Page 72 of Murder at the Seven Dials
He slammed his fist on the table. “Leave her alone, Marsden. She has nothing to do with this.”
It was the most the duke had said to him to date. Hugh wasn’t about to relent now.
“Unfortunately, she has much to do with it now that she’s cast herself as your liberator. Her Grace is determined to see you redeemed.” He tossed aside the corner of the napkin covering the basket. “Biscuit?”
The duke ignored the blithe offer. “I don’t know what you did to force her hand, but Audrey has suffered enough for what she can do. If you dare use this against her—”
“I have no intention of revealing her secret. Or yours, for that matter.” Hugh removed a biscuit. “May I?”
The duke rolled his eyes to the ceiling and waved a hand. Hugh took a bite. Rosemary and salt exploded on his tongue.
“You really shouldn’t let these go to waste,” he said, mouth still full.
“I’m not sitting here to discuss biscuits with you, Marsden. Tell me what you want.”
He thumbed the corner of his mouth and a crumb there. “Are you involved with St. John?”
The duke’s fury vanished; his expression slackened, and he sat back in his chair, as if someone had shoved him square in the chest. He said nothing.
“St. John was there that night. I know because the duchess saw it in her unique way,” he went on.
“What does it matter now? You have your man.”
“The real murderer is still loose and has already killed again.” Hugh rolled his shoulders, trying to release some tension. It didn’t work. “Her Grace won’t relent until he is caught. She could find herself in a great deal of danger.”
He didn’t reveal that she had been with him the day Bernadetto was murdered, or that someone had been spotted following her. Diverting the duke’s attention and focus wouldn’t be wise.
“Don’t pretend to care for my wife’s welfare.”
Hugh locked eyes with the duke, his pulse picking up tempo. “I aim to keep her safe—something you, at this moment, are unable to do.” The duke seared him with a glare, but Hugh continued, “To do that, I need to know more about St. John’s visit to your rooms that night.”
The request hung in the air between them, as did the pointed insinuation that Hugh was better poised to protect the duchess. After a moment, Fournier’s provoked expression changed: a softening of the lines around his eyes.
“What does it matter?” he shifted in his chair and quickly added, “He had already left.”
Finally. The wall the duke had built around the events of that night had been breached. Hugh proceeded cautiously, aware of Fournier’s extreme discomfort.
“Had St. John arranged for Miss Lovejoy to meet you at your rooms?”
“Of course not.” The duke clenched his jaw. He lowered his voice. “We always met alone.”
Audrey had made it clear women didn’t tempt the duke, so a rendezvous between the threesome would not appeal.
“When did she arrive?”
Fournier rubbed his temple. “I don’t know. St. John had left already, and I’d…I’d taken a dram of laudanum. We’d fought, you see, and I was on edge.”
“What was the argument about?” Hugh leaned forward. “Miss Lovejoy?”
Fournier grimaced. “No, no. She had nothing to do with it. I knew, of course, that he was seeing her, but…it didn’t matter. The issue was about his mother.”
“The marchioness,” Hugh murmured, recalling the duchess’s report of an argument between Lady Wimbly and the footman.
“She’d grown suspicious of Auggie’s outings and had him followed. We were discovered, and Lady Wimbly demanded that he end things with me.”
“Did he?”
Fournier shook his head, eyes still hinged on the open door to his room. “No. But he didn’t tell me about her demands; he kept me in the dark, and all the while Lady Wimbly was threatening to reveal what she knew. Finally, that night, he did say something and…I became angry. If I had known what she was threatening…”
