“I think I can withstand the assault. Would you like tea or coffee? Or a glass of sherry?”
“Coffee,” Kendra said, and went to the sideboard to get it herself. As she sat down next to Alec, she noticed that Sam was holding a glass of his favored whiskey. It occurred to her that as often as she saw him drink, she’d actually never saw him drunk. The man was a medical marvel.
“I shall have tea. And I’m famished,” Rebecca declared, reaching for a thick slice of brown bread. “Mr. Kelly, do you have anything new to report? Have you learned about Lady Dover’s background yet?”
“Me men are still checking into that, and her connection ter Bear. But as I was just telling His Grace, I found the housekeeper, Mrs. Frost.”
“Is there a Mr. Frost?” wondered Kendra. “Or is he a figment of everyone’s imagination?”
The Runner blinked. “Pardon?”
Rebecca paused in layering her bread with almost transparent cuts of roast beef. “Do not concern yourself, Mr. Kelly. Miss Donovan is only teasing. Did Mrs. Frost offer new information?”
“She never saw the couple that she’d been commissioned ter cook and clean for. She only dealt with a man-of-affairs named Mr. Kent. Still, she knew the man was gentry. He left that behind.” He pointed to a small silver container on the table.
“What is it?” Kendra asked.
Aldridge picked up the box and handed it to her. “’Tis a tabatière—a snuffbox.”
Sam said, “Mrs. Frost took it from the bedchamber after she’d been told ter clear out.”
“Well, obviously it must be Weston’s,” Rebecca said.
“Maybe.” Kendra studied the bucolic landscape painted on the inlaid enamel. “Or maybe it belonged to the new man in Lady Dover’s life.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “There was a new man? How’d you know?”
“Madame Gaudet.” Kendra put the snuffbox down and picked up a plate, filling it with bread, meat, and cheese. “Lady Dover never actually confided in her, but she got the impression that the Countess had become involved with someone else.”
Alec raised a skeptical brow. “An impression? You are relying on the sensitivities of a dressmaker?”
“Yes.” Kendra went about the business of making herself a sandwich. Bread, baked fresh from scratch, had become one of her greatest culinary pleasures while living here. “Madame Gaudet makes her living by being sensitive to her clients’ needs and being able to gauge their emotions. She said that she noticed a change in Lady Dover’s demeanor several weeks ago. I’m inclined to believe her.”
Aldridge said, “So this man could not be the father of Lady Dover’s child.”
“No.”
“Then he’s unlikely to be the murderer.”
“Those are two separate issues,” Kendra pointed out, and bit into her sandwich. She chewed and swallowed. “If Lord Weston found out that his mistress was using their love shack to meet another man, he probably wouldn’t have been happy.”
Alec’s lips twitched at love shack, but he said only, “Weston couldn’t have expected exclusivity from Cordelia. He was aware of our involvement.”
“Madame Gaudet thinks that since you were involved with Lady Dover first, Weston wouldn’t have felt betrayed. Personally, I think the Countess fits the classic narcissistic personality disorder.”
Sam asked, “What’s that, Miss?”
“She had feelings of entitlement, the need for constant attention, admiration, adulation. She was exploitative and lacked empathy for others.”
Rebecca gave a laugh. “That describes most of the Ton, Miss Donovan.”
“My point being that her new lover could have been an impulse, one that she only later used to make Weston jealous. Or maybe that had been her plan all along. Either way, the new lover might not have anything to do with her murder, but we need to find out who he is to make that determination.” Kendra finished her sandwich, and wiped her hands on the cloth napkin.
“His Grace told us that Mr. Roberts has a collection of knives,” said the Bow Street Runner. “You think the villain took one of the daggers during the ball, Miss, and used it on Lady Dover?”
“I think it’s too much of a coincidence that Lady Dover was murdered by a stiletto, and there just happens to be a collection of stilettos in the house that Weston and his family were at on the night of the murder,” she replied. “The collection is arranged in such a way that I don’t think anyone would have noticed if something was taken.”
“The timing wouldn’t be an issue,” Aldridge put in. “Miss Donovan and I walked from the Roberts’ household on Mount Street to Grosvenor Square. It took less than ten minutes.”
“And we weren’t even hurrying,” Kendra added. She picked up her coffee cup. “The unsub could’ve made it in half that time. It was night, with a full moon.” Sipping her coffee, she pictured it in her mind.
Sam shook his head. “Not here in London Town. There were clouds—no moon. And the fog had set in something fierce.”
Kendra mentally revised the picture forming in her head. Pitch-black, with only oil lamps burning in the doorways. “That certainly makes it easier to hide. If the unsub walked fast or ran, he could’ve committed the murder and been back at the party in half an hour or forty-five minutes.”
“In a crowded ballroom, it would be easy enough to lose sight of someone,” murmured Alec.
Rebecca pushed her empty plate away. “’Tis difficult to imagine he could have murdered a woman and then returned to the ball. To dance. He’s a monster. Has he no remorse?”
Kendra thought of Lady Dover’s mutilated face. “No, I don’t think he suffers from remorse. Or he knows how to compartmentalize his feelings pretty well—if he feels remorse, he does so only when he’s alone and has a chance to think about what he did. Otherwise, I think he pushes it to the back of his mind and goes on with his life.”
Rebecca looked troubled. “Is that possible?”
“We all do it to some extent, otherwise we would be overwhelmed with emotion. Grief from the death of a loved one, fear after a traumatic event . . .” Shock at being stranded in the nineteenth century.
Kendra rose and moved to the slate board. “The killer has to have a connection to Roberts. He had to know about the collection of knives. This is not a crime of opportunity. He knew he would have access to the murder weapon on the night of the ball.”
“That would narrow it down to everyone in London who has called upon Lady Frances and her husband,” Alec scoffed.
Aldridge added, “The net needs to be cast even wider. The weapons belong to Mr. Roberts’s grandfather, and have been in the residence for at least thirty years. I’d say everyone in London who has ever crossed the threshold would know about the collection.”