Page 88 of Murder at the Seven Dials
She let go of a breath and brought the knocker down thrice.
It had been over a week since the night of Wimbly’s arrest. Philip had been released at once, and Audrey had met him in the front hall at Violet House, where they had clung to one another, their cheeks wet from tears. After a long, hot bath and an overlarge meal, Audrey and Philip had stayed awake into the early hours of the morning reviewing everything that had happened.
When he’d seen her bandaged shoulder, Philip insisted on calling for their doctor first thing the next morning, to be sure her wound wasn’t festering. Dr. Ryburg had allayed the duke’s worries—Mr. Thornton had done an admirable job. Philip, though relieved, had still been furious with her decision to face Fellows alone.
However, he was too happy to be home and absolved from all charges to remain angry with her for very long.
The door swung open, and Mr. Marsden’s valet, Basil, peered down at her. His expression gave away no hint of a reaction at seeing her, though she knew her appearance here at Mr. Marsden’s home was irregular.
“Your Grace do come in,” Basil said, politely stepping aside.
Audrey entered, as invited, and behind her, Greer, too, alighted into the modest home. It would make tongues wag if anyone were to see her at the Bow Street officer’s home, but if she were to be seen arriving alone, it would be a disgrace for both her and Mr. Marsden. They were only just emerging from one scandal; there was no need to willingly plunge them into another.
“Thank you, Basil. Is Officer Marsden at home?” she asked as the valet snicked the door shut.
As it was a Sunday afternoon, she hoped he would not be at Bow Street.
“He is,” Basil replied, his eyes lifting toward the stairs behind her.
Mr. Marsden was taking the stairs, shrugging on a jacket over his shirtsleeves. “Aud—Your Grace.” The near slip of her given name flustered her, and for a moment, she forgot why she had come.
“Officer Marsden.” Her tone sounded unnecessarily rigid. She hadn’t meant it as a reprimand, but his chagrinned expression hinted he’d taken it as such. He came off the last step and gestured toward a room to the right.
Audrey sent Greer a glance. Her maid nodded before stepping aside, Basil politely guiding her into the room to the left, to wait. Mr. Marsden followed Audrey into what appeared to be a sitting room that doubled as a library. The furniture was unpretentious, though clearly of good quality and most certainly masculine. Leather, mahogany, wood panels, and dark tones reminded her of Philip’s study.
Mr. Marsden lived in comfort and was of apparent means much more suited to a gentleman than to a working-class Bow Street Runner.
“How is your shoulder?” he asked as he came to stand before the fireless hearth. Audrey realized she was staring at the room and snapped to attention.
“Healing well,” she replied, rolling it a little as if to demonstrate. “Mr. Thornton called on me earlier in the week to check in. He’s quite an exemplary physician.”
Mr. Marsden crossed his arms. “He’s a good man. I’m glad to hear you’re well. And the duke?”
Unexpected strain wove itself through Audrey. They were respectful comments and questions. Civil. But they seemed to come from a chilly distance. It had only been a week since she had seen Mr. Marsden, but already, the time she had spent with him seemed like another life. She’d been given no opportunity to see him the last several days, let alone speak to him. It was partially frustrating, suddenly feeling penned in. Limited. As Philip recuperated at Violet House and she allowed her shoulder to heal, she’d been restless and despondent. Which made no sense, considering her husband was home and safe. It was what she had wanted most.
Her smile felt forced. “He is well, thank you.”
Silence stretched another moment, with Mr. Marsden standing solid as a statue. She cleared her throat. “I’ve come to say thank you and goodbye.”
He winced but swiftly smoothed his brow. “Goodbye, is it?”
“The duke and I are leaving tomorrow for Fournier Downs. I expect we will stay through the summer.”
Even though Philip had been vindicated, there had been few shows of support the last week from the people who had once called him friend. The Duke of Fournier still stank of scandal and except for Michael and Genie, he and Audrey had found themselves quite alone.
Fellows had been arrested and charged with the murders of Miss Lovejoy and Mr. Bernadetto and had been locked away in Newgate. He would hang, there was no doubt about it.
The Marquess of Wimbly’s fate was a bit more complicated than that. He’d denied hiring Fellows, but the letter Audrey had found on theJackdawhad dried out and though the ink had run, the letterhead cast no doubt that the paper had come from his private stationary. The marchioness had decamped to their country estate, as expected, but her lady’s maid had quit and given her statement to the magistrate, relating what she heard the marquess confess—everything except, thankfully, the mention of St. John and the duke being involved romantically. Whether Mr. Marsden had convinced her to stay mum on the topic, Audrey wasn’t sure. She leaned toward that assumption, however. Paired with Mr. Thornton’s own statement, the magistrate had sent the case to the grand jury. From there, Audrey could only hope it would continue to trial.
Belladora Lovejoy and Mr. Bernadetto deserved that much, at least.
“I see,” Mr. Marsden said, nodding slowly. “The fickle ton is showing its true colors.”
Though it was a snide comment, it relieved her. At least Mr. Marsden was sounding more like himself.
“I had already seen them, thank you,” she said with an arch of her brow. Though he allowed a half grin at her reply, they fell into another strained silence.
Perhaps coming here had been a mistake, but Audrey had not wanted to leave London without at least acknowledging his help in exonerating the duke. And in saving her life.
