The Sign of Death (Victorian Book Club Mystery 2)

“What sort of books do you read in this book club?” Lady Wethington took a delicate bite of a biscuit. Amy couldn’t help but notice that everything about the woman was delicate, graceful, and elegant. She sighed. Another Aunt Margaret.

“It is the Mystery Book Club of Bath. We meet once a week at the Atkinson and Tucker bookstore.” William had actually put two sentences together.

“Oh, I do love mysteries. Do you ever read E. D. Burton’s books?”

Amy sucked in a breath just as she was biting down on a biscuit. A full three minutes of coughing, being pounded on the back by William, and hand-wringing by his mother commenced.

Amy patted her eyes with the handkerchief William had handed her—an action, Amy noted, that was not lost on his eagle-eyed mother.

“Yes. We have read one or two of his books,” William said.

Lady Wethington leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I have read every one of Mr. Burton’s books.”

“Mother! I would think they were too—intense for you.”

His mother waved her hand. “Nonsense. Men always think women are such weak creatures.” She turned to Amy. “I will wager you don’t believe that gibberish, do you, Lady Amy?”

“No. I do not believe we are too weak-minded to read Mr. Burton’s books.” There, she had managed to get that one out without choking. But she really did need to take her leave. She placed her napkin alongside her plate. “I am so sorry to break up our little visit, but I have an appointment later today with my dressmaker.” Lie number one. “I would love to stay and chat.” Lie number two. “I hope we can have a longer visit another time.” Lie number three.

Amy rose, and William stood. “Mother, I escorted Lady Amy here, so I will be seeing her home.”

Lady Wethington beamed at the two of them in a most disconcerting way. “That is fine, children. Run along.”

William looked as though he would love to throttle the woman, but one did not do such things to one’s mother. No matter how strong the urge.

Amy and William hurried to the front door, shrugged into their coats, and practically raced down the path to where his carriage stood. They climbed in and settled themselves.

As the vehicle moved forward, William raised his hand, palm facing her. “Do not say a word. Please.”

Amy nodded and grinned. Yes. There really weren’t too many words to cover what they’d just experienced.

* * *

It had taken William two days to get the key he needed from the managing agent to search Harding’s flat. Once he received the key, he’d sent a note around to Amy that he would arrive at two o’clock to escort her to the building.

It had been a trying two days with his mother settling in. As much as he loved her, he could see where this new arrangement could be difficult. For him. She had pestered him for hours after he returned from escorting Amy to her home Monday afternoon.

With a pounding headache and his third glass of after-dinner brandy, he’d finally suggested that she retire for the evening because she needed her rest after her journey.

Thank goodness she had agreed, because he’d been about to pull all his hair out. He’d tried very hard to impress upon her that he and Amy were merely friends, that they attended the same church and the same book club.

Nothing more.

Until she learned—he still hadn’t figured out how, but his mother was quite clever—that he had escorted Amy to several Assembly dances. Then the questions, innuendos, and hints—the devil take it, they weren’t hints but flat-out statements—had begun all over again.

Aside from that, however, his mother had been a help. True to her nature, she’d formed an instant bond with Mrs. Pringle and coerced Cook into making healthier dishes. That was both good and bad. He enjoyed his unhealthy food.

The maids seemed a bit busier, but they all adored his mother. She had a way about her that made people do what she wanted and think it was their own idea. She’d been counting the linens and silverware and sent word to an agency to send over a footman, a lady’s maid for herself (since her maid, she explained, had decided to stay in London), and another maid of all work.

If only he could find other ways for her to occupy her time once the house was running to her satisfaction. He knew without a doubt what—and who—her next project would be.

But now he was free of the endless suggestions and on his way to hopefully find his files and any other items that might be of interest. The day was warm for early February, with a bright-blue sky. Not too common, especially in winter.

Amy’s maid Lacey opened the door and moved back so he could step in. Amy stood behind the maid, her coat and hat on, ready to go.

“Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Good afternoon to you, my lord.”