Page 35 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“I’d offer to wait and drive you home, but I’ve a patient to visit,” Thornton said.
“I always knew you were a selfish prig,” Hugh replied without bothering to wink. Thornton laughed at his jest and murmured, “Good luck,” as Hugh exited the conveyance.
Rain lashed at him, though the wind was calmer here on Berkley Square. He went around the back toward the servant entrance, despising the jump of his muscles and shallow breaths. He’d happily avoided any kind of interaction with the ton for nigh on six years, and now here he was, about to interview a lord all too familiar with Hugh’s past life.
Come now, maybe the man won’t remember you.He growled at Thornton’s sarcastic comment. There wasn’t a peer in the realm that wouldn’t remember the scandal he dragged behind him, attached like anchors to his very feet. Something struck him then: the duchess had made no mention of it. Was it because she did not know? Or was she simply too polite to mention it?
He didn’t have time to consider it further. The back door opened after his initial knock, and he found a rosy-cheeked woman looking out at him.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“My name is Marsden. I’m an officer for Bow Street and need a moment of his lordship’s time.”
ChapterNine
Greer entered the breakfast room at Violet House at half ten the following morning. She bobbed her head of ash blond curls toward Audrey, and with a poised glance at the footman hovering nearby, sent him on his way.
Once they were alone, Audrey folded her napkin on the table. “He has already answered?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Greer stepped forward and set an envelope on the table beside Audrey’s plate of kippers and toast. She had hardly been able to eat a bite, and now her appetite diminished completely.
Audrey had been awake since dawn, her mind in snarls as she paced the Aubusson rug in her room. Greer hadn’t appeared at all surprised to see her lady out of bed and restless when she entered at eight. As any highly trained lady’s maid would, she maintained a placid expression. Audrey could have been standing there in the nude and Greer would have calmly gone to the wardrobe, withdrawn a wrapper, and gently slipped it over her mistress’s shoulders.
Not once had she parted with an unnecessary or silly word in Audrey’s presence, and she did not gossip about the other servants either. Growing up, Audrey had known many a maid who gossiped and complained and shirked her duties. She felt lucky to have Greer now, and yesterday, after returning from her visit with Genie, Audrey had made the decision to ask her maid a favor.
“Thank you, Greer.” With a quick curtsey, the maid retraced her steps and left the breakfast room.
The envelope was not of good quality, but that was of no matter. Audrey picked it up and a breath of a vision began to take form—a dark room, candlelight, a man’s hand scratching out a name on the face of the envelope—but she shoved the image away. The person who’d sent the letter was not important; the information inside was.
The previous afternoon, Audrey had skimmed the newssheets before asking Greer to engage a private investigator on her behalf—under anom de guerreof course. She needed to know who owned the home on Yarrow Street, and asking Michael or Mr. Potridge, or going in search of the records herself, was completely out of the question. Someone like Mr. Marsden could get to the information much faster and without inspiring curiosity. Audrey had circled a name in an advert and Greer, asking no questions, carried out the task.
Audrey slit the envelope with a table knife and held her breath. During the night, she had started to fear that perhapsPhilipowned the Yarrow Street residence. He’d let rooms in the Seven Dials, so why not elsewhere? But she released a breath when she saw the name of the property owner scrawled across the brief correspondence: the Marquess of Wimbly. Just as expected.
Her relief turned mixed as she continued reading:
The clerk I spoke to related that another individual had been looking for information on the same address earlier in the day.
Audrey sighed. Mr. Marsden. It had to be. In addition to having a man watching her home—she had spied the stranger the night before, standing across the street, underneath a lamppost for far too long a time, his attention hinged on Violet House—it seemed Mr. Marsden had taken the time to investigate into the property.
He no doubt now knew Miss Lovejoy had been kept by Lord Wimbly. A spate of unease threatened to overtake the flutter of victory. What Genie revealed the afternoon before, about the past accusations against Mr. Marsden, churned her stomach.
Miss Neatham, the late Viscount Neatham’s daughter, had been ruined by the young man living under the viscount’s own roof. Hisward. Genie had not needed to explain the meaning behind that term. Neatham had felt some responsibility toward Hugh Marsden—or at least, the boy he had once been. The nanny’s son. Goodness, it was unheard of, really, for a nanny to be allowed to keep her child on premises, to be raised amongst her employer’s own children. Unless, of course, that child was the employer’s burden by blood. And if that were the case, and if Mr. Marsden had, in fact, ruined the viscount’s legitimate daughter…
She shivered. In no way did she feel she knew the Bow Street officer well, but hearing that he had done something so reprehensible, so lewd…her mind simply did not want to accept it. Or believe it.
Then again, what Mr. Marsden had or had not done in his past was not the issue at hand. He’d discovered Wimbly was Miss Lovejoy’s benefactor, which had likely proved to him that Philip had not been. So, what would he do next?
Audrey’s eyes skipped to the last portion of the letter. She memorized the address she had requested the private agent to discover on her behalf. There was no note of caution or a plea for her to remain a far step from said address, and a small, appreciative grin touched her lips.
She folded the letter and returned it to its envelope just as the door to the breakfast room opened yet again. Barton bowed a few degrees at the hip.
“Your Grace, Lord Herrick to see you. In the morning room.”
Audrey let out a breath. She figured her brother-in-law would call on her at some point in the day. He was likely upset about the stroll around Hyde Park that she and Genie had taken. Well, it had to be dealt with.
“Thank you, Barton. Please send for tea.”
The butler bowed and left, and before she could follow him, she dropped the letter from the private agent into the hearth. Flames ignited the thin paper, and Audrey carried on, toward the morning room.
