Not unlike the twenty-first century.
As they watched, Dawson’s small pool of chips shrank steadily. By the time he lost his last chip, he’d been forced to wipe the sweat from his brow at least five times, leaving his handkerchief crumpled and soggy. Kendra noticed his hand wasn’t quite steady when someone thrust a paper and quill at him to write an acknowledgment of his debt. In a huff of temper, he signed and threw both quill and paper on the table, then lurched to his feet and propelled himself toward the French doors that opened to a veranda that overlooked the back gardens.
When Kendra and her companions stepped out onto the veranda after him, Dawson glanced in their direction, his expression pensive. There’d been another downpour earlier, leaving the grounds drenched and smelling of wet earth and vegetation. It was too dark to see the gardens, but Kendra heard the leaves ruffling in the cold breeze. She was grateful for the Kashmir embroidered shawl that Miss Cooper had given her to match the velvet sapphire evening dress she wore.
“My lord?” Aldridge said. “I am the Duke of Aldridge. This is my ward, Miss Donovan, and my nephew, the Marquis of Sutcliffe. Could we have a moment of your time?”
Dawson’s eyes were dark brown like his father’s and there was no mistaking the wary glint in them even in the uncertain light. He executed a perfunctory bow. “Your Grace. Is this about Lady Dover’s death? I know you’ve been making inquiries.” His gaze drifted to Kendra, then back to the Duke. “I saw you leave my sister’s house this morning.”
That surprised Kendra. “You were at Lady Frances’s?”
“I didn’t kill the wretched woman,” Dawson spat, ignoring her question. “That’s what you are going to ask me, aren’t you?”
“I hardly think you’d tell me the truth if you did kill her, would you?” Kendra replied coolly.
Dawson stared at her and said nothing.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened when you went to see her after the incident at the theater,” Kendra said. “We’ve heard a lot of rumors. I’d like to get your side.”
“Nothing happened.” His mouth flattened. He reached into his inside coat pocket and withdrew a delicate papier-maché container that Kendra now recognized as a snuffbox, and his handkerchief. “I requested that she return the jewelry. She said no.”
“That must have made you angry. The necklace belongs in your family, doesn’t it?”
A flash of fury in his eyes was quickly suppressed. “Of course it does,” he snapped. “That necklace has been in my family for five generations.”
Alec regarded the younger man with cool green eyes. “And yet it was your father who gave her the necklace.”
Dawson frowned. Instead of responding, he flicked open the lid of the snuffbox, releasing the scent of citrusy vanilla. “It was not meant as a gift,” he said finally. He took a small pinch of snuff, placed it in both nostrils, and inhaled deeply. He whipped his damp handkerchief up to his nose to absorb the two sneezes that followed.
“I will allow that my father made a mistake,” he continued, tucking the snuffbox and handkerchief back into his pocket. “He could not anticipate her outlandish behavior. But she entranced him.”
“What about you?” Kendra asked. “Did she entrance you?”
His eyes widened. “What are you implying? Good God, she was my father’s . . . mistress.” He dropped his voice to a hiss. “And she was old, at least thirty.” He shot Alec a look. “You are the one they are whispering about, Sutcliffe. I was with my entire family the night of the ball, but where were you? Perhaps you were so enraged that my father held her affection that you murdered the woman.”
Alec let out a laugh. “I’ve parted ways with other mistresses, you know, and never murdered any of them. I have given them a nice bauble for our time together, a token of my esteem. My liaison with Lady Dover had finished. But it would seem she was very much involved with your family before her death.”
In the golden glow of the French doors, Dawson looked very young. And suddenly very furious. “Damn you, don’t laugh at me. I should call you out for your slander against my family!”
The statement seemed to electrify the air around them. The Duke tensed. The smile vanished from Alec’s face, and, with skin darkened by bruises, he looked dangerous.
“That can be arranged. Shall I name my second?” he asked in a low, lethal voice.
“My boy . . .” the Duke said uneasily. “This is not what we intended.”
Dawson seemed like a man who’d stepped on ice, only to have it crack beneath his feet. He hesitated, uncertain. Then he turned toward the Duke. “I did not murder Lady Dover. Nor did my father. The very idea is preposterous. I have nothing more to say on the matter.” He gave a stiff bow. “Good evening.”
They said nothing as the Viscount slipped back through the French doors. He hurried past his fellow gamblers and Mrs. Allen, who, Kendra noticed, also tracked his progress across the room until he’d disappeared out the door.
“Shit.” Kendra spun back to Alec, glaring. “Did you just challenge that kid to a duel?”
“Actually, he challenged me,” he drawled. “I simply called him on it.”
Kendra brought up her hands to scrub against her face. Her heart was still thumping erratically in her chest over the breathless seconds when the threat of a duel seemed real. This was why she didn’t belong here, in an era where civilized men could end their argument with pistols. How insane was that?
She dropped her hands, and inhaled deeply. Focus. “He didn’t like being laughed at, did he?”
“Yes, I noticed that,” Alec said drily.
“He also lied,” the Duke said slowly, an odd light in his eyes. “He was involved with Lady Dover, I think. His snuff—it’s quite distinctive. I recognized it as the same blend that the housekeeper found under the bed in the cottage.”
27