Page 16 of Murder at the Seven Dials
She scoffed, the scraping sound in her throat unladylike. “Don’t pretend at good manners now, Mr. Marsden. You’ve already sworn and shouted and jostled me around plenty this evening.”
He wanted to refute her claims but couldn’t. It was true. His reputation was already in shambles among the peerage, and his lack of patience with the whole lot of them was why.
“Very well. No more pretending. I warn you off from this absurd investigation of yours. You’re out of your element, duchess. Keep going, and you could get hurt.”
“You are quite right—I am out of my element. But you see, I’m not afraid of getting hurt.” She moved toward her hack, the jarvey having already opened the door for her. He handed her in, but caught the door when he went to shut it. She held it open a moment as she looked down at Hugh.
“What I am afraid of, is becoming a widow,” she said, then latched the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Marsden.”
She slid back, out of view, and Hugh curled his hands into fists. The woman was a stubborn ox.
“Are we done yet?” Sir called impatiently from the open hack door. Hugh hopped inside. Home beckoned, but not until he knew for certain the duchess had, at least for tonight, ceased her efforts.
“Nearly.” He rapped the roof. “Follow her.”
ChapterFive
Audrey sat in bed, her back against the pillows, the satin counterpane drawn to her waist. The fire in the grate animated the blue silk walls of her bedroom in a quivering dance of black and orange flickers. She’d been sitting in place for more than a quarter hour, looking at the drop pearl and black crystal earbob lying atop the counterpane at her side. It was such a small thing, and yet it occupied the space as well as any sleeping husband. Not that Philip shared her bed. This was her room; her bed and hers alone. Her husband had never slept here, though he did come in once a week or so to maintain the façade of a traditional marriage. In the beginning, they would have great fun with it, teasing the servants by making a racket. Now, however, they’d tamed themselves and usually just had a brandy and a chat.
Belladora Lovejoy’s earbob appeared a harmless thing on the bed of satin jacquard, but Audrey knew it was far from innocent. It had already given terrifying images that her memory would cling to forever, and the moment she touched the earbob again, more would come. Mr. Marsden had interrupted her earlier. The piece of jewelry still had more memories to give before it fell quiet and dark. Once it did that, it would be just an earbob. Empty. Safe.
There was no choice in the matter. She had to hold it. Had to help Philip in any way possible. Already, she knew the man attacking Miss Lovejoy had not been the duke. She’d seen a glimpse of his head, his dark, shorn hair, his ear. But there might be more to see; perhaps his whole face.
Audrey dreaded it. Dreaded feeling like she was the one being attacked, so close to Miss Lovejoy’s memories she could feel the smothering weight of sheer horror.
The man at the theatre, Porter, had been dark haired, his skin a deep brown. But his skin had been pitted, and the side of the face she’d seen in the vision had been smooth and white. Bristled, but unmarked by any scarring.
She’d made mistakes with her questions at the theatre, she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Not that she’d ever admit it to that insolent Bow Street officer. Audrey touched the crook of her elbow, where his hand had grasped her earlier. Though it had not been skin-to-skin contact, she’d seen something. The image had been fast and jagged. A woman’s face. There, blooming in Audrey’s vision, all loose russet hair and creamy skin, and then gone again.
That had never happened before. She wore gloves whenever fashionable—and thank goodness they were—and avoided touching people. Skin contact hardly ever caused visions to erupt, blinding her to the real world, but when they did, they struck hard. Energy with that sort of power was never a current memory, but one that haunted the person. One that consumed them so completely that it was always there. Always present. Whoever the woman with the russet curls was, haunted Mr. Marsden deeply.
Audrey batted away the curiosity. Mr. Marsden was not her ally, no matter the lie she’d told Mr. Bernadetto. When she’d arrived at Violet House, the jarvey had helped her down and quietly informed her that the other carriage had followed them from the theatre. Audrey tipped the jarvey handsomely before going inside. Barton, her butler, had let out an audible sigh of relief when he met her at the door. While he hadn’t questioned her directly, he’d made comments that demanded some sort of explanation of her absence—all of which she’d bypassed by telling him she felt ill and was turning in for the night.
While Greer had been stoking the fire in the grate and readying the bed, Audrey had peered outside, searching for the officer’s carriage, half thinking it would be parked along the street. It hadn’t been, and she’d felt silly as she let Greer undress her.
Audrey now sat with her head throbbing and her eyes dry and hot as she stared at the earbob. She needed sleep, and she couldn’t do that until she’d taken every memory the earbob could give her.
Get on with it, you ninny.
Audrey closed it into her fist.
Battering arms, flailing and hitting. Blurred images, dark and vicious. Shouting, grunts, and panting breaths. Swathes of firelight and bared teeth. The images chugged further into the past, and Audrey made out the exterior of a fine brick terrace house, a brass plate—47—above the door. White columns, an endless row of them, fronted every home along the street.
Gray speckles closed in from the edges of her vision. And then, blackness.
Audrey sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. She uncurled her fingers. The earbob rested in the center of her palm; the edges of the crystal had pinched grooves into her skin. It was just an earbob now, all energy, all clues, leached. And not one face. Not one piece of information that she could follow. At least not easily.
She couldn’t think through the muddle of her exhausted thoughts. Audrey set the earbob on the bedside table and sank into her pillows, closing her eyes. Behind them, she saw the russet-haired girl, Mr. Marsden’s livid expression, and the jumble of images she’d just hurtled through.
It was only when she woke from a dreamless sleep a few hours later that she remembered with a cramp in her chest that Philip would not be at the breakfast table as he usually was. He was always so pleasant at breakfast, while Audrey knew she was a bit of a grouch before she could sip her chocolate.
The morning before his arrest, they’d been having breakfast together and reading the gossip columns, as usual, sharing a laugh over the description of Lady Dutton’s gown the previous evening at Lady Granger’s annual musicale.
“There is, without doubt, a peacock somewhere in Kew Gardens that is missing every last feather. It is a sad affair when a creature sacrifices its beauty to help enhance another’s, and the effort falls so short of success,” Philip had read aloud, laughing as he’d reclined in his chair, crossing one leg, and sipping his tea.
“That is cruel,” Audrey had commented, attempting not to smile.
“To the peacock,” he replied.
