Page 10 of Murder at the Seven Dials
The heel of Audrey’s boot came down onto something, and whatever it was ground into the floor. It felt like a small rock, but when she lifted her foot, saw it was a drop pearl and black crystal earbob, strung on wire with a slim hook. Audrey crouched. It belonged, she presumed, to the opera singer.
Gathering a breath, she picked up the piece of jewelry, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. With barely a nudge from her mind, the earbob’s energy leaped into view. A chaotic blur of the room spun around her. Pale white arms flailed before Audrey’s eyes…a woman’s arms. Her fingernails clawed into the floor as someone dragged her. Her eardrums vibrated with gargled screams and panicked breaths.
Horrified, she dropped the earbob. It fell to the floor, and the memory vanished. The candle’s flame warmed her cheek as she stayed there, crouched next to the piece of jewelry.Belladora Lovejoy. The name of the opera singer. The woman whose arms Audrey had just seen thrashing. She’d been knocked to the floor. Attacked. How many more moments had passed before she’d been murdered?
The earbob had more to show her, and Audrey had no choice but to watch if she wanted to prove her husband innocent. Perhaps the true murderer would be revealed in the bundle of retained energy clinging to the piece of jewelry. It would be nothing she could show Mr. Marsden or the magistrate, or even Mr. Potridge or Michael. Philip, of course, would believe her, but that was only because he knew what she could do. He had been well aware of it before he’d proposed marriage, and he’d promised to keep her secret so long as she, in turn, kept his. At Bow Street, she had not been able to explain thatifPhilip had chosen to stray, he would have done so with another man.
However, Philip had promised Audrey that he would never take a lover without first telling her of his intentions. She had agreed to do the same, though that had not yet come to pass, and she couldn’t imagine it would. Theirs was a marriage of friendship and respect, and she trusted Philip. Whatever had happened to Miss Lovejoy in this cursed room the evening before, it was not at all what Mr. Marsden believed it to be. She had to find out how her husband had become involved in this madness.
Audrey prepared herself for another plunge into the last memories the earbob offered and picked it up again. She opened her mind to the shaky, fragmented vision of being rolled over. Miss Lovejoy’s battering arms again came up into view, beating back some dark outline. Audrey made out the profile of an ear, the side of a closely shorn head, dark hair the color of ink—
“What are you doing in here?”
Not a voice from the vision.
Audrey shot up from her crouch. She spun around, lashing out with the candle into the space directly behind her. A firm hand caught her forearm. In the second before hot wax lurched onto the burning wick and doused the small flame, Audrey saw the shadowy face of the man who’d sneaked up behind her.
She cursed under her breath. “You.”
ChapterFour
“Of all the stupid things I’ve witnessed over the years, this one truly shines,” Hugh said, his fingers still wrapped around the duchess’s slim arm.
“Unhand me,” she demanded, yanking free of his grasp, and stepping aside.
Hugh had entered the duke’s rooms soundlessly moments ago to find the lady crouching near the four-poster. Sir’s tip-off that the duchess had indeed gone to Jewell House as expected had sent Hugh’s temper roof-ward.
“This is a crime scene, Your Grace. It is also the middle of the night. You should not be here lurking about,alone.”
The naïve, utterly careless chit. Did she have no idea what went on beyond the sculpted lawns of her manor house? Last night at Bow Street, when she’d marched right into the cellar of the Brown Bear, dismissing his order to leave, he’d known she would be a condescending snob. Though, he hadn’t quite believed she would be so senseless as to visit Jewell House alone.
He had given her an address, but she had known which room belonged to the duke, and so how ignorant could she truly be?
“I certainly could not have come here during the day,” she answered.
“You should not have come at all.”
The duchess moved again, this time toward the windows. “How did you know to find me here?”
He snorted a laugh. She’d lacked any finesse in extricating the address for Jewell House from him. Almost immediately, Hugh had sent one of the lackeys at Bow Street to find Sir. The boy had been instructed to report back should she make her way to the Dials, and just past midnight, Sir’s rapid knocking on his front door had roused him. He’d flagged a hack and left for Jewell House within minutes.
“The question, Your Grace, iswhyhave I found you here?”
He took a step toward her, wanting to shepherd her into the thin moonlight falling in bands across the room. He wanted to see her expression. Lying women tended to hike their chins or flare their nostrils; they often fidgeted with their fingers or hair or earlobes.
“It is simple,” she said, her face still lost in the darkness. “I’m here to conduct my own investigation.”
He felt no humor in this, only a stab of reproach. “Need I remind you thatIam the Bow Street officer, andyouare a duchess?”
“I require no reminder. However, I wonder if perhaps you do? I have told you time and again that my husband is innocent and yet you refuse the possibility.”
“Forgive me for favoringevidenceover the delusional opinion of a suspect’s wife,” Hugh replied, his jaw tight. The woman infuriated him with the way she so comfortably sat upon her privilege and rejected the sound facts of the case.
“I am not delusional.” Her voice grew soft. Defensive. Hugh stopped to consider; his senses were well honed to play off another person’s weakness.
“No, perhaps not. Perhaps you’ve come here not to investigate, but to tidy up.”
The air between them went rigid. “What do you mean by that?” she hissed.
