“Though dementia has taken its toll on her, Lady Anne bore an uncanny resemblance to our victims when she was younger,” Kendra pointed out.
“Yes, she does, but such coloring is hardly rare,” the Duke said slowly. His eyes lifted to the portrait above the fireplace. “My wife and daughter had similar coloring—as you do yourself, Miss Donovan. Lady Anne’s physical attributes may simply be a coincidence.”
“Maybe. Either way, it’s something to take into account. We also learned something else. You were surprised to see Lady Anne’s mental deterioration.”
Aldridge frowned. “Yes. She has become a recluse, but I had no idea that she was ill. Still, it is not something one would want known.”
“Probably not, but people tend to talk. It’s how Lady Rebecca’s maid knew that Captain Harcourt was looking for a wife. Mr. Morland and his household are remarkably tight-lipped. They know how to keep a secret. I have to wonder what other secrets they might be keeping.”
Everyone was silent as they considered that. Then Sam finished off his whiskey, eyeing the empty glass somewhat mournfully before he pushed himself to his feet. “A couple of me men arrived earlier ter help with inquiries. Unless you have other instructions, Your Grace, I’ll be joining them. Tomorrow night, Hawkings’ll have another cockfight. As it’ll most likely draw the same crowd, I’ll go and see if any of the blokes remember seeing Lord Gabriel or Captain Harcourt last Sunday.”
“Very good, Mr. Kelly.”
After the Bow Street Runner left, Aldridge stood up. “Tomorrow we’ll continue this business. But tonight let us put aside these grim musings. Caro has arranged a dance to follow dinner. Mayhap we can enjoy the rest of the evening, eh?”
Kendra doubted whether she’d enjoy the evening. But if she had any inkling of what was about to happen, she would’ve come up with any excuse to stay behind.
36
A chill of déjà vu raced up Kendra’s arms as she hovered on the sidelines of the grand ballroom. Six days ago, she’d stood in this very spot, watching Sir Jeremy Greene drink champagne beneath a blazing chandelier.
Now Sir Jeremy was dead, and the candles weren’t cleverly designed bulbs, but real candles. The people around her were not playing roles in history—they were history, living, breathing history.
“I see Duke persuaded Rebecca to take a turn on the dance floor.” Alec smiled as he came up beside her, looking outrageously handsome in his bottle-green cutaway coat, creamy cravat, and pantaloons.
She followed his line of sight to where Aldridge and Rebecca were doing some sort of robust dance that involved trotting high steps and multiple partners, their movements timed to the rich flute, piano, and violin notes played by the local musicians Lady Atwood had hired. Among the dancers, Kendra caught sight of Mr. Morland paired with Lady Dover, and Mr. Dalton with Sarah Rawlins. Harris and his wife were not in attendance.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Donovan?”
“God, no.”
He laughed. “You crush me.”
She gave him a look. “I doubt it. I don’t know how to dance.” Like that, she silently amended. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone dancing—probably when she was fifteen and in college, and she’d felt awkward and out of place then. Younger than her college peers. A freak. Another moment of déjà vu.
Alec snagged two champagne flutes from a passing footman, offering her one. Silently, they viewed the dancers spinning by.
“What do you think of my aunt’s little soiree?”
“Colorful.” Kendra smiled slightly. She sipped the champagne as she watched the Duke and Rebecca clasp their hands high in the air, their bodies twisting in an intricate maneuver. “It reminds me of Jane Austen.”
“Jane Austen?”
“Yes. You know . . . Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Persuasion.”
There was something in his silence that made her glance at him. His eyes were fixed on her. Kendra’s smile faded and her mouth grew dry. What if she hadn’t slipped back in time after all, but sideways, into a different dimension? String theory proposed the universe was made up with different membranes or planes of existence, alternate worlds. Maybe Jane Austen had never existed, or she’d existed but had never become a writer. That was the problem with time travel—there was more than one theory, more than one possibility.
She licked her lips. “Maybe . . . maybe I’m wrong about that . . .”
“Pride and Prejudice was quite well received, as I recall,” Alec said slowly. “Rebecca is an admirer of that novel, as well as Sense and Sensibility. You have read them?”
Something was wrong, Kendra knew. But what? If Jane Austen existed in this time line, why was he behaving so oddly?
She swallowed some champagne, trying to think. “Yes.” That seemed a safe enough answer. Except Alec’s green eyes had taken on an intensity that made her palms sweat.
“Do you know the authoress?”
Alarm bells were now ringing. “Why do you ask?”
“’Tis a simple query, Miss Donovan. Do you know the authoress of the novels?”