Echoes in Time, page 2
Kendra realized that the Duke’s stoic butler was standing at her elbow, holding a champagne bottle.
“Oh.” I am no longer Kendra Donovan; I’m now the Marchioness of Sutcliffe. Holy God.
“Would you care for more champagne, my lady?” Harding repeated.
Kendra looked at the delicate flute in her hand. It was empty. “Uh . . . yes, thank you.”
The butler kept a poker face as he poured the champagne, but Kendra recognized her blunder. Thanking a servant for doing their duty was simply not done when you were a marchioness.
Kendra watched the champagne bubbles froth to the lip of the flute. She’d made the decision to stay here, in this time—assuming the vortex that had opened a month ago hadn’t just been her imagination. Still, she knew that she’d never really fit in here, with the rigid rules and class system.
“We shall leave soon, my sweet.”
Kendra glanced at the green-eyed man on her other side. Alec, the Marquis of Sutcliffe. Her husband. And the reason she’d chosen to stay in an era where she didn’t belong—because living without this man had become too painful to contemplate. Love had been unexpected, not always welcome, but too big to deny. And it still amazed her, not only that she’d fallen in love with him, but that the love had been reciprocated.
The gold flecks in his forest-green eyes were more pronounced this morning, gleaming like molten embers, shadowed by spikey black lashes. The sensual mouth in the lean, handsome face curved in a slow smile. Kendra could feel her face grow warm under her husband’s regard, her blood quickening.
In her former life, she’d been a child prodigy, a product of her parents’ experiment in eugenics, and an FBI agent. She did not blush. Or, rather, she’d never met anyone who’d made her blush before. Alec was more potent than the alcohol she was drinking.
She raised an eyebrow, although her breath wasn’t quite steady. “Are you trying to reassure me?”
His smile widened. “Perhaps.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a butterfly-soft kiss over her knuckles. “Or mayhap I’m reminding myself that I need to be patient. Soon, I shall have you all to myself. You’ve made me the luckiest of men.”
“I chose you,” she whispered, leaning toward him to stare into his eyes. She saw them darken at the memory of the night she’d said those words. The moment she’d finally made the decision to let the past—the future—go. To trust in their love and build a life together in the here and now.
“We chose each other,” he returned softly.
“Sutcliffe, what are your future plans?” Lady Mary asked loudly, breaking the spell that bound Kendra to Alec. She suspected that had been Lady Mary’s intention. Public affection, even between a bride and groom on their wedding day, was frowned upon. “Will you and your lady be taking up residence in Alcott Park?”
Alcott Park was Alec’s country estate in northern England. Kendra imagined that it was Lady Atwood’s greatest wish to see Kendra hidden away in the countryside, so there’d be no faux pas committed by the newest member of their family.
Alec released Kendra’s hand, shifting to look down the table at his cousin. “We’ll travel to London tonight, then on to Alcott Park for a fortnight. Afterward, I shall be bringing Kendra to Venice to meet my relatives.”
Kendra’s stomach fluttered. As interested as she was in visiting Venice, to see the art and architecture and the wonder of its canals, she was uneasy about being introduced to the maternal side of Alec’s family. His late mother, Alexandria, had been an Italian countess who’d fallen in love with Alec’s father, Edward, on his Grand Tour. Kendra got enough disapproval from the English; she didn’t need it from Venetian aristocrats too.
A footman leaned down, offering her a silver platter filled with meats. Grateful to focus on something else, she picked up the knife and fork. Bypassing the artfully arranged tongue, she selected two thick slices of ham.
“But will you settle at Alcott Park, Cousin?” Lady Mary persisted, her eyes on Alec as she took a sip of her champagne.
“No.” Alec shook his head. “London is more agreeable for us to make our home.”
“London society shall be greatly improved with your presence, Miss—ah, your ladyship,” Muldoon spoke up, shooting Kendra an impudent grin. “Mayhap I shall see you around town.”
Kendra noticed that his gaze slipped further down the table to where Lady Rebecca was seated. She suspected he was hoping that if they met, Kendra would be accompanied by Rebecca. In the last year, it had become clear to Kendra that the two harbored a mutual attraction, but neither one was prepared to act on it. Poor Irish reporters did not marry daughters of nobility.
Then again, Americans from the future didn’t marry British aristocracy. Only the Duke and Alec knew that she was from the twenty-first century, but being a penniless American hadn’t exactly made her a desirable match. The pained expression on Lady Atwood’s face wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.
“Not much chance of that,” Sam growled at the reporter, as he sliced into the tongue on his plate. “She’ll be traveling in circles high above you.”
Muldoon wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ve learned to always expect the unexpected with M—with her ladyship. No offense, ma’am.”
Kendra was more offended at being called ma’am, but decided that was probably a twenty-first-century pet peeve.
“You’re my friends,” she said simply, before turning her attention to eating her eggs, ham, and rolls. Except for the tongue—which was considered a delicacy—the champagne, and the iced fruitcake set in the middle of the table, the breakfast was like any other.
She was buttering a roll when she noticed a younger footman sidle into the dining room. He approached Harding and whispered in his ear. The shock that rippled across the butler’s normally unflappable features sent a frisson of awareness through Kendra.
Something happened.
Harding carefully set the champagne bottle in an ice bucket before accompanying the footman out the door.
Kendra glanced at Alec, who was also regarding the door thoughtfully. “What do you think’s going on?”
He said, “I have no idea.”
Seconds ticked by, then Harding reappeared. He retrieved the champagne bottle and circled the table to the Duke. On the pretext of refilling his flute, the butler leaned down and murmured something in his ear. If Kendra hadn’t already been on alert, the Duke’s reaction would have been a red flag. His eyebrows flew up and he shot her a quick look. Nodding at Harding, he picked up his linen napkin, blotted his mouth, then carefully laid it on his plate.
“Forgive me, but I must attend to a matter,” he announced, pushing himself to his feet. “Alec, would you and your lovely bride accompany me?”
Lady Atwood frowned. “Bertie, what—?”
“We shall only be a moment, Caro,” he cut off his sister with a smile.
As soon as they exited the dining room, Kendra repeated her question: “What’s going on?”
The Duke shook his head. “I’m not entirely certain. We have a visitor. A royal courier.”
They followed the Duke to the Gold Salon, one of the castle’s more ornate drawing rooms. Apparently, a royal messenger deserved the best. The courier waited in front of one of the Palladian windows, gazing at the gardens outside. He was a middle-aged gentleman wearing an exquisitely tailored green-and-navy frock coat buttoned tight around the torso before flaring into a full skirt that hit mid-calf. He’d kept his curly brimmed beaver hat on, but at their appearance, he swept it off to reveal a full head of curly brown hair and dipped into a graceful bow.
“Your Grace, my lord and my lady.” His gaze traveled over them as he straightened. “I understand felicitations are in order. Forgive my intrusion during this happy time.”
“Thank you,” Alec replied. “But of course, that begs the question as to why you felt the need to intrude. What is this about?”
The courier looked taken aback at such directness. He hesitated, as though searching for the correct words. Finally, he said, “There’s been an incident.”
“An incident?” the Duke echoed.
“Yes. A tragic incident.” The courier looked at Kendra. “We are aware of your ladyship’s experience in investigating such things.”
We? Kendra eyed the man in surprise, but before she could question him, Alec said sharply, “My wife and I shall be leaving for our honeymoon shortly. Unless the King himself is asking for her ladyship’s help with this . . . incident, I am going to bid you good day, sir.”
“I understand your concern, my lord.” The courier reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a letter. A royal wax seal held the flaps together. He handed the parchment to the Duke, but his eyes were fixed on Alec. “The King is indisposed. He is not asking for her ladyship’s assistance in this matter.”
Alec shook his head. “Then if the King isn’t behind this request—”
“Not His Majesty, sir. Her Majesty. Will you postpone your honeymoon for the Queen?”
Chapter 3
A curious silence descended. Kendra wondered if everyone else was finding the moment as surreal as she was.
The Duke was the first to speak. “This incident,” he said. “You are speaking of murder?”
It was a natural assumption. In the last year, Kendra had been involved in several such investigations. She knew her activities had been the cause of gossip among the Beau Monde, but uneasiness knotted her stomach at the idea that she’d drawn attention in royal circles as well.
“Possibly,” the courier said cautiously. “Yesterday morning, Lady Westford was found dead in the Bowden Theater. ’Tis a theater in Covent Garden.”
The Duke lifted his eyebrows in shock. “Lady Westford is dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, Your Grace.”
Kendra glanced at the Duke. “You knew her?”
“Yes, though I cannot claim we were close friends. Lady Westford has an interest in natural philosophy, and throughout the years, we’ve attended the same lectures at the Royal Society. It’s rather unusual for ladies to go to such scientific forums. I found the countess to be intellectual and charming. This is a . . . a terrible shock.”
Alec said, “I met Lady Westford when she launched her youngest daughter into society several years ago.” He looked at the courier. “What happened?”
“It appears her ladyship fell from the upper balcony of the theater, my lord.”
The Duke’s eyes widened. “Good God, during a performance?”
“Ah . . . no.” The man’s gaze dropped to the hat that he was rotating in his hands. He was silent for a long moment. Again, Kendra had the impression that he was searching for the right words. At last, his hands stilled, and he lifted his gaze to the Duke’s. “It’s believed she fell on Sunday, when the theater was closed.”
“I don’t understand. Why was she at the theater when it was closed?”
“One of many questions, Your Grace.”
“I have a question,” Alec drawled, eyeing the courier. “Why is the Queen requiring my wife’s involvement? Surely, the matter is being looked into by the proper authorities?”
“Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant, assigned an investigator—Mr. Parker—to look into the matter. London’s chief coroner is currently in France, but Dr. Lucien Thornton, a respected physician, conducted the postmortem. He concluded that her ladyship accidently fell from the balcony to her death.”
Kendra contemplated the man. “So her death has already been officially declared an accident?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “Then what’s the problem?”
“There is speculation that she did not fall, that she . . . ah, that she jumped.”
“My God.” The Duke let out a shocked breath. “Suicide? I do not believe it!”
“Nor does Her Majesty,” the courier said quietly. “Self-murder is such a vile, sinful act, and would cause great disgrace to the family, not to mention cast a shadow on Lady Westford’s soul. Her Majesty is requesting that Lady Sutcliffe investigate the matter quietly, to remove all doubt.”
“What is your name, sir?” Alec demanded, his green eyes narrowing on the courier. “You present yourself as a royal courier, but you clearly did not ride here on horseback, which is the fastest method used by messengers—even royal messengers. And you appear to be intimately familiar with the details of her ladyship’s death.”
A gleam of what might have been rueful admiration entered the other man’s eyes. “Very astute of you, my lord. I am Mr. Boothe. I clerk for Mr. Disbrowe,” he admitted. “I am acting on behalf of Her Majesty.”
Kendra’s uneasiness intensified. She didn’t need the Duke or Alec to tell her that they were dealing with the inner circle of the Palace. The British royal family had become a constitutional monarchy centuries before, during Charles II’s reign, but the Palace had more power today than in her own time. Maybe they couldn’t toss her in the Tower of London—could they? —but they could probably make her life damned unpleasant if she fell afoul of them.
“Edward Disbrowe is Her Majesty’s vice chamberlain,” the Duke told Kendra.
“Why does the Queen want an investigation?” Alec asked. “Tongues will wag that Lady Westford committed self-murder regardless. No one can stop that from happening. I dare say not even Queen Charlotte.”
Mr. Boothe nodded. “Unfortunately, rumors will always abound, given the suspicious nature of her death.”
“You’re not asking me to investigate an accident,” Kendra said slowly, meeting the man’s eyes. “You’re here because of the third possibility. You think she was pushed.”
A shadow crossed Mr. Boothe’s face. “Her Majesty is concerned that foul means were employed. She wishes to know the truth.”
Unless the truth is uncomfortable, like a suicide. Kendra pushed that thought aside, because it wouldn’t deter her. She’d follow the investigation wherever it might lead and not let politics—or even a queen’s discomfort—dissuade or distract her.
She kept her gaze on Mr. Boothe. “Why is the Queen taking such an interest in Lady Westford’s death? Were they friends?”
The Duke cleared his throat. “I can answer that, my dear. Lady Westford is . . . was one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting.”
“She served Queen Charlotte for the last six years,” Mr. Boothe added. “Her Majesty was quite rightly distraught when she received word of the tragedy yesterday afternoon.”
“Where is the body now?” Kendra asked. “I’ll need to see it, and the theater where she died.”
“I’m not certain, but Dr. Thornton ought to be able to tell you. She was found at the Bowden Theater on Monday morning. Its doors are open.”
Open and doing business, Kendra thought with a flash of irritation. God. It was incredibly frustrating that her nineteenth century counterparts didn’t have any procedures in place to seal off crime scenes. Hell, they didn’t even have an official police force, just a cobbled-together group of constables, watchmen, magistrates, and Bow Street Runners.
Mr. Boothe smoothed the brim of his hat before placing it firmly on his head. “Naturally, Her Majesty wishes to be kept informed of your investigation. You shall report your findings to me, and I will convey them to the Queen.”
“And if I need to speak to the Queen?”
Mr. Boothe’s reaction could only be described as shock laced with horror. “One does not speak to the Queen, my lady. A protocol must be followed. One first must request an audience and—”
“Her Majesty is asking for my help in this matter,” Kendra reminded him.
Mr. Boothe waved his hand as if that detail was irrelevant. Probably because it was, Kendra mused. Queen Charlotte wasn’t issuing a request; this was an order.
“The Queen has no information to share,” he told her. “And even if she did, she cannot grant you an audience at this time. The King . . .” Mr. Boothe’s mouth compressed into a thin, pained line, and he shook his head. “She is currently traveling to Windsor Castle to visit His Majesty.”
His Majesty, King George III, who was currently incarcerated in the ancient fortress due to his madness. Kendra remembered that from the history books, although the King’s illness was hardly a secret in this time. Five years ago, he’d been forced to hand over power to his profligate son, Prince George, making him the Prince Regent and ushering in the period known, fittingly, as the Regency.
“I have a royal coach at my disposal,” Mr. Boothe informed them. “If we leave immediately, we ought to be in London by midafternoon.”
Kendra said, “I’ll be bringing my own team to help with the investigation.”
Mr. Boothe blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve worked with Dr. Munroe and Mr. Kelly on previous investigations. Dr. Munroe operates an anatomy school in London. I’d like him to examine the body. Mr. Kelly is a Bow Street Runner.”
This was another thing that had changed, Kendra mused. In the twenty-first century, she’d been part of task forces and teams. But she’d always been a loner, the person who worked through holidays and happy hours. But here . . . here she was outside her jurisdiction. Way outside. She needed a team who could both help her navigate the labyrinth of rules and be openminded enough to accept her ideas and theories. Sam Kelly and Dr. Munroe had overcome whatever reservations they’d had about her, and treated her, for the most part, as an equal.
Ironically, she hadn’t been so openminded herself, viewing both men as inferior because she had more than two centuries of knowledge on them. A common, modern-day mistake. By her standards, the era’s technology was archaic and police procedure rudimentary at best, but she had soon realized that many of the people she met were still enormous assets.
“This is most unusual.” Mr. Boothe frowned. “Bow Street was already involved, and Dr. Thornton—”
“Has determined that there was no crime,” Kendra interjected.
