A Murder in Time (31 page)

“Why? Because she eloped?”

“The elopement was disgraceful enough, but she married an
infantry man
, Miss Donovan. No title. Undoubtedly penniless. Most earls would have been displeased by the match. Do you really not understand that?”

“Okay. I get it.”

“The earl had a tyrannical reputation. He quite terrified me when I was a child and chanced upon him while visiting the Duke.” She gave a mock shudder. “They say he fetched Lady Anne home and dispatched her husband to India. As a member of Parliament, he had connections with the War Department. The poor man died over there without ever setting eyes on his son. It really is quite tragic when you think on it.”

“I wonder how Morland felt about never knowing his father because his grandfather sent him away?”

“I've no idea, but the earl quite doted on his grandson. Of course, it didn't hurt that Morland took after his grandfather in looks, which undoubtedly appealed to the old earl's vanity,” Rebecca remarked cynically. “Nothing like seeing the family line continue on with your male heirs, while your daughters and granddaughters can wither on the vine. If, that is, you cannot use them to expand one's empire!

“'Tis a
man's
world, Miss Donovan,” she added, scowling. She was silent for a moment, then huffed out a sigh. “But that's neither here nor there. There was no estrangement between Morland and his grandfather when the earl was alive. Sadly, the earldom couldn't be passed to Mr. Morland, but rather went to a distant male cousin. However, Morland was fortunate in the fact that Tinley Park was not entailed.”

“Why didn't Lady Anne follow her husband to India?”

“I don't know the details. I suspect she discovered that she was increasing, which would have made traveling to India out of the question. I daresay by the time it was a possibility, it was too late. Her husband had already expired. Sad how life works out sometimes, isn't it?”

“You never know what life will throw at you, I'll give you that.” She joined Rebecca at the slate board. “Who else do you know that fits the profile?”

“I don't—”

“Yes, you do.”

Rebecca lifted her brows. “Are all maids as dictatorial as you are in America, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra frowned. “The Duke came up with eight men that fit the profile. I'd like your input.”

“And what then, Miss Donovan? What do
you
expect to do?”

“Interview the suspects, find out where they were on the night of the murder. We can eliminate everyone who has an alibi.”

“I see.” Rebecca gave her a strange look. “And you will do this . . . how? You—a maid—expect to quiz your betters?”

Kendra stared at her in consternation. How in God's name was she going to conduct this investigation if she wasn't allowed to interview the suspects?

Lady Rebecca looked amused. “You seem to forget your station in life, Miss Donovan. What is done, and what is
not
done.”

“I'm sure the Duke will assist me.”

Rebecca raised her brows. A Duke required assistance from a servant; not the other way around. She smiled suddenly, tapping her chin with her fan as she circled Kendra. “Hmm. I don't require a lady's maid. My maid, Mary, is most exceptional.”

Kendra eyed her warily. “Good, because I pretty much sucked at being a lady's maid.”

“Sucked?”
Diverted, Rebecca laughed. “You Americans have such
colorful
expressions. However . . . I've never had a companion.”

“Companion?”

“A lady's companion.”

“Lady Rebecca, are you by any chance asking me to be your companion?”

“Yes, I believe I am. 'Tis most unusual, but . . . you, my dear Miss Donovan, have just bettered yourself.”

23

From her bedroom window, April Duprey watched the Bow Street Runner make his way carefully down the cobblestone street that gleamed black from the thin drizzle falling from the evening sky. When he stopped abruptly, glancing back toward the house, his eyes seeming to angle straight toward her window, her heart jolted and her fingers, on the lace drapery, tensed. She forced herself to let go of the material and step away.

She wondered uneasily if he knew that she'd lied to him. She was very good at lying—it was a necessity for being a good whore.

She smiled, a cynical twist to her painted lips, thinking of the rogues she'd serviced over the years. They'd never wanted the truth. Nay, they'd wanted to be cooed over and coddled, and complimented on how virile and handsome they were even if they were on the far side of seventy. They all had their fantasies. And every fantasy began with a lie.

April Duprey wasn't even her given name. She barely remembered the name she'd been christened or the chit she'd been before her drunken sod of a father had bartered her to a whoremaster in exchange for the bill he'd owed. She'd been eleven at the time.

That had been a long time ago, of course. April knew a cool satisfaction over surviving those early days. After that brutal first year, she'd put aside girlish dreams she no longer remembered and ruthlessly applied herself to becoming a skillful courtesan. She had the looks and the wits to become more than a streetwalker, although she'd done her share of back alley tumbles with drunken rakes. She'd been clever enough to do it for a coin or two, not a tipple of gin. She'd ended up in an academy for a time, until she'd craftily seduced one of the coves into setting her up in her own house.

It had been a lovely time, that. Of course, she'd never been so foolish as to believe it would last. In her world, nothing lasted. She'd hoarded her coins and jewels, worked on her speech and manners. When her protector had found a younger mistress and given her
congé
, she'd bought the house on Bacon Street and acquired a small selection of girls. It had taken her years, but she'd built her business as brothel keeper. She might not offer the most exclusive demimondaines at her academy, but she'd carved out a solid reputation by catering to a broad range of tastes.

Now as she spun away from the window, she caught her reflection in the beveled glass mirror across the room. For a brief moment, she saw a pale, golden-haired Cyprian in a diaphanous blue empire-waisted gown. The candlelight helped weave an illusion of youth and beauty. She knew the truth.

One lied to the clientele; one never lied to oneself.

At thirty-five, she had long since parted ways with youth. If she looked closely into the mirror, she'd see that the years had caught up with her, leaving a web of fine lines around her eyes and forehead. Her figure was still good, lush and round, but she could no longer conceal a certain hardness in her countenance or the shrewdness in her eyes as she was tallying up a business transaction.

It was just as well that she'd given up the role of prostitute to be an abbess. She preferred it, if truth be told, although she wasn't above servicing the occasional request. She believed in keeping the customers happy. That's why she'd loaned out Lydia.

When the chit hadn't returned, she'd assumed the worst, that the little bitch had sunk her claws into one of the bucks to become a
chère-amie
. April had to confess that she was surprised to learn that the girl was dead. Surprised, but not necessarily shocked. Such things happened; some games, she knew, went too far. Yet the way she saw it, she was owed reparation.

She moved to the table where she kept the decanters. Pouring a splash of scotch into a glass—she allowed herself just two drinks a day, her father having cured her of any desire to use spirits to sink into oblivion—she took a quick sip, the taste strong and sharp on her tongue, as she considered the matter.

It would involve some delicacy. But surely the gent would see the inconvenience he'd given her? Replacing Lydia would require some diligence on her part. Not to mention the expense of dressing a new whore.
And
she had to lie to a Runner. Silence didn't come cheap.

Taking another swallow of scotch, April sat down at her desk. She wasn't dealing with some thief down the street. There were proprieties to be observed with the fancy. Best to send him a note outlining her dilemma. She reached for a foolscap and quill pen. Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Odd how life worked, she mused with a thin smile. Lydia's unfortunate demise might actually turn out to be her most profitable transaction yet.

24

It was probably something of a world record, to be demoted from lady's maid to downstairs maid, and then promoted to lady's companion within a five-day time span. It certainly caused a stir below stairs, as everyone regarded Kendra with shock and a new sense of mistrust when she made her way to Mrs. Danbury's office.

“This is highly irregular, Miss Donovan,” the housekeeper said, staring at her from across the shiny expanse of her desk. She then murmured, as though trying to explain to herself what motivated Lady Rebecca's unprecedented behavior, “Though Lady Rebecca has always been charitable, even as a child.”

Maids, Kendra deduced, did
not
become hired companions. Ever. That, apparently, was reserved for women of rank who'd fallen on hard times. Sort of like a nineteenth-century welfare system for the privileged.

The housekeeper shook herself out of her reverie, straightening her narrow shoulders. Her lips tightened. “Nevertheless, if Lady Rebecca has indeed taken you on as her companion, arrangements will need to be made.”

“What kind of arrangements?” Kendra asked warily.

Mrs. Danbury lifted a heavy leather-bound book off the side shelf. “Sleeping arrangements, for one.” She opened the ledger, studying the pages with a critical eye. “All the castle's spare rooms are occupied with either guests or their servants for the duration of the house party. However—”

“I don't need to move out of the room that I'm in.”

The housekeeper lifted her brows. “Miss Donovan, you are no longer a servant . . . precisely. It wouldn't be proper to sleep in the same room as a servant, especially a tweeny.”

“Says who?”

“Those are the
rules
, Miss Donovan.”

Fuck the rules
, Kendra wanted to say. She wondered what the housekeeper's reaction to that would be. Probably she'd faint dead away. “I'd prefer to stay where I am.”

“It's not up to
you
! Lady Rebecca will decide, as you are now her responsibility.”

Frustration knotted Kendra's stomach. “I'm my own responsibility!”

“The minute you set foot in Aldridge Castle, you were someone else's responsibility, Miss Donovan,” the other woman corrected with a look of cold dislike. “As a maid, you were entirely dependent on the Duke's largesse. And now you shall be answerable to Lady Rebecca. While you've managed to better yourself in a most extraordinary manner, I'd strongly advise you
not
to forget yourself, Miss Donovan. This is not America, where ill-mannered commoners pretend to be their betters. In England, we have a system, and you must learn your place in that system.”

Hell, no,
Kendra thought, but clamped down on her rising irritation. Instead, she forced a smile as she stood. “I'm sure Lady Rebecca will agree that there's no reason for me to change rooms. I'll talk to her about it.”

She went to the door.

“Miss Donovan?”

Kendra paused. “Yes?”

“Why in heaven's name do you insist on sharing a bedchamber with a tweeny?” Mrs. Danbury sounded genuinely baffled.

Kendra stared at her, momentarily at a loss. “Because it's my choice, Mrs. Danbury,” she finally said. “It's
my
choice.”

“You want to share a room with a chambermaid?” Lady Rebecca paused in the act of pouring tea.

“She's a tweeny. And, yes, I see no reason to sleep anywhere else.” Kendra was beginning to feel slightly foolish for digging in her heels on this particular matter. After all, why did she care where she slept, as long as she eventually slept somewhere in the twenty-first century?
That
should be her main priority.

But, as she told Mrs. Danbury, it was her choice to sleep where she goddamned pleased. She was tired of everything being out of her control.
This
, at least, she could control.

Now she looked at Lady Rebecca, ready to argue, but the other woman simply shrugged and continued pouring tea. “As you wish. How do you take your tea—white or black?”

She found herself deflating. “Black. One sugar.”

Rebecca suppressed a smile as she added the lump of sugar, and thought how utterly absurd it was that she was serving tea to her companion, not the other way around. And yet Kendra appeared to find nothing abnormal about the tableau. The American was a puzzle. She understood why both the Duke and Alec were intrigued by her.