The comment appeared offhanded, said in that teasing way Lady Frances had. But was it really? Kendra didn’t know.
“Yes,” Kendra said, keeping her gaze locked on the other woman to gauge her reaction. “Someone was murdered.”
“Indeed? Who?” Lady Frances’s eyes widened in apparent surprise, but Kendra found herself not trusting it.
“My lady’s maid,” Kendra said. She studied Lady Frances and her father, but could see nothing beyond their politely expressed horror. It could be sincere, but this was an era where the upper classes applied all their skill to keeping up appearances.
“Why in heaven’s name would anyone want to murder your maid?” asked Lady Frances.
Kendra hesitated. There were times when a smoothly told lie could drill past a suspect’s fabrications and get to the truth. And there were times when honesty could accomplish the same thing by shocking a suspect into the truth. She decided to shock.
“Miss Cooper was in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone mistook her for me,” she said. “I guess someone doesn’t like me asking questions.”
“Oh.” Lady Frances put a hand to her throat and said nothing else for a moment. Then she added, “Well, I can think of a solution. Perhaps you ought to stop asking these questions.”
“I don’t think I can do that.”
Aldridge frowned. “The maid’s death is not something we are taking lightly, Lady Frances.”
“I apologize most sincerely, Your Grace. I had not meant to jest. Truly.” She moved to her father’s desk, tossing her gloves onto the smooth surface. Then she gave a short exclamation, leaning forward to snatch up the snuffbox that Kendra had set down earlier.
“Mr. Roberts will be most pleased. He’s been searching everywhere for this. Wherever did you find it, Papa?”
35
Kendra felt like someone had smacked her between the eyes with a nine iron.
“This is your snuffbox, Lady Frances?” She flicked a quick glance at the Duke and saw that he was just as stunned as she. Then Kendra shifted her gaze to Weston, who looked vaguely ill, and wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Because you knew. As soon as you saw the snuffbox, you knew it belonged to your son-in-law.
“Of course it’s not mine,” Lady Frances said with a laugh. “It’s my husband’s. Mr. Roberts shall be relieved that it’s been found. It’s actually quite dear to him.”
“You are absolutely certain this is your husband’s snuffbox?” Kendra asked again. It was an effort, but she managed to keep her voice low and steady, even as her blood hummed with excitement. This revelation shifted the puzzle pieces on the board and generated an interesting new picture. “You haven’t made a mistake?”
“A mistake? Certainly not.” Lady Frances tapped the bucolic landscape painted on the enamel. “The case belonged to his grandfather. This is a specially commissioned rendering of his family’s estate near Yorkshire.” She clicked the lid open with her thumbnail, releasing the scent of oranges and vanilla. “This is Mr. Roberts’s blend. It’s quite distinctive.”
Staring at Weston, Aldridge murmured, “Yes, it is.”
Lady Frances seemed to finally become aware of the note of dissonance in the room. She narrowed her eyes at Kendra. “Why are you asking me these questions about Mr. Roberts’s snuffbox?”
“I noticed that your brother uses the same blend,” Kendra said carefully.
“Possibly. I know Arthur has borrowed some of Mr. Roberts’s supply. ’Tis a special tobacco blend made specifically for my husband by Wilcox on Bond Street.” She gave Kendra an arch look. “I do hope that your curiosity on this subject is not because you have any desire to indulge yourself, Miss Donovan. I am aware that Marie Antoinette had taken up the habit, but it is rather disgusting for our sex.”
Kendra refused to rise to the bait. Instead, she pointed out, “You never did say where your husband was yesterday morning.”
“Didn’t I? But then I was in bed, if you remember. You shall have to quiz Mr. Roberts on his whereabouts, if you want to know where he was. But I rather doubt he was out murdering your maid.”
“Do you know your husband’s current whereabouts?” Aldridge asked.
Lady Frances turned back to the desk, her eyes scanning the surface before very carefully setting the snuffbox down. Kendra got the impression that she wanted to give herself a moment to weigh her words. “He mentioned going to Weston’s, Your Grace, and then Tattersall’s.”
Kendra asked, “Weston’s? A relative of yours?”
That brought Lady Frances’s gaze around, torn between amusement and outrage. “Dear heavens, no! I realize you are an American, Miss Donovan, but surely you know that John Weston is a tailor, the best tailor in London—though the man is still in trade.”
It was one of those bizarre rules of the aristocracy, where the Ton abhorred anything that gave the whiff of commerce. They could invest in manufacturing and land, but to actually roll up their sleeves to do any work was considered obscene. Kendra had a feeling that their snobbery was an attempt to retain some semblance of control over the burgeoning bourgeoisie class that the Industrial Revolution had created. A wealthy manufacturer could buy an impoverished lord’s estates and dress as a noble, but he could never buy blue-blooded prestige. That could only be obtained through marriage.
Marriage, she was beginning to realize, was the biggest business around.
The Duke said simply, “Thank you, my lady.” He then glanced at the Earl, who remained frozen by his desk. “My lord. We shall see ourselves out.”
Weston’s throat worked, and when it finally came, his voice sounded too harsh. “Good day, Your Grace. Miss Donovan.”
They retraced their footsteps to the foyer. The butler materialized to hand them their coat and cloak. Kendra waited until they were out of the house and nearing their carriage before she looked at the Duke. “That changes a few things.”
“Lady Dover and Mr. Roberts . . . ’tis difficult to credit.”
“I’m pretty sure Lord Weston didn’t know.”
“I believe you’re correct.” Aldridge paused to give his coachman directions. Then they climbed into the carriage.
“The Honorable Cecil Roberts wasn’t so honorable,” Kendra murmured.
Aldridge smiled wryly. “It brings to mind a certain quote. ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when we first practice to deceive.’”
“Sir Walter Scott was—is”—God, it was hard to remember that many of the notables she’d studied were still alive—“an excellent writer and poet.”
“Sir Walter Scott?” Aldridge looked intrigued. “The poet will be knighted?”