Chapter 5 #3
Her hope was on fire by the time she arrived at number four Bow Street.
It had been over a full day since his arrest, and Philip had to have broken free from his stupor.
He had to eat and drink, didn’t he? Michael had left Violet House the afternoon before saying he’d send the family physician to inspect Philip, and as Audrey girded herself before walking into the Brown Bear tavern, she all but convinced herself that her husband would greet her with a smile and an embrace, and most importantly, words.
The tavern was bustling, unlike the time she’d last been there. Heads turned and eyes stuck, surely wondering what she was doing in such a place as this. She’d taken a few steps into the tavern and toward the bar when a serving maid approached.
“You want a table?” the woman asked, as though in disbelief.
“There is a man being held in an upstairs room, by Bow Street,” she replied, trying to keep her voice low. “I’d like to see him.”
The serving maid’s eyebrows rose with understanding. “Take the stairs, luv. Two floors up. The Runner will see you.”
The conditions of the upstairs were only slightly more hospitable than the cellar had been, with narrow halls, dingy floorboards, and smoky air.
Just as the tavern maid had said, a Bow Street constable perked up in his chair when he saw her.
He eyed the space behind her, as though expecting someone else—a man, she presumed—to appear on her heels.
“Madam?” he said, brow creased in confusion.
Oddly enough, being addressed as madam instead of ‘Your Grace’ set her at ease.
“I would like to see the man you have in holding here, sir. The Duke of Fournier.”
He changed his posture and cleared his throat as his eyes swept from Audrey’s face to her feet, then back up again. It gave her the insulting sensation that she’d just been shoved back an inch. Or undressed. Perhaps both.
“I’m not sure that’s allowed, madam,” he said.
“I have come all this way to speak to my husband.” As she stressed her relationship with hope it would help clear the way, she recalled how Hugh Marsden had accused her of doing so the night before, at the opera.
And how she’d bungled things up because of it.
She bit the inside of her cheek and took a breath.
“Sir, if you must fetch your superior, I understand and will wait.”
The man clenched his jaw, and only then did she realize he might not have liked the implication of needing his superior’s permission. But instead of being denied entry again, the man nodded once and reached for the ring of keys at his waist. He unlocked the door and stood aside for Audrey to enter.
“Visitor,” he barked into the room, and then to her, added, “Just a few minutes, Your Grace.”
The room was little more than the size of a butler’s pantry and empty of everything but a cot, a chamber pot, a small table, and two chairs. A small window let in only a little light. A figure laid upon the cot, which was pushed against the far wall, his back to the door. Philip.
“You have a visitor,” the Bow Street constable said again when Philip didn’t move. Audrey’s heart sank, her burning hope that he’d be back to himself doused with ice.
“He’s been like this since yesterday,” the man grumbled to her. “Wouldn’t even speak to his solicitor, or the other lord there, his brother.”
Michael and Mr. Potridge had informed her that Philip had been silent, but she’d hoped after a night spent here, alone, with time to think and to sober…
The man moved out into the corridor again. On the floor near the open door was a tray with a plate and cup. The food and drink hadn’t been touched.
“Philip?” she said as she entered the warm, stale room.
His head turned. “You should not be here.”
She wanted to cry out in relief. Philip’s dry cracked voice brought stinging tears to her eyes as she went to him.
There was no other chair in the room to sit, so she perched on the edge of the cot.
He turned onto his back and sat up, his elbows braced against his knees, hands covering his face.
The picture of utter despair knifed through her.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to mask the waver of her voice. “Where else should I be?”
“Violet House. Fournier Downs. Anywhere but near me.”
“Millie tried to convince me of the same thing,” she replied.
He lowered his hands, which were no longer caked in dirt and blood, and she wanted to weep.
His eyes, usually so bright and jovial, were flat and haunted.
His mouth was set into a grim line, his brows pinched.
“I don’t usually agree with your blow horn of a sister, but in this instance, I do. Go, Audrey.”
She smacked his arm, knocking his elbow from his kneecap and sending him lilting to the side. He caught himself and sent her an exasperated look.
“You didn’t hurt her, Philip, I know you didn’t,” she said. “Why have you not denied it? Why are you not speaking to the officers or magistrate? You must realize it only makes you appear guilty.”
It was exactly how Mr. Marsden wanted it. He wanted to close his case and prove he was right, and he couldn’t care less about the damage left in his wake.
Philip pulled away from her, moving backward to lean against the wall.
“Why won’t you speak to me?” she asked. “You’ve always told me everything. You kept rooms, Philip, and don’t think I’m ignorant as to why.”
She gritted her teeth, determined not to give him a lecture. Not now, at any rate, and not with the Bow Street guard listening from the corridor. She quieted. “Talk to me. Who were you really seeing?”
“I’m trying to protect you.” His voice strained against some emotion. Anguish. Anger. She wasn’t sure which.
Audrey opened her reticule and brought out the earbob she’d stowed away inside. Philip eyed it when she held it out to him in her palm.
“What is that?”
“It’s how I know you are innocent. This belonged to Miss Lovejoy. I found it in your room at Jewell House.”
Fire leaped in his eyes, and he sat forward, suddenly sober. “What in hell were you doing at the Seven Dials?”
She closed the earbob in her fist. “What were you doing there? I know it wasn’t to meet your mistress.” She practically hissed the words so the man outside the pantry wouldn’t hear.
Philip sealed his lips again and leaned his head against the wall, eyes lifting toward the cracked plaster ceiling. Then, in a whisper, “What did it show you?”
He knew everything about her. He had for some time, and never once had he doubted or reviled her for it.
“Terrifying things.” The frantic, blurred memories were even more obscure and distorted now. “A man who was not you.”
He flicked his eyes to her, knowledge behind them. “Did you see his face?”
She shook her head. “His ear. His cheek. Dark hair.”
Something in Philip’s eyes went soft. Horror ripped through her. “Good god, Philip. Please tell me…he wasn’t…it wasn’t who you were…”
His eyes flashed. “No! Of course not.”
“Then who—”
“I can’t. I…I can’t.” He sounded so pained, so anguished, that she bit her tongue against another question about his secret lover.
She knew the stubborn set of his jaw. Philip wouldn’t answer. “Fine, then. Belladora Lovejoy…who was her benefactor?”
Philip sat forward, his hand clutching at her arm. He gripped her wrist before hastily letting her go. He knew that a vision might have been passed on to her. But her mind stayed woefully unimpeded.
“Stay out of this, Audrey.” He shook his head and once again, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Please, go. If you’re seen visiting me here—”
“Dash the gossip and scandal. You are my husband. I will not stay out of this.”
He had to know that. It might have been why he looked at her from his heavily lidded eyes with such sadness. But he said no more.
“Michael and Mr. Potridge will visit you soon, I’m sure, and please consider a story—any story—that might get you freed from this place,” she said, standing. The sour odor of the room was beginning to make her head ache and her stomach twist.
“There is no excuse for the way they found me, my love. That Runner has his case made.”
“There is an excuse—there is the truth.” She hesitated by the cot. If he would only tell her who he was leasing those rooms to meet…perhaps whoever it was had something to do with this sordid business.
He knew things that he was refusing to share with her. Information that could help him. Why would he wish to hurt himself? Unless he thought he was protecting her. Or someone else. His lover, perhaps.
“Your Grace.” The constable stood within the threshold. He’d given her the allotted five minutes and wanted her to leave. Staying any longer would get her nowhere anyhow.
Philip turned his head toward the wall, refusing to meet her eyes.
Audrey breathed in deeply when she left the room and watched as the constable locked the door again.
It was an unnecessary precaution. Philip had no wish to leave that room.
Part of her believed he wanted to rot in there for the rest of eternity.
But he wouldn’t. If the grand jury sent his case to the House of Lords, and they convicted him of murder, Philip could very well be shunted off to Newgate. Or to the gallows.
Audrey had to find that mysterious benefactor. Not just for her husband’s sake, but for Miss Lovejoy. The man who murdered her was still walking around London somewhere and could very well commit the same brutal act again.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?” the man asked once he had hooked his keys to his belt again.
“For now,” she replied, and then turned to leave.