Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
Audrey sat in bed, her back against the pillows, the satin counterpane drawn to her waist. The fire in the grate animated the blue silk walls of her bedroom in a quivering dance of black and orange flickers.
She’d been sitting in place for more than a quarter hour, looking at the drop pearl and black crystal earbob lying atop the counterpane at her side.
It was such a small thing, and yet it occupied the space as well as any sleeping husband.
Not that Philip shared her bed. This was her room; her bed and hers alone.
Her husband had never slept here, though he did come in once a week or so to maintain the facade of a traditional marriage.
In the beginning, they would have great fun with it, teasing the servants by making a racket.
Now, however, they’d tamed themselves and usually just had a brandy and a chat.
Belladora Lovejoy’s earbob appeared a harmless thing on the bed of satin jacquard, but Audrey knew it was far from innocent.
It had already given terrifying images that her memory would cling to forever, and the moment she touched the earbob again, more would come.
Mr. Marsden had interrupted her earlier.
The piece of jewelry still had more memories to give before it fell quiet and dark.
Once it did that, it would be just an earbob. Empty. Safe.
There was no choice in the matter. She had to hold it. Had to help Philip in any way possible. Already, she knew the man attacking Miss Lovejoy had not been the duke. She’d seen a glimpse of his head, his dark, shorn hair, his ear. But there might be more to see; perhaps his whole face.
Audrey dreaded it. Dreaded feeling like she was the one being attacked, so close to Miss Lovejoy’s memories she could feel the smothering weight of sheer horror.
The man at the theatre, Porter, had been dark haired, his skin a deep brown. But his skin had been pitted, and the side of the face she’d seen in the vision had been smooth and white. Bristled, but unmarked by any scarring.
She’d made mistakes with her questions at the theatre, she wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
Not that she’d ever admit it to that insolent Bow Street officer.
Audrey touched the crook of her elbow, where his hand had grasped her earlier.
Though it had not been skin-to-skin contact, she’d seen something.
The image had been fast and jagged. A woman’s face.
There, blooming in Audrey’s vision, all loose russet hair and creamy skin, and then gone again.
That had never happened before. She wore gloves whenever fashionable—and thank goodness they were—and avoided touching people.
Skin contact hardly ever caused visions to erupt, blinding her to the real world, but when they did, they struck hard.
Energy with that sort of power was never a current memory, but one that haunted the person.
One that consumed them so completely that it was always there.
Always present. Whoever the woman with the russet curls was, haunted Mr. Marsden deeply.
Audrey batted away the curiosity. Mr. Marsden was not her ally, no matter the lie she’d told Mr. Bernadetto.
When she’d arrived at Violet House, the jarvey had helped her down and quietly informed her that the other carriage had followed them from the theatre.
Audrey tipped the jarvey handsomely before going inside.
Barton, her butler, had let out an audible sigh of relief when he met her at the door.
While he hadn’t questioned her directly, he’d made comments that demanded some sort of explanation of her absence—all of which she’d bypassed by telling him she felt ill and was turning in for the night.
While Greer had been stoking the fire in the grate and readying the bed, Audrey had peered outside, searching for the officer’s carriage, half thinking it would be parked along the street. It hadn’t been, and she’d felt silly as she let Greer undress her.
Audrey now sat with her head throbbing and her eyes dry and hot as she stared at the earbob. She needed sleep, and she couldn’t do that until she’d taken every memory the earbob could give her.
Get on with it, you ninny.
Audrey closed it into her fist.
Battering arms, flailing and hitting. Blurred images, dark and vicious.
Shouting, grunts, and panting breaths. Swathes of firelight and bared teeth.
The images chugged further into the past, and Audrey made out the exterior of a fine brick terrace house, a brass plate—47—above the door.
White columns, an endless row of them, fronted every home along the street.
Gray speckles closed in from the edges of her vision. And then, blackness.
Audrey sucked in a breath and opened her eyes.
She uncurled her fingers. The earbob rested in the center of her palm; the edges of the crystal had pinched grooves into her skin.
It was just an earbob now, all energy, all clues, leached.
And not one face. Not one piece of information that she could follow. At least not easily.
She couldn’t think through the muddle of her exhausted thoughts. Audrey set the earbob on the bedside table and sank into her pillows, closing her eyes. Behind them, she saw the russet-haired girl, Mr. Marsden’s livid expression, and the jumble of images she’d just hurtled through.
It was only when she woke from a dreamless sleep a few hours later that she remembered with a cramp in her chest that Philip would not be at the breakfast table as he usually was. He was always so pleasant at breakfast, while Audrey knew she was a bit of a grouch before she could sip her chocolate.
The morning before his arrest, they’d been having breakfast together and reading the gossip columns, as usual, sharing a laugh over the description of Lady Dutton’s gown the previous evening at Lady Granger’s annual musicale.
“There is, without doubt, a peacock somewhere in Kew Gardens that is missing every last feather. It is a sad affair when a creature sacrifices its beauty to help enhance another’s, and the effort falls so short of success,” Philip had read aloud, laughing as he’d reclined in his chair, crossing one leg, and sipping his tea.
“That is cruel,” Audrey had commented, attempting not to smile.
“To the peacock,” he replied.
A knock upon her bedroom door drew her from the memory, her weak smile fading completely.
“Come in, Greer,” she called.
Greer had been serving her for the last three years, having been assigned the position of lady’s maid when she and Philip had married.
Nearing middle age, Greer had served the previous Duchess of Fournier, Philip’s mother, until the woman’s death a handful of years before Audrey took the title.
She was a quiet, loyal lady’s maid, who rarely smiled and yet never appeared cross.
Diligent was the term Audrey would use, as well as content.
Serving a duchess as lady’s maid was, next to housekeeper, the highest rank among the serving class and much respected.
Greer exuded confidence and pride in everything she did.
Even now, as she entered the bedroom and immediately went to the windows to draw back the drapes, she did so with bustle.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Greer said. She set a stack of folded linen on a bench and immediately entered the large, attached boudoir, where Audrey’s clothes were kept.
“Will you be taking breakfast in your room, or in the dining room, Your Grace?”
Audrey wanted nothing more than to sit in bed all day, denying the real world was unfurling outside the four walls of her room. Which was exactly why she had to get up and get moving.
“In the dining room,” she answered, shoving back the counterpane. Greer emerged with a dark plum day dress, so dark it was nearly ebony. The gown was plain, with minimal embroidery and not an inch of lace.
At Audrey assessing eye, Greer said, “I thought this would be appropriate.”
Audrey took a deep breath; it was as close to a mourning dress as one could get. She set her jaw. “Another color, Greer. Green, I think.”
With a bob of her head, she disappeared back into the boudoir.
Audrey dressed and took breakfast alone, the footmen and maids all abnormally subdued.
The house was so quiet, the soft, steady ticking of the clocks sounded like heartbeats in every room and hallway.
To her relief, Barton maintained his usual show of persnickety irritation as he swept into the sitting room just before noon.
“Lady Redding to see you, Your Grace,” he said, adding, “if you are at home. And if I may, Your Grace, Lord Harrick advised yesterday that callers be kept to an extreme minimum. If you would like me to see the lady out…”
“That isn’t necessary, Barton, thank you. I will see her.”
He sniffed his disapproval, but Audrey only shook her head and smiled. She appreciated Barton’s attempt to spare her what would no doubt be an agonizing half hour in the presence of the Viscountess Redding. Audrey, however, knew her as Millie.
Her older sister by ten years, Millie had never paid much attention to Audrey while growing up.
She’d been looking to marriage by the time Audrey had been ready to leave the nursery and hadn’t much time to spare a seven-year-old pest who hid in hedgerows to jump out at her older sister and whatever beau had called on her that week.
It was just the two of them, Millie and Audrey, the brother born between them having died.
James had been kinder to Audrey, though he’d still been six years her senior and had been too busy to play or climb trees with her.
He’d caught a fever at Eton, and he’d brought it home to Haverfield, their home in Hertfordshire.