They dropped Sam Kelly off at the Bow Street Magistrates’ Office at Number 4 Bow Street, not far from Covent Garden, before proceeding on to Grosvenor Square. It didn’t surprise Kendra that the Duke of Aldridge’s residence was one of the largest in the area, set slightly off the street, featuring a mammoth buff-colored edifice with imposing pale columns that stretched four stories of the five-story building. A wrought-iron balcony stretched across the second floor. The fa?ade was stucco, which had become fashionable in this era thanks to the famous architect John Nash. Parapets circled the roof, hiding the slanted peaks. Light spilled from tall, skinny Georgian sash windows. An oil lantern hung outside the crimson door. Similar lamps flickered like tiny golden dots from the neighboring houses.
The street seemed unnaturally hushed after the clamor they’d encountered in London’s busier thoroughfares. The only sound was the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone and the turn of wheels as the carriage departed after depositing them at the front entrance. From one of the nearby houses, Kendra heard the faint high notes of a harpsichord being played. She imagined the daughter of an aristocrat dutifully sitting in front of the instrument, supplying the evening’s entertainment for her family. God knew, Kendra had been treated to enough evenings with that type of entertainment last month at Lady Atwood’s house party.
They climbed the front steps of the house, where Aldridge paused and pointed. “Lady Dover’s townhouse is located in that section of the square.”
Kendra turned to look, but their line of sight was obstructed by a vast wooded area. Despite the moon, she could barely make out the details of trees and shrubs. It was like staring into an abyss.
“We’ll need a map of London,” she said.
“Of course. And I shall procure a slate board, as well as any other tools you may require.”
The Duke’s butler, Harding, materialized as soon as the Duke had opened the door and they’d stepped into the foyer. The general layout was similar to Alec’s townhome, with a chandelier suspended from the center of the decorative plastered ceiling and stairs at the rear of the house,. The scale, though, was much larger, the style more grand. The floor was a polished pink and gray marble and the walls were plastered and painted white. Gilt-framed mirrors made the foyer seem even larger.
“Good evening, Your Grace, Miss Donovan.” The butler gave a slight bow, his feet whispering across the marble tile as he took the Duke’s hat and gloves. “Lady Atwood and the Marquis of Sutcliffe are upstairs in the drawing room.”
“Excellent. How was the journey, Harding?”
“It went very well, sir. We encountered no difficulties.”
“And the household is settling in?”
“Yes. Lady Atwood is most proficient, sir. She and Mrs. Danbury have things well in hand. The Countess has insisted His Lordship stay until his own household is in order. She’s issued a menu to Monsieur Anton and requested that dinner be served at half past nine—Town hours, sir.”
“Ah. Very good. Thank you, Harding.”
Kendra accompanied the Duke to the second floor—or, rather, the first floor, by English standards. The drawing room they entered had damask wallpaper in yellow and white stripes and bucolic John Constable landscapes. Candles had been lit throughout the room while flames devoured the logs in the elegantly carved white marble fireplace. Two sofas, an assortment of chairs, and gleaming cherrywood side tables were positioned around the room for comfort and convenience.
Lady Atwood was sitting on one of the sofas, sipping sherry. She’d changed into an evening gown, Kendra noticed, an olive green satin with long sleeves. The neckline was square, the bodice decorated with satin ribbons and intricate beadwork, which twinkled in the candlelight. Her hair had been swept into a fashionable top-knot, anchored by a Spanish comb designed with eye-catching emeralds. Alec was standing in front of the fireplace in a contemplative pose, his hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze fixed broodingly on the orange and gold flames in the hearth. Like Lady Atwood, he’d changed for dinner, looking outrageously handsome in a simple white cravat, black coat, and snug trousers. When he glanced around at their entrance, Kendra saw that he’d also shaved.
She felt bedraggled in comparison. It had been a long day—hell, it had been a long year.
“Good evening, my dear.” Aldridge went forward and pressed a kiss on his sister’s forehead. “You’ve done an excellent job with the household.”
The Countess waved the compliment away. “What’s happening, Bertie? Pray tell, did you get these ridiculous charges against Alec dropped?”
“Alec hasn’t been charged,” he reminded her and moved to the credenza, which held a gleaming array of decanters and crystal glasses. “Sherry, Miss Donovan?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“You know what I’m referring to,” Lady Atwood snapped impatiently. “Our nephew is under a dreadful cloud of suspicion. It’s outrageous, and it must be lifted!”
“We are working toward that goal, Caro,” the Duke responded mildly, handing Kendra the glass of sherry.
“What did you learn from Dr. Munroe?” Alec asked.
Aldridge hesitated, flicking a glance at his sister. “This isn’t an appropriate discussion for the drawing room, Alec. Perhaps later, in my study—”
“Nonsense!” Lady Atwood cut him off. A bit more softly, she conceded, “Normally, this would not be a discussion for the drawing room. But I’m not a green girl or a shatter-brained female, likely to swoon or go into the vapors. You and I have always spoken freely with each other, Bertie. You appear to have no difficulty speaking freely with her.”
Kendra stiffened as the Countess shifted to glare in her direction.
Aldridge held up a hand, as though declaring peace. “Very well, my dear. I shall speak freely.” Still, he took a fortifying swallow from his wineglass before continuing. “Lady Dover was stabbed most viciously with what looks to be a stiletto.”
“Good heavens,” Lady Atwood said faintly.
“A stiletto?” Alec frowned. “That’s an uncommon weapon in this modern era. Italian assassins were famous for using them. My mother’s family has many on display at their palazzo in Venice.”
Kendra eyed him over her wineglass. “Are the weapons still with your mother’s family?”
“Naturally.”
“Then you might want to keep quiet about that,” she advised. “You’re already under suspicion of Lady Dover’s murder. The authorities don’t need to know that the Italian side of your family collects the same weapon that was used to kill her.”
“I hardly went to Venice to borrow one. What else did you learn?”
“Based on the number of wounds, this was personal,” Kendra said. “The killer also cut her face postmortem.” She frowned as she summoned up a mental image of Lady Dover’s savaged face. The injury had been a mark—not the teeth marks that serial killers enjoyed placing on their victims, like the monster from a month ago, who’d scored his victim’s flesh with a single bite mark to the breast. But the cutting had been a mark, nevertheless. It meant something. What?
“The facial damage was not done in the heat of the moment,” she continued quietly. And because her throat had grown dry, she took another sip of sherry. “But I think it was impulsive.”
Aldridge eyed her with surprise. “How can it be both calculating and impulsive?”