Chapter 18 #2
Feeling ill with agitation, the minutes slowly ticked forward.
Finally, the first act concluded. Intermission was upon them.
Audrey stood, palms damp within her maroon gloves.
With what felt like a stone in the pit of her stomach, she left the private box and made her way to a refreshments room on the second level.
A bell would signal them back to their seats for the second act in thirty minutes, and until then everyone would bombard the large room for punch and sweets.
As expected, the throngs of operagoers were thick, the air humid and close.
Perfume and cologne filled Audrey’s nose as she entered the long room, alone.
And good lord, she’d never felt more alone than she did right then.
Once again, eyes settled on her and bodies shifted away, as if just by being in her presence they, too, would be tainted.
She maintained what she hoped was a regal, unaffected expression as she whisked a glass of champagne from a table.
Her eyes darted from person to person as she sipped, skating over the looks of censure, awe, and pity.
After a few minutes of mounting unease, she saw St. John within a small grouping of people near the refreshments table.
He stood tall, his chin lifted, hands clasped behind his back as he observed the conversation around him without participating.
Audrey sipped her champagne and made her way toward him.
She wasn’t stealthy enough. He caught a glimpse of her approach, and his eyes widened with poorly masked alarm.
A memory slammed into her then. While walking through Hyde Park, near the Serpentine with Genie just a few days before, he had been picnicking with friends.
He’d been wearing a linen suit and boater hat and had quickly turned away when he and Audrey had met eyes.
Just as Mr. Marsden had said he would, St. John now made to avoid her. With a nod to those around him, he slipped to the right, behind another throng of operagoers. She narrowed her eyes at his attempt—as if it wouldn’t only increase her determination.
She followed him, threading through the room while keeping her eyes on his back and the dark curls trailing below the silk brim of his top hat.
At last, a woman stepped into St. John’s path.
At her sides were two younger versions of herself, and all three wore coquettish grins.
Audrey hastened forward. This was her chance.
“Lord St. John,” Audrey said as she appeared at his side.
“I’m so happy to bump into you. I wondered if I might implore you to pass along my gratitude to your mother—” With artificial surprise, she belatedly gaped at the woman and her two daughters, as if she had not seen them standing there before now. “Oh, do forgive me. Were you speaking?”
The woman’s false smile had been replaced with flared nostrils and a tight stretch of the lips that now only slightly resembled a grin.
“Not at all, Your Grace. My daughters and I were…just moving on, weren’t we girls?
Come along. Good evening, Your Grace. Your lordship,” she said and with a quick curtsey, whisked her daughters away.
Whoever the woman had been, she’d known the duchess on sight, and as Audrey had hoped, hadn’t wanted to be in her company a moment longer than necessary.
Gracious, the woman had not even taken the opportunity to introduce herself.
She truly was a leper among the ton now, it seemed.
And as St. John, the future Marquess of Wimbly stiffened at her side, she realized he, too, wished to escape.
“I will pass along your good words to my mother, Your Grace.” He bowed and started to move away.
“I hoped to speak to you on another matter as well,” she said quickly, stepping alongside him again.
His agitation was palpable, though not like his father’s had been at the Seven Sins.
While Wimbly had been incensed, St. John seemed cagey.
Eager to be away. She glanced up at him, and from this angle, noticed a small mole on the side of his left cheek.
For a moment, she forgot what she was about to say.
“I believe I can speculate on what matter you refer to,” he said, keeping his voice low.
She blinked, distracted. “I believe you can,” she agreed.
“I have nothing to say,” he said, his eyes skipping around, landing anywhere but on her.
“I only wish to know more about Miss Lovejoy and how she might have come to be at His Grace’s apartments that night.” She expected him to snort and say something along the lines of Isn’t it obvious? Instead, he kept his jaw firm, his expression glacial.
“She was not his mistress, but yours,” Audrey added.
St. John huffed and shook his head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling briefly, as though he’d liked to have denied it.
“Was she not?” Audrey pressed.
He faced her fully. He appeared much like his father then: irritated, pushed to the edge of anger.
Still, there was a note of panic in his voice when he all but hissed, “You are dallying with a situation you don’t know the first thing about, Your Grace.
I believe Fournier would wish you to step back and let things alone. ”
She peered at him. The way he called Philip ‘Fournier’ rather than ‘His Grace’ gave her pause. Had he and St. John been acquainted?
“What would you know of my husband’s wishes?”
The younger man straightened his back, composing himself. “Any respectable man of quality would not wish for his wife to be conducting herself in this fashion. You are not with Bow Street, Your Grace. You are a duchess.”
He sounded like Hugh Marsden now—at least, it was how the officer had sounded when she first started searching for the truth. Thinking of him now, she cut her eyes from St. John’s and searched the crowd.
“I have information that Bow Street has been dismissing,” she said, if only to tempt St. John out of stalking away from her. When she failed to spot Mr. Marsden and turned back to the young man’s eyes again, she startled at his pointed glare.
“What information?” he demanded. Intensity rolled off him, practically slapping Audrey in the face. She blinked, and when she didn’t respond, he stepped closer. His height pressed down over her, and his cheeks flushed.
“What are you aware of?”
“Tell me where you were on the night of the murder, and I’ll impart some of the knowledge I possess.
” It was a gamble, one made before she could think.
What information did she have to give him, other than what she had gleaned from the few objects she’d held?
The earbob, the cuff links, doorknobs, and newel posts.
“You want me to tell you that I was there? That it was I, not His Grace, who killed Belladora?” He snorted in derision and continued to speak, though Audrey’s ears grew muffled as at last, the memory came together. She knew where she had seen St. John and his noteworthy mole before.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but I was with friends that evening. We went to a boring soiree and then to Vauxhall for a bit of real fun. Hunt them down and badger them with your questions if you’re so inclined.”
St. John turned on his heel—and collided with Hugh Marsden. The two men staggered, feet tangling, arms reaching out for purchase. It caused a burst of commotion, which was readily observed by those around them.
“Good God, man!” St. John finally freed himself of Hugh’s clumsy grip and tugged the lapel of his jacket. Audrey narrowed her eyes on the officer, who was just about the least clumsy person she’d ever met.
The man Mr. Marsden had been sitting with in Lord Lindstrom’s box clapped St. John on the shoulder and gave a hearty chuckle, flashing straight white teeth. “Forgive my friend, St. John. He isn’t accustomed to these sorts of crushes.”
St. John straightened his cravat, his already peeved expression souring more. He ignored Mr. Marsden entirely. “Thornton,” he said. “I don’t usually see you at these productions.”
Mr. Marsden met Audrey’s dubious gaze briefly as his friend, Thornton, rumbled laughter. “You could say I’m expanding my cultural horizons.”
Thornton’s grey eyes landed on Audrey. He made a short bow before turning his attention to St. John, clearly waiting for an introduction. To speak to her before one was made would be considered rude, and this Thornton fellow clearly knew as much.
Reluctantly, St. John cleared his throat. “May I introduce Her Grace, the Duchess of Fournier. Your Grace, this is Lord Thornton, son of the Marquess of Lindstrom.”
Lord Thornton bowed again, this time more deeply. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”
Audrey canted her head, keeping her eyes hinged on Mr. Marsden, who had seemingly recovered from his awkward drunken sprawl.
“Still keeping questionable company, Thornton?” St. John muttered, taking a cold glance at Mr. Marsden.
“I pride myself on it,” Lord Thornton replied lightly, grinning. He turned to Audrey. “You and my friend have met, Your Grace, I’m aware.”
“He arrested the duke,” St. John nearly growled. “You’re beyond the pale bringing him among us, Thornton.”
“I was simply doing my job,” Mr. Marsden put in.
“Your job,” he snorted, dismissively. “You are a reprobate. Good evening, Your Grace. Thornton.” With that, St. John slipped away.
Audrey watched him go, brimming with excitement. St. John’s anger over the arrest of the duke had been the lynchpin in her theory.
Lord Thornton whispered something in Mr. Marsden’s ear, then with an assenting nod, he withdrew as well.
“I assume you don’t wish to stay for the second act?” Mr. Marsden asked her.
Numerous eyes bored into her back, and heat swamped her chest. Here she stood, conversing with the man who arrested her husband. Audrey could only imagine the tsunami of gossip about to flood London.
“I am fetching my maid and leaving.” She turned on her heel and stormed away from him.
It had to be done, for appearances sake—something she hated, especially considering she would have much rather told Mr. Marsden what she had just discovered: St. John had been at Jewell House that night.
He’d been the very last image the doorknob to the building had shown her, the murky and smoky energy dissolving into nothingness as St. John barreled down the stairs.
She’d noted the mole on the unknown man’s cheek then but had promptly forgotten it and him—until tonight.
Greer was waiting for her in the receiving room. The maid only had to see Audrey’s expression to know that they were quitting the opera.
The brief ride home was utterly quiet. Greer’s discomfort and curiosity and Audrey’s muddled thoughts mingled to create a black storm within the carriage.
St. John had fled Jewell House before the body had been discovered.
Before the murder, or after? She tried to recall whether he’d had blood on him in her vision, but the energy had been evaporating; she had barely been able to make out his face.
The only thing she was certain of was that he knew more than he was claiming.
Also, whatever Lady Wimbly had wanted the footman to burn was evidence that might implicate her son—and exonerate Philip.
When she and Greer finally stepped through the front door to Violet House, Audrey only wanted a finger of whisky and a hot bath before slipping into bed and sleeping for a dozen hours.
Like a turtle, drawing its head into its shell, Audrey wished for solitude.
She wished for the whole world around her to stop and hold still for as long as it took her to know how to breathe again.
To know how to piece together what to do next.
Unfortunately, Barton announced a visitor just as he was removing her cloak. She whipped her head toward him.
“A visitor?”
“The officer from Bow Street. He insisted on seeing you, Your Grace, though I threatened to throw him out into the mews if he so much as set one boot—”
Audrey held up her hand. “Where is he?”
“In the kitchen, Your Grace. Shall I get rid of him?”
She closed her eyes, exhausted. But if he had come here at this late hour, after that fiasco at the opera, it was for a reason. “No. Show him to my study.”
“That room is unprepared,” Barton replied, sounding sorry for it.
“I will light a few lamps,” she said, brushing off her butler’s concern.
“Will you want tea, Your Grace?” Greer asked.
“No, thank you. He won’t be staying long.”
Audrey started for the small room on the first floor.
Philip’s study was far larger, and much more masculine, in comparison.
Audrey’s study had been done in soft blues and greens and creams, the furniture a honey oak rather than dark mahogany.
It suited her, and it was the one room in all of Violet House where she didn’t entertain visitors.
Why she’d told Barton to send Mr. Marsden there perplexed her.
If she saw him in her study, it might not feel like a true meeting.
Or perhaps it was only that the room would feel isolated from the rest of the city, set as it was at the back of the house, the drapes drawn.
No one would need know Mr. Marsden had visited at all.
She arrived at the darkened room at the same time as a footman. Two lamps were glowing, a third wick being brushed with a flaming taper when Barton’s knock rapped the closed door. He opened it, and with great displeasure, announced her visitor.
“Officer Marsden, Your Grace.”
The footman placed the glass chimney onto the lamp and turned up the wick. Mr. Marsden stepped inside, still wearing his opera attire, though the cravat had loosened a bit.
“Thank you, Barton. Stephens. You may leave us,” she said, though she knew the butler and footman would not go more than a door or two down the hallway.
Mr. Marsden waited until the door snicked shut, then whistled. “He doesn’t like me.”
She crossed her arms. “Calling so late at night is unseemly.”
The officer rubbed a hand along his jaw as he glanced around the room. “Especially after we ran into one another at the opera.”
“Yes. Especially,” she bit out. “Mr. Marsden, why would you cause such a scene, bumping into St. John the way you did?”
He unbuttoned his jacket, and she noticed the gloves he’d been wearing at the opera had come off. He reached one unadorned hand into his waistcoat pocket. “To obtain this.”
A gleaming gold pocket watch appeared in his palm. He let it drop, catching it by the chain. As Audrey stared at the object, understanding reaching her slowly.
The ungainly stumble. The tussle of arms and hands. Hugh Marsden had stolen Lord St. John’s pocket watch.