Drug business?
Deciding a switch in tactics might work, she said, “You must come one evening. We meet every Thursday at Atkinson and Tucker bookstore.”
He gave a noncommittal nod.
She watched his face as she said, “We read mystery books. Murder on occasion.”
“You don’t say.”
’Twas time to be bold. “How are you finding Mr. St. Vincent’s shipping business? Will you be running it yourself now, or hire someone to do that for you?”
She attempted to put the most innocuous look on her face she could conger up. Hopefully he would think she was merely a silly, fluffy-head woman making conversation, not fishing for information.
“I will run it myself.” Nothing more, just those terse words. Then, “Did my uncle discuss his business with you at all?”
Which part? The almost-bankrupt part, or the drug-dealing part?
She offered him a sweet, benign smile. “No. I know very little about shipping.”
They were at a stalemate. Neither of them had gotten the information they were seeking. But the music came to an end, and Amy was once again on the search for William.
* * *
The next morning as Amy, Aunt Margaret, and William returned from church, they found the two detectives once more waiting for them in front of the house. Since she had ignored the note they’d sent for an interview, they had most likely determined the best strategy was to just show up.
“Don’t you have better things to do on Sunday? Perhaps church?” She knew she probably shouldn’t antagonize them, since they still held her freedom in their hands, but she was getting weary of their continued focus on her when she and William had other suspects.
There was no reaction from either of them, which frustrated her more.
They trooped up the stairs, and once inside, Aunt Margaret said, “We are headed to lunch. You are welcome to join us—”
Please, no.
“—or wait until we are through.”
“We only need about five minutes of your time, Lady Amy. If you could postpone your meal that long, we would appreciate it.”
Aunt Margaret glared at them. She was apparently out of patience with the men also. “Five minutes.” She turned and strode down the corridor toward the kitchen, a woman on a mission.
“What is it, Detective?” Amy didn’t even invite them to sit down. After all, they had said five minutes.
“What is your relationship to Mr. Francis Harris?” Carson asked.
Amy frowned. “Mr. St. Vincent’s nephew?”
“The very one,” Detective Marsh said.
“Whatever do you mean to infer with that question? I have no relationship with Mr. Harris.”
“Yet he asked you to marry him,” Carson said, as Marsh wrote in his ever-present notepad.
Had they been in the drawing room, Amy would have collapsed onto the settee. As it was, her legs were having a hard time holding her up. How the devil had they learned that bit of information? It had only been the two of them in the room when Harris made his horrible proposal, and she knew none of her staff would repeat anything they overheard. Mr. Harris must have told someone.
She stiffened and raised her chin. “I barely know the man, Detective. I met him maybe once or twice.”
Detective Carson glared at her. “Did he or did he not propose to you only days after he learned the shipping business he inherited from Mr. St. Vincent was bankrupt?”
Well, then.