Kendra glanced at him. “But not everyone in London would want to murder Lady Dover.”
“Just the wives,” Rebecca muttered, then held up a hand. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be facetious. Again, I will point out the obvious—Lord Weston is the most likely suspect. The real question is how do we prove that he murdered his mistress?”
Kendra shook her head. “We can’t operate with that kind of cognitive bias.” She’d been involved in too many murder investigations where the local police had already formed their opinion on who the unsub was, and every piece of evidence that supported their theory was considered, while anything that disproved their initial determination was discarded. It was dangerous. “I agree that Lord Weston is the most likely suspect, but he’s not the sole suspect.”
She paused, then said, “Madame Gaudet said that Lady Louisa and Lady Isabella both expressed a desire to see Lady Dover dead.”
“People say all sorts of things in anger,” Rebecca said.
“I have difficulty imagining either young lady killing Lady Dover in such a horrific manner,” admitted Aldridge.
Kendra thought of the biases of this era, one that would automatically eliminate the so-called fairer sex from any investigation. It made her wonder how many wives were poisoning their husbands and getting away with it.
“I’m not ruling anyone out,” she said firmly. “Weston became agitated when his son’s name was brought up. Was that because he’s worried that his son will be dragged into the investigation—or because he fears his son is guilty?”
“We do know that Viscount Dawson became angry at Lady Dover after the incident with the necklace,” Aldridge said, nodding. “And when he attempted to retrieve it, she laughed at him. That would hurt any young buck’s pride.”
“How much angrier would he become if he found out his father’s mistress was pregnant?” Kendra wondered.
“The pregnancy would have caused gossip, but it would not have threatened Dawson’s line of succession,” Alec pointed out. “It’s not uncommon to have by-blows, Miss Donovan. Half the royal family have sired children outside of wedlock. Even if Weston would have been so foolish as to divorce his wife and marry Cordelia, Dawson remains Weston’s heir by primogeniture. The estate and title are entailed.”
“Yes, but, as Lady St. James informed us, the estate is impoverished,” Rebecca reminded them. “Dawson may be in need of an heiress. Even a merchant might think twice about marrying his daughter into a family tainted by divorce, or involved in the kind of scandal-broth that Lady Dover had been making.”
Kendra finished her coffee and set the cup on the Duke’s desk. “It sounds like the Viscount has a lot to lose, even without his title on the line. I think it’s time I spoke with him. Who wants to arrange the introduction?”
26
As it turned out, Kendra didn’t need an introduction—at least not a formal one. The Duke had received word that it was the Viscount’s habit to spend his Saturday evenings at the house of one Mrs. Allen.
Kendra was resigned to spending an evening bored silly, while young ladies took turns playing the pianoforte. Lady Atwood corrected her misconception by informing her, with a curl of her lip that marked her condescension, that Mrs. Allen actually ran a gambling hell—though the Duke insisted that it was a gambling establishment. Apparently gambling hells were frequented by men, and if there were any women present, they were not ladies. Gaming establishments, on the other hand, had the veneer of respectability, where even gently bred ladies could try their luck at a game of chance. Regardless, the difference seemed to be lost on Lady Atwood, who decided to seek her evening’s entertainment elsewhere.
Kendra tried not to smile. An evening without the Countess was already a plus in Kendra’s book. And Mrs. Allen’s establishment sounded a lot less dull than attending another rout.
Mrs. Allen had transformed her drawing room into what looked like an upscale gambling room on par with those at Caesars Palace, the kind reserved for whales who dropped $10,000 to $1 million a bet, far away from the shrill ding-ding-ding of slot machines. Men outnumbered women two to one, though the women at the tables tended to be older. Mrs. Allen’s establishment might be considered respectable, but Kendra doubted whether any parent would allow their young debutantes to come through the doors.
A low murmur of conversation could be heard through the room, broken by quick bursts of laughter here and there. Yet beneath the genteel fa?ade, Kendra sensed an intensity, a sour note of desperation that rose up to mingle with the flowery perfume, spicier cologne, smoke, and sweat in the air.
Mrs. Allen herself stood in one of the room’s corners. She was an older woman wearing a brilliant green satin gown and a matching turban that sported no less than five curling ostrich feathers. Both gown and turban shimmered in the light given off by the numerous candles around the room. She wore what looked like a benevolent smile on her face, but even from a distance Kendra saw her sharp eyes constantly in motion, scanning the more than a dozen green baize-covered tables and their occupants, playing cards or rolling dice.
“She supposedly sleeps with a blunderbuss under her pillow and her money in her mattress,” Alec murmured. He stood on one side of her, the Duke on the other. They’d tried to discourage him from accompanying them to the gaming house, but Alec had made it clear that he was done with sitting at home. His battered face had caused a few teasing comments from acquaintances as they’d threaded their way through the tables, but Alec either ignored them or offered a dry quip to fend off further inquiries.
“Five years ago, Mr. Allen put a pistol in his mouth when he couldn’t pay off his gambling debts,” Aldridge said quietly. “His widow turned this house into a gambling establishment to pay off the loan sharks, and has prospered ever since. Now she has become the loan shark.”
“Pretty inventive.” Kendra’s gaze returned to the woman, unsure whether to be impressed or appalled.
They found Viscount Dawson at the third table. He resembled his middle sister, with the same beak nose and weak chin, this feature not helped by the elaborate cravat he wore, high enough to brush his earlobes. His hair was a dingy brown and, despite his being only in his mid-twenties, already receding, which gave him an excessively high forehead. Kendra observed the sweat that made the high forehead gleam. It was warm in the room, but she suspected the Viscount’s perspiration had more to do with the meager stack of chips in front of him, compared to those of his fellow card players.
“He’s playing deep.” Alec had his gaze fixed on the younger man.
“I thought he and his family were broke,” Kendra whispered.
Alec gave an almost indolent roll to his shoulders. “Most of London operates on credit.”