Kendra heard the skeptical note in Sam’s voice. “You don’t believe them?”
His shoulders twitched in another shrug. “I don’t know, just a feeling. They were both very certain, and in my experience, folks are never that certain. But can’t say I blame them. Both the housekeeper and butler are older; they might worry about findin’ another job if they lost their current positions. Either way, I’d like ter find the hackney driver that His Lordship hailed ter see what he says. I’ve got me men on it.”
Kendra said, “Lady Dover was killed after eight and before eleven. If Lord Dover left at ten, that’s not much time to get to his stepmother’s to kill her before returning home. Of course, that’s assuming the porter at his club got the time right. Have you learned anything more about Lady Dover’s townhouse being robbed?”
“Nay. Me men are still making the rounds. Why?”
“I want to know if the Weston necklace was stolen, or if the unsub took it.”
“The Weston necklace?”
Of course, Sam hadn’t been in the room earlier. After Kendra had updated him about Lady Dover wearing the Weston family jewels to the theater, he nearly gave a low whistle, but caught himself from the vulgar act.
“It sounds like Lord Weston had a very good reason ter kill his mistress,” he said instead.
Kendra jiggled the slate, her eyes drifting back to the slate board. “I’d say the whole damn family had a reason to want the woman dead.”
17
Jeans. Sneakers. Zippers. God, chocolate—the kind that you didn’t just drink, but was poured over nuts and nougat and molded into candy bars to be savored later. PMS-suffering women would have to wait at least another three decades for their chocolate bar fix.
Kendra missed all of those things. But, most of all, she missed her FBI badge, and the status it brought her. Here, she had to rely on the Duke of Aldridge’s power. But even he couldn’t knock on a fellow peer of the realm’s door at nine P.M. so his ward could interview him about his mistress’s murder. Apparently, investigations in London that involved so-called polite society required a lot more finesse than those in the vicinity of Aldridge Castle, where the Duke was the largest landowner and thus held more clout. Here, they’d need a strategy.
It was actually Lady Atwood who came up with one when they—all but Sam—sat down for dinner. The Bow Street Runner had left to pursue his inquiries, or so he’d said. Kendra suspected that he’d left because the Countess intimidated him. She couldn’t blame him for that. Hell, she wished she’d gone with him.
“The Digby Ball,” Lady Atwood said, and gave a definitive nod.
The Duke paused in the act of spearing a tender asparagus stalk with his fork and peered across the candlelit, darkly paneled dining room at his sister. “Pardon? What’s this about a Digby Ball, Caro?”
“I have been sorting the invitations we have received since our arrival in town. One is from Lord and Lady Digby, who are having a ball tomorrow evening. The on dit is that they will be announcing the engagement of their daughter to Sir Basil Radcliffe. I am certain most everyone in Town shall be attending.” She gave them a meaningful look. “Lord Weston most likely will be in attendance.”
“Ah.” Aldridge gave a nod. “I have not made the acquaintance of Lord Weston, but this shall be an excellent way to make my introduction.”
“Will the rest of the Weston family be there?” Kendra asked, slicing into the filet of beef and sauce Périgueux that the Duke’s temperamental French chef, Monsieur Anton, had prepared. Having worked in the kitchens, Kendra knew the chef was high-strung and hostile toward the other servants—especially since he didn’t classify himself as such—but when the savory steak almost melted on her tongue, she knew why the Duke kept the Frenchman on staff. He was a wizard in the kitchen.
“I’m not certain of the two married daughters, as they have their own households,” Lady Atwood replied. “But the middle child, certainly. And most likely the Viscount, if he is looking for a bride. Lady Weston . . .” She gave a dainty shrug. “She has to come out of her bedchamber eventually. Lady Digby would be over the boughs if the woman used her fete to make her first appearance in society since that embarrassing incident at the theater.”
Alec had brought a poultice to the table and was now pressing it against his swollen eye. Amusement gleamed in his good eye. “If you think cockfighting is a bloody sport, Miss Donovan, you haven’t seen the Ton’s tabbies circling some hapless victim,” he drawled. “Never let their polite manners fool you.”
“I never do.”
“Obviously we do not have enough time to engage a dancing master for you, Miss Donovan,” the Countess put in.
“Thank God,” Kendra muttered, picking up her wineglass.
Lady Atwood’s eyes narrowed. “We shall have to figure out some excuse as to why you do not know how to dance.”
“How about: I can’t dance?”
“Don’t be stupid. Everyone knows how to dance, even scullery maids.”
Rebecca looked at her. “You truly don’t know how to dance, Miss Donovan?”
Kendra gave a small shrug. “I know how to waltz.” That, at least, hadn’t changed. Had it?
Alec gave her a crooked smile. “Put my name on your dance card, Miss Donovan.”
“You shall not be accompanying us to the ball, Alec. You look like a ruffian yourself.” Lady Atwood shot her nephew a stern look, but her gaze softened as she regarded his bruised face. “Are you in pain, dear?”
“I can manage to stand on the sidelines of a ballroom.”
“You shall not. We’d be inundated with questions on your health all evening. Your association with this creature named Bear would set tongues wagging. You shall remain at home tomorrow evening, recuperating.” Having made that announcement, the Countess turned to glare at Kendra. “And, of course, you would know the most scandalous dance in England.”
Kendra raised her eyebrows. The waltz—scandalous?
“It was scandalous two years ago, Your Ladyship, but it is becoming more acceptable,” Rebecca countered.
“Even a scapegrace like Lord Byron has condemned it as disgraceful.” Lady Atwood sniffed. “One cannot have unmarried young ladies being embraced by gentlemen on the dance floor. ’Tis improper. I rather doubt Lady Digby will allow the waltz to be played at her ball.”
Kendra wondered what Lady Atwood would think about dancing in the twenty-first century, the twitching and grinding that often caused consternation and controversy. Then she wondered about society further in the future. Would people in the twenty-second century eventually regard twerking as demure as she considered the waltz? That was hard to imagine.