Sedwick said, “I cannot deny that my father-in-law’s indiscretion has caused considerable . . . embarrassment. However, Isabella and I have never been involved in it.”
Kendra eyed him curiously. “You work for the government, Mr. Sedwick. Maybe you’re worried that Lord Weston’s involvement with Lady Dover could hurt your career?”
It was certainly plausible in the twenty-first century, she thought. But by Sedwick’s reaction, apparently not so much in the nineteenth. He laughed out loud.
“Miss Donovan, that is rich! Whitehall has managed to survive the scandals of the Prince Regent and the royal family—including a mad king—for decades, if not centuries. My father-in-law’s carelessness is hardly cause for concern, certainly not enough for me to resort to something as ugly as murder.” He offered his arm to his wife, who immediately took it. “The night air grows cold . . .”
Still, he lingered. He cocked his head as he regarded Kendra. “You are an unusual female, Miss Donovan.” She didn’t think he meant it as a compliment.
Sedwick bowed low. “Good evening, Miss Donovan, Lord Sutcliffe.”
Alec responded with a slight bow of his own. “Good evening, Mr. Sedwick, Lady Isabella.”
They watched as the couple hurried back through the French doors, then Alec looked at Kendra. “He’s right, you know. Lord Weston’s affair with Cordelia may have been embarrassing, but it would hardly have curtailed his career as a civil servant.”
“I’d still like to have their alibi for last Monday confirmed. If they were at Carlton House”—with the freaking Prince Regent, the future King of England—“we can cross them off the list. There’s no way either of them could have gone to Lady Dover’s and murdered her without getting caught by the maid.”
“Housekeeper.”
“Whatever.”
He smiled. “I shall make inquiries. It oughtn’t be too difficult.”
“Good. Our pool of suspects is shrinking.”
She started to smile, but stiffened when she felt a familiar prickling sensation between her shoulder blades.
She glanced over her shoulder and her gaze fell on the figure on the other side of the French doors. The candlelight was behind him, leaving him little more than a silhouette, almost insubstantial. It was too dark to see his face, but she recognized the shape of his head, the brown hair slowly turning silver. Shadows dug pits for his eyes, but Kendra thought she still could detect a furious glitter.
Lord Weston.
Alec put a hand on her arm, making her jump. “You are cold,” he murmured. “Let’s go inside, Miss Donovan.”
She said nothing. But when she swung her gaze back to the French doors, Lord Weston was gone.
41
Edmund Sedwick escorted his wife back into the ballroom and wasn’t surprised when she suggested that they depart the festivities.
“’Tis not even midnight,” he said gently, and regarded Lady Isabella’s tense face. “Do not look so blue-deviled, my sweet. People will talk.”
“I am feeling unwell.”
“I have not had a chance to speak with Carlsbad yet,” Sedwick pressed. “That is why we are here, if you will remember. Lord Sidmouth desires Carlsbad’s support against the growing radical elements in this country. He fears the monarchy is being threatened with the tensions in the north, with the Luddites terrorizing the citizens.”
He paused, and inclined his head in a nod of polite acknowledgment as they passed a particular lord who belonged to the radical Whig party. “The Duke of Aldridge would be a useful ally,” he continued. “We cannot alienate him.”
His wife sniffed. “His Grace prefers to keep to his country estate rather than take advantage of Town life.”
“Clearly he has given up his country pursuits.” He steered her toward the stairs.
“We know why he has abandoned the country,” Lady Isabella shot back.
Sedwick gave his wife a look. “It appears that Lady Dover is almost as much trouble dead as when she was alive. Your father was foolish to take up with her.”
Lady Isabella’s mouth tightened. “She was a trollop well used to seducing men.”
“Softly, my dear,” he advised. Usually his wife was much more astute than to let her emotions run away with her. It was one of the traits for which he had married her.
Like his superior, Henry Addington, the first Viscount Sidmouth, Sedwick had trained for the law and practiced as a barrister. And like the Home Secretary, he’d always had an eye on politics. His match to Lady Isabella hadn’t been financially lucrative—she had only brought a miserly dowry—but in her he’d recognized the perfect politician’s wife, with the manners and upbringing both to be a hostess or to accompany him to the many dinners he was required to attend. She was attentive to his political ambitions without being political herself—and thank God for that. He couldn’t abide an interfering female, like the Countess Von Lieven, the wife of the Russian ambassador. While some believed the fashionable Countess advanced her husband’s cause with her shrewd advice, Sedwick had to suppress a shudder at the thought of having a woman hold so much power.
“Forgive me,” Lady Isabella now said, her voice low and stilted. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Sedwick, I shall go to the withdrawing room. Mayhap a maid there will have some powder for my headache.”
He smiled, since he’d spotted the man that he wanted to speak with. He didn’t want his wife to witness the conversation. “Very good, my dear.”
He watched her glide down the hall, then veered off to catch up with his father-in-law.
“My lord?” He kept his smile in place when Weston glanced around. “A moment in private, if I may?”
Weston frowned. “What is it?”
Sedwick had no great feelings for his father-in-law one way or the other. They got on well enough, although Sedwick was often aggrieved by Weston’s refusal to throw in wholeheartedly with Lord Sidmouth’s leadership of the Tory party. Weston had even made disconcerting remarks, suggesting he favored some of the views expressed by the opinionated—and often hated—George Canning. The statesman claimed to be a Tory, but given his previous Whig leanings, Sedwick thought he was still secretly the latter, especially after he argued in favor of Catholic emancipation in the House of Commons. Then again, what else could one expect of a man whose mother had been an actress?
“I have had the most interesting conversation with Miss Donovan and Lord Sutcliffe,” Sedwick murmured. “She is a most peculiar female, is she not?”
Weston glanced around them. “Shall we walk, sir?”
The younger man inclined his head, and they ambled down the corridor to an alcove that, except for the footmen and maids scurrying by in their duties, offered some privacy.
“What did they wish to speak to you and Isabella about?” asked Weston.
Sedwick smiled. “I thought I noticed you inside. You should have made your presence known. I dare say Miss Donovan would like to quiz you as well.”