“I see. Is anyone not at home to someone who has a title?”
“That would depend on whether the person one calling upon has a more elevated title.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Surely it is the same in America—if not with titles, then with people of consequence?”
Kendra didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know too much about societal etiquette in nineteenth-century America. Her calling card had been her FBI badge, now as out of touch as the moon. Just thinking about it depressed her.
The servant returned with the expected response—Mr. Morland was at home. Morland’s butler met them in the enormous foyer, a cavern of icy-gray-veined marble floors and columns, and fixtures trimmed in gilt. A fresco had been painted across the vaulted ceiling, depicting a toga-clad man showing off his physical prowess by shooting an arrow into a tree, splitting it as another man leapt out from its shattered core toward a woman in flowing white. The Duke hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that the late earl had been enamored with Greek mythology.
He followed her eyes to the ceiling as they ascended the circular stairs. “’Tis striking, is it not?”
“It should be in a museum.” Then again, everything here should be in a museum, she thought.
The butler led them to a drawing room painted in airy pastels. The Greek influence extended to the silk-covered furnishings, classically carved cabinets, and scrolling volutes atop Ionic pilasters. Another fresco dominated the ceiling, this one of a regal couple seated on thrones in the middle of big, billowing clouds.
Zeus and Hera, Kendra identified, the chief god and goddess of Greek mythology.
“Mr. Morland shall be in shortly,” the servant told them. “Please be seated. May I offer you a drink? A sherry or brandy, mayhap? Or tea?”
“A cup of tea, thank you,” the Duke smiled. “Miss Donovan?”
“Oh . . . sure. Yes. Thank you.”
“I shall bring a tray at once, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and departed.
Clasping her hands behind her back, Kendra circled the room. On the far wall were several paintings, mostly portraits, and a few landscapes. The middle portrait was the largest, roughly sixty inches by forty-eight, featuring a woman in a flowing, toga-like white dress. Her dark hair was unbound, tumbling past her shoulders. She was leaning against a stone pillar, her dark eyes pensive. Dark clouds boiled in the background. Kendra was in the process of trying to figure out which goddess or demigoddess she represented when the Duke came up beside her.
“Lady Anne,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He nodded toward the painting. “’Tis Morland’s mother, Lady Anne. Of course, this painting was commissioned at least twenty-five years ago.”
Kendra studied the figure more closely. “She’s beautiful.” She slanted a glance at the Duke, and wondered if he realized that the woman bore a striking resemblance to Jane Doe.
“Your Grace . . . Miss Donovan.” They turned as Morland strode into the room. He sent Kendra an enigmatic glance, probably wondering what the hell a paid companion was doing with the Duke. “Welcome. This is a rare pleasure.”
“Your home is very impressive,” Kendra said.
A wry look crossed Morland’s face as he lifted his gaze to the painted ceiling. “I’m afraid that I am less interested in Greek legends than my grandfather or mother. I’ve considered refurbishing, but I fear it would upset Mother.”
“How is Lady Anne?” asked Aldridge. “Will she be joining us?”
Morland looked down at his hands, his expression tightening. “No. I fear my mother is unwell.”
“Oh, my dear boy, I am distressed to hear this. If you have need of any remedies, we have an excellent stillroom maid at the castle.”
“You are most kind, sir.” His gaze flickered up, then away. “However, I fear there is no remedy for what ails my mother.”
Behind them the door opened and the butler entered, followed by a maid carrying the tea service.
“Ah, excellent.” Morland seemed relieved at the interruption. “Let us sit, shall we?”
The maid set down the tray on a nearby table, curtsied, and left. The butler stayed behind to pour.
“How do you take your tea, sir?”
“Two sugars. Cream.”
“Miss?”
“Black. One sugar.”
The butler doctored the tea, passed around the cups. He obviously knew Morland’s preferences, handing him a cup and saucer without inquiring.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. You may go, Adams.” As the butler closed the door behind him, Morland raised his brows. “Is this visit about the soiled dove? Has the Bow Street Runner returned?”
Aldridge’s expression pulled into grave lines. “As a matter of fact, he has.”
“Has he learned the identity of the chit?”