Page 69 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“Yes. Especially,” she bit out. “Mr. Marsden, why would you cause such a scene, bumping into St. John the way you did?”
He unbuttoned his jacket, and she noticed the gloves he’d been wearing at the opera had come off. He reached one unadorned hand into his waistcoat pocket. “To obtain this.”
A gleaming gold pocket watch appeared in his palm. He let it drop, catching it by the chain. As Audrey stared at the object, understanding reaching her slowly.
The ungainly stumble. The tussle of arms and hands. Hugh Marsden hadstolenLord St. John’s pocket watch.
ChapterNineteen
“You picked his pocket?” Audrey asked, her jaw loose.
“I’ll return it somehow, but I recalled you saying that objects are easier to…see into.” He looked and sounded uncomfortable, but as she realized what he’d done and why, a vise closed around her throat. When she spoke, her voice was raspy.
“How do you know I didn’t convince him to tell me what he knew?”
He propped a brow. “The pair of you looked ready to do battle.”
“Well, it just so happens I learned a great deal from my discussion with him,” she said, and then proceeded to tell Mr. Marsden what she had remembered from her earlier vision. Proof that St. John was at Jewell House, that Lady Wimbly might be trying to protect his involvement somehow, and that the letter she mentioned could have grave consequences.
“Not proof,” he said after a moment of consideration. “This information isn’t tangible. It’s not proof unless I can hold it in my hand.” He held the pocket watch out a little farther. “Tell me what it shows you.”
The round watch ticked back and forth like a pendulum. Her eyes followed it. Apparently, Mr. Marsden intended to view her as she read the object.
The beating of her heart was unsteady, her arms quivery as she stepped forward to accept the offering. The warm gold met her fingertips and she inhaled, opening the door to the first memory the object had to show her: her butler’s incensed visage, sneering at Mr. Marsden. Audrey pushed back, peeling her way through clear images of his ride to Violet House, to the busy refreshments room at the opera, to the lush hallway at the theatre. This image was a bit foggier, having been layered over with newer ones since. But all was still visible. St. John, following the tall, proud Lord Ashbrook, his sister Mary on his arm. Ashbrook, glancing over his shoulder. His dark brown eyes meeting Audrey’s—or rather, St. John’s. A slight curve of his lips; an assessing sweep of the lord’s figure, from crown to foot before facing forward.
The grainy memories fell apart completely. There was nothing now but black fog. She sighed and her study filled her vision once again.
Mr. Marsden stood with his arms crossed. “Anything?”
She ran her finger over the watch case cover, the etching simple. It appeared to be a clover.
“I’m not sure,” she whispered, uncertain if she should voice her suspicion about Lord Ashbrook. The look he’d given St. John had not been one of friendship, but of lust.
Philip had always said that there were many men like him in London, and the world over. More than anyone liked to let on. Being attracted to the same sex was like an invisible flag that he carried and only others like him could see. Philip swore up and down that his great aunt Marta had carried on a love affair with her best friend Lavinia for decades under the guise of two old maids living in the country together. Theirs was not an unusual story either.
Mr. Marsden stepped closer. “What was it?”
She snapped to attention and held the watch back out to him. “I saw things from tonight, at the theatre.”
He accepted it by its chain, then dropped it back into his pocket. “Nothing more?”
“The further back I push in time, the dimmer the images become, I’m afraid.”
He was disappointed; Audrey could see it in the deep breath he gathered before attempting to straighten his cravat. She considered staying silent about Lord Ashbrook. Hugh knew about Philip’s secret now, but it didn’t make speaking about intimacy of any kind more comfortable.
She started out with, “What do you know about Lord Ashbrook?”
Mr. Marsden paced away from her, toward the fireless hearth. “He is the second son of a viscount, but when his elder brother died a few years back in a carriage racing accident, he became heir. Why?”
Audrey nodded. She recalled the carriage accident now. The tragedy had garnered much attention that summer.
“He was with Lord St. John tonight.” She hesitated before adding, haltingly, “Something makes me wonder if perhaps Lords Ashbrook and St. John were…or are…carrying on a liaison?”
He had ambled toward the window, completely obscured by a heavy tapestry drape. He turned, his interest piqued. “What gave you that impression?”
She shrugged, the gown she’d worn that evening growing hot and heavy. “A look in Lord Ashbrook’s eyes. A certain smile he gave St. John.”
Mr. Marsden rubbed his jaw. “If you’re right, another question arises.”
