“Ah.” Alec’s green eyes gleamed. “Mr. Muldoon told me that he’d only tried to assure Becca that her reaction to the grisly business in the morgue was perfectly natural.”
“Perfectly natural for someone like Rebecca, you mean. A lady. A fragile creature that needs to be shielded from life’s unpleasantness.”
“Well, she did almost cast up her accounts in the morgue,” Alec pointed out mildly.
“I’ve seen men throw up at crime scenes too.”
“He was trying to . . . never mind.” He regarded her somewhat quizzically. “Are we really going to quarrel about this?”
“You think I’m being unreasonable?”
“I think . . .” He leaned back against the seat. “My wife is extremely reasonable. And I’d be foolish to say otherwise.”
Kendra’s lips twitched, her irritation ebbing. “You’re not foolish.”
***
Given that the future King of England had at one time stashed his mistress in a villa at St. John’s Wood, Kendra had expected the neighborhood to be pretty upscale. She was not disappointed. Located a couple miles northwest of Charing Cross and a stone’s throw from Regent Park, the area was a network of wide, tree-lined boulevards with neo-Palladian mansions set behind brick walls and wrought-iron gates.
It was before noon; too early for most of the Tonto be out. A milk wagon ambled down the street at a leisurely pace, along with a handful of horseback riders and one private carriage leaving a gated residence. Kendra couldn’t help but wonder if the occupant of the carriage was a husband leaving his mistress to return to his legal family.
They approached an elegant limestone villa. Alec used the silver lion’s-head knocker, and the door opened. A white-haired butler contemplated them with the same regal bearing and haughty expression of every butler Kendra had met in this era. For just a moment, she had the fanciful image of a factory pumping out butlers in the same mold.
The majordomo’s eyes lit with recognition when his eyes fell on Alec, who had been there only the day before. “My lord, how may I help you?”
“Kirby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“My wife and I would like to speak with Lord Westford.”
“Ah . . .” The butler glanced at Kendra. “I shall inquire whether he is at home—”
“Let me be clear, Kirby. My wife and I are not leaving until we speak to his lordship. We shall wait in the drawing room.”
If Kirby planned to argue, one look at Alec’s set face had him nodding and hastily stepping aside so they could enter. “Yes, certainly, sir. If you would please follow me.”
Kendra’s gaze traveled the grand entrance hall with its potted plants and pink-hued marble columns. A footman, decked out in full livery, was positioned outside a closed door at the far end of the hall, beyond the grand staircase. There wasn’t a piece of black crepe to be seen.
As the butler opened the doors to the drawing room, Kendra heard the sound of distant, childish laughter.
“I shall inform his lordship that you are here,” Kirby stated, stepping back and closing the doors.
Kendra turned to survey the elegant room, done in butter-soft hues. Chinese vases were positioned around the room, exploding with colorful flowers. “Don’t you find this odd?” she asked. “The man’s wife was murdered four days ago, and it’s like she never existed.”
“I doubt she ever existed here. This is a world apart from the one that Lord Westford created with his wife.” He eyed her curiously. “You’ve never encountered arranged marriages like this in your America?”
That gave her pause. “Well, yes. I suppose there are wealthy, high-profile couples who stay together for political ambitions or because they don’t want to split up the family fortune. Or they have an image to protect,” she admitted. “But if a wife—or husband—found out their partner had a secret family, they tended to get seriously pissed. Then they called their divorce attorney to take their ex for every dime they can get.”
Except for the spouses that don’t—the spouses who choose to kill their partner rather than get a divorce.
But she no longer believed that was what they were dealing with here. This was bigger, more insidious.
She heard the heavy thud of footsteps before the door burst open, and Lord Westford strode through in an agitated rush.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. His face was red, his eyes burning with fury. It gave Kendra a moment of déjà vu from the first time she’d met the earl.
“We have a few more questions about your wife’s murder,” she said, but was momentarily distracted as a woman glided into the room after him.The mistress.Kendra had to admit that she was surprised. She had expected the “other woman” in Lord Westford’s life to be younger and prettier than his wife. Mrs. O’Leary was around the same age as Lady Westford, with a figure that could be best described as pleasantly plump. Or, less charitably, frumpy. Her hair, under the heavy lace cap, was a graying mouse-brown.
