A Murder in Time(92)

“This ’as ter do with the ’ore in the lake?”

Casually, Sam dropped a couple more shillings onto the bar. In his experience, three things loosened a man’s tongue—women, ale, and money. He picked up the tankard, admired the head before taking a swallow. “I want ter know about your cockfight that night.”

“Hmm.” Hawkings eyed the shillings, rubbing his chin. “’Twas a bang-up night. We h’ad more’n two ’undred blokes wagerin’. Mr. Dorin’ brung ’is bird—a bloomin’ big bastard. Undefeatable, ’e is. ’Tis a problem, that. No one wants ter bet against ’im.”

“Aye, I can see how that would be a problem. But I’m not interested in the outcome, Mr. Hawkings. I want ter know if Lord Gabriel and Captain Harcourt was there.”

“Lemme think. Seems ter me that both gents came in. Oi think I saw ’em for the first fight.” He rolled his massive shoulders. “Don’t remember ’em after that.”

“What time did the first fight start?”

“’Alf past nine. Starts the same time every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday.”

“How long have you been in Aldridge Village, Mr. Hawkings?”

“Since Oi got caught in the parson’s mousetrap—nigh on fifteen years ago, Mr. Kelly.”

“Ever hear of any lasses gone missing or cockin’ up their toes like the one in the lake?”

Uneasiness flashed across the publican’s face. “Nay, not like thata one, Mr. Kelly.”

Sam pushed the extra shillings toward Hawkings. “Thank you, sir. I’d appreciate it if you kept an eye and ear out for any gossip pertaining ter Lord Gabriel and Captain Harcourt.”

“Aye, guv.” Again he scooped up the coins with thick fingers, and began turning away. He hesitated, then pivoted back, leaning in close. “Oi dunno nothing about Lord Gabriel, but the Cap’n . . . ’e’s under the ’atches.”

“How’dya know that, Mr. Hawkings? He’s from London Town.”

“Aye, but ’e’s got a huntin’ lodge about these parts. ’E comes in ’ere frequent-like. ’E’s tryin’ ter keep ’is circumstances quiet, but ’e needs to pay cash. No credit.”

“Afraid he’d leave you hanging, eh?”

“Oi’m more ’fraid of what me wife would do if ’e did!” Hawkings laughed heartily and moved away.

Sam slowly sipped his beer. Captain Harcourt being in dun territory was an interesting tidbit. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have lured the whore—the way he saw it, the appearance of wealth was the key. Sam had been a Runner long enough to know that many of the Ton lived on credit. Like Brummel. That lad had dined with royalty until he’d had his falling out with the Prince Regent. He still moved in high circles, but if the whispers on the street were true—and Sam suspected they were—the dandy was quite penniless.

As far as Sam was concerned, Captain Harcourt still fit Miss Donovan’s profile, and neither he nor Lord Gabriel had a firm alibi for last Sunday night. Sam pondered that for a bit before his mind shifted to another puzzle: the American. Who was she?

He’d heard the gossip. She’d been a lady’s maid before suffering a demotion to below stairs maid, and then an unprecedented elevation to Lady Rebecca’s companion. ’Twas damned unusual, much like the lass. In fact, if he hadn’t known any better, he’d think she was one of the fancy. Except for her peculiar knowledge of murder. He didn’t know who she was, but knew what she was: Kendra Donovan was a liar.





34

The Duke’s carriage rattled down the dirt country roads toward Morland’s home of Tinley Park. Only four miles separated the two holdings, but the rural landscape seemed to stretch endlessly. The world really has gotten much smaller during my time, Kendra thought.

She reached for the brass rail to hold when the carriage turned down the lane and into the park. Glancing out the window, Kendra was surprised by her first glimpse of the manor. It looked like the White House, with its fluted columns, portico, and classic triangle pediment. The stones hadn’t been painted white, but left in their natural state, the color a warm honey that seemed to glow in the sun’s rays.

Then she remembered that in this era, there was no White House. The British had burned that structure down a year ago.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” the Duke said, misinterpreting her expression.

“Ah. Yeah. Yes, it is.”

“Mr. Morland’s grandfather, Henry Richford, the Earl of Whilmont, had an excess of passion for ancient civilizations, Greece, in particular. When he bought Tinley Park, he tore down the previous manor and built what you see now.”

“It’s not something you expect to see in the English countryside.”

Something in the silence that followed had her shifting her attention from the window to Aldridge. He was eyeing her oddly.

Panic flared. What did I say? she wondered. It took her a moment, then she remembered that England had a Greek Revival movement that had begun in the eighteenth century. Tinley Park wasn’t so unusual after all. Damn, and double damn.

“I meant to say, it doesn’t seem very English,” she amended. That sounded lame, even to her own ears. She felt her face heat at the Duke’s scrutiny.