Except for one, they’d retreated back to their own tables, eyeing her with hostility. The one who didn’t go peacefully had limped away nursing a sore foot after she’d ground the heel of her half boot onto his toes. She was glad she’d changed out of her soft-soled slippers.
Though the Crown Tavern’s patrons appeared to be merchants and workers rather than members of the criminal class, Kendra kept her hand near the wicker basket, prepared to use the pistols tucked under the colorful blanket should anything go wrong.
“Ye want more coffee, or somethin’ else?” the buxom barmaid asked as she came over with a pot.
Kendra was painfully aware of both the few coins she had left on her and her lack of knowledge regarding this era’s monetary system. The hackney driver she’d hired seemed to sense her uncertainty and had demanded a price that she was fairly certain was exorbitant. But because she’d been pressed for time, she hadn’t argued. She now had exactly three shillings left on her.
“No, thank you.”
The barmaid didn’t move away, but studied Kendra with curious, dark eyes. “Eh, who you’re waitin’ for, then?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How d’you know he’s not here?”
“I guess I don’t.”
“You’re a strange one, ain’t you? An American?”
“Yes—and yes,” Kendra said with a ghost of a smile. She hesitated a moment, then decided to ask. “Have you heard about the murder at Grosvenor Square?”
The barmaid’s eyes widened. “Aye, folks have been talkin’. Some lord did the deed, they say. Wagers are bein’ placed on whether he’ll get the silk rope or not.”
“Silk rope?”
“Aye. Nobility that hang can buy a silk rope, not the hemp us common folk get.”
“What are the odds that he’ll hang?”
Bitterness flashed in the girl’s eyes. “The gentry stick together, the lot of ’em; they’ll let him off. But . . .” She seemed to catch herself.
“But?” Kendra prompted.
The barmaid hesitated, then leaned forward and dropped her voice. “There’s also talk that the gentry mort had dealings with someone powerful in the rookeries and he’s gonna slit the Lord’s gullet.”
Kendra eyed the smile that curled the barmaid’s lips. “I guess you’re not concerned if he slits the throat of an innocent man.”
“Who’s ta say the bloke is innocent, eh? Besides, why should I care?” Her face hardened. “Our betters don’t care whether we starve in the street, now, do they? With corn prices the way they are? And the fancy complain about highwaymen, when they’re the ones robbin’ everyone blind, sendin’ folks to the poorhouse.”
She gave a loud sniff, and, with a swing of her hips, wandered back to the tap.
Kendra picked up her coffee cup and sipped the now-cold brew. She looked out the windows at the busy street and the steady streams of humanity. There were merchants and laborers going about their business, peddlers pitching their wares in singsong voices. On the street, fashionable carriages seemed to fight for dominance against hired hackneys, public coaches, and lumbering wagons.
Kendra glanced at the clock on the wall. Five minutes after eleven. She thought about waiting a few more minutes, but she knew in her gut that whoever had sent the note wasn’t coming. It left her with an uneasy feeling, a prickle at the base of her spine. Something’s wrong.
She pushed herself to her feet, looping her arm through the wicker basket, making sure her hand remained close to the pistols inside, and made her way to the door. Outside, she joined the throngs of people.
Someone shouted her name. She paused and turned, and in the distance she saw Sam Kelly hop down from a hired hackney.
“Miss Donovan!” he yelled again, and waved.
She started to lift her hand when it suddenly dawned on her that he wasn’t looking at her, but further down the street. Frowning, she swung around.
A sharp cry cut the air, rising over the general noise of the street, and then a team of horses pulling a cart reared up, shrieking, sending the cart swerving dangerously into the pedestrians. The driver pulled desperately at the reins, but couldn’t control the startled animals. The crowd seemed to surge forward like a single unit, then people began to break free, scattering in all directions. Screams, both human and horse, swelled.
Kendra was caught in a tidal wave of humanity, pushed and shoved backward. She clutched the wicker basket close to her chest and made a dash for safety as more panicked horses thundered past, close enough for her to feel the heat rise off their sweat-slicked hides. As the animals finally skittered to a stop, men rushed forward to grab their harnesses and bridles. The beasts shifted uneasily, their eyes rolling wildly in their head, their nostrils quivering as they snorted billowing puffs of steam into the air.
“Oh my God,” Kendra breathed. The people around her were still shouting and screaming—and sobbing. Her heart pounded in her chest as she fought her way up the street.
“I didn’t see her! I swear!” The ashen-faced driver stumbled down from his wagon perch. His eyes seemed as wild as the horses’. “I didn’t see her!” he kept shouting at the crowd who’d gathered. “She came outta nowhere!”
A shrill whistle blew as several constables jogged through the press of bodies. “Move aside. Move aside, I say!”
Kendra barely heard them above the strange buzzing in her head. Her gaze fell on a crumpled figure on the ground. The pool of blood beneath the body spread outward, crimson trickles oozing between the cracks in the cobblestone. She took one step forward, then another.
Sam Kelly was already bending over the mangled body, its limbs distorted into unnatural angles.
“Sam . . . Mr. Kelly . . .” She had to push the words through the bile that rose up in her throat. She didn’t think he heard her; he didn’t move at all. His attention was fixed on the figure lying on the ground before him.
Sam had lifted his arm. Kendra saw that his outstretched hand was trembling. Then it wavered and dropped, and he twisted around suddenly. The golden eyes, blank with shock, locked on hers. Kendra didn’t know how long they stared at each other, but she knew the exact moment recognition hit him, when he saw beyond the mop cap and servant’s garb. A fierce emotion rippled across his face.
“Miss Donovan? Good God! ’Tis you? But who . . .” He twisted back to study the awkwardly sprawled figure. His face settled into grim lines and he reached out again, his hand curling around the dead woman’s shoulder.
Kendra didn’t need him to turn over the crumpled body to know that it was Miss Cooper. She was unrecognizable, the bones of her face crushed beneath the wheels of the wagon, her body broken. The only thing recognizable was the green velvet cloak, now torn and bloody, that Kendra had given the maid the day before.
30
Kendra’s hand convulsed around the worn leather strap hanging near the door of the hired hackney. She felt queasy, but she wasn’t sure if that was from seeing her lady’s maid, dead in the street, or if it was from the rocking of the carriage as it wheeled through London’s narrow, winding streets.
“I thought she was you,” Sam said. He still looked badly shaken.