Lady Atwood lifted her wineglass and viewed Kendra critically over the rim. “You shall have to wear one of your old evening gowns tomorrow. I’ve made an appointment with my modiste, but it isn’t for a few more days.”
Kendra felt the familiar panic rise within her. “I already told you, I don’t need any more dresses.”
“And I told you, as the Duke of Aldridge’s ward, you shall dress appropriately.”
“I can afford a new wardrobe for you, my dear,” the Duke cut in with a smile. “Do not distress yourself.”
Kendra’s throat tightened unexpectedly, like a hand had closed around it, and she could only shake her head. She knew her anxiety was illogical. She couldn’t explain, even to herself, why every new gown she was given made her feel that her present circumstance was becoming more permanent. Until Aldridge mentioned it, she hadn’t thought about the expense. Now it added a fresh layer to her unease.
She looked across the table at the Duke. He knew about her true origins, but he still didn’t understand. No one in this room, shifting with shadows and dancing candle flames, would possibly understand her disquiet. Lady Atwood, as a widow, was fairly independent, but only because she lived on the largesse of her late husband. The Countess had spent most of her life relying on someone else for the roof over her head, the clothes on her back, the food she ate at the table. Even Rebecca, for all her talk of women’s rights, was completely dependent on her parents for her livelihood.
Kendra had once relied on her parents to take care of her, too—then they’d abandoned her. A cold sweat broke out on her palms even now when she remembered the mind-numbing terror that had come with the awareness that she was completely alone in the world. Thinking back, she supposed there were things to be grateful for. Plenty of children were tossed out of their families like trash, forced to do whatever they could to survive on the streets. She’d at least had a small trust fund to pay for school, and the computer skills to get a part-time job as a programmer.
The first year had been the worst. She’d focused with single-minded determination on her studies, on becoming self-reliant. By the time the FBI had sparked her interest, she’d built up her defenses—and her bank account. Money meant independence. The Bureau meant structure and discipline. She’d never realized how important both had been to her during that time of her life. She’d only known that she’d never wanted to be placed in the position again where she was completely dependent on another person for support.
Like I am now.
She didn’t know how to operate in this strange class system. A washerwoman could at least earn her keep, as little as it was, while women in the upper echelon of society were kept by the men in their lives, whether they were father, husband, son—or guardian. She couldn’t even buy herself a new gown without approval. How was she ever going to get home? And how could she ever accept this life? To rely so heavily on people, even someone as kind as the Duke, after she’d spent years becoming self-reliant, made her feel slightly nauseous.
She became aware that everyone was looking at her, waiting for a response to the Duke’s generosity. She cleared her throat, and finally murmured, “Thank you, Your Grace.” Really, what else could she say?
The conversation shifted into more trivial subjects. Kendra remained silent, and her mind drifted back to the investigation.
Two weeks. Bear’s threat seemed even more dire than the possibility of the House of Lords charging Alec with murder. She knew with absolute certainty that the criminal would make good on his promise to exact justice. And his fury would no longer be hot as it had been today. It would be ice-cold and hardened into vengeance. That would make him even more dangerous. In two weeks, nothing would stop him.
I just need to focus; I just need to do my job. This survival tactic had worked well for her in the past. Only now, it wasn’t her survival that hung in the balance. An icy shiver snaked down her spine.
She needed to find Lady Dover’s murderer. Alec’s life depended on it.
18
Kendra got her first look at Lord Weston when he moved past her on the dance floor at the Digby Ball. He cut a trim figure in his dark blue superfine jacket, taupe knee breeches, and white stockings. Late forties; average height of about five-ten. He still had a full head of light brown hair, tinged with silver, that shimmered in the glow of the candles and wall lamps. He was attractive in a distinguished way, but sporting shadows under his eyes that Kendra could see from across the room.
Was he having trouble sleeping because his mistress had been murdered? Or because he was the one who’d murdered her?
At least two hundred people had crowded into the Digby mansion. The music from the five-piece orchestra blended with the low murmur of conversation. The ballroom was large but stuffy. The day had taken a turn for the worse, with clouds and a light rain arriving along with the evening, forcing the Digbys to close all their doors. A liberal use of perfume and cologne permeated the mansion in an attempt to mask everyone’s body odor.
Lemon wedges and lavender water went only so far.
Kendra allowed her gaze to drift to the woman gliding next to Lord Weston—Lady Weston. She was at least a head shorter than her husband and a few years younger, with dark brown hair pulled to the top of her head. Nice figure; pleasant-looking, but nowhere near Lady Dover’s stunning beauty.
How did that feel? Kendra wondered. Looking across a crowded theater, and seeing your husband’s younger and more beautiful mistress wearing jewels that were rightfully yours? To know that he had given them to her?
“Poor woman,” Rebecca whispered next to her. “This is Lady Weston’s first public appearance since the scandal at the theater.”
“I guess Lady St. James was right—most of London seems to have come out to see her.” Kendra considered the woman for a moment more, then said, “We’ll need to get Lady Weston’s alibi confirmed.”
“She was in seclusion at home.”
“Was she?”
“But you can’t possibly think . . . Lady Weston . . . ?”
They were standing in the corner of the ballroom and even though everyone around them seemed preoccupied in their own conversations, Kendra was careful to keep her voice low. “Lady Dover was killed by a stiletto. She was taken by surprise, not overpowered. None of that requires any great strength. And don’t forget, we’re dealing with an enraged killer. And rage is exactly what Lady Weston must’ve been feeling toward Lady Dover.”
She studied the woman’s blank face, her gaze fixed at some undefined point in front of her as the Westons surged forward in their dance steps. Rage is probably what she’s still feeling, Kendra amended silently. Hell, how could she not?
Lord Weston, she noticed, wasn’t looking at his wife, either. Their arms were raised, their hands linked, but there could’ve been a million miles between them.