The Duke looked grim. “He is a monster.”
“Yes. But he won’t look like a monster. It’s very important that everyone understand that.” She scanned the faces in the room. “He will look no different than you or me.”
“Jesus.” Hilliard drank the rest of the brandy in one gulp.
“Right now the victim is our only connection to the killer,” Kendra said. “We need to find out her identity.”
“I don’t believe she’s from the area. She wasn’t a farmer’s daughter, a servant, or of the working class,” Dalton said slowly.
Kendra looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
“Because of her hands. The palms were not rough. No calluses. No indication she did manual labor.”
Kendra raised her brows, surprised. Soft, smooth hands were so much a part of her world that she hadn’t considered it an anomaly during this time period.
“Could she be a Lady?” Morland wondered, sipping his brandy.
“Doubtful,” said Alec. “If a peer of the realm’s daughter disappeared, there’d be hue and cry by now.”
“Unless the peer in question is afraid of the ensuing scandal,” Morland countered.
Aldridge frowned. “You gentlemen are out and about in society. You didn’t recognize her?”
“She struck me as a bit young to have come out, Duke,” Alec commented.
“She could be some cit’s daughter,” Hilliard speculated.
“No. I don’t believe so.” Dalton cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable again. “I believe she was a prostitute.”
“I say—how’d you know?” The constable’s eyebrows shot up.
“The girl—I estimate her age to be around fifteen—she’d been pregnant, but the child was not brought to term.”
“I see,” Aldridge said slowly.
Alec straightened. “Miscarriage or abortion?”
“Abortion.”
“That would make her a prostitute?” Kendra asked.
All four men seemed to find her question shocking. “Miss Donovan, gently bred women do not procure the services of an abortionist,” was all the Duke said.
Kendra wondered if that was true. In her opinion, if a woman was desperate enough, scared enough, it would drive her to do anything, regardless of laws or societal restrictions.
Dalton continued, “Like her hands, her feet were soft, well-maintained. No calluses, bunions, or other imperfections.”
Morland lifted his brandy glass and muttered, “Sounds like a woman who worked on her back.”
Hilliard was the only one who found his crude jest amusing. Catching the Duke’s reproving stare, he transformed his laugh into a cough, straightening in his chair. “My apologies, gov—er, Your Grace.”
“She was not a street prostitute,” Dalton went on. “She was too . . . soft, I’d say. Streetwalkers are tough and rough. No sign she relied on the drink—or anything else for that matter.”
“Could’ve only begun plying her trade,” Alec suggested. “She’s young enough.”
“By my estimation, the scarring from the pregnancy and abortion is at least two years old.”
“She’d have been only thirteen,” murmured Kendra.
“She probably worked in an academy,” Dalton said.
Kendra looked at him. “An academy?”
“Ah, it’s um—”
“A brothel,” Alec said impatiently. “Or she was some man’s mistress.”
Kendra decided not to comment on what she thought of a man taking a thirteen-year-old mistress. Instead, she said, “Okay, we’ll go with the assumption that she worked as a prostitute. This is as good a starting point as any.” She paused, a little surprised that what she said was actually true.
She had very few expectations when she’d first entered the study. Certainly she wouldn’t be able to rely on her usual arsenal of tools—forensics, FBI databases. Even the media. While the latter could be annoying, it served a purpose—photos of victims could be released in the hope that a John or Jane Doe would be identified.
Her eyes fell on the portrait of a woman and child above the fireplace. An idea occurred to her. “Is there any way we could have someone make a sketch of the victim?” she asked. “If we did that, maybe we could get it to the local newspaper. Someone might recognize her, come forward.”
“Lady Rebecca—” Dalton began.
“Impossible.” Alec gave him a quelling look. “She’d have to view the body to sketch it.”
“Who’s Lady Rebecca?” Kendra asked.
Alec scowled. “A Lady.”
Kendra frowned, although she knew his attitude was the norm in this world. Women of rank were treated little better than china dolls. She remembered reading once that it was not unheard of for ladies to be banned from attending funerals, for fear their delicate sensibilities would shatter.