“I’m not interested in anyone else. I’m interested in the woman who ended up with forty-three stab wounds in her chest. If she bullied Lady Louisa, we need to factor that in. She isn’t like her sister—Lady Frances would give as good as she got.” But did that include figuring out how to sneak out of her own ball to murder her rival?
“Lady Louisa would have remained silent, unable to respond to Lady Dover’s insults,” she continued. “That kind of thing festers. The hostility builds, until it explodes. It just needs a trigger.” Like Lady Dover wearing their family necklace to the theater.
Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t believe Lady Louisa killed Lady Dover.”
Kendra said, “It’s only a theory. We’ve got four suspects; Lady Louisa happens to be one of them. Lady Frances has the personality, but is the most unlikely because she was hosting the ball. Lady Louisa is barely noticed and could have slipped out pretty easily, but she’s the most unlikely because of her personality. Weston works on all counts, I think.”
“And Dawson?” asked Alec.
“Yeah, he rings every bell too.” She paused. A sensation, whisper-soft, was beginning to tease the edges of her consciousness.
Rebecca eyed her. “Is something the matter, Miss Donovan? You have a most peculiar look on your face.”
Kendra held her breath, trying to capture the elusive thought. But even as she reached for it, trying to identify the source of the disquiet, it vanished into the ether. She released her breath in a frustrated sigh.
“I’m fine. It’s just . . .” She shook her head, annoyed with herself. “I feel like I’m missing something vital. I’m sure it will come to me.”
“Mr. Kelly also continues to pursue his line of inquiry among the servants and stablehands,” said Alec. “Unfortunately Lady Frances’s staff has been remarkably reticent about the night of the ball.”
“Or they did not witness anything unusual that night,” Rebecca countered.
“Lord Sutcliffe, good evening. Lady Rebecca, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra turned to find Lady St. James barreling toward them. She wore a bright cantaloupe-colored gown with five flounces that began in the vicinity of her knees, the last sweeping the floor. The bodice above the high-waisted gown glittered with sequins. She had hidden her graying brown hair beneath a matching turban adorned with a single white plume that resembled a giant question mark bobbing above her head.
Lady St. James was holding the elbow of an old woman dressed entirely in black, including the lace cap she wore over her thinning white hair. She was short, barely topping five feet, Kendra estimated, but made even shorter by her spine, which curved into a dowager’s hump that left her head permanently thrust outward like a turtle. One of her clawlike hands was wrapped around a walking stick, which clicked rhythmically against the marble floor as the two ladies approached.
Alec executed a proper bow. “Good evening, my lady. Your Grace.” He turned to Kendra. “You have already made the acquaintance of Lady St. James, but may I introduce you to the Dowager Duchess of Chatsworth?”
Nothing was more awkward to Kendra than the curtsy. Not because it was difficult to do, but because it wasn’t something she’d ever had to do. But because it was expected of her, she bent her knees a little in a quick dip.
The Dowager Duchess fixed her small, nearly lashless eyes on Alec, thumping her cane on the floor. “You. What is this nonsense I’ve heard about you murdering Lady Dover?”
Kendra gave Lady St. James a sideways glance. She had a feeling she knew where the Dowager Duchess had been hearing the nonsense.
“I can assure you that I’m innocent, madam,” Alec drawled.
“Of course you are. I pride myself on being a keen observer of my fellow man—and woman. Lady Dover . . .” The woman drew back her lips to reveal teeth stained from tobacco and tea. “Coquettish piece of baggage. Met her when Lord Dover brought her to one of the assemblies at the time. Dover, he’d always been a fool. So was Martha—his first wife.
“Now Cordelia, she wasn’t a fool. But the chit was a mushroom, to be sure. And scandalous. Wearing the Weston necklace out in public like she did—very bad Ton.”
Kendra asked, “Who do you think killed her, Your Grace?”
The old lady slewed her gaze at Kendra. “You are the Duke of Aldridge’s ward. Odd, I’ve known Bertie since he was in short pants. But I don’t recall any mention of this friendship he had with your father. What’s his name again?”
Kendra immediately regretted bringing attention to herself. “Mr. Donovan,” she said calmly.
The old woman gave a snort, her beady eyes gleaming with amusement. “You must pay me a morning call, when we can converse more freely.”
God, no. In fact, the Dowager Duchess, with her sharp little eyes, was someone Kendra was going to most definitely avoid.
“I’d imagine most wives aren’t too troubled that the woman stuck her spoon in the wall,” the old lady continued. “Not to mention any of the debutantes who failed to capture the attention of the young swains because Cordelia was around. They were all blinded by her.” She turned back to Alec. “Even you. Thought you had better sense, my boy.”
Alec gave her a wry smile, but wisely kept silent.
She made a harrumphing sound. “Cordelia was ill-bred, but I will allow there can be no denying her beauty. You certainly weren’t the first fool entranced by her.”
“Thank you,” murmured Alec.
“Lord Weston—now that’s who should be looked at. Stupid fellow. If I were Lady Weston, I’d have poisoned the chit. But I don’t see her doing that. Doesn’t have enough gumption.” She gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Have I shocked you, Miss Donovan?”
“More like terrified me.”
She gave another crackling laugh. “I like you, girl, even if you are one of those damned colonists. Lost a son fighting in your war for independence.”
Holy shit. Kendra didn’t know what to say.
“A younger son, not in line for the dukedom. But I still rather liked the boy,” she said gruffly, turning her gaze to the dance floor.
“I’ve heard that you’ve been making inquiries, Miss Donovan,” said Lady St. James, giving Kendra a measured look. “Who do you think murdered the creature?”
“The investigation is ongoing.”
The Dowager Duchess turned back at this and she issued another one of her barking laughs. “Put you in your place, Anne.” Thoughtfully, she added, “I ought to take a look at Lord Weston’s head the next time I see him.”
“His head?” Rebecca frowned in confusion.
“Yes, his head. Are you deaf, girl?” The Dowager Duchess turned to peer up at Alec. “You appear to have a nicely shaped head, although it’s not easy to tell because of all that hair. Come down here, boy.”
Alec gave her a dubious look, but complied, bending low so the old woman could drive her talon-like fingers through his thick, dark brown hair. “Yes, yes. A most excellent head. Sutcliffe here is not the murderer.”
“Thank you, madam,” the Marquis said when he straightened.