Page 41 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Audrey let the doorman take her wrap, who then passed it to another attendant who swiftly disappeared into a cloakroom. Taking a quick glance around, there seemed to be only one place to go: up a twisting staircase. A slight thrumming of noise came from the first story. Audrey placed a gloved hand on the railing and started to ascend. Though the barrier of her silk gloves would likely protect her from any vision, she retracted her hand, just in case. She didn’t want or need any visions tonight. When she found Wimbly, she would need her wits about her—presuming he was present at all.
It was entirely possible he wasn’t, but Greer had made a discreet visit to the Wimbly House kitchen, where her second cousin was employed as a maid. Apparently, the marquess was out nearly every evening, and the driver related that most evenings he went to Montagu Place. Audrey hoped he would be in the Seven Sins loosening his cravat.
She parted through a solid wall of cigar smoke and perfume and entered a large room. The entire first level was one expansive gaming hall. Card tables were scattered around the room—faro, vingt et un, baccarat, dice—and crowds congregated at each one.
Audrey’s mask covered her face from hairline to bottom lip, and her breath came hot and fast as she stared at the flesh on display. Bare shoulders, tight bodices, plumped décolletage, and many of the ladies lounged in men’s laps. Some ladies wore masks, like her, but most did not.
It was exactly as her vision had been, though it was unlike anything she had seen before in person. She pictured Philip entering this room, confidently walking toward one of the gaming tables, perhaps smiling at an acquaintance, greeting them warmly, easily.
She could not do the same as she picked her way along the floor; her lips were rigid, like porcelain. Curve them into a grin, and they would crack. Her fingers clutched her reticule in a stranglehold, her palms sweating as she searched the room for the man she’d hoped to see. Now, she half dreaded it. Being alone in a place where everyone else seemed to be conversing and enjoying time together made her feel as if she sorely stuck out.
The nape of her neck erupted in a cold sweat as she waited for those she passed to stare at her with recognition. Attention did turn her way, but she’d been sure to wear a gown that would hopefully detract attention from her face and hold it around her bosom. The plunging neckline was more revealing than what she normally wore out; the gown had come from Milan, but she had not dared wear it for the shocking cut of the bodice. It did captivate attention now, mostly from male eyes as she drifted by tables, pretending at confidence.
Where was Wimbly? Perhaps it was too early yet. She’d give it an hour. Watch some of the gaming. Try to avoid saying too much.
But as she moved to the rear of the floor, near a collection of divans and smaller card tables, she spotted him.
Lord Wimbly sat in a cushioned chair at a card table, but he wasn’t playing seriously. He’d angled his chair so that it faced outward, providing him a view of both the room and of the active baize green table. Men and women crowded around it, a haze of smoke above their heads. The marquess puffed on a cigar as he sought out something or someone on the main floor. Whatever was unfolding at the card table, it held no interest for him.
With a ball of dread in her stomach, Audrey hiked her chin and moved toward him, deliberately swaying her hips in a more pronounced—and she hoped provocative—manner. She felt ridiculous, mostly, but Wimbly’s rumored appetite for female companions didn’t disappoint. His eyes latched onto her almost immediately.
They were lined around the edges, with the skin underneath a little puffy from too much drink and late, wild nights. His jowls were just beginning to sag, not quite detracting from his otherwise handsome looks. Audrey girded herself and forced a thin smile.
Wimbly took a prolonged moment to stand in greeting. He must have hoped she would slide right into his lap. When she didn’t, he got to his feet.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, and Audrey went a bit woozy from relief. He didn’t recognize her. Had he, he would have called her the proper “Your Grace.”
“Lord Wimbly,” she replied.
He waggled his brows. “The beautiful lady has the advantage. I don’t suppose you’d fill me in on your identity?”
“If I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have bothered with the mask,” she replied as haughtily as she could muster.
He chuckled. “Care to join our table?”
He didn’t seem to be playing at the moment, and what she had to ask him was better done in private. Or at least, semi-private. She didn’t want to find herself in any alcoves with the marquess.
“I don’t care for dice,” she replied with an air of indifference. “But there is something I wish to discuss with you, my lord.”
A flicker of excitement lit Wimbly’s brown irises. Audrey masked a shudder.
“This way,” he said, taking his whisky from the table and extending a hand toward one of the nearby divans. They wouldn’t be alone, but they wouldn’t be shoulder to shoulder with their neighbors either.
He waited for Audrey to sit before taking the section of cushion directly next to her; their thighs brushed, and she couldn’t keep up the façade. She angled herself to the side, away from him. Wimbly only gargled another insinuating laugh, as if she was playing at innocence.
Audrey tried to tame her roiling stomach. Wimbly reminded her too much of Lord Bainbury. It wasn’t looks that made the marquess resemble her former betrothed. Their similarities ran deeper than that. It was in the inspecting probe of his gaze, the certainty that whatever thoughts ran through his mind weren’t nearly as gentlemanly as his outward manner. There was an oily quality to both men; they would keep whomever they brought close just out of reach, on the surface.
Bainbury, however, had never attempted to slide his hand along her person, as Wimbly now did. His fingers scuffed teasingly at her knee.
“Now, then, my lady,” he said, still amused. “What was it you needed to discuss with me?”
Audrey suppressed the urge to bat away his wandering hand. If she were to gain any useful knowledge, she had to at least play at seduction for a brief time. “It’s a scandalous topic,” she began.
“I don’t mind a bit of scandal.” He swirled his fingers a little higher, just above her knee. They left a few blots of moisture on the pale blue silk.
“Mistresses,” she whispered, attempting an alluring, husky tone.
Wimbly’s swirling fingers paused. Mr. Marsden’s criticism of her questioning skills rang through her head:You are too heavy-handed.Perhaps she was a bull in a china shop after all.
