Wakely sent a footman to light candles and start a fire in the library’s hearth. Kendra was grateful for the assistance, since it took her three times longer than her nineteenth-century counterparts to get a flame from the tinderbox. After the footman finished, the library glowed with a warm, buttery light. Kendra was grateful to be indoors as the windowpanes rattled with each gust of wind and the rat-tat-tat of rain hitting the glass.
She picked up the piece of slate, but merely stood there and stared at the names she’d written on the board. Lord Westford, Mr. Goldsten, Dr. Thornton.
Lord Westford was the husband, and therefore a suspect. He’d pressured Dr. Thornton into declaring his wife’s death an accident, tying it up nice and tidy. Thornton had said it was the action of a husband wanting to save his family the embarrassment of an inquest. That was possible. But it was also possible that the earl had hired someone to get rid of his wife. Why now, though? They’d been married for more than thirty years. What could possibly be the motivation after all this time?
Then there was Goldsten. The man had lied about the last time he’d seen Lady Westford. Was he afraid he’d come under suspicion if his argument with Lady Westford became public knowledge? It happened. People sometimes panicked when questioned, said something rash or irrational. But Kendra couldn’t shake the feeling that Goldsten was hiding something.
Her gaze slid to another name on the slate board: Clarice. What was her connection to Lady Westford? And was that association responsible for Lady Westford’s murder?
How could it not be?
Movement in the doorway caught her eye, and she found her husband leaning against the doorjamb, watching her. He’d discarded his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, but was still wearing his form-fitting dark green coat and buckskin breeches, wet from the inclement weather. His riding boots had been polished that morning, but were now caked in mud. His dark hair glistened with drops of rain.
Her fingers twitched with the desire to run her fingers through his locks. “How long have you been standing there?”
Alec smiled as he straightened and came toward her. “Long enough to admire my wife’s many attributes,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers for a kiss that sent her pulse hammering. He carried the scent of the rain and cold, and something uniquely him.
“Good afternoon, wife,” he murmured, lifting his head.
“Good afternoon, husband.” She smiled up into his eyes, and gave into her impulse, stroking his hair. “You were caught in the rain. You need to get out of your wet clothes.”
“Maybe we both need to get out of our clothes.”
She laughed when he nuzzled her neck. “Tempting. Very tempting.” She angled her head to give him better access. “Did you learn anything interesting from Lord Westford?”
He sighed, then released her. “Not a damn thing.” He walked to the sideboard and pulled the stopper on the brandy decanter. “I spent the day riding around London, trying to locate the bloody man. He was not at his residence, and he left no hint of his whereabouts.” He poured himself a glass of brandy. “I went to all his haunts, but no one had seen him. It finally occurred to me that he might be at his villa in St. John’s Wood.”
“He was with his other family.”
“Yes, but he’d taken Mrs. O’Leary and the children to the country. Miserable day for a jaunt into the countryside, if you ask me. It started raining on my return to the city.”
“He isn’t exactly in mourning, is he?”
“No.” He took a long sip of his brandy. “What about you? Did you find out anything from Mr. Goldsten?”
“Yes. He didn’t admit to having an affair with Lady Westford—”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I know. A dead woman’s reputation is more important than getting justice for her murder.” She couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Lady Westford doesn’t care about her reputation anymore. Why should everyone else?”
Alec looked thoughtful. “Is that true, though? We spend our lives creating and cultivating our standing in the world. Like land and estates, it’s one of the few things that survive us. It’s how we’re remembered.”
“Mr. Goldsten said the same thing.”
His mouth curved as he regarded her. “But you don’t agree.”
She expelled a heavy breath. “I understand the principal, but I don’t agree if it impedes a murder investigation. Mr. Goldsten also lied about the last time he saw Lady Westford.”
“Well, then. That is suspicious.”
“Maybe. Or he wants to distance himself from the investigation.” She paused. “We confirmed his alibi, that he was working at St. George’s on Sunday morning. But it’s a big, busy place.”
“You think he managed to sneak out?”
“It’s possible. He’s hiding something. So is Dr. Thornton. I went to see him about covering up the murder. He was nervous.”
Alec’s mouth curved. “I can imagine. But he’s not young enough to have been the one chasing the girl afterward, surely?”
