“Amy, this is not research but real life.” He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “There is a murderer out there who will not be happy to know you are second-guessing the police. If it becomes known that their main suspect is conducting her own investigation, your life could be in danger.”
A light drizzle began as the coach made its way through the bumpy and dark streets of Bath. William rested his head on the soft Morocco leather squab and studied her. “Tell me a little bit more about how you came to write murder mysteries, of all things. I would think a young lady’s interests would lie more in romance stories, something like Miss Austen wrote.”
“I tried to write romance. I even started doing so in the schoolroom before I attended boarding school. My governess encouraged me to write stories, and it soon became a part of my daily life.”
“As other young girls keep a journal.”
She laughed. “Except my stories were not like what other girls wrote in their journals.” She tapped the side of her head. “You see, I have a logical mind.”
“And we all know there is nothing at all logical about romance.” His murmured words, along with his cocked eyebrow and slightly turned up lips, did strange things to her insides again. “Is it your contention that possessing a logical mind lured you from romance and toward murder and other ghastly themes?”
She shrugged. “I lost interest in writing romance, and after my governess pointed out many times that whenever she presented me with a problem I could usually solve it by using logical steps, I thought solving mysteries might be more fun.”
“Ah, not the way a woman’s mind should work.”
Amy drew herself up, narrowing her eyes at William, who was looking quite smug in the light from the carriage lantern. “And where is that written, my lord? Are women not as intelligent as men? Do they not have the same right as men to use the brain God gave them?”
He stared at her openmouthed. “You are a suffragette!”
“Of course I am,” she sniffed. “You are aware that I am a believer in women’s rights. Did you think a woman who has no problem dressing as a man or going into unsavory places to do research and then writes about murder would not be a suffragette?”
“That is an excellent point. I have no problem bowing to your superiority in this matter. With your nonfeminine logical brain and experience with murder and all the mayhem it causes, where do we go next?”
Amy dipped her head in deference. “You are above all other men, my lord.” She edged farther up on her seat, her facial expression quite serious. “Until we can locate Mr. Albright, we must turn our attention to others who had a reason to dislike St. Vincent so much they were willing to put a knife into his chest.”
“And also knew where to find him to do that.”
A slow smile teased her lips. “Yes. A very good point, my lord. I shall add that to my notes when I return home. I believe I will make a detective out of you yet.”
“Thank you, no. I prefer my murders to be between the pages of a book that I read seated in a comfortable chair in my library at night, with a warm fire in front of me and a brandy at my fingertips.”
“So very dull.” Actually, she was finding a totally different side to William that she’d never seen before. Protective, inquisitive, and willing to take a risk to help a friend. Maybe not so very dull, after all.
“One thing we have not considered is who will inherit St. Vincent’s estate.”
Amy’s eyes popped wide open. “Of course! How could I ever have let that slip from my mind?”
William offered her his now familiar crooked smile. “Perhaps investigating a murder where you are the main suspect has rattled your normally logical mind? In any event, St. Vincent has a nephew, Mr. Francis Harris. I don’t know the man well—the last I heard he was out of the country—but it would not hurt for me to poke around a few of the gentlemen’s clubs to see if he has returned now that his uncle is dead. From what I know, Harris is the only heir to St. Vincent’s estate.” William grabbed on to the strap alongside him as the carriage hit a large gap in the road that tossed her from her seat to the floor.
“Ouch.”
He leaned down and helped her up. “Are you hurt?”
She rubbed her sore bottom but didn’t want to mention what part of her had taken the brunt of the fall. “I am fine. Thank you.”
Once she was settled again, taking note that Persephone had slept through the whole ordeal, she said, “How did you know who St. Vincent’s heir was?”
“It pays to have friends in various situations and employments. That is all I can say.”
Annoyed at his elusive answer, she said, “Speaking of Mr. St. Vincent’s estate, it might not hurt to gather whatever information we can about his financial state. He seemed quite irate when I ended the betrothal. Since ours was hardly a romantic connection, I must admit I was quite taken aback when he became so angry.”
William cleared his throat, which Amy knew he did when he was about to say something provocative at the book club. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask about your betrothal. I am aware that it is a personal matter, but something about it might shed some light on his murder.”
“Yes. I agree. There could most definitely be some link.”
He seemed to relax when she didn’t refuse or order Persephone to attack him. “Very well. How did the betrothal come about? And I know you received a note about his activities—which would be another good line to follow—but was that the only reason you decided to rid yourself of the man?”
She gazed out at the darkness as they made their way back to her townhouse. A steady rain had started up, causing the traffic to slow down. Recalling the uncomfortable conversation with her papa, she pushed aside the hurt and began her story. “Papa had been quite anxious to see me married, and as he put it, ‘settled.’ I honestly believe he thought a husband would ‘take me in hand’ and stop me from writing or doing other things of which he did not approve. I had refused a so-called ‘Season’ in London for two years before he forced me—threatening to cut off my allowance—into traveling to London to make my bow to the Queen. After three miserable months of balls, musicales, dinner parties, and soirees, no one appealed to me, and I am quite happy with my life just as it is.”
“Then why the engagement?” His softly spoken words in the cozy darkness with the rain dripping down the window encouraged her to continue.
“In a moment of weakness, he convinced me that Mr. St. Vincent, who had approached him with an offer for my hand—which is so very old-fashioned, by the way—would make a fine husband. I knew Mr. St. Vincent and had spent some time with him at a garden party, attended the theater when he was present, and danced a few times with him at the Assembly. While I found him to be a pleasant man, I never thought much about him as a husband.”
She took in a deep breath. “However, during our conversation, Papa referred to me as a ‘spinster’ and said how unhappy I would be in my old age. As I said, it was a weak moment for me. I agreed to the arrangement, but I must admit, almost from the day we became engaged, I thought about a way to get out of it.”
“How very unkind of him to say that. I know he is your father, but I fail to see you as an unfortunate spinster, someone who would be unhappy in the coming years. You have a full life with your writing and social life. That being said, marriage is a very serious commitment. One should not take it lightly. Till death do us part is a frightening prospect.”
She wondered at the somberness of his statement and if perhaps it was the result of some pain he’d suffered in the past. Before she could dwell too long on that, William nodded and continued. “Based on what you’ve told me, I understand what you mean about St. Vincent being unnecessarily upset by your request to end the engagement. I shall contact the man who handles my business affairs, Mr. Harding. He might have information available to him which would cast some light on the matter.”
Amy straightened in her seat and scowled. “Now just a moment, my l
ord. You are going to gather information at the gentlemen’s clubs and you will speak with your man of business. That sounds too much like leaving me out of the investigation.”
William grinned as he nodded to her. “Not at all, my lady. I am sure your ‘logical’ brain will think of many things to do to continue searching for the killer. Just be sure to stay out of trouble if I am not with you.” He glared at her. “And no guns.”
* * *
The next afternoon, Amy sat in front of her mirror, her chin resting on her fist. She stared at her reflection and sighed. One thing she disliked more than anything was making social calls, which many women of her station did on a regular basis. Sitting around drinking gallons of tea while sharing gossip was not a productive way to spend her time. About once a month, she did force herself to endure the torture, and considering she would, no doubt, be the latest subject of the gossip, it would serve her well to make a few calls that afternoon. Face her enemies, as it were. She’d always thought that the best defense was a good offense.
Today Aunt Margaret and Eloise would join her, since while Amy despised afternoon calls, Aunt Margaret loved them. Another way they were so very different.
Eloise was also not fond of making the dreaded calls but had sent a note around, in answer to Amy’s plea earlier in the day to join her, saying that she would certainly support her friend.
“Are you ready, Amy?” Her aunt entered Amy’s bedchamber while pulling on white kid gloves. Aunt Margaret’s bedchamber was down the hall from Amy’s, and she could hear her bird, Othello, chatting away. He was currently reciting “The Phoenix and the Turtle.”
Dismissing the bird, she admitted she would never be ready for the torment she was about to endure, but for the sake of the investigation, she would submit. She never knew from where her next clue would come, and showing herself in society would limit the rumors. Amy slid a hatpin into the silly confection she called a hat to anchor it to her head. “Yes. I am ready, Aunt. Where are we off to today?”
“Two places, actually. It is past time I made a visit to Mrs. Morton—”
Amy groaned.
Aunt Margaret’s brows rose. “And after her, we should call on Lady Marlberry. The poor dear slipped and injured her hip. The doctor has confined her to the house for a while.”
Amy followed her aunt from the room, down the stairs to the door. “I don’t mind Lady Marlberry at all. She is quite sweet, but Mrs. Morton is not one of my favorite people. She is a member of our book club, and I will need to suffer her presence this evening, as it is at our weekly meeting. She takes every opportunity to insult me with innuendos. I can just imagine what she will have to say about Mr. St. Vincent’s death.”
“Which is precisely why you need to present yourself today.”
Eloise awaited them in the front hall, looking as miserable as Amy felt. She was truly the best of friends.
Mrs. Morton’s house was in one of the best sections of Bath on Dunsford Place. Her husband, a very pleasant man, made his money in stocks and railroads and had risen from near poverty to the elite of Bath society. It was rumored that Mrs. Morton had been a scullery maid before she married Mr. Morton, who had himself been a clerk. He apparently had quite a head for business, however, and after receiving a small inheritance, he’d spent the following ten years turning it into a fortune.
His wife had taken on airs once they had received their first investment check and never turned back. That was one of many reasons Amy disliked the woman. That and her way of asking questions or making statements that could be taken differently than the words spoken.
Amy’s stomach fluttered at the sound of lively chatter, which led them to the room where they were announced.
If a mouse had decided to eat a biscuit at that moment, the munching would easily have been heard by the seven women in the room. Stunned silence greeted the three entering.
Mrs. Morton rose, her hand plastered against her chest. “Oh, my dear, dear, Lady Amy. How very, very horrible for you.” She floated across the room, her obvious delight at having the notorious woman whose ex-fiancé had been murdered right in her drawing room simply too much for her to hide. “You must be devastated. I cannot imagine how you were even able to rise from your bed.”
Since it was not considered good ton to smack one’s hostess over the head with one’s reticule, Amy merely smiled and allowed herself to be swept into Mrs. Morton’s arms and hugged until she thought she would faint from lack of air.
She took in a deep breath when the woman finally released her and studied her carefully. “How are you holding up, my dear?” Then Mrs. Morton took to fluttering a handkerchief that had miraculously appeared in her hand. She patted the corners of her eyes. “I am so very, very sorry to hear of your troubles.”
“That is quite enough, Isabel.” Aunt Margaret scowled. “May we at least be seated and offered some tea?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mrs. Morton ushered them to the settee closest to her, glaring at Miss Davies, who currently occupied that seat. Miss Davies quickly removed herself to another chair. Aunt Margaret and Eloise were then forced to sit farther down in the room, leaving Amy to deal with Mrs. Morton by herself.
“Here, my dear. Just sit yourself down and I will see that you have a strong cup of tea.”
“Isabel, for heaven’s sakes, the girl is fine,” Aunt Margaret snapped, then swept her eyes around the room, glaring at all the goggle-eyed guests. “In fact, my niece had already broken her engagement with Mr. St. Vincent before he died.”
“You mean was murdered,” Lady Ambrose said, whipping her flowered fan so hard the curls alongside her hair bounced.
“Well, yes. He was murdered. But there is no reason to assume Lady Amy is heartbroken or in need of consoling.”
“Is it true you found his body?” Miss Everhart, a young miss barely out of the schoolroom, pushed her spectacles back up her nose, then gripped her throat, her eyes huge. Everyone else leaned forward as well, the anticipation on their faces alarming. And William seemed to think women were too delicate to write about murder? Amy was willing to bet just about every woman in this room had read one of her books.
Amy accepted a cup of tea from the maid and took a sip. “Yes. I was unfortunate enough to find his body.”
Gasps ricocheted around the room. “Oh, how very unpleasant.” Lady Ambrose gave her fan another flutter.
Aunt Margaret looked over at Amy and shook her head slightly. Amy wasn’t sure if her aunt was commiserating with her or silently warning her not to toss her teacup at Lady Ambrose’s head.
“These are wonderful biscuits, Mrs. Morton,” Eloise said from across the room. “Do you think your cook would share the recipe?”
“Have the police found his murderer?” The delicate, sweet, simpering Miss Everhart totally ignored Eloise and was at it again, dripping with avid curiosity.
Suddenly everyone in the room was extremely interested in their teacups. Uh-oh. Apparently word of her being the main suspect had spread far and wide. Well, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of again tossing pitying looks her way combined with fake shock and suppressed glee at her dilemma.
She raised her chin and looked Miss Everhart in the eye. “No. As a matter of fact, they have not.” She took another sip of tea and turned toward Miss Davies. “Miss Davies, I must say that is a lovely dress you are wearing. That color suits you quite well.”
Unfortunately, the group was still not about to surrender. Miss Davies barely got her thanks out before Mrs. Morton said, “Lady Amy, dear, surely you must have some idea of at whom the police are looking.”
“I read in this morning’s paper that the investigation is continuing, and no one has been arrested.” Amy wanted to kiss Mrs. Welling, who had remained silent up to that point.
“Yet,” Mrs. Morton said, waving her finger at Mrs. Welling. “Not yet.”
“I wonder how poor Miss Hemphill is holding up.” Lady Ambrose tsked and took a bite from her tart. Considering how her
bulk tested the seams of her dress, ’twould perhaps have been better if the woman had left the array of treats alone.
“Miss Hemphill?” Aunt Margaret asked, glancing over at Eloise, who looked as surprised as Amy felt.
“Oh, yes, my dear.” Lady Ambrose waved her hand. “But that is not news. Just about everyone knew she expected Mr. St. Vincent to make her an offer of marriage before she set off for London a couple of months ago. I understand she has recently returned”—she glanced in Amy’s direction, then away—“but found the man had already betrothed himself to Lady Amy in her absence.”
St. Vincent had been expected to make an offer to Miss Hemphill? How the devil had Amy not known that? She looked over at Aunt Margaret, then Eloise, who both gave her a slight shrug. Hopefully one of her cohorts would not let the story die there.
“Did you say Miss Hemphill was expecting an offer from Mr. St. Vincent?” Her saving grace came from Miss Everhart, who apparently was as ignorant as Amy about this expected proposal.
“Oh, indeed. They were courting for a few months, and then, according to Miss Hemphill’s brother, she unexpectedly took a trip to London. She is a member of our sewing group that meets every Tuesday at my house to sew clothing for impoverished infants. We were all quite taken by surprise at her abrupt departure.” Lady Ambrose practically drooled when she offered that piece of information.
“Lady Carlisle and Mrs. Miles.” The butler’s low voice interrupted the question Miss Everhart was about to ask to announce two new guests.
The two women, whom Amy knew from the book club, entered the drawing room, giving her an excuse to depart. She was not prepared to continue answering questions about Mr. St. Vincent’s death. If she remained here much longer, the story would grow until someone swore they had seen her plunge a knife into the man’s chest.
She stood and smoothed out her skirts. “I must leave your company, I’m afraid. I have an appointment this afternoon.” Amy moved toward Eloise and took her arm. She looked over at Aunt Margaret. “Shall I send the carriage back for you?”
A Study in Murder Page 8