“Could someone be cured of syphilis through a blood transfusion?” She expected them to scoff at the idea, but several of the club members nodded.
“We discussed the possibility at one of our meetings,” Sir Preston said. “And not only the pox. Any number of diseases.”
Alec asked, “Did you reach a consensus?”
Burnell laughed. “In the Metamorphosis Club, there is no consensus, my lord. We discuss, challenge, theorize, and hypothesize. Alas, we do not agree.”
“Yes, but we had many in agreement that the French pox is caused by some sort of blood mutation,” said Mr. Tyson. “The mutation is no doubt caused by the poor living conditions of women of ill-repute.” He cast Kendra an apologetic glance. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”
“We cannot assume that,” Sir Preston argued. “We need more research—”
“And how do we conduct research when we aren’t allowed to test our theories?” Dandridge interjected. The surgeon sounded exasperated.
Munroe offered Kendra a wry smile. “This is a common theme among our members, my lady: frustration.”
Sir Preston chuckled. “Ethan is right, and I suggest we put it aside—at least until our next meeting. Tonight is not about scientific inquiry, but to remember our colleague and friend. Let’s raise a glass to his memory.”
Kendra lifted her glass and let her gaze skim over the faces around her. Cold washed over her. Because she knew, absolutelyknew, she was drinking with a murderer.
But who was it?
Chapter 31
The question haunted Kendra throughout the evening, as she maneuvered around the room, asking questions of each conversational group she entered and keeping thorough mental notes. She could eliminate some suspects easily, but others needed a deeper dive.
Goldsten eluded her. She wasn’t sure if it was deliberate or not, but every time she joined a cluster that he was a part of, he managed to slide away. When she spotted him alone at the buffet, she abruptly left the trio of surgeons who’d been talking to her.
“Mr. Goldsten,” she said.
He paused topping up his brandy to glance at her. “My lady,” he said, and set the decanter down. “Would you like more wine?”
The lines of worry and fatigue that she’d noticed when she’d first met him had deepened into craters. He looked twenty years older than the last time she saw him.
He looked, she decided, like a man with a lot on his mind.
“No, thank you. I was hoping for a moment of your time.”
Wariness flashed in Goldsten’s eyes. “I was about to take my leave.”
“This shouldn’t take long.” She gave a pointed look at the brandy he’d just refilled. “You’ll be able to finish your drink.”
His mouth turned down. “Very well.”
“Why don’t we step into the hallway? It’ll give us more privacy.”
In the marble hallway, Kendra stopped next to the sculpture of Tyche, the Greek goddess of prosperity and fortune. “You lied to me, Mr. Goldsten,” she began.
Goldsten’s nostrils flared at the blunt accusation, and something flickered behind his eyes. Fear? Or fury?
“What—”
“You told me that you hadn’t seen Lady Westford since the lecture you attended, but that’s not true, is it? You were seen together at St. George’s last week—shortly before she died. You were arguing. Why did you lie?”
Goldsten’s lips tightened, and he looked away for a long moment. “I did not murder Grace,” he said finally.
Oddly enough, she believed him. “That’s not what I asked. I want to know why you lied about the last time you saw her.”
“Because I knew how it would appear. And I . . . I was ashamed.”
