A Murder in Time(78)

“Miss Donovan is having sport with us, I think,” Harris said coldly.

“I say. Why would she do that?”

“I am not certain. American humor, mayhap?” The vicar gave a small shrug, turning back to his soup as though he couldn’t be bothered to figure it out.

Kendra surveyed him. Harris hadn’t been on the list of suspects that the Duke had come up with.

“Have you always lived in the area, Mr. Harris?”

“No. The Duke graciously appointed me to the vicarage here five years ago.” He put down his spoon and arched a brow. “And you, Miss Donovan? You are new to the castle, are you not? I haven’t seen you in the village.”

“I haven’t been here very long.” She paused while the footmen cleared the table of the first course.

Harding brought forth a fresh bottle of wine, which the Duke inspected. Once approved, several bottles of the same vintage were uncorked, and new glasses were filled in anticipation of the second course—stuffed lobster shells.

“You’ve been very fortunate, haven’t you?” Harris murmured, sliding her a look.

“That depends on whether you’re a glass half empty or half full kind of person.” She picked up the slim, two-tined lobster fork to sample the delicacy.

Harris frowned. “I do not comprehend.”

She reached for the new wineglass. “You’ve no doubt heard about the young girl who was killed and found in the lake.”

Mrs. Harris fingered the ruffle at her throat. “The gossip is that she was savagely murdered. Dear heaven.” She shivered, glancing at her husband. “I thought we were well away from that sort of thing, Mr. Harris.”

Kendra eyed her. “You’ve been involved in a murder before?”

“Don’t be preposterous.” Harris’s mouth tightened. “My wife and I lived in London for a brief time. Dreadful, dangerous place. A maid-of-all-work who lived down the street from where we had rooms was killed by a footpad. Not an uncommon thing to happen.”

“Aye. Terrible place, London,” the Major muttered into his wineglass. “Rife with cutthroats and rogues.”

“We were ever so grateful for his Duke’s patronage to escape the lowbrow atmosphere of Sutton Street,” Mrs. Harris agreed, darting an uncertain glance at her husband.

“The dinner table is not the place to discuss such a subject,” Harris said abruptly, giving Kendra a reproving look. The Voice of Authority.

Kendra toyed with her wineglass. Early nineteenth-century London had no official police force, and she was reasonably certain that the crime rate was pretty high. It wouldn’t be unheard of to encounter a homicide if you lived there, as the Harrises had done. It could be a coincidence. But she’d never been a big fan of coincidences.

Catching the vicar’s eye, she smiled. And she thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get word to the Bow Street Runner to check out the lowbrow atmosphere of Sutton Street.

Kendra was still turning that over in her mind an hour and a half—and ten courses—later, as she followed the glittering parade of women to the drawing room, while the men lingered with their port at the table. Rebecca approached, carrying two small glasses filled with Madeira. Kendra eyed the dark amber liquid in the cut crystal. Jesus. These people knew how to drink. She’d probably sampled at least a half dozen different wines at dinner, meant to complement each course. She felt a little buzzed, but no one else seemed affected.

“What do you suppose the men do when the women are gone?” Kendra wondered when Rebecca handed her the glass.

Rebecca grinned. “Most likely habits that are frowned upon in a Lady’s presence—blowing a cloud or taking snuff. Cursing freely. Discussing business. Especially now that the war with Boney and the colonies are finally at an end. Oh. Forgive me, Miss Donovan. Does it trouble you overmuch—the war between our two countries?”

“No. Why should it? We won.” Two hundred years ago.

“Yes, well. ’Twas a stupid war. Not the one against the French. Napoleon’s a mad tyrant. I pray he stays on St. Helena.”

Kendra drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I’m standing in a drawing room discussing Napoleon Bonaparte. Who is alive. That made her head spin more than the wine.

“Tell me about Harris,” she said. “He doesn’t strike me as a preacher.”

Rebecca made a face. “The Duke appointed Mr. Harris to the local vicarage as a favor to the Earl of Clarendale.”

“He mentioned that. Who is the Earl of Clarendale?”

“Mr. Harris is the youngest son of the Earl of Clarendale. The family has been punting on the River Tick for years, although Mr. Harris did manage to catch himself an heiress.”

“Really?” Kendra glanced in surprise in the direction of Mrs. Harris, who was sitting on the end of the gold damask sofa, trying to look inconspicuous, as if her yellow dress could merge with the gold damask and she could disappear altogether. “His wife’s rich?”

“Her father’s a wealthy wool merchant. He wanted entry into the world of the Ton. The estates are entailed, but the Clarendale family can trace their lineage back to King William.”

“In other words, her father sold her.”

Rebecca cocked her head and studied Kendra. “Is it any different in America? You may not have titled aristocracy, but I daresay there’s no shortage of ambition—parents willing to use their daughters’ looks to trade up in the world or flaunt their sons’ pedigrees to make a good match with an heiress.”