“My Bath office at number seventeen Stall Street, if you please.”
William tapped on the ceiling and gave the driver the direction, and the carriage moved forward.
Mr. Nelson-Graves cleared his throat and looked Amy square in the eye, an act that had her squirming like a small child caught with a stolen biscuit. “Lady Amy, I feel that I must act in your father’s absence. I absolutely agree with the detectives that any investigation of Mr. St. Vincent’s murder must be left to the professionals.”
Oh, how she ached to tell him she was a professional. A writer of murder mysteries. But as a bow of deference to her father, she remained silent on that point. “I understand.” Eyes downcast, she uttered the words like a meek female, as was expected.
William choked.
She scowled sideways at him.
“I will send a report to your father immediately and advise him of this latest development. I am quite pleased with the conversation between myself and the detectives. Although they haven’t said it outright, it is my opinion that the arrest on the charge of suspicion of murder was merely to get your attention and impress upon you that you are to remain out of police business.”
She swallowed her retort and merely smiled and nodded her head like a good little girl.
And continued to plan their next step.
* * *
“Amy, I really think we need to pull back and stay out of the detectives’ way.” William continued his argument as they proceeded toward the business section of Bath. It was the day after her arrest. She’d spent the rest of the prior day taking a long, hot bath to erase as much as possible her memory of the police department.
After a nap and a restorative dinner, she’d spent the evening hours going over all her notes from the investigation and adding new ones they’d recently uncovered. Right now she clutched a list of jewelers in Bath she intended to visit so she could learn about replacing real stones with paste.
“Don’t be a ninnyhammer, William. Yes, I know what we are doing could be dangerous, but we are merely questioning jewelers about replacing stones in my own jewelry. If my suspicions are correct and Lady Carlisle has a problem with opium, selling her jewels to pay for it makes sense. Before we can seriously add Lady Carlisle to our diminishing list of suspects, we need to learn if Mrs. Miles’s accusations about Lady Carlisle’s jewels being fake are true.
“Lord Carlisle is very wealthy. There could be no innocuous reason for his wife to be selling her jewels. A lady can hardly ask to have her allowance raised because her opium supplier is pressing for payment.”
He shook his head. “I am not disputing doing this search but still believe my suggestion to have me do this and let you remain at home is a better idea.” He raised his hand as her face grew flushed and she opened her mouth to speak. “I know what you are about to say. I know you want to do this yourself.” He reached across the space and took her hand. “I couldn’t stand to see you hurt again.”
Oh, my.
She glanced down to where their hands joined. His so big, skin darkened from the sun, light hairs on his knuckles. Hers delicate and pale. Tiny, completely engulfed by his. She swallowed and looked up at him.
“I don’t want to see you hurt,” he repeated, and pulled bac
k to lean against the soft velvet squab, leaving her hand cold.
They said nothing more as they continued their ride. Eventually they arrived at the business center where several jewelry shops conducted their trade. They stepped out of the carriage into the gloomy, cloudy day, and William gave his driver instructions on where to meet them.
Then, arm in arm, they moved away from the vehicle and headed to the jewelry store directly across the street.
A light, merry tinkle of a bell announced their arrival. The shop owner looked up from where he spoke with a gentleman. “I will be with you directly. There are seats near the window if you wish to sit, or you may look at the offerings if you so choose.”
The shop was small but contained several display cases of jewels. The owner was a man of about fifty years, with a large moustache and rotund belly. It appeared he was in negotiations with his customer, who wanted to pay less for a watch.
Instead of sitting, Amy wandered the shop, looking at the various offerings. William followed behind her, commenting on sundry pieces. Within about ten minutes the gentleman left the store—without the watch—and the store owner approached them.
“Good day.” He smiled at them. “I am Mr. Oglethorpe, and let me guess, you are here for an engagement ring?”
William and Amy glanced at each other, then away as quickly as possible. Her heart took to pounding, and the rise in the room’s temperature made her regret not having her fan handy.
William began to clear his throat in a nervous sort of way. She decided to rescue them both. “Um, actually no. We are here about my necklace.” Amy withdrew her ruby-and-diamond necklace from her reticule, annoyed to see her hand shaking as she placed it on the counter.
’Twas best not to look at William until she had calmed down. “I have heard that it is possible to replace real stones with paste so the item appears exactly the same.” She looked up at the man. “Is that so?”
Apparently completely oblivious to the discord he had caused by his question, the jeweler picked up the necklace to examine it. “Yes. It is quite possible to do that. It’s been known for owners to do so. Sometimes they sell the stones if they need money, and other times they keep the stones in a safe at home and wear the paste jewelry when they go about to avoid theft.”
Amy nodded. “Yes. That is what I have been considering.”