Kendra pressed her lips together to keep herself from arguing in her own defense. Lady Atwood paced agitated circles into the study’s rug, and she wouldn’t want to hear it. The fact that the woman had actually said “devil” showed her distress—it was a vulgar curse word in this era, which should never be uttered by a lady or in the presence of one.
“She has bewitched you, Aldridge, to even consider such a . . . such a cracked-brained notion!” Lady Atwood continued furiously. “Think of your title, our family’s lineage!”
“My dear—”
The Countess spun around to glare at Kendra. “Miss Donovan, it is past time that we had frank words. Pray tell, how did you put this ridiculous idea into my brother’s head?”
The Duke sighed. “’Tis my idea, Caro.”
“I tell you, she has cast some sort of spell upon you.”
“Do not be stupid. There is no such thing as spells or any other such nonsense. Miss Donovan’s presence at the castle is bound to cause talk. This shall stop any more vicious gossip before it begins.”
“Packing her off ought to accomplish the same thing. Send her to one of your other proprieties. Or put her back on staff.”
“I’ve need of Miss Donovan’s assistance in my laboratory, and I do not wish her reputation to be in tatters. Now, enough of this discussion.” A rare note of steel came into the Duke’s voice, reminding Kendra yet again of the strength that he often kept hidden. “I have made my decision.”
Lady Atwood slid another glaring look at Kendra. Then she gave a put-upon sigh. “You always were an eccentric, Bertie.”
“And you are gracious, as always, my dear.”
The Countess ignored his sarcasm. “If you insist on turning this . . . this American into a family connection, I shall do what I can to assist.”
That roused Kendra enough to break her silence. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean, Miss Donovan, is that I can no longer overlook your shocking lack of social graces. I shall do my duty to my family by giving you Town polish. In fact, I shall polish you until you shine. Do you even know how to dance? I do not recall seeing you on the dance floor during the house party.”
Kendra thought of the intricate steps required of dancers during this time, the elegantly formed configurations, bows, and curtseys. “No, but—”
“Then you shall learn. I will engage a dancing master for you.”
“Oh, my God—”
“And you shall stop this profanity at once. Do not think I have failed to notice your blasphemy—and your utter lack of decorum!”
“I’m not Eliza Doolittle,” Kendra snapped, and shot a desperate look at the Duke. But he wasn’t looking at her; he was studying his pipe again with abnormal interest.
Panic sent her pulse racing. She refused, absolutely refused, to be shaped, molded, pushed, or pummeled into someone she didn’t want to be. Christ, hadn’t she already been through that with her parents? Dr. Carl Donovan and Dr. Eleanor Jahnke had essentially conceived her only to advance their own philosophy of positive eugenics. The first fourteen years of her life had been a carefully choreographed routine of instruction, education, and testing. She had an excellent memory—not quite eidetic, but close—that allowed her to score well when it came to tests, but she’d fallen short of the level of genius, her parents’ goal. She’d managed to get into college at fourteen, but in a rare burst of courage, she’d told her parents that she wanted more independence and a chance to pursue her own interests, rather than their narrow ambition for her.
It had been a shock when they’d responded by cutting her loose and walking away.
The memory of how easily they’d abandoned her still knotted her stomach. It was a good reminder that she really only had herself to rely on.
“Who, pray tell, is Eliza Doolittle?” Lady Atwood gave her a suspicious look. “Another American?”
Kendra pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. There was no way she could explain that Eliza Doolittle was a character in a play that would be written almost a century from now. “I don’t want to be here,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
“Bertie, the creature wants to return to America,” the Countess said. “Book her passage on one of your ships, and be done with this madness.”
“Caro—”
Aldridge broke off, looking relieved when the door opened and the butler, Harding, approached with formal dignity, carrying a silver salver that held a single envelope.
He said, “Forgive me, Your Grace, but this letter was delivered with some urgency.”
“Thank you, Harding.” Aldridge picked up the creamy envelope. Frowning thoughtfully, he broke the crimson seal as the servant gave an abbreviated bow and left the study as silently as he’d entered.
“Good God.” Aldridge sat up a little straighter as he scanned, and then rescanned, the letter.
“What is it, Bertie?” his sister demanded.
He looked up at them, horror darkening his gaze. “We must leave for London at once.”
“What? Why? What’s happened?” Kendra asked, taking a step closer.
“Lady Dover was murdered last night.”
The Countess put a hand to her throat. “Dear heaven. How?”
“It does not say.”
His sister’s thin eyebrows pulled together as she eyed him in confusion. “’Tis terrible, of course . . . but what does this have to do with you, Bertie? You scarcely knew the creature.”
“I didn’t, no.” He hesitated, and his gaze shifted to meet Kendra’s. “But Alec did . . . and he’s been accused of her murder.”
3
Aldridge Castle was a place of constant movement, but the announcement that they’d be traveling to London sent the entire household into an uproar. Lady Atwood took charge of organizing the servants who would be accompanying them, packing trunks with clothes and fresh linens and traveling cases with other necessities. Unwilling to wait for those tasks to be completed, the Duke called for his carriage so he and Kendra might set out for London immediately, to be followed later by his sister and staff.
The announcement didn’t sit well with the Countess, who pointed out the impropriety of her brother traveling alone in a carriage with an unmarried female.
“Tis a good thing that Miss Donovan is now my ward then,” the Duke responded.
“That arrangement has not yet been made official, Bertie—”
“For God’s sake, I’m hardly likely to molest a young lady in a carriage on our journey to London,” he snapped, as he paced his study. The Duke’s uncharacteristic anger revealed his worry for Alec—Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe, and, perhaps more important, his nephew and heir more than anything else.