Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
The duchess did not pretend at civility for long once the carriage got moving.
The hulking driver, Carrigan, had given Hugh the appropriate once over before shutting the door, a silent but clear warning on his expression.
Hugh found himself pleased that the duchess had the brute on staff.
The man would double well as a guard if necessary.
And what Hugh had suggested while they’d stood on the curb—that perhaps the real murderer would rather her stop digging around for the truth—had cut through him with a sharp chill.
Thanks to the coroner’s inquest, and the lack of defense wounds on Fournier’s person, Hugh was genuinely considering the fact that he had not done the murder after all. Perhaps he’d witnessed it. Perhaps he wasn’t totally innocent. But Hugh could no longer, without doubt, know it.
“You weaseled your way into my carriage with the promise of information,” she said. “Either share it or I will call for Carrigan to drop you off at the next corner.”
Hugh bristled. To look at her, he wouldn’t have thought her so bold. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was only playing at it. If instead, inside, she was exhausting herself with this show of confidence.
“Miss Lovejoy’s nails had been trimmed and cleaned by the coroner, but I recalled them from the night of the murder.
From when I came upon the scene,” he said, his body beginning to warm again with the enormity of his blunder.
“They were torn and ragged from the fight she put up against her attacker.”
The duchess straightened in her seat. The wrapper she wore parted, displaying the pale blue silk gown she’d chosen for the Seven Sins. The other dresses he had seen her in so far hadn’t showcased the lines of her body as this one did. He forced his eyes to hold hers.
“Philip has no wounds on him,” she said, breathlessly. She grinned. “You know this. You’ve seen him.”
He canted his head in agreement. “Yes.”
She slid forward on the seat, purely giddy now. “So, you must believe me now. He didn’t hurt Miss Lovejoy.”
He held up a hand to stay her excitement. “I’m not prepared to say he isn’t involved in some way, but…” Hugh cringed inside. He absolutely detested being wrong. “I no longer believe he alone acted out against her.”
She sat back, disappointed. “He didn’t act out against her at all.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“You’re just being stubborn,” she replied. “You’re humiliated that you missed such an obvious clue.”
The woman was impossible. Infuriating. And yet, she spoke the truth. He was humiliated, and that only served to make him angry.
“The way he was found, in proximity to the deceased, means he cannot absolutely be absolved,” Hugh said. “Use your common sense, Your Grace. In the very least, he saw the murder and he is keeping quiet. That makes him an accessory.”
“He cannot hang for that,” she replied.
“I don’t think you understand. At this moment, he is the only suspect. He will be charged.”
“Unless we find the real murderer.”
Hugh sat back and rubbed the scruff on his cheek. He’d done this himself. He’d given her a glimmer of hope. If she hadn’t been willing to stop her investigation before, she most certainly wouldn’t now.
“You cannot go tromping around London asking after Miss Lovejoy’s other benefactors. You will make yourself a target.”
“Perhaps it will draw the villain out,” she replied, then gestured toward the front of the carriage and her driver. “I have protection.”
Hugh closed his eyes and fought the pulsing ache in his temple. “You’ll need more than a rather large driver if you continue to be so careless.”
The duchess said nothing, but when Hugh opened his eyes, she was looking out the carriage window, her jaw tight.
Her chest rose and fell with agitated breaths, the parted panels of her wrap again revealing her generous curves.
Irritation had mixed with concern when he’d seen Wimbly dragging her through the gaming floor at the Seven Sins.
Now, another surge of frustration slammed into him. It coiled low in his abdomen.
Hugh dragged his eyes from her. This physical pull was something he had to gain control over. It bothered him. She was everything he couldn’t abide—privileged, aloof, heedless of reality. To put herself in danger, to even suggest luring out a murderer, displayed a serious lack of judgment.
Audrey Sinclair was desperate, and Hugh knew all too well what desperate people could be driven to do. Especially those who lived cooped up in their townhomes with every advantage at their fingertips.
She sneaked a sideways glance at him. “Then what do you propose we do?”
“We?”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you have my husband’s best interests at heart,” she replied, turning fully toward him. “You now know that he isn’t the murderer, but it would be much more convenient for you if you simply chose to ignore that fact.”
Hugh gnashed his teeth and sat forward. “You question my honor?”
Her expression cooled, and though his retort seemed to chasten her, she turned up her nose at him. “I’ve been informed of your rather dishonorable past, Mr. Marsden.”
He pulled back slowly, searching her eyes. There it was—the barest amount of revulsion. He’d wondered how long it would be before she used the scandal as a weapon against him.
“I’m sure you’ve heard a lurid tale worthy of the gossip rags and believed every bit of it,” he said.
“Is it not true then that you shot Lord Neatham in a duel?”
He exhaled. “I shot him, yes.”
And ever since, Barty’s arm had been a useless limb, tucked up into a sling. By some stroke of luck, Barty’s shot had only grazed Hugh’s ear.
“He called you out for ruining his sister,” she pressed.
Hugh clenched his jaw. He wasn’t inclined to discuss what had occurred between himself and Barty, or worse still, Eloisa.
“It’s funny. You seem to know much about me and yet, I know barely anything at all about you, Your Grace.”
The duchess reached for the wrapper and closed it around her tightly. Hugh had learned to pay attention to a person’s body language; it often said more than they wished to express. The lady wanted to keep him at a distance.
“Why should you?” she asked. “Before this business, you couldn’t have had any reason to know me.”
“Why did you break with Bainbury?”
She flinched, unprepared for the question. Just as Hugh had planned.
“That is none of your business. It doesn’t have anything to do with the matter at hand.”
“You’d be surprised at how informative these seemingly unrelated pieces of information can be.”
Before she married Fournier, she had been but an impoverished and deceased lord’s daughter.
Since his earlier conversation with Thornton, he’d learned Charles Haverhill, Lord Edgerton, a baron, had died alongside the duchess’s elder brother.
The title passed to the baron’s younger brother.
The new Edgerton had arranged for Audrey’s marriage to Bainbury, which would have vastly bettered not just her circumstances, but those of her family.
And yet the Duke of Fournier had swept in and all but stolen her from the earl.
If he’d had to have her so desperately, why wait until the eleventh hour?
As a duke he could have had any woman of his choosing.
Why Miss Audrey Haverhill? She was attractive, intelligent, and clearly, a spitfire.
Perhaps it was a love match after all. Perhaps Fournier simply hadn’t known he loved her until it was nearly too late.
“Bainbury is in the past. I’m concerning myself with the present, and I suggest you do the same,” she bit off. “Now, did you happen to hear Wimbly mention the Continent?”
Hugh groaned inwardly. He’d hoped she would leave that bit of bait dangling on the hook. “I did,” he answered.
“It sounds like Miss Lovejoy was eager to leave the country,” she said as the carriage slowed upon its arrival at Violet House. The duchess leaned forward, her eyes bright with fervor. “Do you think she might have known she was in danger?”
“Or she might have known she was in some trouble and wished to elude arrest. Once on the Continent, it’s easy to disappear.”
She considered his alternative motivation with a cock of her head. “Might she have gone to Philip for help when Wimbly denied her? Perhaps they had formed a friendship—”
Hugh let out an exasperated sigh and hooked his ankle on his knee. “You really are determined to believe he didn’t have her as a mistress.”
She snapped her eyes to his. The firm set of her jaw was at odds with how swiftly she averted her hard glare.
“You’re keeping a secret from me,” he stated, unwilling to play games any longer.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I know when I am being lied to.”
“I haven’t told you a single lie.”
“You said you went back to Bernadetto and he told you Miss Lovejoy was living on Yarrow Street.”
Guilt rode swiftly across her expression. She sniffed. “Very well. I told you one lie.”
“And you’re obscuring the truth now as well.
You’re not na?ve or unintelligent; you’ve proven to be quite the contrary.
I’m willing to consider that your husband did not murder Miss Lovejoy, but the fact remains she was in his secret rooms, which could only have been used for one purpose: to meet a mistress. ”
The duchess turned her cheek, refusing to look at him or acknowledge his statement.
The woman was a veritable monolith. She would not be persuaded toward reason, when even she could not deny the purpose for a secret apartment.
The duke had not even had his solicitor handle the arrangements for the rooms, as most lords did when securing confidential residences.
At the coroner’s inquest, Mr. Newton, who visited his brother at Jewell House often, had claimed to have heard hollering, an argument. No women’s voices, he’d said, but men’s voices. An argument between men.
Men.
The interior of the carriage brightened as it pulled into Violet House’s drive, lamplight shedding over the duchess’s figure.
She held her chin high, her throat working at some knot that had no doubt formed.
Hugh gritted his molars. What a fool he’d been.
A damn fool! Blind as a mole. The carriage shook as her gargantuan driver hopped down.
“At the inquest, Mr. Bernadetto fled before he could be questioned,” Hugh said. Her hard shell cracked, and she turned to him with parted lips.
“Fled?”
“He seemed to take ill after seeing Miss Lovejoy’s corpse.” He shrugged as Carrigan opened the door. “Or perhaps there was another reason he didn’t wish to stay.”
The sconces flanking the front doors to Violet House flickered, casting shifting light over her glossy blonde hair and the delicate curve of her neck.
“Could he have known about her wish to go to the Continent?” she mused.
“I’m sure you intend to ask him,” Hugh said. She lifted a brow. “Can you wait until tomorrow? I can meet you at the theatre at noon.”
He had no doubt that he would regret this. However, it was a better alternative to her rushing off to the theatre right now to badger the man. Hugh had his own questions for Bernadetto, and perhaps the pair of them could achieve more together rather than individually.
The duchess took Carrigan’s proffered hand, and he helped her to the ground. She then turned back to Hugh. “I’ll be at the theatre at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, if you wish to join me.”
“Nine?” Hugh hopped out of the carriage and straightened his jacket.
“Mr. Bernadetto’s office looked as if it doubled as his sleeping quarters, if you’ll recall.”
“I do,” Hugh said, reluctantly impressed she had observed the same. “He will likely still be asleep.”
“The early bird gets the worm,” she replied.
“You are used to getting your way, aren’t you?” He tipped his hat. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
He started for the gated entrance.
“Carrigan can drive you,” she called after him.
“No need,” he replied. He’d rather hail a cab. He’d also rather Carrigan stay close to her. The man didn’t seem particularly sharp, but he was clearly protective of the duchess.
If the murderer was still loose—and Hugh was beginning to accept the fact that he was—her snooping about had likely already drawn his attention.
Hugh kept a keen eye as he turned out of the drive and down Curzon Street.
There didn’t seem to be anyone about, watching Violet House. Except for one particular imp.
“Good work tonight,” Hugh said as the scrawny lad peeled off a stone hitching post to fall into step next to him.
Sir stuck out his hand and whistled appreciatively when Hugh slapped the earned shilling into his waiting palm. It disappeared into his pocket.
“Want me to keep my blinkers on the lady’s place the rest of the night?”
“No, go home. Get some rest.” Hugh didn’t like the boy being out on the streets alone so late at night. Sir was a scrappy thing and smart as a whip, but there were men much larger and smarter than him.
“Ain’t no resting there,” he mumbled. Hugh didn’t know where Sir resided, or if any of his stories about his large family, all of whom he’d claimed at one point or another were sick and in dire need of money for medical attention, were even half true.
He’d have offered a cot in his own kitchen if he didn’t know for certain that Sir would reject it out of pride—and that Basil would complain like a bitter old woman.
“I’ve got a job for you tomorrow,” Hugh said. The boy practically hopped onto his toes. “Got any friends that lurk about the Jewell House?”
“You mean before or after the murder was done?”
“Before.”
“A few. What d’you want to know?”
Hugh considered his words carefully. The theory he’d been struck with in the duchess’s carriage was just that—a theory. But a strong and promising one.
“See if there are any rumors of men meeting other men at Jewell House.”
They passed under the light of a lamppost, and Sir’s expression pinched. “You mean like a molly house?”
Hugh slowed Sir’s step with a hand on his bony shoulder. “I don’t know if that’s what Jewell House is known for but be discreet. Not a word about the murder or the lord who was arrested.”
Understanding lit Sir’s eyes. He touched the side of his nose and bounded away, swiftly becoming another shadow in the night.