Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Audrey slipped off her glove the moment she was in the brougham and let out a long exhalation.
That infuriating man had followed her from Bow Street most likely, and now he suspected her.
It was ludicrous. He couldn’t possibly believe she’d done such a brutal deed.
He was only attempting to crawl beneath her skin and lodge there, like a thorn.
“Well, he has succeeded,” she sighed, and then reached into her reticule.
She’d made the mistake of touching the opal-faced locket with her bare hand earlier, in Miss Lovejoy’s bedroom, with Mr. Marsden standing on the other side of the room. Something had rushed into her vision, nearly blinding her, before she’d been able to push it into submission.
The Bow Street officer had been speaking to her, and she’d already hesitated too long a few seconds earlier, when grasping the back of the vanity’s chair.
An image had rolled into view then, of a pretty woman sitting before the mirror, inspecting her reflection as she took what looked like a gemstone from a purse and dropped it into one of the narrow vanity drawers. Audrey had gone for the drawer next.
The vision conjured when she touched the locket had been disturbing—a smoky room, red lights, men kitted out in full dress, women with improper amounts of flesh on display.
And with Mr. Marsden speaking to her, she’d been distracted.
Unwilling to waste the energy the locket held trapped inside, she had slipped it into her reticule to await a more private moment.
So now, as Carrigan carried her back toward Curzon Street, Audrey held the opal locket in her bare palm and closed her eyes, ready. Without Mr. Marsden there to watch her in that hawk-like way, she could relax.
The vision formed like a fog again—it was of a crowd inside what Audrey now knew, thanks to Mr. Marsden, was the Seven Sins.
A busy faro table covered in green baize, colorful chips and playing cards, plumes of cigar smoke cloying the air.
She held her breath as a man appeared, close enough for Miss Lovejoy to nuzzle his starched collar and cravat.
Recognition nearly doused the whole vision, and Audrey let out a gasp.
It was Augustus St. John, the Marquess of Wimbly.
He had been to Violet House on numerous occasions and had been at nearly every society function she and Philip had attended.
In his early fifties, he was still a handsome man, though a bit weathered in the jowls and chin.
He was wealthy beyond measure, and by no means was his marriage to Lady Wimbly a love match.
The man was a notorious philanderer and made no attempt to bury his proclivities.
She calmed her excitement at seeing the marquess, clearly Miss Lovejoy’s admirer, as his face drew near, his hand reaching to cup her chin. And then closer still, until Audrey felt smothered—as if the marquess were attempting to kiss her, instead of Miss Lovejoy.
She dropped the locket and the image scattered.
The pale blue interior of her carriage replaced that of the gaming hell.
Her heart raced, her stomach in an uncomfortable twist. Gracious, she’d never been to a gaming hell and certainly had no desire to visit one now.
That sort of place was everything she was not: loose, free, lurid.
But the Marquess of Wimbly had looked entirely at home in such an establishment.
He had been Miss Lovejoy’s patron.
Audrey leaned her head against the squabs, thankful the risky trip to the opera singer’s home had been worth her while.
It was still remarkable that she’d found it in the first place.
All she’d had to go on was the vision of a street of terraced homes and the number 47, but Carrigan had dutifully wound his way down every road, side street, and passage while she’d looked outside, waiting for recognition to strike.
When at last she’d turned up Yarrow Street, the terraced homes matched the vision perfectly, and she’d instructed her driver to find number 47.
Audrey had hoped to gain an item of Miss Lovejoy’s that might point her onward to another piece of information, and it had worked. But really, these were breadcrumbs, of which only Audrey could see. She needed to find something that Mr. Marsden, or the magistrate himself, could acknowledge.
How the devil did you pick that lock?
Mr. Marsden had watched her use a pair of hair pins to enter the home in broad daylight. If Carrigan noticed anything amiss, he had not said a word. Carrigan knew not to, of course. More than once, he had needed to be discreet for both her sake and Philip’s.
Audrey eyed the locket, face down on the cushion. The small well for opium dust worried her. It had been over a year now since Philip had given it up, but her heart still gave an involuntary stutter.
What had started as infrequent evenings out, only to return home in a state of worrisome disarray, had become a usual occurrence.
He’d often disappear for days on end. He’d insisted it was nothing, just a diversion, a means for which to escape for a short while.
However, within a few months, it had consumed him.
He was no longer the Philip she’d agreed to marry.
That last time, Carrigan had waited two full days outside a pleasure den while Philip was inside. She figured it was a place not unlike the Seven Sins, considering Carrigan had seen upper crust men entering and exiting, and yet he, a servant, had not been allowed entry.
Finally, he managed to sneak his way inside through a rear door, posing as staff help, and had been able to locate and carry the barely breathing, utterly delusional duke back to the carriage.
Audrey had been furious and sick with worry; their argument had left her with a sore throat for days.
Once sobered, he’d relented and promised her never again.
He’d followed through, too. Things had gotten better.
But had he been a member of this Seven Sins club? Was that his connection to Miss Lovejoy? At least Philip hadn’t been in the vision the opal locket had given her.
The idea to go directly to Lord Wimbly’s home, under the pretext of calling on Lady Wimbly, crossed her mind. However, that dreadful Bow Street officer’s voice whispered in the back of her mind, again and again: I can’t bloody begin to count how many mistakes you made back there.
Perhaps she shouldn’t be so heavy handed with this interview. She had no believable reason to call on Lady Wimbly, and quite honestly, with the scandal surrounding Philip, the marchioness would likely not receive her.
She needed to come around to it with a better angle.
If she could corner the woman somehow...
Perhaps catch her out in a place where she could not so easily scurry away…
But then, Lady Wimbly would never admit her husband was having an affair with a murdered opera singer. Neither would the man himself.
Audrey felt a slip of hopelessness before stomping it down with an imaginary heel. She knocked on the wall between her and Carrigan.
“To Lord Herrick’s,” she said.
“Yes, Your Grace,” came his muffled reply. The carriage slowed, then turned direction.
Philip’s younger brother lived on Grosvenor Square.
He’d married Lady Geneva Knowlton, a baronet’s daughter, less than six months ago, and considering Geneva—or Genie, as she preferred—was several years older than Michael, the love match had been the talk of the town for quite some time.
At five and twenty, Genie had been settling in well as a spinster when Michael returned as a young lieutenant after the war in France concluded and began to attend the Season’s offerings.
He’d been smitten with Genie immediately, though she’d been a wallflower and by no means on the hunt for a husband.
She’d turned down a few proposals her first few Seasons, and when her father’s finances dwindled due to a few misguided ventures, there were no more offers to either reject or accept.
However, as the younger brother of a duke, Lord Herrick had no need of a plump dowry in any marriage match.
Audrey and Philip had watched from afar the last few years as Michael wooed and eventually convinced the lady that he loved her, despite the difference in their ages.
Now, as the new Lady Herrick, Genie had been spending the bulk of her time redecorating the house on the east side of Grosvenor Square—with a particular focus on the nursery room.
She was a few months gone, with the baby due in early fall, and ever since she’d announced the news, blushing with fierce happiness over tea, Audrey had found her visits at their residence to be something she rather dreaded.
Jealousy was an awful beast. She and Philip would not produce an heir—it had been among the few agreements they’d settled on, privately, when he’d proposed the idea of marriage.
Audrey had been more than willing to forgo motherhood if it meant she would not be required to share the marriage bed with her childhood friend, who was in no way physically attracted to her.
The awkwardness of that situation would have been unbearable.
However, no one ever need know he never even attempted to get her with an heir, or that the marriage had never been consummated for that matter.