Page 87 of Murder at the Seven Dials
With a growl, Wimbly aimed at Audrey and pulled the trigger. Hugh dove toward the duchess, but the pistol only gave off a mutedpluffof a discharge and a small spark. Wimbly stared impotently at the useless weapon—until Thornton slammed his fist into the marquess’s jaw. He disarmed him, then tossed the flintlock back to Hugh.
He caught it, his heartbeat slowing as he looked Audrey over. Her eyes were wide with alarm at being shot at yet again but was otherwise unharmed.
Hugh turned to Wimbly’s driver. “The marquess needs a ride to number four Bow Street. And on second thought, Wimbly, I think I will ride along with you.”
Thornton nudged the marquess toward the conveyance.
“Susan, fetch our solicitor,” Wimbly snapped at the marchioness.
She gathered her skirts. “Fetch him yourself,” she spit, and then turned on her heel and stormed back toward the manor.
Hugh watched her go, unconcerned. She was as low as her husband for knowing the truth and trying to conceal it, but she hadn’t been involved in the planning of Miss Lovejoy’s murder.
“She’ll be on her way to their country estate before morning,” Audrey said as she joined Hugh at the carriage.
“Once news of all this gets out, she won’t ever return to London. Nor will St. John, I imagine,” he replied.
Audrey touched his sleeve. “Mr. Marsden, if the marquess tells the magistrate about Philip and St. John and why he hired Fellows—”
Hugh took her uninjured shoulder in his hand and stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I will talk to Wimbly on the way to Bow Street. He knows he’s finished, but he won’t want to muddy his son’s name any more than he already has. It won’t take much to convince him to claim mere jealousy of his son’s involvement with Miss Lovejoy drove him to plan the murder and attempt to pin it on the duke.”
For the marquess, protecting the family name had been his ultimate logic, and to him, murder had seemed an equally logical action. It seemed so pointless, all of it. The aristocracy always had seemed that way, at least to Hugh. All of them working so hard to perfect their façade and cover up their truths, their secrets. Everything that made themreal.
He let out a breath, still holding Audrey’s good shoulder. She trembled. “You need warm, dry clothes.”
“I’ll have Mr. Thornton’s driver bring me home,” she said.
He peered at her. “Your being so readily agreeable makes me suspicious.”
“Still suspicious? Even after I just saved your hide?”
He huffed a laugh and held up his hands in surrender, reluctantly letting her go.
“Merryton,” Thornton said, greeting his driver as he appeared in the courtyard, likely drawn from his post at the earlier commotion. “See Her Grace to Violet House and then meet me at Bow Street.”
What Hugh wanted was to see her to Violet House himself. The lady, however, was more than capable.
“A hide for a hide.” Hugh hopped up into the carriage. “I think this means we’re square, Your Grace.”
She took a playful curtsey, made all the more difficult with her wet gown and injured shoulder, as the driver snapped the reins. As the carriage circled the courtyard and headed toward the street, Hugh sat back, grinning.
“This could be a problem,” Thornton mumbled from the opposite bench, his pistol still trained on Wimbly, who was already sporting a large bruise on his eye.
Hugh frowned, his smile slipping. “What might?”
His friend tipped up the brim of his hat and crinkled his forehead. “She is a duchess.”
The meaning of his statement landed like a stone. Hugh scowled. “Don’t be an arse.”
Thornton chuckled, but Hugh didn’t appreciate his humor. His friend’s assumption rankled. He knew full well what Audrey was. Whatever Thornton thought he’d seen, he was wrong. She might have turned out to have more depth, more substance and courage than anyone he’d known within the ton—other than Thornton himself, of course. But she was still a duchess. A married one, at that.
After the duke was released and cleared of all charges, they would have no reason to enter one another’s social spheres again. Audrey and her duke could carry on and start to repair the damage done to their reputations. It wouldn’t be easy. But Hugh didn’t want to see it be any more difficult than it already promised to be. He shifted his dark glare toward the marquess.
“Wimbly, we need to discuss your confession before we reach Bow Street.”
ChapterTwenty-Four
The home was nondescript and narrow, but well kept, and from where she stood on the front steps, Audrey considered just how suited it was to a man like Mr. Hugh Marsden. The limestone exterior of number 19 Bedford Street was clean, but not pristine; the windows tidy, but not gleaming. There were no adornments or potted shrubbery outside his plain black front door. It was as straightforward as the officer was.
