She shook her head. “You’re giving me too much credit. I’m trying to fit in here, to not look so . . . odd. But you know I don’t belong.”
He frowned, and looked like he was going to say something, but she lifted her hand. “Do you know what I first thought when Mr. Kelly sent word asking for our help?” she asked.
“No.”
“I thought, thank God. Now I can do something where I feel normal—as normal as I can feel in this century.” Her chest was tight; she drew in a deep breath to ease the pressure.
“My dear . . .”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m just trying to explain why I may seem a little intense sometimes.”
The Duke regarded her with somber eyes for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, opened a drawer on his desk, and brought out what looked to be a pendant attached to a long, delicate gold chain. “I had meant to give you this earlier,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet. He came around the desk, offering it to her.
Only then did she realize it was the arrowhead that he’d been given the other morning. “Oh.”
He smiled slightly at her confusion. “I sent it to a jeweler to drill a hole into the stone for the chain. Of course, he thought I was mad.”
“It’s . . .” Beautiful? It wasn’t polished or pretty. She didn’t know what to say.
The Duke chuckled. “I know this is not a traditional frippery, my dear. But it comes from your America. Not your America, but—”
“I know what you mean.” She stared down at the ancient weapon, and felt her heart give a hard tug. “Arrowheads are still being found in my America.” She put it on. The chain was long enough for the arrowhead to hit below her breast bone. Lifting her eyes to the Duke, she realized she had to blink back tears. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
The Duke’s mouth curved in a gentle smile. “It occurs to me that mankind has been picking up rocks for one reason or another since the beginning of time. They’ve been used as punishment to stone sinners, walls to keep in livestock and keep out intruders and the elements. They’ve been cobbled together to pave streets or, like this one”—he tapped the arrowhead lightly—“fashioned as a weapon or as a tool for hunting.
“The stone is the same,” he added softly. “It is what we do with it that matters. And whatever it eventually becomes has nothing to do with where it comes from—or when.”
Kendra was silent for a long moment. “I think I understand what you’re saying,” she said. “But I’m not sure it’s that simple.” She lifted the stone, felt the cool surface of it beneath her fingertips. “This arrowhead may be here now, but it doesn’t really belong. I won’t be using it to slay my enemies or hunt for food. It’s still in the wrong place and time.”
“My dear, you are not looking at it correctly. It is now a pendant. It has changed, but its new purpose, I think, fits perfectly in this time and place.” He waited a moment, then smiled. “Maybe it’s something to think about. Now, I shall bid you good night, my dear.”
She waited until he was at the door before she spoke. “Your Grace?”
He paused, lifting his eyebrows in inquiry.
“Thank you.” She wanted to say more, to tell him that she was grateful to have him with her in this crazy new life, but her throat burned.
He waited a moment, then nodded. “Good night,” he said again. Then he was gone, leaving her standing there, clutching the pendant and wondering how she could find her own purpose here without losing herself.
Ten minutes later, Kendra let herself into her darkened bedchamber, and nearly screamed when two arms came around her. But she recognized the hard, masculine body and faint scent even before she was spun around and pushed up against the closed door. Alec’s mouth came down on hers in a kiss long enough, passionate enough, for her toes to curl in her slippers.
“Jesus, Alec,” she managed to pant when he finally lifted his head. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing here? Are you crazy?”
“Too many questions.”
She caught the burning in his green eyes before he lowered his head again and kissed her. She gave herself up to the sensations that slammed into her, sliding her hands around his neck, her trembling fingers tunneling through his thick hair as she kissed him back. God, she had missed this, missed him.
“I am mad—for you,” he whispered when he released her again.
She found herself grinning suddenly, foolishly, the somber mood she’d been in vanishing in an instant. “I must be mad for you, too, because I’m not kicking you out. In fact . . .” She loosened the knot on his cravat, unwinding the delicate fabric. “Stay.”
“Good. Because that was my plan. I love you.” His hands glided over her. Paused. “What’s this?” He frowned, fingering the arrowhead pendant.
“An idea that I need to think about . . . later,” she whispered, tugging at the ends of the loose cravat as she stepped backward toward the bed. “Much later.”
42
Of course, Alec was gone by the time she woke up. Kendra lay watching the early morning light play over the bed’s canopy until Molly poked her head into the room, and then popped in fully when she saw that Kendra was awake.
“Good mornin’, miss,” she greeted, and began picking up the gown, shift, stays, and stockings that had been discarded in a crumpled heap on the floor the night before. “Do ye wish fer a bath?” she asked with a sideways look at Kendra as she folded the clothes into a neat stack, placing them on a nearby tufted chair. If the maid thought anything about the clothes or Kendra’s nakedness, she didn’t let it show on her face.
“God, I would love a bath.” But that was a complicated procedure, involving maids and footmen heating water in the kitchens and transporting it in buckets to the copper bathtub that was in the dressing room. “I don’t know if I should.”
“Why shouldn’t ye?” Molly didn’t wait for an answer, crossing the room to yank the bell-pull.
Forty minutes later—twenty of them spent luxuriating in the hot waters of the copper tub—Kendra pulled on a fresh shift, yanking the stays over the soft lawn material and tying it. Six months ago, the undergarment had baffled her, but she’d gotten the hang of it. Maybe I am transforming. She wasn’t sure how that made her feel.
Her gaze fell on the arrowhead pendant. She scooped it up, lowering the thin chain around her neck.
“W’ot’s that?” Molly asked.
“An arrowhead. His Grace had it made into a pendant for me.”
The fifteen-year-old’s brow crinkled. “Why?”
Kendra laughed. “I had the same reaction.” She stepped into the green-and-white striped dress Molly held out for her, tugging the material up and thrusting her arms into the long sleeves. “It’s a very thoughtful gift, actually,” she insisted, presenting her back to Molly so she could be buttoned up.
“If ye say so, miss. Oi was thinkin’ of the gold silk for this evenin’,” said Molly, handing Kendra a fresh pair of white stockings and two garter ribbons.
“The gold silk?” She sat on the bed, wiggling into the stockings and tying the garters.
“Aye. The ball gown, miss.”
Hell. “Is there a ball tonight?”
“Miss Beckett said there was.”
Miss Beckett was Lady Atwood’s personal maid. Kendra tried not to groan as she sat down in front of the vanity for Molly to brush her hair. “Well, she’d know.”
“So, then, the gold silk?” Molly asked again.
“What? Oh, yeah. Let’s go with that.” She didn’t want to think about it. It was one thing to adapt; that didn’t mean she had to like it.
The sky was a gunmetal gray, the heavy clouds threatening to spit either rain or snow, the cold wind blustery enough to send Kendra’s skirts ballooning outward as soon as she and Sam stepped down from the carriage in front of the Liber. She briefly wondered if the weather would have Lady Atwood changing her plan to attend the ball later that evening. Unless a raging blizzard incapacitated the
city, the Beau Monde tended to stick with their social calendars.
Sam hurried to open the door for her. Kendra’s gaze traveled around the coffee shop. Despite the fireplace, which had a nice fire blazing in its blackened hearth, and the lit oil lamps lining the walls, it wasn’t too different from a modern-day Starbucks or Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf with its booths and tables and the pleasant scent of brewing coffee in the air. Instead of sipping a salted caramel double mocha skinny latte and typing away on their laptops or texting on their phones, the dozen or so men here were drinking plain coffee—maybe doctored with cream and sugar—from earthenware mugs, and either reading newspapers or talking to each other.
Besides the serving maid, who was running a rag along the counter, there were no women inside the Liber. Unlike London’s gentleman’s clubs, women weren’t banned from coffee shops per se. Maybe it was just too early for women in society’s upper tier to be out and about. Because she was the only woman, Kendra was conscious of heads turning, conversations stopping, and eyes following her and Sam as they found a table.
The serving maid began to approach, but a dark-haired man stood up, tapping her lightly on her arm to gain her attention. He gave a jerk of his head, which sent the girl scurrying back behind the long counter. Her gaze was on Kendra, too, as she picked up her abandoned rag and resumed polishing.
“Well, now this is an unexpected surprise,” said the man, the lilt of Ireland in his voice. He sauntered over to their table, his teeth flashing white in a tanned, rugged countenance. “Are you here to accuse me of another murder? Lord Cross’s, perchance?”
Sam’s eyebrows lowered. “Once again, I have ter say, you are remarkably well informed, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
The Irishman shrugged. “Well, now, why wouldn’t I be? Plenty of people come in here to talk about the events of the day. Havin’ a lord murdered while tryin’ ter cup a doxy is sure to set tongues wagging.”
Kendra spoke up. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Kendra Donovan.” She indicated the chair. “Please, won’t you join us?”
Fitzpatrick eyed her with both surprise and curiosity. “You’re an American by the sound of it, Miss Donovan.”
“I am.”
“The lady in the Morning Chronicle helping Bow Street with the investigation.” He grinned at her. “I read.”
Sam glowered at him. “Keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“I wasn’t being uncivil. If you’re here about Lord Cross, I can tell you that I didn’t kill the viscount. Unfortunately, I have no better an alibi than the night Sir Giles was murdered.”
Kendra said, “You’re not a suspect. We’re hoping you can provide us with information.”
Fitzpatrick stared at her for a long moment before turning to look at the girl behind the counter. “Pru, bring us coffee, there’s a good lass,” he shouted, and grasped the back of a chair. He spun it around so he could straddle it. Folding his arms over the chair’s back, he eyed Kendra. “What sorta information are you seeking, Miss Donovan?”
“We’re interested in Sir Giles’s movements before he was killed.”
The Irishman didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “And how would I know such a thing?”
Sam gave Fitzpatrick a hard look. “Because you were probably keepin’ your peepers on him, just like he was keepin’ his peepers on you.”
Fitzpatrick slid his gaze to the Bow Street Runner. “Why would I be spyin’ on the man? I’m a simple proprietor of a coffeehouse.”
Sam snorted.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, we are not the government,” Kendra said. “My only interest is in finding the man who is now responsible for two murders. I think you can help us.”
The Irishman scratched his chin. “See, now, everyone knows that Bow Street works hand in fist with the Home Office.”
“I’m not workin’ for the Home Office,” Sam said.
“Your reports don’t make their way there?” Whatever Fitzpatrick saw on Sam’s face had him laughing softly. “Ah, I thought so.”
Kendra leaned forward, catching the Irishman’s gaze. “Hypothetically, let’s say a gentleman was spying on a businessman, and that businessman decided it might be worth his while to in turn keep tabs on the gentleman. Let’s say—hypothetically—that the first gentleman’s routine was observed. Maybe that routine was pretty normal. The gentleman goes to his office. He goes to his club. He goes home.”
Fitzpatrick’s lips curled, his gray eyes glinting with amusement. He seemed to enjoy the game they were playing. “What are you asking—hypothetically?”
“I’m wondering if maybe there was a break in the routine. If the gentleman went somewhere that seemed out of place. Or met with someone who seemed odd for the gentleman to meet. Maybe a woman.”
Fitzpatrick stared at her for a long moment, only breaking off eye contact when Pru arrived, carrying a tray with coffee mugs, a sugar bowl, and a pitcher of cream.
“Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else?” she asked without a smile. Her gaze scanned the table, lingered on Kendra. It wasn’t hostility so much as distrust that Kendra saw in the other woman’s eyes.
Fitzpatrick waved off the maid in a dismissive gesture, and leaned forward to pluck the mug off the table, wrapping both hands around the cup. He was looking at Kendra, seeming to debate about what to say.
“We’re looking at about a month ago,” Kendra added.
“Why should I tell you anything—hypothetically? What’s in it for me?”
“Probably nothing,” she admitted, instinctively knowing that Fitzpatrick wasn’t the kind of man she’d be able to bribe. “Don’t you think it’s important to see a murderer brought to justice?”
She saw the gray eyes glint with bitterness. “For an English spymaster and an English lord? Justice might have already been done, depending where you’re standing.”
“Then we’re at a stalemate,” she said, keeping her eyes locked on his. “Because I want justice no matter what. I want the truth, no matter what.”
“The truth is not an easy thing to have known.”
“No,” she agreed, knowing he was thinking of his sister. “But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. We don’t give up.”
He took a long sip of his coffee. “Hypothetically,” he said, lowering his cup, “let’s say this clever merchant knew about the gentleman’s comings and goings. Made it his business to know. Maybe there was one time the gentleman went down to the docks and boarded a ship. That wasn’t the thing that was queer, though. That came after he left the ship.”
Kendra leaned forward. “What happened after he left the ship?”
“He cast up his accounts into the River Thames.”
Kendra frowned. “Do you know who the gentleman met on the ship?” she asked.
The Irishman rolled his shoulders in another shrug. “As I wasn’t there, I can’t say. But if, hypothetically”—he seemed to have warmed up to that word—“someone else was following the gentleman, he wasn’t in a position to see who he met with on the ship.”
“Okay,” Kendra said, nodding. “Did that someone happen to see the name of the ship?”
“Aye. ’Tis a Spanish galleon. The Magdalena.”
43
Good heavens. Not a woman, then. A ship,” Rebecca said.
She’d arrived at the Duke’s mansion to find Kendra, Sam, the Duke, and Alec in the study. A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes along with a light patter of sleet against the glass. Even though it was not quite noon, the overcast skies made it seem much later. Wall sconces had been lit to combat the gloom. Earlier, a footman had brought in more wood, stoking the fire in the hearth into a roaring blaze, while a maid had brought in a tray with tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and porcelain dishes of fruit, cheese, and hot buttered rum cakes.
Kendra debated about having another cup of coffee. She already felt like she was on a caffeine high, unable to sit still, which was why she was pacing. Yet she believed her hyperactivity had less to do with the caf
feine and more to do with the situation. The puzzle she’d viewed before had changed, the pieces rearranging, forming a new picture. After a moment of indecision, she headed to the table and poured herself another cup.
“Here’s what we know. A month ago, the Magdalena docked here in London and someone from that ship sent Sir Giles a note,” Kendra said, returning to her position in front of the slate board. “Obviously the ship was a rendezvous point.”
“Pray tell, why would he burn the letter if it was only requesting a meeting?” Rebecca asked.
“If it had anything to do with his business in government, Sir Giles would have done so as a precautionary measure,” Alec said. “When I worked for him, it was standard procedure to burn all communications.”
Fire—the 19th-century version of a shredder, Kendra thought. “First, we don’t know what was in the letter,” she said. “But whatever it was brought Sir Giles to the ship. I think we can also safely say that this wasn’t business, it was personal. After he left the ship, he threw up,” she reminded them. “Whatever happened inside, whoever he met was disturbing enough for him to be physically ill after the meeting.”
“The Sir Giles I knew was not fainthearted,” said Alec.
Kendra nodded. “So whatever happened inside that ship seriously shook him up. And he continued to be seriously shook up until the day he died. There’s something else—” She broke off when the door opened, and Lady Atwood came into the room.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said, her gaze sweeping across them before focusing on her brother. “I only wish to remind you that we shall be attending the Duchess of Bedford’s ball this evening.”
The Duke nodded. “I haven’t forgotten, Caro. I have an appointment with my man of affairs this afternoon, but never fear, I shall be back in time to accompany you.”
“Very good.” Lady Atwood glanced at Rebecca. “Will you be attending with your parents, my dear?”
“Mama mentioned Mrs. Livingston’s soiree this evening. However, I shall ask them to leave me off here, if you would allow me to attend with you?”
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