“Really, Miss Donovan? Being on the shelf, unwanted and disregarded? Society doesn’t look kindly upon women who fail to secure a marriage by the time they’re twenty-one.”
“You don’t seem to be doing so badly.” Kendra said it with a smile and expected Rebecca to agree. She was surprised when Rebecca turned solemn.
She said softly, “I’m fortunate to have a family sympathetic to my circumstance. Look at me, Miss Donovan.” Rebecca deliberately thrust her chin up so the golden light played across the pitted skin. “Do you know what I’ve been called behind my back? Do you think that any man desires to have someone who looks like me as a bride?”
Kendra didn’t know what to say. It had never occurred to her that Rebecca might dream of marriage and motherhood. It wasn’t just her talk of the early feminist Mary Wollstonecraft; it was her air of confidence and contentment.
But maybe she’d projected her own unconventional views onto Rebecca. And the thing was, Kendra had never discounted marriage and motherhood for herself, either. It just hadn’t been something she’d thought much about. In western civilization, in the modern era, women had a vast array of choices. You didn’t regard yourself as a shriveled-up spinster at the age of twenty-six. Hell, you didn’t view yourself that way at ninety-six.
“Do not look at me with pity, Miss Donovan,” Rebecca warned, her eyes narrowing.
Did she pity Rebecca? Kendra gave the matter serious thought. The answer surprised her.
“I don’t pity you.”
Rebecca seemed skeptical. “No?”
“No,” she said unequivocally. “Look, I’m sorry you were teased and ostracized when you were a child. Believe me, I know what it feels like to be an outsider. But I like who you are now. If you hadn’t had smallpox, you might have had a more traditional upbringing. You would have had your season.” And from what she could determine, the sole purpose of a season was pairing debutantes with potential husbands. It was The Bachelor without the TV cameras.
“You might have turned out exactly like Lady Isabella and her sisters,” Kendra concluded.
“Good heavens. Put like that, Miss Donovan, you make me grateful that I had smallpox and nearly cocked up my toes.” Rebecca’s grin came back. “My parents may have indulged me, encouraging my more intellectual pursuits as there is little chance of me securing a husband. But I do know married women who are admirers of Mary Wollstonecraft. I also know single women who have not had smallpox, but are concerned with the lack of rights for English women.”
“It was just a thought.”
“Yes, and a very interesting one. Along that same vein, what of you, Miss Donovan?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You are a most unusual female—and that is a compliment. I would like to hear about your life in America. Your background. Your family.”
Where do I start? Kendra thought, but shook her head. “It’s a long story.”
Rebecca smiled, but her eyes remained sharp. “I’m not asking you tell it in the middle of the Digby ball. But someday, when you are ready to confide in me, Miss Donovan, I shall be ready to listen.”
It was nearly midnight by the time Kendra finally got her chance to talk to Lord Weston. She’d kept him under surveillance for hours. For most of the evening, he’d spent his time on the dance floor, though not with his wife. After that first obligatory dance, they seemed to avoid each other. Back in the twenty-first century, the couple would have had their high-priced divorce lawyers on speed-dial, trying to figure out ways to stick it to each other in court, or hiding their assets in the Cayman Islands. Here, they danced and stayed out of each other’s way. Very civilized. Kendra didn’t trust it.
Beneath someone’s civilized smile existed a violent rage that had propelled them to drive a stiletto into Lady Dover’s soft flesh forty-three times. And after she lay dead, when their fury should have been spent, the killer had then been compelled to mutilate the woman’s face. That aspect of the crime remained the most troubling.
Kendra touched the Duke’s arm lightly when she saw Weston moving toward the arched doorway that opened to the hallway. Rebecca was, at that moment, on the dance floor, engaged in a quadrille, which to Kendra’s eyes seemed to be more or less a sedate version of the square dance. Lady Atwood had joined Lady St. James in the area staked out by society’s matrons, their sharp eyes watching everything.
Aldridge gave a slight nod to let her know that he understood. “Shall we stroll, Miss Donovan?”
They discarded their glasses and wove their way through the press of warm bodies, Kendra making good use of the Japanese fan that dangled from her wrist as they went. Earlier, when Miss Cooper had given it to her, she’d regarded it as nothing more than a silly fashion accessory. But it was proving a useful tool to combat the oppressive heat caused by two hundred plus people packed into a relatively small space. As she fanned herself, she could feel the beads of moisture evaporating from her brow. Unfortunately, it did nothing to stop the thin line of perspiration from wiggling down her spine or between her breasts.
More people were loitering in the hallway, drinking lemonade or wine, engaged in idle conversation. Kendra and the Duke caught up to Lord Weston before he entered the library, which had been converted into a game room for the evening.
“Lord Weston . . . good evening,” Aldridge called out, causing the man to stop and turn.
Recognition registered in Weston’s brown eyes. “Your Grace, good evening.” He bowed.
“May I introduce my ward, Miss Donovan?”
Another bow. “How do you do?”
“We should speak in private.” Aldridge scanned the hallway with a frown, then ushered them farther down toward a shadowy alcove. It wasn’t really private, but if they kept their voices low, they wouldn’t be overheard.
“What is this about, sir?” Weston gave them a quizzical smile.
Kendra said, “We understand that you attended your daughter’s ball on Monday evening. Do you remember what time you arrived?”
Weston frowned. “The ball began at nine. I arrived not long after. Why?”
“Did you come alone?”
“No. My daughter Louisa accompanied me. What’s this about?”
“What time did you leave?”
He was silent for a long moment. “I don’t recall precisely,” he said finally, and then glanced at the Duke. “Sir, I really must insist that you tell me what these questions are about.”
“I am in London to investigate the murder of Lady Dover,” Aldridge told him.
Weston inhaled sharply at that pronouncement. Kendra watched him carefully, saw something flicker in his eyes and then was gone.