A Murder in Time(74)

“You never know what life will throw at you, I’ll give you that.” She joined Rebecca at the slate board. “Who else do you know that fits the profile?”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.”

Rebecca lifted her brows. “Are all maids as dictatorial as you are in America, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra frowned. “The Duke came up with eight men that fit the profile. I’d like your input.”

“And what then, Miss Donovan? What do you expect to do?”

“Interview the suspects, find out where they were on the night of the murder. We can eliminate everyone who has an alibi.”

“I see.” Rebecca gave her a strange look. “And you will do this . . . how? You—a maid—expect to quiz your betters?”

Kendra stared at her in consternation. How in God’s name was she going to conduct this investigation if she wasn’t allowed to interview the suspects?

Lady Rebecca looked amused. “You seem to forget your station in life, Miss Donovan. What is done, and what is not done.”

“I’m sure the Duke will assist me.”

Rebecca raised her brows. A Duke required assistance from a servant; not the other way around. She smiled suddenly, tapping her chin with her fan as she circled Kendra. “Hmm. I don’t require a lady’s maid. My maid, Mary, is most exceptional.”

Kendra eyed her warily. “Good, because I pretty much sucked at being a lady’s maid.”

“Sucked?” Diverted, Rebecca laughed. “You Americans have such colorful expressions. However . . . I’ve never had a companion.”

“Companion?”

“A lady’s companion.”

“Lady Rebecca, are you by any chance asking me to be your companion?”

“Yes, I believe I am. ’Tis most unusual, but . . . you, my dear Miss Donovan, have just bettered yourself.”





23

From her bedroom window, April Duprey watched the Bow Street Runner make his way carefully down the cobblestone street that gleamed black from the thin drizzle falling from the evening sky. When he stopped abruptly, glancing back toward the house, his eyes seeming to angle straight toward her window, her heart jolted and her fingers, on the lace drapery, tensed. She forced herself to let go of the material and step away.

She wondered uneasily if he knew that she’d lied to him. She was very good at lying—it was a necessity for being a good whore.

She smiled, a cynical twist to her painted lips, thinking of the rogues she’d serviced over the years. They’d never wanted the truth. Nay, they’d wanted to be cooed over and coddled, and complimented on how virile and handsome they were even if they were on the far side of seventy. They all had their fantasies. And every fantasy began with a lie.

April Duprey wasn’t even her given name. She barely remembered the name she’d been christened or the chit she’d been before her drunken sod of a father had bartered her to a whoremaster in exchange for the bill he’d owed. She’d been eleven at the time.

That had been a long time ago, of course. April knew a cool satisfaction over surviving those early days. After that brutal first year, she’d put aside girlish dreams she no longer remembered and ruthlessly applied herself to becoming a skillful courtesan. She had the looks and the wits to become more than a streetwalker, although she’d done her share of back alley tumbles with drunken rakes. She’d been clever enough to do it for a coin or two, not a tipple of gin. She’d ended up in an academy for a time, until she’d craftily seduced one of the coves into setting her up in her own house.

It had been a lovely time, that. Of course, she’d never been so foolish as to believe it would last. In her world, nothing lasted. She’d hoarded her coins and jewels, worked on her speech and manners. When her protector had found a younger mistress and given her congé, she’d bought the house on Bacon Street and acquired a small selection of girls. It had taken her years, but she’d built her business as brothel keeper. She might not offer the most exclusive demimondaines at her academy, but she’d carved out a solid reputation by catering to a broad range of tastes.

Now as she spun away from the window, she caught her reflection in the beveled glass mirror across the room. For a brief moment, she saw a pale, golden-haired Cyprian in a diaphanous blue empire-waisted gown. The candlelight helped weave an illusion of youth and beauty. She knew the truth.

One lied to the clientele; one never lied to oneself.

At thirty-five, she had long since parted ways with youth. If she looked closely into the mirror, she’d see that the years had caught up with her, leaving a web of fine lines around her eyes and forehead. Her figure was still good, lush and round, but she could no longer conceal a certain hardness in her countenance or the shrewdness in her eyes as she was tallying up a business transaction.

It was just as well that she’d given up the role of prostitute to be an abbess. She preferred it, if truth be told, although she wasn’t above servicing the occasional request. She believed in keeping the customers happy. That’s why she’d loaned out Lydia.

When the chit hadn’t returned, she’d assumed the worst, that the little bitch had sunk her claws into one of the bucks to become a chère-amie. April had to confess that she was surprised to learn that the girl was dead. Surprised, but not necessarily shocked. Such things happened; some games, she knew, went too far. Yet the way she saw it, she was owed reparation.