Page 76 of The Duke
Blackwell looked bored, as though he’d already figured out the future direction of the entire conversation. “I’m certain you’re aware that on Thursday next, Lady Anstruther is helping Farah to host another one of her charity balls, this one in support of their communal project, a home for wayward boys in Lambeth.”
Morley nodded. Hewasaware. “Indeed, it is that exact event where I hope to catch this reprobate in the act. To draw him out. With the four of you there and on alert, there is a much better chance of—”
Trenwyth stepped forward, his eyes glinting as dangerously as a blade. “I’ll be damned before you use Lady Anstruther as bait for a violent sadist.”
“She’s in danger from this threat no matter where she is.” Morley reasoned. “As evidenced by the morbid ‘gift’ he left on her property, the bastard is demonstrating that even herhomeisn’t completely safe. A structure that large is impossible to fortify without a small battalion, and we simply don’t have the resources.”
A storm gathered on Trenwyth’s features. “If she needs someone to protect her home, I’ve more than established that I’m capable—”
“She’s specifically requested that itnotbe you,” Morley cut in.
The duke perceptively flinched, though Morley ascertained that a shadow of guilt and comprehension crossed Trenwyth’s demeanor before he summoned an opaque façade.
“I have O’Mara in the home, whom I know both you and I trust with our lives. Rathbone patrols the grounds, and nothing gets past his notice.”
“Even still,” Trenwyth bit out. “I’m to be her escort to the ball.”
Morley realized that the duke’s feelings for the woman had progressed beyond mere neighborly concern for a kindhearted widow. He was acting like Morley would expect any of the other present men would in regard to their ladies.
Interesting, that.
“Have you discussed this arrangement with Lady Anstruther?” Morley asked hesitantly.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Trenwyth stated. “If she’s to attend, I’m taking her, or she can bloody well stay locked in the house.”
Knowing looks slid between the men behind Trenwyth’s back, accompanied by the smirks of those who’d been in just his position. Felt the same frustrated possession, and lost the battle to it.
Was it possible that Trenwyth was in love with Lady Anstruther? He’d been there earlier that night, had discovered the strangled kitten alongside her and her staff. The bodies of five men paid tribute to the ardency of his protective instincts toward her.
What if Trenwyth knew that she was becoming an invaluable piece to a puzzle involving a serial murderer? Would he still feel the same about her?
Morley debated long and hard whether to include the present company in his theory. Over the past three years, slim, fair-haired women in their twenties had been strangled and molested in an eerily similar fashion and in alarming numbers. The problem was, until Trenwyth had requested that Morley look into the disappearance of his lady friend, Ginny, no one had connected the murders. They occurred in very separate parts of the city and to women who had no prior connection to each other.
The latest victim, Lady Broadmore, for example, wouldn’t be caught dead in the company of Flora Latimer, the first victim, the prostitute found strangled at the Bare Kitten. Then there’d been Rose Tarlly, a charwoman who’d lived off Old Fenchurch Street. Ann Keaton, a nanny who worked in a more genteel neighborhood two blocks down from the capital building. And finally, Molly Crane, a nurse at St. Margaret’s Royal Hospital.
Morley had been at a loss to figure just how the killer selected these women other than their strikingly similar appearances. Until a few hours ago, when he remembered that Lady Anstruther had introduced her sister as Miss Isobel Pritchard.
The name had struck a hollow chord in his memory he’d not placed until going over the case files. Lord Edward Millburn, Earl Anstruther, had incited quite a scandal some two years ago when he married a Miss Imogen Pritchard, his nurse at St. Margaret’s Royal Hospital.
And so the first connection was made. Imogen, Lady Anstruther, had worked with one victim at the hospital, and another was found in her own garden.
Could be a coincidence, Morley had reasoned. Not a likely one, but a possibility. That was, until just a few hours ago, when a kitten had been left in gruesome effigy.
A kitten… found strangledbehindher home. And one of the famous kittens of St. James’s Street found strangled in the alleybehindthe Bare Kitten.
He’d be a fool to ignore that as coincidence. He was many things, but a fool was not one of them.
All he had to do was figure out how the countess Anstruther, or the nurse Pritchard, was linked to one or all of the other victims… His only option was to dangle her in the open like a morsel ripe for the picking, and wait for the fiend to strike. In the meantime, he’d do his best to connect the dots.
Start at the beginning, he thought. It was time to pay another visit to the Bare Kitten.
CHAPTERTWENTY
Imogen had fully expected the daggers aimed at her from Trenwyth’s glare as they trundled over the cobblestone streets of Westminster in the duke’s fine carriage. In the days after their encounter with O’Toole—and then each other belowstairs—Cole had done his utmost to maneuver some time alone with her.
Thus far, she’d deftly been able to avoid him. Then, for a few days, he’d been conspicuously absent. Silent. Though every time she looked to the east, there he was. A specter in a window, his gaze burning down at her.
Chief Inspector Morley had called two days ago to inform her that Trenwyth had accepted the assignment to escort her to the charity ball.
