Munroe made use of the bucket of water someone had brought in earlier to scrub the blood off his hands. He glanced over at Kendra. “I must say that I had reservations about allowing a woman to view a postmortem, Miss Donovan. You, however, have been a pleasant surprise.”
The doctor, Kendra realized suddenly, wasn’t the only one who’d been hampered by prejudices. If she were honest, she’d thought little of her nineteenth-century counterparts. She’d judged them and, because they were different, had found them wanting. It shamed her. These people might not have the sophisticated tools of her era, but they were all intelligent. She might not be able to trust them with her time-traveling secret, but she could trust them in this quest for truth and justice.
She smiled. “Right back at you, doc.”
46
Having two women turn up dead didn’t hamper the house party’s festivities, although Kendra noticed that the outdoor nuncheon Lady Atwood had planned for that day was set close to the castle, in the east garden. The garden was walled off, deep green lawn bordered by trees and topiaries that had been trimmed into fantastical geometric shapes. Pretty flagstone footpaths wound around flower beds exploding with a rainbow of color. Tables had already been set up around the lawn, but most of the couples were strolling the walkways rather than sitting.
Kendra watched the ladies with their absurdly small parasols. It took her a minute, but she finally figured out that it was meant more for flirtation than a protection from the sun. That was the root of this entire affair: the house party, the nineteenth century’s version of Match.com.
“Lady Dover has already sunk her claws into Sutcliffe, I see,” Rebecca observed dryly from beside her.
Kendra’s gaze traveled to where Alec stood with the Lady. They made a striking couple, she had to admit. Alec’s dark good looks were the perfect foil for Lady Dover’s golden beauty. She was twirling a tiny lavender parasol that both matched her gown and brought out the violet flecks in her lovely blue eyes. The gown in question clung to Lady Dover’s exquisite figure like a long-lost lover, her alabaster skin—and there was an indecent amount showing, Kendra thought critically—luminous.
“Lord Sutcliffe doesn’t appear to mind,” Kendra said, and hated how snippy she sounded. It was none of her business who Alec was sleeping with, she reminded herself.
“He will if he loses that arm,” Rebecca muttered. “The way she is holding on to it, it’s liable to pop right off.”
Despite her own irritation, Kendra had to laugh. “You don’t like her very much, do you?”
“I loathe her. She is a coldhearted shrew.”
Kendra watched as the woman pressed herself against Alec. Whatever she murmured in his ear caused him to laugh. “I don’t know about her heart, but the rest of her should be cold, wearing a dress like that.” She fingered the ruffled fichu around her throat—a concoction, like a modern day dickey, that Mary had whipped up to tuck into her gown in order to hide the bruises around her throat. “How long have they been involved?” She hadn’t meant to ask that, but once it was out, she couldn’t take it back.
Rebecca didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “According to gossip, since the Season began.”
The Season, Kendra had learned, was the London social calendar that began with the opening of Parliament in January. Seven months, then. “I’m guessing there isn’t a Lord Dover.”
“He expired five years ago, and she’s been having a grand time ever since. I only pray that Sutcliffe is not stupid enough to get himself caught in the parson’s mousetrap. She’d love to land a marquis, especially someone with his prospects.”
Kendra was reminded of her own thoughts last night, that Alec had more than his share of women throwing themselves at him. “You mean because he’s rich.”
“Rich as Croesus. And the Duke’s heir. That’s heady enough to turn any maid’s head—not that that creature needs any incentive. Come along, Miss Donovan. I see the Duke and Dr. Munroe.”
Kendra put Alec and Lady Dover out of her mind—or tried to—and allowed Rebecca to drag her across the lawn to where the two men stood by one of the tables. After the postmortem, they’d locked themselves in the Duke’s laboratory with April Duprey’s clothes and the evidence that Munroe had scraped from her body. Kendra was eager to talk to them about their findings.
“My dear Duke . . . Dr. Munroe,” Rebecca greeted. Then, in her usual brisk way, she asked, “Did you discover anything of significance in your laboratory, sir?”
Aldridge shot a quick glance around, then held out his arm. “Shall we walk . . . away from listening ears?”