The servant’s staircase was tucked down a corridor at the back of the mansion. There was no rug to muffle her footsteps here, and she winced at the click her heels made against the wood floor. She let out a breath when she opened the door to the stairwell, but found herself staring with consternation at the pitch-black interior. Shit. She hadn’t thought to bring a candle with her. For a moment, she debated about going back to her bedchamber, but she didn’t want to waste the time. The household was waking up. And really, how hard could it be to go up a flight of stairs?
She left the door open to give her some light, but that quickly disappeared as she climbed the narrow stairs. Halfway up, she was also assailed by memories of another dark stairwell. These stairs angled straight upward, whereas the stairs hidden in the Duke’s study at the castle spiraled around, but, oh, God. Her skin tingled at the memory of that darkness, the plunging temperature, the sensation of being ripped apart and knit back together again.
Despite the cold—natural, not supernatural this time—she was sweating, her palm slippery as it touched the wall for guidance. She could hear her raspy breath, too loud in the enclosed space. Her heart pounded. Her own version of PTSD. She lifted her robe and pelted up the remaining stairs, her knees turning to Jell-O when she finally thrust open the door at the top, nearly hitting a scullery maid. The young girl leapt back and gave a frightened squeak, her breath nearly blowing out the flame of the candle she was holding. Her eyes were as big as moons as she regarded Kendra above the gyrating flame.
“Shit. Sorry. Sorry,” Kendra apologized as she fought to control her racing heart.
“Gor, miss! Ye scared the livin’ daylights outta me, ye did,” the maid whispered, and her free hand fluttered to cover her heart. “W’ot are ye doin’ ’ere?”
Kendra had the lie ready. “I need my maid. I woke up with a headache.”
“Do ye want me ter fetch ye a tonic?”
“You have your own duties to perform. Molly will be able to help me.” Kendra peered down the long, narrow corridor. Early morning light streamed in from the small fan window set high on the wall, thinning out the shadows. There were at least a dozen closed doors in the hallway, six on each side. Kendra had never ventured up here before, and realized that she had no idea which bedchamber the former tweeny occupied. “Ah . . . which room is she in?”
“That one.” The maid pointed toward the second door at the end.
“Thank you.” Kendra hesitated. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
The young girl stared at her, then shrugged. “Aye, miss.”
Kendra was aware that the maid continued to watch her as she walked down the hall. When she stopped at Molly’s door and glanced back, the maid had disappeared into the servant’s stairs. She released a long sigh. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that the maid would keep silent about encountering the Duke’s ward in the servant’s quarters. As soon as she hit the kitchen, she’d be telling the belowstairs staff, and it would spread like a contagion to the stables, then upward to the abovestairs servants. Eventually, it would reach the top echelon of that chain—Mr. Harding, Mrs. Danbury, Lady Atwood’s lady’s maid, and the Duke’s valet. And they would report it to the Duke and his sister.
Kendra winced. She could already hear Lady Atwood’s lecture.
There was nothing to be done about it. She had a mission to accomplish. This was why she hadn’t wanted Alec to spend the night. He would have tried to stop her.
Or, worse, tried to accompany her.
She didn’t knock on Molly’s door; she opened it and ducked inside. Another small window bathed the tiny room in the gray light of early morning. Two single beds flanked a nightstand. A small wardrobe was shoved against the wall. A washstand peeked out from behind a privacy curtain. There was probably a chamber pot near there, or under the beds. The occupants of both beds were buried beneath blankets and heavy quilts. It was as cold up here as it was in her bedchamber.
Kendra hadn’t considered that Molly would be sharing the room, but it made sense. The staff was large, but, unlike the sprawling Aldridge Castle, the space in Number 29 was limited.
“Molly?” she whispered.
A blanket-covered lump shifted in the nearest bed.
She tried again. “Molly?”
“W’ot?” A head covered in a wool nightcap popped out from under the covers. Molly’s pale freckled face looked up at her, eyes squinting. She pressed a hand to her mouth as she yawned. “Miss? W’ot’s ’appening?”
“Sh-sh,” Kendra whispered. But it was already too late. The head of Molly’s roommate emerged from the blankets, staring at her owlishly. Kendra recognized her as one of the tweenies from the castle. Berta was her name, she remembered.
Kendra looked at Molly. “I need to borrow a few clothes.”
That jolted the maid fully awake. This wasn’t the first time Kendra had made such a request. “Oh, nay! Nay, miss, not again!” she cried. “’Is Grace will be ever so angry!”
“His Grace doesn’t need to know about this.” She saw the skepticism on Molly’s face. Instead of arguing, she slid her reticule off her wrist, and set it on the nightstand. “I’m just going to borrow a few things,” she said as she opened the wardrobe. “Stop whimpering. You won’t be punished.”
Kendra surveyed the meager offerings. Damn. She’d forgotten that Molly wasn’t a tweeny anymore, and had been allowed to abandon the simple blue-and-white uniform in favor of plain cotton and wool gowns in respectably muted colors. At least the style and quality still indicated servant class, and that was what Kendra was looking for.
Except . . .
She tapped her chin as she slid a speculative glance at the two uniforms hanging on hooks. A tweeny was even more invisible than a lady’s maid.
She pulled out one of the uniforms and measured it against her body.
“But, miss, those ain’t Molly’s clothes!” the tweeny protested, shoving herself into a sitting position.
“It might be a little short, but I think it will work.” Kendra tossed the uniform on the end of Molly’s bed, then peeled off her robe, shivering again as the cold air of the attic hit her body. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering and snatched up the uniform. “You don’t mind if I borrow this . . . Berta?”
“Abigail.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks, Abigail,” she said, yanking the uniform over her head. “Molly, I need you to button me up. Hurry.”
“But . . . but . . .” Abigail floundered, bewildered. “W’ot are ye gonna do, miss?”
“Oi’ll come with ye,” Molly said, scampering from the bed to do Kendra’s bidding. “Oi’m yer lady’s maid. ’Tis me job ter chaperone ye.”
“No.” Kendra presented her back to Molly. “This is something that I need to do alone.”
“But—”
“No, Molly.” Kendra’s tone was sharp enough to make the maid subside. Molly tended to take her lady’s maid duties very seriously, but Kendra couldn’t have the girl traipsing behind her on her current mission. “As of this moment, I’m a tweeny. And tweenies don’t need chaperones.” Molly pouted, and she added, “I don’t need to worry about you.”
Molly eyed her nervously. “Is w’ot yer gonna do dangerous?”
“I know how to take care of myself,” Kendra said evasively. She went back to the wardrobe to retrieve a mop cap and simple wool cloak. Slipping behind the privacy screen, she stuffed her loose hair into the mop cap, put on the cloak, and peered at herself in the small mirror attached to the wash basin. It would do, she decided.
She returned and picked up her reticule. “How do I look?”
“The reticule ain’t right,” Abigail observed critically.
Kendra glanced down at the silken pouch decorated with ribbons and embroidery. The girl had a point.
The tweeny scooted out of bed and padded over to the wardrobe. She rummaged through it, emerging with a plain brown wool pouch with a simple corded drawstring, as
nondescript as the cloak. “This’d be better, miss.”
Kendra grinned. “You’re right, Abigail. Thanks.” She made the transfer of the muff pistol—which elicited a shocked squeak from Abigail—and coins. She looked at the two girls. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
Or three. It would depend on how fast she could track down her quarry. She only prayed that she was back at Grosvenor Number 29 before the Duke and his sister woke.
It took her forty-five minutes to track her target. It would have been less, but Kendra had been forced to walk outside the residential Grosvenor Square in order to hail a hackney. The driver wasn’t thrilled when she told him her destination, but became more agreeable when she added another coin to his fare. The sun was making a fast ascent, the sky already a queer yellowish haze when he dropped her off in Cheapside, a busy area of London filled with merchant shops and the gamey scent of cattle from nearby holding pens.
It took another twenty minutes before she found the man she sought in the dining room of the Toad Inn.
She stood for a moment in the doorway, scanning the room and the hard-faced men inside. Most of their attention was focused on eating and drinking, but her skin prickled when a few narrowed, suspicious eyes fell on her. Her pulse began to race. She slid her hand into the wool pouch, closing over the muff pistol, one finger on the trigger. You can never be too careful.
The next part could get a little tricky. She needed to sit close, but not too close. And she wanted her eyes on the room. This was just the type of crowd who’d enjoy sticking a knife in her ribs.
Aware that she was drawing too much attention, Kendra moved forward. She kept her stride brisk as she wove through the tables and the heavy odors of greasy meat, potatoes, eggs, and ale blended with the more earthy smells of unwashed bodies.
“Hello, Bear.” Shoving a chair against the wall, she dropped down onto the seat. “I think we left each other on good terms, but just to be clear, I’ve got a pistol pointed at your most prized possession. I’d hate for it to go off accidentally.” She forced a smile, showing teeth. “But I’m pretty sure you’d hate it even more.”
The man opposite her had been shoveling bread dripping with yoke into his mouth, but now he froze. Slowly, never taking his eyes off her, he lowered his hand.
She kept the smile on her face, even though her mouth felt uncomfortably dry. Bear might have been sitting, but that didn’t diminish him in any way. He was gigantic, bigger than she remembered. Six foot, seven inches, with muscles the size of boulders. His nearly bald pate gleamed; his gold earring winked. He’d grown a beard since she’d last seen him. His brown eyes were the same, though, as flat as a shark’s. A scar was puckered near his left eye. He was wearing a workman’s smock beneath a wool jacket—triple XL—and Kendra knew that beneath his sleeves, his arms were tattooed. She’d seen them last year when he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves when he’d vowed to beat Alec to death.
“Ye’re still a bloodthirsty wench, I see,” he said slowly, his voice a rumble like distant thunder inside his massive chest. He picked up his tankard of ale and sat back to regard her. “Have ye left yer tulip?”
It took Kendra a moment to remember that was the name he called Alec. She ignored the insult—assuming he meant it as an insult. She wasn’t quite clear on that. “I’d like to talk to Snake.”
The giant lifted his eyebrows. “And why might that be, eh?”
“He found a body yesterday. Have you heard?”
Something that might have been amusement flickered behind the deadpan expression. “Aye. The gentry mort in the church. Ye’re lookin’ inter the swell’s murder?” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“I’ll be damned, but ye’re an unnatural female.”
Kendra pressed her lips together. She didn’t need a criminal like Bear calling her a freak. “I just want to talk to Snake.”
“He didn’t see nothin’.”
That was probably true, but Kendra shrugged. “I’d still like to talk to him. The watchman didn’t see anything, either, but from my understanding, Snake was running ahead of him.”
“W’ot’s in it for me?”
“A sense of your civic duty.”
Bear laughed, the booming sound causing heads to turn. “Ye’re a peculiar piece of baggage, ter be sure. Aye then. If I see Snake, I’ll see w’ot I can do for ye.”
“If?” Kendra arched a brow at the giant.
He smiled. “When.”
Kendra nodded. “Okay. I’m at 29—”
“I remember where ye are.” His smile turned predatory.
Kendra studied him for a long moment. Bear was a thug, but he was at the top of a very vicious pecking order. A crime lord. And if Bear was anything like his 21st-century counterparts, he had a pipeline of information on what was going on in his city.
“What do you know about the dead man?” she asked.
“He’s dead.”
“Any idea who might have put him in that state?”
Bear hefted the tankard, drank deeply, and then set it down. “He’s a nob in government,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Plenty of folks would wanna stop his claret, I’d imagine.”
“Would his son be in that group?”
Bear scratched his beard, and a gleam came into his eyes. “Gerard Holbrooke.”
Kendra leaned back in the chair to regard the giant. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.
“Not personal-like. But he’s a frequent customer in the gaming hells. And the more inventive academies.”
“Yours?”
“I might have an interest. The cove’s an elbow shaker—dice,” he clarified, grinning at her obvious bewilderment. “He owed a few people.”
“Your people?”
“Nay. People ain’t so beetle-headed ter tip me the double.”
Kendra lifted a finger. “Can you speak English?”
Bear laughed. “No one is stupid enough ter not pay their debt ter me.”
Now that she could imagine. “What about his relationship with his father?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Word’s gone around that he and his da had a fallin’ out.”
“And did word go around before or after Holbrooke tried to punch his fist into his father’s face?”
Bear smiled. “Before.”
“The way I heard it, Sir Giles was unhappy with the debt his son was running up. Even if Holbrooke paid your people, he might not have been so conscientious elsewhere. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
This time Bear’s smile was sly. “I might.”
“I’m not really in the mood for games, Bear.”
Bear sighed. “The young pup couldn’t stay away from the gaming tables. He was in Dun Territory, but that’s not why the old man was nettled. I heard the bloody fool gave a Jack in the box to one of their housemaids.”
Kendra had to think about that one. Jack in the box. Bun in the oven? “He got a maid pregnant?” she guessed.
He grinned. “Aye.”
“What happened to her?”
“The maid? Suppose they sent her packin’. Can’t have a maid servin’ ye tea with a swellin’ belly.”
An unmarried maid who’d become pregnant couldn’t stay in a respectable household—even if the father of her child was a member of that respectable household.
Bear went on, “She’ll probably end up in the poor house or a brothel after she’s had the brat.” He shrugged, not sounding too concerned about the girl’s plight. “But the old nob flew into the boughs about it all the same. Blamed his son for tossin’ up the wench’s skirts and havin’ his way with her.” Bear picked up his knife and fork and cut into the sausages now congealed in grease on his plate. “Word was his da was gonna take care of the problem,” he added as he chewed.
Kendra kept her gaze on the giant. “What does that mean?”
“He was gonna buy a commission for his son in
the army. Send him off ter some post in India. That’s the rumor, anyway.”
“I suppose that’s one way to solve the problem.”
“For the old man, maybe. But India’s a hot, nasty place, ain’t it? Might be worth killin’ ter not get shipped over there.”
She tilted her head, regarding him. “So you think Holbrooke could have killed his father?” she asked again.
“Snake said the cove’s tongue was cut outta him.” Bear lifted the tankard and washed down the sausage. He belched as he set the stein down. “Seems ter me that a son wouldn’t do that. Why would he, when he could’ve just slit the old man’s gullet?”
Kendra said nothing.
“But like I said, the nob was in government,” Bear continued. “Foreign Office or Home Office. Word is that he traded in secrets. The way I see it, maybe someone told him somethin’, then cut out his tongue so he wouldn’t be sharin’ any confidences.”
“He was murdered first,” Kendra pointed out.
Bear smirked. “Aye. Ter my way of thinking, that’s a fine way of keepin’ someone quiet too.”
14
Alec was still irritated as he cantered Chance across Hampstead Heath early the next morning. His aunt’s high-handed interference the night before had annoyed him enough to cause him to toss and turn most of the night. Of course, she wasn’t the only source of his foul mood. Oh, no, much of that he could lay at the foot of one bloody-minded American.
What was wrong with the woman? How many times would she refuse his offer of marriage? Would he be forever consigned to sneak around like a thief in the night to be with the woman he loved?
Kendra Donovan was the most amazing, mesmerizing, brilliant, courageous, and frustratingly stubborn woman he’d ever known. Were all the females so blasted contrary in the future? And were all the men in lunatic asylums for dealing with them?
He laughed as he imagined his future counterparts, which loosened the knot of anger inside of him. Around him, icy wind rattled the blades of brown, brittle grass poking through a thin crust of snow. Alec let his gaze travel the rural landscape. Located on the outskirts of London, Hampstead Heath had become pitted from excavations of its prized sand. The larger quarries had been transformed by natural springs and rainwater into ponds, now iced over. It was ruggedly attractive, and slightly eerie, with thin patches of fog crawling across the ground.
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