“Yes. But someone could’ve seen you.”
He hesitated, then sighed, crossing the room to a table. It took a moment of dipping quill in ink, scribbling the names down, and sanding the paper. He handed the list to the Duke, but looked at Kendra when he spoke. His eyes were hard.
“I would not want my tenants harassed, Miss Donovan.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dalton’s home, Halstead Hall, was pure British Georgian: weathered red brick, white trim cornice, and sash windows, boxes, and lintels were an advertisement for stately elegance mired in tradition. The lawn, trees, and courtyard were ruthlessly neat and utterly symmetrical. Kendra wondered what that said about Dalton, if it said anything at all. He’d inherited the estate, so the order and control reflected in the mansion and its grounds may have more to do with past occupants than the present one.
As the carriage crunched to a halt, the white-paneled front door swung open, revealing the butler and a footman. For an era that had no satellite technology or surveillance cameras, no cell phone cameras to record a person’s every move, Kendra was impressed at how little seemed to get past the servants’ eyes.
Servants were vital strands woven into the fabric of this time. The grand manor houses and their corresponding grounds would cease to function without the chambermaids who emptied the chamber pots, the scullery maids who scrubbed the dishes and oiled the stoves, the footmen who carried in the kindling for the fireplaces and lit the candles, the gardeners who tended the grounds. In the English textile factories, the Industrial Revolution was just beginning, but it would be another hundred years before this particular workforce would find itself diminished and made obsolete by machines. Despite how heavily the upper class relied on the lower classes, Kendra knew it was the lowly worker who worried most about losing their job. She wondered if someone had observed the murderer, either leaving or returning. And if they had, would they risk their livelihood by talking?
They went through the calling card ritual. The footman returned with official word that Dalton was “at home.”
He was waiting for them in a drawing room, looking like he’d just stepped inside himself. His dark, ash-blond hair was windblown, his cravat slightly mussed. The brown tweed jacket, darker brown breeches, and well-worn Hessian boots gave him the look of a proper English country gentleman. Faint circles shadowed his eyes, though, and Dalton flicked Kendra a guarded look, obviously still remembering their last encounter.
“Your Grace, Miss Donovan, I was out in the stables when I got word of your arrival. Checking the foal.” He summoned a smile. “Would you like refreshments?”
“No, thank you,” the Duke declined. “This isn’t a social call.”
“This is about the girl in the lake?”
“No. I’m afraid another woman has been found on my lands. Murdered.”
“My God. I shall gather my tools for the postmortem—”
“No, that will not be necessary this time. I’ve sent for a London surgeon.”
“I see.” Something flickered in his gaze, but was gone so quickly that Kendra could only wonder at the emotion. “I appreciate you coming here to deliver the news yourself, sir.”
Aldridge kept his eyes on the younger man. “Pray do not take offense, Mr. Dalton, but we must ask you a few questions.”
Dalton nodded slowly. “I see,” he said again. “Please, won’t you be seated?” Once they had settled on the sofa, he said, “Miss Donovan has already quizzed me as to my whereabouts last Sunday. I suppose this visit will be in the same vein?”
“It would help if you have an alibi for yesterday,” she admitted.
He said nothing for a long moment. “I cannot help but dislike the implication that I could have committed these crimes.”
“We’re not accusing you,” she emphasized. “This is standard procedure.”
His brow puckered in confusion. There was nothing standard about having a paid companion accompany a duke to question him about a murder, after all. But he spoke. “Very well. I spent yesterday morning in the stables, with the foal. My head groom and several stable hands can vouch for me. In the afternoon, my housekeeper packed a basket of food and I went fishing along the river, where I spent the remainder of the day.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. ’Tis one of the many benefits of living in the country, Miss Donovan.”
“Did you catch anything?”
“No.”
“I thought the point of fishing was to catch something to eat.”
He gave her a cool look. “Not necessarily. Fishing relaxes me.”
“And nobody saw you?”
“Not that I am aware.”
“What about last night, after, say, eleven?”
“I retired for the evening at that time.”
“Alone?”
He flushed. “Of course.”
“Do you know a woman by the name of April Duprey?”
He frowned. “I do not recall the name.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite certain.”