Page 17 of Murder at the Seven Dials
A knock upon her bedroom door drew her from the memory, her weak smile fading completely.
“Come in, Greer,” she called.
Greer had been serving her for the last three years, having been assigned the position of lady’s maid when she and Philip had married. Nearing middle age, Greer had served the previous Duchess of Fournier, Philip’s mother, until the woman’s death a handful of years before Audrey took the title. She was a quiet, loyal lady’s maid, who rarely smiled and yet never appeared cross. Diligent was the term Audrey would use, as well as content. Serving a duchess as lady’s maid was, next to housekeeper, the highest rank among the serving class and much respected. Greer exuded confidence and pride in everything she did.
Even now, as she entered the bedroom and immediately went to the windows to draw back the drapes, she did so with bustle.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Greer said. She set a stack of folded linen on a bench and immediately entered the large, attached boudoir, where Audrey’s clothes were kept.
“Will you be taking breakfast in your room, or in the dining room, Your Grace?”
Audrey wanted nothing more than to sit in bed all day, denying the real world was unfurling outside the four walls of her room. Which was exactly why she had to get up and get moving.
“In the dining room,” she answered, shoving back the counterpane. Greer emerged with a dark plum day dress, so dark it was nearly ebony. The gown was plain, with minimal embroidery and not an inch of lace.
At Audrey assessing eye, Greer said, “I thought this would be appropriate.”
Audrey took a deep breath; it was as close to a mourning dress as one could get. She set her jaw. “Another color, Greer. Green, I think.”
With a bob of her head, she disappeared back into the boudoir.
Audrey dressed and took breakfast alone, the footmen and maids all abnormally subdued. The house was so quiet, the soft, steady ticking of the clocks sounded like heartbeats in every room and hallway. To her relief, Barton maintained his usual show of persnickety irritation as he swept into the sitting room just before noon.
“Lady Barrington to see you, Your Grace,” he said, adding, “ifyou are at home. And if I may, Your Grace, Lord Harrick advised yesterday that callers be kept to an extreme minimum. If you would like me to see Lady Barrington out…”
“That isn’t necessary, Barton, thank you. I will see her.”
He sniffed his disapproval, but Audrey only shook her head and smiled. She appreciated Barton’s attempt to spare her what would no doubt be an agonizing half hour in the presence of the Lady Barrington, the Viscountess Redding. Audrey, however, knew her as Millie.
Her older sister by ten years, Millie had never paid much attention to Audrey while growing up. She’d been looking to marriage by the time Audrey had been ready to leave the nursery and hadn’t much time to spare a seven-year-old pest who hid in hedgerows to jump out at her older sister and whatever beau had called on her that week.
It was just the two of them, Millie and Audrey, the brother born between them having died. James had been kinder to Audrey, though he’d still been six years her senior and had been too busy to play or climb trees with her. He’d caught a fever at Eton, and he’d brought it home to Haverfield, their home in Hertfordshire.
Audrey had been shut up tight in her nursery rooms on the upper floors for her own protection, unable to see anyone for days. Her nanny would sit with her, leaving only to fetch meal trays. It had been unbearably hot and stuffy in those rooms, even with the windows open to the spring air, and Audrey had been sticky and irritable. No one would let her see James. No one would even take a letter to him. She’d written a whole page in her broad scrawl, telling him that once he was better, she would teach him a card game she’d grown rather good at.
She wasn’t sure how many days she stayed tucked in that nursery. A whole week? Maybe more. All she knew for certain was that when her nanny finally took her by the hand and led her out, Audrey had emerged into a world where James and her father were dead. Papa. Audrey hadn’t even known he’d fallen ill. No one had told her. She’d been so furious that she’d yanked away from her nanny’s strangling embrace and run. Out of the house, through the lawns, into the woods, and the fields beyond. No one had chased her down, and it had felt like hours later when she saw the imposing roofs of Fournier House through a clump of trees.
Tired, hungry, and a little scared at how quickly dusk had fallen, she had strolled into her neighbor’s circular drive, where a few footmen spotted her. The next thing Audrey knew, she was lying on a silk sofa in a cool sitting room, munching on lemon ice with the lady of the house fretting over her. The former Duchess of Fournier had shed real tears when Audrey told her about James and her papa. She’d then beckoned Philip, who’d been James’s age, and he’d played jacks with her while a carriage was prepared to bring her home to Haverfield.
She’d fallen a little bit in love with Philip that day; him and the duchess and the rest of Fournier House, that was. Now,shewas Duchess of Fournier. Philip was her husband, and hedidlove her, though just not in the way Audrey always imagined she’d be loved one day. It was quite all right by her though. She loved Philip as a friend, the very best of friend.
Her eyes were watering when Millie entered the sitting room behind Barton, and she blinked to clear them.
“Thank you, Barton,” she said, standing to greet her sister.
It had been months since Millie had paid her a visit. They had seen one another at balls and dinners, but Millie didn’t often call on her, and Audrey, guiltily, avoided calling on her as well.
Millie took Audrey’s gloved hands, and Audrey held her breath, prepared for something like what had happened the night before with Mr. Marsden. But the moment passed without a bursting vision, and Audrey exhaled.
“Tell me the rumors are not true,” Millie said before she’d even settled herself on the edge of a slipper chair.
It had been more than twenty-four hours since Philip’s arrest. Plenty of time for gossip to have bled into every household in London, aristocratic or common. A duke had been arrested for a grisly murder. Now that she thought of it, Audrey couldn’t believe Violet House hadn’t been overrun with callers. Or perhaps Barton had only allowed notice of Millie’s arrival because she was a blood relation. It wouldn’t surprise her to know her butler had taken up the task of fending off nosey busybodies.
“Of course, it isn’t true,” Audrey replied. “Philip hasn’t killed anyone.”
Her sister’s rounded figure seemed to expand as she held her breath. “But he has been arrested? He is in prison?”
“Yes, but—”
