Page 65 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Hugh’s immediate reaction was to say no again, but reluctantly, he recognized the possibility of such an encounter working in their favor. St. John’s whereabouts the night of the murder would be illuminating. Even more important, though, was the letter St. John’s mother had wanted burned.
“How do we know which performance he will be attending next?” Hugh asked.
The fact that he did not immediately trample her idea seemed to surprise her. The duchess was speechless for a few seconds.
“I can have my lady’s maid make some inquiries. She has a cousin in Wimbly’s employ.”
“Servants chatter like magpies; if he is informed of your interest, he’ll do what he must to avoid you.”
“Greer is careful. I trust she’ll know how to proceed.”
He shook his head. “It’s a bold move, attending the opera while the duke sits in custody.”
A fine blush rose and fell from her cheeks, quick as clouds racing across an autumn sky. “I suppose society might regard it as callous.”
“And you don’t mind the gossip?”
She suddenly appeared weary, her confident glow fading. “Mr. Marsden, I am already ruined in the eyes of society, no matter what the outcome is. My only desire is to save my husband from the noose.” She stood from her chair. “A little more gossip can’t hurt me now.”
She was right; scandal would stay attached to the Fournier title for at least another generation, perhaps longer. However, by all appearances, the duchess didn’t seem distressed by that in the least. Her sole concern was for her husband.
“Admirable, Your Grace,” he commented, ignoring an odd and quick pang in the center of his chest.
“Some would call it reckless and shortsighted,” she replied with a sad grin.
Many would.He kept the thought to himself. “You’ll let me know what your lady’s maid discovers? Send word to my home, 19 Bedford Street,notBow Street.” He frowned. This meeting was not going to go overlooked and neither would a missive from the duchess.
She gave a tight nod. “I’ll send word. Good afternoon, Mr. Marsden,” she said primly. The back of her green spencer jacket and the skirt of her day dress were his to admire as she turned. But then she paused and spun to meet his eyes again. She hesitated before taking a step closer to his side of the table.
“I thank you,” she said softly. The words were so unexpected, he held his breath as she continued. “For not treating me terribly when I told you my secret.”
Hugh sat back in his chair, uncertain how to reply. Uncertain about all of what she’d told him and demonstrated. He knew one thing, however: someone, at some time,hadtreated her terribly for it. He flexed his hands into fists and rapped the wood of the table.
“I can’t say that I understand it. But you certainly have my attention, duchess.”
A spark of surprise lit her eyes and she nodded daintily before turning to finish her exit. Through the window, Hugh watched a girlish grin stretch her lips as she walked away. He rubbed his chin, suppressing his own smile, before taking his leave.
If he was going to be attending the opera, he had some arrangements to see to.
ChapterEighteen
Like most of the upper echelons of the ton, the Duke and Duchess of Fournier rented a box at the Theatre Royal, at both Drury Lane and Covent Garden. They had mostly remained unused since Audrey and Philip had wed. It wasn’t that Audrey didn’t enjoy the theatre—she was captivated by the actors’ abilities to assume a character’s role and portray it with such convincing emotion. They made it appear so natural, so easy, all while more than half of the audience was busy chatting and looking around the room at who was present and who was not. That was what Audrey disliked about the theatre—the stage performance was never the reason any of them were in attendance.
Ironic how Wednesday evening, she was not in attendance at Covent Garden to watch the performance ofArtaxerxeseither. She had become what she disapproved of. She supposed, however, that if she could get a private moment with Lord St. John, it would be worth the hypocrisy.
Greer had made her inquiries at Wimbly Manor, where her cousin Bethany was a kitchen maid. Bethany’s beau was a footman at the manor, and he’d reported that the younger Augustus had turned down an invitation to a dinner at Lord and Lady Granger’s on Wednesday evening as he would be attending the performance at Covent Garden. Whether or not it was an excuse, or the truth, remained to be seen.
True to her word, Audrey had written the pertinent details on a slip of parchment, but before she could send a footman off with it to 19 Bedford Street, she glanced through the morning room window and spied another avenue of communication. She marched outside and across the street, to where an odorous young man of about eleven or twelve was attempting to hide behind a lamppost.
“Your employer is expecting this. Please deliver it,” she told the boy, whose soot- and grime-creased hand accepted the note as if it were a dead mouse.
He’d gaped at her, speechless.
“Why does Mr. Marsden call you Sir?” she asked.
The boy straightened his back then and stuffed the note into his pocket. “He called me ‘boy’ at first, but when I told him I weren’t no boy, he started calling me ‘sir.’ I says I prefer that, and it stuck.”
She’d bit back a smile at Mr. Marsden’s humor.
