A Murder in Time (12 page)

“Roles?”

The older man seemed genuinely baffled. Kendra clasped her hands together on her knees until the knuckles turned bone-white. She drew in a deep breath. “Look, I don't know what's going on, but enough is enough. I need to leave . . .”
Where was the damn body?
she wondered again. “I need to leave.”

“You need to rest, Miss Donovan. Alec, could you please ring for Mrs. Danbury?”

“Duke, the chit says she wants to leave—”

“And I say she is too ill to leave.” Up until that moment, Kendra would have sworn the younger man was in charge. But the steely note in the older man's voice had her hastily revising her earlier opinion. She slid a look at the other guy, who met her gaze with a scowl. But he didn't protest his friend's edict, striding toward the door. He pulled a cord in the wall, turning around to stare grimly back at her.

“Mrs. Danbury will take care of you, my dear.”

Kendra switched her gaze to the man called Duke. “This is a joke, right? You're going to tell me this is all a joke.”

There was a concerned frown behind his blue eyes. “I'm afraid I fail to see the humor, Miss Donovan.”

Dammit, she'd
known
he was going say that. She shivered, because she was beginning to think the unthinkable, imagine the unimaginable. It was only when her fingers touched something smooth that she realized Duke was pressing a glass into her hand. He smiled. “You look like you need a restorative.”

“And if you maintain your aversion to claret, please refrain from pouring it on His Grace,” Alec said dryly. “That would be a waste of an excellent vintage.”

Kendra ignored him, looking instead at the older gentleman.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and this time she lifted the glass to her lips and drank. If it was poisoned . . . well, that would almost be preferable to this crazy situation, she decided. At least she'd understand it.

The claret burned smoothly down her throat.
It tastes real
, was all she could think as she sipped, and tried not to let her eyes dart to the candles that shouldn't be there, to the fireplace that should have a crater in it from the bullet, the vase that should be lying in shards.

“What were you doing in the passageway, Miss Donovan?” Alec demanded abruptly. He walked over to the decanter, poured himself another glass of claret. “If you are, as you claim, a lady's maid, pray, what were you doing in
there
?”

“I . . .” What could she say? Her stomach churned, and she had a momentary regret over drinking the claret. Not because it was poisoned, but because she thought she might disgrace herself by throwing up.

It was this damned situation. She didn't understand it. What was going on? Mind games? An illusion?
A delusion?
The last thought made her go cold with fear.

She glanced at the older man, but any hope that he'd rescue her from his friend's inquisition disappeared when she saw the interested light in the blue-gray eyes. What could she tell him? Nothing that made sense. In fact, the less said, the better. At least until she figured out what the hell was going on.

“I . . . got lost.”

Alec snorted derisively, making no attempt to hide his disbelief. Duke's eyes sharpened, almost imperceptibly. He didn't believe her, either. She couldn't blame them.

“
How
did you get into the passageway?” Alec snapped out the question.

Kendra glanced at the tapestry that had been pushed aside upon her stunning exit from the passageway. The door had closed, its very existence once again hidden from view. There was no way she could've gotten “accidentally” inside the passageway. She knew it; they knew it.

She shook her head. “I don't remember.”

If looks could kill, she thought as she caught Alec's gaze, all that'd be left of her would be a pile of smoking ash coming out of the ugly half boots. Her nerves tightened. She really wasn't up to a verbal battle, not until she had a chance to think this through. Relief rushed through her when someone knocked at the door, and a moment later a tall, thin woman wearing a black gown and white linen cap, swept in.

She dropped into a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace. My Lord.” Except for that first glance, she didn't look at Kendra. “How may I assist you?”

Despite the old-fashioned gown and cap she wore, she reminded Kendra of a college professor she'd once had: cool, calm and, above all, competent.

“Mrs. Danbury, Miss Donovan seems to have gotten
lost
in the passageway,” Alec commented, and there was no mistaking the disparaging note in his voice.

“Oh?” Mrs. Danbury turned to study Kendra with frosty gray eyes.

“She claims that she was hired as a lady's maid.”

Mrs. Danbury opened her mouth, but before she could issue a denial, the other man said mildly, “I'm certain Mrs. Danbury knows this, Alec. While there may be quite a crush for Caro's house party, I have full confidence in Mrs. Danbury and Mr. Harding's control of the staff.”

Put like that, Mrs. Danbury could only bow her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Miss Donovan is feeling ill,” he continued. “As the ladies have retired for the evening, Miss Donovan's services are no longer required. Perhaps you could escort her to her room?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The woman's skirts barely made a sound as she moved to the door. She glanced back at Kendra. “Miss Donovan?”

Kendra hesitated. She knew what was expected of her, knew she was being asked—no, ordered—to go with Mrs. Danbury. Anxious knots twisted her stomach as she weighed her options. She had none. She had no choice but to leave the room.

“I wish you good evening, Miss Donovan.” The twinkle in the older man's s blue eyes was impossible to decipher.

“Good evening, Duke,” she finally managed, and was already walking out the door so she didn't see the expressions that ranged from surprise to outrage flash in the eyes of the room's occupants. When she stepped out into the hall, she felt only a numb acceptance of the wall candles there.

“Miss Donovan, you will
never
address His Grace as Duke again,” Mrs. Danbury said as soon as they were out of earshot of the study. “He is
Your
Grace, or the Duke of Aldridge, or sir. And you will curtsy when you leave a room with one of your betters. Is that understood?”

Betters?
Kendra swallowed hard, but nodded. She ignored the look, bright with suspicion, that Mrs. Danbury slid in her direction. She needed to keep her mouth shut. Duke—
the
Duke—had given her a reprieve. No one was going to toss her out. Not yet, anyway.

She still had time to figure this crazy situation out.

Time . . .

Kendra shivered. That was the one question she'd deliberately not asked during the bizarre episode: time. The date, the month,
the year
. Because she was very afraid of the answer.

“She's a forward bit of baggage,” Alec commented as he settled into a chair, sipping the claret with a frown.

The Duke—Albert Rutherford, the seventh Duke of Aldridge, and Alec's uncle—picked up the clay pipe he'd been packing with tobacco before the girl had begun banging on the hidden door. With a thoughtful expression, he lit a taper from the fire, carrying it to the pipe bowl. As he puffed, his eyes lifted to the oil painting above the fireplace, depicting a woman and child.

It had been twenty years, but the grief was still there. Sometimes it was as raw and fresh as the day it had first been inflicted. Other times, like now, it was a weary sort of pain, the sharpness dulled into a nostalgic ache.

Alec followed his uncle's line of vision to the painting of Aldridge's long-dead wife and child. Arabella had been a vision, both in life and captured in oil. Even though he'd been but a lad of twelve at the time of her death, Alec remembered her beauty, the black hair and brown eyes, her gregarious warmth.

The times he'd visited, his aunt and uncle's relationship had always struck him as idyllic. But that could've been because his own life had been so far from idyllic. Since he preferred not to dwell on that, he shifted his eyes to the child, a pretty little thing who resembled her mother in coloring and, if the artist's rendition was accurate, would one day rival her in beauty.

Only five when the painting had been commissioned, she'd be dead less than a year later, her body swept out to sea in the same sailing accident that had brought the mother's broken body in with the tide.

He glanced at the Duke, saw him looking at the child, too, and something inside him tightened. “She's not Charlotte, sir.”

“She would be around Miss Donovan's age. And they have the same coloring.”

“Charlotte's dead,” Alec said more harshly than he intended. “She died twenty years ago.”

The blue eyes came around, the sadness unmistakable. “I could remind you that her body was never found . . .” He lifted a hand when Alec opened his mouth to protest. “I'm not a lackwit, Alec. I know Miss Donovan is not my Charlotte, but she interests me nevertheless.”

Alec's mouth tightened. “She's a liar and most likely a thief.”

Aldridge frowned. He'd seen a multitude of emotions play out across the woman's face. Disbelief, anger, fear. But more than anything, it was the lost look in those big dark eyes that tugged at something inside him.

“She lied, yes. But I don't think she's a liar or a thief,” he responded slowly, and glanced at the Ming. “She's right, you know. That particular vase was produced during the Jiajing Empire.”

“I didn't say she was not clever, even if her mathematical skills are poor,” Alec countered, his expression grim.

“Hmm.”

“You should have let her leave. She wanted to leave.”

“No.” He recalled the flash of helpless terror he'd seen in her eyes before she'd controlled it. “She did not want to leave, Alec. She has nowhere to go.”

Alec sighed, and set down his empty wineglass. He rose to his feet. His uncle had made his decision, God help them. “I see. Well, ‘tis late, and I must go to bed.”

That announcement brought the Duke of Aldridge back to the present. “Is it your bed you'll be seeking, Alec?” he asked with a trace of indulgent amusement. “I have heard talk of you and the lovely Lady Dover.”

He and the beautiful widow had done more than talk, Alec thought, but merely smiled. “A gentleman never tells.” He paused at the door, glancing back at his uncle. His expression turned serious. “One word of warning, Duke. If Miss Donovan stays on, I'd suggest you have Mrs. Danbury count the silver.”

Kendra's sense of unreality deepened as she followed Mrs. Danbury down a hall and then up two flights of servants' stairs. The single lantern the woman had picked up to guide their way turned the walls into a horror house of twisting shadows. Kendra wondered if any of it was real. Stiffening her spine, she battled back the bubble of panic that was threatening to engulf her. Whatever was happening, whether it was a psychosis or something paranormal, panicking wouldn't help.

Mrs. Danbury stopped outside a wooden door. “I shall deal with you tomorrow, Miss Donovan.” The tone was steely and suspicious. “Tonight, you may share the bedchamber with Rose.” With that, she gave the panel a brisk tap and opened the door.

The light from the single lantern spilled across the threshold, illuminating a tiny room tucked under the eaves. A large oak armoire was positioned against one wall, opposite two narrow single beds separated by a nightstand. One of the beds was occupied. As Kendra watched, the covers moved, a pale hand lifted, and two big brown eyes, under the ruffle of a white nightcap, squinted toward the doorway.

“'Oo's there?”

“'Tis I—Mrs. Danbury.”

“Mrs. Danbury?” The girl yawned. “Ma'am, w'ot time is it? W'ot's wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Rose. I am sorry to disturb you, but Miss Donovan needs a place to sleep. Good night.” She withdrew, taking the light with her.