“I’m sorry.”
“I am not asking for your sympathy, Miss Donovan. Or pity.” Rebecca set down the figurine she held and deliberately moved over to where one of the oil lamps was burning, positioning herself so that the light slid mercilessly over her disfigured face, so that she was grotesque.
“Children can be cruel. I may be the daughter of an earl, but that doesn’t guarantee friendship. It did not stop the teasing and name-calling. Alec defended my honor with his wits and sometimes, his fists. It did not stop the viciousness when he was absent, but he was my white knight.”
Kendra remembered the first morning, when Sarah had talked about getting sick because she had to sit opposite Rebecca. She suspected that the cruelty hadn’t stopped with childhood, it had just become more underhanded. Human beings had an almost limitless supply of malice.
“I understand how protective you must feel toward Lord Sutcliffe,” she said slowly.
Rebecca waved that away impatiently. “Mayhap I do feel the need to come to his defense as he always came to mine. But that is not why I’m telling you this. A young lad—Alec was sixteen at the time—who has the compassion to rescue a little girl from the evil taunts of her playmates, to spend time with her to alleviate her loneliness, could never grow up to be the man, the monster, you have described.”
She walked to the slate board and stared at it for a few minutes before turning to look at Kendra. She used her fan as a pointer. “This is a man who hates women. This man could never have been the boy who provided succor to a young child in need.”
“I agree.”
Rebecca looked surprised. “You believe me?”
“It’s not a question of me believing you. It’s logistics. I saw Alec—Lord Sutcliffe—myself in this room on the night of the murder. It’s highly unlikely that he’d have left here to torture and kill the girl.”
“Highly unlikely, but not impossible.”
“He fits the profile,” she conceded. “And I can’t afford to let personal feelings”—she thought of the sharp tug of attraction she’d felt earlier—“stop me from doing my duty.”
“Apparently the duties of a maid are much more expansive in America,” Rebecca remarked drily, then let out a frustrated sigh. “I confess, Miss Donovan, that I am finding it difficult to believe that someone from my class did this horrendous thing!”
“No one wants to think that someone they know is capable of cold-blooded murder,” Kendra agreed, not without sympathy. “But we can’t ignore the facts, either.”
Rebecca scowled. “Facts. You don’t have any facts, Miss Donovan. You—we—only have supposition.”
“Based on deductive reasoning. We’re looking for someone who has the means to hire a high-class prostitute, transport her to the country, and—”
“Yes, yes, we’ve already discussed this,” Rebecca waved her hand holding the closed fan impatiently. “You could be describing the Duke.”
“No. The Duke was here as well that night. We’re also looking for a much younger man. Someone between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five.”
Rebecca stared at her. “How, pray tell, do you know that?”
“Age is the most difficult thing to identify with an unsub. However, what was done to that girl—both in luring her out and the killer’s brutality—shows a level of sophistication. It takes time for this type of killer to develop their fantasies, which means the unsub isn’t too young. At the same time, the longer an unsub gets away with his aberrant behavior, the more confident he becomes. And the more disorganized he becomes. The Duke is an older man. I believe if he were responsible, this wouldn’t be the first time you would have found a dead woman in the area. We’re dealing with someone who is comfortable, but not complacent with his success. Besides . . .”
“Besides . . . what?”
“I can’t imagine the Duke hurting anyone,” she admitted, and laughed softly. “Which is the worst reason for ruling anyone out.”
Rebecca smiled. “As I happen to know the Duke, I agree. He is one of the kindest men on earth.” She glanced up at the portrait above the fireplace. “Did you know that his daughter was only a few years older than I? I’ve been told we were great playmates when we were infants. I do not remember her.” She wandered over to the ornate globe that came up to her waist, spinning it with her fingertips. “My father and the Duke were schoolmates at Eton and later Cambridge. They maintained their friendship. The Duke’s my godfather, which is why I’ve spent so much time here at the castle.”
“Are your parents dead?”
“My, you are blunt, aren’t you?” Rebecca laughed. “No. My parents are touring my father’s sugar plantations in Barbados. The Duke—or rather, the countess—was kind enough to invite me to her house party. She has one every year at the end of the Season.”