A Murder in Time(147)

Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears again. “He was a member of that horrid club Mr. Morland founded. A vile, blasphemous club in the cave where you were held, where he—Morland—brought the other girls.” She shivered. “Gabriel had no notion—none of the men involved had any notion what Morland was about, you understand. ’Twas similar to Sir Francis Dashwood’s secret society. Are you familiar with the Hell Fire Club? As an American—”

“I know of it. Benjamin Franklin was rumored to be a member.”

Dashwood had created the Hell Fire Club to mock the Catholic Church, Kendra recalled. He’d even purchased a medieval abbey for the club’s activities, but when that had become too well known, he’d moved his group to his West Wycombe estate, where he had utilized its network of caves. There, the club members were reputed to have been involved in all sorts of drunken debauchery with prostitutes. The debauchery supposedly extended beyond sex into Satanism.

“I’d forgotten,” Rebecca murmured. “It caused quite a scandal at the time, and several gentlemen—including the baron—were ostracized from society. Morland thought to re-create this abomination, and lured bored young bucks to participate.”

“Gabriel.”

“Yes. Gabriel.” Rebecca let out a sigh. “He was troubled. More than anyone suspected.”

“Ripe for the picking.”

“I do not understand the whole of it. He . . . apparently, he had difficulty remembering events, details—”

“Blackouts caused by his alcoholism.”

“Yes, his drinking was to blame. He wasn’t entirely certain if he’d murdered the first soiled dove.” She frowned. “I do not understand what exactly made him realize that he had not murdered her, but he did realize it. When you went missing, he knew where the caves were and went to find Thomas.” Rebecca shuddered suddenly. “Thomas and Mr. Morland—they were partners in this madness.”

Yes and no, Kendra thought. Partners implied equality. She remembered how Morland had brutally slit Thomas’s throat.

“Thomas was a puppet.” She dropped her eyes to the glass of water she held. “My profile never included two men. I should have factored that in.”

“Would it have mattered so very much if you had considered it? Would we have uncovered these madmen any quicker?”

“I don’t know.”

“Partner or puppet, Thomas was as much a monster as Mr. Morland.” Rebecca gave another shudder. “Sutcliffe said that they found hair from the victims in his possession, and paintings of the young girls. Terrible paintings. Evil. The Duke ordered them burned.”

Kendra considered that. The Duke could destroy the paintings, but she knew it wouldn’t be the end of such evil. In another hundred years, in 1920s Germany, there’d be an artistic movement called Lustmord—sexual murder. Artists would be celebrated for painting female sexual mutilations and death. Thomas had simply been ahead of his time.

It was a depressing thought. “Gabriel was in the cave?” she asked, to move away from it.

“Yes. Morland wounded him. They brought h-him back to the castle.” Rebecca looked down at her hands. “He . . . could not be saved.”

Kendra was silent, remembering how Morland had left her. The interruption had given her enough time to pick the lock on the handcuffs.

“I think Gabriel saved my life,” she whispered.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“I believe Gabriel wanted redemption, Miss Donovan. Mayhap he got it.” She cleared her throat. “Captain Harcourt was also a member of Morland’s club. He and Gabriel went there the first night of the house party. He didn’t want it known, as he’s hunting for an heiress.”

They fell silent again. A soft knock interrupted their reverie. Rebecca went to open it, letting in Aldridge, Alec, and Sam. A young maid followed. She brought a cloth sack over to Kendra.

“The doctor said ye were ter put this on yer face, miss.”

Kendra eyed the sack. “What is it?”

“’Tis a poultice, miss.”

Rebecca reached for it and gave it an experimental sniff. “It smells like castor oil and slippery elm. Excellent for inflammation and bruises.”

Gingerly, Kendra pressed it against her face, but couldn’t help thinking a bag of frozen peas would’ve worked better. But what the hell—when in Rome . . . or the nineteenth century.

The maid curtseyed and left the room.

Aldridge came over to the bed. “I apologize for invading your privacy, Miss Donovan, but I”—he glanced at Alec and Sam—“we were anxious to see you. How are you feeling?”

“I’m still breathing.” She hesitated, then looked at Alec. “I’m sorry about Gabriel.”

Pain flickered in his gaze. “Gabriel and I were estranged for years. Perhaps if I had reached out to him before, tried to understand what demons were driving him—”

“You cannot blame yourself, my boy,” Aldridge cut in. “In fact, I bear an even greater responsibility. I should have done something, used my authority with Lady Emily.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, weighed down by guilt and sorrow. Everyone was reviewing their choices, Kendra knew. Life’s odd twists and turns. Wondering if they could’ve done some differently to change the outcome.