Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Greer entered the breakfast room at Violet House at half ten the following morning. She bobbed her head of ash blond curls toward Audrey, and with a poised glance at the footman hovering nearby, sent him on his way.
Once they were alone, Audrey folded her napkin on the table. “He has already answered?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Greer stepped forward and set a wax-sealed letter on the table beside Audrey’s plate of kippers and toast. She had hardly been able to eat a bite, and now her appetite diminished completely.
Audrey had been awake since dawn, her mind in snarls as she paced the Aubusson rug in her room.
Greer hadn’t appeared at all surprised to see her lady out of bed and restless when she entered at eight.
As any highly trained lady’s maid would, she maintained a placid expression.
Audrey could have been standing there in the nude and Greer would have calmly gone to the wardrobe, withdrawn a wrapper, and gently slipped it over her mistress’s shoulders.
Not once had she parted with an unnecessary or silly word in Audrey’s presence, and she did not gossip about the other servants either.
Growing up, Audrey had known many a maid who gossiped and complained and shirked her duties.
She felt lucky to have Greer now, and yesterday, after returning from her visit with Genie, Audrey had made the decision to ask her maid a favor.
“Thank you, Greer.” With a quick curtsey, the maid retraced her steps and left the breakfast room.
The paper was not of good quality, but that was of no matter.
Audrey picked it up and a breath of a vision began to take form—a dark room, candlelight, a man’s hand scratching ink upon the paper—but she shoved the image away.
The person who’d sent the letter was not important; the information inside was.
The previous afternoon, Audrey had skimmed the newssheets before asking Greer to engage a private investigator on her behalf—under a nom de guerre of course.
She needed to know who owned the home on Yarrow Street, and asking Michael or Mr. Potridge, or going in search of the records herself, was completely out of the question.
Someone like Mr. Marsden could get to the information much faster and without inspiring curiosity.
Audrey had circled a name in an advert and Greer, asking no questions, carried out the task.
Audrey slit the wax wafer with a table knife and held her breath.
During the night, she had started to fear that perhaps Philip owned the Yarrow Street residence.
He’d let rooms in the Seven Dials, so why not elsewhere?
But she released a breath when she saw the name of the property owner scrawled across the brief correspondence: the Marquess of Wimbly. Just as expected.
Her relief turned mixed as she continued reading:
The clerk I spoke to related that another individual had been looking for information on the same address earlier in the day.
Audrey sighed. Mr. Marsden. It had to be.
In addition to having a man watching her home—she had spied the stranger the night before, standing across the street, underneath a lamppost for far too long a time, his attention hinged on Violet House—it seemed Mr. Marsden had taken the time to investigate into the property.
He no doubt now knew Miss Lovejoy had been kept by Lord Wimbly. A spate of unease threatened to overtake the flutter of victory. What Genie revealed the afternoon before, about the past accusations against Mr. Marsden, churned her stomach.
Miss Neatham, the late Viscount Neatham’s daughter, had been ruined by the young man living under the viscount’s own roof.
His ward. Genie had not needed to explain the meaning behind that term.
Neatham had felt some responsibility toward Hugh Marsden—or at least, the boy he had once been.
The nanny’s son. Goodness, it was unheard of, really, for a nanny to be allowed to keep her child on premises, to be raised amongst her employer’s own children.
Unless, of course, that child was the employer’s burden by blood.
And if that were the case, and if Mr. Marsden had, in fact, ruined the viscount’s legitimate daughter…
She shivered. In no way did she feel she knew the Bow Street officer well, but hearing that he had done something so reprehensible, so lewd…her mind simply did not want to accept it. Or believe it.
Then again, what Mr. Marsden had or had not done in his past was not the issue at hand. He’d discovered Wimbly was Miss Lovejoy’s benefactor, which had likely proved to him that Philip had not been. So, what would he do next?
Audrey’s eyes skipped to the last portion of the letter. She memorized the address she had requested the private agent to discover on her behalf. There was no note of caution or a plea for her to remain a far step from said address, and a small, appreciative grin touched her lips.
She folded the letter just as the door to the breakfast room opened yet again. Barton bowed a few degrees at the hip.
“Your Grace, Lord Herrick to see you. In the morning room.”
Audrey let out a breath. She figured her brother-in-law would call on her at some point in the day. He was likely upset about the stroll around Hyde Park that she and Genie had taken. Well, it had to be dealt with.
“Thank you, Barton. Please send for tea.”
The butler bowed and left, and before she could follow him, she dropped the letter from the private agent into the hearth. Flames ignited the thin paper, and Audrey carried on, toward the morning room.
Michael was standing before the hearth fire there, the small flames just enough to take the damp chill off the air.
He greeted her with a grimace. Michael had thick, black hair and full brows that stood out in sharp contrast to the light hair, fair skin, and finer brows his older brother possessed.
The two brothers didn’t look related in the least. Where Michael was of a shorter stature and broad shouldered, Philip was tall and lean—more agile looking than athletic.
Michael exuded power, while Philip exuded understated intelligence.
She closed the door behind her. “I do hope you haven’t come to chastise me.”
“I’ve come to inform you on what is happening, in hopes that you will not feel the need to leave Violet House again—at least for today.”
It took every ounce of her composure to maintain a tranquil, unaffected expression. “Thank you for thinking of me and of how restless I must be.”
If she gave him even the slightest reason to believe she might misbehave again, he would find some way to pen her in. There was much to do, and if placating her brother-in-law with a show of meek acquiescence meant he would turn his attention elsewhere, so be it.
He let out a sigh and came away from the fire. “Philip is still at the Brown Bear, guarded by Bow Street,” he said as he sat on the edge of a chair that was far too small and dainty for him.
It made Michael look big and bumbling when she knew he was anything but.
She also knew he was not the enemy; he was simply restricted himself by the rules that society had set for them.
This was an extraordinary situation, and for a moment Audrey tried to imagine what Michael might be going through.
His beloved older brother, the holder of the family title, which had been so respected and unblemished, stood accused of a heinous crime.
He was attempting to minimize the damage the only way he knew how.
What Audrey did not know, however, was whether Michael’s priority was proving his brother’s innocence or protecting the Fournier title for future generations. For his own unborn child, perhaps. Guilt instantly swarmed her for forming such doubt, yet it would not go away.
“He has broken his silence,” Michael went on, “though only to insist that you decamp to Fournier Downs as soon as possible.”
“Nothing regarding the charges?” she asked.
He shook his head, his mouth a grim, flat line. “The grand jury will discuss his indictment in two days. I want you gone from London before then.”
Audrey pinned the flesh inside her cheek between her teeth. The order was not unexpected.
“I’ve already informed Philip that I will be staying at Violet House.”
“Audrey, this is a serious matter—”
“Do not insult me further, Michael.”
His eyes sharpened on her as if suddenly aware he had been patronizing her and now felt guilty for it. Just as quickly, however, he hardened them again.
“What possible good can remaining here do for you or Philip?”
She surely wasn’t about to tell him her plans for that evening. They’d barely come together in her mind since reading the private agent’s letter in the breakfast room.
“Perhaps none. However, even if I am not able to see or speak to Philip, I will have him know that I refuse to run away.” A stinging prickle behind her eyes caught her by surprise. “I will stand with him even if I am only standing within these walls.”
Michael released another sigh, this one longer and more resigned. He settled back into the dainty chair, his arms overlapping the spindly wooden armrests. “You are entirely too intractable.”
She noted that he at least said it with modicum of respect.
Tea arrived then and it was another minute before they each held a cup, neither of them sipping.
“What have you and Mr. Potridge discovered?” She hoped he would part with something new and useful.
“The details are unseemly.” Before she could again tell him to quit patronizing her, he went on. “And Philip refuses to say anything other than he cannot remember the crime in question.”
“Not remember?” Audrey blinked. Philip had not said as much to her when she’d visited the day before. She’d begged him to form a story, any story that might get him freed. Perhaps he had done just that. “Intoxication?”
Michael shook his head. “He would not say.”