“Mr. Goldsten was telling the truth—hewashere on Sunday morning,” the anatomist pointed out as they descended the stairs.
“Yes, but this is a big place. Lots of entry and exit points. He could have slipped out for a couple of hours, with no one the wiser.” She glanced at Munroe. “More importantly, Goldsten lied about the last time he saw Lady Westford.”
Munroe said nothing.
The wind slapped them in the face as soon as they stepped outside. Kendra lifted her gaze to the dark clouds blowing in from the north. Rain, definitely. Maybe even snow, which would send even more people into a tizzy that the sun was dying and they were facing the end of days.
Yet it wouldn’t stop the evening’s various parties and balls. Unfortunately.
“I cannot believe Mr. Goldsten had anything to do with Lady Westford’s death,” Munroe said at last.
Kendra didn’t respond as they strode quickly to the carriage. But she heard the underlying note in Munroe’s voice. Dread. Maybe even fear.
He doesn’t want to believe it.But he’s beginning to have his doubts.
Chapter 17
Kendra instructed Coachman John to drop Munroe off at his anatomy school before traveling on to Curzon Street. She’d briefly considered asking the anatomist to accompany her, but discarded the idea even before it was wholly formed. She needed answers from Dr. Thornton, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass about this era’s sensibilities. She’d already caused enough tension between Munroe and his colleagues; she didn’t want to be responsible for an even greater rift.
Fifteen minutes later, she knocked at Dr. Thornton’s door. The same maid as the day before—Jenny—answered.
“Hello. Is Dr. Thornton at home?” Kendra asked.
The girl’s brow furrowed in confusion. Maybe it was the use of “hello,” which wouldn’t become a common greeting until the advent of the telephone. Or maybe it was because Kendra was alone. Married women of the ton might not need chaperones to accompany them everywhere, but it was still outside the norm for them to visit a gentleman alone.
Jenny swallowed and made a visible effort to compose herself. “Aye. Is he expecting ye, ma’am?”
“He’ll see me.”
“Oh.” She opened the door wider, stepping back to allow Kendra into the hallway. “If ye’ll wait here—”
“Is he in his study?”
“Nay. He’s in the drawing room.”
“Take me to him.” Kendra didn’t wait; she began striding toward the stairs. Guilt pinched her for putting the maid in an awkward position, but she didn’t want to give Dr. Thornton any chance to prepare for her. Not that he’d be able to prepare for the questions that she planned to ask.
Jenny scrambled past her and up the staircase. On the landing, she turned in the opposite direction of the study. Another open door revealed a small drawing room decorated in seafoam greens, fragile blues, and buttery yellows. Tasteful and feminine. Kendra’s eyes flicked to the oval portrait above the marble fireplace, both a focal point and a position of honor. In the twenty-first century that position would be held by enormous flat-screen TVs. What that said about her time, she didn’t know.
The portrait was of the same blonde woman in the painting in the study. Kendra had a feeling that she was the one responsible for the drawing room’s décor.
Kendra had only a brief moment to observe Dr. Thornton before Jenny announced her presence. He was sitting at a small table in front of the window, engrossed in a book, with a teacup on the table.
“Dr. Thornton, sir, her ladyship is . . . she wants ter speak with ye.”
The doctor glanced up, surprise widening his eyes when he saw Kendra in the doorway. “My lady.” He started to rise.
“No, please, don’t get up.”
He ignored her, putting aside his book and bowing briefly. “Lady Sutcliffe. What can I do for you? Jenny, take her ladyship’s cloak, bonnet, and gloves, and bring another cup of tea.”
“Thank you, but I won’t be staying long.”
Thornton hesitated, then said, “Very well. Jenny, you may go. Please, have a seat, my lady.”
“This is a lovely room,” Kendra said as she sat down. Her original intention had been to go after the doctor hard, but instinct now had her choosing a different tactic. “Your wife?” she asked, her gaze shifting again to the portrait as she tugged off her gloves.
“Yes.” The word was laced with sadness. “Mrs. Thornton was a lady of remarkable refinement.”
