Chapter 7 #4
One of the picnickers, a handsome and dark-haired young man wearing a boater and crisp linen suit, twisted his neck to look toward Audrey and Genie.
He was reclining on an elbow, surrounded by two other men sprawled in the same easy manner.
His eyes, topped by dark arched brows, met Audrey’s.
With a look of alarm, he quickly turned to face his friends again.
There was something familiar about him. She had likely met him at a function in the past, and he clearly knew who she was.
The consequences of Philip’s predicament had already taken hold, it seemed.
“Then again,” Genie went on, not having seen the young man’s alarmed glimpse, “Lady Wimbly is a charitable woman.”
The marchioness was a benefactress, sinking her fortune and her time into projects the majority of the ton considered beneath their notice.
Foundling homes, hospices, even a convalescent home in Devon had all been given a healthy beginning or a much-needed boost through Lady Wimbly’s fundraising.
She and Philip had attended a few of her soirees for such benefits too.
Though Lord Wimbly attended these parties, he tended to stay silent, letting his wife take the leading strings.
“Not to mention,” Genie went on after they had both walked some distance in silence, “Lord Wimbly would live as a monk the rest of his life before admitting Miss Lovejoy had ever been his mistress now.”
Audrey’s legs turned leaden with such sobering observations.
Genie was utterly correct. There was nothing to be had in questioning Lady Wimbly after all.
But then, how could she prove Miss Lovejoy’s connection to the marquess beyond the opium locket?
There had to be something she could obtain and show to the magistrate, or if worse came to worse, to the grand jury.
The previous morning, when Michael had returned from Bow Street, he’d explained there were many steps to be taken before a trial at the House of Lords.
Audrey couldn’t recall them now…she’d been half listening and adamant that it would not go so far as that.
“I didn’t mean to discourage you,” Genie said before turning to signal the driver of her town coach, which had been following at a distance. “Perhaps we should return for tea and call for Mr. Potridge. He might be able to lend assistance with Philip’s case.”
As the coach drew closer, Audrey’s breathing turned shallow.
Yes. As the family solicitor, Mr. Potridge should be the one preparing for Philip’s inquiry.
He would be in touch with a barrister by now.
And Audrey, as a duchess, should simply let them move along with their work while she stepped out of the way.
However, neither Mr. Potridge nor the barrister knew to consider Wimbly. They only had the same damning evidence Mr. Marsden had presented: Philip, blood-covered and in the presence of the body. With sinking spirits, she ruminated if Mr. Potridge and his barrister believed the duke to be guilty.
“You’ve been relentlessly realistic so far, Genie. Don’t stop now. You know Mr. Potridge would merely placate us and listen with respect, but that he would not be moved by anything I had to say or suggest.”
The faintest of fine lines surrounding Genie’s eyes appeared as she smiled. “You sound far too bitter for your age.”
“I wasn’t before yesterday morning,” she sighed, and Genie’s grin faded. “Thank you, but I think I’ll return to Violet House.”
It would also be better to take her leave before Michael returned from wherever he was—likely with Mr. Potridge and a barrister somewhere, doing whatever they could to release Philip. How smug Mr. Marsden would be to see her scampering home with her tail between her legs.
“You truly believe she was not Philip’s mistress?” Genie asked after they had been closed inside the coach.
Audrey nodded. “Truly.”
“And yet the Bow Street officer does not believe you.”
“He wishes to dismiss me and any possibility at all that Philip is innocent. He’s an arrogant, intractable, offensive man.”
Genie propped one thin brow. “My, he’s made an impression.”
When Audrey thought of the hot-tempered Bow Street officer, she fairly simmered.
The cad had dared to block Miss Lovejoy’s bedroom door as Audrey tried to leave.
The outrage of it was still so fresh. As was his clean scent of oakmoss and vanilla.
She’d stood close enough to trace it on the warm air between them.
It had left her with a strange dizziness and racing pulse.
“What is this horrible officer’s name?” Genie asked.
Audrey gritted her teeth. “Mr. Marsden.”
Her sister-in-law sat taller. “Marsden?”
The note of surprise piqued Audrey’s attention. “Is the name familiar?”
She had no idea how it could be. Genie might come from reduced circumstances, but she was as blue-blooded as any other aristocrat, and they most certainly did not rub elbows with Bow Street Runners—unless absolutely necessary.
“It’s been some time since I last heard it, but yes. I don’t know why Michael didn’t mention he was the arresting officer. I’d completely forgotten about him...” Genie looked stunned as she tapped her fingers upon her lap, in thought.
Audrey leaned forward, suddenly furious with herself. Of course! The other night at the Brown Bear, Michael had said something to Mr. Marsden, that he’d known who he was. “How do you know of him?” she asked Genie now.
Disbelief filled her sister-in-law’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the scandal? I know you’re no gossip, but there was no avoiding the talk when it all took place. It must have been, oh…let me see…five or six years ago? Yes, I was just about your age now, I recall.”
Six years ago, Audrey had been in Northumberland, confined to a small, dark room during the night and subjected to rigorous, endless fresh air activities during the day.
Ice cold baths twice a week, and a regular application of leeches to her temples once a month—to draw out the demonic possession from which Audrey’s uncle and mother insisted plagued her.
“I was traveling the Continent with my aunt,” she whispered. The old lie had been unused for so long that it felt flimsy and fake on her tongue. Genie only nodded.
“Still, I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it when you returned. Lord Neatham, the Viscount Neatham? You must know what happened to him.”
A rumble of dread scaled her spine and shivered out, under her skin. It flashed from cold to searing, then back again.
“He was shot. In a duel,” Audrey said, knowing, but not really remembering. For as long as she could recall, the Viscount Neatham had had one functioning arm, while the other hung immobile and useless at his side. “It had something to do with his sister.”
A young woman Audrey had never met, and never would.
The lady had fled London in a cloud of disgrace.
She’d gone to America, some said. Others said France.
By the time Audrey had returned to London herself, the scandal had been old news.
More scandals occurred and the story was left behind, in the past.
“Ruined,” Genie whispered. “By the late viscount’s own ward. A young man living in his home.”
An icy finger stroked the nape of Audrey’s neck. “You don’t mean…?”
Genie nodded once. “Mr. Hugh Marsden.”