“You were involved with her,” Kendra added. She’d deliberately made it a statement, not a question, to see how Weston would react. In her experience, married men who were confronted with their infidelity usually had one of two kneejerk responses: flat-out denial (Who, me? I would never cheat on my wife.) or outrage (How dare you? I’m a happily married man!)
Weston displayed neither. His eyes darted quickly up and down the hall, searching for potential eavesdroppers. Then he edged closer. “Are you trying to embarrass me, Miss Donovan? My family has suffered enough because of . . .” He paused and pressed his lips together in a tight line for a second, then he cleared his throat and continued, “Because of my association with Lady Dover.”
“We know about the incident at the theater. Did you manage to retrieve your family’s necklace?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“But you did try to retrieve it, didn’t you?”
His eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“We have witnesses that saw you with Lady Dover after the incident.”
Weston went very still. “Well, yes, of course,” he admitted. “I met with Cordelia the next morning. I requested that she return the jewels. I hardly think that is unusual.”
“What was her response?”
The brown eyes narrowed, and Kendra thought she saw the first stirrings of real anger. “I think you are aware of her response, Miss Donovan,” he snapped.
“Not to you. However, we heard that she laughed at your son when he met with her to make the same request.”
Weston flushed and said nothing. He was sweating, Kendra observed. But then so was everyone at the ball. She couldn’t use that as a barometer to gauge his nerves.
“You must have been very angry with Lady Dover for putting you and your family in this position.” She waited a beat. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“I already told you: the day after the theater incident.”
“You didn’t meet with her again? Maybe at the cottage in St. Margaret’s?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kendra leveled a long look at him. “We know about the cottage, my lord. We know you purchased it for her about five months ago.” They actually didn’t know that, but Weston couldn’t know she was lying.
He tore his gaze away from hers and threw a beseeching glance at the Duke. “This is not the time or place for this sort of discussion, Your Grace.”
Aldridge’s face fell into solemn lines and he suddenly looked every inch his title. “I apologize, my lord, but this discussion must be had. You realize that, do you not?”
“But not here, sir.”
Kendra pressed, “Then when?”
Weston licked his lips, scanning the hallway again. “Tomorrow. I have an appointment at noon, but I shall be available in the morning.”
“We shall call upon you at eleven,” said the Duke.
Weston gave a sharp bow and walked away—not into the gaming room, which had been his original destination, Kendra noticed. Instead, he retraced his footsteps down the hall, disappearing back into the crowds of the ballroom.
“Something tells me that the Westons will be leaving shortly,” she murmured.
“Yes, I believe we may have spoiled the evening for Lord Weston.” Aldridge lifted a brow as he fixed his gray-blue eyes on her. “My memory may be faulty, but I don’t seem to recall a witness who saw Weston with Lady Dover after the theater incident.”
Kendra feigned confusion. “Really? My mistake.”
Aldridge laughed. “Very clever, my dear.”
“Weston had no intention of telling us that he’d visited Lady Dover the morning after the theater to demand the necklace back,” she replied, serious again.
“Yes, well, very few men would admit to the humiliation, if she refused him.”
“He also lied about the cottage at St. Margaret’s. And, yes, I know, a married man might not want to admit that either, but a lie here and a lie there . . . it makes me wonder what else His Lordship is lying about.”
20
Sam Kelly stepped into the Blind Duck. He paused for a moment, just to appreciate the pub’s warmth against the fog and cold at his back. Though it was long past midnight, the taproom was crowded, and noisy with talk and raucous laughter. Smoke from the coals burning in the fireplace, tallow candles and oil lamps, as well as the pipes and cigars lit by the tavern’s many patrons hung gray in the air, thick enough to make his eyes sting.
He blinked a few times, then scanned the room. He spotted his quarry at the corner table, just as his informant had said. Keeping a wary eye out for trouble, Sam forced himself to walk slow and steady to the table.
The woman was surrounded by three men, two seated beside her, one draped over her shoulder. She was somewhere in her late forties, he thought, with her reddish-brown curls, streaked with silver, tucked into a linen mop cap. She wore a serviceable brown wool gown, with a white fichu tucked in the neckline. As Sam approached, the man standing behind her leaned down, his hand stretched to grab a plump breast.
“C’mon, Abby, me love, let’s have a go,” he wheedled.
Rather than take offense, she laughed, and lightly swatted the splayed hand. “Ack, yer a familiar one, y’are, Mr. Hobbs. Ye behave yerself!” She picked up her stout glass and tossed back the whiskey like a woman who’d had practice.
“Mrs. Frost?” Sam inquired.
She lowered the empty glass. “Who wants ter know?”
Sam brought out his baton, flashing its distinctive gold tip. “Sam Kelly—Bow Street Runner.”
“What’s a thief-taker want with the likes of her?” asked the man whose hand was still on Mrs. Frost’s breast.
“Only a few questions, nothing more,” Sam replied, and brought out a couple of coins, which he laid on the table. “Maybe you fellows would like ter get a drink at the tap while Mrs. Frost and me have words.”
The men didn’t need more persuading. The coins disappeared and the two men who’d been sitting departed quickly. Mr. Hobbs lingered long enough to give Mrs. Frost another squeeze.
“I’ll be back, love.” He grinned, before following his friends to the tap.
Sam signaled the barmaid and took a seat. “You tended a cottage in St. Margaret’s.”
“Aye.” Her hand went to the center of her chest, in an automatic, protective gesture.
Sam kept his expression neutral, but he thought this was telling. He knew lasses sometimes kept their money in pouches, tucked in their chemise. He suspected Mrs. Frost had a pouch of money hidden in just that spot. And because her instinctive action seemed prompted by the mention of St. Margaret’s, it didn’t require any great imagination to suspect that the two were linked.
“Two whiskeys,” he told the barmaid who came around and gave her two coins. There was no reason he shouldn’t take advantage of being in the Blind Duck as well.
“Who paid you ter tend the cottage?” he asked, eyeing the widow.
“A man-of-affairs. Called himself Mr. Kent. I was ter clean the cottage, wash the linens, have supper waitin’ every Wednesday night. Fancy French food.” Her nose wrinkled. “I can cook anythin’ with a pot and fire, but give me a proper English pigeon pie, I say. Not Froggy food.”