Kendra eyed the doctor. Natural questions. Except, in her experience, people tended to place the masculine pronoun before the feminine. “What didhe—or she—say?” Was it a quirk, or was it a subconscious slip of the tongue by someone who knew the witness was female?
Thornton wasn’t the killer, she knew. He was too old and not fit enough to be the one running after Edwina, and she was almost certain those people were one in the same.
But he knew something.
“The witness has disappeared.”Do you already know that, doctor?“Not for long, though. We’re following several leads and are close to finding her,” she lied. “When we do, we’ll have Lady Westford’s killer.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“It is.” She kept her eyes on him as she tugged on her gloves. “Do you know a woman named Clarice? She’s an actress.”
“No. No, I don’t.” He licked his lips. “What does she have to do with Lady Westford’s death?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” She gave him a hard look. “If you remember anything, or have something to tell me, doctor, send word to 25 Bedford Square.” She waited a beat. When he didn’t reply, she added, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Thornton.”
“I’ll have Jenny show you out.” He moved to the bell-pull.
“Don’t bother. I can find my way to the front door.”
***
He could have handled that better. But, by God, she’d taken him by surprise, just appearing like that and asking those damnable questions. Lady Sutcliffe was an odd creature, to be sure, but there was no denying her intelligence. Those rapier-sharp eyes of hers, that seemed to bore right into his brain. See into his very soul.
Sheknew. Maybe not the who or why. But she knew that he’d been asked to rule the death an accident.
No, not asked.Told. It had been an order, one that he dared not disobey.
Listening to Lady Sutcliffe’s footsteps fade as she descended the stairs, Lucien Thornton searched his pockets and found his linen handkerchief. His fingers trembled as he mopped the sweat off his face. He’d begun perspiring the minute Lady Sutcliffe pinned him with her perceptive gaze.It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Slowly, shuffling like the old man he was now, Thornton crossed to the window. The position gave him a good view of the street below, the carriage waiting at the curb. Lady Sutcliffe appeared a moment later. Her stride was not dainty or ladylike. Nothing like his Elizabeth.
She did not look back or up at the window. The coachman rushed to assist her into the carriage, before climbing back onto his perch. A second later, the carriage pulled away from the curb, joining the traffic rolling down the street.
Lucien released the breath he’d been holding, but that didn’t ease the heaviness in his chest. Long ago, he’d read how peine forte et dure had been used as a punishment for those who refused to plead guilty in court. Prisoners were forced to lie with a board on top of them and stones were slowly added, until the prisoner issued a plea or was crushed to death. Lucien had no board or stones on him, but the sensation of his chest being squeezed felt real.
This should have been a simple matter, he thought. Declare Lady Westford’s death an accident, avoid an inquest, and bury her—and any possible investigation.
What to do, what to do . . . ?
He turned away from the window and went to his desk. He found a scrap of foolscap in one of the drawers. Uncapping the vial of ink on the writing stand, he picked up a quill and dipped the nib into the ink pot. He had to think for a long moment about what to write. Better to keep it brief and innocuous, he decided. This discussion required a private, face-to-face meeting.
Once he got the words down, he sanded the paper and carefully folded it. Hoisting himself to his feet, he moved to the sideboard, where he poured a generous four fingers of whisky into a glass. Whisky was meant to be sipped, savored, but he tossed it back like a shipman at the local tavern. He gasped as the spirit hit the back of his throat, burning its way to his belly. Unfortunately, it did nothing to dispel the cold fear that had begun pumping through his veins.
Or is it guilt?
He refilled his glass and walked to the fireplace, lifting his gaze to view the ageless features of his wife.
“What have I done, Lizzie?” he whispered.
He’d been so sure, the vision so clear, but now . . . now he was questioning everything. Lady Westford’s death changed things. Tainted what was supposed to be pure.
His stomach churned with whisky and horror. “Oh, my God, what have I done?”
Chapter 18
By the time Kendra made it back to Bedford Square, the rain she’d predicted earlier had begun to fall. She sprinted up the steps and into the foyer without getting too damp. Wakely materialized to take her coat, bonnet, and gloves, and to deliver the news that Alec was still out and the Duke had come and gone, promising that he’d speak to her at Lady Harrington’s ball later that evening.
As she made her way to the library, Kendra wondered if the Duke had discovered something that he would impart at the ball or if she was reading too much into it.
