Page 63 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Hugh picked up the watch and ran the gold chain between his fingers. His mind raced, searching for meaning to what she said. “You saw his room because of this?”
She nibbled on her lower lip a moment, then released it. “Objects allow me to see things.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. The apples of her cheeks flushed, and her breaths came short. “Things the object itself has seen. Think of your watch, for instance—it absorbs everything that happens to you. Every place you go, every person you see. I had to wade through the memories, of you finding me in the evidence closet, of you placing the watch in your pocket this morning. I had to find something that I couldn’t possibly know, or guess at, to convince you I was telling the truth.”
Hugh grappled for understanding. It was outlandish. Like a Romany tale coming from Gloria’s lips as she lay beside him in bed, lulling him to sleep.
He sat still a moment, stunned and confused and quiet, before slipping the watch back into his pocket.
“You don’t believe me,” she whispered.
“I don’t think you are lying,” he said quickly. Then rubbed at his eyes. “I just don’t understand what you’re telling me, not exactly. That you can touch an object and see into its past?”
He lowered his voice when a man’s ear at a nearby table turned toward them. The duchess straightened her spine, and Hugh could see her moving into a defensive position. She’d been reluctant to give up this confession. Thissecret…she’d held on to it closely.
“Yes. But it’s not just objects. I could take your hand, for instance, and…” she trailed off, another blush rising along her throat this time.
“And what?” he urged. What was it that made her uncomfortable? The mere mention of holding his hand?
“Touching skin is more difficult, but sometimes, it will allow me to see an important memory, or what is foremost on a person’s mind,” she finished. Then added hastily, “I prefer objects. The memories are less emotional.”
He leaned forward. “The cuff links. You wanted to hold them.”
At last, her eyes lifted and met his. She nodded. “Philip was on the floor of his apartments when Miss Lovejoy was attacked. There was another man present, chasing her, but I couldn’t see much more than a shadow.”
His mouth went dry, his head started to pound. The duchess was not jesting. She believed what she was saying, and with mounting concern, Hugh realizedhebelievedher. He sat back, arms crossing over his chest.
“There is no earthly way you should have known Porter was working on bright green silk,” he said.
“If you wish me to prove it further, let me hold another object.”
“Such as my hand?” he suggested, surprising himself at the quip. The duchess did not smile as he did. She hitched her chin.
“As I said, I prefer objects. They are better conductors.”
Hugh recalled touching her arm in the evidence closet. He’d held her at the waist too, but the touch had been so brief. The thought of her ungloved hand slipping into his palm, or his fingers touching her skin elsewhere, momentarily tied his tongue.
“You said this could help find the real murderer,” he said once he’d batted away the inappropriate image. “How so?”
Her back rounded a bit, as if in relief. “Well, something happened earlier today. I was at Lady Wimbly’s benefit luncheon—”
“Wimbly?” With a flash of ire, the other night at the Seven Sins, and the hold the marquess had on Audrey’s arm, came to mind.
“Yes,LadyWimbly,” she repeated. “It was a workhouse benefit. The footmen were from the workhouse, and one must have dropped a knife in the conservatory, and when I bent to retrieve it, I saw a most peculiar image.” She stopped for a breath. “Lady Wimbly and a footman had an argument right before luncheon. She accused him of trying to blackmail her by keeping something he was supposed to have burned, something that could destroy her.”
Hugh shook his head. “What was it?”
She folded her hands, which were still gloveless, atop the table. “A letter.” She leaned forward. “And he was threatening Lady Wimbly with the knife.”
Hugh considered these fragments of information. None of this was evidence. It was only what the duchess’s…visionhad shown her. Nothing he could present to Sir Gabriel or the grand jury or any sane person in London.
“Do you see this footman? In your…in your mind?” he asked, uncertain what words to use.
She shook her head. “No, the memory was his, but if I could hold something of Lady Wimbly’s—”
A hot coal inside him flared to life. “No. I don’t want you going back to Wimbly Manor, not if she’s employing a dangerous man.”
“But if I could just see the footman’s face, I might be able to tell if he is…” She let the rest of her sentence fade away.
“If he is what?” Hugh asked. When she hesitated, he added, “You promised the truth.”
