A Murder in Time(58)

Silly. She was being silly. And fanciful. Two words that rarely applied to her. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe in evil—the two-legged kind.

Dropping the slate on the desk, she did a couple of yoga stretches to loosen up her tight muscles. Picking up her candle, she moved to the door. She paused, glancing back at the notes she’d made. In the gloom, she couldn’t see them anymore. The darkness had swallowed them up.

Though that didn’t mean they weren’t there—like him, she thought. He may be in the shadows, but she knew he was out there. Hunting.

This time when the tension coiled inside her, pricking at her nape, it wasn’t because she was being fanciful. It was because she knew she was right.



The little whore had been found. He hadn’t anticipated that, couldn’t like it.

And yet . . . there was no denying the sweet, hot rush of pleasure he’d felt upon her discovery. To listen to the whispers of those around him, to hear the shock and terror and trembling disbelief in their voices. It was exhilarating to know that when they went to bed tonight, they’d be thinking of him.

Fearing him.

He hadn’t anticipated that, either. The excitement of holding society in thrall. Fickle, feckless society, who would turn on him in a heartbeat, if they knew what he really was. He couldn’t risk exposure. He’d be swinging at Newgate for certain.

But his work was another matter.

He’d never consider that possibility before. In a way, it would be like breathing new life into the dead harlots, extending their purpose beyond his own.

The thought amused him. Intrigued him. Inspired him.

He’d still have to be very careful. He was no fool. The Duke’s decision to bring in a Runner was a complication. Still, if it proved too much of a nuisance, he’d simply have to take care of the matter. Until then, though, he’d enjoy pitting himself against his opponents.

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.”