“It’ll be excitin’ ter return ter London,” Molly admitted as she began searching through the mountain of gowns she’d thrown on the bed. With a smile of triumph, she pulled out a small drawstring pouch decorated with roses and ribbons. The accessory was called a reticule because it was considered ridiculous as a fashion accessory, too tiny to be truly serviceable. Yet Kendra had found it the perfect size for a pistol designed to fit into a muff or a pocket.
“Thanks,” she said as Molly handed her the reticule.
Kendra was in the process of stuffing the pistol into the purse when the door suddenly opened, and the Duke’s formidable sister, Lady Caroline Atwood, sailed into the bedchamber. Oh, crap.
“A word, if you please.” The Countess’s tone was needle-sharp. She didn’t spare Molly so much as a glance, but the former tweeny didn’t need a verbal command to know that she was being ordered to leave the room. Hurriedly, the maid squeezed around the bed, and vanished out the door like a puff of smoke.
Coward, Kendra wanted to call after her. Yet she knew that the number one rule for household staff in this era was to operate in the background, to blend in with the furniture. Meeting Lady Atwood’s hard gaze, Kendra only wished she could join Molly in her escape.
The Countess had the same blue eyes as her brother, eyes that could appear gray in a certain light or certain moods, and their fair hair was slowly turning silver in their fifth decade. But the resemblance ended there, at least as far as Kendra was concerned. Whereas the Duke always regarded her with sharp intelligence, gentle humor, and overall goodwill, Lady Atwood viewed her with deep suspicion bordering on dislike.
Part of Lady Atwood’s dislike stemmed from the Duke appointing himself Kendra’s guardian, which had always struck Kendra as ironic, since she’d thought that needing a guardian at the age of twenty-six was both ridiculous and insulting in the first place. But it would have been a major scandal if she’d remained at Aldridge Castle without being part of the household staff, so the solution was either to become the Duke’s ward or be kicked out on her ass. Kendra knew which one Lady Atwood would have preferred.
They’d reached an uneasy truce during the Christmas holidays, but by the older woman’s stiff expression, Kendra suspected those days were over.
“Aldridge has told me that you shall be departing for Town momentarily,” the Countess said.
“That’s the plan,” Kendra agreed carefully.
Lady Atwood arched her neatly plucked eyebrows. “Indeed. And is it also the plan to embroil my brother in yet another one of your outrageous investigations, Miss Donovan? Bertie is the Duke of Aldridge, not a costermonger to brush up against criminal society!”
“Mr. Kelly was the one who asked for His Grace’s assistance,” Kendra said. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“Don’t be stupid. It has everything to do with you. Bertie would never have made this thief-taker’s acquaintance if it hadn’t been for you.” The Countess’s nostrils flared as she sucked in a furious breath. “Before your appearance in his life, my brother’s only interest was investigating the natural world, not this unnatural world of cutthroats and scapegraces. Bertie informed me of your disgraceful adventure several months ago in Yorkshire, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra had to count to ten before she answered. “Someone was murdered, your ladyship, and Mr. Kelly is asking for our help. I think you know that His Grace isn’t the kind of man to refuse such a request.”
The older woman’s eyes flashed a dangerous blue. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, young lady, or tell me what kind of man my brother is! I know his character far better than you.”
Ah, and wasn’t that the crux of the issue? Among her sisters, Lady Atwood had always been the closest to her brother. Kendra knew that the older woman thought she was brazen and odd, and way too common to associate with their ancient Rutherford bloodlines. But what really irked her was the closeness that had formed between Kendra and the Duke. What Lady Atwood didn’t know—and never could—was the secret over which their bond had been forged.
“Bertie has always been intellectually curious,” the Countess was saying. Her lips thinned as she appraised Kendra. “But his pursuits have been socially acceptable. He is a member of the Royal Society, for heaven’s sakes! But your influence has brought him into contact with the most common, crass element of society.”
Kendra didn’t know how to respond. This was a world where the upper classes found it embarrassing if one of their members was caught working in trade, where doctors distanced themselves from surgeons because it was considered ill-bred to work with one’s hands.
“You have bewitched my brother, Miss Donovan,” Lady Atwood went on furiously. “But have care. He shall come to his senses one day. And you . . .” She let her angry gaze roll over Kendra. “You are like one of those automated toys Bertie was intrigued by when he was a child. Personally, I cannot comprehend what it is about you that so entrances him, but like those toys, his interest will undoubtedly wane.”
Kendra’s gaze fell to the muff pistol inside the reticule. Slowly she pulled the drawstrings shut, concealing the weapon. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you think I can do.”
Lady Atwood let out an exasperated hiss. “If you truly cared about my brother, you would refuse the thief-taker’s request. You would insist Bertie not involve himself in this folly. You—” Lady Atwood broke off when a knock came at the door, and Rebecca came into the room.
“Kendra, I came to—Oh.” Rebecca stared in surprise at the Countess. “Forgive the interruption, my lady. I only wanted to inform Miss Donovan that I shall be accompanying her on the journey to London.”
Lady Atwood frowned. “Your father has given you permission?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rebecca said with a polite smile, unoffended by the comment.
At twenty-three, Rebecca was still living at home, subject to her father’s authority. Most ladies of the same age and station would have already been establishing their own households as married women. The reason for Rebecca’s single status was on her face, which was pockmarked as the result of having suffered from smallpox when she’d been six years old.
Kendra had often wondered if she would have ever met Rebecca if the other woman hadn’t been disfigured. The aristocrat’s life would have been completely different, managing a household and raising a family. Or if they had met, would Rebecca have shared Lady Atwood’s opinion of Kendra?
It was impossible to imagine Rebecca as anything other than the independent woman she was, but if she hadn’t suffered from smallpox, and the resulting disfigurement, her parents might not have felt the need to compensate by encouraging their only child in her intellectual and artistic pursuits. They might have pressured her to conform to the rules that governed women of the day.
Before and after, Kendra thought again. She wasn’t the only person who had an event change her life completely.
“Papa is speaking with our coachman,” Rebecca told the Countess. “As soon as the servants have finished packing the trunks, they will follow, and open up our town house.”
“Hmm.” Lady Atwood shot Kendra a disapproving look, as though Lord and Lady Blackburn’s decision to allow their daughter to go to London was her fault as well. She released a put-upon sigh. “I suppose nothing can be done except prepare for the journey.”