The left side of her face, however, was far more gruesome. The fiend had actually cut—no, that word implied some skill. The fiend had hacked away at the skin, filleting it in a ragged manner so that it flapped down against her jaw, leaving the bloody pulp, bone, and even a few teeth beneath exposed.
Sam’s mind immediately flashed to Kendra Donovan, the lass he’d worked with a month ago at Aldridge Castle to solve a series of grisly murders. The American had been a puzzle, both in her behavior and in her peculiar expertise in criminality. What would she make of this?
“I’ve sent for the sawbones, but the Lady was stabbed, obviously,” William said, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. “Looks like a dozen times, at least. I only hope to God she was dead before he did that to her face.”
Sam asked, “What sawbones?”
“Dr. Munroe. He’s the best.”
“Aye. That he is.” Sam dragged his gaze away from the woman’s shocking visage. Immediately his eyes were drawn to the large portrait above the fireplace.
“She was a diamond of the first water, wasn’t she?” William said, eyeing the portrait as well.
She’d indeed been a beauty. The artist had painted her fancifully, sitting on a swing in a lush garden setting. Her face was a creamy oval, framed by waves of golden hair. Her eyes, a striking violet shade, stared down at them. The rosebud mouth was curved into a small, provocative smile. A temptress, Sam recognized. Eve in the Garden of Eden. He wondered if that had been the artist’s intention, or if he was imagining the connection.
He forced himself to turn away from the painting to survey the room. The décor was too feminine for his tastes, with lots of gilt, ornate moldings, and soft pastel colors. The carpet was woven in blue, purple, and gold. The rest of the furniture matched the sofa in its Grecian style. There was a small writing desk in the corner, a side table that sparkled with decanters and glasses, and a painted pianoforte positioned in front of the Palladian windows.
“What’s this?” he asked, moving over to one of the chairs. It held precisely three items: an ivory fan, painted gold and light blue, its spokes broken and bent; an ornate hair comb that glittered with rubies and moonstones; and a heavy roemer.
“We found them under the sofa,” William said, coming to stand beside him. “Most likely they fell in the attack and got kicked underfoot.”
Sam picked up the roemer, and sniffed it. Whiskey. Frowning, he did another slow scan of the room. Like the entrance hall, the tapers were nearly gone in the chandelier and wall sconces. The log in the carved marble fireplace had been reduced to a pile of fiercely burning embers. But he could imagine how the scene had looked hours earlier, the fire and candles bathing the room in its radiance while the Lady sat facing her killer.
She’d dressed up for him in the low-cut gown, he thought; styled her hair with this jeweled comb. The fan was a tool of flirtation, and he could envisage the woman in the oil painting using it with considerable expertise. Had she also held the glass, sipping the whiskey? Doubtful. It wasn’t a lady’s drink. So had she prepared it for her killer?
“She had ter have invited the bastard inside. What’s the poor lass’s name?” Sam asked.
“Lady Dover—Lady Cordelia Dover.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “The devil, you say!”
“You know her?”
Sam hesitated. “Nay,” he finally said. “I’ve never actually had dealings with her. But she was a guest at the Duke of Aldridge’s house party a month ago.”
“I heard you did some work for His Grace.” William gave Sam a speculative look. “Also heard a tale of a monster on the loose, strangling whores.”
“’Tis true enough,” Sam remarked. There was a lot more to the story, of course. None of which he could share with the night watchman.
“You caught the fiend then?”
“Aye,” Sam replied simply. Kendra Donovan had actually been responsible for catching and killing the bastard, but Sam had promised the Duke to keep quiet about her involvement in the investigation, as well as the identity of the real killer. He was dead. Justice had been done.
Frowning, he glanced at the body of Lady Dover and vowed to get justice for her too.
“Who found the body, and when?” he asked.
“The housekeeper, Mrs. Pierson. She returned an hour ago. When she saw the body, she ran out, screaming for the Watch.”
“I guess it was your luck ter be on duty.”
“Jack Norton was the one patrolling the area,” William said, “but he summoned me.”
“Where are the other servants?”
“Lady Dover sent everyone away until the morrow. Mrs. Pierson only returned because she’d forgot her medicine. Thought she’d sneak in—the back door was open—and found her mistress like that.”
“The back door was open? This ain’t the work of a housebreaker.” Sam’s gaze drifted back to the mutilated face.
“No,” agreed William.
Sam thought he knew the answer, but had to ask anyway. “Why’d Lady Dover send her servants away?”
“She was expecting someone and wanted their meeting to be private.”
Sam nodded. It was as he suspected. The room had all the fixings of a romantic rendezvous. “What’s his name? The servants must know.”
“Aye.”
Sam became aware of a certain anxiousness in the other man’s manner. “Well? Who is he then?”
“I’d rather you talk to Mrs. Pierson.”
Sam frowned. Now what’s this about? he wondered.
William gestured for Sam to follow him out of the drawing room. They were silent as they descended the two flights of stairs to the kitchen. A night watchman stood inside, and looked visibly relieved at their entrance. Sam suspected that had to do with the woman sitting at the round wooden table, sobbing uncontrollably. She was still wearing her sturdy wool coat and plain bonnet, which partially obscured her face. The rest was concealed by the handkerchief she was sniveling into.
“Oi got Mrs. Pierson a cuppa tea, like ye asked, gov’ner, but she ’asn’t ’ad a drop,” the young man informed them.
William nodded and moved forward to lay a hand on the woman’s shoulder. She jerked slightly and glanced up with watery blue eyes. Sam estimated her to be in her mid-thirties. She might’ve even been attractive, if her features hadn’t been so red and swollen from her crying jag.
William spoke gently. “Mrs. Pierson . . . a Bow Street Runner is here to ask you questions.”
The drenched eyes swiveled in Sam’s direction. “Oh, it was horrible, sir! I’ve never seen anything . . . a-anything like it! Her face . . .” The woman shuddered. “Lady Dover was ever so beautiful. Why would he do that?”
“Your mistress was meeting a man tonight.” Sam decided to get right to the point. “Do you know his name?”