Page 42 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“Mistresses,” he repeated, his pointer finger tapping her leg, almost absentmindedly.
“From what I gather,” Audrey pressed on, “there has been a bit of a do about one of yours.”
Most definitely heavy-handed. But it caused Wimbly to removehishand, so Audrey couldn’t feel much regret.
“Who are you? Who have you been speaking to?” His playful tone was gone.
“I have connections to Miss Lovejoy,” she replied lightly, hoping beyond hope that Wimbly wouldn’t guess her identity. They were not so well acquainted that he would recognize the curve of her chin or her bottom lip.
The marquess searched her face, her eyes, looking for any telling characteristic. “What of her?”
“Have you not heard?”
“Of course, I have. The whole bloody town has heard.”
He didn’t appear at all to be mourning the loss of his mistress. She’d been dead a few days and he was already out mixing, seeking new company. Then again, keeping a mistress did not always equate with harboring feelings.
“Miss Lovejoy was ensconced in your property on Yarrow Street,” Audrey said, no longer caring to be discreet about her questioning. The marquess had clearly gone cold toward her. He shifted away from her now.
“Are you one of her theatre friends? Why are you here, speaking to me of her? I’ve nothing to do with what happened.”
“I simply want to know about the last time you saw her. She was your mistress. Why would she be at a place like the Seven Dials when you put her up in a much finer part of town?”
His lips formed a hard line. Spots of red speckled his cheeks. “Are you a reporter? Some low brow gossip that thought she’d get a bit of a story if she sauntered in here and sat in my lap?”
His voice had been steadily rising, and though the hum of conversation was high in the club, Audrey saw glances being cast their way, especially by those on the surrounding divans.
“I am not in your lap, my lord.”
“No, you are gnawing at my boot heels,” he seethed. “Miss Lovejoy was murdered by a madman duke befuddled by opium, and I’ve nothing—nothing at all—to do with that.”
“He isn’t a madman!” Audrey snapped.
Wimbly’s nostrils flared. He went rigid as he again squinted a good look at her eyes. He jumped to his feet and with barely controlled fury, hissed, “Talk a stroll around the floor with me, won’t you?”
He knows…andhe was also aware of eavesdroppers nearby.
Audrey stood slowly, and when he offered his arm, she stared at it, hoping her gloves would be barrier enough. Reluctantly, she took his arm and started walking.
“Is that you, Your Grace?”
“No,” she answered drolly, “I am just a low brow reporter.”
He hissed through his teeth. “My god. What in the devil are you doing? How dare you seek me out here, in public!”
“I want answers,” she replied. “Youwere her lover, not my husband.”
He pinned her arm closer to his side as they wove between two tables. “These things are not always exclusive,” he said. “She was anactress, for pity’s sake. Nothing but a light skirted songbird. She had a number of benefactors, I’d wager.”
He didn’t sound jealous at all at the prospect. Audrey didn’t think Wimbly was skilled enough an actor to be pretending, either.
“Do you have any idea who they were?” she asked.
“Other than His Grace? No,” he scoffed.
She pursed her lips as they walked through a cloud of smoke, toward the entrance to the gaming room. He was seeing her toward the door.
“Did Miss Lovejoy tell you, specifically, that she was meeting with my husband?”
