“You made a spectacle of yourself in front of your betters! I do not know how things are done in America, but this is not done here,” she said in ringing accents. “Here you will behave in the proper fashion. Until I can decide what ought to be done with you, you shall be confined to below stairs. You shall have no contact with the guests or—”
“The Duke requested my presence in his study at five-thirty.” And, yes, Kendra derived a petty satisfaction at the housekeeper’s dumbfounded expression.
Mrs. Danbury regained her composure. “I see. We, of course, must acquiesce to His Grace’s wishes. Until that time, though, I expect you to attend to your duties in the kitchen.” An ice cube would’ve been warmer than the housekeeper’s tone. “And Miss Donovan? I shouldn’t get too complacent if I were you. Lady Atwood is the Duke’s sister. They are quite close. The countess is not happy with your behavior today. His Grace may be amused by you, but mind your step. Your footing here at the castle may not be as solid as you think.”
“She must be dismissed, Aldridge!”
From his position on the Grecian couch, the Duke of Aldridge observed his sister pace off her agitation. At fifty-three, two years his junior, she was still a pretty woman, he thought. She’d gained weight since the time she’d taken London by storm in her first season, thirty-five years ago, but it only served to smooth out the lines on her face. Her hair might not have been as golden, threaded as it was with silver, but she still styled it to the height of fashion, an elegant updo with a Spanish comb to anchor the topknot in place. Her blue eyes still sparkled, although at the moment, that sparkle had more to do with temper than vitality. In the last three years, he’d noticed that she’d begun applying rouge to her cheeks. Today, she could have done away with that artifice, since temper added a becoming flush to her countenance.
“Are you listening to me, Aldridge?” She paused, settling her hands on her hips, glaring at him.
He sighed. Caro only called him by his title when she was in high dudgeon. “I’m listening, my dear. But I fail to see why Miss Donovan should be dismissed.”
“For heaven’s sake. She said that girl was murdered! In front of everyone. She ruined my nuncheon!”
“I suspect the dead girl did that.”
“Don’t be flippant, Bertie!”
Instantly, the Duke sobered. “You’re absolutely correct, Caro. This is not amusing. However, Miss Donovan had the right of it; that poor girl was murdered. If you only knew what had been done to her . . .” His eyes darkened as he remembered the bruises, the cuts . . . the bite mark. What sort of vicious animal were they dealing with? Abruptly, he stood and put his hands on his sister’s shoulders to still her agitated movements. He stared down into the blue eyes so similar in shape and coloring to his own. “It’s not for a lady’s ears. Suffice to say, the girl deserves justice. She most likely has a family out there. They need to know what happened to their girl.”
“Oh, Bertie!” Lady Atwood’s anger evaporated, replaced by a flood of sympathy. Because she knew he wasn’t only thinking of the girl in the lake.
Recognizing the concern, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, squeezed her shoulders once, then let her go. “I’m sorry, Caro. I know this is unfortunate timing with your party. But we cannot ignore it. I’ve sent for a Bow Street Runner.”
“A Runner!” She put a hand to her throat, appalled. “Whatever will our guests think?”
“I’m certain they will be deliciously entertained.”
“They will not!” Yet she couldn’t meet her brother’s eyes, because she suspected that he was correct. Even now, she knew, many of the women were comfortably ensconced in the Chinese drawing room in the guise of working on their needlepoint, gossiping over what had happened down by the lake. Even that silly chit, Georgina, who’d discovered the body, seemed to be enjoying her newfound celebrity, repeatedly sharing her shock and horror. Lady Atwood was well aware that she’d given at least three different versions of the story; each time, her fear had magnified and the description of the dead girl had become more grotesque.
“And the woman—the maid. What did you call her? Kendra Donovan—Irish.” Her lip curled. “Little wonder she’s a troublemaker!”
“Actually, she’s an American.”
“Good heavens—that’s even worse! How can she be so vital to your investigation? An American. A mere servant. A woman!” She sounded incredulous. “’Tisn’t natural!”
“What are you objecting to, Caro? That Miss Donovan is an American, a woman, or a servant?”
The countess’ mouth tightened. “Be reasonable, Bertie. If that girl was murdered—and I’m not so certain that she was—how can Miss Donovan possibly help you?”
“She appears to have some experience in these matters.”
“How can that be? She can hardly be educated, given her station in life.”
Aldridge pursed his lips as he considered what he knew of Kendra Donovan. “I don’t believe we ought to underestimate Miss Donovan,” he said slowly. “You must trust me in this matter, my dear.”