Page 86 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“It was as much a lesson to my son as it was a guarantee that Belladora would remain silent on the matter,” he replied.
“And Fournier?”
“You must know he would rather hang for the murder than speak of what he was truly doing in those rooms.”
It seemed the marquess had the duke pegged correctly.
The carriage house doors opened on their hinges, and the jangling of tack and hooves on paving stones followed.
“Augustus,” the marchioness again pleaded.
“You will be riding with us, Marsden,” Wimbly announced.
He couldn’t possibly put a bullet in his brain here, at Wimbly Manor. He’d wait until they were in the countryside. Lead him into the woods. Leave him there to rot into the forest’s undergrowth.
As the horses pranced to a stop in the courtyard, and before the driver could throw the brake, Hugh took a gamble and dodged to the side—the blast of the pistol walloped his eardrum, but he wasn’t hit. Spinning around, he blocked Wimbly’s right arm and pummeled him in his soft gut. With a hard twist of the marquess’s right hand, the pistol—a double-barrel flintlock—clattered onto the ground.
The marchioness screamed as the grooms and driver shouted, trying to bring the spooked horses under control.
In his wet clothing, Hugh’s movements were slower and more constricted, and the marquess landed a ridge of knuckles into his jaw. It only stunned him momentarily. His ear still ringing, and his vision unsteady, Hugh rammed into him, tackling the man to the ground.
Strong hands latched onto Hugh’s arms and shoulders, trying to pull him off the marquess.
“Neatham should’ve shot you when he had the chance in that duel!” Wimbly seethed as another pair of hands grabbed Hugh and successfully tore him away.
The grooms, Hugh figured, believing they were protecting their master. They held him back, locking his arms out and to the side.
“And I should have had better aim,” Hugh replied, all caution tattered and tossed to the breeze.
“You don’t understand the first thing about good breeding.” Wimbly lurched for his flintlock and leveled it at him again, prepared to set off the second and last shot. “I am within my rights to shoot, and no one will miss you, you bloody bastard.”
The men holding him scattered. Hugh stayed rooted to the paving stone.
“I might.”
A hammer clicked back on a second pistol a mere second after Audrey’s voice entered the courtyard. Hugh lowered his hands as Thornton appeared at Wimbly’s side, another double-barrel flintlock trained on the marquess with unwavering conviction.
“Give it here,” Thornton ordered. Wimbly’s scowl grew apoplectic as he turned the gun over. Thornton pocketed it.
Hugh spun, searching for Audrey, and found her approaching from behind the marchioness and her maid. She had a thick shawl wrapped around her, her wet hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
“What are you doing here? Your shoulder—”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “I remembered something after you left. The letter Fellows kept; the endearment used.My songbird. It’s what you called her too, Lord Wimbly. At the Seven Sins, do you remember? A light skirtedsongbird.”
Audrey took a step closer. Hugh saw her tremble.
“The marchioness didn’t write that letter pretending to be you. You wrote it yourself.”
“I hear you went into the Thames, Your Grace,” Wimbly said, dismissing her revelation. “I’ll wager that’s where the letter still is.”
Audrey reached into her gown’s skirt pocket and withdrew a piece of wilted and rumpled paper. “The ink has run in spots, but unfortunately for you, it’s still legible.”
Hugh didn’t care if she was bluffing—she was brilliant.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Wimbly hand dart under his jacket.
“Thornton!” Hugh barked. The gun the marquess had confiscated from Hugh shone in the light of the carriage oil lamp.
