Chapter Thirteen

Their destination was Mayfair, a district in West London that bordered Hyde Park. Predominately comprised of tree-lined streets and brick townhouses, it was an affluent area for those who could not afford Grosvenor Square, but were far wealthier than the poor souls condemned to the rookeries in the East End.

Kincaid led the way to a home with a blue door. Tall and narrow, its walkway was in need of a good sweeping and the mortar between the bricks was beginning to crumble but, otherwise, it was in fair condition, discernable from the other houses only by the color of its entrance.

He knocked, then glanced at Joanna out of the corners of his eyes. “Remember, you are–”

“Not even here,” she said sweetly.

“Why are you being so agreeable?” Suspicion flickered in his gaze. “What are you planning?”

“Why do I have to be planning something?” Their walk, while not long, had been brisk, and she was beginning to perspire beneath the weight of her coat. Shrugging out of the garment, she laid it over her arms and regarded Kincaid with an innocent smile. “You needn’t worry. I shall endeavor to be on my best behavior.”

His expression darkened. “That’s exactly what worries me.”

Joanna made a scoffing noise. “You hate me when I don’t listen, and you hate me when I do. You’ve placed me at a severe disadvantage, Kincaid.”

“I don’t hate you, Miss Thorncroft, I–”

Unfortunately, whatever Kincaid felt for her would have to wait for, at that very inconvenient moment, the blue door opened to reveal a butler. At least, Joanna assumed he was a butler. She’d never met one personally. But she had read about them in her beloved gothic romances.

They were always dressed in black (which this man was) and looked disapproving (which he certainly did). Invariably, they were named Dobson or Gibbs, and were either a hindrance to the hero whenever he tried to visit his lady love or gave sage pieces of wisdom which no one ever seemed to heed.

“Can I be of assistance?” the butler asked coolly.

“Yes.” Kincaid stepped forward, filling the doorway with his long, lanky frame and forcing the servant to take a step back. “My name is Thomas Kincaid. I believe you were told to expect me. I have a few questions for the staff in regards to Miss Eloise Bancroft.”

A mottled red crept up the sides of the butler’s neck. “I am afraid that will not be possible. We were not given a time, and the servants are busy. Not to mention they, and I, have already been interviewed extensively by Scotland Yard.” He spared a dismissive glance at Joanna before refocusing his ire on Kincaid. “Should you have any further questions, I would direct you there.”

“If I wanted to go to Scotland Yard, I would be at Scotland Yard. Mind your step, Miss Thorncroft.” Grasping Joanna’s elbow, Kincaid steered her past the blustering butler and into a high-ceilinged foyer that had been stripped of all its furnishings.

While Kincaid conversed with the butler in low, furious tones, Joanna wandered over to the wall and absently ran her fingertip along the wainscoting. She frowned when her glove came away covered in a black layer of dust. If the servants were otherwise engaged, as the butler had indicated, they certainly were doing something other than cleaning. The marble tile was scuffed, the windows were dull, and the chandelier hanging above her head was filled with cobwebs. The house appeared as though it had not received a proper cleaning in weeks, if not months.

“Who is Miss Eloise Bancroft?” she asked Kincaid after the butler had stormed off, muttering about “inconveniences” and “we will see about this”. What a truly unpleasant man. “Does she live here?”

“She lived here,” the detective corrected. “She was murdered the same day you arrived in London. I’ve been hired to find the culprit.”

Joanna’s eyes widened. “This is a murder investigation?”

“Indeed. Well, suspected murder, I suppose, as Eloise’s body has not yet been found.” Removing his spectacles, he polished the lenses with his handkerchief before slipping them back on. “Dumped in the Thames, most likely.”

She suppressed a shudder. “But…then how do you know she was murdered, and not kidnapped? Or maybe she ran away.”

“Given the amount of blood that was found splattered on the walls of her bedchamber, I doubt very much she is still alive,” he said, speaking with the casual bluntness of someone who had witnessed enough violence and death to be unfazed by it.

Unaccustomed to the darker side of Kincaid’s profession, Joanna pressed a hand to her mouth as bile burned the back of her tongue at the vivid picture his words invoked. “How awful,” she whispered. “That poor woman.”

He let out an oath. “I apologize, Miss Thorncroft. I should have curbed my tongue. I am used to keeping company with other peelers.” In two powerful strides, he was across the room and had his hands resting protectively on either side of her waist. “You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have brought you here. Let me take you to the office, or to your boarding house. Whichever you prefer.”

As her initial unease subsided, Joanna slowly exhaled. She may have been startled by Kincaid’s carelessly graphic description of the crime, but she was no shrinking violet.

“I prefer you not think of me as a helpless damsel who is in danger of swooning at the first mention of blood. We Americans are made of sterner stuff than that.” And hotter fire, she added silently as she felt Kincaid’s thumbs pressing into her hipbones through the combined layers of her dress and petticoat.

A few inches higher, and he’d be touching her ribcage. Then her breasts. Her nipples tingled, swelling to hard buds that strained against her bodice as heat pulsed between her thighs. Her slender throat convulsed in a forced swallow. There was a time and place for passion; the middle of a stranger’s foyer wasn’t it. Unless Kincaid indicated otherwise, of course.

At this rate, she was willing to kiss him in the broom closet.

Or the pantry.

Even the library would suffice.

Books and desire…would could be better?

She peeked up at him to find he was staring intently at her, his gaze fixated on her mouth. She wet her lips, and he made a hoarse sound as his grip tightened, dragging her even closer until the only two things separating them were their clothing and his unwillingness to succumb to his potent desire.

“Miss Thorncroft.” His hand left her hip to glide along her cheek. “Joanna.”

“Yes?” she said breathlessly.

“I–”

But once again, they were interrupted. This time by a young maid.

“Mr. Brown said you wanted to speak with me?” the servant asked timidly.

“You’ve got to be jesting,” Joanna muttered as she discreetly adjusted her bodice.

Kincaid’s reaction was a bit more…extreme.

Like a fox who’d been sighted in the hen house, he all but bolted away from her. One second he was there and the next he was at least seven feet across the room, his spectacles askew, his countenance suffused with color, and a noticeable bulge between his thighs.

As she turned away to hide her snicker, she could feel Kincaid glaring at her. A moment of awkward silence, and then he addressed the maid as if there weren’t a raging arousal in his trousers. A testament, Joanna supposed, to his professionalism.

“Yes, I’d like to have a word,” he said. “Miss…?”

“Abigail, sir. Abigail Groshen.” The maid clutched her apron with knotted fists. Her knuckles were as white as the cap on her head, and her face was of a similar pallor, causing her blonde eyebrows to stand out in stark contrast against her milky skin.

“Were you employed for the entirety of Miss Bancroft’s tenure here, Miss Groshen?”

Her gaze darting nervously, Abigail gave the tiniest of nods.

“Good,” Kincaid said sharply. “Then I’ve questions for you.”

With a frightened squeak, the maid took a step in retreat. “F–for me? But I just work in the kitchens, sir.”

“That is a sufficient position for the information I require. Where were you on the night Miss Bancroft was murdered?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Joanna cut in when Abigail’s eyes grew huge. “Can you not see you’re scaring the poor girl out of her wits?”

Kincaid frowned. “What the devil do you mean?”

Joanna didn’t know whether to laugh or shake her head, so she did both. Kincaid excelled at a wide variety of things, but putting the opposite sex at ease with his charm was certainly not one of them. It was obvious to see why he had been a good policeman and was now a successful private investigator. He was intelligent, level-headed, and intensely focused on whatever task lay in front of him. But that focus often lent itself to a decided lack of emotion and empathy. Whether it was accidental or on purpose, the effect remained the same. Kincaid often came across as hard and cold, but he was more than that. So much more.

Abigail Groshen may not have seen it. How could she, when he was barking demands at her left and right? But Joanna did. More than that, she felt it. Kincaid might have portrayed himself as a gruff, grumbly bear, but there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that if the maid required it, he’d be the first to give her the shirt off his back.

Why he refused to show that side of himself more often, Joanna hadn’t the faintest idea. Maybe he saw it as a weakness. Or maybe he was just exhaustingly stubborn. Whatever the reason, she had no issue in taking it upon herself to soften his rough edges.

“There is no need to fret,” she told the maid kindly. “What my esteemed partner meant to say is that we just have a few questions, and we’d be very appreciative if you could help us find the answers. We recognize the ability of the household staff to notice and hear things that others might miss. It’s a valuable skill, Miss Groshen, which most do not appreciate. Why don’t we continue this in the parlor? I’m sure it would be much more comfortable.”

“Partner?” Kincaid growled in her ear as Abigail preceded them into the parlor. “What happened to pretending you’re not even here?”

Joanna smirked. “We can discuss my fee later.”

Unlike the foyer, this parlor had furniture, but the walls had been stripped of their paintings, leaving behind large squares of gold and ivory paper that were noticeably lighter than the space surrounding them. It was rather strange that such a fine house in such a fine neighborhood would be all but barren on the inside. Joanna wondered if it was a sign of financial strain. If so, did it have anything to do with Miss Bancroft’s tragic death?

“You should let me question her,” she told Kincaid out of the corner of her mouth. “She’ll open up more to another woman. And I’m not terrifying.”

“Neither am I,” he said, appearing vaguely insulted. “I wear spectacles.”

“You’re not terrifying to me.” She patted his hand. “But you’ve terrified our witness, and she is not going to say anything useful to you. If she even says anything at all without requiring smelling salts.”

“She isn’t our witness because this isn’t our case. It’s mine.” A muscle leapt in his cheek. “Has anyone ever told you what a bloody pain in the arse you are, Miss Thorncroft?”

“You’re the first one today,” she said. Then she waited patiently.

It did not take long.

“Fine,” Kincaid bit out. “Have at it. But I doubt you’ll obtain any helpful information. She’s just a scullery maid.”

Accepting the challenge with a toss of her head, Joanna marched past Kincaid and sat down in a leather wing chair opposite Abigail. Kincaid, his countenance inscrutable, took up a position beside the window, pushing the curtain aside to peer out at the street beyond. His lean body was casually postured, but she knew by the tension in his shoulders that he was listening keenly to every word.

“Well then,” she began, giving the maid an encouraging smile. “I suppose I should start by introducing myself. I am Joanna Thorncroft. You can call me Jo, if you’d like. My sisters do. Jo when they’re happy with me, and Joanna when they’re not. Do you have any sisters, Miss Groshen?”

Abigail twisted her fingers together on her lap. “Three. I–I’m the youngest.”

“That would be my sister Claire.” As she spoke Claire’s name aloud, Joanna felt a pang in her chest. She hadn’t allowed herself the chance to miss her sister, as every time she thought of sweet, gentle Claire, it filled her with sadness. She wished they could have all made the journey to London together, but Claire was where she was supposed to be, and it was a relief to know someone was watching over their grandmother. Even if Ruth remained adamant that she didn’t need any special care. “I’m the eldest, and Evie is in the middle. I don’t know what I’d do if there was another one.”

“It made for a busy household growing up.” Abigail managed a trembling smile. “My sisters are all maids as well.”

“It’s a fine profession.” She leaned forward. “How long have you worked for Miss Bancroft?”

The maid flicked a frightened glance at Kincaid. “Umm…”

“Don’t mind him,” said Joanna with a dismissive wave. “I know he comes across all gruff and brooding, but I can assure you he’s as harmless as a potato.”

A warning snarl emanated from the window.

“See?” she said brightly. “All growl and no bite. You’re perfectly safe, Abigail.”

“If you say so,” Abigail said doubtfully. Still, she managed to wrench her gaze away from Kincaid and, after a moment’s pause, answered Joanna’s question. “I worked for Miss Bancroft for two years. Mostly in the kitchen, as I said. Hannah–that’s Hannah Adamson–was Miss Bancroft’s personal maid, but I…I did fill in on occasion when Hannah wasn’t feeling well. Miss Bancroft liked the way I curled her hair.” The maid’s voice thickened. “She said–she said I was good enough to work for a real lady, one day. She was even going to give me a recommendation, but…”

“She disappeared,” Joanna filled in gently when Abigail fell silent.

The maid began to cry. “I knew something was w–wrong that night. Miss Bancroft wasn’t herself.”

“How do you mean?” Joanna reached inside her reticule and procured a linen handkerchief. Handing it to Abigail, she glanced discreetly at Kincaid over her shoulder. He was fixated on the maid, his brows drawn sharply together over the bridge of his spectacles. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like a lion about to spring.

So much for the scullery maid not having any helpful information,Joanna thought smugly.

Accepting the handkerchief, Abigail blew loudly into it, then dabbed at her wet cheeks. “Miss Bancroft was agitated. Pacing back and forth. She kept asking if he was here yet.”

“Who?” Kincaid demanded. “Who was she waiting for?”

Clutching the handkerchief, Abigail recoiled. “I…I…”

“It’s all right,” Joanna said soothingly even as she shot Kincaid a warning glare. “You’re safe here with me. We’re just trying to get to the truth and find out who might have harmed Miss Bancroft. Do you remember who she was expecting that night?”

“She was waiting for her–her benefactor. The Duke of Hanover. He arrived two hours late, and they went upstairs to…to Miss Bancroft’s bedchamber.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it? Why would she bring her benefactor up to her...oh,” Joanna squeaked when Abigail flushed and Kincaid cleared his throat. “He was that type of benefactor. I understand. Erm…what happened then?”

“Nothing out of the usual, until the next morning when I brought Miss Bancroft her breakfast tray and…and I saw all the blood. It was everywhere,” Abigail wailed as big fat tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Take a deep breath,” Joanna advised. Crossing over to the maid, she sat beside her and rested a hand on her knee.

As an older sibling, Joanna was accustomed to wiping tears and cleaning up scrapes. When Evie and Claire were children, they’d come to her countless times to heal their injuries, both the ones in their hearts and the ones on their persons. The night Father died, they’d climbed into Joanna’s bed to sleep beside her, and hadn’t left for the next month. Her sisters didn’t need her now as much as they had then. They’d all grown past the point of mending their bumps and bruises with a kiss. But she still knew how to give comfort when it was needed.

“That’s it,” she told Abigail as the maid’s sobs began to abate. “You’re doing a splendid job. I cannot imagine how difficult this must be for you. Especially since you were so well acquainted with Miss Bancroft.”

“She was a l–lovely woman,” Abigail sniffled. “But sometimes…”

“Sometimes?” Joanna prodded delicately.

“Have you ever felt as if someone is h–hiding something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Not a treasure. But a–a secret.” The maid’s fingers moved fretfully over the handkerchief, smoothing the damp fabric out before bunching it into a ball and then smoothing it out again in a rhythm that seemed to bring her a sense of calm. “A secret they didn’t want anyone else to know.”

Of its own accord, Joanna’s gaze was pulled towards Kincaid. “All the time,” she murmured.

“That’s how Miss Bancroft was acting. At least, the past month or so. Ever since he came to call.”

“The Duke of Hanover?”

“No.” Abigail gave a jerky shake of her head. “I–I don’t know his name. She never said.”

Kincaid cleared his throat. He met Joanna’s gaze, drew a circle around his face, then looked pointedly at Abigail. His intent was clear, and she gave a small nod to indicate she understood.

“Miss Groshen, do you remember what this man looked like?”

“I…I don’t know.” The maid bit her lip. “He was tall.”

“Taller than Kincaid?”

“The–the same height, I believe. Except his hair was lighter. And his e-eyes.” Abigail faltered, then gave a shudder. “I know a person can’t have black eyes. But he did. Black as pitch, they were. I was–I was glad when he never returned.”

“Did he threaten Miss Bancroft in any way?”

“No. Not that I heard, at least. He was only here for a minute. But after he left…she was never the same.” The handkerchief fluttered to the floor as the maid abruptly stood. “If that’s everything, I should return to my duties. Mr. Brown does not like us to dally.”

“We’re grateful for all of your help, Miss Groshen. I’ve only two more questions, and then you can be on your way.” Standing as well, Joanna subtly positioned herself between the maid and the door. “You mentioned you were the first to enter Miss Bancroft’s bedchamber that horrible morning. Where was Hannah, her personal maid? Shouldn’t she have been serving Miss Bancroft her breakfast?”

“Hannah left over a fortnight ago,” said Abigail. “To care for her sick grandfather in Bedford. She hasn’t come back. I sent her a letter, but I’ve yet to hear anything.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?” Before Joanna and her siblings were forced to sell their childhood home, they’d employed a staff of five. Not enough for each sister to have their own maid, but they had shared one, as well as a governess. Which meant Joanna knew firsthand the unique relationship that could be formed between servants and those that employed them. She’d certainly considered Lucy, their maid, to be a close confidant as well as a friend. It broke all their hearts, Lucy’s included, when they were forced to let her go; the loss softened only by the knowledge that she’d gone on to a splendid family.

Because of her own experience, Joanna couldn’t think of a single reason why Hannah wouldn’t have immediately returned when she learned of what had happened to Miss Bancroft. If something ill had ever befallen Joanna, or either of her sisters, Lucy would have been there without a moment’s delay.

Surely it was worthy to note that the person who had known the victim best hadn’t bothered to return after Miss Bancroft’s walls were found stained with blood.

“Can I leave now?” Abigail asked with a desperate glance at the door.

“A final question, Miss Groshen,” said Kincaid, his voice notably softer than it was when the interrogation first began. “The night before Miss Bancroft was presumably killed, you mentioned the Duke of Hanover paid her a visit. Did you see him leave?”

“N–not that I recall.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

The maid gave a hesitant nod. “I believe so.”

“Did you hear him leave?” Kincaid persisted. “Footsteps on the stairs, carriage wheels on the gravel? Anything that might indicate he was not in the house between the hours of two in the morning and when you entered the bedchamber? When did you enter the bedchamber, Miss Groshen? The exact time, if you please.”

“The e–exact time?” Abigail paled. “Um, I’m not sure. After seven, as Miss Bancroft hates to be woken early. But before nine, as she was expecting guests for morning tea. Is that helpful?”

“Exceedingly.” Joanna gave the maid’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you, Miss Groshen. We will be in touch if we need anything further.”

“I wasn’t done,” Kincaid said after Abigail had fled the room.

“Perhaps, but she was.”

Kincaid came to stand beside her. Arms crossed, he stared at the door as he said, “You did a fair job, Miss Thorncroft.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she said, pleased with the reluctant praise. Investigative work wasn’t nearly as difficult as Kincaid had tried to make it appear. It required the ability to piece things together that might not seem, at least on the surface, as if they were connected. In that way, it wasn’t unlike a jigsaw puzzle.

And she’d always enjoyed trying to solve things.

Family secrets. Murders. Stubborn detectives.

What was the difference, really?

After questioning three more servants, none of whom had any information to give, they saw themselves out.

“I believe that went well,” Joanna remarked as they headed back towards the office. “At least we’ve several suspects. Are we going to call upon the Duke of Hanover next? From what Miss Groshen said, he was the last person to see Miss Bancroft alive. And he had reason to see her dead.”

“What reason?” Kincaid said curtly. “Eloise was his mistress. By all accounts, they were happy together.”

“Yes, but Miss Groshen indicated there was another man in the picture. Perhaps Hanover suspected something illicit was going on, and he became jealous.” Joanna’s eyes lit up. “A crime of passion. After it was done, he panicked and disposed of the body. Just like in The Mysterious Murder of Madame Madelynn.”

“The Mysterious Murder of who? Never mind,” Kincaid said before she could answer. “You’ve an active imagination, Miss Thorncroft, but your theory is misguided. The Duke of Hanover is innocent.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the duke hired me to find Eloise’s killer.”

Joanna stopped short. “You’re working for a murderer?”

“Sterling–the Duke of Hanover–did not murder anyone.”

“You sound absolutely positive.”

“I am.”

“Why?” she asked, confused. “Do you have any evidence that clears him of wrongdoing?”

“Not exactly,” he hedged.

“Then how can you be so sure?” This may have been Joanna’s first attempt at crime solving, but even she knew that evidence–or lack thereof–was a strong indicator of guilt. The Duke of Hanover had an intimate relationship with the victim. There was no indication he’d left the residence until after she was killed. Client or not, he had to be their number one suspect. And yet, Kincaid did not seem to be of the same opinion.

“I’ve known Sterling for a long time.” Kincaid’s mouth settled into a grim line. “He is more than a client, he is a close personal friend. Which is how I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt and despite all the clues to the contrary, that he no more harmed Eloise than you or I did.”

Joanna studied Kincaid closely. The indent between his brows. The lines of tension in the corners of his eyes. The steady throb of his pulse underneath his jaw. “All right,” she said simply. “I believe you.”

He blinked at her, visibly startled. “You do?”

“Are you surprised?”

“It takes an innate sense of trust to believe someone when all of the facts point in a different direction.” There was an endearing note of bewilderment in Kincaid’s tone. As if he couldn’t understand why anyone would have such faith in him.

Sweet, stubborn man, Joanna thought with affection.

Why could he not see what she did?

That he was worthy of her trust…and so much more.

“If you say the Duke of Hanover is innocent, then he is innocent.” Seeing the top of his shirt had come undone, she reached out to fix it, and their hands collided as he did the same. Wordlessly, his fingers slid over the top of hers as she bent her head in concentration and slipped the small wood button back into its hole, then pressed her palm to the middle of his chest where she could feel the thump thump, thump thump of his heartbeat. “There. Now all we have left to do is prove who reallykilled his mistress.”

Kincaid stiffened beneath her touch. “There is no ‘we’, Miss Thorncroft.”

She gave a light laugh. “But of course there is. Without me, you wouldn’t have learned about the man with the black eyes or Hannah’s coincidental disappearance. We may not be partners, but we make an excellent team.” Lips curving, she peered up at him from beneath her lashes…and her smile froze in place. “You’re being serious.”

“This is a murder investigation. With the murderer still at large.” Taking her hand, he deliberately moved it away from his chest. For an instant, his fingers remained locked with hers. Then his countenance hardened, and he released his grip. “I gave you the courtesy of accompanying me today, but–”

“The courtesy?”

“–this is not to become a regular occurrence. You are a secretary, not a detective.”

And Kincaid was an ass.

Notthe donkey kind.

“If it wasn’t for me, Miss Groshen never would have given us any information. I believe the words you are looking for are, ‘Thank you, Miss Thorncroft, for your invaluable assistance. Couldn’t have done it without you. Bang up job.’” Eyes flashing, she spun on her heel, her only intent to get as far away from him as fast as possible.

If she’d been paying attention to her surroundings, she would have seen the team of Belgian drafts pulling a heavy cart piled high with crates of milk. But her focus wasn’t on the street she needed to cross, it was on Kincaid. And with anger clouding her vision, she stepped carelessly off the edge of the curb and directly into the path of the oncoming horses.

“JOANNA!” Kincaid’s shout cut through the air like the slash of a whip…

A second too late.