Page 46 of Murder at the Seven Dials
The duchess did not pretend at civility for long once the carriage got moving. The hulking driver, Carrigan, had given Hugh the appropriate once over before shutting the door, a silent but clear warning on his expression. Hugh found himself pleased that the duchess had the brute on staff. The man would double well as a guard if necessary. And what Hugh had suggested while they’d stood on the curb—that perhaps the real murderer would rather her stop digging around for the truth—had cut through him with a sharp chill.
Thanks to the coroner’s inquest, and the lack of defense wounds on Fournier’s person, Hugh was genuinely considering the fact that he had not done the murder after all. Perhaps he’d witnessed it. Perhaps he wasn’t totally innocent. But Hugh could no longer, without doubt, know it.
“You weaseled your way into my carriage with the promise of information,” she said. “Either share it or I will call for Carrigan to drop you off at the next corner.”
Hugh bristled. To look at her, he wouldn’t have thought her so bold. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was only playing at it. If instead, inside, she was exhausting herself with this show of confidence.
“Miss Lovejoy’s nails had been trimmed and cleaned by the coroner, but I recalled them from the night of the murder. From when I came upon the scene,” he said, his body beginning to warm again with the enormity of his blunder. “They were torn and ragged from the fight she put up against her attacker.”
The duchess straightened in her seat. The wrapper she wore parted, displaying the pale blue silk gown she’d chosen for the Seven Sins. The other dresses he had seen her in so far hadn’t showcased the lines of her body as this one did. He forced his eyes to hold hers.
“Philip has no wounds on him,” she said, breathlessly. She grinned. “You know this. You’ve seen him.”
He canted his head in agreement. “Yes.”
She slid forward on the seat, purely giddy now. “So, you must believe me now. He didn’t hurt Miss Lovejoy.”
He held up a hand to stay her excitement. “I’m not prepared to say he isn’t involved in some way, but…” Hugh cringed inside. He absolutely detested being wrong. “I no longer believe he alone acted out against her.”
She sat back, disappointed. “He didn’t act out against her at all.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“You’re just being stubborn,” she replied. “You’re humiliated that you missed such an obvious clue.”
The woman was impossible. Infuriating. And yet, she spoke the truth. He was humiliated, and that only served to make him angry.
“The way he was found, in proximity to the deceased, means he cannot absolutely be absolved,” Hugh said. “Use your common sense, Your Grace. In the very least, he saw the murder and he is keeping quiet. That makes him an accessory.”
“He cannot hang for that,” she replied.
“I don’t think you understand. At this moment, he is the only suspect. He will be charged.”
“Unless we find the real murderer.”
Hugh sat back and rubbed the scruff on his cheek. He’d done this himself. He’d given her a glimmer of hope. If she hadn’t been willing to stop her investigation before, she most certainly wouldn’t now.
“You cannot go tromping around London asking after Miss Lovejoy’s other benefactors. You will make yourself a target.”
“Perhaps it will draw the villain out,” she replied, then gestured toward the front of the carriage and her driver. “I have protection.”
Hugh closed his eyes and fought the pulsing ache in his temple. “You’ll need more than a rather large driver if you continue to be so careless.”
The duchess said nothing, but when Hugh opened his eyes, she was looking out the carriage window, her jaw tight. Her chest rose and fell with agitated breaths, the parted panels of her wrap again revealing her generous curves. Irritation had mixed with concern when he’d seen Wimbly dragging her through the gaming floor at the Seven Sins. Now, another surge of frustration slammed into him. It coiled low in his abdomen.
Hugh dragged his eyes from her. This physical pull was something he had to gain control over. It bothered him. She was everything he couldn’t abide—privileged, aloof, heedless of reality. To put herself in danger, to even suggest luring out a murderer, displayed a serious lack of judgment.
Audrey Sinclair was desperate, and Hugh knew all too well what desperate people could be driven to do. Especially those who lived cooped up in their townhomes with every advantage at their fingertips.
She sneaked a sideways glance at him. “Then what do you propose we do?”
“We?”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you have my husband’s best interests at heart,” she replied, turning fully toward him. “You now know that he isn’t the murderer, but it would be much more convenient for you if you simply chose to ignore that fact.”
Hugh gnashed his teeth and sat forward. “You question my honor?”
Her expression cooled, and though his retort seemed to chasten her, she turned up her nose at him. “I’ve been informed of your ratherdishonorable past, Mr. Marsden.”
