Page 84 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Goodwin followed him. “I will have a carriage brought around for you, sir.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll go on foot.” Hugh needed time to comb through his approach at Wimbly Manor—and time to let off enough steam so that he wouldn’t geyser as soon as he laid eyes on either St. John or the marchioness.
It was a ten-minute walk through the now darkened streets, which were thick with a soupy fog, the kind London knew so well. With any hope, Wimbly Manor had not yet heard of the fracas down at the wharves; then again, Fellows might have given up Lady Wimbly the moment he was in custody. Whether or not Sir Gabriel would believe him was another story altogether.
Knocking on the front door was a risk, but Hugh had to get in legitimately. He wanted Lady Wimbly on edge and angry. As his hand slammed down upon the manor’s door, he had but two avenues of potential success.
The butler appeared and instantly took in Hugh’s wet visage. His hat was gone, lost to the Thames, and his clothing was still soaked. The butler sneered at him.
“You again.” He recalled him from his previous attempt to speak to Wimbly a few days ago. “What is it you want, Runner?”
“A moment of Lady Wimbly’s time.”
“The lady is out.”
It was entirely possible she was, though it was still too early for any social function.
“It’s imperative I speak to her. Please, tell her it’s about St. John. Tell her,I know.”
At the mention of the heir’s title, the butler’s brow arched with annoyed interest. Servants knew everything, and something about his new scowl said he knew what Hugh spoke of.
He stood aside. “Wait here.”
Hugh stepped into the grand foyer, his boots squelching. His untidy appearance might just do him a favor and unsettle the lady of the house even more. The butler had turned into a room beyond the twisting front stairwell a moment ago, and now, he emerged.
“Her ladyship is indisposed and asks that you return tomorrow afternoon.”
Hugh sighed. So, it would be Avenue Number Two, would it? “Tell her that Fellows has been arrested and that I will most certainly be back.”
The butler frowned. “Fellows?”
“Fellows,” Hugh repeated, loudly. A glass clinked and fabric rustled within the sitting room. The butler turned his head, having heard it too.
The marchioness would not be prepared to run out the back door of the manor and flee. She would require a few things first.
“Stay here. I will inform her ladyship,” the butler intoned, and then entered the sitting room again. Hugh slipped out through the front door, onto the front steps. He then went around the manor to the mews, toward the carriage house, where within a minute, as he’d expected, a groom began to ready a pair of horses and a small brougham.
Hugh waited, unnoticed, behind an ivy trellis. Within ten more minutes, two shadows quickened through the fog: Lady Wimbly and her maid, a valise in each of the servant’s hands.
“Did you put the laudanum into your son’s bottle of scotch, or did St. John do it himself?”
Hugh stepped out, and Lady Wimbly came to a halt. Her maid knocked into her elbow and gasped. It took the marchioness a few seconds to recover. She turned to the maid. “Go fetch Beckett. I want this riffraff turned out.”
“Yes, miss, and while you are at it, signal for a street patrol. Kindly inform him that Chief Magistrate Poston will be arriving within the quarter hour.”
Lady Wimbly spun toward him. “You lie.”
“You know Fellows has been arrested. It’s why you are running—because he will talk. He won’t go down for the murder of Belladora Lovejoy alone. That’s why he kept the letter and stashed it on his boat.”
The maid hesitated, looking between her mistress and Hugh, eyes glassy and wide. At the mention of the letter, the marchioness hitched her chin. Her face, lightly lined, regal by any standard, froze into a mask of panic. She didn’t need to know the paper had been destroyed.
“What letter?” she demanded. “I’ve nothing to do with that villain or murder.”
“Well delivered, your ladyship, except for the slight tremor in your voice.”
She flicked her hand at her maid, encouraging her to continue to the carriage house.
“Stay where you are, if you please, miss,” Hugh said. She’d alert the grooms to his presence, and in his current state—cold, soaked, and fatigued—he wouldn’t be able to fend off more than one or two.
