Shipley laughed like Alec had just told a joke. “What has that got to do with anything? No, you can’t go about hanging the aristocracy. What kind of society would we live in then?”
A fair one, Alec reflected, and remembered Kendra’s appalled reaction when she’d learned how England’s justice system was structured, where he could only be charged by his peers. Bloody hell, the woman was changing him. He’d never once considered the matter but now felt a strange sense of disquiet.
“The nobles won’t do it,” emphasized Shipley. “They’re too afraid of what happened in France. Common folk turning against their betters and chopping off their heads. Gave my father nightmares, it did. And what came out of it? Democracy? Napoleon declared himself emperor!”
“Well, Napoleon has now been banished and a new France is rising. But I didn’t come here to speak to you about international politics, Ship.”
“Thank God. I never cared much for politics of any stripe. What did you come here to speak to me about, then?”
“The guest list at Carlton House on Monday night. Do you remember if Mr. Sedwick and his wife, Lady Isabella, were among the guests?”
“Sedwick? Most likely. He’s Sidmouth’s lapdog, isn’t he?” Shipley rolled his eyes. “I swear, if I took this foil and cut his arm, he would bleed Tory. He has government on the brain, you know.”
Alec laughed. “Why do you go to Carlton House, Ship? You know politics is a prerequisite.”
“My father orders it, threatens to cut off my allowance if I don’t. But it’s not too ghastly. Prinny and I share similar interests in sport, you know. The Prince was actually an accomplished rider until he . . .”
“Became so fat,” Alec finished drily.
“Robust,” Shipley corrected with a twinkle in his eye. “I don’t want to be ostracized like Brummell.”
“The on dit was that he asked Lord Byron who his ‘fat friend’ was.”
“Yes, but the fat friend in question was the Prince Regent. Stupid man—Beau, not the Prince. Heard he’s drowning in the River Tick, and without his alliance with the Prince, creditors have begun demanding their due. He’ll soon take a French leave, mark my words.”
Alec was sure that was true, but circled back to the subject that had brought him here. “Do you recall when Sedwick and his wife left Carlton House?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Did they stay until the dinner was finished?”
“Yes. That much I do know. But more because no one would have left before the Prince. Very ill-mannered to do so.”
“When did the Prince Regent leave the dinner?”
“Ten o’clock? Half past? I’m uncertain.”
“Could it have been nine?”
“No. I didn’t return home until well after midnight. But there was dreadful traffic on the road, you know. Damned nuisance.”
“You are certain that Sedwick and his wife left after ten o’clock?”
“Yes, definitely later in the evening. Does that help you, Sutty?”
Alec smiled. “As a matter of fact, it does.”
“And now there are six,” Kendra murmured, wetting the rag and wiping Sedwick and Lady Isabella’s names off the slate board.
Alec had arrived ten minutes ago with confirmation that Sedwick and Lady Isabella had been at Carlton House until at least ten o’clock on the evening of the murder. Unless they’d flown, there was no way they could have arrived at Lady Frances’s ball, snuck away to Grosvenor Square to stab Lady Dover and carve up her face, and return. Not without being caught by Mrs. Pierson—Lady Dover’s housekeeper—along the way.
“We’re making progress,” Aldridge said from his position behind his desk.
Slow progress, Kendra thought. True, even in the twenty-first century, investigations could happen at a painfully slow pace. If they ground to a halt, they ended up pushed to the side, and eventually in the cold-case file. Here, though, she felt hampered by the lack of forensic tools and frustrated by the proprieties that prevented her from yanking the entire Weston family into interview. She’d hoped to put some pressure on Dawson last night, but he’d never shown up at the Bensons’ soiree. And by the time she’d sought out Lord and Lady Weston, they’d already left.
She sighed heavily and went to pour herself another cup of coffee from the tray they’d brought into the study after breakfast. She was exhausted, with another headache stabbing behind her eyes. She attributed it to the sleepless night she’d had, thanks to a nightmare about a small, blond-haired child being chased through the streets of London while she watched, helpless. She’d woken with a start just as a hand holding a stiletto had swung down with the intent of impaling the boy.
Suppressing a shudder at the memory, she said, “We need a break in the case right now. Unfortunately, our best lead is Snake finding the boy who delivered the message. If he can identify the killer . . .”
She swung around when the door opened, and Harding announced Sam Kelly’s arrival. The Bow Street Runner came into the room at a more rapid pace than usual. “Good morning,” he greeted them.
He had a cop’s face, schooled into impassivity. Yet there was something in his golden brown eyes that made Kendra straighten, a curious excitement rushing through her. “You’ve found something.”
“Me men have found the ruffians that broke into Lady Dover’s house. And the goods are still there.” He grinned as the Duke and Alec surged to their feet. “I thought you might want ter take a look.”
43
They traveled at least twenty minutes into the outskirts of London, by the time the carriage finally came to a rocking stop, the door opened, the steps unfolded, and Kendra was able to step down onto the ground. She was grateful that she’d donned a spencer jacket before she left the Duke’s residence when a stiff, cold breeze suddenly buffeted her and stirred the trees in the heavily wooded area around the clearing.
In a few weeks, it would be October. And then what? Christmas? Spring? Her stomach squeezed as she thought of the months that loomed ahead—in the nineteenth century. These little moments of awareness came at the damnedest times. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about it.
She turned her attention to the house. It wasn’t a mansion by any means, or even the size of one of the smaller London terraces, but it was still larger than one of the tiny cottages that dotted the English countryside. Made of stone, it was painted white and topped with a thatched roof, the straw gray with age and layered with moss and lichen. Three small square windows, winged with shutters, were cut into the stone.