Page 71 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Surprise leaked over his expression in the barest twitch of his brow. “The duke saved you from a marriage to Bainbury, and you accepted him as he was.”
Audrey pressed her lips thin, her defenses rising. “It wasn’t as transactional as that. We were already friends.”
At the time, she’d been accused of being a fortune hunter, of breaking a marriage contract to elevate herself in society and wealth. There were some who believed it had been a love match, and Audrey and Philip had certainly tried to exude that in the first year of marriage. Standing close, smiling at each other, Philip lavishing her with presents and adoration.
“Yet you knew he would never be able to give you his heart,” Mr. Marsden said. It was a question posed as a comment; something she imagined he did regularly with those he arrested and interrogated at Bow Street.
She stepped past him suddenly regretful she’d been so accommodating. “You know nothing of his heart. Philip loves me, and I love him.”
“Though differently than other married couples.”
“What does that matter? There is nothing stronger than a marriage based on friendship and trust. That requires heart as well, Mr. Marsden.”
Her voice had been steadily rising, and the sudden hush in the study now was startling. She took a breath, trying to calm herself as the officer mulled over her declaration.
He walked toward the door, where she’d thoughtlessly stepped. It seemed her mind had decided she was done with this conversation.
“I can’t argue with that.” He paused at the door and met her surprised gaze. “I only hope he is as devoted to you as you are to him. I’ll take my leave. Good evening, Your Grace.”
He slipped from the room. Audrey’s lips gaped, her shoulders sagged. Devoted? Of course Philip was devoted to her. He’d made mistakes, had caused some pain, but had, for the most part, stayed committed to their marriage agreement—he would keep her secrets, and she would keep his; he would never require her to share his bed. They’d also agreed that should either of them take a lover, they would be honest and upfront about it. That had not happened, she knew now. He’d gone behind her back. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t devoted. Did it?
Audrey went to her room, but as she stripped out of her gown and sank into the hot bath Greer had prepared, Hugh Marsden’s parting comment clung. It settled into her pores and refused to be scrubbed out.
* * *
If it had beenany crime other than murder, especially one so horrific as Miss Lovejoy’s, the Duke of Fournier would have been released from Bow Street almost immediately. He would have been allowed back into the comfort of his home, free to leisure about with his daily routine while he awaited progress on the status of his legal case.
However, the magistrate had deemed His Grace too much of a risk, to himself and to others. There was also the high probability that the duke would abscond to the Continent to avoid trial. He had the means and the contacts to make it happen. So, he’d been locked up for the past several days. Still, the room above the Brown Bear tavern was a sight better than anything a commoner would have seen at Newgate.
Hugh climbed to the second level of the tavern, to where the duke was being held in his makeshift cell. A maid was being sent over from Violet House each day with a basket of food, though most of it was left untouched. The basket sat outside the locked door now, on the floor. The constable guarding the room had a will of pure steel to not have dug in himself already. Hugh lifted the parcel, heavy with biscuits, a small jar of honey, cured meat, and a hand pie. He knocked on the door, unlocked it, and shoved it open.
The duke was sitting upright on his cot, reading a book. His own clothing had also been delivered to him from Violet House and so he at least appeared clean and put together, though he’d left his collar undone, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. He glared at Hugh.
“What is it?” he demanded, as if Hugh had trespassed onto his ducal property. He bit his tongue against an inflaming reply.
“We need to speak.” Without waiting for Fournier to agree, Hugh placed the basket on the otherwise bare table and pulled out a chair. He lowered himself into it.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Fournier announced.
“It concerns the duchess.”
As he’d hoped, the statement lured the duke to the table. His face tightened with concern. “What about her? Has something happened?”
Good. At least the man appeared to care for her wellbeing. Hugh gestured to the chair opposite his, and with a resigned sigh, the duke sat.
“What is this about?”
The man had no patience for preamble, and neither did Hugh.
“You should know that I’ve discovered what you were really using that apartment at Jewell House for.” Fournier sat rigid, expressionless. “Her Grace said nothing. In fact, she went to great lengths to conceal the truth. About her own secret as well.”
Now, the duke’s steely-eyed glare changed. His nostrils flared and he sat forward, as if about to speak. But then, he sat back again, holding his tongue.
“She displayed her ability and explained how she’s been using it to investigate Miss Lovejoy’s murder,” Hugh went on.
Fournier seethed. “She would never. Unless you forced her hand.”
Hugh shrugged. “I may have persuaded her to come forward with it.”
