Sam gave a snort. “Better than a meetin’ with the King, Miss. Poor mad bloke.”
Kendra swallowed hard. As always, it made her stomach twist to remember that the head of the British monarchy during this time was King George III. Although, technically, she supposed his son, George IV, was Great Britain’s ruler now. He’d become Prince Regent a couple of years ago, when his father succumbed either to mental illness or a blood disease called porphyria. Experts in the twenty-first century were still debating that one.
Because such thoughts always gave her a headache, she turned her focus back to the investigation as they entered the study. It was a smaller, brighter version of the Duke’s retreat at Aldridge Castle.
The light maple bookcases were filled mostly with books, plus a handful of knickknacks—Chinese figurines, carved in ivory and bamboo, mixed with classic white-and-blue Wedgwood trinket boxes and Greek vases. A large desk was positioned in one corner, the fireplace in another. A trio of windows allowed the sunlight to spill across two tufted, damask sofas with scrolled armrests and stout legs carved into a griffin’s talons. Three similarly styled chairs completed the grouping.
Harding had set up the slate board next to the rosewood table and chairs. There was a box on the floor. Inside the box was a map of London, sheets of foolscap, and a smaller container filled with pastels and pieces of slate. Not exactly the high-tech world she was used to, but it worked—surprisingly well, in fact.
They unrolled the large map with its intricate network of streets on the table. Aldridge put four heavy brass candlesticks on each corner to keep it from curling.
“There—that’s Lady Dover’s residence.” Sam jabbed his finger on the spot.
Kendra had to squint to read the spidery printing. “Okay.” She selected a red pastel, and marked the location. “Where’s Lord Dover’s club?”
“I believe it’s in this vicinity,” said the Duke, circling an area with his finger.
It took a few minutes to find. When they located it, Kendra marked it in blue.
“What about Upper Brook Street, Number 52?” she wondered, and Aldridge pointed it out.
“Not far from Lady Dover’s townhouse,” Kendra observed, tracing the line with her finger. “Still, his window of opportunity is pretty tight. I’m not sure he would’ve had the time to kill his stepmother between leaving his club at ten and arriving home at eleven—assuming he’s telling us the truth about those times.”
“I’ll send me men ter look for the hackney driver, but I would be careful about puttin’ ter much hope there,” Sam said. “Picking up gentlemen near their clubs and dropping them off at home is what they do every evenin’.”
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Harding had slipped silently into the study. “Miss Marat has arrived. I have put her in the drawing room, and await your instructions.”
“Thank you, Harding. We shall be there shortly,” Aldridge told the butler, and then glanced at Kendra and Sam. “Let us hope that Miss Marat will be able to provide the answers we are seeking about Lady Dover’s background.”
Miss Marat was a pale, slender woman, with Viking blond hair she’d arranged with one section up in a top knot and the rest dangling in fat sausage curls that framed her plain, narrow face. Blue eyes peered out at them from between very long, very fair lashes, which she fluttered in a manner that was far too coquettish for a lady’s maid. Kendra had learned a month ago that the prerequisite for being a good servant was to blend in with the furniture. She’d failed miserably in that role.
Kendra thought those lashes would be Miss Marat’s most memorable characteristic, until the woman opened her mouth and spoke with the most atrocious fake French accent that Kendra had ever heard. Nails-on-a-chalkboard bad. So bad that Kendra couldn’t bear listening to the woman massacre one more vowel with her exaggerated pronunciation.
She interrupted the maid in the middle of thanking the Duke for sending his coach to retrieve her, which apparently had caused some excitement at the inn she was currently staying, by saying, “Merci de nous avoir ru?us, Mlle Marat. Voulez vous continuer en Fran?ais? Ou ferions nous mieux d’arrêter de faire semblant que vous ma?trisex cette langue et passer à l’Anglais à la place?”
Miss Marat froze.
Aldridge’s lips twitched, but he managed to keep a straight face. “I believe what Miss Donovan is trying to say is that we are aware that French lady’s maids are highly sought after by the Ton, but we would prefer a more candid interview. You are not French, are you, Miss Marat?”
Miss Marat looked at him, and whatever she saw in his eyes had her slowly relaxing. Kendra had to give the Duke points for diplomacy. He’d have made an excellent good cop in an interview, soothing the frazzled nerves of witnesses or lulling criminals into a false sense of security.
“Lady Dover set great store in having a proper lady’s maid,” she admitted. “But Oi’m originally from Twickenham, sir.”
“You fooled Lady Dover into thinking you were French?” Kendra asked in amazement. Had the woman been deaf?
“Ack, no. Lady Dover knew Oi weren’t no froggy. They were too hoity-toity for her tastes, she said. She only liked me to pretend because it’s fashionable, like you said, Your Grace.”
Kendra suspected that the pretense included Miss Marat’s last name, but let it go. Miss Marat’s background wasn’t the one she was interested in.
“How long did you work for Lady Dover?” she asked.
“Ever since her husband, His Lordship, cocked up his toes. She got in all new staff, she did. Didn’t much care for the old ones that His Lordship had. She said that they were very high on the instep.”
Which was another way of saying hoity-toity, Kendra supposed. “Do you know how long Lady Dover and his wife were married?”
Miss Marat frowned. “No. Can’t say Oi ever thought about it. Why?”
“Did Lady Dover talk about her past? What she did, where she lived before she met her husband? Her family?”
“No.”
“Her family never came to visit her?”
“No. Never,” Miss Marat said slowly, and in such a way that Kendra suspected it was just occurring to her that this might be odd.
“How’d she get along with Lord Dover—her stepson?”
“Oh, that one! Lady Dover didn’t like him at all. He was a stuffed shirt, she said. But Oi thought—” She stopped abruptly.
“You thought what?”
“Nothin’.” Her eyes flicked to Sam.
“Whatever you say shall go no further than this room,” promised Aldridge. “And it may help us find whoever hurt your mistress.”
The maid hesitated, then gave a small nod. “’Tis nothin’, really. Just . . . well, Lady Dover was lovely. Better than lovely, she was. She wasn’t used to any gentleman that didn’t fall for her charms, if ye know what Oi mean.”