Page 58 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Polite laughter echoed down the table, though Audrey couldn’t bring herself to join in. Auggie. Did she refer to Wimbly?
“How is Lord St. John?” a woman down a few chairs asked. “He must have just finished at Oxford?”
“With top marks,” Lady Wimbly replied.
Auggie, her son. But of course. He and the marquess shared a given name. The conversation turned to doting on Lord St. John, and Audrey could only be grateful. The less they spoke of Philip or Mr. Marsden, the better.
The luncheon concluded after a desert of spiced rum pudding. Restless to leave and put this whole farce behind her, Audrey caught Genie’s eye when the ladies retired to the glassed-in conservatory at the rear of the manor. Despite the gray sky outside, the air within the conservatory was humid and heavy with perfume. Genie, locked into a conversation with Lady Shoreham, pleaded with Audrey with a widening of her eyes.Patience, it seemed to say.
She accepted a glass of champagne from a footman, one of a handful circling the pink marble floor, weaving between white-painted iron garden chairs and tables and sharp fronds of potted palms. No one approached her; in fact, there seemed to be an invisible barrier at least a few feet thick surrounding her. How ironic. Before, when she and Philip would attend parties, the crush around her would be so tight she’d often need to find an open door or balcony to escape for a breath of air. She’d hated it, but this, she thought she might hate more.
Audrey sipped her champagne and pretended to observe some of the tropical flowers Lady Wimbly’s gardener had cultivated and cared for while she took surreptitious steps toward Genie, whom she fully intended to interrupt. As she walked along, the toe of her slipper bumped into something on the floor. The sound of metal raking along the Italian marble tiles echoed through the conservatory. It startled Audrey and drew eyes, but after a moment, she went on being disregarded.
Looking closer, she saw her toe had shoved something silver between two terracotta pots. Audrey bent at the hip and saw afleur-de-liscrest stamped into the handle of what appeared to be a silver utensil. The same design as the ones lain out on the dining room table at luncheon. Odd. She reached for it—and the conservatory vanished down a dark and narrow tunnel.
The vision was sharp and swift. Pink marble flooring; the bottom half of a woman’s vibrant blue gown with intricate floral embroidery; the flash of a footman’s gloved hand holding a silver carving knife; and a woman’s hissing voice:“Fellow! Put that knife down. Who do you think you are, threatening me? I told you to burn that letter! Don’t you know what it could do to me, should it be found?”
A man’s mumbled reply:“It’s tucked away safe.”
The angry woman again:“You fool! You’re trying to blackmail me?”
“Your Grace?”
The narrow tunnel disappeared as Audrey released not only the silver utensil but her glass of champagne too. Both clattered to the marble floor. The glass flute cracked, champagne frothing over the tiles.
She craned her neck to look up and winced at the break of sunlight coming through the glass walls. Her eyes teared quickly. Lady Wimbly stared down at her with a look of distaste and embarrassment. Through her hazy eyes, Audrey noted the peacock blue dress the marchioness was currently wearing, the pattern of violets embroidered along the hem. It was the gown from Audrey’s vision.
“You needn’t pick that up, you know,” she said as Audrey straightened her legs and stood, her head going a little light. “It appears one of my staff has misplaced a piece of silver, and they shall clean it up. Good heavens, Your Grace, you look rather pale.”
Audrey cleared her head with a little shake. “No. No, I’m perfectly fine. I wasn’t sure what I bumped into, that’s all…”
Lady Wimbly shot a severe glare at the nearest footman.
“’Pologies, Your Grace,” the man said but his voice wasn’t the one from the vision. It wasn’t at all cultured or refined, as all of Audrey’s own footmen sounded, but it also wasn’t husky.
Audrey cast a last look at the knife. Someone—one of the footmen—had been threatening the marchioness with it. What was in the letter Lady Wimbly wished for him to burn, and how exactly could it harm her should anyone find it?
“Are you certain you didn’t cut yourself on broken glass? You look peaky, Your Grace.” Lady Wimbly reached for Audrey’s arm, but she staggered back. No more visions. She didn’t think her mind could handle it.
“No, I’m fine. But I believe I should take my leave,” she said, a bit breathless.
Genie came through the curious crowd of ladies, having peeled away from her conversation with Lady Shoreham at last. Her eyes were wide and alarmed, but she warmly thanked the marchioness for her hospitality as Audrey, much too abruptly, left the conservatory. She didn’t suck in another breath until she reached the foyer.
“Audrey?” Genie said as she hurried toward her. “What happened?”
“I’m just a little dizzy,” she answered. “The conservatory was too humid, don’t you think?”
“I suppose, yes,” she murmured as their cloaks were brought.
They waited outdoors while Genie’s carriage was fetched.
“You’re acting very strangely, Audrey,” Genie said once they were settled within the carriage. “Did someone say something to you? I thought everyone was rather understanding. Cool, yes, but not cruel.”
The only harsh comments made had been those about Mr. Marsden, which Audrey had needed to restrain herself from speaking out against. “No, I…I shouldn’t have come.”
Genie sighed and fiddled with her lace gloves. “It’s my fault. I thought it would do you some good to be among our set again, and perhaps learn something useful for Philip, but...perhaps I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
She smiled weakly at her sister-in-law. “And I’m sorry I forced you to leave earlier than the others.”
