“Yes.”
“Except we have a witness who saw you with Lady Dover a couple of weeks before that,” Kendra lied smoothly. She waited, watching. The red flush ebbed, leaving him pale. “How do you explain that?”
“I . . .” His eyes dropped to the hat in his hands. His fingers were splayed on the brim, holding it tight enough to make indentations. “All right,” he finally said. “I did meet her while riding, quite by chance—I did not tell you a falsehood. But it was before the incident at the theater, and . . . I do not know how to explain it. That much is true. Lady Dover is—was a diamond of the first water, but she had more than beauty. She was a fascinating creature.”
“You ended up at the cottage.”
“I am not proud of myself, Miss Donovan . . . Your Grace. It was madness. I was aware before the theater incident that Weston and Cordelia were involved. I respect my father-in-law. I regret that he knows about the relationship.”
“What about your wife?” asked Kendra. “Do you regret that she now knows about the affair?”
He gave her a cool look. “My wife has my name and is under my protection.”
Kendra stared at him. “So she’s fine with you jumping into another woman’s bed?”
“You are being crude. I do not know what my relationship with Cordelia has to do with her death. I did not kill her. Devil take it, I was in the middle of a ball, with an entire roomful of people who can attest to that!”
“What about yesterday morning? Do you have a roomful of people who can give you an alibi?”
“Yesterday?” He frowned at the sudden change of topic. “What the devil happened yesterday?”
“Someone tried to kill me; they murdered my maid instead. So I’d like to know your whereabouts, Mr. Roberts.”
He glared at her and muttered, “This is absurd. I didn’t kill your maid, and I certainly didn’t try to kill you, Miss Donovan.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
His jaw tightened. “I woke late and decided to walk to my club for a late breakfast.”
“What club do you belong to, Mr. Roberts?” asked Aldridge.
“White’s.” He slammed his hat back on his head. “Now I think I am done answering these ridiculous questions, sir. I hope that I have your word as a gentleman not to spread the rumor about me and Lady Dover.”
It’s not a rumor if it’s true, Kendra thought, but didn’t say anything.
“This is a discreet inquiry,” the Duke murmured.
Roberts had to be satisfied with that. After a moment, he gave a nod and a bow, and spun around to head back to Tattersall’s.
They watched him go in silence. Then Kendra shot a glance up at Aldridge. “London is quite the den of iniquity.”
“That is not exactly news, my dear.”
“He didn’t seem concerned about his wife knowing about his affair. I wonder if it’s because she already knew?”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” The Duke offered Kendra his elbow, and they began walking back toward his parked carriage. “What I found most interesting is that Mr. Roberts said he went to his club yesterday morning.”
“What’s so interesting about that? Clubs seem to play an important part in the life of gentlemen.”
“That they do.” Aldridge smiled. “The interesting part is where White’s happens to be located. St. James’s Street—which runs into Piccadilly.”
Kendra sucked in a quick breath. And Piccadilly was where Eva Cooper was murdered.
36
Alec kept Chance to a sedate walk along the pathways of Hyde Park, even though he could sense the Arabian’s impatience to run. He would’ve liked nothing better than to give the beast its head, to fly across the gently sloping landscape. Unfortunately, galloping in the park was frowned upon by polite society. With the murder of Cordelia already casting a dark shadow across his reputation, Alec knew he couldn’t afford any further censure from his peers. In little over a week, the House of Lords would be meeting to discuss his fate.
They’d either order a trial or let him go free. But even if his peers chose to look the other way, Alec knew he would never be free. He’d seen the way people had stared at him when he’d put in that appearance at Mrs. Allen’s. It wasn’t just the bruises marring his face. The taint of Cordelia’s murder followed him like a sour stench. He didn’t expect that to go away.
And then, of course, there was Bear. That hulking brute had promised to come after him, and Alec believed that, in this, the crime lord would be a man of his word.
The very thought of another confrontation with the ruffian made Alec wince. His ribs still ached like the very devil, despite the assurances he’d given Kendra.
Another reason not to gallop, but to keep a tight rein on Chance and alternate between a walk and a quick trot along Rotten Row. This was a wide bridle path originally created more than a century ago by King William III so he could travel safely between Kensington Palace and Whitehall. More than three hundred oil lamps used to dangle from the trees, lighting the way for the king and discouraging footpads and thieves. When later royals had decided to build other roads to travel upon, the Beau Monde had quickly seized Rotten Row for their own use, to exercise their horses—or, rather, to be seen exercising one’s horses.
Alec’s lips twisted. There was no shortage of vanity—or ridiculousness—in the Ton. Little wonder Kendra wanted to leave.
Frowning, he twitched the reins, guiding Chance around a fallen branch in the middle of the path. Kendra Donovan was stubbornly silent when pressed about her own era. There were times, though, when he thought he could detect a secret amusement glowing in those dark eyes. Like after the time she’d read an account in the newspaper about the latest foibles of the Prince Regent and his (allegedly) secret wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert. She’d shaken her head and muttered under her breath, “The Kardashians.” What in hell, he wondered, was a Kardashian? Whatever it was, he got the impression that the world hadn’t changed that much after all. It was still foolish.
And it was still violent. Kendra’s own profession proved that.
The FBI, that’s what she called it. Or the Bureau. He’d been a little surprised that America had managed to organize itself enough to create a police force. Despite its high-minded principles, he’d always regarded the new nation as wild and undisciplined. But, then again, so were the Scottish. And yet Glasgow, of all places, had persuaded its clutch-fisted citizenry (and, really, there was no one more close-fisted than a Scot) to loosen their purse strings and pay for eight permanent law enforcement officers on staff. Eight. It was remarkable, really.