Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane appeared a bit shabbier by the light of day.
The facade needed a good scrubbing, especially near the sconces where soot blackened the limestone, and trash—crumbled playbills, broken glass bottles, a lady’s black glove—littered the street.
The red silk tapestries that hung from the side of the building gave off a rich, lustrous quality at night, gleaming in the light cast from lampposts, but the weak early morning sunshine showed they were in fact thin and bleached to a salmon color.
Audrey waited for Carrigan to stop the carriage and open the door for her, her stomach in twists.
Hugh Marsden had said he would meet her there, and with mounting concern, she realized she did not dread his presence.
In fact, if she were being honest, she would have preferred it.
The last time she’d been in the backrooms and corridors of the theatre she’d been completely out of her element; having him at her side had given her a sense of steadiness…
even if he’d been an arrogant cad. Now, after his sobering reminder that the real murderer was still loose, a chill tracked up and down her spine when she considered entering the theatre alone.
Whether or not Mr. Marsden could be trusted remained to be seen.
His reputation as a Bow Street officer was on the line with this case; he couldn’t possibly wish to be known as the man who’d arrested an innocent duke.
However, his evident insult the evening before, when she’d accused him of only wanting what was best for himself, lingered in her mind.
His honor did seem to mean something to him.
It was likely why he’d accepted the challenge for a duel from the newly titled Lord Neatham after Mr. Marsden was accused of ruining his sister—Mr. Marsden’s own half-sister, if the rumor of his status as a by-blow was correct.
It sickened her to think of it. It would be the height of dishonor and depravity.
Had he been guilty? Why else would the young woman have fled England, draped in shame?
Carrigan swung open the door and helped her to the curb.
“The Runner’s here,” he said in his gruff tenor, cutting his eyes toward the opposite side of the street.
Audrey released a breath, which was immediately followed by another twist of her stomach, this one quite different.
It intensified as Hugh Marsden came around the rear of her carriage, his hands in his pockets.
He wore a gray morning coat, black trousers and waistcoat, and a curiously well-tied cravat.
He and Carrigan exchanged a terse glance, and then the driver turned to Audrey.
She read his expression easily; he was wary about this visit, and about her entering the theatre with Mr. Marsden.
Society gossip wasn’t just for the lords and ladies; if anything, the servant class ran wild with more gossip than their employers.
Carrigan glowered at Mr. Marsden as though he knew the scandal that the officer dragged behind him.
Audrey touched Carrigan’s meaty forearm to relay confidence. “I’ll return shortly.”
He only grunted, and she started toward the theatre’s front doors. Marsden fell into step beside her.
“He’s not fond of me,” he murmured.
“It is my endeavor he isn’t fond of,” she replied, then added, “Though I’m sure he also doesn’t like you.”
“Not many people do,” he conceded. “This way.”
He broke from the direction of the front doors and veered toward the side of the building.
“Where are you going?”
“The theatre is locked, but an alley door is open.”
Audrey increased her pace to keep up with his long strides. “You arrived early.”
“I like to be prepared.”
“Is that why you’ve been having me followed?
” Audrey had seen the tall, slim man again the night before, cloaked well in the shadows of Curzon Street.
She’d put out her light and peeled back the window drape, curious to see if Mr. Marsden had stayed to be sure she didn’t leave for the theatre right then. Admittedly, she’d considered it.
She wouldn’t have seen the man had a passing cab’s lantern not shaken light over him. He’d tried to slip behind a tree but too late.
“That has more to do with staying informed,” he replied lightly. “Don’t worry about the boy. Sir knows to keep his distance. Besides, he’s useful.”
They entered the alley and the stench of refuse and rotting food tickled her nostrils. “Boy? This was a man.”
Mr. Marsden drew to a halt. His pressing stare ground her heels to a stop as well. “When was this?”
“Last night.” Unease lifted the small hairs on her arms. “Shortly after you left.”
“This person was standing outside Violet House?”
Her breathing slowed. “Yes. And the night before too.”
Mr. Marsden peered over her shoulder and then further up the alley. He removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair.
With her pulse tripping a beat, her breath turning shallow, she said, “You didn’t send him.”
He met her eyes, his jaw tight. “No.”
Someone else was watching her, a man Hugh Marsden knew nothing about. He’d accused her of being too bold, of making herself a target. Until right then, she hadn’t quite believed him.
“Come along,” he said, his eyes searching the alleyway again before continuing toward the theatre’s side entrance.
Audrey fought to remember more about the man she’d seen twice now.
Both times, she hadn’t gleaned more than a general outline of his figure.
With an uneven pulse, she compared it to the blurred vision she’d had of the murderer while holding Miss Lovejoy’s earbob.
Whether or not it was the same man eluded her.
Inside the theatre, the stale odor of cigars, perfume, and lamp oil wafted under her nose, a welcome change from the alley’s smell.
It was dark, and she became disoriented as they turned down a corridor.
The spongy carpet beneath her feet was familiar though—they had come this way the last time they’d visited.
It was in this very corridor that she’d accidentally touched Mr. Marsden and been hammered with a vision.
Not his latest experience, but a persistent, clutching memory.
A woman, her dark hair flowing around her shoulders.
With a shudder, Audrey wondered if this memory was of Miss Neatham.
With a lurch of her stomach, she realized Mr. Marsden might have involuntarily, unknowingly, shown Audrey the memory that haunted him.
“What is wrong?”
With a start, she realized she had fallen behind. Audrey shook her head and hurried to catch up.
“Nothing,” she lied. Keeping company with someone like Mr. Marsden should have repulsed her. And yet, as they came to the end of the corridor and entered the familiar halls backstage, Audrey felt only curiosity.
She didn’t know whether she could trust him; his true motives for arranging this meeting might still be hidden. Trust Mr. Marsden? It was absurd. Whyever should she? Even Philip was keeping important information from her, and the two of them had been each other’s closest confidants.
The theatre manager’s office door was just ahead, and thankfully this time, there wasn’t another actor or actress in sight.
The last time, the actor named Porter had unsettled her.
He’d been furious about Belladora Lovejoy’s death and had been adamant that she hadn’t been a kept mistress.
Of course, he’d been proven wrong—she’d been ensconced in Wimbly’s property on Yarrow Street.
Though, she had not been exclusive to him, he’d claimed.
Had she and Porter been involved? Had he been jealous?
Hugh stopped at the manager’s closed door and rapped on the painted wood. When no answer came, he knocked again.
“Mr. Bernadetto? Are you in?”
He glanced at Audrey with a silent “I told you so” written on his expression.
Still sleeping, as he’d warned. She stepped forward and knocked a third time.
She didn’t have time to stand around waiting.
Philip’s case was being presented to the grand jury the following day, and she needed information to give Potridge; information that might help sway the jury to throw out her husband’s case.
A shuffling noise came from within the office, then the sound of something heavy falling onto the floor.
“Mr. Bernadetto, we apologize for the early hour,” Audrey said, her voice raised. “We have some new questions about Miss Lovejoy, and it’s imperative we speak to you.”
The pair of them stood staring at the door another few moments, Audrey’s impatience mounting. Her restless limbs felt the intense need to move. With an agitated sigh, she threw up her hand.
“This is ridiculous. He is in there, we heard him.”
Mr. Marsden’s irritation wasn’t much more controlled. He drummed his knuckles harder against the wood. “Bernadetto, you left the inquest without answering any of the coroner’s questions. I insist you allow us in.”
Utter silence followed. No more shuffling noises. Fed up, Audrey reached for the doorknob. It was locked. Mr. Marsden grumbled, then shouted, “I’m giving you until the count of three, Bernadetto, then I’m kicking down this door.”
Audrey stared at him. “Is that truly necessary? I do have my hat pins—I can pick the lock.”
“Yes, but kicking down the door is more assertive and much more threatening,” he replied. She rolled her eyes.
“One!” he bellowed. “Two!” He stood back and motioned for Audrey to move aside. Thinking it unnecessary, but a little thrilling, she scuttled out of his way. “Three!”
Mr. Marsden raised his foot and stomped it hard against the door.
In the second before his boot connected with the wood, Audrey wondered if she would be able to suppress her laughter should he fail to force the door open.
A ready smile was still leaping to her lips when the door did bash open—and a grisly scene met them.