Page 13 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“I wouldn’t have put it past you to stay and stomp around the room asking your questions.”
“If I chose to do so, it would be none of your concern.”
Abruptly, Hugh’s indulgence ran dry. He stopped and turned, causing the duchess to come just short of crashing into him.
“You seem woefully ignorant of your own actions tonight, Your Grace. You might be accustomed to your world parting like the Red Sea before you, but I advise a better look at your surroundings. No one here gives a damn who you are.”
She glared, first in shock and then, as her eyes narrowed to slits, in fury. “It is not your responsibility to act as my guide, Officer Marsden. I neither asked for it nor do I want it.”
“On the contrary,” he said, his patience unraveling. “You are the wife of a murder suspect I’ve just sent before the magistrate. I would be remiss in my duties if I turned a blind eye to whatever you are currently doing to thwart my investigation.”
Twin, depthless pupils flared with new fury. Any well-heeled lady of the peerage would have turned up her nose and ignored him. Once again, the duchess deviated from her set role.
She took a step closer. In the stuffy, tapered corridor, Hugh scented the barest trace of rose water. He held himself perfectly still as she set the delicately squared edge of her jaw.
“Are you so afraid that I will succeed in thwarting your case?”
“Hardly.”
“Then I wonder why you’ve chosen to tag along with me tonight.”
“Perhaps it is because I am a gentleman,” he said through gritted teeth.
Her lips bowed into a sudden grin. “A gentleman. Why, Mr. Marsden, you should join the actors and take to the stage with a line so well delivered.”
She nudged past him, her shoulder brushing his arm. Hugh didn’t know whether to laugh or groan with frustration. The woman had gall, that much was evident. And she had the right of it: Hugh was no gentleman, not in title nor in practice.
Still, her dismissal pricked and drew up memories like beads of blood. A face surfaced in his mind. Lady Eloisa Neatham, so young and demure and fragile. So easily broken. The Duchess of Fournier might be young, but she was neither demure nor fragile. At least not in any visible way. He scowled as he stayed on her heels toward a second room, aglow with lamplight. This was the reason he avoided the elite whenever possible. They reminded him far too much of his life before Bow Street.
The headstrong duchess whisked right through the open door, into the lit room. It housed a cluttered desk, lamps, a number of cabinets, a few racks of clothing, and a slim bed, the bedding of which was unmade, along with a chamber pot pulled out from underneath the bedframe. It looked as if the manager lived here.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said to a rumpled-looking man in shirtsleeves behind the desk, his attention on a ledger before him. He lowered his pipe and blinked owlishly.
“My lady?” Astutely and swiftly, he’d recognized her position. He stood up and immediately reached for the jacket over the back of his chair.
“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour,” she began. Hugh noted it was the first apology she’d made that night. “However, I’m looking for some information on an actress you’ve employed.”
The manager visibly stalled as he shrugged into his jacket and extinguished his pipe. He put on a showman’s smile, filled with gracious hospitality. Hugh kept his own expression blank when the manager’s eyes skipped toward him, then away.
“Of course, my lady, but first, may I introduce myself? Ignacio Bernadetto, at your service.” He bowed deeply after coming around the desk to stand before the duchess. As he straightened, Bernadetto reached for his top hat, on the chair in front of the desk, and popped it into place.
“Mr. Bernadetto, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Audrey Sinclair, Duchess of Fournier.”
At her name, the manager’s welcoming grin sunk faster than a rock tossed in the Thames. His complexion turned ruddy, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“Your Grace.” He ran a palm down the front of his jacket. “You are here to inquire about Miss Lovejoy.”
Hugh stepped into the cramped office. “You are aware then, that the Duke of Fournier was arrested in connection with her death?”
Bernadetto observed Hugh, his nostrils flaring as he took stock of him. Quickly, he must have deduced he was not of the same station as the lady, for he sniffed at him. “And you are, sir?”
The duchess spoke before Hugh could. “A private inquiry agent assisting me with the gathering of facts.”
She peered at him, those spring green eyes flashing with a dare to refute the statement. He bit back the urge, wanting only to keep Bernadetto talking. If he knew Hugh hailed from Bow Street, he might clam up entirely. It seemed the duchess had the forethought to know that, too. The sooner she got her answers, the sooner he could shuffle her back into a carriage and to the fashionable square her grand home was perched upon.
“I see,” the manager said, his eyes still lingering on Hugh’s face another moment. He then cut his attention back to the duchess. “Yes, I am aware the duke has been arrested, though I am not sure I can help you with anything else.”
The lack of condolences told Hugh that Bernadetto was not in the least sorry to hear of the duke’s predicament.
