A Murder in Time (25 page)

He thought of the woman. Again, he felt a stirring deep inside himself, a shivery kind of excitement and anticipation. It reminded him of the feeling that possessed him right before he took one of the whores for his pleasure.

Kendra Donovan.

He whispered the name, enjoying how it sounded on his tongue. Like an exotic liqueur, sweet and tantalizing. She was only a woman—less, really, given her servant status. She was undoubtedly a whore, clever enough to insinuate herself next to the powerful Duke of Aldridge. The old man had always been queer, and like any daughter of Eve, the maid had recognized his eccentricity and exploited it, manipulating it to her advantage.

As a woman, she couldn't be considered a true opponent. However, he couldn't deny she added an interesting element to the game. He would enjoy her participation, enjoy parrying with her. And when the time was right, he'd enjoy killing her.

17

At six-thirty the next morning, Kendra woke with a start, her heart pounding, her ears attuned to the same noises that had woken her the previous morning. For one moment, she had the wild hope that she'd dreamed the last forty-eight hours. Yet the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the candle on the nightstand, which brought her back to reality.

Well, her current reality: she was in the early nineteenth century. And a serial killer was hunting prostitutes.

She wanted to pull the thin blankets over her head and go back to sleep. She wanted to
will
herself back to the twenty-first century. Instead, with an effort—her muscles were so stiff—she pushed herself to a sitting position just as Rose emerged from behind the privacy screen, and smiled at her.

“Mornin', miss.”

“My God. I used to think I was in shape,” Kendra muttered. She forced herself to stand, and do some yoga moves in the small space.

“W'otever are you doing?” Rose watched her, perplexed.

“Downward facing dog.”

“W'ot?”

Kendra straightened. “It relaxes me.”

“If you say so, miss. Don't you 'ave a nightdress?” Rose eyed the chemise that she'd stripped down to again last night.

“No.” She slipped behind the privacy screen, washed her face and scrubbed her teeth by the same method she'd employed yesterday. By the time she emerged, Rose was already dressed and waiting to be buttoned up.

“We 'eard 'is Grace 'as called in a thief-taker from London.”

“Thief-taker?”

“A Runner. The gentry 'ires them to find villains.”

“Oh. The Bow Street Runner. Yes. The Duke sent for one.”

“Does that mean you're no longer gonna be 'elping 'is Grace?”

If this was the twenty-first century, she'd be driving to the Bureau or setting up a war room in whatever police station in the country required the FBI's assistance. There'd be a system to follow, and she'd know her place in that system. But what was her place here? In everyone's eyes, she was a servant. When she'd stepped outside that role yesterday, she knew it had confused and angered some people. She'd done what came naturally to her, but it was completely unnatural in this world.

“Miss?”

“What? Oh. Sorry. I'm sure I'll help the Duke.” She frowned as they left the bedchamber and descended the backstairs, remembering Mrs. Danbury's orders. “But I suppose I'd better help in the kitchen until he calls for me.”

“Aye, miss.”

In the kitchens, two maids were scouring and black-leading the enormous stove. Fires were already lit in the fireplaces, heating up giant tubs of water. Monsieur Anton was muttering in French, casting the footmen loitering nearby an evil eye. It was pleasantly cool now, but by mid-afternoon, Kendra knew, the room would be boiling hot and more crowded than the Pennsylvania Turnpike on a holiday weekend.

Again, Kendra felt eyes turn in her direction as she followed Rose to the lower staff dining room, where a buffet-styled breakfast was offered—trays of cold meat, fresh bread, and pots of tea and—
hallelujah
—coffee. A few maids and footmen were already seated at the long pine table. They stopped their conversation, and stared at Kendra. It gave her a twitchy feeling, as she followed Rose to the buffet and filled a plate with cold cuts and two buns. She poured coffee into an earthenware mug, the fragrance alone making her happy.

“Do you know what's happening with the murder, miss?” a young footman asked her as soon as she sat down.

“Aye,” another man put in. “D'ya know who did it?”

“Who was the chit?” a maid asked. “We 'eard she mebbe was a light-skirt from London.”

“Oi 'eard she was from Glasgow.”

Kendra drank her coffee, and nearly sighed at the much-needed caffeine jolt. “We don't know anything yet.” She surveyed them over the mug. “Has this ever happened before? An unknown young woman found in, say, the last ten years?”

Like Rose and Molly yesterday when she asked that question, she saw the shock in their eyes, the automatic denial. “Nay! Never!”

“Me da says she was probably done in by gypsies,” a young girl whispered, eyes round. “Ye know that the Duke lets them camp on the south side of the forest.”

“Ooh—the devils will slay us all if we don't do somethin'!”

“They're a bunch of 'eathens!”

Kendra recognized the rising hysteria in the room. Really, it was no different than what she'd encountered in City Hall meetings, where citizens were quick to point the finger at a drifter or stranger in town. Better to think a murderer was a vagrant than a neighbor, someone they probably sat next to in church, or had coffee with at the local diner.

“Gypsies didn't kill this girl.”

“'Ow d'ya know?” One of the footman squinted at her.

“Aye. Why should we believe you? We don't know
you.
”

Hysteria and hostility. They went hand in hand.

Kendra picked up her knife and fork, slicing through the ham in a controlled motion. “True. You don't know me. But you know the Duke. He doesn't strike me as a fool. Am I wrong? Is he a fool?” That evoked a strong reaction, as she'd known it would.

“'Is Grace ain't no fool! 'Es got strange ways—but the gov ain't a fool.”

She chewed the ham and waited for the furious mutterings to end. Then she said, “The Duke trusts me.”
Please let that be true.
For all she knew, Aldridge could have second thoughts today and toss her out on her ass. Her stomach knotted at the possibility, but she was careful to keep her expression neutral. “He trusts that I have some expertise in this area. You'll have to trust me as well.”

Although she could see that wasn't going to happen—their expressions remained suspicious—she didn't think they'd be picking up the pitchforks and torches to go after the gypsies.
Yet.

Just another thing to worry about.

Sighing, she forced herself to finish her breakfast. Not easy when you had a dozen pair of eyes on you. It was a relief when she could push herself away from the table and follow Rose back to the kitchen, where Cook gave her a knife to peel and slice potatoes into an enormous copper pot.

For a second, Kendra stared blankly at the knife. Only then did it occur to her that she'd never peeled a potato in her life. For as long as she could remember, her parents had employed housekeepers, so they could concentrate on their work. And later . . . well, she lived in a time of takeout, prepackaged microwave dinners, and restaurants. In her world, the culinary arts were a desire, not a necessity, and like her parents, she'd poured her time and attention into her work, not the kitchen.

Yet how hard could it be, really? It was a damn potato. She'd graduated magna cum laude with a fistful of degrees in psychology, criminology, and computer science from Princeton when she was only three years older than Rose.

Twenty minutes later, she discovered that peeling potatoes was a lot like styling hair—it looked easier than it was. For every freshly skinned potato that she managed to plop into the giant pot, Rose did five, her hands almost a blur as she peeled and chopped. And Rose's potatoes were the same size post-skinning, whereas Kendra's own were whittled down like the after picture in a weight loss commercial.

Who knew that peeling a potato could make you feel inadequate?

“Miss?” Molly approached, and Kendra paused to listen. “'Is Grace is askin' fer ye.”

The kitchen was a place of steady noise and movement, a constant din always in the background. None of that stopped, but Kendra was aware of the eyes that swiveled in her direction. Carefully, she laid down the knife on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron as she followed the tweeny out into the hall.

She expected Molly to usher her to the study, or even the Duke's lab. Instead, the maid brought her to the schoolroom, gesturing at the door.

“They're in there, miss.”

Kendra nodded. “Thanks, Molly.”

She rubbed suddenly sweaty palms against her apron, drew in a deep breath, and pushed open the door. Aldridge and Alec were standing in front of the slate board, but as soon as she entered, they swung around to stare at her. She tried to figure out what they were thinking. With Alec, it was impossible. He was frowning, but that was his normal expression, as far as Kendra was concerned. His green eyes hid his thoughts well.

The Duke was a little easier to read—he looked uneasy. “I see you've begun your observations.”

Kendra moved into the room. “Yes, sir.”

“'Tis a gruesome business that you've written.”

Kendra wondered if she was being sensitive, or if there was a reproving note in his voice. But then he turned back to the slate board. “I see you crossed out ‘mission-oriented.'”

“Yes, sir. Prostitutes are a common target of mission-oriented killers. They see them as blights on humanity. They believe they're doing God's work by eliminating them.”

The Duke frowned. “That's absurd.”

“It's a psychosis—but one we don't have to worry about here, because we're not dealing with that type of killer. We're dealing with something far worse.” Because there was a chill in the room—at least that's what she told herself—Kendra hugged her arms across her chest. “The pain inflicted premortem was designed to torture the girl. The rape and strangulation, being handcuffed . . . it makes a statement: I'm in control here; I have power here. Power over
you
; control over
you
. For however many hours she lived, the killer was her whole world. She would've begged and pleaded, and that would have only excited him.”

“Good God.”

“He doesn't believe he's
helping
God. He believes he
is
God. He had the power of her life and death in his hands. What we're dealing with—” She broke off as the door to the schoolroom swung open again, and the woman with the pockmarked face that Alec had escorted to the nuncheon yesterday strode in.

She wasn't wearing a bonnet, so Kendra could see that her hair was a beautiful auburn, pulled into the style that Georgina and Sarah had demanded she produce the previous morning. Her eyes were a cornflower blue and held a determined gleam, especially when Alec hurried toward her.

“Rebecca! What the devil are you doing here?”

She smiled up at him. “I heard you were here, of course.”

“How did y—”

“Mary.”

He scowled. “The woman's a bloody gossip.”

Rebecca grinned. “Naturally. 'Tis one of the prerequisites to being a lady's maid.” She shrugged off his detaining hand, and came to stand before Kendra. “You are Miss Donovan.”

Kendra was surprised by the woman's forthright manner, the laser-like directness of her gaze. Yesterday, Sarah and Georgina had looked
through
her most of the time. This woman actually saw her, studied her with frank curiosity.

“Yes. Kendra Donovan.”

Alec's mouth compressed. “You are turning into a hoyden, Becca.”

“My dear Sutcliffe, I have been a hoyden for
years
.”

“Lady Rebecca, this is really not for your ears,” the Duke offered his own protest. “Alec shall escort you—”

“Stuff and nonsense! My ears have spent hours in the stables. I'm not a green girl, you know.” She turned toward the slate board. “This is about the girl who was killed, is it not?”

“Becca—”

“Oh, don't look so Friday-faced, Alec! If Miss Donovan is allowed to stay, I don't know why I should be sent from the room. I am not a child—I'm three and twenty.” She gave both men an arch look. “And I seem to recall you applauding my study of Mary Wollstonecraft's work. You have always encouraged my artistic and intellectual pursuits.”

“For God's sakes, Becca, we are not having a theoretical discussion in Duke's study or the drawing room,” Alec argued impatiently. “This is not an exercise in women's rights.”

“Oh, but that is exactly what it is, Sutcliffe!” She was no longer smiling, and her blue eyes narrowed. “For the first time, we can take the discussion out of the theoretical and apply it to the real world. Unless you were gammoning me.”

Kendra had to admire the woman. She'd neatly turned the tables on the men. If this were the twenty-first century, Lady Rebecca would've made a good lawyer.

Alec gave a snort. “You are only here because of your lamentable curiosity.”

“There's nothing lamentable about curiosity,” she retorted. “You, my father, Duke . . .” She shifted her gaze to encompass the older man. “You taught me that. And you have always indulged my intellectual path. My dear Duke, you cannot find fault with my argument. If you turn me away now, I shall suspect you've only been patronizing me.”

Good lawyer, hell. She'd have made a great one, Kendra decided. Acting on impulse, she said, “I think she should stay.”