Page 66 of Murder at the Seven Dials
A response arrived that same evening, delivered by Sir to her back door and brought to Audrey by Greer.I’ll see you there, was all it said. She’d set the slip of paper on her lap, running her fingertips along the inked words. She’d opened her mind, allowing the paper to show her the image of her kitchen maid, scowling at Sir as he presented her with the message, then further back, to the image of Mr. Marsden at a desk, folding the note and handing it to the boy.
She couldn’t picture Mr. Marsden attending the opera. It was unlikely he even possessed the proper attire. Then again, he did employ a valet. With that thought, she’d asked Greer to bring her the most conservative gown she owned.
Her lady’s maid had only blinked when Audrey explained it would be for the opera but had asked no questions. Instead, Greer made her opinion clear in the choice of dress: a deep maroon silk with black pearl trimming and not a ruffle or frothy bow in sight. As Mr. Marsden had said, with the duke about to go to trial for murder, attending the opera would be scandalous. A benefit luncheon was one thing. An evening at the opera was quite another. A somber gown would not dissuade the gossips from lighting London’s upper crust on fire with the news of her outing, but at least she might appear solemn, attempting to keep a firm chin through it all, rather than celebratory.
She began to sweat on the ride to the theatre, despite the late April chill. Even during normal circumstances, she deplored having so many eyes assessing her, and tonight it would be an onslaught. If St. John was not seated in the Wimbly box across the theatre from her own for the first act, she and Greer, who had come as her companion, would certainly not stay past intermission. But that still left her with an hour or more to endure the endless stares and whispers.
Carrigan pulled into the queue of carriages and as soon as she was helped to the curb, eyes found her. Heads bent together and lips moved swiftly. She took a breath and cut her gaze straight ahead as she walked into the theatre, trailed closely by Greer.
“Would you like me to await you in the withdrawing room, Your Grace?” she asked. It was where the rest of the maids would be.
“Thank you, Greer,” she replied. “Don’t be alarmed if I don’t meet you during intermission.”
She nodded knowingly and departed. Audrey took the carpeted steps to the third level, where her box was located, and as soon as she entered, she closed the door and stood with her back against it. That had been a lot tougher than she’d suspected it would be. Not one person she’d passed had so much as nodded in greeting, let alone addressed her.
Attending Lady Wimbly’s benefit luncheon had done nothing to repair her tattered status among the ton. Audrey was now a social outcast through and through. A part of her—a very large one—wished to flee. Just turn around, find Greer, and meet Carrigan in the queue outside. It would be easier. However, there would never be a time again when eyes did not stare, and mouths didn’t whisper. Best to stay and see through the task she’d out to accomplish.
Several frenzied heartbeats later, Audrey released a long breath and stepped from the shadowy recess of her private box, into the light. Faces turned in her direction, the most obvious ones from the long benches of the house seats below. After a thorough sweep of each row, where the lower gentry classes were seated hip to hip, her chest tightened. Unless he was running late, Hugh Marsden wasn’t in attendance. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to secure a ticket after all.
No matter. Audrey could accomplish her goal with or without him. She peered across the house floor to the partitioned private boxes, stacked five high, a dozen to a row. Most were filled with their occupants, including the Wimbly box.
A young man sat with an insouciant slouch, as though already bored, surrounded by two ladies and two men. A chime of recognition echoed in the back of her mind. She had seen this young man before, though not at any of Lady Wimbly’s parties. He had dark hair, the style a bit long to accentuate the soft curl of it. He was handsome in a refined and haughty sort of way. Beside him, Audrey recognized Lord Ashbrook, the heir to an earldom, and his sister Lady Mary, but the other two guests were unfamiliar. They all seemed merry, except for St. John.
His attention drifted toward her box. She quickly cut her eyes away, not wanting to be caught staring. But then, she startled as her eyes met with a person who had already been looking at her. He sat in a box on the second level, in a fine black suit and a snow-white cravat. Hugh Marsden held her stunned gaze, the corner of his lips resisting an amused grin.
Audrey snapped her parted lips back together, the momentary lapse of decorum embarrassing. What on earth was he doing in Lord Lindstrom’s private box? The man seated next to him wore a suit just as stylish and bespoke as Mr. Marsden’s, though he was unfamiliar. Lindstrom, a marquess, had a handful of sons. This might have been one of his spares, since it certainly wasn’t his heir, Lord Chandler. Audrey quizzed the Bow Street officer with a frown and a widening of her eyes as she shifted them toward his companion, but of course, he had no way of explaining just now. It didn’t matter anyhow, she supposed. He was here as he’d said he would be, and at intermission, she would make it her mission to bump into St. John.
Looking up at his box, she was again put off her guard to find the young man staring at her. She drew in a sharp breath and forced a gracious nod of her head in acknowledgement. St. John’s expression was flat, unaffected, and yet the way he shifted his gaze toward the stage without recognizing her greeting, hinted at tension. As if he was unsettled by her presence.
Perhaps Greer’s cousin hadn’t been as circumspect as Audrey had hoped. St. John might know that she was here for him, not the performance.
The orchestra in the pit below had started to warm their brass and strings, and finally, were ready to begin. As the stage filled and the music and voices rose toward the muraled plaster ceiling, Audrey stole quick glimpses toward the Lindstrom box, then the Wimbly one. St. John seemed to be totally devoted to the performance, while his companions whispered and laughed together. It was as if he was doggedly trying not to meet Audrey’s eyes again. Although, it was just a suspicion. She had no earthly idea what was going through his mind, or if her presence even registered.
On the other hand, she and Mr. Marsden clashed eyes time and again. Whenever she caught him watching the performance, his expression was as bored as St. John’s.
Feeling ill with agitation, the minutes slowly ticked forward. Finally, the first act concluded. Intermission was upon them. Audrey stood, palms damp within her maroon gloves. With what felt like a stone in the pit of her stomach, she left the private box and made her way to a refreshments room on the second level. A bell would signal them back to their seats for the second act in thirty minutes, and until then everyone would bombard the large room for punch and sweets.
As expected, the throngs of operagoers were thick, the air humid and close. Perfume and cologne filled Audrey’s nose as she entered the long room, alone. And good lord, she’d never felt more alone than she did right then. Once again, eyes settled on her and bodies shifted away, as if just by being in her presence they, too, would be tainted.
She maintained what she hoped was a regal, unaffected expression as she whisked a glass of champagne from a table. Her eyes darted from person to person as she sipped, skating over the looks of censure, awe, and pity. After a few minutes of mounting unease, she saw St. John within a small grouping of people near the refreshments table. He stood tall, his chin lifted, hands clasped behind his back as he observed the conversation around him without participating.
Audrey sipped her champagne and made her way toward him. She wasn’t stealthy enough. He caught a glimpse of her approach, and his eyes widened with poorly masked alarm. A memory slammed into her then. While walking through Hyde Park, near the Serpentine with Genie just a few days before, he had been picnicking with friends. He’d been wearing a linen suit and boater hat and had quickly turned away when he and Audrey had met eyes.
Just as Mr. Marsden had said he would, St. John now made to avoid her. With a nod to those around him, he slipped to the right, behind another throng of operagoers. She narrowed her eyes at his attempt—as if it wouldn’t only increase her determination.
She followed him, threading through the room while keeping her eyes on his back and the dark curls trailing below the silk brim of his top hat. At last, a woman stepped into St. John’s path. At her sides were two younger versions of herself, and all three wore coquettish grins. Audrey hastened forward. This was her chance.
“Lord St. John,” Audrey said as she appeared at his side. “I’m so happy to bump into you. I wondered if I might implore you to pass along my gratitude to your mother—” With artificial surprise, she belatedly gaped at the woman and her two daughters, as if she had not seen them standing there before now. “Oh, do forgive me. Were you speaking?”
The woman’s false smile had been replaced with flared nostrils and a tight stretch of the lips that now only slightly resembled a grin. “Not at all, Your Grace. My daughters and I were…just moving on, weren’t we girls? Come along. Good evening, Your Grace. Your lordship,” she said and with a quick curtsey, whisked her daughters away.
Whoever the woman had been, she’d known the duchess on sight, and as Audrey had hoped, hadn’t wanted to be in her company a moment longer than necessary. Gracious, the woman had not even taken the opportunity to introduce herself. She truly was a leper among the ton now, it seemed. And as St. John, the future Marquess of Wimbly stiffened at her side, she realized he, too, wished to escape.
“I will pass along your good words to my mother, Your Grace.” He bowed and started to move away.
“I hoped to speak to you on another matter as well,” she said quickly, stepping alongside him again. His agitation was palpable, though not like his father’s had been at the Seven Sins. While Wimbly had been incensed, St. John seemed cagey. Eager to be away. She glanced up at him, and from this angle, noticed a small mole on the side of his left cheek. For a moment, she forgot what she was about to say.
“I believe I can speculate on what matter you refer to,” he said, keeping his voice low.
