The frustration had built to the point where she’d begun to think she should have gone to London with William, just to be away from Bath for a while. But that would have involved asking the detectives’ permission to leave, and since she was trying to avoid them, that would have defeated her purpose.
She hoped to put all of it behind her that evening, just enjoy the dance and try to resume a bit of her happy life before Mr. St. Vincent stumbled through the French doors with a knife stuck in his chest.
A slight knock on her bedchamber door drew her attention from her meandering thoughts. “Yes?”
Aunt Margaret entered, dressed in a lovely deep-purple satin gown. The black embroidery on the neckline ran down the front of the dress and around the hemline. Long gloves with gold bracelets adorning them reached her elbows, with a matching necklace and earbobs.
“Oh my, don’t you look beautiful!”
Aunt Margaret did a slight dip. “Thank you, my dear. I am attending the Assembly Rooms tonight.”
“Wonderful. It’s been a while since you have.”
Aunt Margaret leaned back and inspected Amy. “You look lovely as well, but I think your hair could use a bit of decoration.”
Amy wore a rose-colored gown with a neckline lower than usual. She patted her hair. “Yes, I was thinking about feathers or something like that.”
“I have the perfect thing.” Aunt Margaret held up a finger. “Wait just a minute.” She hurried from the room, and Amy took the time to find her favorite dancing slippers.
“Here we are.” Her aunt held up a lovely strand of pearls. “Go sit at the dressing table, and I will weave these into your hair.”
Lacey had fixed Amy’s hair up into a lovely topknot of sorts, with loose curls dangling from the sides of her head and at the nape. Aunt Margaret wound the beautiful pearls throughout the hairdo. She stepped back to admire her work. “There. That looks lovely.”
Amy moved her head left and right to view her aunt’s work. “I agree.” She walked across the room and picked up her reticule and gloves. “William is escorting me. Would you care to join us?”
Aunt Margaret flushed and shook her head. “No need, dear. I have an escort.”
Amy gaped at her. “You do?”
Her aunt huffed. “Well, don’t look so surprised. I do have a gentleman interested in me on occasion. At least enough to tolerate me for one evening.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Aunt Margaret lifted her chin and waved her hand. “You did not hurt my feelings.”
The two of them descended the stairs just as the door knocker sounded. Amy hoped it was Aunt Margaret’s escort so she could see who it was before William arrived to sweep her away.
When Mr. Stevens opened the door, William and another gentleman whom Amy had never met before stood on the front steps.
William’s eyes lit up, and he walked directly to her. “Good evening, Lady Amy.” He took her hand and kissed it. Good heavens, he was acting like a beau. She broke into a sweat and sneaked a glance at Aunt Margaret, who seemed just as flustered as Amy, with her escort also kissing her hand.
Well, weren’t they a couple of silly women!
Aunt Margaret took her escort’s arm and turned him toward Amy. “My dear, may I present to you Lord Pembroke. My lord, this is Lady Amy Lovell, my niece.”
He bent over Amy’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Amy. I see Lady Margaret is not the only woman in the family who inherited beauty.”
“I agree,” William quickly added.
Lord Pembroke appeared to be in his middle or late forties. He had maintained a youthful form, most likely from exercise. He had deep-blue eyes and very straight light-brown hair struck through with silver strands. But the man’s most attractive feature was a bright smile that showed handsome dimples.
Aunt Margaret flushed again, and Amy almost swallowed her tongue. In all the years she’d known her aunt, she’d never seen her react to the attentions of a man. Quite interesting. She couldn’t wait until they returned home later and she could pepper her with questions.
The women were assisted into their capes and they all left, Amy and William to his carriage and Aunt Margaret and Lord Pembroke to his vehicle.
“Pembroke?” William said as they rolled away from the house. “I didn’t know he was even in town.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes. He’s quite well known in the business circles in London. An earl, he holds a substantial portfolio and is heavy into railroad stocks. In fact, we share a membership in the same London club.”
“You belong to a club in London?”
“Yes. Boodle’s. I maintain a membership for the times I travel to town.” He grinned. “And no, before you ask, there are no female members.”
* * *
They had been at the dance for more than an hour when Aunt Margaret walked up to Amy, determination in her step. Amy and Mr. Pipers had just returned from a very lively cotillion, and he had gone to fetch her a drink.
“What is the matter, Aunt? You look angry.”
Aunt Margaret took a deep breath. “Perhaps angry, but more anxious to pass along very important information to you.” She drew Amy aside, away from the two women with whom Amy had been speaking.
“Excuse us,” Aunt Margaret said as she took Amy’s arm. “Let’s stroll.”
They made their way to the edge of the room where chairs lined the walls, most of them occupied by older attendees and the usual group of wallflowers. Aunt Margaret looked at the line of chairs and shook her head. “This won’t work. We have to go somewhere private.”
They eventually went outside the room and down the stairs to a small alcove with a cushioned window seat. Once they settled in, Aunt Margaret took Amy’s hand. “I just overheard a very interesting conversation in the ladies’ retiring room.”
“Yes?”
“Two women were discussing Miss Hemphill. They didn’t know I was in the room, so I remained quiet so they would not discover me behind the screen.”
Amy’s heart sped up. “What did they say?”
“Our Miss Hemphill is indeed not feeling her normal self.”
She nodded. “Yes, I know that. I saw her at the sewing circle. She looks dreadful.”
“What you might not know is she is apparently ill with guilt.”
Amy drew back and regarded her aunt. “Indeed?”
“One of the women blurted out that Miss Hemphill had been bemoaning how her actions had ruined her life.”
Amy continued to watch Aunt Margaret, her eyebrows raised.
Aunt Margaret leaned in close. “Miss Hemphill is pregnant.”
CHAPTER 18
“Pregnant?”
Aunt Margaret nodded. “Yes. And feeling extremely guilty.”
Amy sat and pondered that surprise. “If Miss Hemphill is pregnant, that might be why she went to London. She didn’t want to see a local doctor to confirm her fears.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Amy let out a deep breath. “I must tell William.”
“You know I disapprove of your involvement in this matter. If you take this information to the police, it might turn them in the correct direction.”
They both rose and made their way back to the ballroom. Lord Pembroke spotted Aunt Margaret the minute they entered the room and made his way to her, dodging a few men who tried to garner his attention.
That was something else Amy wanted to talk to her aunt about. Lord Pembroke seemed much too attached to Aunt Margaret for him to be someone new in her life. Was Aunt Margaret hiding secrets, too?
Amy searched the room for William, but it was so crowded she didn’t see him. She made her way through the throng, excusing herself, accepting greetings from those she hadn’t spoken to yet that evening, and continued to search.
The musicians began a new number—a waltz—and enough people moved to the dance floor that she was able to see more clearly.
“May I request th
e honor of this dance, Lady Amy?” She spun around at the sound of Mr. Harris’s voice. For goodness’ sake, why was the man continuing to antagonize her? She had been so focused on Miss Hemphill, she’d forgotten about the conversation she had witnessed with Mr. Harris and Mr. Miles.
A good detective followed all clues. “Yes, Mr. Harris, I accept.”
His eyes lit up as he took her hand. Surely the man didn’t still think he had a chance of her accepting his marriage proposal. She’d made it quite clear that she had no intention of marrying at all, and certainly not a man she’d just met who had the polish and savior faire of a turtle. Besides, when she had spotted him at the Pump Room, he hadn’t exactly fallen all over himself welcoming her.
He escorted her to the dance floor and took her in his arms. Thankfully, he kept a decent amount of space between them so she wasn’t forced to step on his toes to get him to release her.
“I’m sorry we did not get a chance to speak the other day at the Pump Room.” He studied her, not with the polite interest his benign statement implied, but as if he was waiting for the need to defend himself. The man certainly ran hot and cold as far as his interactions with her.
Interesting.
Amy laughed, attempting to relax him so she could wangle information. Coyness in a woman never hurt. “I’m sure you saw the ruckus my dog caused.” She offered him a bright smile. “I had the feeling the servers hoped I would leave of my own accord and they would not find themselves in the awkward position of having to ask a lady to leave the premises.”
He laughed along with her, although the smile never reached his eyes. He still appeared guarded. They had made their way almost across the room already, Mr. Harris being quite adept at waltzing. She’d noticed more than one woman casting covert glances in his direction. If she hadn’t had such a distrust and dislike of the man, she would have understood their interest.
Mr. Harris was a bit taller than medium height, but the way he carried himself spoke of command and confidence. His clothes fit his form quite well, and she doubted his tailor needed to use padding to fill out his jacket. Objectively—and a good detective must be objective—she could understand his surprise at the rejected marriage proposal.
Of course, given the two conversations they’d had, he could use some lessons in charming a young lady. But if she was going to coerce information out of him, she must be the charming one.
“And did your dog recover from its race around the room?” Mr. Harris executed a smooth turn.
“Yes, indeed. She took a lovely nap once we arrived home.” She waited for a moment, then said, “I did not know that you and Mr. Miles were friends.”
She knew she was not imagining things when she felt his body stiffen. “Yes. Likable chap. We enjoyed a conversation while indulging in a glass of the famous Bath water.”
Well, then. It appeared he thought she was either blind or stupid—that she hadn’t seen how very cozy they’d been in their conversation before Persephone charged into them. She tilted her head. “Indeed? So you had only just met?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps we had met there another time. I’m not sure.”
Both remained caught up in their thoughts for a minute. “Did you know Mr. Miles is a member of a book club I belong to?”
Mr. Harris registered genuine surprise. So apparently Mr. Miles hadn’t discussed his personal life with him, which led her to further believe their conversation had been related to business.
Drug business?
Deciding a switch in tactics might work, she said, “You must come one evening. We meet every Thursday at Atkinson and Tucker bookstore.”
He gave a noncommittal nod.
She watched his face as she said, “We read mystery books. Murder on occasion.”
“You don’t say.”
’Twas time to be bold. “How are you finding Mr. St. Vincent’s shipping business? Will you be running it yourself now, or hire someone to do that for you?”
She attempted to put the most innocuous look on her face she could conger up. Hopefully he would think she was merely a silly, fluffy-head woman making conversation, not fishing for information.
“I will run it myself.” Nothing more, just those terse words. Then, “Did my uncle discuss his business with you at all?”
Which part? The almost-bankrupt part, or the drug-dealing part?
She offered him a sweet, benign smile. “No. I know very little about shipping.”
They were at a stalemate. Neither of them had gotten the information they were seeking. But the music came to an end, and Amy was once again on the search for William.
* * *
The next morning as Amy, Aunt Margaret, and William returned from church, they found the two detectives once more waiting for them in front of the house. Since she had ignored the note they’d sent for an interview, they had most likely determined the best strategy was to just show up.
“Don’t you have better things to do on Sunday? Perhaps church?” She knew she probably shouldn’t antagonize them, since they still held her freedom in their hands, but she was getting weary of their continued focus on her when she and William had other suspects.
There was no reaction from either of them, which frustrated her more.
They trooped up the stairs, and once inside, Aunt Margaret said, “We are headed to lunch. You are welcome to join us—”
Please, no.
“—or wait until we are through.”
“We only need about five minutes of your time, Lady Amy. If you could postpone your meal that long, we would appreciate it.”
Aunt Margaret glared at them. She was apparently out of patience with the men also. “Five minutes.” She turned and strode down the corridor toward the kitchen, a woman on a mission.
“What is it, Detective?” Amy didn’t even invite them to sit down. After all, they had said five minutes.
“What is your relationship to Mr. Francis Harris?” Carson asked.
Amy frowned. “Mr. St. Vincent’s nephew?”
“The very one,” Detective Marsh said.
“Whatever do you mean to infer with that question? I have no relationship with Mr. Harris.”
“Yet he asked you to marry him,” Carson said, as Marsh wrote in his ever-present notepad.
Had they been in the drawing room, Amy would have collapsed onto the settee. As it was, her legs were having a hard time holding her up. How the devil had they learned that bit of information? It had only been the two of them in the room when Harris made his horrible proposal, and she knew none of her staff would repeat anything they overheard. Mr. Harris must have told someone.
She stiffened and raised her chin. “I barely know the man, Detective. I met him maybe once or twice.”
Detective Carson glared at her. “Did he or did he not propose to you only days after he learned the shipping business he inherited from Mr. St. Vincent was bankrupt?”
Well, then.
It appeared they were doing their work, but unfortunately, whatever they learned, they always seem to come back to her. “If you must know, Mr. Harris had the poor taste to offer marriage. I turned him down and sent him off. And, I might add, your insinuation that a man would only be interested in marrying me because he needed money is crass and unkind.”
Ignoring her complaint, Carson continued. “Yet you met him in the Pump Room on Tuesday morning.”
Dear God in heaven. Were they following her?
“I did not meet him in the Pump Room. I mean, I did meet him, but it was purely coincidental.”
Detective Marsh simply raised his eyebrows. “And was the dance you had with him last night purely coincidental as well?”
Amy gasped and looked over at William, who appeared as shocked as she was. He recovered first, however. “Detectives, I demand to know why you are pursuing this line of questioning. In fact, I must ask you, on Lady Amy’s behalf, to leave now. Your five minutes are up, and if you have further questions, she will answer only with her barrister pr
esent.” William turned to her. “My lady, may I escort you in to lunch?”
Marsh slapped his notebook closed.
Thank heaven she had William’s arm to hold on to, because Amy was having a very difficult time moving her feet forward. Her mouth was dried up like a rain-starved plot of dirt, and her heart was practically beating its way out of her body.
Once they were seated at the table, Amy calmly took her napkin, shook it out, and placed it in her lap. She took a sip of water, placed it carefully on the pristine white tablecloth, and looked across the table at Aunt Margaret. “I am going to jail.”
“What?” Aunt Margaret looked from her to William. “Whatever did those awful men say?”
“Actually, they didn’t say anything. They merely asked very pointed questions, all of them revolving around Mr. Harris.”
Aunt Margaret picked up the platter of roast beef and added two slices to her plate. “Mr. St. Vincent’s nephew?”
“Yes,” William said. “They appear to be trying to link the man with Amy.”
“They even knew we danced last night!” In truth, if Amy had been a weepy sort of woman, she would have excused herself from the table, hurried up the stairs, and had a good cry on her bed.
But she was not that woman. She was strong, she was determined, and if nothing else, she would solve this mystery, clear her name, and enjoy the respect on the detectives’ faces when she presented them with a solved case.
Once luncheon was finished, Aunt Margaret excused herself, leaving Amy and William enjoying their tea. It was only after her aunt had departed that Amy remember she wanted to ask her about Lord Pembroke, who seemed quite taken with Aunt Margaret. This murder business was interfering with her ability to satisfy her curiosity about important things.
“I believe we should be more focused on Miss Hemphill,” William said. “The fact that your aunt heard Miss Hemphill claiming remorse for something she did that ruined her life, and that she is in a family way, leads me in the direction of her being the guilty party.”
Amy agreed. “Yes, I think so, too. If she did kill Mr. St. Vincent in a fit of pique because he refused to marry her, ’twas a mistake, because she has no chance now of avoiding a scandal. ’Tis quite possible she told him about her condition, and when he refused to marry her, she killed him.”
A Study in Murder Page 18