A Murder in Time (17 page)

“Stuck?”

“Unable to leave.”

His expression was thoughtful as he drew on the pipe. “I see. Because of the war?”

That, Kendra decided, was as good a reason as any. “Yes.”

“I certainly understand you not being able to travel back to America during the hostilities. But, what of now? The war's been over for months.”

“I don't have any money,” she improvised.

“I see. And once you acquire the funds to obtain passage to America, you'll be leaving us, then?”

“I need to go back home,” she said with complete honesty.

His gaze moved beyond hers to settle on the two paintings above the fireplace. “Do you have family, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra thought of the parents she didn't speak to, the half-siblings that she'd never bothered to meet. “Not really. But I . . . don't belong here.”

It wasn't the words, but the underlying desperation in her voice that caught his attention. “When did you arrive in England?”

“When?”

“Yes.”

Her chest tightened, but she answered calmly enough. “I already told you—before the war.”

“So you've been in England for four years?”

“Y-yes.”

“'Tis a long time.” He puffed on his pipe. “What month did you arrive?”

Apprehension prickled along the back of her neck. Sweat dampened her palms. Despite the gentle tone, she knew when she was being interrogated. “Um . . . May.”

“May of 1812, then?” He nodded, taking her silence as agreement. “A time of great upheaval,” he murmured. “Upon which ship did you travel?”

“Why?” She heard the hostility in her own voice and struggled to rein it in. She'd never studied this era specifically, but she was pretty sure servants weren't supposed to fight with the aristocracy. “It was so long ago—four years, like you say—that I can't think why it matters.”

He smiled slightly. “I've always been a curious man—as you can see by my interest in natural philosophy. I also have financial interests in a few shipping companies; maybe you traveled on one of those.”

“I don't remember.”
Lame, Donovan.

“You don't remember the ship you booked passage, the ship you spent weeks crossing the ocean?”

Kendra swallowed. If she'd had someone in interview giving her such evasive answers, they'd have shot to the top of the shortlist for whatever crime she was investigating. But she had no choice. Telling him that she was a time traveler wasn't an option. He wouldn't believe it. Hell,
she
didn't believe it.

“I'm sorry. I really don't remember,” she said, and felt a wave of relief when the door opened, and a maid came in carrying a serving tray. Her eyes widened when she saw Kendra standing next to the Duke, but she quickly averted her gaze, depositing her burden on a side table.

Aldridge approached, rubbing his hands together. “We'll need another cup, as I'm expecting—” He broke off as the door swung open again, and the man Kendra recognized from the night before strolled into the room. “Ah, Alec. You are right on time.”

Alec lifted a brow. “On time for what?” He stopped abruptly, his brow darkening as he spotted Kendra. Unlike the maid, he apparently had no intention of pretending she wasn't in the room. “What the hell is
she
doing here?”

“Alec, your manners are abominable,” the Duke admonished gently. “Miss Donovan and I were discussing natural philosophy and astronomy. And about to have tea.”

“You're bloody joking.”

“I never joke about tea. And don't swear. If you'll be so good as to bring another cup for my ill-mannered nephew,” he said to the maid, who immediately dropped into a curtsy.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Kendra didn't have to see the other girl's face to know that the Duke's statement had shocked her. And infuriated Alec. She was, after all, a lady's maid. While she still had a lot to learn about the customs of the early nineteenth century, she suspected a lady's maid taking tea with a Duke wasn't normal. “No, thank you,” she said hurriedly, following the maid to the door. “In fact, I need to get back to my duties.”

“Oh. Are you quite certain, Miss Donovan?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Aldridge knew he could insist that she stay and take tea with them. But for all his well-known eccentricities, he wasn't given to coercion of that sort. He smiled at her and said, “Another time perhaps?”

“Yes, perhaps.” Aware of Alec's eyes on her, Kendra hurried out the door.

Alec waited for the door to close before turning slowly to face his uncle, who was already pouring two cups of tea into the delicate Wedgwood cups. “I obviously interrupted your cozy
tête-à-tête
with Miss Donovan.”

Calmly, Aldridge added a lump of sugar to one of the cups, stirred, and handed it to his nephew. “Here, Alec. This may sweeten your disposition.”

“I don't need any sweetening.” Still, Alec took the teacup. “What's going on between you and that woman?”

“Nothing more than an interesting discussion.”

“How charming,” Alec said sarcastically. “The master and his servant, having tea and scones.”

“The tea was for you and me. Miss Donovan simply happened along.” He decided not to mention to Alec that the girl had been in the passageway again. Or her slippery manner when he'd quizzed her about her background.

“I don't recall receiving an invitation to tea.”

The Duke grinned. “Alec, we may be only one day into Caro's house party, but I haven't forgotten the previous one. Or the one before that. Nor have I forgotten your desperate need for . . . sanctuary. As both a marquis with deep pockets and my heir, you are as in demand as a red fox in a hunting party. And since my laboratory is sacrosanct by everyone but invited guests, this is where you go to ground.” He cast a glance at the clock on the mantel. “Around this time, too. I only thought you might enjoy some refreshments.”

Alec gave a reluctant laugh. “I don't know if I particularly like the comparison to a fox, sir. My sympathies may lie with the creature next time the hunt is on.”

“Indeed.” Aldridge added two sugar lumps and a drop of cream to his own cup. “It's always a delicate issue dealing with the hopes, dreams, and desires of young ladies.”

Alec sank into a chair, stretching his long legs in front of him. He regarded his uncle steadily. “And what of the hopes, dreams, and desires of Miss Donovan?”

Aldridge's smile faded. “What exactly are you implying?”

“You've never been one to play fast-and-loose with your servants—”

“No, I have not.”

“Nevertheless,” Alec went on doggedly, ignoring the icy snap in his uncle's voice, “you seem remarkably cozy with Kendra Donovan. I ought to remind you that you don't know anything about her character. Not to mention that she's a
servant
, Duke. One instructs a servant, is cordial to a servant, but it is never wise to forget that they are—that Miss Donovan is—still among the lower classes. She is a simple servant.”

Aldridge remembered the look in Kendra Donovan's eyes as they scanned his instruments and specimens. She hadn't been baffled by what she saw. She'd even appeared to understand. She'd certainly understood the chart of the night sky.

And she could quote Wordsworth.

“You are usually more astute, Alec,” he murmured finally. “Miss Donovan is a lot of things, I suspect. But a
simple
servant? I think not.”

“Mrs. Danbury is looking for you.”

Kendra's stomach sank as she regarded Rose. “Why?”

“I dunno, but . . .” She leaned forward and whispered, “Were you really 'avin' tea with 'is Grace?”

Wow. Gossip traveled fast, even without Facebook. “I didn't have tea.”

“But you were with 'im in 'is laboratory?”

“We talked. Is that so wrong here?”

The girl seemed to ponder that. “I don't much know if it's wrong. But it's not w'ot you'd consider proper.”

Rose looked like she wanted to say something more, but Cook hurried over, dumping a tub of potatoes on the table in front of her. She gave Kendra a once-over. “Mrs. Danbury wants ye.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, then—”

“Quand est-ce que ces pommes de terres seront prêtes?”
Monsieur Anton approached, gesturing madly.
“J'ai besoin de ces pommes de terre!”

Cook put her hands on her plump hips in such a way that made Kendra think that the two had been through this scene before. “What are ye yammering on about, ye bloody froggy?”

“J'ai besoin des pommes de terre, femme stupide!”

“I don't speak French, as well ye know. 'Course, if yer wantin' to know when we'll be done with these here potatoes, we're peelin' and choppin' as fast as we can.”

The chef sniffed, and retreated. Kendra caught him muttering an unflattering description about the cook's ancestry. She looked at Cook, who winked. Kendra couldn't help but smile.

“For someone who doesn't speak French, Cook, you seem to understand him very well,” she said.

“We manage, in our own way. Now, ye go on, miss. Go to Mrs. Danbury. Ye need to manage in yer own way, too.”

Easier said than done
, Kendra thought uneasily, especially when she was sitting across from the housekeeper five minutes later. She didn't think it was possible, but the woman looked even less friendly than before.

“Miss Donovan, I am . . . I am
without words
.” Mrs. Danbury drew in a deep breath, her small bosom swelling in the black bombazine gown. “When you attended Miss Sarah and Miss Georgette this morning did you tell them to
shut up
? Did you shout at them? Swear at them?
Threaten
them?”

For someone who was without words, she was doing an excellent job of getting her point across, Kendra decided. “I . . . don't remember threatening them.”

Mrs. Danbury's eyes narrowed. “This is not a
jest
, Miss Donovan.”

“I lost my temper,” Kendra admitted.

“You . . .” Mrs. Danbury seemed stunned by the confession. She straightened her shoulders. “Miss Donovan, a lady's maid cannot afford to lose her temper.
They are your betters!
”

Kendra had to bite her tongue. Sarah and Georgette were a lot of things, but they weren't her betters. She doubted if they'd be able to pass sixth grade.

“It is quite clear that you are not suited to be a lady's maid,” the housekeeper went on coldly. “Miss Sarah and Miss Georgette have already voiced their complaints to Lady Atwood, who, of course, brought those complaints to my attention.” Though Kendra didn't know it, Lady Atwood had also ordered Mrs. Danbury to send her away, and though Mrs. Danbury had fully expected to comply with the countess' orders, there was also the matter now of Miss Donovan having taken tea with the Duke of Aldridge. While she didn't know what was going on between the Duke and the American, it was painfully obvious that she must bide her time before dismissing the creature.

“You are not a lady's maid, Miss Donovan.”

“I—”

Mrs. Danbury's hand shot up in warning. “I'm not finished. You are
not
a lady's maid. You will join the lower staff.”

“I'm not, er, discharged?”

“Did I say you were?” the housekeeper countered testily. She hesitated, appearing a little nonplussed by her own anger. Mrs. Danbury, Kendra suspected, did not lose control often. Or ever. “Your duties will now be that of a downstairs maid,” she began again. She folded her hands, surveying the young woman coldly. “You will be given a morning and an afternoon uniform to do your duties. Naturally, the cost will be deducted from your wages, which will be adjusted according to your new position.