Echoes in Time, page 14
What to do, what to do . . . ?
He turned away from the window and went to his desk. He found a scrap of foolscap in one of the drawers. Uncapping the vial of ink on the writing stand, he picked up a quill and dipped the nib into the ink pot. He had to think for a long moment about what to write. Better to keep it brief and innocuous, he decided. This discussion required a private, face-to-face meeting.
Once he got the words down, he sanded the paper and carefully folded it. Hoisting himself to his feet, he moved to the sideboard, where he poured a generous four fingers of whisky into a glass. Whisky was meant to be sipped, savored, but he tossed it back like a shipman at the local tavern. He gasped as the spirit hit the back of his throat, burning its way to his belly. Unfortunately, it did nothing to dispel the cold fear that had begun pumping through his veins.
Or is it guilt?
He refilled his glass and walked to the fireplace, lifting his gaze to view the ageless features of his wife.
“What have I done, Lizzie?” he whispered.
He’d been so sure, the vision so clear, but now . . . now he was questioning everything. Lady Westford’s death changed things. Tainted what was supposed to be pure.
His stomach churned with whisky and horror. “Oh, my God, what have I done?”
Chapter 18
By the time Kendra made it back to Bedford Square, the rain she’d predicted earlier had begun to fall. She sprinted up the steps and into the foyer without getting too damp. Wakely materialized to take her coat, bonnet, and gloves, and to deliver the news that Alec was still out and the Duke had come and gone, promising that he’d speak to her at Lady Harrington’s ball later that evening.
As she made her way to the library, Kendra wondered if the Duke had discovered something that he would impart at the ball or if she was reading too much into it.
Wakely sent a footman to light candles and start a fire in the library’s hearth. Kendra was grateful for the assistance, since it took her three times longer than her nineteenth-century counterparts to get a flame from the tinderbox. After the footman finished, the library glowed with a warm, buttery light. Kendra was grateful to be indoors as the windowpanes rattled with each gust of wind and the rat-tat-tat of rain hitting the glass.
She picked up the piece of slate, but merely stood there and stared at the names she’d written on the board. Lord Westford, Mr. Goldsten, Dr. Thornton.
Lord Westford was the husband, and therefore a suspect. He’d pressured Dr. Thornton into declaring his wife’s death an accident, tying it up nice and tidy. Thornton had said it was the action of a husband wanting to save his family the embarrassment of an inquest. That was possible. But it was also possible that the earl had hired someone to get rid of his wife. Why now, though? They’d been married for more than thirty years. What could possibly be the motivation after all this time?
Then there was Goldsten. The man had lied about the last time he’d seen Lady Westford. Was he afraid he’d come under suspicion if his argument with Lady Westford became public knowledge? It happened. People sometimes panicked when questioned, said something rash or irrational. But Kendra couldn’t shake the feeling that Goldsten was hiding something.
Her gaze slid to another name on the slate board: Clarice. What was her connection to Lady Westford? And was that association responsible for Lady Westford’s murder?
How could it not be?
Movement in the doorway caught her eye, and she found her husband leaning against the doorjamb, watching her. He’d discarded his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, but was still wearing his form-fitting dark green coat and buckskin breeches, wet from the inclement weather. His riding boots had been polished that morning, but were now caked in mud. His dark hair glistened with drops of rain.
Her fingers twitched with the desire to run her fingers through his locks. “How long have you been standing there?”
Alec smiled as he straightened and came toward her. “Long enough to admire my wife’s many attributes,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers for a kiss that sent her pulse hammering. He carried the scent of the rain and cold, and something uniquely him.
“Good afternoon, wife,” he murmured, lifting his head.
“Good afternoon, husband.” She smiled up into his eyes, and gave into her impulse, stroking his hair. “You were caught in the rain. You need to get out of your wet clothes.”
“Maybe we both need to get out of our clothes.”
She laughed when he nuzzled her neck. “Tempting. Very tempting.” She angled her head to give him better access. “Did you learn anything interesting from Lord Westford?”
He sighed, then released her. “Not a damn thing.” He walked to the sideboard and pulled the stopper on the brandy decanter. “I spent the day riding around London, trying to locate the bloody man. He was not at his residence, and he left no hint of his whereabouts.” He poured himself a glass of brandy. “I went to all his haunts, but no one had seen him. It finally occurred to me that he might be at his villa in St. John’s Wood.”
“He was with his other family.”
“Yes, but he’d taken Mrs. O’Leary and the children to the country. Miserable day for a jaunt into the countryside, if you ask me. It started raining on my return to the city.”
“He isn’t exactly in mourning, is he?”
“No.” He took a long sip of his brandy. “What about you? Did you find out anything from Mr. Goldsten?”
“Yes. He didn’t admit to having an affair with Lady Westford—”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I know. A dead woman’s reputation is more important than getting justice for her murder.” She couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Lady Westford doesn’t care about her reputation anymore. Why should everyone else?”
Alec looked thoughtful. “Is that true, though? We spend our lives creating and cultivating our standing in the world. Like land and estates, it’s one of the few things that survive us. It’s how we’re remembered.”
“Mr. Goldsten said the same thing.”
His mouth curved as he regarded her. “But you don’t agree.”
She expelled a heavy breath. “I understand the principal, but I don’t agree if it impedes a murder investigation. Mr. Goldsten also lied about the last time he saw Lady Westford.”
“Well, then. That is suspicious.”
“Maybe. Or he wants to distance himself from the investigation.” She paused. “We confirmed his alibi, that he was working at St. George’s on Sunday morning. But it’s a big, busy place.”
“You think he managed to sneak out?”
“It’s possible. He’s hiding something. So is Dr. Thornton. I went to see him about covering up the murder. He was nervous.”
Alec’s mouth curved. “I can imagine. But he’s not young enough to have been the one chasing the girl afterward, surely?”
“No. But I told him that there was a witness, and he asked if she—or he—could identify the killer. In that order.”
“You think it odd that he guessed the witness was a female?”
“You don’t?”
“Not necessarily. On Sunday morning, there’d be plenty of women on the streets. Milkmaids and laundresses. Female costermongers like Bridget. Maids hired to scrub floors. It might be natural to assume the witness would be a woman.”
“Plenty of young boys sweeping the streets too.” Kendra turned back to survey the slate board. “Lady Westford wasn’t the only one murdered. Clarice—assuming it is Clarice—was the first victim. She was restrained and possibly exsanguinated.”
“Bizarre.”
“It could be ritualistic. Muldoon told me about an Irish vampire demon called Dearg-due, who drains people of their blood.”
“He can’t believe—?”
She laughed. “Hardly. He’s just a writer with an active imagination. Still, there are such things as death cults,” she said, her humor fading. “Satanic or vampiric—or whatever demon or monster is currently in vogue. I’ve dealt with them in my time. I doubt if it’s any different now.”
“One hears rumors about people practicing paganism, of course. And no one knows more than you and I that there are still those who partake in hedonistic gatherings, like the Hellfire Club.”
Kendra saw shadows enter Alec’s eyes, and knew he was thinking of his late brother, Gabriel, who’d been involved with such a club. Gabriel hadn’t realized the danger until it was too late.
She walked over to him to lay a comforting hand on his wrist. Beneath her fingertips, she felt the warm flow of his blood, the steady pulse of his heart. The earlier whisper she’d had at the hospital stirred again. Blood.
“Maybe . . . we’re dealing with something less exotic,” she said slowly. “Bloodletting is a common treatment for disease and illnesses.”
Alec eyed her. “What kind of surgeon or barber would be so green as to take all her blood?”
Frowning, Kendra returned to the slate board. “I saw a lot of young men—apprentices—at Mr. Goldsten’s clinic and St. George’s Hospital. What if Clarice was ill and an apprentice tried to help? They didn’t realize that they’d taken too much, accidentally killed her, panicked, and dumped the body in the Thames?”
“I still can’t imagine even an apprentice being that inexperienced—or foolish—to remove all her blood.”
“Maybe it wasn’t all her blood. Maybe it was just enough to make her severely anemic. We don’t know how she died.”
Alec didn’t look convinced. “Putting that aside, what is her connection to Lady Westford?”
“We know that Lady Westford was interested in medicine. She attended scientific lectures and was a patroness at St. George’s. She was involved with a surgeon.” Kendra began to pace as she considered the possibilities. “St. George’s caters to both men and women. If Clarice was ever a patient, they could have met there.”
She paused, then turned slowly to look at Alec. “Our suspect list is going to get longer.”
“If you’re talking about every physician, surgeon and apprentice at St. George’s, I’m going to have to buy you another slate board.”
Kendra laughed. “Hopefully, Lady Westford confided in Lady Harrington, and we can narrow that list down.”
Chapter 19
As far as Kendra was concerned, balls were like walking through a minefield. One misstep and you could commit a social gaffe that would be gossiped about for weeks. Or, for Kendra, say something that would only be understood by the attendees’ descendants. It was stressful enough to be ogled by a hundred catty society matrons without having to worry that you could screw up the space-time continuum.
Still, as bad as it was to attend a ball, it was worse preparing for one. Kendra didn’t have a fairy godmother waving a magic wand and zapping her into party-readiness. She had Molly.
The former tweeny took on the task with gusto, marching around with a militant gleam in her eye as she ordered footmen and maids to haul up buckets of hot water and honeysuckle salts for Kendra’s bath, and insisted on washing Kendra’s hair herself.
“Mrs. Danbury said ye’ll ’ave ter mind yer manners with Lady ’Arrington,” Molly said, scrubbing Kendra’s head with a concoction that had all the ingredients of a salad dressing. “She’s a lady-in-waitin’ ter the Queen.”
“I know.”
“Mrs. Danbury says she’s a lady of great virtue, like the Queen ’erself. Close yer eyes.” Molly poured a pitcher of lukewarm water over Kendra’s head. “A right miracle that is, Mrs. Danbury says, given ’oo Lady ’Arrington’s sister is.” The maid brought a towel over to rub the excess water out of Kendra’s hair.
“Who’s her sister?” Kendra asked from beneath the towel.
“She was Lady Worsley, but she took back ’er maiden name of Flemming when Lord Worsley cocked up ’is toes. ’Ere.” Molly whisked the towel off Kendra’s head, handing her another with which to dry herself as she stepped out of the tub.
“Their marriage was right wicked,” Molly continued, waiting for Kendra to put on a robe before ushering her to a small footstool in front of the fireplace. “Lady Worsley admitted ter ’aving scores of lovers, and even ran off with one, ’oo is said ter ’ave fathered ’er babe.” She picked up a bellows, pumping its handles to give the crackling fire an extra boost. “Lean forward.”
Kendra knew the drill. She stuck her head as close to the flames as she dared. She had never thought she’d miss a hairdryer.
“Lord Worsley sued ’er and ’er lover,” Molly continued cheerfully. “But she said that it was ’er ’usband ’oo gave ’er lover permission ter see ’er naked in the bath! It was a right scandal, it was.”
“I can imagine.” But why was Kendra shocked? Human nature didn’t change. Sex scandals didn’t start in Hollywood. Or even ancient Rome. They’d been around forever.
Kendra’s thoughts drifted to Lord and Lady Westford’s open marriage. He had his left-handed wife and family on the side, plus who knows how many other mistresses. It looked like Lady Westford had also taken lovers, the last being Mr. Goldsten. Supposedly, both were satisfied with the arrangement. But if that wasn’t true, did it have anything to do with her murder?
The earl had to stay on the list, but Kendra was beginning to think that Lady Westford’s murder was connected to something bigger. Something more sinister.
“Then Lady Worsley accused another nobleman of giving ’er the clap,” Molly went on, happily scandalized. “After ’er ’usband died, she became a demi— a demino— demi—”
“Demimondaine,” Kendra supplied. This era’s version of a high-class call girl.
“Aye. That’s the word.”
“Mrs. Danbury told you all this?” Kendra couldn’t imagine the formidable housekeeper gossiping with Molly in such a way.
“Ooh, well . . . nay,” the maid confessed with a sheepish look. “’Annah told me about ’er when Oi said ye’d be goin’ ter a ball given by Lady ’Arrington.”
“Hannah?”
“Oi told ye, she’s ’is lordship’s scullery maid.” The maid retrieved a hairbrush from the vanity. “Scoot forward. Oi got some work ter do untangling these knots.”
Kendra always found it vaguely embarrassing to spend so much time on primping, but an hour and a half later, she couldn’t argue with the results. Molly might not be a fairy godmother, but she could create magic. The maid had styled Kendra’s hair high on her head, with a few loose tendrils she had painstakingly curled with heating tongs. Diamond hair ornaments twinkled like stars in Kendra’s raven locks.
Kendra thought the hairstyle made her neck look impossibly long. Or maybe that was the low-cut bodice of the silver gown Molly had selected. The thin silk shimmered like moonlight with every twist and turn of her body.
“Ooh, me lady, ye look ever so beautiful,” Molly breathed, taking a step back to admire her own handiwork. “Ye’ll be needing these,” she added, dashing to the wardrobe. She returned with a black velvet hooded cloak with a silver satin lining, and long white satin gloves. “’Tis a soft rain now and Oi don’t want ye ter get yer hair wet.”
Kendra was tugging on the gloves when Alec came through their connecting doors. Unlike the hours she’d spent getting ready, Alec had probably spent twenty minutes, but he looked damn good in what could probably pass for a tuxedo in her era. The exception was the snowy white cravat, instead of the modern bowtie.
“Perhaps we ought to stay home tonight,” he said, his mouth curving as he walked toward her. “I shall be fighting every man who ogles my wife.” He took her gloved hand, lifting it to press a kiss on her knuckles. “You are a sight to behold, my love.”
She smiled into his eyes. “You’re not so bad yourself, my lord.”
Surprise flashed across his face, then he let out a laugh. “A high compliment, indeed.” He glanced at Molly. “You did splendidly, Molly. I daresay, a French or Swiss lady’s maid could not have done better.”
“Ooh! Thank ye ever so much, me lord!” Blushing, Molly pressed a hand to her chest as she stared at Alec with starry-eyed devotion.
Kendra captured Alec’s arm, steering him to the door. “Come on, darling. My maid is about to swoon, and I don’t have the time to find the smelling salts.”
***
Carriages clogged the rain-slicked streets as the Beau Monde ventured out in search of entertainment. Kendra suspected that the Harrington Ball would be just one stop of many parties to keep them occupied until the wee hours of the morning.
“I’ve been told that Lady Harrington won’t be shocked by Lord and Lady Westford’s open marriage,” Kendra mused.
“Are you referring to the countess’ mother-in-law?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “I was actually talking about her sister. Her mother-in-law?”
“Who told you about the Sinner?”
“The Sinner?”
“Seymour Fleming, the former Lady Worsley—Lady Harrington’s sister. Her escapades landed her with the moniker the Sinner.”
“Molly said Lady Harrington is considered a paragon, while her sister seems to enjoy shocking society. She didn’t tell me about the nickname or her mother-in-law.”
“Molly is too young to remember Lady Caroline—the countess’ mother-in-law. She died several years ago, but her scandalous reputation lives on in the Ton. She had so many affairs—with women as well as men—that she was actually thrown out of the Female Coterie.”
“And that is?”
“A club whose members are high-ranking ladies in society. Lady Caroline reacted to the insult by forming her own club—the New Female Coterie.”
“Not the most original name.”
“No, but its members were quite original. She invited demi-reps, courtesans, and ladies of Quality who were considered ‘fallen women’ like herself into the club.”
“And your aunt looks at me like I’ve crawled out from the sewer,” she muttered, shaking her head. “How did her husband take it?”
