Page 19 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“I’ll call again in a few days. I hope by then you are ready to be more reasonable,” Millie said as she swept out of the sitting room.
Audrey dropped the prim hold of her posture. Retreat to the country. It was what everyone would expect her to do, not just Millie. And perhaps she would…if she had any doubts at all about Philip’s innocence.
A soft knock landed upon the door frame, and Barton appeared.
“Thank you for not offering to bring tea,” she said. He’d known she wouldn’t wish Millie to stay very long.
Barton bowed, his coal black hair neatly trimmed and parted. Like most butlers, his manners were impeccable, along with his presentation. He ran a duke’s household and took pride in the task.
“May I be of any more service, Your Grace?”
Audrey hesitated. Seeing Millie had dredged up the past. It had been so long since she’d thought of the day James and her papa had died, and how she’d once laid in the sitting room at Fournier Downs with a longing to never leave. It reminded her of how long Philip had been her friend.
And now, he was sitting in a guarded room at the Brown Bear tavern, alone. Perhaps enough time had passed and he would be ready to speak to her. If not…well, she would simply take his hands and try to see for herself what haunted him so deeply. She would help him, whether he wanted it or not.
She looked to Barton and gave a decisive nod. “Have my carriage readied.”
* * *
Her hope wason fire by the time she arrived at number four Bow Street. It had been over a full day since his arrest, and Philip had to have broken free from his stupor. He had to eat and drink, didn’t he? Michael had left Violet House the afternoon before saying he’d send the family physician to inspect Philip, and as Audrey girded herself before walking into the Brown Bear tavern, she all but convinced herself that her husband would greet her with a smile and an embrace, and most importantly, words.
The tavern was bustling, unlike the time she’d last been there. Heads turned and eyes stuck, surely wondering what she was doing in such a place as this. She’d taken a few steps into the tavern and toward the bar when a serving maid approached.
“You want a table?” the woman asked, as though in disbelief.
“There is a man being held in an upstairs room, by Bow Street,” she replied, trying to keep her voice low. “I’d like to see him.”
The serving maid’s eyebrows rose with understanding. “Take the stairs, luv. Two floors up. The Runner will see you.”
The conditions of the upstairs were only slightly more hospitable than the cellar had been, with narrow halls, dingy floorboards, and smoky air. Just as the tavern maid had said, a Bow Street constable perked up in his chair when he saw her. He eyed the space behind her, as though expecting someone else—a man, she presumed—to appear on her heels.
“Madam?” he said, brow creased in confusion.
Oddly enough, being addressed as madam instead of ‘Your Grace’ set her at ease.
“I would like to see the man you have in holding here, sir. The Duke of Fournier.”
He changed his posture and cleared his throat as his eyes swept from Audrey’s face to her feet, then back up again. It gave her the insulting sensation that she’d just been shoved back an inch. Or undressed. Perhaps both.
“I’m not sure that’s allowed, madam,” he said.
“I have come all this way to speak tomy husband.” As she stressed her relationship with hope it would help clear the way, she recalled how Hugh Marsden had accused her of doing so the night before, at the opera. And how she’d bungled things up because of it. She bit the inside of her cheek and took a breath. “Sir, if you must fetch your superior, I understand and will wait.”
The man clenched his jaw, and only then did she realize he might not have liked the implication of needing his superior’s permission. But instead of being denied entry again, the man nodded once and reached for the ring of keys at his waist. He unlocked the door and stood aside for Audrey to enter.
“Visitor,” he barked into the room, and then to her, added, “Just a few minutes, Your Grace.”
The room was little more than the size of a butler’s pantry and empty of everything but a cot, a chamber pot, a small table, and two chairs. A small window let in only a little light. A figure laid upon the cot, which was pushed against the far wall, his back to the door. Philip.
“You have a visitor,” the Bow Street constable said again when Philip didn’t move. Audrey’s heart sank, her burning hope that he’d be back to himself doused with ice.
“He’s been like this since yesterday,” the man grumbled to her. “Wouldn’t even speak to his solicitor, or the other lord there, his brother.”
Michael and Mr. Potridge had informed her that Philip had been silent, but she’d hoped after a night spent here, alone, with time to think and to sober…
The man moved out into the corridor again. On the floor near the open door was a tray with a plate and cup. The food and drink hadn’t been touched.
“Philip?” she said as she entered the warm, stale room.
