Sunday morning arrived with an icy snap in the air and ominous gray clouds that hinted at more rain to come. It sent the servants scurrying to light candles and fires to chase away the gloomy chill inside the house. At ten o’clock, Kendra certainly appreciated the crackling fire as she stood in the Duke’s study, her backside positioned to absorb the warmth while she cupped the mug of hot coffee in both hands, her gaze on the slate board.
The room was quiet except for the rattle of the windows caused by sporadic winds and light domestic sounds—the tick of the clock, the happy hiss and pop from logs in the hearth. The entire house had a hushed quality, a stark contrast to only half an hour ago, when Lady Atwood had persuaded (or bullied, depending on one’s perspective) her brother and nephew into accompanying her to church services. Alec had attempted to use his injuries as an excuse to avoid it, but his aunt reminded him that if he had been well enough to go to a gaming hell the previous evening, then he was well enough to go to the house of the Lord this morning. Score one for Lady Atwood.
Kendra hadn’t been sure if she should have been relieved or insulted when the Countess merely glanced in her direction without issuing the same command. She’d since decided to take it as a victory. Score one for me.
After they’d departed, so did half the staff, dressed in their Sunday best. For Miss Cooper, that meant wearing the hand-me-down green cloak, her chest swelling with pride. The servants left behind had gathered in the dining room belowstairs for prayers. Kendra had taken the opportunity to steal the pot of coffee and a cup from the morning room’s sideboard and escape to the Duke’s study, where she’d updated the slate board.
Lord Dover’s name was still on it, but he’d fallen to the bottom. The names of the entire Weston family were above him.
Now her gaze fell on the name she’d recently written: Viscount Dawson.
She knew better than to trust any denials during a murder investigation. But damn it, she’d been halfway to believing Dawson when he’d denied any involvement with Lady Dover. But the fact that he used the same brand of snuff as the tobacco found in the cottage was damning.
Unless he’d borrowed the snuff from his father.
This seemed more plausible. Dawson didn’t seem to be Lady Dover’s type. What would she have to gain by sleeping with the son of the man she was trying to marry?
Sipping her coffee, Kendra considered Lady Dover’s profile. Power; position; prestige—these were the things that motivated Lady Dover. She’d clawed her way out of the gutter to marry an Earl, and then appeared to have set her sights on Weston.
So why sleep with the son—if that was what had happened? Did she think she could use Dawson as leverage against Weston? If she could twist the son around her little finger, could she force the father into doing whatever she wanted?
Kendra frowned. Lady Dover and Dawson engaged in a romantic tryst just wasn’t working for her. Her gut said no. But logically . . . hell, there were weirder pairings. Sonny and Cher, for one. And there was the temper that had flooded Dawson’s face the previous evening. Damn you, don’t laugh at me. He’d practically challenged Alec to a duel over this perceived slight.
Lady Dover had laughed at him as well. Even Kendra knew you couldn’t challenge ladies to duels. Perhaps he’d punished her in a different way. It was something to think about.
Kendra’s gaze dropped lower. Lady Weston. In this era—hell, any era—she probably had the most to lose: her husband, her reputation, her standing in society. She’d already been humiliated. And while her nineteenth-century counterparts might dismiss her because she was a woman—a Lady—Kendra believed in equal rights. Even in murder.
She swung around at a soft knock at the door. A young footman entered, carrying a note on a silver salver.
“Um . . . a lad brought this to the door for you, Miss.”
“For me?”
“Yes, Miss.”
Frowning, Kendra took the paper as the footman silently departed. There was no seal to break, so she only had to unfold the note to read the scrawled sentences written in an uneven hand. Four sentences only, but they had the power to send her pulse racing.
Meat me at the Crown tavarn at Piccadilly. At eleven. Come a lone. I no about Lady Dover.
“Ye want the barking irons?” Molly said at Kendra’s pronouncement. She was one of the servants who’d stayed behind. Now she stared wide-eyed at Kendra, who’d come belowstairs.
“I need to meet someone at the Crown Tavern in Piccadilly.” She glanced at the clock. “At eleven.”
“But that’s an hour away.”
“I believe in being early.”
“’Oo wants ter meet ye?”
“Someone who might have information about Lady Dover’s murder.”
Despite her youth, Molly’s pale blue eyes narrowed with distrust. “Could be a trap, Miss.”
“That’s why I want the guns that I lifted from Bear’s two associates. Do you know where Harding put the weapons?”
“Maybe ye should wait until the Duke returns.”
“I’m not waiting. Do you want me to go defenseless?”
Molly gave her an uncertain look, then shook her head. “All right, Miss.”
She led Kendra to the butler’s quarters, a suite with a bedroom and small sitting room. Molly hovered in the doorway, not daring to enter, and pointed to an enormous steamer trunk against the far wall. “Oi know Mr. Harding puts valuables in there.”
Kendra moved across the room. She tried to lift the lid, but it wouldn’t budge.
“’Tis locked,” Molly said unnecessarily.
“Yeah, I figured that out.” Kendra squatted beside the trunk and removed a pin from her coiled hair. She blocked out the last time she’d been forced to pick a lock, when she’d been shackled and lying helpless a month ago, and concentrated instead on feeling the tumblers with the thin wire, applying the right amount of pressure . . .
“Ah.” She expelled a sigh of satisfaction when she heard the distinctive click of the latch coming undone. She lifted the lid and peered inside. The two flintlocks were lying on top of an assortment of books and smaller boxes. Only when she grasped the heavy weapons did she realize that she had no idea if they were still loaded with the remaining three balls. Worse, she had absolutely no idea how to load the old-fashioned weapons if the butler had taken the precaution of emptying them.
“Shit.”
“Miss!”
Kendra ignored Molly’s shocked admonishment. “I need to make sure these are loaded.”
Molly sought the assistance of the young footman who’d earlier brought Kendra the note. Initially, he refused to help them, but Kendra lied, telling him that they were acting on the Duke’s orders. He still looked dubious, but finally went about the business of priming and loading the weapons. He seemed relieved to finally hand them over to Kendra.
“Oi ’ave to come with ye!” Molly cried, following Kendra up the stairs. “Miss, ye’re a lady. Ye can’t be goin’ around London unattended!”
Kendra nearly dropped another curse, a lot worse than the one she’d said earlier in Molly’s presence, but she bit her tongue in time. “I don’t need a chaperone, Molly.”
“Ye do!”
“No, I don’t . . .” She looked around at Molly’s stubborn face, and was struck by an idea.