Chapter 45
Three days later, Kendra was sitting in the drawing room with Alec and the Duke when Wakely appeared and announced a visitor.
The butler ushered in Mr. Boothe, who looked as dapper as he had during their first meeting, now wearing a deep burgundy frock coat with an eye-popping yellow silk vest embroidered with red thread.
Alec and the Duke stood, greeted the royal clerk, then waved him into one of the wingback chairs near the crackling fire.
“Would you like a sherry?” Alec sauntered to the sideboard. “Or something stronger?”
“Thank you, sir. Sherry ought to take the chill off.” He flipped open the skirt of his frock coat so as to not crush the fabric when he sat down. “I am quite weary of the rain and cold.”
“As is everyone,” said the Duke, returning to his seat. “The food shortages and high prices have caused considerable stress on the populace. I’ve been reading in the newspapers about the riots that have begun to break out around the kingdom.”
“’Tis troubling. Thank you, sir,” Boothe said as Alec handed him a glass. “But I am not here to discuss the weather. I’m here to thank Lady Sutcliffe for her service. Her Majesty is aware that you were injured, my lady. How are you feeling?”
The clerk scrutinized her so closely that Kendra was sure he could see through her loose blue velvet round gown to the bandages wrapped tightly around her torso.
“Much better, thank you,” she replied. She’d had Munroe douse the laceration with whisky before he stitched her up. Whether it was that or Molly’s diligent application of herbs and ointments, Kendra had so far avoided the dreaded infection and fever that usually accompanied such injuries.
Mr. Boothe took a sip of his sherry, then sighed. “I confess, this entire series of events has been shocking. I’m not only speaking of the murders of Lady Westford and Dr. Thornton, but of the illegal experiments that Sir Preston and Mr. Dandridge were conducting.”
No mention of Jenny and Goldsten, Kendra noticed.
Mr. Boothe continued, “Mr. Dawes said that the women had agreed to participate, though.”
The Duke frowned. “What was the alternative? Mercury? ’Tis poison and they knew it. A future filled with sickness, madness, and blindness. They were offered hope and took it. But it was an illusion.”
“It’s shocking how such brilliant men could be so misguided,” Mr. Boothe murmured, shaking his head. “They honestly thought that their electricity machine could cure the pox? That they could use it to purify the blood? Such foolishness.”
Not so foolish, Kendra thought. Dandridge’s invention could be considered a prototype dialysis machine, or the precursor to advanced therapies like EBOO—extracorporeal blood oxygenation and ozonation—when blood was run through a filtration machine to clean it of toxins, viruses, and bacteria.
Supposedly, it helped those suffering from chronic inflammation and autoimmune disorders, and sped up cellular healing.
Like Sir Francis Ronalds, Sir Preston and Dandridge were simply ahead of their time. Of course, Ronalds hadn’t experimented on human beings or committed murder to hide his activities or further his cause.
The Duke said, “What they did was inexcusable, and yet I wonder if they would have felt the need to cross those boundaries if the law were less restrictive. Science cannot flourish in darkness. There ought to be research and testing. If guidelines were established and lawful, who knows how far medicine could advance?”
Mr. Boothe exhaled heavily. “Well, it isn’t for me to say, thank God.”
“What will happen to Mr. Dawes?” Kendra asked. Muldoon had written an article on the illegal experiments that had caused Clarice’s death, but he hadn’t included names. Looking at Mr. Boothe now, Kendra sensed the hand of the government—or the Palace—in containing the fallout.
And the cover up begins . . .
“Mr. Dawes is being transported to Botany Bay,” Mr. Boothe said carefully.
“No trial?”
“He pleaded guilty.” He shrugged. “A trial would be pointless, obviously.”
“He murdered Mr. Goldsten. That’s a capital crime. Being sent to Australia seems like he’s getting off lightly.” Her lips twisted. “I guess it’s helpful to have a stepfather who is a wealthy real estate tycoon.”
“Many convicts perish on the trip to Australia,” the Duke said. “And if they survive the journey, they die at the penal colony.”
Mr. Boothe added, “We’re aware of his role in this terrible business, but he didn’t admit to killing Mr. Goldsten and we can’t prove it.”
Kendra remembered the tears that Dawes had shed right after Goldsten’s death.
It was terrible; more terrible than I could ever have imagined, he’d said.
She’d been dealing with her own guilt in the alleged suicide and had missed the significance of those words.
Why would Dawes have imagined Goldsten’s death, unless he’d tried to prepare for it prior to shooting his mentor?
Unfortunately, Boothe was right. She couldn’t prove it, not with this era’s forensics.
She tilted her head as she regarded the royal clerk. “The public will never know about Sir Preston’s participation, will they?”
But she knew the answer. Some things never change.
“The man is dead, killed by his own electricity machine. Some might call that poetic justice. Either way, Sir Preston’s involvement would only cause Lady Maude embarrassment.”
“And Mr. Dandridge?”
“The man is a fiend,” Mr. Boothe said, snapping Kendra out of her contemplation. “There will be no attempt to hide his responsibility in the murder of Lady Westford and Dr. Thornton.”
“And Jenny.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Mr. Boothe cleared his throat. “It’s unfortunate that he isn’t alive to face his villainy and the hangman’s noose, but God will judge him now.”
He drained his sherry and then set down the glass.
Bracing his hands against his thighs, he pushed himself to his feet.
“I must be going. But before I do . . .” He smiled at Kendra as he drew a scroll with the royal seal from his pocket.
“Her Majesty is requesting your presence next Friday evening at Buckingham House.”
“Uh . . .”
Alec accepted the scroll. “My wife and I shall be pleased to attend.”
Mr. Boothe looked at the Duke. “You are invited as well, Your Grace. Her Majesty says that it’s been many years since she’s had the pleasure of your company, sir.”
“The pleasure will be mine.” The Duke stood up. “I’m leaving, as well. I shall walk you out, Mr. Boothe.”
Kendra scowled at Alec once they were alone. “I can’t meet the Queen. I’m injured!”
“When I mentioned your injury this morning and suggested you remain in bed, you insisted that you were in excellent health,” he pointed out mildly.
“Then stab me again!”
Alec laughed. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you look so panicked—except when I proposed. What are you afraid of?”
“Committing a faux pas that will get you exiled. There are probably a thousand rules I’ll need to learn.”
“I can invite my aunt to give you instruction.”
“Now I really am feeling faint.”
He joined her on the sofa. “There aren’t that many rules. You curtsy to the Queen, speak only when you’re spoken to, and never turn your back on a royal.”
“Because they can’t be trusted,” she muttered.
He smiled. “I mean that literally. When it’s time to leave, you are required to walk backward out of the room so that you face the royal at all times.”
“That sounds hazardous.”
He cupped her chin. “In the time I’ve known you, you’ve been shot, stabbed, and brutalized. And you think meeting the Queen is going to be hazardous?” He shook his head and laughed again. “Darling, I adore you.”
He lowered his head and kissed her.
“Prove it,” she whispered, sliding her arms around his waist. She smiled into his eyes. “Let’s go now on that honeymoon you promised . . .”