A Murder in Time(72)

“I agree.”

Rebecca looked surprised. “You believe me?”

“It’s not a question of me believing you. It’s logistics. I saw Alec—Lord Sutcliffe—myself in this room on the night of the murder. It’s highly unlikely that he’d have left here to torture and kill the girl.”

“Highly unlikely, but not impossible.”

“He fits the profile,” she conceded. “And I can’t afford to let personal feelings”—she thought of the sharp tug of attraction she’d felt earlier—“stop me from doing my duty.”

“Apparently the duties of a maid are much more expansive in America,” Rebecca remarked drily, then let out a frustrated sigh. “I confess, Miss Donovan, that I am finding it difficult to believe that someone from my class did this horrendous thing!”

“No one wants to think that someone they know is capable of cold-blooded murder,” Kendra agreed, not without sympathy. “But we can’t ignore the facts, either.”

Rebecca scowled. “Facts. You don’t have any facts, Miss Donovan. You—we—only have supposition.”

“Based on deductive reasoning. We’re looking for someone who has the means to hire a high-class prostitute, transport her to the country, and—”

“Yes, yes, we’ve already discussed this,” Rebecca waved her hand holding the closed fan impatiently. “You could be describing the Duke.”

“No. The Duke was here as well that night. We’re also looking for a much younger man. Someone between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five.”

Rebecca stared at her. “How, pray tell, do you know that?”

“Age is the most difficult thing to identify with an unsub. However, what was done to that girl—both in luring her out and the killer’s brutality—shows a level of sophistication. It takes time for this type of killer to develop their fantasies, which means the unsub isn’t too young. At the same time, the longer an unsub gets away with his aberrant behavior, the more confident he becomes. And the more disorganized he becomes. The Duke is an older man. I believe if he were responsible, this wouldn’t be the first time you would have found a dead woman in the area. We’re dealing with someone who is comfortable, but not complacent with his success. Besides . . .”

“Besides . . . what?”

“I can’t imagine the Duke hurting anyone,” she admitted, and laughed softly. “Which is the worst reason for ruling anyone out.”

Rebecca smiled. “As I happen to know the Duke, I agree. He is one of the kindest men on earth.” She glanced up at the portrait above the fireplace. “Did you know that his daughter was only a few years older than I? I’ve been told we were great playmates when we were infants. I do not remember her.” She wandered over to the ornate globe that came up to her waist, spinning it with her fingertips. “My father and the Duke were schoolmates at Eton and later Cambridge. They maintained their friendship. The Duke’s my godfather, which is why I’ve spent so much time here at the castle.”

“Are your parents dead?”

“My, you are blunt, aren’t you?” Rebecca laughed. “No. My parents are touring my father’s sugar plantations in Barbados. The Duke—or rather, the countess—was kind enough to invite me to her house party. She has one every year at the end of the Season.”

“I see. And Alec—the marquess’ parents?”

Rebecca’s gaze sharpened, but she answered readily enough. “Both have passed. His mother was an Italian countess, Alexandria—a diamond of the first water. I heard Sutcliffe’s father, Edward, fell in love with her at first sight while on his grand tour. His father—Duke’s—was not happy when his youngest son brought home an Italian bride, no matter how fine her pedigree or how full her family coffers. Alexandria was beautiful, but she was not English.”

“You knew her?”

“No. She died before I was born. But I have seen portraits of her, and heard the tales, which are rather legendary. She had a fiery temperament and had rows against the Duke—not the current Duke, but his father.”

“I get it.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, I understand. How’d she die?”

“A carriage accident. I’ve been told the marquis was inconsolable. And Alec, too.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t good for Gabriel, either.” She thought of Alec’s brother, and wondered if that was at the root of his drinking, his anger issues.

Rebecca lifted her brows. “Oh, Alexandria wasn’t Gabriel’s mother. A year or so after she died, the marquis remarried. Emily Telford. Very English. Very proper.” Rebecca made a face. “A high stickler if there ever was one. She was the youngest daughter of a viscount. I’m certain the Duke was ecstatic when his son married her, but he died less than a year later of some sort of fit. Then Sutcliffe’s father died three years after siring Gabriel. Naturally, as the eldest son, Alec inherited the title and all the estates that were entailed. The marchioness and Gabriel had a town house in London, and Alec, I daresay, gave them a generous allowance in addition to what Lady Emily had from her own inheritance.”

Past tense. “The marchioness is no longer alive?”

“She passed away from consumption six years ago.”