A Murder in Time(83)
He just stared at her.
“The Duke will give you a coin or two for your help.” Kendra wasn’t entirely sure about that, but bribery, in her experience, usually worked with the indigent in the twenty-first century. She saw no reason that it wouldn’t work just as well here.
She regarded him closely, and thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes. Or it might’ve been a trick of light inside the shadowy hut. She got to her feet. Thomas stayed exactly where he was.
It had been impulse to approach the hermit. Her gut told her that he was hiding something, that he knew more than he was saying. Still, it couldn’t hurt to encourage him to keep a look out. It wouldn’t be the first time a murderer returned to the scene, even if it was to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind.
She let herself out, grateful for the fresh air after the putrid stench of the hut. Surveying the ominous gray clouds gathering overheard, she began walking fast. And hoped she’d make it back to the castle before it began to rain.
Alec stared out at the distorted view of the gardens and green hills as the rain struck the arched windows, rattling the glass and running down the panes in silvery streams. In contrast, the small drawing room he was standing in was warm, with a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. Candles had been lit, their glow playing over the Sheraton tables, tufted settees and sofa, the rosewood chimneypiece. A perfectly normal day in the English countryside.
Except that morning he’d attended the funeral of an unidentified dead girl who’d most likely been a whore, who most likely had been murdered. And, if Kendra Donovan were to be believed, she’d been murdered by somebody he knew. It was madness.
He frowned, his mind shifting to the American. She was an enigma. She wasn’t a Lady, although her table manners, as he’d observed last night, were flawless. He’d made a point of observing. She’d known which spoon and fork to use for each dish. She’d known, as she’d told him pertly, not to drink from the finger bowl.
Of course, that could mean she’d been around people of a higher station, knew how to ape their manners. He could almost convince himself that was the answer to the mystery of Kendra Donovan. Except her table manners had come so damn naturally to her. Not once had she hesitated, or surreptitiously studied her fellow diners in order to follow their lead.
And her hands were that of a Lady—or, at the very least, someone not used to manual labor. Maybe she was the daughter of a wealthy American merchant or plantation owner. America was an odd place, where the mercantile class ruled. He’d visited Charleston briefly, five years before the war. Yet he couldn’t recollect any of the women he’d met behaving as brazenly as Kendra. In fact, the American ladies seemed to be remarkably like their British counterparts.
And if she’d been high-born in America, how had she come to work as a servant in England? The Duke had said she’d been trapped by the war. It happened. But the war was over. Why didn’t she return home? Even if she’d been stranded with no money, surely she recognized that his uncle was charmed by her. Alec was certain he’d either loan or give her the blunt to book passage back to America.
Yet she hadn’t approached the Duke. She evaded questions about her background. They didn’t even know how she’d made a living in England during the last four years, before she’d arrived at Aldridge Castle.
It was damn perplexing. In a strange way, Kendra Donovan seemed to be an amalgam of all the classes. Educated and ladylike in certain areas, and yet she spoke in such a casual way that he didn’t think she was aware that she’d taken the Lord’s name in vain at least half a dozen times since he’d met her. And her knowledge of man’s baser instincts was startling, sometimes embarrassing, like her comment about the handcuffs. Becca had been quite rightly bewildered, innocent of such play. But Kendra Donovan’s knowledge had been obvious. What kind of a woman was she?
The door opened behind him, interrupting his speculation. He turned as his brother stepped into the room. Gabriel stopped abruptly, and Alec saw his eyes spark with hot resentment, before hardening. It was, he knew, sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness that propelled Gabriel across the room, to the rosewood sideboard, which held a silver tray and a glittering assortment of decanters and glasses.
“It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?” he remarked idly, as Gabriel poured two fingers of scotch into a glass.
Gabriel’s lip curled. “For what?”
“To become foxed.”
Defiantly, Gabriel tossed back the drink, immediately pouring another. “But it’s so pleasurable.”
Alec stared at him. When had his brother become a sodding drunk? They’d never been close, but when had they become enemies? “What the devil is wrong with you?”
Gabriel laughed. It was an ugly sound. “Don’t pretend you finally care, Sutcliffe.”
“You’re my brother—”
“Half-brother,” Gabriel corrected. He stared at his empty glass blankly, as though uncertain how it had become that way. Then despite Alec’s disapproval—or maybe because of it—he poured more whiskey into the tumbler. “Don’t forget that. Don’t ever forget that. You’re the prince, Sutcliffe.”
Alec lifted a brow at the sneering tone. “Jealous, Gabe? Seems petty of you, considering you receive a rather sizable allowance from me—not to mention the income you inherited from your mother and her family.”