As they approached the front door of the Westons’ Georgian townhouse, the calling card ritual having been abandoned for this trip, Kendra was reminded of the first time they’d called on the Earl. The sky had been gray then, too, the clouds swollen and hanging low over chimney stacks and roof peaks. Weston had invited them inside with a pleasant smile, assuming their call was a social one. By their second visit, he’d known better and hadn’t even offered them a seat—an unusual rebuff given the Duke’s presence. The steady decline in hospitality and the escalation of hostility was the price to be paid for anyone leading a murder investigation. She was used to it. But she snuck a sideways look at the Duke and Alec and wondered if any of this made them uncomfortable. She also wondered what kind of reception this third call would bring.
By the surprised-then-guarded look that immediately closed over the butler’s face after their knock, they wouldn’t be getting a warm welcome. Still, the servant made his way up the stairs to see whether the Earl was “at home” to his unexpected visitors. Kendra considered their course of action if Weston sent the butler back down with a negative response. Thankfully, when he returned, it was to escort them up the stairs to the study.
Weston eyed them as they filed into the room, his gaze lingering on Sam. Though Sam was law enforcement, it was one of the oddities in this era that the Runner would need more than his gold-tipped baton to make it across the threshold of a peer of the realm.
“Thank you for seeing us, my lord,” Kendra said.
Weston turned his gaze to her. “My daughter is playing at a musical recital soon. I don’t have much time for”—he lifted his arm and made an abstract gesture with his hand—“whatever this is.”
“This shouldn’t take long.” She brought up her reticule and opened the strings, then brought out the velvet pouch within and rolled it open on the desk, much like the pawnbroker had on his counter. “As you can see, we retrieved the necklace that you brought to Alger and Blackwood.”
Weston said nothing as he stared at the family heirloom, his face leaching all color.
“You did a pretty good job at cleaning the blood off of it.”
The Earl flinched and jerked his eyes up to meet her gaze. “I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .”
“Don’t lie,” she snapped. The time for finesse had ended. “Mr. Blackwood described you. But if there’s any doubts, we can make sure you two meet. Will he identify you, Lord Weston?”
Weston swallowed hard but said nothing.
Aldridge said quietly, “I believe it is time for you to explain yourself, sir.”
“We know that Lady Dover wore this necklace on the night of her murder. Did you take it before you mutilated her face, or after?”
“No!” Weston crumbled, suddenly sinking into the chair behind his desk like his knees had gone out on him. Revulsion and horror crossed his face before he brought his hands up to hide his expression. “No, I didn’t kill her!”
“This suggests otherwise,” Alec said. A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You killed and mutilated her.”
Weston shuddered, as though remembering the gruesome injury inflicted on the woman who’d been his mistress. Then he dropped his hands and looked up at them, his brown eyes dark with fear. “I swear to you, I didn’t kill her—she was dead already. Murdered. Dear God . . . do you think I could have done that to her? What kind of monster do you think I am?” He swiveled his head to shoot the Duke a beseeching glance. “Sir, please, you must know that I could never do that!”
Kendra kept her gaze locked on Weston. “Tell me about that night,” she said more softly, “and how you came to pawn your family’s necklace.”
He drew in a breath, then let it out in a raggedy huff. “I attended my daughter’s ball, just as I told you. However . . . Cordelia had requested that I visit her that night as well.”
“So you were the one she dressed up for,” Kendra said quietly.
He hesitated, but gave a nod. “I believe so.”
“You son of a bitch.” Alec made a move forward, but the Duke put a hand on his arm to restrain him. “You knew I was under suspicion, and yet you said nothing. The House of Lords is planning to convene on Monday to decide whether to have me arrested. You’d have let me hang.”
“No.” But Weston couldn’t meet Alec’s eyes. “I don’t believe they would have charged you. There was no evidence but the housekeeper’s suspicions. ’Tis unlikely they would have put much weight on the woman’s word. Not against a Marquis—the heir of a Duke.”
“Damn you! Even if they never charged me, it’s a black mark against my character. There will always be whispers.” Alec’s green eyes blazed at the other man. “You’re a fucking coward, Weston. Why shouldn’t I believe that someone like you wouldn’t have killed Cordelia? If she threatened to tell the world that you were the father of her child, you could have easily murdered her.”
“I would never . . . I loved her!” Anguish twisted Weston’s face. “I would never have harmed her. I was even—God help me—considering leaving my wife to be with her.”
That seemed to stun everyone. Watching Weston closely, Kendra asked, “What about the affair she’d started with your son-in-law, Mr. Roberts?”
“Good God, I didn’t know about that until you set the snuffbox on my desk.” He glared at her and scrubbed his palms against his face. In the gray light streaming in from the windows, he looked old, exhaustion and fear carving new lines on his face. “She likely did it in retaliation. Cordelia was pressuring me to divorce my wife and marry her, but it is not an easy thing to walk away from your family.”
“But you were ready to do that?”
He swallowed again, looking vaguely ill. “Yes . . . no! I don’t know. I loved her.”
“You attended Lady Frances’s ball. And you slipped away . . .”
“There was a crush. I waited until after ten—”
“How much after?” Kendra asked.
“I don’t know—not much after. I left through the back garden. It wasn’t far. I knocked . . . I remember knocking. No one answered. Christ, I almost left then, you know. I wish that I had left then . . .”
He seemed to sink into a stupor, staring blindly in front of him.
“But you didn’t,” Kendra prompted. She walked over to the sideboard with the decanters and splashed a generous portion of whiskey into a glass. She brought it over to him, nudging his shoulder to get his attention.
He stirred, reaching for the glass and then tossing the entire contents back. He coughed lightly as the alcohol hit the back of his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, I didn’t,” he continued hoarsely. “I tried the doorknob. I didn’t think it would open, but it did. I went upstairs and saw the light in the drawing room. I went there . . .” He took another drink. “She was there, on the sofa. And her face . . . I could never do that. Never.”
“You didn’t leave, though, did you?”
“I did. I was almost down the stairs when I thought about . . . about the necklace.” The hand holding his glass shook, Kendra noticed. “I returned and retrieved it. The thing has been in my family for generations,” he added, his tone taking on a defensive note.
“Why not leave it and claim it afterward?” wondered Kendra.