Amy snuggled the dog against her. “Which makes her special.”
Mumbling under his breath, he took Amy by the elbow to escort her down the steps. The dog regarded him from her perch in her mistress’s arms. “She just smirked at me, you know.”
As they made their way to the carriage William had arrived in, Amy continued to enlighten him on the wonders of her beloved dog. “Pomeranians are very intelligent dogs. They can be trained very quickly and can learn tricks and games. They are actually descended from large working dogs in the Arctic.”
William glanced at Persephone and snorted.
Amy settled in her seat and raised her chin at his derision. “Our own Queen adopted a small Pomeranian only two years ago. So obviously, Persephone comes from royal stock.” When he did not seem impressed by that fact, she added, “Did you know that in 1767, Queen Charlotte brought two Pomeranians to England? Phoebe and Mercury—those was their names—were even painted by the very well known artist Sir Thomas Gainsborough, although the dogs in that painting were much larger.”
After a few moments, he dipped his head. “I am duly impressed.”
Amy huffed at his blatant lie as the carriage moved forward. It would transport them to the less-than-desirable area where Mr. Albright’s rooms were located. Not as bad as some neighborhoods she’d passed through in London, but not much better. Which was just as well, since they would attract very little attention, as those of the lower classes believed it was better for their health to mind their own business.
Once they were well under way, William leaned back on the comfortable seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “As intriguing as your outfit is, I don’t think anyone would be fooled into believing you are a man. You are much too …”
“Too what?”
“Womanly. I would hate to have to resort to fisticuffs to protect your honor.”
Despite his lack of love for her dog, she couldn’t help but feel a bit flattered. First he’d thought her “sweet” and now “womanly.” It had been a long time since she’d regarded William in any way other than as a friend, but now she found herself taking a second look at the man. He truly was good-looking, smart, and considering what they were up to tonight, both adventurous and willing to help a lady.
Amy leaned forward. “There is something I learned in my research. Most people see what they expect to see. When we stroll along together, everyone will assume we are two men, and that is what they will see.”
William looked out the window, his glance darting back to her legs. “Not if they look closely.”
She thought back to the first time she’d met William. Despite Papa’s blustering and with Aunt Margaret’s help, Amy had just manipulated her way out of a London Season, in which she had no interest. She had just started writing and did not want to travel to London to be dressed up in frills and folderol and paraded before “acceptable” gentlemen in hopes of securing a husband.
William was strolling along George Street as Amy exited a millinery shop, carrying more bundles than she should have been, one of them blocking part of her view. As always, she was in a hurry and walked right into William as she made to cross the street.
Every package she carried tumbled to the ground, the wind picking up the one with a new pair of kid gloves in it. “Oh, get my gloves!” she shouted at William, and waved to where the small box had landed in the middle of the street.
“Of course,” William said, dodging carriages and horses and arriving at the small package just as a coach wheel smashed the item flat. He picked up the ruined box, covered with mud and flattened like a pancake, with two fingers and walked it back to where she stood.
“Your package, my lady.” He made a gallant bow, and she burst out laughing. That had been the beginning of their friendship, which had strengthened when they both joined the Mystery Book Club of Bath.
William often attended the dances at the Bath Assembly Rooms and had danced with her a few times. Over the ensuing years, she’d learned that he was five years older than her, the only son of Viscount Wethington, with one sister who lived in France. He enjoyed riding, hunting, and other manly pursuits, and the one time she’d asked about his views on marriage, he had shut her out so quickly she had never brought up the subject again.
Amy set a snoring Persephone alongside her, pulled a small notepad and pencil from her jacket pocket, and flipped through a few pages. “I’ve been thinking about why the detectives were so quick to assume I killed Mr. St. Vincent.”
“Having a dead man in your library who had not arrived in that condition is not enough?”
“Not funny, William.” She continued. “As you have so rightly pointed out—many times—a lady of my station is considered delicate, with weak sensibilities. Why would I, all of a sudden, grab a knife and plunge it into the man? That is a serious line to cross, and it makes no sense. At least if I were writing a book about it, I would be sure to close that loophole. Also, in my books I always have more than one suspect.”
“Perhaps our tax-funded protectors of the law like to see things the simple way. A man who was once engaged to a lovely young woman ends up dead at her feet with no one else at home except the lady in question and her staff. Case closed.”
“Aha! And why did she have a knife?”
“Because she knew St. Vincent was there for no good.”
“Who keeps knives in their library?”
“She could have stopped by the kitchen on her way.”
“So it was premeditated? Why?”
William threw his hands up. “I don’t know; you are the murder-mystery author here. You tell me.”
Amy smirked. “Precisely. As an author, I have done a lot of research and have probably investigated more murders than the police. Therefore, I will solve the crime before they do.”