“I see. And Alec—the marquess’ parents?”
Rebecca’s gaze sharpened, but she answered readily enough. “Both have passed. His mother was an Italian countess, Alexandria—a diamond of the first water. I heard Sutcliffe’s father, Edward, fell in love with her at first sight while on his grand tour. His father—Duke’s—was not happy when his youngest son brought home an Italian bride, no matter how fine her pedigree or how full her family coffers. Alexandria was beautiful, but she was not English.”
“You knew her?”
“No. She died before I was born. But I have seen portraits of her, and heard the tales, which are rather legendary. She had a fiery temperament and had rows against the Duke—not the current Duke, but his father.”
“I get it.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, I understand. How’d she die?”
“A carriage accident. I’ve been told the marquis was inconsolable. And Alec, too.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t good for Gabriel, either.” She thought of Alec’s brother, and wondered if that was at the root of his drinking, his anger issues.
Rebecca lifted her brows. “Oh, Alexandria wasn’t Gabriel’s mother. A year or so after she died, the marquis remarried. Emily Telford. Very English. Very proper.” Rebecca made a face. “A high stickler if there ever was one. She was the youngest daughter of a viscount. I’m certain the Duke was ecstatic when his son married her, but he died less than a year later of some sort of fit. Then Sutcliffe’s father died three years after siring Gabriel. Naturally, as the eldest son, Alec inherited the title and all the estates that were entailed. The marchioness and Gabriel had a town house in London, and Alec, I daresay, gave them a generous allowance in addition to what Lady Emily had from her own inheritance.”
Past tense. “The marchioness is no longer alive?”
“She passed away from consumption six years ago.”
“Is that when Gabriel started drinking?”
Rebecca’s mouth tightened. “You do ask personal questions.”
“They may get even more personal.”
Rebecca stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of you, Miss Donovan.” She sighed. “Gabriel’s behavior is not that unusual for a young buck sowing his wild oats, you know.”
“Maybe, but he seems to be sowing more than wild oats. He seems to have some major issues.”
Rebecca’s brow puckered. “Lady Emily was not an easy woman to be around. Alec . . . I remember she made his life miserable, as well, but he was away at Eton, then Cambridge. Gabriel was not so fortunate. I can’t say I blame him for letting loose now.”
“What about Dalton?”
Rebecca frowned. “Mr. Dalton? I don’t know very much about him other than he comes from good stock in Manchester. His father was a doctor. Mr. Dalton was an army surgeon until he inherited Halstead Hall, one of the neighboring estates.”
“He’s not married?”
“Well . . .” She hesitated, giving Kendra an uncertain look.
“What?”
“’Tis nothing. Old gossip.”
“It could be important.”
“Mr. Dalton was married once. The on dit is his wife died after she fled the country with another man.” Rebecca saw the expression in Kendra’s eyes and hurried on. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss Donovan, but, as I said, that gossip is ancient history. Surely you cannot believe Mr. Dalton’s tragedy has any bearing on this poor unfortunate girl’s demise?”
“Ancient history is usually where a psychosis begins. The unsub has a problem with women.”
Rebecca looked uneasy. “Mr. Dalton isn’t the only man who has had a runaway wife. The whole of England knows how shabbily Lady Caroline has treated her husband by publicizing her passion for Lord Byron.”
It still shook Kendra to have historical names thrown out so casually, a reminder that this wasn’t a dream, that those long-dead figures were alive at this very moment. Christ, I can’t think about it.
“Dalton fits the profile. We need to find out more about his past. What about Morland?”
“Mr. Morland? His family has lived on the neighboring estate for generations—Tinley Park.”
“I need more information than that. Does he have family? Brothers? Sisters? Is he married? Ever been married?”
“Those are a lot of questions,” Rebecca murmured, moving to the sideboard. She poured a glass of claret, then cocked her head at Kendra. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you. Do you have answers to the questions?”
Rebecca eyed her over the rim of her wineglass. “For a maid, you are an imperious sort, aren’t you?” Before Kendra could reply to that, she hurried on. “His grandfather passed a few years back. He was the Earl of Whilmont. His mother is still alive, but has become a recluse. He has no brothers or sisters, and to the best of my knowledge he has never been caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”