Page 6 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“Whose blood?” she asked.
The Bow Street officer hesitated, as if considering withholding the answer. Audrey was ready to demand a response when he finally replied, “Miss Belladora Lovejoy. An opera singer at Drury Lane.”
The mention of the Theatre Royal at Drury Lane gave her pause, but with the officer’s eyes hinged on her, she knew to keep her expression unaffected. Philip had a box at both Drury Lane and Covent Garden and enjoyed attending—much more than she did. Had he known this woman?
“And you believe my husband killed her?”
“Yes.”
“What proof do you have?”
“That is for me to present to the magistrate when he arrives in the morning.”
The man’s refusal to answer kicked like an insult—something Audrey, as Duchess of Fournier for the past few years, was not accustomed to.
“As acting counsel for His Grace at present, youwilldisclose to me what led you to arrest him,” Michael said.
It took the officer another few seconds to release Audrey from his intent glare. When he finally did, she drew in a silent gulp of air. Who the devil was this man?
“He was found in rooms leased under a fictitious name, with Miss Lovejoy’s mutilated body in close proximity. He was the only one present at the time of discovery, drenched, as I stated, in blood. The apparent murder weapon, a boning knife, was at his side.”
The words were nonsensical. Audrey could not comprehend any of it. Her instinct to shoutNo!to everything the man said reared its head, but she kept it in check. She would not make a scene and be ordered out of this cellar.
“My husband does not keep an apartment in the Dials,” she stated levelly. “Have you searched for the man whose name is attached to the lease?”
“He doesn’t exist. As I told you, it is a fictitious name,” the officer replied.
“How can you be so sure?” she pressed.
He paced the width of the cellar taking short, agitated strides. “The landlord confirmed His Grace was the tenant. He knew him by the name supplied on the lease, a Mr. Maxwell Penny. He has been leasing these rooms for months. Your Grace—” he stopped and clenched his hands into fists. “I understand this is no way for a wife to learn of her husband’s liaisons—”
“Stop.” Audrey’s voice cracked off the walls. The man did as she commanded and stared at her once again. “You are wrong, officer—what is your name, sir?”
By his pressed-thin lips, he appeared to be fighting the urge to groan. “Principal Officer Hugh Marsden. And my apologies, but it is quite certain. Due to Miss Lovejoy’s…appearance when she was discovered, it’s clear that she was in the duke’s rooms as his mistress.”
“Enough,” Michael barked before Audrey could argue once again. “There is no need to be vulgar.”
“On the contrary, Lord Herrick. Considering where we are all standing, there is no escaping it,” Mr. Marsden replied, his dark eyes still centered on Audrey. Almost as if he suspected her of some crime as well.
She kept her mouth shut as Michael went to Philip’s side.
“Say something, brother.” He leaned over to peer into Philip’s face, which was aimed at the dirty floor. “My God, you must speak for yourself. Explain what has happened.”
“He won’t,” Mr. Marsden put in. “I suspect he is in a fair amount of stupor.”
Michael straightened his back and turned to glare at Mr. Marsden. Audrey kept her eyes upon her husband. He wouldn’t stop kneading the tops of his thighs with his fingers. They were unclean, with dirt around the nails. Or perhaps, she thought with a shock of horror, it was not dirt at all.
“And why wouldn’t he be? Thrown into a hole such as this,” Michael said, still sneering.
Mr. Marsden ignored the comment. “I’m bringing him before the magistrate in a few hours—”
“Not before Potridge arrives,” Michael cut in.
“Then you best hope he arrives soon.” The officer reached for a coat upon a stool and tugged it on.
Audrey went to Philip’s side, her skirts brushing against the dirty cellar floor. She didn’t care about the filth. She crouched before him, taking his stained fingers into her hands. Had she removed her gloves, the touch might have shown her something. Nothing definite, though. Objects were easiest to read, while skin-to-skin contact was more fickle.
“Philip,” she implored softly. “Look at me.”
