herself for asking. She was a grown woman, damn it. She didn’t need permission to not go out for the evening.
“Of course, you must go.” Lady Atwood snapped, and turned to her brother. “Bertie, tell the creature that she must go.”
“Well, I—”
Kendra’s hand tightened on her wineglass. “Will the Larsons be there?” Maybe she could use it like the Smyth-Hope ball—
“Don’t be stupid.” Lady Atwood glared at her. “They’re commoners.”
Kendra pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. So am I, she wanted to say, but being the ward of the Duke of Aldridge made all the difference.
“Apparently, you are still the toast of the Ton, Miss Donovan,” said Alec, not sounding particularly happy over the news. “Receiving a severed tongue as a gift isn’t quite the social stigma one might think.”
“Curiosity has its own celebrity,” she muttered, and saw that Lady Atwood was eyeing her critically. “What?”
“I think I ought to contact my modiste. You’ll need new gowns.”
“Why do I need new gowns? I haven’t worn some of the gowns from the last time we went to your dressmaker.”
Lady Atwood ignored her. “And this will require lessons in etiquette. Almack’s has the strictest code of propriety in all of England.”
“And the worst lemonade, blandest buttered bread, and cattiest ladies in all of the kingdom,” Alec mocked.
Kendra raised an eyebrow at him. “Why does anyone go if it’s so bad?”
A smile ghosted around his lips. “Because there is nothing more enthralling than to be accepted into a place that turns down everybody else.”
Kendra laughed.
“At least we are not the social pariahs that I had feared,” Lady Atwood said sharply, and plucked the invitation back from her brother. She shook the card at Alec. “This is a wonderful thing. My dear friend Lady St. James will be green with envy. She was banned from the club for two years now after Lady Jersey flew up into the boughs over some perceived slight.”
“I don’t have time for this.” Again Kendra looked at the Duke to back her up.
“Do not fret, my dear,” he said. “The invitation for Almack’s is over two weeks away.”
“Almack’s is not the only invitation,” Lady Atwood reminded them, smiling as she lifted the stack of cards in her hand like trophies. Which Kendra supposed they were.
“Have no fear,” the countess said, moving toward the door. “I shall take it upon myself to sort through them and decide which ones we shall attend.”
Kendra inhaled sharply, then let it out slowly.
Alec sauntered to the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry. He brought it over, smiling slightly as he met her gaze. “Don’t look so worried, sweet. When they find out what’s behind your newfound popularity, the ladies of the Beau Monde will be sending themselves severed body parts, and you shall soon fall out of favor.”
41
Kendra didn’t want to think about her newfound popularity with the Ton, or the reasons behind it. She sure as hell didn’t want to think about being introduced to the Prince Regent, or wasting valuable time at the dressmaker’s being fitted for new gowns. She pushed thoughts of princes and parties to the side, and focused on murder.
After Alec left for the evening and Lady Atwood persuaded her brother into a game of two-handed whist in the drawing room, Kendra quietly slipped back into the study. Using a nearby taper, she lit more candles around the shadowy room. Darkness pressed against the windows, the panes rattling slightly as the wind picked up.
Kendra returned the taper to its holder, picked up the piece of slate, and circled to the slate board. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift over what she knew, to isolate each piece of information. Sir Giles may have been murdered four days ago, but that hadn’t been the beginning. The beginning was where Sir Giles’s ghosts came from a prisoner of war camp in Spain, two years earlier.
Not ghosts. Ghost, singular, she decided. She opened her eyes, her gaze immediately falling on one name. Evert Larson.
What had happened over there? As usual, she started to pace, jiggling the slate in one hand. Everything they knew came from official reports written by Captain Mobray and Cross. She was sure they’d been debriefed, as well, probably by Sir Giles himself since Evert had died there. At the time, their story was accepted.
Had that changed a month ago with the arrival of Magdalena?
Kendra’s mind swung to the Larsons. They’d obviously accepted Mobray and Cross’s version of what had happened in Spain as well. They’d suffered the loss of Eric, and by all accounts, they’d picked up the pieces of their lives and moved on—until a month ago when Bertel’s behavior had changed, and he’d stopped going to the apothecary shop. It made sense that Magdalena had contacted them as well, told them another version of what had happened to Evert in Spain, and ripped open the wound over Evert’s death all over again.
Kendra wandered to the window. The fog had once again rolled in, obscuring the park across the street.
Whoever tries to hide his sins will not succeed, but the one who confesses his sins and leaves them behind will find mercy. What sin had Sir Giles thought to hide? Or confess? And if it was a confession that he had in mind, was that why the killer had cut out his tongue?
She let out a sigh of frustration, pushing away from the window to resume her pacing.
Mobray had a lot to lose. He was the one with political aspirations, working his way up government ranks. He was a military hero of a sort. Maybe not like Horatio Nelson or the Duke of Wellington, but he survived being a POW under the French. That was powerful stuff. Especially if you had an eye on Parliament. She couldn’t imagine him not trading on it to make his climb a bit easier.
She hadn’t paid too much attention to the political climate of the day, except to note that it was depressingly similar to the 21st century. If information had come to light to change his story . . . Mobray wouldn’t be the first person seeking a higher position in government who’d killed to keep their secrets from coming out.
Silence Sir Giles, who’d begun asking questions, who was considering confessing his sins and finding mercy. Silence Lord Cross, who knew the truth and was getting cold feet. Cutting out the tongue could have been a sly joke on Mobray’s part. The symbols? That struck her as theatrical. Theatrics to cause misdirection? It was possible.
Or maybe it was another joke to which she had yet to learn th
e punch line.
And if the killer wasn’t Mobray . . . She sighed, thinking again of the Larsons. If they had found out that the official story of what happened in Spain wasn’t true—if, for instance, Evert had been betrayed by one of his own countrymen—maybe one of the Larsons had snapped and taken revenge.
But which one?
Kendra remembered how Bertel had been standing in front of the stone statue he’d erected for the son he’d lost on the Continent. His grief had been almost palpable, but was there something more? Something—
“I suspected that I’d find you here.”
Kendra hadn’t heard the door open, but now she turned as the Duke walked into the room. She smiled. “Did you win your game?”
“I did. However, I had the advantage, with Caro distracted by dreams of Almack’s and dancing until midnight.”
“Don’t remind me.”
He eyed her with concern. “You look tired, my dear. I find your single-minded pursuit of justice admirable, but I fear you take too much responsibility on yourself. You are not to be blamed for Lord Cross’s murder.”
She wasn’t given to a lot of self-analysis—when you grew up being studied by two scientists, you sort of shied away from analyzing yourself—but she had to acknowledge that the Duke wasn’t altogether wrong. “I don’t blame myself, exactly,” she said slowly. “Though I keep thinking that I’ve missed something, and that’s why Lord Cross is dead.”
“You’re not omniscient, my dear.”
She laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “I realize that only too well.”
The Duke kept his gaze on her as he lowered himself into his chair behind the desk. “You demand too much of yourself. Did you take the world on your shoulders when you worked for your Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“Probably.” She shrugged. “It’s what I do. Who I am.” She paused. “It’s the only thing I’m really good at. Especially here.”
“I think you do not give yourself the credit you should.”
Betrayal in Time Page 33