As an adult, her life had revolved around her work. She could count the men she’d been involved with on one hand.
And not one of them had ever brought her flowers.
She had to swallow against the lump lodged in her throat. “Thank you,” she said softly, looking into Alec’s eyes.
He smiled. “My pleasure.”
Wakely materialized at the door. “A delivery has come for you, ma’am.”
Kendra raised her eyebrows at Alec, but he shook his head. “I brought my delivery to you personally.”
“Ah,” said the Duke, wiping his mouth with a napkin and rising from the table. “This one’s from me.”
Kendra smiled as soon as they entered the foyer and she saw two footmen struggling with a large, heavy object wrapped in canvas. She didn’t have to see under the covering to know what it was—a slate board.
“It’s perfect, Your Grace.” She had to blink when her eyes suddenly blurred. “It’s all absolutely perfect.”
Chapter 12
After installing the slate board, Kendra and Alec traveled to Lady St. James’s townhouse via carriage through streets shadowed by low-bellied clouds that obscured the sun, threatening rain or sleet. Kendra knew that the colder-than-normal temperatures and seemingly never-ending sunless days were not only making farmers nervous, but also the general population. In the future, this period would become known as the “Year Without a Summer,” thanks to the previous year’s volcanic eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia. Kendra had read about the event in history books, but they didn’t convey the bleakness of the crop failures and food shortages, as well as the underlying fear that the new weather pattern meant the world was ending.
The carriage stopped outside Lady St. James’s home. Eleven o’clock in the morning was not only an unfashionable hour to call upon a member of theTon, but it was also considered shockingly rude. Lady St. James’ butler certainly looked appalled when he opened the door to find Alec and Kendra on the stoop. He quickly composed himself when he realized who was calling, and hurried off to deliver Alec’s card to Lady St. James’s lady’s maid, who would then give it to her mistress. Still, the fact that he left the Marquis and Marchioness of Sutcliffe standing in the entryway rather than escorting them into the drawing room revealed how they’d discombobulated the man.
When the butler returned, his face flushed red at the faux pas as he told them that Lady St. James was at home, but would be a few minutes before she joined them. He ushered them into Lady St. James’s fussy parlor—an eye-popping mishmash of ancient world, Asian, and baroque decorating elements—and had a maid bring in a tea tray and dishes of fruit and bite-sized cakes.
Kendra was standing in front of one of the cluttered tables, studying the laughing head of a deity in gray stone, either from the Ming Dynasty or a clever forgery, when Lady St. James scurried into the room in a flutter of ribbons and ruffles.
“My Lord Sutcliffe, Lady Sutcliffe,” she greeted somewhat breathlessly.
Kendra turned to look at the countess, who favored styles more suited to a young debutante rather than a woman approaching her mid-fifties. Today, she’d dressed in a pink-and-white floral glazed chintz with a deep pink sash tied into an extravagant bow beneath her ample bosom. A lace cap covered brown hair streaked with gray. She’d draped a gold-fringed paisley shawl over her shoulders and clutched a pink feathered fan, which she now unfurled and waved in front of her face, even though the room was cool.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” she continued, deliberately slowing her pace, a wide smile creasing her plump face as Alec pushed himself to his feet and gave an elegant bow.
He said, “Forgive us for calling on you at this ungodly hour. I know it’s unorthodox.”
She tittered. “One might say that it is more unorthodox that you are calling upon me this morning instead of embarking on your bridal tour, my lord.” Her brown eyes gleamed with sly amusement. “My dear friend Lady Atwood informed me that after the wedding you would be traveling to Venice to introduce your bride to your relatives. You were wed yesterday, were you not?”
“We were indeed.” Alec waited politely until Lady St. James and Kendra sat down before he took his seat again. He gazed at the matron. “Unfortunately, we were forced to postpone our honeymoon.”
Lady St. James snapped her fan shut. “Does this have anything to do with the tragic death of Grace Taylor-Clarke, the Countess of Westford?” She smiled at their surprise. Reaching for a small pitcher, she splashed milk into her porcelain cup before pouring tea. “Everyone in town is talking about the poor creature.”
“What are they saying?” Kendra asked.
“Well . . .” The countess picked up her teacup and studied Kendra over the rim. “Word is that it was a bizarre accident, falling off the balcony in the Bowden Theater. Of course, no one believes it.”
“Whatdothey believe?”
“Why, that Grace threw herself off the balcony, of course. Though now I’m thinking that she was murdered.”
Kendra raised her eyebrows. “Why do you think that?”
Lady St. James’s laughed lightly. “Why? Because you are here, my dear.”
Kendra acknowledged that with a smile. “What can you tell us about Lady Westford?”
“What precisely do you want to know?”
“What kind of person was she?”
