Superintendent MacDougal ran his hands through his curls, making an even bigger mess. ‘The bastard. It has to be Sinclair. He has every man in the Seven Dials working for him, and half the women as well.’
‘I’ve never heard Hubert mention his name. He certainly isn’t someone from my circle. Who is this Sinclair fellow?’
Superintendent MacDougal speared her with a glare. ‘A very dangerous man. He’s killed more people than the plague. What was Hubert thinking?’
‘I suppose that is a question for your niece. She’s the one adept at reading minds.’ Cynthia wondered exactly what Helena had heard from her. Did she imagine the slight flush turning Helena’s skin from cream to strawberries?
‘It’s a bit difficult when the person is dead.’ Helena rested her hand between Hamlet’s ears.
‘Are you certain Hubert never mentioned the man?’ Superintendent MacDougal’s finger tapped incessantly against his thigh.
‘I wish I could be of more help, Superintendent Lachlan, but on the rare occasion he did speak to me, it was usually about whether or not there would be roast beef on the menu. It’s been months since we’ve exchanged more than a passing greeting. He certainly wouldn’t deign to share his private schedule or any chums he might have in London’s criminal underworld.’ Cynthia tightened her spine and tried not to be embarrassed. Many society wives had limited relationships with their spouses. Indeed, some of her friends in the beau monde spent months at a time never even seeing their husbands. Her relationship with Hubert wasn’t some tragic circumstance and certainly didn’t warrant anyone’s pity. Though that is exactly what she feared she was earning from Helena. She was only glad Thomas was not there to hear how very dire things were between herself and Hubert.
She had spent years hiding the truth of her marriage from her brother because she knew Thomas would be appalled at how isolated and alone she felt most of the time. Their parents had a fashionable marriage, but one that also contained mutual respect and a quiet affection. Thomas himself had a love match. Cynthia’s relationship with the Marquess of Kentmore was something else entirely.
She knew when she accepted Hubert’s proposal, their relationship would not be a wild and passionate thing. But she hoped it might contain a degree of warmth and comfort. That hope died quickly.
Try as she might, she couldn’t drum up a hint of excitement when he pressed his wet mouth to hers, not that he seemed to care all that much. Bedding Cynthia had been one more chore he needed to accomplish. And he had done so with painful regularity until it became obvious she was not increasing. His disgust at being duped into marriage with a barren woman only heightened her own sense of failure. She did not enjoy his attentions, but she had held out hope children might come that she could love. A hope that disappeared at the same time her husband ceased claiming his marital rights. Though she was relieved to no longer await each evening with a certain sense of dread, she still felt the sting of his rejection and the pain of knowing she would never hold a babe in her arms.
While physical intimacy was no longer a priority for Hubert, in the early years of their marriage, she had hoped they could still form some kind of attachment for each other. She went to him one fateful day to discuss the particulars of their relationship, hoping to forge a friendship that might supersede their lack of attraction. After all, sexual congress often waned in even the most passionate affairs, but mutual respect and shared interests could sustain a relationship well into the twilight years.
It took Hubert no time at all to make it absolutely clear women held one function in his life. He no longer cared to fuck her, so there was no point in trying to converse with her.
Her job was to be beautiful, obedient, and fertile. She failed in the last aspect, and if she did not excel in the first two obligations, he would divorce her. It was a fate worse than death for any lady of the beau monde.
She had walked out of his study that day heartbroken and determined to stay out of her husband’s path. Which she had done with exemplary success for years.
If she hadn’t such a strong constitution, she might have easily faded into the shadows of society. But Cynthia couldn’t linger in darkness. So, she created her own light. No one need feel sorry for her. She had a life full of vibrancy and verve. Interesting women, charitable endeavours, and glamourous social engagements abounded.
Over the course of their ten years of marriage, she did just as Hubert demanded. She became the perfect society wife and kept herself completely out of his business. Which gave Cynthia precious little insight into his activities or acquaintances with London’s unsavoury underbelly of criminals. A world in which the Devil of Seven Dials seemed to rule.
‘Many marriages are distant in nature, but you must have noted his comings and goings. Any acquaintances who came to visit him. Dinners he asked you to host? Any information might be helpful.’ Superintendent MacDougal raised his thick eyebrows in silent entreaty.
‘He spent more time at his club than here. There are weeks strung together where I didn’t see him at all.’
She couldn’t ignore the flash of compassion in Superintendent MacDougal’s eyes. It sparked an illogical anger. She did not need his sympathy. And she certainly didn’t want him running off to tell her brother that Cynthia’s marriage had been a cold, cruel, glittering cage.
‘We had a fashionable marriage similar to many of our set. He provided me with a lavish lifestyle only a fool would take for granted.’ She didn’t miss how Helena’s gaze sharpened on her, but she would be damned if the woman felt sorry for Cynthia.
I am not some pathetic creature who needs your pity!
Helena said the maid’s thoughts were loud, but Cynthia was fairly shouting into the void.
It’s no use. She can’t read you. Try as she might.
Cynthia’s eyes widened on the fox. Hamlet yipped, his ears perked like two little sails in a stiff wind.
Helena was distracted by her pet, reaching down to scratch his head.
You are a fox. You can’t be talking to me.
And she was a woman having an internal conversation with an animal. The stress of Hubert’s murder must have shattered Cynthia’s wits.
I’m a fox. I can do whatever I please.
A small part of her cheered in triumph. She was right. The mysterious voice she heard the day before was Hamlet. But reason swiftly followed.
They’ll be carting me off to bedlam any minute now.
