Page 25 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“You should know that not one member of your set, beyond Lord Herrick, has come up in arms against our holding the duke,” Hugh said. “He is a leper among his peers, and when his trial is heard by the House of Lords, I would not count on much support from those you call friends.”
It was a cruel statement. Hugh saw the flash of injury it caused, and the touch of guilt in his gut doubled. But then she exhaled and reached for the front door handle.
“You’ve made up your mind about me and about Philip.” A few warbling syllables were the only indication that she was affected at all. That, and the fact that she’d addressed her husband familiarly, without his title. “But the truth is you know nothing of my life, or what I am capable of. Not what my title is capable of, butme, Audrey Sinclair.” She turned the doorknob and the noise from Yarrow Street poured inside the muffled home. “If you wish to prove your end of the investigation, Mr. Marsden, I suggest doing more than resting on your laurels. One can so easily become lazy and fat with success that they never see their opposition until it bests them.”
And with that, she stepped outside and slammed the door in Hugh’s face.
He waited, his ears ringing, until the sound of her carriage pulled away. The woman had the tongue of a viper, and Hugh despised the way it left him feeling turned around and dizzy. The very moment he’d felt he had the upper hand, she’d yanked it away from him again.
As he descended the steps to the pavements, leaving Miss Lovejoy’s mausoleum of a home, he realized the duchess hadn’t been bluffing. She would keep up her investigation until she found what she was looking for, or until she pushed too far and got into trouble. He was willing to bet the latter would come about first.
ChapterSeven
Audrey slipped off her glove the moment she was in the brougham and let out a long exhalation. That infuriating man had followed her from Bow Street most likely, and now he suspectedher. It was ludicrous. He couldn’t possibly believe she’d done such a brutal deed. He was only attempting to crawl beneath her skin and lodge there, like a thorn.
“Well, he has succeeded,” she sighed, and then reached into her reticule.
She’d made the mistake of touching the opal-faced locket with her bare hand earlier, in Miss Lovejoy’s bedroom, with Mr. Marsden standing on the other side of the room. Something had rushed into her vision, nearly blinding her, before she’d been able to push it into submission.
The Bow Street officer had been speaking to her, and she’d already hesitated too long a few seconds earlier, when grasping the back of the vanity’s chair. An image had rolled into view then, of a pretty woman sitting before the mirror, inspecting her reflection as she took what looked like a gemstone from a purse and dropped it into one of the narrow vanity drawers. Audrey had gone for the drawer next.
The vision conjured when she touched the locket had been disturbing—a smoky room, red lights, men kitted out in full dress, women with improper amounts of flesh on display. And with Mr. Marsden speaking to her, she’d been distracted. Unwilling to waste the energy the locket held trapped inside, she had slipped it into her reticule to await a more private moment.
So now, as Carrigan carried her back toward Curzon Street, Audrey held the opal locket in her bare palm and closed her eyes, ready. Without Mr. Marsden there to watch her in that hawk-like way, she could relax.
The vision formed like a fog again—it was of a crowd inside what Audrey now knew, thanks to Mr. Marsden, was the Seven Sins. A busy faro table covered in green baize, colorful chips and playing cards, plumes of cigar smoke cloying the air. She held her breath as a man appeared, close enough for Miss Lovejoy to nuzzle his starched collar and cravat. Recognition nearly doused the whole vision, and Audrey let out a gasp. It was Augustus St. John, the Marquess of Wimbly.
He had been to Violet House on numerous occasions and had been at nearly every society function she and Philip had attended. In his early fifties, he was still a handsome man, though a bit weathered in the jowls and chin. He was wealthy beyond measure, and by no means was his marriage to Lady Wimbly a love match. The man was a notorious philanderer and made no attempt to bury his proclivities.
She calmed her excitement at seeing the marquess, clearly Miss Lovejoy’s admirer, as his face drew near, his hand reaching to cup her chin. And then closer still, until Audrey felt smothered—as if the marquess were attempting to kiss her, instead of Miss Lovejoy.
She dropped the locket and the image scattered. The pale blue interior of her carriage replaced that of the gaming hell. Her heart raced, her stomach in an uncomfortable twist. Gracious, she’d never been to a gaming hell and certainly had no desire to visit one now. That sort of place was everything she was not: loose, free, lurid. But the Marquess of Wimbly had looked entirely at home in such an establishment.
Hehad been Miss Lovejoy’s patron.
Audrey leaned her head against the squabs, thankful the risky trip to the opera singer’s home had been worth her while. It was still remarkable that she’d found it in the first place. All she’d had to go on was the vision of a street of terraced homes and the number 47, but Carrigan had dutifully wound his way down every road, side street, and passage while she’d looked outside, waiting for recognition to strike. When at last she’d turned up Yarrow Street, the terraced homes matched the vision perfectly, and she’d instructed her driver to find number 47.
Audrey had hoped to gain an item of Miss Lovejoy’s that might point her onward to another piece of information, and it had worked. But really, these were breadcrumbs, of which only Audrey could see. She needed to find something that Mr. Marsden, or the magistrate himself, could acknowledge.
How the devil did you pick that lock?
Mr. Marsden had watched her use a pair of hair pins to enter the home in broad daylight. If Carrigan noticed anything amiss, he had not said a word. Carrigan knew not to, of course. More than once, he had needed to be discreet for both her sake and Philip’s.
Audrey eyed the locket, face down on the cushion. The small well for opium dust worried her. It had been over a year now since Philip had given it up, but her heart still gave an involuntary stutter.
What had started as infrequent evenings out, only to return home in a state of worrisome disarray, had become a usual occurrence. He’d often disappear for days on end. He’d insisted it was nothing, just a diversion, a means for which to escape for a short while. However, within a few months, it had consumed him. He was no longer the Philip she’d agreed to marry.
That last time, Carrigan had waited two full days outside a pleasure den while Philip was inside. She figured it was a place not unlike the Seven Sins, considering Carrigan had seen upper crust men entering and exiting, and yet he, a servant, had not been allowed entry.
Finally, he managed to sneak his way inside through a rear door, posing as staff help, and had been able to locate and carry the barely breathing, utterly delusional duke back to the carriage. Audrey had been furious and sick with worry; their argument had left her with a sore throat for days. Once sobered, he’d relented and promised her never again. He’d followed through, too. Things had gotten better.
But had he been a member of this Seven Sins club? Was that his connection to Miss Lovejoy? At least Philip hadn’t been in the vision the opal locket had given her.
The idea to go directly to Lord Wimbly’s home, under the pretext of calling on Lady Wimbly, crossed her mind. However, that dreadful Bow Street officer’s voice whispered in the back of her mind, again and again:I can’t bloody begin to count how many mistakes you made back there.
Perhaps she shouldn’t be so heavy handed with this interview. She had no believable reason to call on Lady Wimbly, and quite honestly, with the scandal surrounding Philip, the marchioness would likely not receive her.
She needed to come around to it with a better angle. If she could corner the woman somehow... Perhaps catch her out in a place where she could not so easily scurry away… But then, Lady Wimbly would never admit her husband was having an affair with a murdered opera singer. Neither would the man himself.
