Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
On second thought, the Brown Bear might not have been the best place for a clandestine meeting with a duchess.
Hugh nodded toward two men seated at the bar, their red vests marking them as horse patrolmen with Bow Street.
A few more street patrolmen said hello as he made his way to a corner table.
The establishment watered and fed the employees at Bow Street on a regular basis, as well as held criminals unfit for Newgate, like the duke.
Had he stopped to think, he wouldn’t have suggested it.
However, closed into the small closet with the duchess as he’d been, he’d hardly been able to breathe let alone think clearly.
How in hell had he tangled himself up in this mess?
He half wished Sir had never fetched him to the Jewell House. If only some other poor sod had found the Duke of Fournier bloodied and incoherent, he would not be saddled with the unruly, unrelenting duchess.
He slid into a chair facing the entrance—Hugh never sat with his back to a door—and watched for the lady in question.
As soon as he’d stepped inside Bow Street offices, Hardwicke had flagged him down and grumbled about the uppity duchess’s visit just moments before.
Hardwicke had come to the tavern to see if the duke wished for a visitor, and when he returned, the lady had been gone.
Capricious chit, Hardwicke had called her, but Hugh had known better.
The woman wasn’t flighty. Instinct drove him to the evidence closet, and sure enough, there she’d been.
A curl of unease worked its way through his gut at the thought of what might have happened had any other patrolman or clerk found her kneeling there on the closet floor.
A dark green silk hat bobbed into view outside the window, and a moment later, the duchess stepped inside the tavern.
She hesitated, blinking at the smoky, rough interior and the workaday patrons congregating inside.
Her lips parted as she searched the room, and Hugh’s discomfort increased as every eye landed on her.
Her blue gaze, slightly panicked, latched onto him, and she took a deep breath before coming toward his table.
“So much for secrecy,” he muttered as she settled into the chair across from him. She sat primly, her back straight and shoulders squared, her chin lifted.
“You chose the location, not I,” she reminded him.
“Let’s not draw this out any longer than necessary.” Hugh waved off the approaching serving maid. She raised her brow, as if affronted, and turned around. “Tell me.”
He didn’t want to threaten arrest again should she evade his question of what in hell she was keeping from him.
The truth was, Hugh wouldn’t have placed her into custody.
He’d already arrested a duke—arresting the man’s wife for hindering an investigation would have brought Audrey nothing but more ruin, and him, more scrutiny.
She gathered a breath, her lips thinning as she removed her kid gloves; her fingers trembled slightly. What was she so damn nervous about?
She propped her elbow onto the table and extended her forearm toward him, palm open. “Give me your fob.”
Hugh frowned. “Why?”
She narrowed her eyes on him and sighed. “Just give it to me.”
He pulled the fob watch from his vest pocket and unlatched the gold chain. “I suppose there’s no risk in you stealing it. Though I did just catch you trying to nick a pair of cuff links.”
He dangled the watch over her palm, a grin tugging at his lips as the duchess glowered at him yet again. She yanked the watch from his hand, closed her fingers around it—and shut her eyes.
Until then, Hugh had never noticed the color of her lashes. Pale blonde with a coppery sheen. They rested against her creamy skin as she continued to keep her eyes shut.
“Your Grace?” He darted a look around the tavern. A few curious stares were directed their way, though probably not because the duchess had decided to take a nap.
“Shhh,” she replied. Then, “You went to see that man. Porter.”
Hugh leaned forward, an elbow on the table. “You had your driver follow me?”
Her eyes moved behind her lids, as though she were watching something.
“It’s a single room. Small. A greasy window,” she said quickly. Her pale brows snapped together. “Bright green silk. He was stitching on beads. A costume?”
Hugh thought back to Porter’s sad, fishy-smelling room. He had been sewing a bundle of lime green silk, yes. He stared at her, incensed. “Did you visit Porter after I left?”
She opened her eyes, which were equally heated. “Follow you? Carrigan took me back to Violet House, and well you know it. You probably even had me watched again.” She slapped the watch onto the pitted table.
He peered at it, then her. “How do you know of the costume then?”
“I saw it.” She pushed the watch toward him with her pointer finger. “When I held this.”
Hugh picked up the watch and ran the gold chain between his fingers. His mind raced, searching for meaning to what she said. “You saw his room because of this?”
She nibbled on her lower lip a moment, then released it.
“Objects allow me to see things.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze.
The apples of her cheeks flushed, and her breaths came short.
“Things the object itself has seen. Think of your watch, for instance—it absorbs everything that happens to you. Every place you go, every person you see. I had to wade through the memories, of you finding me in the evidence closet, of you placing the watch in your pocket this morning. I had to find something that I couldn’t possibly know, or guess at, to convince you I was telling the truth. ”
Hugh grappled for understanding. It was outlandish. Like a Romany tale coming from Gloria’s lips as she lay beside him in bed, lulling him to sleep.
He sat still a moment, stunned and confused and quiet, before slipping the watch back into his pocket.
“You don’t believe me,” she whispered.
“I don’t think you are lying,” he said quickly. Then rubbed at his eyes. “I just don’t understand what you’re telling me, not exactly. That you can touch an object and see into its past?”
He lowered his voice when a man’s ear at a nearby table turned toward them. The duchess straightened her spine, and Hugh could see her moving into a defensive position. She’d been reluctant to give up this confession. This secret…she’d held on to it closely.
“Yes. But it’s not just objects. I could take your hand, for instance, and…” she trailed off, another blush rising along her throat this time.
“And what?” he urged. What was it that made her uncomfortable? The mere mention of holding his hand?
“Touching skin is more difficult, but sometimes, it will allow me to see an important memory, or what is foremost on a person’s mind,” she finished. Then added hastily, “I prefer objects. The memories are less emotional.”
He leaned forward. “The cuff links. You wanted to hold them.”
At last, her eyes lifted and met his. She nodded. “Philip was on the floor of his apartments when Miss Lovejoy was attacked. There was another man present, chasing her, but I couldn’t see much more than a shadow.”
His mouth went dry, his head started to pound. The duchess was not jesting. She believed what she was saying, and with mounting concern, Hugh realized he believed her. He sat back, arms crossing over his chest.
“There is no earthly way you should have known Porter was working on bright green silk,” he said.
“If you wish me to prove it further, let me hold another object.”
“Such as my hand?” he suggested, surprising himself at the quip. The duchess did not smile as he did. She hitched her chin.
“As I said, I prefer objects. They are better conductors.”
Hugh recalled touching her arm in the evidence closet. He’d held her at the waist too, but the touch had been so brief. The thought of her ungloved hand slipping into his palm, or his fingers touching her skin elsewhere, momentarily tied his tongue.
“You said this could help find the real murderer,” he said once he’d batted away the inappropriate image. “How so?”
Her back rounded a bit, as if in relief. “Well, something happened earlier today. I was at Lady Wimbly’s benefit luncheon—”
“Wimbly?” With a flash of ire, the other night at the Seven Sins, and the hold the marquess had on Audrey’s arm, came to mind.
“Yes, Lady Wimbly,” she repeated. “It was a workhouse benefit. The footmen were from the workhouse, and one must have dropped a knife in the conservatory, and when I bent to retrieve it, I saw a most peculiar image.” She stopped for a breath.
“Lady Wimbly and a footman had an argument right before luncheon. She accused him of trying to blackmail her by keeping something he was supposed to have burned, something that could destroy her.”
Hugh shook his head. “What was it?”
She folded her hands, which were still gloveless, atop the table. “A letter.” She leaned forward. “And he was threatening Lady Wimbly with the knife.”
Hugh considered these fragments of information. None of this was evidence. It was only what the duchess’s…vision had shown her. Nothing he could present to Sir Gabriel or the grand jury or any sane person in London.
“Do you see this footman? In your…in your mind?” he asked, uncertain what words to use.
She shook her head. “No, the memory was his, but if I could hold something of Lady Wimbly’s—”
A hot coal inside him flared to life. “No. I don’t want you going back to Wimbly Manor, not if she’s employing a dangerous man.”
“But if I could just see the footman’s face, I might be able to tell if he is…” She let the rest of her sentence fade away.
“If he is what?” Hugh asked. When she hesitated, he added, “You promised the truth.”
Her temper showed in the jut of her chin. She paused to collect what she was going to say, but Hugh already knew he wasn’t going to like it.
“Miss Lovejoy’s earbob. I found it the night you followed me into Jewell House.”