Page 39 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Gloria chuffed laughter, her lips touching down on his shoulder. “Insistent?”
“Utterly resolute,” he replied, his jaw clenching again.
“What is she like? Madam Gascoigne has made a few gowns for her, but I’ve never spoken to her myself.”
Hugh went still. “I’ve only just met her.”
Gloria again scoffed. “You can size a person up within seconds, Hugh Marsden.”
He relented. “She is stubborn and single-minded. She detests me. The woman looks at me as though she’d like to light me on fire with her glare alone.”
Gloria laughed and shifted her leg up his thigh.
“She is impulsive and petulant, and there is something…” He hesitated over his words. “Secretive. She is keeping a secret. Information that might apply to the investigation. My investigation, not hers.”
Gloria pushed up higher onto her elbow. “She has her own investigation?”
A frisson of tension warmed the muscles in his legs, and he could no longer lie still. Hugh sat up, dislodging Gloria from his side, and swung his legs out from the bed. Sweat crawled along his back and temples as he raked his fingers through his hair.
“She insists she will prove her husband’s innocence.”
Gloria was quiet. After a few seconds spent waiting for her reply, Hugh looked over his shoulder at her. He propped a brow, as if to say “Well?”
She smoothed down the panels of the dressing gown and cinched the waist rope as she stood from the bed. “You are doubting yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“I know you,” she rejoined with a sympathetic smile. It only served to stab at him. “What is it that gives you pause?”
He launched himself from the bed and grabbed up his linen smalls, then his trousers. “Nothing gives me pause. I made my arrest.”
Why didn’t the duke have anygoddamnedscratches or defense injuries? Hugh pulled on his clothes with jerky movements. And then there was Wimbly and the house on Yarrow.
“You are lying to yourself,” Gloria said, shedding his robe. Hugh paused as she let him take in the whole of her naked body before picking up her dress. The memory of the duchess and the musk of her skin when he’d blocked her from leaving Miss Lovejoy’s bedroom assailed him. A hard knot formed in the pit of Hugh’s stomach, and he looked away from Gloria.
Hugh left his shirt untucked, his collar undone. His feet were bare as he reached for another glass of scotch.
A pert knock on his bedroom door caught him by surprise. Basil didn’t usually interrupt him during Gloria’s visits. When Hugh peered into the hall, his valet held his hands behind his back and gave a short bow.
“Forgive me, sir, but a message has arrived for you.” Basil’s tone was clipped and brimming with annoyance.
“From Sir?” Hugh knew well the expression his valet wore whenever the lad showed his dirty face and shoes around Bedford Street.
Hugh had given Sir a job to do that morning: watch Violet House and report back with the lady’s movements. With no message from him so far, he’d started to hope Her Grace was settling down.
Basil’s grimace drew longer. “Quite. Delivered by a young man who calls himselfPetey. An accomplice of your odiferous informant.”
Hugh had given up reprimanding Basil for his intolerance of Sir long ago.
“What is the message?”
Sir couldn’t write and so he must have sent this Petey fellow to deliver the message verbally.
Basil cleared his throat before reciting, “You were right, guv, the lady’s bloody cracked. She’s at Montagu Place.”
A twin storm of irritation and concern spiraled through Hugh as he gripped the edge of his door. He swore under his breath.
Of all the stupid, impulsive, idiotic things to do…he wanted to throttle the duchess and then lock her up in her own attic, if only for her own protection.
