“Why didn’t he insist on an inquest?” Kendra wondered aloud after they were settled in the carriage. “It’s the proper procedure.”
Personally, she considered inquests a waste of time. Their only purpose was to determine if the death was unnatural or natural causes, which they called a visitation by God. They didn’t do a hell of a lot to identify the killer. But it still would’ve been more helpful than doing absolutely nothing.
She drummed her fingers on her knee, thinking. “We need to find out who Lord Westford’s friend is, and if they were really together at the time his wife was falling to her death at the Bowden Theater,” she said. “They had a strange relationship. He hadn’t seen his wife in three days—four, really, since she was found Monday morning—and he wasn’t alarmed.”
“It’s not that unusual in the Ton,” Alec said.
Kendra met Alec’s eyes. She couldn’t imagine not being worried if she hadn’t seen him in four days. “He didn’t love his wife. He didn’t express any regret that she was dead.”
“Not everyone wears grief the same way,” Alec pointed out. “And there are those who care more about society’s sensibilities and their own reputation than justice.”
“I agree with Kendra,” the Duke interjected softly. “That man didn’t love his wife.”
Pain flickered across his face. Kendra knew he was remembering his own wife, Arabella, and daughter, Charlotte, both of whom he’d lost twenty years ago in a boating accident at sea. Arabella’s body had washed ashore, but Charlotte was never found. More than twenty years later, and he still mourned. Meanwhile, the Earl of Westford had lost his wife two days ago, and couldn’t be bothered to even look sad.
“He didn’t love her,” Kendra said. “The question is: Did he hate her enough to kill her?”
Chapter 8
The Bowden Theater was a four-story, buff-colored, neoclassical building within walking distance of Munroe’s anatomy school. The Covent Garden area was an eclectic mix of bustling businesses and shops and street hawkers selling everything from fruit to flowers. Twilight lengthened the shadows, sending lamplighters up their wooden ladders to trim wicks and light the candles beneath the lamps’ glass domes. Traffic was still heavy with wagons, hackneys, and horseback riders. Soon the commercial vehicles would fade, though, replaced by private carriages as the Ton began to emerge for their evening’s entertainment. The colder-than-normal temperatures wouldn’t stop the social whirl.
Coachman Benjamin deposited them at the front entrance of the Bowden Theater. They entered into a long, rectangular lobby decorated with a preponderance of gold. Enormous, gilt-framed mirrors were spaced between the windows to make the room appear even larger. Lining the walls were chairs and gold-painted Grecian sculptures. Kendra imagined the foyer would look spectacular in the evening, when the chandeliers and wall sconces were lit. But in the gray beams of late afternoon light, the lobby’s décor appeared tawdry.
There were three sets of closed double doors positioned on the south wall. Muffled shouts, curses, laughing, singing, hammering, and sawing drifted through the wood panels. The cacophony rose several notches when they entered the auditorium.
Kendra had not yet set foot in a theater in this era. The design was similar to theaters in her own timeline, with seating facing the stage and orchestra pit below and divided into three sections. The biggest difference was a small horseshoe-shaped area in front of the stage that held half a dozen benches, and a spiked, wrought-iron fence separating the stage and orchestra from the audience. The vaulted ceiling soared to accommodate four balcony tiers flanking the stage. The balustrades on each level were baroque in style and painted gold (of course). Crimson velvet swag curtains with gold fringe carved out a space of privacy for each balcony box.
Kendra shifted her gaze to the stage, which was the source of the noise. She suspected that auditorium’s acoustics amplified the sound, which was being generated by more than three dozen people scurrying across the floorboards. A handful of men and boys in rough garb were wheeling giant wooden scenery cutouts around actors that were rehearsing their lines, as well as clowns and harlequins that juggled and flipped and cartwheeled across the stage.
For just an instant, Kendra’s head swam with a memory. More than a year ago, she’d snuck into Aldridge Castle—in her own era—by posing as an actor hired to be a servant for a Regency-themed fancy dress party. At the time, she’d considered the frenetic energy among the cast members to be controlled chaos. Two hundred years separated the productions, but the energy was very much the same.
A man’s voice boomed above the din as he shouted at the men moving the scenery: “No, no,no!Blast you! I told you that the forest scene is in the opening act! I want trees!Trees!I don’t want a goddamn castle! We’ve got less than two hours, so move your bloody arses!”
“‘So are they all, all honorable men,’” another man’s deep, beautiful baritone said, floating to the rafters. He swept his arm in a wide arc, reciting, “‘Come, I speak to Caesar’s funeral—’”
“Come ItospeakinCaesar’s funeral!” a striking woman, with red hair piled into a towering beehive, boldly painted red lips, heavy rouge, and kohl eye-liner, corrected him loudly. “Zounds, if you can’t speak the Bard’s words properly, you have no business on stage, you saddle-goose—”
“Strumpet!” the man thundered back. His insult brought guffaws from the scenery workers and a shriek from the actress.
“I wanted to bring you to the theater, but I didn’t envision this,” Alec said with a rueful smile.
Kendra gave them a quick sideways glance as they descended the auditorium steps. “Clowns? And harlequins?”
“They provide an amusing interlude between acts,” the Duke told her.
“How many acts are there?”
“It depends, but an evening at the theater may last five hours or more,” the Duke replied.
“Fivehours?Seriously?”
“No one stays for the entire evening’s performances. Patrons tend to come and go throughout the evening, and the Ton is always fashionably late,” Alec assured her. “When we go, we’ll arrive for the final performances—most of which are not on stage.”
“Yes, after an evening at the theater, I’ve often wondered how we can claim to be the most intelligent species,” the Duke commented dryly. “’Tis why I prefer my telescope, contemplating the stars. One has to hope there is more enlightened life than us in the universe.”
They skirted the iron spikes. Kendra had to laugh when Alec explained the barrier was to keep the boisterous crowds away from the musicians, or from jumping on stage or pelting the actors with fruit if they didn’t like the performance.Intelligent life, indeed.
“Who the devil are you?” demanded the man who’d been yelling at the stage crew. He strode toward them as they mounted the steps to the stage, gesturing wildly with his hands. “We’re not open yet. You can’t be here!”
