“In other words, her father sold her.”
Rebecca cocked her head and studied Kendra. “Is it any different in America? You may not have titled aristocracy, but I daresay there’s no shortage of ambition—parents willing to use their daughters’ looks to trade up in the world or flaunt their sons’ pedigrees to make a good match with an heiress.”
Kendra thought of America, past and present. No, she couldn’t deny that it wasn’t any different. How else could you explain every sixty-year-old rock star marrying a nineteen-year-old supermodel with the blessing of her parents?
“You’re right. Dynasties have been and will continue to be made one marriage at a time. But I think Mrs. Harris got the bad end of that deal.”
Across the room, one of the young ladies sat down at the harpsichord and began to play Johann Sebastian Bach’s Prelude in C major. This, Kendra realized, was what people did before TV and the Internet: played cards and the piano, talked. Maybe that’s why they drank so much.
“Why do you ask about Mr. Harris?” Rebecca asked.
Kendra shrugged. “He’s the right age, lives in the area, and, if he has access to his wife’s money, he has the means.”
“The moment he married his wife, he had access to her dowry,” Rebecca remarked dryly. “Still, Mr. Harris is married. Surely, he couldn’t have committed such atrocities.”
“You think a marriage license stops a man from being a sociopath?”
“I think a wife would know if her husband was such a fiend.”
“You’d be surprised at the lengths wives will go to delude themselves, or to rationalize what may be occurring right under their nose.” She thought of all the cases where loved ones had lived under the same roof as the serial killer. Many were shell-shocked by the revelation; most refused to believe it until the evidence piled up. And even then, a few still needed a confession before they accepted the facts.
She glanced at Mrs. Harris, who sipped her wine quietly on the sofa and looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there.
“I can’t imagine such willful ignorance,” Rebecca said, shaking her head.
The door opened, and the men came into the room. Their presence was like a jolt of electricity, energizing the women. Fans began fluttering. A few moved forward to intercept the new arrivals. A beautiful blonde—Lady Dover, Kendra remembered—glided over to Alec.
The Duke came toward them, although he was forced to stop here and there to politely converse with those who demanded his attention. When he finally managed to reach them, he smiled at Kendra.
“Miss Donovan, I hadn’t the opportunity to speak with you earlier, but may I say now that you are in exceptional looks this evening. Lady Rebecca had the right notion, hiring you as her companion. This suits you.”
Kendra had to smile. “I don’t think anyone here would agree with you.”
“’Tis a pity, but such is the way for those who are different, Miss Donovan. And you, most delightedly, are different. To quote Voltaire, ‘Our wretched species is so made that those who walk on the well-trodden path always throw stones at those who are showing a new road.’”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather avoid any stone-throwing. Especially if I’m the recipient of said stone-throwing.”
He laughed. “We’ll try to make sure that does not happen.”
Try? Kendra thought. She changed the subject. “Is there any way you can get word to the Bow Street Runner to check on a murder that happened in London five years ago?”
The Duke’s smile disappeared. “What’s this about?”
“Mrs. Harris mentioned a maid who was murdered nearby when they lived in London, on Sutton Street.”
Rebecca frowned. “You can’t possibly think there might be a correlation to that crime and the girl in the lake? London is notorious for its criminal element.”
“That may be, but I’d still like to know the specifics of that crime, and if anyone was caught.” And since she couldn’t pick up a phone or check out the Internet databases, she had to do it this way. The killer wasn’t a novice; he’d been practicing somewhere.
The Duke regarded her steadily for several moments. “I tend to agree with Lady Rebecca, that it would seem an unlikely connection. Still, if you feel it necessary, I shall send word to Mr. Kelly.”
“Thanks.”
“Bertie.” Lady Atwood approached like an elegant yacht in full sail. Kendra’s eyes were drawn to the enormous black ostrich feather that jutted out from the dark purple turban the woman wore. The countess hooked her arm through her brother’s before giving Kendra and Rebecca a chilly nod. “Lady Rebecca . . . Miss Donovan.” She said that, Kendra thought, like she was coughing up a hair ball. “I need to borrow my brother for a game of whist.”