Kendra studied Mrs. Gavenston’s averted face. “How am I doing?”
There was no response, so she nodded and said, “I’ll go on, shall I? The woman’s son had a birthday. It probably brought up a lot of memories, good and bad. Maybe it motivated her to tell him the truth. Or maybe it was a spur of the moment decision? I suppose why she told him the truth doesn’t matter compared to what happened afterward.”
Kendra lowered her voice and said softly, “He was angry, wasn’t he? She must have been devastated. She probably thought—had hoped—that he would be happy to learn the truth after all these years. At least she thought he’d be a little understanding. But he wasn’t understanding at all, and they argued until he stormed off.”
Kendra fell silent. There was a chance that Mrs. Gavenston had followed Pascoe to the cottage to try to reason with him. She could still be Pascoe’s murderer. The fact that she was his mother changed very little.
Mrs. Gavenston sat very still. The silence seemed to throb between them. Finally, she drew in a deep breath. “You have a very active imagination, Miss Donovan.” She looked at Kendra directly. Her hazel eyes were like chips of stone. “If you dare share this… this fiction with anyone, I shall speak to my attorney. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“So, you’re denying it?”
“If you are implying that I had a child out of wedlock and that child… that child was Jeremy Pascoe, I categorically deny it. And even if…” Her breath hitched, and she was forced to clear her throat. “Even if this was not some twisted Banbury Tale—which it is—I don’t know what it could have to do with Jeremy’s murder.”
“It could have everything to do with Mr. Pascoe’s murder,” Kendra argued. “You and your uncle are in the middle of a power struggle—”
Mrs. Gavenston made a derisive sound.
“—where he believes he has the upper hand because he’s a man,” Kendra went on. “What do you think he would do if he found out that you had a son who could be in line to inherit Barrett Brewery?” she asked, dropping all pretense.
“If I had a son matters naught,” Mrs. Gavenston shot back. “Barrett Brewery has always been passed down the female line. Hester will be taking over. Besides, you said that no one targeted Jeremy. Why would my uncle try to harm him?”
“What I said before still stands. Captain Sinclair could have found out your connection to Mr. Pascoe. He could have approached him at the cottage. Maybe he tried to buy him off. Mr. Pascoe was already upset from what happened with you…” She let her words trail off. The picture was clear.
Mrs. Gavenston flinched, then shook her head. “No. I won’t hear any more of this. It’s not true. None of this is true.” She thrust herself to her feet. She was trembling. “I want you to leave now, Miss Donovan. I have no desire to speak of this again. I have no desire to speak to you again. You are no longer welcome here.”
Kendra heard the implacable note in the other woman’s voice and slowly rose. She only hoped that once Mrs. Gavenston had time to think it over, she’d feel differently. “You have a choice, Mrs. Gavenston. You can try to help me find your son’s murderer, or you can protect Barrett Brewery from scandal. You won’t be able to do both.”
In answer, Mrs. Gavenston turned away to stare out the window. After a moment, Kendra left the office.
* * *
Once Sam, Kendra, and Molly were back in the carriage returning to London, Kendra filled him in on her conversation with Mrs. Gavenston.
“God’s teeth,” Sam said at the end of the story, staring at Kendra in astonishment.
His body swayed gently with the motion of the vehicle, the wheels traveling over the macadam. Molly stayed silent, but was wide-eyed. Sam wasn’t sure what shocked him more, the story itself or the fact that the American had dared to ask Mrs. Gavenston about it.
“Do you reckon it’s true?” he asked.
“She denied it, but yes. I think it’s true.”
“If folks knew she had a bastard, they’d stop buying Barrett ale and stout.” Bloody unfair, if you asked Sam, especially given that many of the men who drank Barrett no doubt had a few by-blows running about themselves.
“That’s why we need to be careful with this information.”
Sam scratched his nose. “ ’Tis scandalous, for certain. But what does it have ter do with Mr. Pascoe’s murder… unless Mrs. Gavenston is the one who killed him?”
“However the topic of Pascoe’s parentage came up, it’s a strong motive for her to approach him again to reason with him. Only something happened. The argument escalated and Mrs. Gavenston snapped.”
Sam could envision the scene. “If he was angry enough, he might’ve threatened ter tell everyone. Mrs. Gavenston has worked all her life for Barrett Brewery. I can see her flying off the handle if she thought he’d put it at risk.”
“And be filled with remorse afterward.” Kendra nodded. “But it opens up other possibilities as well. Captain Sinclair might be able to fight Pascoe as the brewery’s manager, but if Pascoe had a blood tie to the family… Would Pascoe’s illegitimacy change things, though? Maybe Captain Sinclair wouldn’t view him as a threat because of it.”
“Nay. It ain’t as though he’d be inheriting a title or an estate that was entailed. Nothing stopping him from legally takin’ over if Mrs. Gavenston wished it.”
“So, both Captain Sinclair and Mr. Mercer might have approached Pascoe at the cottage if they found out the truth. Mrs. Gavenston said that nobody knew—then she insisted there was nothing to know, since it wasn’t true.”
Sam looked out the window. Clouds were knitting together on the horizon, teasing the possibility of rain. “Why would Mr. Mercer care if Mr. Pascoe turned out to be Mrs. Gavenston’s by-blow? He’s not angling for a position in the company.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe this has nothing to do with Pascoe’s death, but it adds a new element. It bumps Hester up on the list. We know Mrs. Gavenston is under a lot of pressure to change the tradition of passing the brewery down the female line. If Hester found out that Pascoe was her half-brother, she might have felt threatened enough to at least confront him about it.”
“Wasn’t she in her sickbed?”
“She has a cold—she still can walk. White Pond Manor isn’t that far from the cottage, really. She could have snuck out.”
Sam frowned. “How’d she know he was there? She wasn’t at the brewery that day when her ma and Mr. Pascoe argued. She wouldn’t have known that he’d left. If she even knew about the cottage in the first place.”
“I don’t know,” Kendra confessed, looking increasingly frustrated. “Something’s not adding up. There’s still a missing piece to the puzzle.”
“Sometimes when something’s nagging at the back of me brain, I need ter let it rest a bit. Go ter your ball tonight, lass. Chances are, it’ll come ter you.”
“On the middle of the dance floor?” Her mouth twisted with both amusement and irritation.
He grinned at her. “If you’re thinking about Pascoe’s murder in the middle of the dance floor, lass, then you’re not dancing with the right man.”
She gave a reluctant laugh. “I’d rather skip the ball… but Lady Atwood terrifies me.”
Sam laughed as well. He didn’t believe that for a minute—the lass had more courage than anyone he knew—but her annoyance at having to attend the fancy soiree was genuine. Not many women… nay, no woman he knew would prefer to spend an evening puzzling over a brutal crime rather than dressing in a beautiful gown, dancing all evening. He thought about what Muldoon said the other day, and, while he’d never admit it to the reporter, he had to agree with him. Kendra Donovan was a strange creature. But strange in a good way.
30
Lady Merriweather, a tall, thin octogenarian draped heavily in beaded purple silk, her hair covered by a towering turban of matching fabric, wore the pleased, slightly smug expression of a matron who knew her ball was a success. The measuring stick of success, of course, was having
most of the Ton pressed together with almost indecent intimacy—known as a crush—inside the fashionable Hanover Square mansion.
The ballroom was a showpiece. Its high ceilings glittered with moldings slathered in gilt. Three crystal chandeliers were ablaze with candles. The walls were covered in crimson velvet damask and decorated with enormous gilt-framed mirrors and paintings. If Kendra wasn’t mistaken, the largest portrait in the room, that of a young, fresh-faced beauty, was Lady Merriweather herself, painted at least half a century earlier.
The room was large enough to fit a full orchestra, now playing a quadrille. Doors opened to another room that had been set up for refreshments, although liveried footmen were circulating with cut crystal glasses filled with lemonade and wine on silver trays. There was also a cardroom for non-dancers and withdrawing rooms for ladies to fan their flushed cheeks or take a respite from an overaggressive suitor. Thankfully, Lady Merriweather had the foresight to open the French doors, which led out onto a large verandah overlooking the shadowy gardens. Even though the night air was cold, it was a welcome draft in a ballroom overheated with so many bodies.
It had taken Kendra, the Duke, Alec, Lady Atwood, and Carlotta fifteen minutes to go through the receiving line and find this spot near the French doors.
“How delightful,” Carlotta remarked, her dark eyes lit with almost childlike wonder as she stared at the beautifully dressed throngs. She looked at the Duke and Lady Atwood. “Thank you for allowing me to come with you.”
“I would not think to deprive myself of your company,” the Duke offered gallantly. “You are in excellent looks this evening, my dear. As are all you ladies,” he added with a hasty smile at his sister and Kendra. “Sutcliffe and I are fortunate men to be in your company.”
Alec gave one of his lazy smiles. “Indeed.”
“This lovely gown deserves the credit, not I,” Carlotta demurred, lifting her hand to touch the simple strand of pearls around her throat. “And the loan of the necklace.”
Kendra’s stomach knotted as she watched the slender fingers stroke the luminescent pearls. There was no denying Carlotta’s beauty. Lady Atwood’s maid had arranged her raven hair into a high bouffant adorned with seed pearls. Her gown was the palest blush pink organza overskirt, the bodice a slightly deeper shade of pink and tied with long ribbons beneath her breasts. Tiny capped sleeves allowed Carlotta to wear long, white gloves. A creamy expanse of her bosom was revealed by the gown’s low neckline. Though she was supposedly twenty-six—the same age as Kendra—and had been married, Carlotta looked both young and surprisingly innocent. And nothing brought out the protective instincts more than youth and innocence.
Kendra had a feeling that Carlotta knew exactly the image she was projecting. And it was working, damn her. Every moment the Duke spent in the woman’s company, he seemed to fall more under her spell.
“Soon we shall have to think about throwing a ball of our own,” the Duke said with a smile.
The statement sent a bolt of electricity through Kendra. She could tell that Lady Atwood and Alec were also taken aback. Even Carlotta appeared surprised. The Duke hadn’t said the ball would be used to introduce her to society as his daughter, but they could all read between the lines. It was one step closer. A big step.
He’s not going to wait months for the Bow Street Runners in Spain to send their reports, Kendra realized with an almost frantic flutter in her belly.
The Duke looked at Carlotta. “I would be honored to take you out for your first dance.”
“Do you know how to dance?” Kendra asked, more sharply than she’d intended. “You grew up in a time of war, always moving. I wasn’t sure if you ever had the time to learn.”
Carlotta’s fine eyebrows drew together, more perplexed than worried. “Everyone knows how to dance, Miss Donovan,” she finally said. “Even soldiers dance.”
“Many of our English dances originated from the French court,” the Duke added, looking at Kendra, “and I believe the waltz was actually first introduced in Vienna ballrooms.”
Kendra could feel her face heat up under their scrutiny. The question had been a colossal mistake. It was a reminder that she was the one in this group who had not known how to dance—not these old-fashioned steps. She’d never done much dancing in the 21st century, either, but she’d recently learned the polonaise, the Scottish reel, the quadrille, the minuet, and the waltz, which was slightly different than the modern waltz. The latter had only been accepted by English society in the last year. Even Lady Atwood—a huge opponent of the waltz—had begun to frown a little less when it was mentioned.
She was relieved when the Duke escorted Carlotta out on the dance floor and Lady Atwood excused herself to join her friends, mostly older widows who sat in a group of chairs on the sidelines, allowing them an unrestricted view of the dancers and the rest of the ballroom.
Alec raised an eyebrow at her. “Would you like to dance, Miss Donovan?”
She smiled faintly. “Maybe later. Right now, I would like to stroll.”
Alec offered his elbow, and they joined the people who were walking the outer circle of the ballroom.
“Did you learn anything about Mr. Mercer in your club?” she asked in a low voice.
Alec laughed. “I should have known you wanted to talk about the murder.”
“What else do you have in mind? Telling me how fine my eyes are, or how pleasant my conversation?”
“Well, now that you mention it, you do have very fine eyes, Miss Donovan. Your conversation, on the other hand, could be a little less macabre.”
“I’ll work on it,” she replied with a laugh. “Now tell me about your day, my lord. Before anyone interrupts us.”
“Lord Redgrave and his family are up the River Tick, which we already knew. He’s to inherit the earldom when his father cocks up his toes—which, according to the betting books, might not be in too many months. Unfortunately, the estate has been in dire straits for generations. The entire family has a reputation for being spendthrifts. So, Mr. Mercer comes by his profligate ways naturally.”
“You’d think they would have been more receptive to Mr. Mercer marrying an heiress,” Kendra murmured.
“Not a chance. Lord Redgrave is a starched shirt, if there ever was one. He didn’t deepen the family debt by gaming. He demands only the best. Spent a fortune that he doesn’t have refurbishing his London townhouse. There’s a possible match brewing between Lord Redgrave’s eldest and Lord Dasher’s youngest daughter. Apparently, the chit’s a bit horse-faced and is going through her fourth season in Town with no takers, despite a sizeable dowry. The honorable Mr. Thaddeus Mercer—the eldest son—is less than enthusiastic, but the betting is that he and Miss Whyte will be engaged by fall.”
“Good God.”
“From their description of Miss Whyte, I’d say that Mr. Mercer—the youngest—ended up with the better deal marrying the former Miss Gavenston, even if his family cut him off. Still, I was told that the younger Mr. Mercer often comes to town to partake in its amusements.”
“And what exactly are those?”
“The same sort many young men are drawn to—boxing, swordplay, the occasional opera dancer.”
“The occasional opera dancer? You make it sound like he indulges in that like an order of fries at a McDonald’s drive-through window.”
“What, pray tell, are these fries, and why would anyone drive through a window, especially a Scotsman’s?”
“Fried potato slices that actually originated in Belgium. And in America—my America—time is precious, so we don’t want to get out of our horseless carriages. We wait in long lines to pick up our food—which, I know, doesn’t save that much time.” She squeezed his arm. “And none of that matters right now. Are you saying that Mr. Mercer is unfaithful to his wife?”
“He isn’t keeping a mistress, but…” He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “How does this connect to Mr. Pascoe?”
“I don’t know if it does.” But it certainly added
another layer to the kind of man that Mercer was. “Doesn’t put him in a flattering light, does it?”
“Was he in a flattering light and I missed it?”
“Good point. I thought him a narcissist. I guess he is.”
Alec looked at her. “And what did you learn today in Cookham, Miss Donovan?”
Kendra let her gaze travel around the throngs of people. The orchestra had switched to a Scottish reel. “For that story, my lord, we’re going to have to do several more spins around the ballroom.”
* * *
Two hours later, Kendra stood in front of the French doors, where her most recent dance partner, Mr. Humphrey, had deposited her while he fought his way through the masses to get her a glass of lemonade. She’d actually met Mr. Humphrey during her last visit to London and found him to be an affable guy, so time with him was never as excruciating as time with some of the other young men.
Carlotta came up to her, fanning her flushed face. “I am quite overheated.”
Kendra eyed the woman. “You’ve danced every dance since we arrived. I guess you’re a success. Congratulations. The Duke had better get ready for callers knocking on his door tomorrow.”
“And you do not approve.”
“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove,” Kendra said stiffly.
Carlotta sighed in frustration. “I have told you, Miss Donovan, that I do not wish us to be enemies. Why are you so threatened by me?”
“I’m not threatened by you.”
“Perhaps we ought to speak more privately,” Carlotta said, pointing her fan at the open French doors. “I wish to—”
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” the Duke said, smiling as he approached. His gaze was on Carlotta, not Kendra. “Do you have a moment? I would like to introduce you to an old friend of mine, who has just arrived. Miss Donovan, you don’t mind if I steal Carlotta away from you?”
Kendra forced a smile. “Steal away.”
Shadows in Time Page 29
