The ride to Lady St. James’s townhouse took approximately twenty minutes, mainly because of the heavy congestion in the streets, which included several wagons carrying containers of coal, drums filled with salted meat, and kegs of ale. Then came another eight minutes of waiting, as Lady Atwood gave her calling card to her coachman, who in turn presented it to Lady St. James’s butler. The card had Lady Atwood’s name and title glazed elegantly on it, along with information regarding her own “At Home” days—dates and times when Lady Atwood would be available to receive visitors at the Duke’s residence.
Mentally, Kendra followed the card’s journey as the butler disappeared into the house. The servant would carefully place it on a silver salver, which he then would carry to wherever Lady St. James was located—most likely a drawing room—where she would read it and send back her response.
No one was surprised when word came back that Lady St. James was at home and would be delighted to receive them.
Inside the entrance hall, Lady Atwood paused long enough to peer into a crystal dish that held more than a dozen calling cards. Then she smiled and swept ahead.
Kendra shot Rebecca an inquiring look.
“The staff is always instructed to put the day’s most important visitor’s calling card on top, in full view.” Rebecca explained softly. “’Tis a way to impress others who may come calling. Lady Atwood’s card is obviously the one on top.”
It was silly, of course. But no more silly than buying a bigger car, house, diamond ring, or rare painting to show off one’s status to neighbors, friends, and family. Human beings had been trying to outdo each other since they’d begun etching their drawings onto cave walls.
The butler escorted them into a drawing room that Kendra could only describe as fussy. It was as though Lady St. James couldn’t decide which of the era’s popular trends that she liked, so she’d included them all—a mélange of Chinese and Indian motifs, with Dutch chintz. The furniture reflected Grecian, Egyptian, Roman, and more Chinese influences.
The overdone, over-the-top fashion applied to the woman herself, who appeared never to have met a ruffle that she didn’t like. Kendra counted at least four flounces edging the hem of her bright, yellow-and-orange-striped skirt, two ruffle tiers on her sleeve, and one flopping around her square neckline. The large lace cap that she wore over graying brown curls struck Kendra as one giant ruffle.
Introductions were made, and then tea and small butter cakes were brought in while Lady St. James regaled them with the tale of how she and Lady Atwood had been diamonds of the first water during their debut season twenty-five years earlier. Between bites of cake and small sips of tea, the aristocrat waxed nostalgic on their successful matches. Lord St. James had passed away three years ago, but her union had produced eight children.
“All successfully married, thank heavens,” Lady St. James finished, offering them a smug smile.
Kendra listened, still bemused by the concept of having such a large family. It was the norm in this era, though so, too, were children who never survived infancy or childhood. There were also methods of birth control, she knew. She’d read about an excavation at England’s Dudley Castle that had unearthed a sewer filled with condoms made from animal membranes that dated back to the seventeenth century. Most likely, men wore them to protect themselves against venereal diseases, which, in this pre-antibiotic time, could lead to insanity or death. She doubted they were worn as a consideration to women to prevent pregnancy. And she imagined that married couples didn’t give any thought to them at all.
What about Lady Dover? Kendra wondered. She’d been married and then a widow for five years, during which time she’d taken lovers. But she hadn’t become pregnant until three months ago. For the first time, Kendra considered the timing. Had Lady Dover deliberately gotten pregnant to use the child as leverage against her lover, to try to force him into marriage?
“I do not recall the Duke of Aldridge having a ward,” Lady St. James was saying, and eyed Kendra as though she was another slice of butter cake. “You must be . . . what? Four and twenty?”
“Actually, twenty-six,” Kendra said, picking up her teacup.
“’Twas a pact made by my brother and Miss Donovan’s father years ago, before he immigrated to America,” Lady Atwood lied smoothly. “Aldridge could hardly turn his back on Miss Donovan when she showed up at his door.”
“No, no. Certainly not. And with the Duke’s name lending Miss Donovan support, she ought to make an admirable match—despite her advanced age.”
Kendra had just taken a swallow of tea and promptly choked on it. “Excuse me?”
“Do not fret, my dear. You may not be fresh out of the schoolroom, but I dare say Lady Atwood shall find an appropriate husband for you.”
It took Kendra a moment to find her voice. “Thanks, but I’m not looking for a husband.”
Lady St. James laughed as though Kendra had just told a joke. “My dear . . . of course, you are.”
“No, I—”
“What Miss Donovan is trying to say is that our stay in London has been overshadowed by this ugliness with my nephew,” Lady Atwood cut in. “I’m certain you’re cognizant of the unpleasantness?”
“Yes, I had heard. Perfectly outrageous, of course.” Lady St. James’s mouth pursed in sympathy, but she couldn’t quite conceal the gleam in her eye. Kendra had no doubt that whatever was said here would be making the rounds when Lady St. James met with her friends later, and most likely with a few embellishments. “Pray tell, how is the Marquis handling everything?”
“As well as can be expected, given the falsehood.”
“Lord Sutcliffe is only a suspect because of his previous friendship with Lady Dover,” Rebecca said carefully, setting down her teacup. “But as we all know, Lady Dover had many other friendships.”
Lady St. James took the bait. “Heavens, yes. And she was quite brazen about them too. Why, less than a fortnight ago, the creature made a spectacle of herself at the theater. I was there when it happened. I’d gone to watch Mr. Edmund Kean’s performance. He was said to be utterly brilliant as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. But poor Mr. Kean was quite overshadowed by the theatrics offstage.”
Kendra perked up. Now they were getting somewhere. “What happened?”
“Lady Dover had the utter audacity to come to the theater wearing jewels that have been in the Weston family for generations!”
“Well, how did she . . . no!” Lady Atwood set her teacup down with a rattle.