A Murder in Time(50)
Alec’s mouth tightened. “You cannot be certain, Duke. I also said she was a liar, most certainly a liar. Do you believe her about the girl?”
The Duke’s smile faded, and his gaze moved to the trophies decorating the wall. The girl’s hair had been cut. Someone had bitten her, for heaven’s sake.
“I don’t know what to believe, my boy, but, for now, we should keep an open mind.”
Kendra had never felt more like a freak than she did as she made her way back to the kitchens. She knew she was under surveillance, recognized the furtive looks cast in her direction. A few servants even stopped their work to openly stare as she passed.
A headache began brewing at the base of her skull. It didn’t help that the kitchens were now boiling hot and even noisier than before, or that here, too, people paused in their work and stared until Monsieur Anton, noticing, began to yell at them in French.
“Oh, miss!” Rose ran toward her, and grabbed both her hands. “Wot ’appened? We ’eard there was a murder!”
Another maid came forward. “Aye—and the fiend is on the loose!” That declaration caused several gasps of fright to ripple through the crowd of young maids gathering around Kendra.
“We’ll be murdered in our beds, we will!”
“Nonsense.” Cook came over to disperse the knot of young maids. “Everyone back ter work. Now! Dora, those chestnuts won’t blanch themselves!”
“But Cook—”
“Go on with ye!” She made a shooing gesture and then turned back to eye Kendra. “Well, miss, ye’ve caused quite a stir. Word’s goin’ ’round on how ye had all these things to say about the dead lass. On how she’d been murdered. Ye’re not touched, are ye?”
“Touched? Oh. Crazy. I’ve been wondering that myself lately.” She attempted a smile that fell short of its mark, and disappeared altogether when Mrs. Danbury’s voice came from behind her.
“Miss Donovan. A word, please.”
She turned in time to see the black flutter of the housekeeper’s skirt disappear around the corner. Some of her dismay must have shown on her face, because Cook patted her shoulder sympathetically. “Best go on, Kendra. Mrs. Danbury’s a good woman, but ye’ve been a bit of a surprise to her. An’ she don’t like surprises.”
“I’ve discovered I’m not too keen on them myself.” Anxiety made her stomach churn as she walked the now familiar path to the housekeeper’s office.
“Sit down, Miss Donovan.”
“I’m sorry—” she began, hoping to stave off another lecture, but the housekeeper whipped up a hand for silence.
“Don’t, Miss Donovan . . . don’t. Your apology strikes me as false, since you are well aware that your behavior is highly irregular. In point of fact, it is outrageous.” She seemed to be warming to her topic. The gray eyes, which often seemed like chips of ice, flashed with heat. “I have never been so . . . so mortified. Mr. Kimble may be responsible for distributing your wages, but you are under my authority. Your conduct reflects upon me.”
Kendra pressed her clammy palms together. This scene was familiar. Too familiar. How often in her childhood had she stood in her father’s study much this same way, while he criticized that some test or performance hadn’t been up to par?
We expected better of you, Kendra . . .
Are you deliberately trying to embarrass your mother and me?
“Lady Atwood is furious with this situation,” Mrs. Danbury continued. “Her house parties are renowned by the ton, Miss Donovan. Renowned. To find that girl, to say she was killed—”
“She was killed.” Kendra clenched her hands. “And I didn’t find her. I didn’t kill her.”
“You made a spectacle of yourself in front of your betters! I do not know how things are done in America, but this is not done here,” she said in ringing accents. “Here you will behave in the proper fashion. Until I can decide what ought to be done with you, you shall be confined to below stairs. You shall have no contact with the guests or—”
“The Duke requested my presence in his study at five-thirty.” And, yes, Kendra derived a petty satisfaction at the housekeeper’s dumbfounded expression.
Mrs. Danbury regained her composure. “I see. We, of course, must acquiesce to His Grace’s wishes. Until that time, though, I expect you to attend to your duties in the kitchen.” An ice cube would’ve been warmer than the housekeeper’s tone. “And Miss Donovan? I shouldn’t get too complacent if I were you. Lady Atwood is the Duke’s sister. They are quite close. The countess is not happy with your behavior today. His Grace may be amused by you, but mind your step. Your footing here at the castle may not be as solid as you think.”
“She must be dismissed, Aldridge!”
From his position on the Grecian couch, the Duke of Aldridge observed his sister pace off her agitation. At fifty-three, two years his junior, she was still a pretty woman, he thought. She’d gained weight since the time she’d taken London by storm in her first season, thirty-five years ago, but it only served to smooth out the lines on her face. Her hair might not have been as golden, threaded as it was with silver, but she still styled it to the height of fashion, an elegant updo with a Spanish comb to anchor the topknot in place. Her blue eyes still sparkled, although at the moment, that sparkle had more to do with temper than vitality. In the last three years, he’d noticed that she’d begun applying rouge to her cheeks. Today, she could have done away with that artifice, since temper added a becoming flush to her countenance.