Chapter 24
“Well, that was miserable,” Rebecca said softly.
Kendra looked over at her friend as they walked ahead of the men, emerging from the anatomy school. “Are you all right?”
“If you are referring to my earlier . . . reaction, I apologize.” Rebecca’s tone was as crisp as a winter morning. “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t expecting what was done to her eyes.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not easy to view a dead body, especially in that state.”
“You mean it’s not easy for me, because I’m a lady.” Rebecca’s jaw tightened. “You share Mr. Muldoon’s belief that I’m a fainthearted, feebleminded lady, that I need to be coddled and shouldn’t view such ugliness? That I’m not like you, and ought not try to be.”
Kendra slid a cautious sidelong look at Rebecca, then glanced over her shoulder at Muldoon walking with Alec, the Duke, and Sam. Far enough behind to not be overheard.
“Is that what Mr. Muldoon said when he followed you out of the autopsy room?” she asked.
Rebecca let out a hiss. “Yes. He seems to think I am a chicken-hearted female prone to having vapors or hysterics. Just because I-I . . . I nearly cast up my accounts. But I didn’t. And even if I had, I am not some silly creature that needs to be cosseted and comforted. It’s insulting.”
Kendra had never had any close female friends before Rebecca, but she knew there was a code. You supported your friend, especially if they were fuming against a man.
“The bastard,” she finally said.
Rebecca made a noise between a gasp and a laugh. “Kendra!” She said nothing for a long moment, then went on, “He views me as part of the Ton, you know. And he thinks the females of the Ton are silly, timid creatures who spend their days shopping and their evenings attending balls.”
Kendra actually didn’t believe Muldoon viewed Rebecca in that way at all, but she wasn’t stupid enough to try to defend him.
“He thinks we live our lives wrapped in cotton-wool,” Rebecca muttered darkly.
“Jeez. He’s never been to Almack’s,” Kendra said lightly. Almack’s was the most exclusive social club of the day, where young debutantes put themselves on display as potential brides, to be scrutinized by society’s most august ladies. Talk about nerve-wracking.
Rebecca laughed. Her amusement faded, though, as they continued to walk. “Are you really going to interview everyone on the list Dr. Munroe gave you?” she asked Kendra.
“Eventually. But right now, I want to interview Lord Westford.”
“I thought you were of the mind that Lady Westford’s murderer is on the list.”
“Yes, but Lord Westford might know more about his wife’s activities. We need to find out how Lady Westford’s path crossed with Clarice’s.”
And, she added silently, how both of their paths crossed with a killer’s.
***
Alec directed Coachman John to Lord Westford’s black-crepe-embellished townhouse.
Kendra wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that the earl was not at home—and really not home, as opposed to being at home but refusing to see them.
When she asked the butler where they could find Lord Westford, he gave her a thousand-yard stare and told her that he couldn’t presume to know.
Alec suggested that she return to the carriage while he had a word with the butler.
“Let me guess—Lord Westford is at his villa in St. John’s Wood,” Kendra said when Alec climbed back into the carriage. “What did he think I’d do? Faint at the mention of a mistress?”
“He was being considerate of your ladylike sensibilities.”
Kendra drummed her fingers on her knee. “I’m starting to understand why Rebecca was ticked off at Muldoon.”
“Ah.” Alec’s green eyes gleamed. “Mr. Muldoon told me that he’d only tried to assure Becca that her reaction to the grisly business in the morgue was perfectly natural.”
“Perfectly natural for someone like Rebecca, you mean. A lady. A fragile creature that needs to be shielded from life’s unpleasantness.”
“Well, she did almost cast up her accounts in the morgue,” Alec pointed out mildly.
“I’ve seen men throw up at crime scenes too.”
“He was trying to . . . never mind.” He regarded her somewhat quizzically. “Are we really going to quarrel about this?”
“You think I’m being unreasonable?”
“I think . . .” He leaned back against the seat. “My wife is extremely reasonable. And I’d be foolish to say otherwise.”
Kendra’s lips twitched, her irritation ebbing. “You’re not foolish.”
***
Given that the future King of England had at one time stashed his mistress in a villa at St. John’s Wood, Kendra had expected the neighborhood to be pretty upscale.
She was not disappointed. Located a couple miles northwest of Charing Cross and a stone’s throw from Regent Park, the area was a network of wide, tree-lined boulevards with neo-Palladian mansions set behind brick walls and wrought-iron gates.
It was before noon; too early for most of the Ton to be out.
A milk wagon ambled down the street at a leisurely pace, along with a handful of horseback riders and one private carriage leaving a gated residence.
Kendra couldn’t help but wonder if the occupant of the carriage was a husband leaving his mistress to return to his legal family.
They approached an elegant limestone villa.
Alec used the silver lion’s-head knocker, and the door opened.
A white-haired butler contemplated them with the same regal bearing and haughty expression of every butler Kendra had met in this era.
For just a moment, she had the fanciful image of a factory pumping out butlers in the same mold.
The majordomo’s eyes lit with recognition when his eyes fell on Alec, who had been there only the day before. “My lord, how may I help you?”
“Kirby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“My wife and I would like to speak with Lord Westford.”
“Ah . . .” The butler glanced at Kendra. “I shall inquire whether he is at home—”
“Let me be clear, Kirby. My wife and I are not leaving until we speak to his lordship. We shall wait in the drawing room.”
If Kirby planned to argue, one look at Alec’s set face had him nodding and hastily stepping aside so they could enter. “Yes, certainly, sir. If you would please follow me.”
Kendra’s gaze traveled the grand entrance hall with its potted plants and pink-hued marble columns. A footman, decked out in full livery, was positioned outside a closed door at the far end of the hall, beyond the grand staircase. There wasn’t a piece of black crepe to be seen.
As the butler opened the doors to the drawing room, Kendra heard the sound of distant, childish laughter.
“I shall inform his lordship that you are here,” Kirby stated, stepping back and closing the doors.
Kendra turned to survey the elegant room, done in butter-soft hues. Chinese vases were positioned around the room, exploding with colorful flowers. “Don’t you find this odd?” she asked. “The man’s wife was murdered four days ago, and it’s like she never existed.”
“I doubt she ever existed here. This is a world apart from the one that Lord Westford created with his wife.” He eyed her curiously. “You’ve never encountered arranged marriages like this in your America?”
That gave her pause. “Well, yes. I suppose there are wealthy, high-profile couples who stay together for political ambitions or because they don’t want to split up the family fortune.
Or they have an image to protect,” she admitted.
“But if a wife—or husband—found out their partner had a secret family, they tended to get seriously pissed. Then they called their divorce attorney to take their ex for every dime they can get.”
Except for the spouses that don’t—the spouses who choose to kill their partner rather than get a divorce.
But she no longer believed that was what they were dealing with here. This was bigger, more insidious.
She heard the heavy thud of footsteps before the door burst open, and Lord Westford strode through in an agitated rush.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. His face was red, his eyes burning with fury. It gave Kendra a moment of déjà vu from the first time she’d met the earl.
“We have a few more questions about your wife’s murder,” she said, but was momentarily distracted as a woman glided into the room after him.
The mistress. Kendra had to admit that she was surprised.
She had expected the “other woman” in Lord Westford’s life to be younger and prettier than his wife.
Mrs. O’Leary was around the same age as Lady Westford, with a figure that could be best described as pleasantly plump.
Or, less charitably, frumpy. Her hair, under the heavy lace cap, was a graying mouse-brown.
Lord Westford’s left-handed wife was unremarkable, Kendra thought, but revised that opinion when the lady smiled. There was something winsome in the curve of her lips that invited shared laughter, a light in her eyes that indicated kindness.
Or maybe her smile stood out because it was in stark contrast to Lord Westford’s hostile glower.
“Good morning. Lord Sutcliffe, isn’t it?” Mrs. O’Leary had a lovely, musical voice. She dipped into a pretty little curtsy, her sparkling hazel eyes cutting over to include Kendra as she rose. “And Lady Sutcliffe. Forgive me for being so bold as to force an introduction; I am Mrs. O’Leary.”
The woman thread her arm through Lord Westford’s. A united front.
“Heather,” Lord Westford muttered, half embarrassed.
Mrs. O’Leary ignored him. Keeping the smile pinned to her face, she gestured toward the two pale yellow Chippendale sofas facing each other.
“Let’s sit, shall we? I hear congratulations are in order.
” They did so, and her pale fingers plucked at her skirt, carefully arranging the material around her.
“Westford tells me that you were recently wed.”
Alec nodded. “Yes, a few days ago.”