“Miss?” Molly approached, and Kendra paused to listen. “’Is Grace is askin’ fer ye.”
The kitchen was a place of steady noise and movement, a constant din always in the background. None of that stopped, but Kendra was aware of the eyes that swiveled in her direction. Carefully, she laid down the knife on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron as she followed the tweeny out into the hall.
She expected Molly to usher her to the study, or even the Duke’s lab. Instead, the maid brought her to the schoolroom, gesturing at the door.
“They’re in there, miss.”
Kendra nodded. “Thanks, Molly.”
She rubbed suddenly sweaty palms against her apron, drew in a deep breath, and pushed open the door. Aldridge and Alec were standing in front of the slate board, but as soon as she entered, they swung around to stare at her. She tried to figure out what they were thinking. With Alec, it was impossible. He was frowning, but that was his normal expression, as far as Kendra was concerned. His green eyes hid his thoughts well.
The Duke was a little easier to read—he looked uneasy. “I see you’ve begun your observations.”
Kendra moved into the room. “Yes, sir.”
“’Tis a gruesome business that you’ve written.”
Kendra wondered if she was being sensitive, or if there was a reproving note in his voice. But then he turned back to the slate board. “I see you crossed out ‘mission-oriented.’”
“Yes, sir. Prostitutes are a common target of mission-oriented killers. They see them as blights on humanity. They believe they’re doing God’s work by eliminating them.”
The Duke frowned. “That’s absurd.”
“It’s a psychosis—but one we don’t have to worry about here, because we’re not dealing with that type of killer. We’re dealing with something far worse.” Because there was a chill in the room—at least that’s what she told herself—Kendra hugged her arms across her chest. “The pain inflicted premortem was designed to torture the girl. The rape and strangulation, being handcuffed . . . it makes a statement: I’m in control here; I have power here. Power over you; control over you. For however many hours she lived, the killer was her whole world. She would’ve begged and pleaded, and that would have only excited him.”
“Good God.”
“He doesn’t believe he’s helping God. He believes he is God. He had the power of her life and death in his hands. What we’re dealing with—” She broke off as the door to the schoolroom swung open again, and the woman with the pockmarked face that Alec had escorted to the nuncheon yesterday strode in.
She wasn’t wearing a bonnet, so Kendra could see that her hair was a beautiful auburn, pulled into the style that Georgina and Sarah had demanded she produce the previous morning. Her eyes were a cornflower blue and held a determined gleam, especially when Alec hurried toward her.
“Rebecca! What the devil are you doing here?”
She smiled up at him. “I heard you were here, of course.”
“How did y—”
“Mary.”
He scowled. “The woman’s a bloody gossip.”
Rebecca grinned. “Naturally. ’Tis one of the prerequisites to being a lady’s maid.” She shrugged off his detaining hand, and came to stand before Kendra. “You are Miss Donovan.”
Kendra was surprised by the woman’s forthright manner, the laser-like directness of her gaze. Yesterday, Sarah and Georgina had looked through her most of the time. This woman actually saw her, studied her with frank curiosity.
“Yes. Kendra Donovan.”
Alec’s mouth compressed. “You are turning into a hoyden, Becca.”
“My dear Sutcliffe, I have been a hoyden for years.”
“Lady Rebecca, this is really not for your ears,” the Duke offered his own protest. “Alec shall escort you—”
“Stuff and nonsense! My ears have spent hours in the stables. I’m not a green girl, you know.” She turned toward the slate board. “This is about the girl who was killed, is it not?”
“Becca—”
“Oh, don’t look so Friday-faced, Alec! If Miss Donovan is allowed to stay, I don’t know why I should be sent from the room. I am not a child—I’m three and twenty.” She gave both men an arch look. “And I seem to recall you applauding my study of Mary Wollstonecraft’s work. You have always encouraged my artistic and intellectual pursuits.”
“For God’s sakes, Becca, we are not having a theoretical discussion in Duke’s study or the drawing room,” Alec argued impatiently. “This is not an exercise in women’s rights.”
“Oh, but that is exactly what it is, Sutcliffe!” She was no longer smiling, and her blue eyes narrowed. “For the first time, we can take the discussion out of the theoretical and apply it to the real world. Unless you were gammoning me.”
Kendra had to admire the woman. She’d neatly turned the tables on the men. If this were the twenty-first century, Lady Rebecca would’ve made a good lawyer.