Chapter 11 #2
“Now, then, my lady,” he said, still amused. “What was it you needed to discuss with me?”
Audrey suppressed the urge to bat away his wandering hand. If she were to gain any useful knowledge, she had to at least play at seduction for a brief time. “It’s a scandalous topic,” she began.
“I don’t mind a bit of scandal.” He swirled his fingers a little higher, just above her knee. They left a few blots of moisture on the pale blue silk.
“Mistresses,” she whispered, attempting an alluring, husky tone.
Wimbly’s swirling fingers paused. Mr. Marsden’s criticism of her questioning skills rang through her head: You are too heavy-handed. Perhaps she was a bull in a china shop after all.
“Mistresses,” he repeated, his pointer finger tapping her leg, almost absentmindedly.
“From what I gather,” Audrey pressed on, “there has been a bit of a do about one of yours.”
Most definitely heavy-handed. But it caused Wimbly to remove his hand, so Audrey couldn’t feel much regret.
“Who are you? Who have you been speaking to?” His playful tone was gone.
“I have connections to Miss Lovejoy,” she replied lightly, hoping beyond hope that Wimbly wouldn’t guess her identity. They were not so well acquainted that he would recognize the curve of her chin or her bottom lip.
The marquess searched her face, her eyes, looking for any telling characteristic. “What of her?”
“Have you not heard?”
“Of course, I have. The whole bloody town has heard.”
He didn’t appear at all to be mourning the loss of his mistress. She’d been dead a few days and he was already out mixing, seeking new company. Then again, keeping a mistress did not always equate with harboring feelings.
“Miss Lovejoy was ensconced in your property on Yarrow Street,” Audrey said, no longer caring to be discreet about her questioning. The marquess had clearly gone cold toward her. He shifted away from her now.
“Are you one of her theatre friends? Why are you here, speaking to me of her? I’ve nothing to do with what happened.”
“I simply want to know about the last time you saw her. She was your mistress. Why would she be at a place like the Seven Dials when you put her up in a much finer part of town?”
His lips formed a hard line. Spots of red speckled his cheeks. “Are you a reporter? Some low brow gossip that thought she’d get a bit of a story if she sauntered in here and sat in my lap?”
His voice had been steadily rising, and though the hum of conversation was high in the club, Audrey saw glances being cast their way, especially by those on the surrounding divans.
“I am not in your lap, my lord.”
“No, you are gnawing at my boot heels,” he seethed. “Miss Lovejoy was murdered by a madman duke befuddled by opium, and I’ve nothing—nothing at all—to do with that.”
“He isn’t a madman!” Audrey snapped.
Wimbly’s nostrils flared. He went rigid as he again squinted a good look at her eyes. He jumped to his feet and with barely controlled fury, hissed, “Take a stroll around the floor with me, won’t you?”
He knows…and he was also aware of eavesdroppers nearby.
Audrey stood slowly, and when he offered his arm, she stared at it, hoping her gloves would be barrier enough. Reluctantly, she took his arm and started walking.
“Is that you, Your Grace?”
“No,” she answered drolly, “I am just a low brow reporter.”
He hissed through his teeth. “My god. What in the devil are you doing? How dare you seek me out here, in public!”
“I want answers,” she replied. “You were her lover, not my husband.”
He pinned her arm closer to his side as they wove between two tables. “These things are not always exclusive,” he said. “She was an actress, for pity’s sake. Nothing but a light skirted songbird. She had a number of benefactors, I’d wager.”
He didn’t sound jealous at all at the prospect. Audrey didn’t think Wimbly was skilled enough an actor to be pretending, either.
“Do you have any idea who they were?” she asked.
“Other than His Grace? No,” he scoffed.
She pursed her lips as they walked through a cloud of smoke, toward the entrance to the gaming room. He was seeing her toward the door.
“Did Miss Lovejoy tell you, specifically, that she was meeting with my husband?”
“My god. No, she did not, but clearly, she was, considering the way they were found,” he implored, the vehemence in his voice rattling her.
“You are prying into things you know nothing about, Your Grace, and I advise you to return home at once before anyone realizes you are here, and you make an utter spectacle of yourself.”
Audrey was suddenly exhausted; it felt like running up against a wall. Men had been telling her what to do during this whole ordeal. Her husband, Michael, that blasted Officer Marsden. She hadn’t obeyed them, and she most certainly wasn’t going to obey Wimbly.
“The spectacle has already been made, my lord,” she told him through gritted teeth. “My husband is accused of murder. Arrested. I know he did not do such a crime!”
He pulled up short, his hand still latched onto her elbow. “And you thought what? That I must be the one to have done the murder?”
Audrey froze. Of course, the possibility had gone through her head, but now that Wimbly was saying it so plainly, she realized the absurdity of it. She had seen the dark outline, the blurry visage of Miss Lovejoy’s killer, and it had not been the Marquess of Wimbly.
“No,” she shook her head.
Wimbly exhaled, seemingly appeased. But far from content. “Then why approach me?”
“I need to know who else Miss Lovejoy was…friendly with.”
Wimbly narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been nothing but brash so far, why play the part of innocent now?” He leaned closer. “You want to know who she was fucking.”
The tips of her ears burned. The cad.
“May I have a moment with Her Grace?” a low and steady voice asked from behind her. Audrey stiffened. Recognition struck a millisecond before her eyes landed on him.
Hugh Marsden slid into view at her side, his jaw shifting with barely concealed fury.
He wore a black town coat and a sooty gray, double-breasted vest. The tall collar of his white turnback shirt was sans cravat.
He was not dressed for an evening out at all.
Which meant he had hastened here without stopping to have a neckcloth properly tied.
Someone had told him she was here. He was still having her followed.
“Marsden?” Wimbly said, his displeasure evident. “How did you get in here? I know for a fact the proprietor wouldn’t allow a miscreant like you a membership—if you could even afford one.”
Mr. Marsden’s narrowed eyes slowly shifted from Audrey to the marquess. She noted he didn’t react, visibly at least, to the man’s insult.
“We are not at a fine gentlemen’s club, Wimbly. There are plenty of miscreants here. If you’d release the duchess so I might have a word with her.”
Wimbly’s grip was still an iron vise around her elbow. Audrey wanted to be free of it, but she wasn’t finished with the marquess just yet. Nor was she eager to get a verbal tongue lashing from Hugh Marsden.
“One moment if you please, Mr. Marsden,” she replied.
“Now,” he practically growled.
Wimbly scoffed. “Working with a scum sucker like Marsden, are you? Are you truly that desperate, Your Grace?” He didn’t relinquish her arm.
“We are not working together, I assure you.” She speared Hugh Marsden a glare. “I have one more question before I leave the both of you.”
The marquess finally released her and shoved her aside for good measure. “You have taken up enough of my time, Your Grace.”
He kept the proper form of address, but nothing about his sneer or his tone was proper. It was clear what he thought of her and her prying. And yet, it made her want to push further, not retreat.
“When was the last time you saw Miss Lovejoy?”
Wimbly turned on his heel to leave her on the floor, but before he could take a stride, Mr. Marsden blocked his path. “This is fortuitous. I called on you yesterday. It seems you were out. Now that I have your attention, perhaps I may ask a few questions about your property on Yarrow Street.”
Wimbly’s black glare jumped between Audrey and the officer.
“You will step out of my way, Marsden.”
“I could call tomorrow if you prefer. Lady Wimbly still hosts her tea luncheon on Fridays, isn’t that correct?”
The marquess’s nostrils flared. His coloring reddened. “What do want?”
“Answer the duchess’s question,” he replied, surprising Audrey. She peered at him. “When did you last see Miss Lovejoy?”
The crowds around them were noting their intense conversation; Mr. Marsden’s arrival had been noticed as well.
“Must we do this here?” Wimbly whispered.
“I find I like the atmosphere,” Marsden replied. Audrey could see why. Wimbly’s temples glistened with sweat. He was nervous about attracting too much attention.
“Fine. I saw her Sunday evening. At the theatre.”
She’d been found in Philip’s rooms Tuesday night. Audrey searched back to Sunday evening. Philip had been out, she recalled. She hadn’t seen him before turning in for the night.
“And what of His Grace?” Audrey pressed.
“What of him? He wasn’t there if that’s what you mean.”
“Tell me about Miss Lovejoy that night,” Mr. Marsden cut in, as if this was his opportunity to question the marquess. Well, she supposed it was both of theirs now.
“She was in the production, of course. She was brilliant, as always.”
“And did you go backstage after?” Audrey asked before Mr. Marsden could speak again.
“How is that relevant?”
“Did you speak to her?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered with a roll of his eyes. “She was in a wretched mood. Asked me to take her away from all of it. She mentioned the Continent.”
“That she wanted to go?” Marsden asked.
“That’s right, and when I put her off, she became practically hysterical. I didn’t stay. Said I had another appointment.”
“Was she usually that way? Distressed like that?” Audrey asked.
Wimbly grimaced. “If she had been, I would have detached from her long ago. No, she was never upset easily.”
“You didn’t wonder what might have caused such a mood?” Marsden asked.
“I only cared to be away from such an outburst,” he answered coldly.
“The house on Yarrow,” Mr. Marsden began.
“Yes, I own it. Yes, Miss Lovejoy lived there,” he answered preemptively.
“Where is the staff?” the detective continued.
“I let them all go the moment I heard the news. I saw no reason to dillydally.”
Audrey frowned. The man had no feelings. He didn’t mourn the loss of his mistress in the least. Likely, he saw her as an object. One he could easily replace.
“Who were her friends? Acquaintances?” Audrey asked.
“How should I know? I did not entertain them,” he bit off. “Now, you have your answers, so I will take my leave. Good evening, Your Grace.” He peeled back his upper lip in a sneer and left them as quickly as he could.
Around them, the other patrons stared with curious faces and narrowed eyes.
“We have worn out our welcome, my dear duchess,” Mr. Marsden murmured.
She wanted to bite off his head. Audrey turned on her heel and left the main floor immediately. She breathed easier as she took the stairs to the ground floor. The sticky residue of smoke and sweat clung to her even as her skin shivered over.
The porter brought her wrap as another footman sent for her coach.
“How dare you have me followed?” she asked as she pulled her wrap close. Her evening slippers puttered down the front stone steps. The crisp air nearly made her dizzy.
“I knew you would do something rash with that locket,” he replied.
So, he’d seen her take it from Miss Lovejoy’s drawer after all. Why hadn’t he said anything at the time?
To see what you did with it, you ninny.
“You wanted to get me to do your investigating for you, I take it?” she asked.
He stepped up beside her, his hands in his pockets. “Hardly.”
“And yet, you couldn’t gain admittance to question Wimbly at his home.” She faced him, defiance making her hot and loose-lipped. “How lucky for you to have cornered him in the Seven Sins just now. Thanks to me.”
“The risk you took was idiotic.”
“It was paltry. Only my reputation was in danger, and with my husband arrested for murder, that hardly matters anymore.”
“Maybe I should remind you, my lady, that if you truly believe the murderer is still loose, he might not want you digging around.”
Audrey’s scalp tingled, and she held her tongue. That thought had not quite yet entered her mind, and she felt stupid for it. Worse, she’d allowed Mr. Marsden to see her reaction plain on her face. He now gloated.
Carrigan came around the corner with her coach.
“Yes, well, I gained some valuable information,” she said, pretending at nonchalance.
“I doubt it,” he muttered.
“I know the marquess wasn’t jealous of her other lovers. She was not exclusive,” Audrey said, using the word Wimbly had. “There are potentially other suspects.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t give names.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
The carriage came to a stop beside them on the curb. Carrigan hopped down quicker than usual, likely alarmed to see Audrey standing so close to a strange man.
“Your Grace,” Carrigan said, his eyes hinged on Marsden. His burly chest faced him like a shield.
“Carrigan, this is Officer Marsden.”
The driver stepped closer to Marsden the moment he was aware this was no aristocrat and didn’t deserve unconditional respect. To his credit, Marsden’s brows lifted, appropriately alarmed.
She sighed. “Everything is fine, Carrigan. I’m ready to go home.”
Audrey took the driver’s hand to be let up into the coach.
“I attended the coroner’s inquest,” Marsden said. Audrey’s feet stilled and her spine went rigid. He’d clearly intended for the blurted statement to capture her attention.
She pursed her lips, irritated his strategy had worked, and peered over her shoulder.
“You may ride with me to Violet House, but you are not invited in.”
A small grin shuffled the corner of his lips. Carrigan stood aside and gestured for Mr. Marsden to climb up.
Audrey prayed she did not regret it.