A Murder in Time (38 page)

The carriage rattled to a stop. She straightened, shrugging away the silly superstitions, her attention already shifting to the business at hand. Self-consciously, she tidied her hair, listening as the coachman scrabbled off his perch, rocking the carriage. A moment later, the door opened, and the coachman folded down the three steps. He lifted a hand to help her down.

She accepted the assistance, her gaze sweeping the wooded area with growing consternation. She'd expected some form of civilization, a cottage or inn, at the very least, in which to do their business, not this desolate stretch of forest. Again, though she wore an ankle-skimming wool pelisse over the bright pink, cotton walking gown that she'd chosen for this meeting, she shivered.

Movement drew her eye. A rider and horse emerged from the shadowy trees. The rider didn't dismount, drawing the beast to a halt about ten yards away. Knowing it was expected of her, she began walking, making sure she rolled her hips in a well-practiced move. Behind her, the servant climbed onto the coach and moved off down the lane.

“Did you tell anyone about our meeting today?” the rider asked abruptly.

So that's how it was going to be, she thought. No coy flirtations to smooth the way of their dealings. “No, sir. As you wrote, this is a private affair.” She paused, and when he was silent, she arched a brow. “Shall we get down to business, then?”

For the first time, he smiled. But it wasn't a pleasant smile, and April felt a whisper of disquiet that had nothing to do with the forest and everything to do with the man.

He leaned forward. “I prefer pleasure before business.”

“Pleasure?” Mayhap she'd misjudged him. If he wanted a tumble before they got down to business, well, she'd simply add the cost of whoring to the bill that she'd worked out to pay for Lydia's untimely demise. Not that she didn't expect to do a little negotiating. Catching the gleam in his eye, she smiled and lifted her gloved hand to stroke his thigh with practiced familiarity. “I'm not adverse to pleasure. What do you have in mind, sir?”

His voice was low and throaty. “I want you to . . .”

She tilted her head and smiled encouragingly. “Yes? You want me to . . . ?”

“Run.”

April stilled, uncertain that she heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want you to run.” As she stared at him, trying to comprehend the unusual request, he extracted a large knife from the folds of his caped redingote. She only had a moment of surprise, to observe the blade that gleamed wickedly in the gloomy light of the forest, before he slashed it down, splicing open the back of her gloved hand, still resting on his thigh.

The action was so sudden, so unexpected, that it took a moment to feel the sting. Then she fell back with a gasp, snatching her hand away and watching in disbelief as blood welled up, soaking the kid glove crimson. Clutching the wounded hand to her chest, she met the man's eyes. A chill raced through her at what she read in his gaze.

“
Run
,” he whispered.

April Duprey ran.

33

Sam Kelly stepped into the King's Head. As he headed toward the bar, he did a quick scan of the shadowy interior. There was a low-timbered ceiling, and whitewashed walls tinged gray from the oil lamps, the customers' clouds of smoke, and probably from the fireplace, too. But today, the kindling in the hearth was yet unlit.

The tavern was only one-third occupied, a fact that Sam attributed to it still being early enough in the day. Still, he deliberately chose a corner spot at the bar, where he could keep his back to the wall and an eye on everyone else. The clientele veered toward farmers, mill workers, blacksmiths, not the rogues he was used to dealing with in the rookeries and flash houses of London. Yet it was never a good idea to let down one's guard, which was why he kept his back to the wall, and his Sheffield four-inch blade in his boot.

A big man with bushy red hair and mustache approached. “W'ot can Oi get fer ye, guv'ner?”

Sam produced two shillings. “A pint . . . and some information.”

The man's blue eyes narrowed. “W'ot kinda information?”

“Heard tell you had a cockfight last Sunday.”

“Aye.” Hawkings eyed him warily. “Every Sunday, after sundown. Doesn't stop folks from goin' ter church.”

“I'm not concerned with anyone's salvation. I wanna know if Captain Harcourt and Lord Gabriel attended the fight.”

“'Oo are ye ter be askin'?”

Sam reached into the deep pocket of his coat and brought out the baton with its infamous gilt crown. He saw Hawkings's eyes widen as he recognized it.

“Ye're the thief-taker 'is Grace 'ired.” He licked his lips nervously. “Lemme get yer drink.”

Sam watched the publican shuffle over to the bar pull, filling a pewter tankard until it overflowed and foam ran down the side. He returned with the mug, slid it toward Sam. The two shillings disappeared beneath the man's beefy paw.

“This 'as ter do with the 'ore in the lake?”

Casually, Sam dropped a couple more shillings onto the bar. In his experience, three things loosened a man's tongue—women, ale, and money. He picked up the tankard, admired the head before taking a swallow. “I want ter know about your cockfight that night.”

“Hmm.” Hawkings eyed the shillings, rubbing his chin. “'Twas a bang-up night. We h'ad more'n two 'undred blokes wagerin'. Mr. Dorin' brung 'is bird—a bloomin' big bastard. Undefeatable, 'e is. 'Tis a problem, that. No one wants ter bet against 'im.”

“Aye, I can see how that would be a problem. But I'm not interested in the outcome, Mr. Hawkings. I want ter know if Lord Gabriel and Captain Harcourt was there.”

“Lemme think. Seems ter me that both gents came in. Oi think I saw 'em for the first fight.” He rolled his massive shoulders. “Don't remember 'em after that.”

“What time did the first fight start?”

“'Alf past nine. Starts the same time every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday.”

“How long have you been in Aldridge Village, Mr. Hawkings?”

“Since Oi got caught in the parson's mousetrap—nigh on fifteen years ago, Mr. Kelly.”

“Ever hear of any lasses gone missing or cockin' up their toes like the one in the lake?”

Uneasiness flashed across the publican's face. “Nay, not like thata one, Mr. Kelly.”

Sam pushed the extra shillings toward Hawkings. “Thank you, sir. I'd appreciate it if you kept an eye and ear out for any gossip pertaining ter Lord Gabriel and Captain Harcourt.”

“Aye, guv.” Again he scooped up the coins with thick fingers, and began turning away. He hesitated, then pivoted back, leaning in close. “Oi dunno nothing about Lord Gabriel, but the Cap'n . . . 'e's under the 'atches.”

“How'dya know that, Mr. Hawkings? He's from London Town.”

“Aye, but 'e's got a huntin' lodge about these parts. 'E comes in 'ere frequent-like. 'E's tryin' ter keep 'is circumstances quiet, but 'e needs to pay cash. No credit.”

“Afraid he'd leave you hanging, eh?”

“Oi'm more 'fraid of what me wife would do if 'e did!” Hawkings laughed heartily and moved away.

Sam slowly sipped his beer. Captain Harcourt being in dun territory was an interesting tidbit. That didn't mean he couldn't have lured the whore—the way he saw it, the
appearance
of wealth was the key. Sam had been a Runner long enough to know that many of the Ton lived on credit. Like Brummel. That lad had dined with royalty until he'd had his falling out with the Prince Regent. He still moved in high circles, but if the whispers on the street were true—and Sam suspected they were—the dandy was quite penniless.

As far as Sam was concerned, Captain Harcourt still fit Miss Donovan's profile, and neither he nor Lord Gabriel had a firm alibi for last Sunday night. Sam pondered that for a bit before his mind shifted to another puzzle: the American. Who was she?

He'd heard the gossip. She'd been a lady's maid before suffering a demotion to below stairs maid, and then an unprecedented elevation to Lady Rebecca's companion. 'Twas damned unusual, much like the lass. In fact, if he hadn't known any better, he'd think she was one of the fancy. Except for her peculiar knowledge of murder. He didn't know
who
she was, but knew
what
she was: Kendra Donovan was a liar.

34

The Duke's carriage rattled down the dirt country roads toward Morland's home of Tinley Park. Only four miles separated the two holdings, but the rural landscape seemed to stretch endlessly.
The world really has gotten much smaller during my time,
Kendra thought.

She reached for the brass rail to hold when the carriage turned down the lane and into the park. Glancing out the window, Kendra was surprised by her first glimpse of the manor. It looked like the White House, with its fluted columns, portico, and classic triangle pediment. The stones hadn't been painted white, but left in their natural state, the color a warm honey that seemed to glow in the sun's rays.

Then she remembered that in
this
era, there was no White House. The British had burned that structure down a year ago.

“It's quite a sight, isn't it?” the Duke said, misinterpreting her expression.

“Ah. Yeah. Yes, it is.”

“Mr. Morland's grandfather, Henry Richford, the Earl of Whilmont, had an excess of passion for ancient civilizations, Greece, in particular. When he bought Tinley Park, he tore down the previous manor and built what you see now.”

“It's not something you expect to see in the English countryside.”

Something in the silence that followed had her shifting her attention from the window to Aldridge. He was eyeing her oddly.

Panic flared.
What did I say?
she wondered. It took her a moment, then she remembered that England had a Greek Revival movement that had begun in the eighteenth century. Tinley Park wasn't so unusual after all. Damn, and double damn.

“I meant to say, it doesn't seem very
English
,” she amended. That sounded lame, even to her own ears. She felt her face heat at the Duke's scrutiny.

“Well, the earl preferred ancient Greece over anything English, including its legends. We had many discussions on the subject, although I must confess my interest lies more in the Greek civilization and contributions to natural philosophy than in its myths. What of you, Miss Donovan? Do you have any interest in Greek mythology?”

“Not particularly, no.”

The carriage rolled to a jerky stop in front of the manor and the coachman jumped down. Kendra made a scooting move toward the door, but the Duke held up his hand, his expression amused.

“We may be here to conduct our inquiries, but we still must observe the social necessities.” He produced a slim silver case from his inside coat pocket. Opening it, he extracted what looked to Kendra to be a business card, which he handed to his coachman. “My calling card,” he explained.

Kendra sat back, frowning. “Now what?”

“Now we wait to see whether Mr. Morland is at home to us.”

“We couldn't have just knocked on the door to find that out?”

Aldridge's lips twitched. “Only if we are uncouth—which we are not. No need to fret, my dear. If the gentleman is at home, he won't decline to see us. That would be foolish.”

“I see. Is anyone
not
at home to someone who has a title?”

“That would depend on whether the person one calling upon has a more elevated title.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Surely it is the same in America—if not with titles, then with people of consequence?”

Kendra didn't know what to say to that. She didn't know too much about societal etiquette in nineteenth-century America. Her calling card had been her FBI badge, now as out of touch as the moon. Just thinking about it depressed her.

The servant returned with the expected response—Mr. Morland was at home. Morland's butler met them in the enormous foyer, a cavern of icy-gray-veined marble floors and columns, and fixtures trimmed in gilt. A fresco had been painted across the vaulted ceiling, depicting a toga-clad man showing off his physical prowess by shooting an arrow into a tree, splitting it as another man leapt out from its shattered core toward a woman in flowing white. The Duke hadn't been kidding when he'd said that the late earl had been enamored with Greek mythology.

He followed her eyes to the ceiling as they ascended the circular stairs. “'Tis striking, is it not?”

“It should be in a museum.” Then again,
everything
here should be in a museum, she thought.

The butler led them to a drawing room painted in airy pastels. The Greek influence extended to the silk-covered furnishings, classically carved cabinets, and scrolling volutes atop Ionic pilasters. Another fresco dominated the ceiling, this one of a regal couple seated on thrones in the middle of big, billowing clouds.

Zeus and Hera
, Kendra identified, the chief god and goddess of Greek mythology.

“Mr. Morland shall be in shortly,” the servant told them. “Please be seated. May I offer you a drink? A sherry or brandy, mayhap? Or tea?”

“A cup of tea, thank you,” the Duke smiled. “Miss Donovan?”

“Oh . . . sure. Yes. Thank you.”

“I shall bring a tray at once, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and departed.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Kendra circled the room. On the far wall were several paintings, mostly portraits, and a few landscapes. The middle portrait was the largest, roughly sixty inches by forty-eight, featuring a woman in a flowing, toga-like white dress. Her dark hair was unbound, tumbling past her shoulders. She was leaning against a stone pillar, her dark eyes pensive. Dark clouds boiled in the background. Kendra was in the process of trying to figure out which goddess or demigoddess she represented when the Duke came up beside her.