Aldridge looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he sighed. “Is everyone from the future so pessimistic?”
A laugh escaped her. “If you read the news, yeah. We’re a pretty doom-and-gloom group. And you know what I do—did.” She sobered. “I’m not pessimistic. I’m realistic.”
“Yes . . . I do know what you do.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Your butterfly theory suggests that random events, no matter how inconsequential, are connected. Have you considered that this may be, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“A month ago, I believed there was a purpose for your presence here,” the Duke reminded her. “You hunt society’s monsters. Don’t you see, my dear? My nephew did not kill Lady Dover. I know it—and now you must prove it. It would seem that we still have need of your services.”
By the time the carriage rolled into London, around three P.M., the sinking sun cast the entire city in a sepia-toned haze. At least, that was Kendra’s first thought as she stared out the window. Then she realized that what she was actually seeing was nineteenth-century air pollution, a brownish miasma that hung low in the sky, the result of millions of coal-and wood-burning fireplaces, plus the flecks of drying manure that floated into the atmosphere.
As they moved into the city limits, Kendra was assaulted by the smell—like rotten eggs—and the noise—the clip-clop of horseshoes and the thunder of wagon wheels over the cobblestone streets, the cries of peddlers (Hot pies! Posies! Fresh oysters and cockles!) pitched above the rumble of voices punctuated with laughter and angry shouts, and an odd hammering and shrill clanging. People streamed along buildings, darted across busy thoroughfares, and spilled from skinny, winding walkways. Not unlike the hordes of pedestrians that went about their business in modern-day London, Kendra reflected, except these were no sophisticated urbanites.
Kendra observed beggars huddled in doorways and children dressed in rags running around—and, if she wasn’t mistaken, stealing whenever they got the chance from peddlers’ carts. There were workers of all stripes, some dirty and unkempt, others tidy in their homespun clothing. And it was, she realized with some surprise, an international mix. The majority were white, but there were also black, Asian, Middle Eastern, and Mediterranean faces in the crowd.
The countryside landscape fell away to reveal row after row of narrow, soot-stained, attached single-and multiple-story buildings. In the distance, she saw the familiar dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the spires of Parliament, but those landmarks were soon lost as they traveled along the narrow streets, the Duke’s coachman expertly weaving the carriage through traffic. The streets were congested with individuals on horseback, cattle being herded, hired hackneys, public and private coaches, and the never-ending queue of pedestrians. The sheer humanity was overwhelming.
The Duke was also affected. “’Tis worse than I remembered,” he murmured.
Kendra dragged her gaze away from the window. “When was the last time you were in London?”
“Three, perhaps four years ago. My family makes use of my residence here. Speaking of which, it will not yet be habitable. Caro will manage it with the servants, but since they are some hours behind us, we shall call upon Alec immediately.”
“He doesn’t stay at your place, then?”
“No, he has his own residence.”
Kendra barely heard him. Her eyes were once again drawn to the passing scenery. More than a month ago, she’d driven through this bright and vibrant city with its melding of ancient structures and modern skyscrapers. Understandably, those shiny steel-and-glass buildings had vanished, but a surprising number of the early edifices still stood.
Of course, many of the structures that she’d regarded as old in her era didn’t exist yet in this time. Victorian-styled pubs and iconic images, like Big Ben, were missing. In twenty years, fire would sweep through the halls of Westminster, destroying much of the palace. The famous clock tower would be part of its redesign, completed in 1858.
It was weird to be in a London without Big Ben. It felt wrong.
As the carriage rolled on, the streets became wider, the buildings on either side more elegant. The streams of traffic and people thinned to trickles, and vanished in some sections altogether. It was almost as though they were back in the country, with enormous swathes of greenery and woods breaking up the stone and pavement.
The carriage slowed and navigated a variety of turns, enough to make her lose her sense of direction. Her stomach contracted uncomfortably when they eventually came to a stop outside an elegant Georgian townhouse. The coachman leaped off his high perch and came around to unfold the steps and open the door.
Aldridge stepped down and turned to offer his hand. When she hesitated, he gave her an encouraging smile.
“Come, Miss Donovan. Alec will be delighted to see you again.”
Kendra didn’t say anything but slowly put her hand in the Duke’s, allowing him to help her down. Her nerves skittered as she thought about the last time she’d seen Alec, just yesterday morning.
The Duke seemed to think that she was fated to save Alec. But she knew differently. In fact, if she’d have given him a different answer to the question he’d asked her, he would never have left Aldridge Castle. He would never have made the journey to London. He wouldn’t, at this very moment, be accused of murdering his former mistress.
Kendra knew she wasn’t Alec’s savior. She was the one responsible for putting him into this situation in the first place.
4
The Duke didn’t bother with the calling card ritual—presenting one’s card to determine if someone was receiving visitors—much to the chagrin of his coachman, who, Kendra knew, always took great pride in the duty. Seemingly oblivious to his servant’s crestfallen expression, Aldridge ushered Kendra up the short flight of stairs to the gleaming green door and gave the snarling brass lion’s head knocker three loud raps. He was about to give it another when the door swung open suddenly.
A tall, burly man with hair the color of wheat and stormy blue eyes surveyed them with a frown. “Yes?”
“I am the Duke of Aldridge. I’m here to see my nephew, the Marquis of Sutcliffe,” Aldridge said, and there was something in his normally affable tone that demanded deference.
Kendra wasn’t surprised when he got it. The man blinked and then nodded, shifting quickly to the side to let them enter. “Of course, sir, Your Grace . . . Miss. If you’ll come with me, please. I am William Drake, by the by.”