Page 14 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“Did His Grace frequent Miss Lovejoy’s performances?” Hugh asked as the question came to him.
“He has a box, yes, and he attended a number of our productions.”
The duchess took the opening. “Whether Miss Lovejoy was performing or not?”
“Belladora was in nearly every production, Your Grace,” he replied, his cold disdain beginning to leak through his earlier pretense of cordiality. “I cannot know if His Grace attended for the sake of the arts or for the sake of…something else.”
“Did she have many admirers?” Hugh asked before the duchess could protest Bernadetto’s statement.
The manager let the tension out of his shoulders as he circled back behind his desk. It was a tired, loping motion, and Hugh presumed he and the rest of the theatre troupe had struggled through the night’s performance.
“Her fair share, I suppose. She received bouquets and notes after every performance for being so lovely and expressive and…attentive to her audience.”
“But not just any audience members,” Hugh said.
He knew how the theatre worked. Roles were not handed out based on merit alone. To operate, the theatre required wealthy patrons, and those patrons held sway over who received lead roles. Had Miss Lovejoy had a patron of her own, and he wished to see her in the lead role time and again, it could be easily purchased.
The duchess’s suspicious glance hinted that she had caught on to his meaning.
“You are inquiring as to whether or not Belladora had a benefactor,” the manager stated.
“Did she?” Hugh asked.
Bernadetto settled into his chair once again and crossed his legs. “Her personal affairs are not for me to discuss. I will not tarnish her memory with such loose gossip.”
“We do not intend to tarnish her memory.” In her fervor, the duchess stepped closer to the manager’s desk. “We intend to find the man who harmed her.”
A new voice entered the room from behind them. “You mean the man who slit her open like a pig.”
Hugh swiveled on his heel, his hand reaching under his jacket to the smooth handle of his pistol. The whistling man from the dressing room stood just outside the office entrance. Hugh berated himself for not having heard the footsteps coming along the corridor. It wasn’t like him not to keep an ear open. It was the duchess’s presence, he suspected. He’d been busy sparing her attention when he should have been directing it to better use—like not allowing their exit to be cut off.
“Away with you, Porter,” Bernadetto hissed.
The man, Porter, ignored the order. “Who do they want to help, I wonder…the bastard sitting in the Stone Jug, or our sweet Belladora?”
Like chins hitching or fingers fidgeting, Hugh had learned to pay close attention to words. Porter’s use of ‘our sweet’ chimed like a warning bell.
“The man who has been arrested is not the man who killed Miss Lovejoy,” the duchess said.
Bernadetto shot up from his seat. “What?”
“That hasn’t been proven,” Hugh bit off, keeping his eye on Porter. The actor blocked the only exit.
“However, wewillprove it,” she went on. Hugh sent her what he hoped was a clear and persuasive glare to cease speaking.
Porter took a step inside the office. “You see, Ignacio, they just want to spring the blue blood. They don’t give a damn about what happened to Belladora.”
“I didn’t say that—” the duchess began.
“Porter.Out,” Berdadetto barked. Once again, the command went ignored.
“The nob was there, covered in her blood.”
There had been dozens of people peeking inside the apartment before Hugh arrived. The tales of what they had seen had likely gone out far and wide within hours, but Hugh wondered if perhaps Porter had been there, as one of the onlookers.
“I don’t deny that, but he wasn’t her benefactor. Who was?” the duchess pushed on. Hugh wanted to throttle her. And by the look of Porter’s bulging eyes, so did he.
“She weren’t no ladybird,” he growled.
