?
?What happened to make you suddenly decide to break your engagement?”
Amy swallowed the rest of her brandy and considered the empty glass for a minute, then placed it on the table next to her. She didn’t wish to become sotted only to ease her nerves. “I received a note from someone—he or she did not identify themselves—that Mr. St. Vincent was involved in immoral and unacceptable behavior.”
“Oh, my dear.” Aunt took a large, and very ladylike, swallow of her sherry. “That sounds ominous. Did they identify this inappropriate behavior?”
“He is importing opium and selling it to people who are dependent on the drug and have no way to get it from a chemist or a pharmacist, who must abide by the rules.” She shuddered just thinking about all those poor people whose life was a nightmare of addiction. She perked up. That would be a good plot in her next book.
“Not well done,” Aunt Margaret said.
“Precisely.”
“When will you tell your father?” Aunt placed her empty glass on the table in front of her and stood, brushing her skirts.
“Soon.” ’Twas not something she looked forward to, since Papa would not be pleased. Amy rose as well, thinking of a long, hot bath, followed by tea, then bed. Persephone trotted behind her as they all left the room together.
Aunt Margaret offered a slight smile. “Good luck with that, my dear.”
* * *
Tuesday evening, Amy was comfortably ensconced in her room with a book she’d been reading all week as she awaited the summons that William had arrived with the tome she wished to borrow.
In the few days since she’d had her scene with Mr. St. Vincent, she had begun to feel much better about her decision. She’d even written to Papa and expected to hear from him shortly.
Her attention was drawn away at a very inopportune part of the book by a light tap on her bedroom door.
“Come in.”
Lacey, their parlormaid, entered. “Milady, you have a visitor.”
Amy checked her timepiece. William was fifteen minutes early. “Very well, tell his lordship I will be down momentarily.”
The maid shook her head. “No, milady, it is Mr. St. Vincent who has called.”
“What?” Dratted man. She did not want to speak with him. Had she been in London, she would have had Papa deal with the man’s visit this time, since he’d been the one to get her into the entanglement with Mr. St. Vincent to begin with. Her brother, Michael, who rarely spent time at their Bath home, was also in London, wreaking God knew what sort of havoc young men wreaked, so she was on her own. Although reluctant to admit it, even to herself, this was one time she would not have minded having a man to stand in front of her.
She had already had her say, and there wasn’t anything else she wanted to discuss with him. Of course, she could instruct Lacey to refuse him admittance and send him on his way, but she might as well get it over with. She would emphasize that this was their very last visit and that she would no longer receive him, speak with him, or have anything at all to do with him.
“Very well, I will be down shortly. I am expecting Lord Wethington to call also, so please put him in the drawing room when he arrives and direct Mr. St. Vincent to the library. Once Lord Wethington arrives, please fetch me from the library.”
She would just let St. Vincent cool his heels, since he had not been expected, and then be rid of him quickly once William was announced. She checked herself in the mirror and smoothed back the sides of her unruly hair—which was futile, since her locks never behaved as she wished, curls always popping out of her chignon. After checking her timepiece once more, assured that enough time had passed that she needn’t spare her unexpected visitor more than a few minutes, she made her way downstairs to the library.
“I don’t understand why you have called, sir.” Her terse words bounced off the walls of the library as she flung the door open wide. The very empty library. Where had St. Vincent gone?
She quickly walked down the corridor to the drawing room, thinking Lacey had misunderstood. He was not there, either. She returned to the library, a slight draft coming from the open French doors that led to the garden, drawing her attention. Odd, that. Perhaps he had taken a stroll outside. She rounded the desk in the middle of the room and stepped onto the patio.
“Mr. St. Vincent?”
Silence.
“Mr. St. Vincent?”
She walked the few steps down the patio stairs into the garden. Without a full moon, and with the typical English mist, she could see very little. She called again.
Silence.
The damp, chilled night air caused her to shiver. She rubbed her arms with her palms and returned to the library. Frowning, she placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. Perhaps he had thought better of his visit and had already departed. She shrugged and headed back to close the French doors. In her usual rapid gait, she had gone only about five steps past Papa’s desk when she stumbled over something.