Molly’s eyes widened. “Truly?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that point.” Kendra watched Molly put aside the curling tongs and begin coiling her hair into a low chignon. “Are they saying anything else?”
“Just that ’e got wot ’e deserved.”
“I guess no one’s planning his memorial service, then.”
They fell silent as Molly continued to fuss with Kendra’s hair, twisting it into a chignon, anchoring it with long pins. She tucked and pinned in silky amber rosettes and ribbons, which matched the evening gown she’d pressed earlier for Kendra to wear.
The chignon felt heavier, Kendra thought. Her hair had always grown fast, and now it was three inches longer than when she’d first come through the vortex. Then, her hair had been cut into a bob, with blunt cut bangs. When the bangs had grown long enough to get into her eyes, she’d wanted to cut them again, but Molly had been fiercely opposed to continuing such an odd style. She’d suggested curling them into tight ringlets on the side of Kendra’s temples instead, which was more fashionable. Kendra’s response had been a simple hell, no. They’d ended up compromising, with Molly managing to weave the loose strands into the rest of the hairstyle.
As she regarded her reflection in the mirror, Kendra realized that it wouldn’t be long before Molly would be able to arrange her hair into the popular topknot worn by so many women. Her chest tightened unexpectedly. I’m slowly disappearing, she thought. Bit by bit, I’m becoming absorbed into this timeline. How long before I look in the mirror and don’t recognize myself at all?
“Ye look lovely, miss,” Molly said, stepping back to survey her handiwork with a satisfied expression. “Let me ’elp ye into yer gown.”
Kendra forced herself to push aside the anxiety. Breathe in; breathe out. She rose, allowing Molly to help her into the amber silk gown with tiny cap sleeves and a rounded neckline. The sleeves, bodice, and bottom of the skirt were lavishly decorated with loop cord braiding in the same burnished shade as the gown. A scattering of seed pearls, sewn throughout the bodice, shimmered in the candlelight.
“’Ow long do ye reckon we’ll be stayin’ ’ere in East Dingleford, miss?” Molly asked, as she finished buttoning up Kendra’s dress.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted, pushing her feet into thin golden slippers. “You can’t rush a murder investigation.”
Molly nodded, looking resigned. “Oi’ll unpack the trunks then, and see about pressin’ more of yer dresses.”
Kendra wanted to assure the maid that their stay wouldn’t be long. But the words stuck in her throat when she thought of their victim. Harry Stone had led a complicated life. He was a libertine, and, based on how he’d treated the workers at the mill, he had sociopathic tendencies.
She remembered Stone’s shattered skull. It had been an impulsive crime, filled with panic and rage. But when the killer had left, he hadn’t left empty-handed. What had been on the desk? It had obviously meant something important, for the killer to take it. But had it been the trigger that had set him off? Or had something else triggered the murder, and the killer had taken whatever had been on the desk as an afterthought? Two men could get into a violent argument, with one killing the other impetuously, in the throes of a red-hot rage. Afterward, the murderer could notice an expensive Rolex on his victim’s wrist, and take it. That was one possibility. The other was a robbery, where the killer noticed the expensive Rolex first, and then murdered the victim to steal the watch. What am I dealing with here?
Kendra closed her eyes and summoned the crime scene in her mind’s eye. The gentleman’s office. The strange collection of cats. The blood on the walls, on the desk, except for the clean surface area, a rectangle shape, the—
“Miss?”
She held her breath. Something was teasing at her senses now, something she should be seeing . . .
“Miss?”
She opened her eyes to find Molly frowning at her as she held up her cloak.
The teasing sensation grew stronger . . .
“The Duke’ll be waitin’,” said the maid.
Kendra’s let out her breath, annoyed. Whatever had been there was gone. What was it?
“Miss—”
“All right.” She let Molly settle the dark blue velvet cloak on her shoulders while she tugged on her gloves. Kendra picked up her reticule and left the bedchamber, her stride brisk and sure, even though she couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that she had just missed something vital.
11
Falcon Court was less than a mile outside of East Dingleford, a striking mansion of Flemish bond brick, with pale sandstone framing mullion-paned windows and arching over the entrance. An icy waning moon revealed a slanting slate roof with five chimneys. High on ledges and tucked into dark niches, gargoyles grinned manically or glowered with menace down at the arrivals. It was certainly atmospheric, Kendra thought, as her gaze drifted over two of the frightening stone creatures.
A footman in full red livery hurried forward to open the carriage door.
“My God, gas lighting,” the Duke murmured as soon as he stepped down. His expression was filled with awe as he studied the more than a dozen lampposts surrounding the courtyard, the steady flames casting the area in a golden haze. “Just look at it, Miss Donovan. It’s been more than two decades since Mr. William Murdoch installed gas lighting at his manor in the wilds of Cornwall, but ’tis not something you would expect in the wilds of Yorkshire. Apparently Lord Bancroft is as progressive as Mr. Murdoch.”
He tapped his chin, still staring. “I think I must investigate installing gas at Aldridge Castle. What do you think?”
“Since I’ve yet to master using a flint to light anything, I’d be thrilled.” She looped her hand through the crook of his elbow, pulling him up the steps. Otherwise, she knew the Duke could spend the rest of the evening gawking at the gas lamps.
A butler was waiting at the open door, and ushered them into the enormous entrance hall, also lit with gas lamps. The room had been designed to impress. Given the Elizabethan architectural elements in the oak beam ceiling and wide, hand-carved oak stairs at the end of the long foyer, Kendra suspected she was seeing the ambition of Bancroft’s ancestors. The floor was a polished white-and-black marble. Paintings and medieval weapons hung from the walls. The current earl’s handiwork could be seen in the gas wall sconces, although a large bronze chandelier in the center of the ceiling flickered with traditional candlelight.
Four footmen in full crimson livery stood at attention, spaced evenly along the foyer’s wall. Bancroft’s predecessors weren’t the only one who wanted to impress.
“Good evening, your Grace, Miss Donovan. I am Crawford.” The butler bowed. “Let me relieve you of your coat and cloak.” He looked at a footman, who immediately shot forward to take their outerwear and gloves, Kendra’s bonnet and reticule, and the Duke’s hat and walking cane. If the footman thought Kendra’s reticule was heavier than normal, with the muff pistol inside, he gave no indication.
Crawford inclined his head. “If you will follow me . . . his lordship is in the Chinese salon with Lady Winifred.”
They followed the butler up the stairs and down a long hallway. Their footsteps were muffled by a rug woven in muted shades of red and brown. The Chinese salon was aptly named, Kendra decided a moment later when Crawford opened the double doors. Red and gold lacquered walls, vases—from the Ming dynasty, she was sure—and a lotus chandelier hanging from the plastered ceiling evoked a Far Eastern mood. The legs and arms of the furniture around the room were carved into serpent tails. The marble chimneypiece bore a dragon motif. The fire burning in the grate, if she wasn’t mistaken, carried a whiff of frankincense and myrrh.
Lord Bancroft was sitting in a chair, head tilted back, eyes closed, engrossed in the classical melody that a woman with honey-colored hair piled high on her head was playing on the pianoforte. His fingers tapped on his knee, the ruby in the heavy gold ring that he wore on his little finger flashing in th
e drawing room’s muted light.
Bancroft opened his eyes the instant they entered the room, and was already pushing himself to his feet when Crawford announced their names.
“Good evening, your Grace . . . and Miss Donovan.” His cold, dark eyes flicked toward the Duke before settling on Kendra, his regard as intense as she remembered from earlier. “You are in fine looks this evening, Miss Donovan.”
“Thank you.” Kendra ignored the prickle of ice that slid down her spine. Definitely the heebie-jeebies.
The playing stopped and the woman rose, gliding around the pianoforte to join them.
“My daughter, Lady Winifred,” her father introduced.
“Good evening, Lady Winifred,” the Duke offered. “You play beautifully.”
She executed a perfect curtsy. “You are kind to say so, your Grace.”
Kendra eyed the woman. Even though Lady Winifred appeared to be about her own age, Kendra had to remind herself that the other woman had married, given birth, and was already a widow. Kendra’s gaze slid over the waif-like figure in a gown of dark purple, its cut demure, with no excess embellishment. The color and style reminded Kendra of what Lavinia Stone had said. Lady Winifred was out of full mourning, and could dispense with the black widow’s weeds that she’d been required to wear for a year and a day. She was now in half-mourning, giving her a choice of colors between purple and gray.
Of course, Lady Winifred didn’t need any embellishment. She was quite beautiful, with a pale, oval face framed by tawny tendrils. She’d inherited her father’s eyes, Kendra noticed, dark brown and deep-set. Her nose was straight, if a little long, above a wide, pink mouth that was curved in a wintry smile.
Bancroft looked at Kendra. “Do you play, Miss Donovan?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not musically inclined.”
“How does a gently bred female avoid music lessons?” he wondered, gesturing for them to come into the room. “’Tis a prerequisite for being a good wife. I required all my daughters to play the pianoforte.”
“And what of your son? Does he play a musical instrument?”
The dark eyes lit with amusement. “Like yourself, my son had no aptitude for music.”
“I guess he’s not good husband material then.”
Bancroft smiled. “Ah, you are teasing me, I think. The role required of a gentleman is quite different than that of a gentlewoman.” He paused. “Forgive me, my manners have abandoned me. I have not even offered you an aperitif. I have an excellent Ratafia. Or perhaps I can tempt you with a sherry, Miss Donovan?”
“Thanks, Ratafia is fine.”
“Your Grace? Ratafia, or something stronger?”
“Thank you, sir. A brandy would be most refreshing.”
Kendra had forgotten the butler’s presence until he materialized by her side with the glass of wine.
“I shall prevail upon my daughter to continue to play . . .” The look Bancroft gave his daughter was enough to send Lady Winifred gliding back to her seat at the pianoforte. “Let us be seated. Dinner shall be served shortly.”
Lady Winifred began playing a lively sonata while Kendra and the Duke settled into the sofa opposite Bancroft.
Bancroft cocked his head and regarded Kendra with eyes as bright as a raven’s. “How do you know that I have a son, Miss Donovan?”
Kendra sipped her wine, refusing to look away from the old man’s piercing gaze. “Mrs. Stone mentioned him.”
Something flickered in Bancroft’s eyes. Kendra nearly shivered, but she couldn’t say why.
The Duke broke the strange spell. “I cannot help but notice your use of gas lighting, your lordship,” he said, lifting his brandy glass, and surveying Bancroft over the rim. “It is most impressive. You are to be commended. It’s quite advanced to have it in one’s home.”
Bancroft shifted his gaze to the Duke. “’Tis the way of the future, your Grace.”
“We are like-minded then. I, too, am interested in the future.” Aldridge’s blue eyes twinkled when he shot Kendra a brief look. His gaze returned to Bancroft. “I view myself as a man of science, and believe many wonders await us if we don’t become diverted by superstition.”
A smile as cold as the arctic touched Bancroft’s mouth. “We are indeed like-minded men, sir. I, too, am eager for progress. Although a great deal can be said about the present as well.”
“I would very much like to consult with you, your lordship. Aldridge Castle could benefit from gas lighting.”
“Be prepared for your servants’ opposition,” warned Bancroft. “My staff was convinced that they would be poisoned or blown to bits. It took months to persuade them otherwise.”
“I understand.” The Duke smiled. “Not everyone embraces the latest techniques. I applaud you on your progressive nature, sir.”
“I confess to having a bias. I was an early investor in the Gas Lighting and Coke Company.”
Aldridge appeared impressed. “I was approached three years ago to invest, when the company was being formed. Alas, I foolishly declined.” He glanced at Kendra. “The company is currently installing gas lighting on the streets of London.”
Kendra made a sound in her throat that she hoped sounded like she was fascinated as well. But it was hard to get excited about gas lighting. If they were talking about the light switch and a multiple jet shower, she’d be there.
The Duke’s eyes gleamed. “You, sir, must have turned a tidy profit.”
Bancroft swirled his brandy, a smug look of satisfaction softening his mouth. “It has been quite lucrative,” he drawled.
“Papa has the devil’s luck in financial ventures.” Lady Winifred surprised everyone by speaking up. Her fingers continued to caress the keyboards, switching adroitly from Mozart to Beethoven. “He was also the first to build a cotton mill.”
Bancroft gave his daughter an indulgent look. “In this area, yes. I am but one of many to invest in textile manufacturing. There is a demand for good English cotton, which I believe will only increase in the coming years.”
He shifted his gaze suddenly to Kendra. “Supplied by America’s cotton plantations. Where exactly did your family originate, Miss Donovan?”
The question took her by surprise. “Virginia,” she said finally. It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t like he could fact-check her story.
“Tell me of your circumstances, Miss Donovan,” the earl encouraged. “How did a woman such as yourself, from Virginia, become the ward of one of the most powerful men in England? It would seem as though you, too, have the devil’s own luck.”
“I beg to differ, sir,” the Duke remarked, and smiled. “I am the one with the good fortune. Miss Donovan has been a great comfort to me.”
Bancroft looked at him. “And, pray tell, how long has Miss Donovan been a comfort to you, your Grace? When did she arrive at Aldridge Castle?”
“Two months ago,” Aldridge answered.
That bit of information could be fact checked, if somebody wanted to do so, Kendra knew. Why they’d go to the trouble, she had no idea, but the Duke was being smart by not embellishing more than he had to. If anyone investigated, they’d learn that she’d been a servant for a week, then a companion. Her elevation to Duke’s ward had come just the month before.
Aldridge took a moment to sip his brandy, probably to give him time to get the rest of his story straight. “Miss Donovan’s father and I were childhood friends,” he continued. “We made the arrangement before he and his wife immigrated to America. If anything should happen to them, I would become the legal guardian to their child.”
Kendra dropped her eyes to her wineglass, keeping her expression neutral. The Duke had invented the cover story as a way to explain suddenly becoming saddled with a ward. A twenty-six-year-old ward, which in this era, Kendra knew, put her firmly in spinster territory.
When she lifted her gaze, she found Bancroft regarding her with quizzical fascination.
“You are the most fortunate of men, your Grace,” he murmured. “A
nd you, as well, Miss Donovan, to have found yourself in the warm embrace of the Duke.” He paused. “My condolences on the death of your parents. When exactly did they die?”
Kendra frowned, disconcerted by the blunt question. “When?”
“His Grace mentioned that you have been under his care for only two months . . . and yet you are clearly not in mourning.” He gestured to the dress she wore. “Or even half-mourning.”
Ah. Now she understood Bancroft’s curiosity and confusion. She took a swallow of the Ratafia. It wouldn’t take her a year and a half to sail from America. And if she fabricated some story about having her journey delayed, that falsehood could be eventually discovered. Or lead to more questions: Why was your journey delayed? To settle my parents affairs. What law firm helped you settle their affairs? None of your goddamn business.
“My father disapproved of funeral rituals. He made me promise not to dress in mourning colors.” That seemed a safe enough lie. There was no way to query a dead man.
“Hmm.” Bancroft pursed his lips as he regarded her. “Your father appears to be an unusual man.”
“Yes, he was.” At least in that she could tell the truth.
Kendra decided that it was time to seize control of the conversation. “How long did you know Mr. Stone?” she asked Bancroft.
The earl’s black eyes gleamed, clearly aware of what she was doing. “I believe I already told you that he was my mill manager for twenty years.”
Kendra smiled. “Yes, you did. But I’m not asking how long he worked for you. I’m asking how long you knew him. That’s a different question entirely.”
And you know it, she thought.
Instead of answering, Bancroft looked at the Duke. “You must confess, your Grace, this is rather uncommon. A man of noble birth such as yourself, sir, and a . . . a gently-bred female, to meddle in such a grisly matter . . .”
“’Tis not the norm,” agreed Aldridge. “Still, we do not intrude for our own amusement.”
“Why do you do it, then?” Bancroft sounded genuinely curious.
“Because murder is an aberration in polite society,” said Aldridge. “We are civilized men, sir. If we look the other way, we are complicit in barbarism and society crumbles. Justice must be sought, for the good of all.”
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