Except she was no suspect.
Detective Marsh had to be more than six feet tall, slender, with a well-lined face, even though he gave the appearance of being much younger. He had what Amy would call “sad” eyes. Until you looked deep into them and saw the strength and determination there. He was no one to fool with, reminding her of Shakespeare’s Iago. In the play, Othello’s man had appeared to be trustful but caused his master’s downfall. She would need to watch herself around Detective Marsh.
His partner, Detective Carson, barely came up to Marsh’s shoulders. He was round, bald, and had a perpetual smirk on his face, as if he intended to not believe anything he was told. She shuddered to think of how difficult the man could make her life if he so chose.
Marsh licked his pencil point and peered at her. “You are Lady Amy Winchester?”
“No. I am Lady Amy Lovell. Winchester is my father’s title.”
“Never could get all that stuff straight,” he mumbled as he wrote. “Where is your father? Is he at home?”
“No. He and my brother, the Earl of Davenport—”
“Another title,” Marsh groused as he scribbled.
“—only reside here on occasion. They are currently both at our home in London.”
“Must be nice to be Top-of-the-Trees and have houses all over the place.” Carson shook his head.
Truth be known, after only a few minutes she was growing weary of the man’s surliness. Before she could speak with him about it, the man glared at her and leaned forward. “Did you know this man?” He waved in the direction of St. Vincent.
“Yes. I did.”
“And who is he?” he growled. The detective had absolutely no finesse. And poor manners. There was certainly no need for him to speak to her as though she were a criminal.
“He is Mr. Ronald St. Vincent, third son of the Viscount Trembly.” She paused for a moment and added, “Also, my former betrothed.” She glanced sideways at William, who gave her an encouraging smile. There was no reason to not mention the connection, since it would become known anyway, and if she failed to mention it now, it would only cast her in a bad light later if they thought she was trying to hide something.
“Former?” Detective Marsh’s head snapped up from his scribbling, studying her as if she’d just admitted to chasing St. Vincent around the room and plowing the knife into his chest.
She shuddered. She needed to pull herself together. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Perhaps she was entitled to feel annoyed at St. Vincent for getting himself stabbed in her library. Although he most likely hadn’t planned it. She raised her chin, eyeing him with the look all ladies of the ton learned to perfection in the nursery. “That is correct. We were engaged, and I recently broke the engagement.”
Carson leaned forward, his beady eyes examining her. “Care to tell me why?”
Amy glared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir? Did you just ask me why I broke my betrothal? Since that is none of your business, surely I misunderstood.”
She didn’t need to have known Detective Carson for long to realize he did not appreciate her answer. “No, you did not misunderstand, and it is my business. Someone murdered this man, and everyone who had a reason to do so is a suspect. I would say a broken engagement could be one of the reasons why Mr. St. Vincent is dead—and in your house, with no other family members present.” There was nothing smooth or pleasant about the man. Honestly, was it necessary for him to be so very coarse?
She picked invisible lint from her skirts. “My reasons were personal.” She wrestled with telling the detectives why she’d broken the engagement. If they uncovered that information during the investigation on their own, they would have no reason to assume she knew about it. In fact, admitting to knowledge of his activities might land her further up the suspect list if they believed s
he was involved in the sordid mess herself. The more distance she put between herself and that matter, the better.
Detective Marsh jumped in. “Did you have a fight with him and then stab him?”
Amy drew back and sucked in a breath. “Of course not. I broke the engagement a few nights ago. We did not fight then, and tonight I never even spoke with him.”
“If you broke the engagement a few nights ago, what was he doing here?” Marsh continued to scribble, not bothering to look up at her.
“I have no idea. I wasn’t expecting him at all.” She hated that she’d begun to perspire. She kept reminding herself that she was innocent and the sooner they found the murderer, the faster she could put all this behind her.
And write her next book about a murder where she was not a suspect.
Carson jerked his thumb toward William but directed his comment to her. “Who is this bloke?”
“I am the Viscount Wethington.” Apparently William was not going to be ignored.
Carson scowled, but Marsh wrote down the name. “You the new betrothed? Did she break up with this cur for you?” He gestured toward the shrouded body.
Amy was impressed when William merely smiled at the detective, not showing any surprise or annoyance. “No.”