Page 67 of Murder at the Seven Dials
She blinked, distracted. “I believe you can,” she agreed.
“I have nothing to say,” he said, his eyes skipping around, landing anywhere but on her.
“I only wish to know more about Miss Lovejoy and how she might have come to be at His Grace’s apartments that night.” She expected him to snort and say something along the lines ofIsn’t it obvious?Instead, he kept his jaw firm, his expression glacial.
“She was not his mistress, but yours,” Audrey added.
St. John huffed and shook his head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling briefly, as though he’d liked to have denied it.
“Was she not?” Audrey pressed.
He faced her fully. He appeared much like his father then: irritated, pushed to the edge of anger. Still, there was a note of panic in his voice when he all but hissed, “You are dallying with a situation you don’t know the first thing about, Your Grace. I believe Fournier would wish you to step back and let things alone.”
She peered at him. The way he called Philip ‘Fournier’ rather than ‘His Grace’ gave her pause. Had he and St. John been acquainted?
“What would you know of my husband’s wishes?”
The younger man straightened his back, composing himself. “Any respectable man of quality would not wish for his wife to be conducting herself in this fashion. You are not with Bow Street, Your Grace. You are a duchess.”
He sounded like Hugh Marsden now—at least, it was how the officer had sounded when she first started searching for the truth. Thinking of him now, she cut her eyes from St. John’s and searched the crowd.
“I have information that Bow Street has been dismissing,” she said, if only to tempt St. John out of stalking away from her. When she failed to spot Mr. Marsden and turned back to the young man’s eyes again, she startled at his pointed glare.
“What information?” he demanded. Intensity rolled off him, practically slapping Audrey in the face. She blinked, and when she didn’t respond, he stepped closer. His height pressed down over her, and his cheeks flushed.
“What are you aware of?”
“Tell me where you were on the night of the murder, and I’ll impart some of the knowledge I possess.” It was a gamble, one made before she could think. What informationdidshe have to give him, other than what she had gleaned from the few objects she’d held? The earbob, the cuff links, doorknobs, and newel posts.
“You want me to tell you that I was there? That it was I, not His Grace, who killed Belladora?” He snorted in derision and continued to speak, though Audrey’s ears grew muffled as at last, the memory came together. She knew where she had seen St. John and his noteworthy mole before.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but I was with friends that evening. We went to a boring soiree and then to Vaux Hall for a bit of real fun. Hunt them down and badger them with your questions if you’re so inclined.”
St. John turned on his heel—and collided with Hugh Marsden. The two men staggered, feet tangling, arms reaching out for purchase. It caused a burst of commotion, which was readily observed by those around them.
“Good God, man!” St. John finally freed himself of Hugh’s clumsy grip and tugged the lapel of his jacket. Audrey narrowed her eyes on the officer, who was just about the least clumsy person she’d ever met.
The man Mr. Marsden had been sitting with in Lord Lindstrom’s box clapped St. John on the shoulder and gave a hearty chuckle, flashing straight white teeth. “Forgive my friend, St. John. He isn’t accustomed to these sorts of crushes.”
St. John straightened his cravat, his already peeved expression souring more. He ignored Mr. Marsden entirely. “Thornton,” he said. “I don’t usually see you at these productions.”
Mr. Marsden met Audrey’s dubious gaze briefly as his friend, Thornton, rumbled laughter. “You could say I’m expanding my cultural horizons.”
Thornton’s grey eyes landed on Audrey. He made a short bow before turning his attention to St. John, clearly waiting for an introduction. To speak to her before one was made would be considered rude, and this Thornton fellow clearly knew as much.
Reluctantly, St. John cleared his throat. “May I introduce Her Grace, the Duchess of Fournier. Your Grace, this is Mr. Thornton, son of the Marquess of Lindstrom.”
Mr. Thornton bowed again, this time more deeply. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”
Audrey canted her head, keeping her eyes hinged on Mr. Marsden, who had seemingly recovered from his awkward drunken sprawl.
“Still keeping questionable company, Thornton?” St. John muttered, taking a cold glance at Mr. Marsden.
“I pride myself on it,” Mr. Thornton replied lightly, grinning. He turned to Audrey. “You and my friend have met, Your Grace, I’m aware.”
“He arrested the duke,” St. John nearly growled. “You’re beyond the pale bringing him among us, Thornton.”
“I was simply doing my job,” Mr. Marsden put in.
