“Ouch.”
He leaned down and helped her up. “Are you hurt?”
She rubbed her sore bottom but didn’t want to mention what part of her had taken the brunt of the fall. “I am fine. Thank you.”
Once she was settled again, taking note that Persephone had slept through the whole ordeal, she said, “How did you know who St. Vincent’s heir was?”
“It pays to have friends in various situations and employments. That is all I can say.”
Annoyed at his elusive answer, she said, “Speaking of Mr. St. Vincent’s estate, it might not hurt to gather whatever information we can about his financial state. He seemed quite irate when I ended the betrothal. Since ours was hardly a romantic connection, I must admit I was quite taken aback when he became so angry.”
William cleared his throat, which Amy knew he did when he was about to say something provocative at the book club. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask about your betrothal. I am aware that it is a personal matter, but something about it might shed some light on his murder.”
“Yes. I agree. There could most definitely be some link.”
He seemed to relax when she didn’t refuse or order Persephone to attack him. “Very well. How did the betrothal come about? And I know you received a note about his activities—which would be another good line to follow—but was that the only reason you decided to rid yourself of the man?”
She gazed out at the darkness as they made their way back to her townhouse. A steady rain had started up, causing the traffic to slow down. Recalling the uncomfortable conversation with her papa, she pushed aside the hurt and began her story. “Papa had been quite anxious to see me married, and as he put it, ‘settled.’ I honestly believe he thought a husband would ‘take me in hand’ and stop me from writing or doing other things of which he did not approve. I had refused a so-called ‘Season’ in London for two years before he forced me—threatening to cut off my allowance—into traveling to London to make my bow to the Queen. After three miserable months of balls, musicales, dinner parties, and soirees, no one appealed to me, and I am quite happy with my life just as it is.”
“Then why the engagement?” His softly spoken words in the cozy darkness with the rain dripping down the window encouraged her to continue.
“In a moment of weakness, he convinced me that Mr. St. Vincent, who had approached him with an offer for my hand—which is so very old-fashioned, by the way—would make a fine husband. I knew Mr. St. Vincent and had spent some time with him at a garden party, attended the theater when he was present, and danced a few times with him at the Assembly. While I found him to be a pleasant man, I never thought much about him as a husband.”
She took in a deep breath. “However, during our conversation, Papa referred to me as a ‘spinster’ and said how unhappy I would be in my old age. As I said, it was a weak moment for me. I agreed to the arrangement, but I must admit, almost from the day we became engaged, I thought about a way to get out of it.”
“How very unkind of him to say that. I know he is your father, but I fail to see you as an unfortunate spinster, someone who would be unhappy in the coming years. You have a full life with your writing and social life. That being said, marriage is a very serious commitment. One should not take it lightly. Till death do us part is a frightening prospect.”
She wondered at the somberness of his statement and if perhaps it was the result of some pain he’d suffered in the past. Before she could dwell too long on that, William nodded and continued. “Based on what you’ve told me, I understand what you mean about St. Vincent being unnecessarily upset by your request to end the engagement. I shall contact the man who handles my business affairs, Mr. Harding. He might have information available to him which would cast some light on the matter.”
Amy straightened in her seat and scowled. “Now just a moment, my l
ord. You are going to gather information at the gentlemen’s clubs and you will speak with your man of business. That sounds too much like leaving me out of the investigation.”
William grinned as he nodded to her. “Not at all, my lady. I am sure your ‘logical’ brain will think of many things to do to continue searching for the killer. Just be sure to stay out of trouble if I am not with you.” He glared at her. “And no guns.”
* * *
The next afternoon, Amy sat in front of her mirror, her chin resting on her fist. She stared at her reflection and sighed. One thing she disliked more than anything was making social calls, which many women of her station did on a regular basis. Sitting around drinking gallons of tea while sharing gossip was not a productive way to spend her time. About once a month, she did force herself to endure the torture, and considering she would, no doubt, be the latest subject of the gossip, it would serve her well to make a few calls that afternoon. Face her enemies, as it were. She’d always thought that the best defense was a good offense.
Today Aunt Margaret and Eloise would join her, since while Amy despised afternoon calls, Aunt Margaret loved them. Another way they were so very different.
Eloise was also not fond of making the dreaded calls but had sent a note around, in answer to Amy’s plea earlier in the day to join her, saying that she would certainly support her friend.
“Are you ready, Amy?” Her aunt entered Amy’s bedchamber while pulling on white kid gloves. Aunt Margaret’s bedchamber was down the hall from Amy’s, and she could hear her bird, Othello, chatting away. He was currently reciting “The Phoenix and the Turtle.”
Dismissing the bird, she admitted she would never be ready for the torment she was about to endure, but for the sake of the investigation, she would submit. She never knew from where her next clue would come, and showing herself in society would limit the rumors. Amy slid a hatpin into the silly confection she called a hat to anchor it to her head. “Yes. I am ready, Aunt. Where are we off to today?”
“Two places, actually. It is past time I made a visit to Mrs. Morton—”
Amy groaned.
Aunt Margaret’s brows rose. “And after her, we should call on Lady Marlberry. The poor dear slipped and injured her hip. The doctor has confined her to the house for a while.”
Amy followed her aunt from the room, down the stairs to the door. “I don’t mind Lady Marlberry at all. She is quite sweet, but Mrs. Morton is not one of my favorite people. She is a member of our book club, and I will need to suffer her presence this evening, as it is at our weekly meeting. She takes every opportunity to insult me with innuendos. I can just imagine what she will have to say about Mr. St. Vincent’s death.”
“Which is precisely why you need to present yourself today.”
Eloise awaited them in the front hall, looking as miserable as Amy felt. She was truly the best of friends.