“And your connection to my nephew would be . . . ?” Aldridge asked as they followed the big man into the shadowy foyer. It was long and narrow, the walls divided starkly between the dark paneled wainscoting below and white plaster above. Ornately framed portraits hung from golden rods hooked near the crown molding. Kendra wondered if the faces staring back at her were blue-blooded ancestors of Alec and the Duke.
“Oh. I was called to the scene, sir,” William explained. “I’m a night watchman. Sam Kelly is with His Lordship in the morning room.”
“Sam Kelly is investigating?” the Duke asked, surprised, and exchanged a glance with Kendra.
“Aye. I believe you are acquainted with him?”
“Yes, we had dealings with each other a month ago. He is an excellent Bow Street Runner.”
They passed the stairs and continued down the corridor to a pair of double doors, one of which was open. Respectfully, William stood to the side so they could precede him into the room. The Duke made a similar gesture to Kendra.
For just a moment, she hung back and wished the Duke wasn’t so damned chivalrous. She didn’t want to be the first person to enter the room. But a moment later, her cowardice shamed her, and she squared her shoulders. Ignoring the nerves fluttering in her stomach, she swept through the doorway. Never let them see you sweat.
It was a large room, done in masculine hues: browns, greens, golds. Beige canvas dust covers had been tossed on the floor, obviously having recently been draped across the furniture. Four enormous windows took up the wall opposite the neoclassical fireplace where a fire burned, the flames gnawing through the wood and offering a small bit of warmth.
She noticed this only vaguely, almost as if it were part of her peripheral vision, because her attention fixed immediately on the man sprawled lazily in one of the chairs. He held a stout glass in his hand, filled with whiskey or brandy, Kendra suspected. Her Georgian counterparts, she’d discovered, could drink Dionysus under the table.
He’d been gazing into the flames, but at their entrance, he looked around—just a cursory glance, as though used to unwanted guests entering the morning room. His eyes, deep forest green with flecks of gold around the pupil, were cool and distant between his spiky black lashes. But they blazed suddenly, and the detachment fell away when he saw her. The hand holding the heavy glass gave a tiny jerk and then, in a lithe movement, he was on his feet.
The Marquis of Sutcliffe was as dark as his uncle was fair, his olive skin and chiseled good looks inherited from his late mother, an Italian Countess who’d married into the English aristocracy. At six feet, he was tall for this era, and athletic (not unusual for this era). Still, exhaustion and worry had taken its toll. Shadows she didn’t remember were stamped beneath those staring eyes. A day’s growth of dark stubble gave him a rakish appearance.
“Miss Donovan! Your Grace!” That greeting came from Sam Kelly.
With some relief, Kendra looked away from Alec, pivoting to the familiar figure hurrying across the room toward them. The Bow Street Runner was a short, muscular man with elfin features, reddish-brown curls, and graying sideburns. His eyes were light brown, almost gold, like a Spanish doubloon. Right now, his smile reached those eyes, but Kendra knew from personal experience how quickly they could turn into “cop eyes”—expressionless and penetrating. They’d taken on that inscrutable look more than a few times a month ago, when she’d caught him studying her over the course of their hunt for a serial killer.
Initially, they hadn’t trusted each other. Kendra had dismissed him as a nineteenth-century detective with little forensic knowledge, while Sam had viewed her unusual proficiency in crime detection with a great deal of suspicion and skepticism. It didn’t help that he’d known she’d lied about her arrival in England. She could hardly tell him the truth; only Alec and the Duke were privy to her secret. But she’d come to trust Sam as a fellow investigator. As it turned out, basic police work was as much a part of this era as it was in her time, even if there was no true police force in England but rather a loose network of constables, magistrates, sheriffs, bailiffs, Bow Street Runners, and watchmen, like William Drake.
“’Tis good ter see you, Your Grace.” Sam gave a little bow. He turned to Kendra and grinned. “And Miss Donovan. You’re in fine looks, lass. Much better than the last time I laid me peepers on you.”
“Thank you.” Kendra had to smile. The last time she’d seen the Runner, she’d been stabbed and beaten. “I’m feeling a lot better too.”
“You chose not to leave, after all?” Alec cut in, his tone brusque.
She tensed, and glanced back at the Marquis. “It wasn’t my choice.”
“I see.”
Kendra heard the cold contempt in those two words and felt a rush of anger. How dare he take that tone with her? Like he was judging her for not accepting his proposal yesterday morning?
“Stay. Marry me.”
The words came back to her, along with the thrill and giddy fear. Damn him, he had no idea what he was asking of her, no idea what he was asking her to give up. The future, her future, was far from perfect, but at least she had the right to vote.
“Where is Lady Rebecca?” Sam asked suddenly, looking around him as though the Duke’s goddaughter would materialize next to the sofa.
“Lady Rebecca has returned to her family’s estates,” the Duke responded carefully. “Of course, as my ward, Miss Donovan does not require Lady Rebecca to act as a chaperone.”
Kendra had to give Sam credit for barely reacting. He gave only a quick bob of his eyebrows and then nodded. “I understand, sir.”
“Always a surprise, Miss Donovan,” Alec murmured in a low, mocking voice, in response to the Duke’s comment. Of course, he couldn’t yet know about the Duke’s plan to make Kendra his ward, and this was some way for him to find out.
Alec pivoted, sauntering toward the table that held a half a dozen cut-crystal decanters. “Forgive me. I’m being a poor host. Duke, would you and your ward like something to drink? Unfortunately, I cannot offer coffee or tea, as I am temporarily without servants. Would you care for some brandy? Madeira or sherry?”
“Brandy, thank you,” Aldridge accepted. “Miss Donovan?”
“Sure. And pen and paper—I’d like to take notes about the murder. That’s why we’re here,” she reminded the room, and winced a little at the nasty edge in her tone. But her nerves were scraped raw. It didn’t help when she caught the expression of surprise on William Drake’s face as he shot her a look.
Aldridge must have seen the night watchman’s expression as well, because he said, “I am here to investigate this crime that my nephew has been wrongly accused of, Mr. Drake. My ward shall be assisting me in my endeavor.”
William raised his eyebrows. “Your ward assists you in such matters?”
“Yes, much like Caroline Herschel aids her brother Sir William in his work with astronomy.”