Page 40 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“Hail two cabs—fast, Basil. One for me, and one to take Miss Hanson home.” He moved to shut the door.
“You need a cravat, sir, if you are going out.”
Hugh scowled. “I could wear nothing at all and still be admitted to where I am going.”
“But, sir, if I might just—”
“Two cabs.Now, Basil.” Hugh groaned. “The insufferable woman and her bloody investigation!”
He slammed the door and hurried to finish dressing.
ChapterEleven
From the street, the Seven Sins appeared to be a quiet, unassuming residence. There were no people outside the front entrance, waiting to be let in, nor were there carriages, queueing up to drop off club members. Just a brightly lit door with potted shrubs on either side.
As Carrigan drew the carriage to a stop, Audrey’s resolve faltered. This was the address the private investigator had delivered, and if correct, through those doors she would find a club of sin and vice.
And hopefully, Lord Wimbly.
Carrigan shook the carriage as he descended and came around to open the door. The expression he wore did not help her courage to reassert itself.
“Your Grace, I know it isn’t my place to say it, but I would much rather turn this conveyance around and return you to Violet House.”
Poor Carrigan. Audrey did hate to worry him, but if the ball of apprehension swirling low in her stomach was not going to sway her, neither was his fussing.
“Where will you take the carriage?” she asked him instead of making any acknowledgement of his protestation. He grimaced.
“Around the block. There’s a mews where I’m to wait.”
She peered at him as she was bringing the ribbons of the mask into place around her ears. The black contraption of lace and silk, dotted with small rubies and diamonds, had been part of her costume two winters before, for a masquerade Lady Dutton hosted. The mask had been too beautiful to discard. She’d wondered if there would be an occasion in which she might wear it again, and when she’d seen a number of women in her vision of the Seven Sins wearing dominos for anonymity, she’d dug it out of her cedar chest.
“How do you know about the mews?” she asked her driver.
Carrigan had the decency to hesitate before answering. “This is not my first time here, Your Grace.”
Philip. He’d been a member after all.
“I see.” Audrey finished tying the mask into place, her indignation firing up her resolve once again. “When were you here last?”
Carrigan helped her to the pavement. For a large and muscular man, he looked awfully sheepish as he contemplated his answer.
“You are loyal to His Grace and for that I am thankful. But this is important, Carrigan. Anything could be leveraged either for or against him.”
The driver sighed and nodded. “It was about four months ago, I’d wager. Right after Christmas.”
That recently? Audrey tried not to let her driver see the prick of disappointment burrowing into her.
“Thank you, Carrigan. I won’t take too long.” With a hitch of her chin, she made her way up the front steps. She presented herself at the door with all the same regality that she’d exude had she been entering a fine soiree, her husband on her arm. Meeting the man at the door, his combed hair slick with macassar oil, his appraising eyes just as oily, she recognized how alone she was.
“My lady,” he intoned, taking a short bow. “Your entrance piece?”
She reached into her reticule, a cornflower blue silk damask to match her gown, and withdrew the locket she had taken from Miss Lovejoy’s drawer. She prayed this was the piece he referred to.
The doorman leaned forward to inspect it with a small monocle. Audrey wondered how many phony lockets were presented. It depended, she supposed, on the club dues and how exorbitant they were.
The doorman stood and lowered the monocle. “Very good, my lady. Welcome.”
He stepped aside, and Audrey’s limbs moved swiftly into the entrance foyer, though they trembled. She’d passed inspection. Now, for the hard part—finding Lord Wimbly.
