He reached in his breast pocket. “I have the information on where he is. He asked to have one of our footmen go to the police station and ask those two detectives to meet him at this residence.” He handed her a piece of paper with a direction written on it.
The police detectives?
She studied the paper for a minute. The location looked familiar. She sucked in a breath. It was Mrs. Johnson’s house.
* * *
William had spent a good part of Friday afternoon at Mr. Nelson-Graves’s office convincing the man to give him permission to visit the Chancery Court offices to view the trust for Mrs. Carol Whitney.
Since William did not want the barrister to become too suspicious about precisely what he was doing, it took some verbal maneuvering, but eventually Nelson-Graves agreed and gave written permission for William to access the trust papers.
It didn’t take long for William to read through the document and see that Mr. Patrick Whitney had replaced Mr. James Harding as the trustee set up for the benefit of Mrs. Carol Swain Whitney.
The week before Harding was found floating in the river.
There was apparently no difficulty in forging signatures. First Harding had done it to him in his business matters, and then Patrick had forged Harding’s name on the trust papers, turning over the trust to himself.
This morning he’d risen early, washed, dressed, and downed a bit of breakfast. After checking his pistol resting in the locked case in the lower drawer of his desk, he slid it into his right trouser pocket and left for Mrs. Johnson’s house.
He’d given Weston instructions to have one of the footmen deliver Mrs. Johnson’s address to Detectives Carson and Marsh and request that they meet him there.
With the information he’d gotten recently, it had all come together, and William was certain Patrick was the man who had killed Harding and Mrs. Johnson. His acting abilities and stage makeup had convinced William he was ill and then grieving. William was certain Whitney had switched the trust by forging Harding’s name to the document replacing the trustee, then killed Harding before he could learn of his perfidy.
William approached the house carefully. If he was correct in his assumptions, Patrick was the owner of the gun that had been used to shoot at him and Amy the night they broke into Harding’s house. He was also the person who had stolen the ledger from Amy to continue with Harding’s blackmailing scheme and had most likely taken William’s appointment book, which might have supplied an alibi.
He wanted to make this seem like a friendly visit and ensure that Whitney was unaware of his intentions before he pulled out his gun and tied the man up in preparation for the police to arrive.
He planned to offer a smug smile to the two detectives when he told them their concentration on him as the murderer had once again proved their incompetence.
William paced outside the house, hoping Marsh and Carson would catch up to him so he wouldn’t have to face Patrick alone. Eventually, afraid Patrick might see him and try to leave out the back way and disappear again, he climbed the steps to the front door.
It took a few minutes for Patrick to answer. He wasn’t wearing any stage makeup and looked quite fit and hardy. “Good morning, Patrick. I just came by to see how you were doing.” William edged his way into the house.
“Nice of you to stop by, Wethington, but as you can see, I am quite well.” Patrick did not look inviting and frowned as William stepped past him and headed to the drawing room.
William turned as Patrick followed him in. “You look as though you’ve recovered nicely from your illness. And the grief of Mrs. Johnson’s death.”
Patrick scowled. “Yes. I just told you. I am doing quite well.”
It might have been wiser to wait for the detectives to arrive, but since he had no way of knowing how long it would take, he didn’t want to give Patrick the chance to abscond.
“Have you seen your stepmother? She was concerned about you.”
Patrick snorted. “No. I haven’t seen her yet.”
William took a seat, looking as though he intended to make this a lengthy visit. Patrick sighed and sat across from him. After a few minutes of banal bantering, Patrick stood. “If you will excuse me, I need to retrieve something from my bedchamber.”
William also stood and took out his gun. “No. I don’t think so.”
“What’s this about, Wethington?” Patrick asked. “Is there a reason you are pointing a gun at me in my own home?”
“I know you killed Harding, Patrick. The police are on their way. I have evidence that you changed the trustee on your stepmother’s trust to your name the week before Harding died.”
Patrick shrugged. “So? He asked me if I would take over because it had become too burdensome for him.”
William needed to remember that the man was an actor. “I don’t believe you. Also, you told me your father left you a considerable amount of money as well as two businesses. I saw the will, Patrick. He left you one pound.”
“Yes, he did, the bastard!” Patrick slammed his fist into his hand. “He left it all to Carol, but then tied it up in a trust so she couldn’t get at the money either.”
“You were in the King’s Garden the night Lady Amy and I spoke with Mrs. Johnson, weren’t you? You killed the woman who took you in and provided you with an alibi.”
“No. He didn’t.”
William’s head whipped around at the female voice coming from the doorway. Carol Whitney pushed Amy into the room, a gun at her back. “I killed Millie Johnson, because this sneaky bastard was having an affair with her.”
She narrowed her eyes at William. “Drop the gun, or your lover here will get a bullet in her sweet little head.”
William felt all the blood drain from his face, almost to the point of making him dizzy. This woman who had just admitted to killing another woman in cold blood had a gun pointed at Amy’s head.
He immediately placed the gun on the table in front of him. “Let her go, Mrs. Whitney.” William raised his hands and stepped back from the table. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. “I will not touch the gun or move in any way toward you or Patrick.”
“Patrick?” She snarled. “Ha! That snake betrayed me.” She swung around and aimed the gun at her stepson. “I killed my husband for you! We were supposed to be together, with all his money. Yet after Harding died, you disappeared. I had to act the fretting, nervous stepmother and ask these people to find you.”
It appeared that both Carol Whitney and her stepson possessed acting skills. And she had killed not only Mrs. Johnson but also her own husband—Patrick’s father? The woman was deranged, and he had to get Amy out of here. Fast.
“Mrs. Whitney. I ask you once more. Please let Lady Amy leave.”
“Cease!” She pointed the gun away from Patrick and aimed it at William. “I will decide who leaves and who stays.”
If he could keep her talking and if the detectives arrived soon, they might get out of this mess. A couple of ifs, but it was all he had. Keeping Patrick in his view, he turned to Mrs. Whitney. “I doubt they were having an affair, Mrs. Whitney. Mrs. Johnson made an appointment with Lady Amy and me. I’m sure she was going to tell us Patrick killed Harding.”
Mrs. Whitney waved the gun around, taking all of William’s breath from his body. “I don’t believe that for one minute. I saw her whisper to you two at the pub to meet her the next day. I was right there in the corner, watching her, knowing she would meet this scoundrel.” She directed the gun at Patrick. “I’m sure she wanted to tell you two busybodies that I killed my husband. Get me out of the way so they could have all my money and run off together.”
“I don’t think he was running anywhere, since I am sure he stole the ledger with Harding’s blackmailing information in it. He intended to pick up where Harding left off.”
Mrs. Whitney shrugged. “No matter. If I was in jail for murder, they could stay right here in Bath, enjoying my money.” Once again she took dead aim at Patrick’s hea
rt.
Her stepson blanched. “Carol, sweetheart, please put the gun away. You might hurt someone.” Patrick moved slowly toward her as he spoke.
“Stop!” She narrowed her eyes, her hand steady on the trigger of the gun. “When his lordship here didn’t return right away to give me the information on your whereabouts, I decided to act on my suspicions. It only took me one day of spying to find you. Right here—with her!”
Patrick held his arms out. Pleading. “I was feeling ill and needed a place to recover.”
While Mrs. Whitney and Patrick conversed, Amy edged toward William. He took her hand, and they stood together. He gently eased her behind him. Between them and the exit stood a crazy woman waving a gun. He could feel Amy shaking, her hands ice-cold. He had no idea how she had ended up here, but if they got out of this alive, he would throttle her for not doing exactly what he had told her to do—not leave the house by herself.
And then kiss her senseless.
“Don’t think you can fool me again, Patrick.” Mrs. Whitney moaned. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do.” Patrick ran his tongue over his lips, flexing his hands and taking deep breaths, his eyes riveted on the gun.
“No. You don’t. Once you got your hands on my money, you would be done with me.”
He shook his head. “No. That’s not true.”
In a matter of seconds, Patrick had leaped toward Mrs. Whitney, and a shot rang out. His hands grasped his chest, and he looked down at the blood running through his fingers. “You shot me.” His eyes closed and he fell to his knees, then forward, facedown.
“Patrick!” The gun slid from Mrs. Whitney’s hand, and she raced toward him. William picked it up with two fingers and turned to Amy. “Get the bloody hell out of here. Now.”
“Take it easy, your lordship.” Detectives Carson and Marsh walked into the room, both of them holding pistols. “We have it all under control.”
William closed his eyes in relief and pulled Amy toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. “Are you all right, sweeting?”
She leaned back and looked him in the eye. “Persephone is having puppies.”
CHAPTER 32
Amy gazed down and once again marveled at the tiny puppies nestling close to Persephone. Four little bodies snuggled up to their mum. Seeing her beloved dog act like a mama brought tears to Amy’s eyes.
And a sense of longing to her breast. Perhaps she wasn’t quite so adamant about never marrying. She could have a child or two. And, married to the right man, she could still do her writing.
The right man? Hadn’t he already presented himself?
It had been almost a week since Patrick Whitney had admitted to killing Mr. Harding and Mrs. Whitney had shocked them all by stating that she’d killed Mrs. Johnson. As well as her husband, whom she’d said she had poisoned with arsenic.
The last Amy had heard, Patrick Whitney was recovering in hospital, under arrest, and Mrs. Whitney was behind bars. The best part, of course, was that William was freed of all charges. Since the detectives had released his files to him, he had spent most of his time working with his barrister, solicitor, and man of business to get his finances straightened out.
She’d seen very little of him.
On the way back from the Johnson home the day the killers were arrested, she’d told William that Mrs. Burrows had admitted that she and Miss Gertrude had been kidnapped and sold to a brothel in London many years before. When the place burned down, they’d both escaped and moved to Bath, where Miss Penelope was already living, distraught at her sister’s disappearance but unable to get the police to listen to her.
Mrs. Burrows had found a good man to marry, and the two women had decided to go their separate ways, putting the horrible experience behind them.
Until Harding had uncovered their disgrace and used it for nefarious purposes.
After much consideration and musing, Amy and William had decided that since Mrs. Johnson had worked at the King’s Garden, where Harding met with his victims, she must have been the one to tell Patrick about the journal, which then began his search for it, first by breaking into Harding’s home and then by entering Amy’s and William’s houses. Although in those two cases, he had most likely used his acting abilities to gain access to their homes.
But tonight was Lady Wethington’s dinner party. With all the goings-on, she’d had to postpone it for a week. Amy was looking forward to the event—if for no other reason than to get the sense of a normal life returning to her. She was happy to be free of investigations. The only way she planned to consider suspects and killers in the future was in writing her next book.
“Are you ready?” Aunt Margaret entered Amy’s bedchamber after a slight knock.
“Yes, almost.” Amy still gazed down at the puppies.
“My goodness, every time I come into this room, you are fussing with those puppies.” Aunt Margaret bent over the box. “They are cute little things, aren’t they?”
“Mm-hmm.” Amy kept running her finger over their soft fur.
“I think perhaps you are feeling the lack of something in your life, Amy.” Aunt Margaret straightened and reached out her hand. “However, it is time for us to leave for Lady Wethington’s dinner party.”
Amy accepted her aunt’s hand and climbed to her feet. She turned and blew a kiss at the box. “Sleep well, little family.”
When they arrived at the entrance hall, Stevens was helping Papa and Michael into their greatcoats. He performed the same service for Amy and Aunt Margaret.
Once they were all settled in the carriage and on their way, Papa looked over at Amy. “Michael and I will be leaving Monday morning for our return to London.”
Amy was surprised to realize she would miss having them living with her. Although Papa was a little annoying about what he would and would not allow her to do, it had been nice having the entire family there for breakfast and most dinners.
“Have you completed your work, then?” Aunt Margaret asked.
“Yes. We have put in the paperwork to purchase two small businesses here in Bath. We both feel they are excellent choices for our portfolio.”
“I will miss you, Papa.” For heaven’s sake, Amy could hear the wistfulness in her voice. She hadn’t lived under the same roof as her papa and brother for more than a couple of weeks at a time in her whole life.
He reached over and patted her hand. At least it wasn’t her head again. “Well, daughter, there is the possibility that we will be returning to Bath in the future.”
“What do you mean?”
“As I get older, I find the hustle and bustle of London doesn’t appeal to me so much anymore.”
Amy straightened. “You mean you might move here permanently?”
“Do I hear a bit of fright in your voice, daughter?” Papa grinned at her.
“Um, maybe a tad. But I would love to have you here in Bath.” Amy turned to Michael. “Are you moving too?”
“I’ve not decided yet. Since I’m not old and tired”—he grinned at Papa—“I’m not ready to abandon the life, but there is always the possibility. If I find something worth moving for.”
“Or perhaps someone worth moving for?” Aunt Margaret said.
The rest of the ride was taken up with ideas for homes to purchase, since Papa didn’t want to permanently move into the townhouse Amy and Aunt Margaret called home, though he actually owned the dwelling.
Michael glanced out the window. “It appears we’ve arrived.”
The four of them reached the front door just as Weston opened the door. “Good evening, my lords, my ladies. Allow me to take your garments.”
He helped them all out of their coats and directed them to the drawing room. “The rest of the group has gathered there.”
When Amy entered the room, the first person she saw was William. He looked especially splendid in dark trousers, a stark-white shirt and cravat, and a colorful waistcoat under his dark-blue jacket. He broke away fr
om the O’Neill sisters and Mr. Davidson and Mr. Rawlings. She noticed that Mr. Colbert and Lady Wethington were deep in conversation separate from the group.
It appeared they were the last of the guests to arrive.
“Good evening, Amy, Lord Winchester, Lord Davenport, Lady Margaret.” William reached out for Amy’s hand and squeezed it. “I would like to speak with you for a moment.” He looked up at Papa. “May I have your permission to escort Lady Amy to the library for a moment?”
Papa’s face lit up. “Yes, yes. Of course.”
Amy’s heart began to thump as William led her out of the room and down the corridor to the library. “What do you want?” She licked her dry lips.
“This will only take a moment.”
“Is there something you want to show me?” She was becoming more nervous by the second.
“Um, perhaps.” He grinned at her as he opened the door. He bowed and waved toward the room. “My lady?”
“Is this about the murder investigation?” Lord, was that her voice squeaking like that?
“No.”
“What is it, then?”
He tapped her on the nose. “In a moment, sweetheart.”
Damnation, now was William going to pick up on that annoying habit? That took away some of her anxiety and replaced it with irritation. “Do not tap me on the nose. I am not a child.”
William grinned and turned his palms up. “My apologies.”
Amy sniffed and walked past him to the window, then turned. “What do you want?”
“Come here, Amy.” He held out his hand.
“William …”
“Come here.”
She sighed and walked over to him. He led her to the settee and urged her to sit. Then he did precisely what she was afraid he was going to do. He got down on one knee in front of her and took both of her hands in his.
“William, I’m not sure …”
“I am.” He took a deep breath. “Lady Amy Lovell, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Good grief, her eyes filled with tears. Whatever was the matter with her? “Um, I wasn’t expecting this.” Lie number one. “I thought we were going to talk about the murder.” Lie number two. “I’m not sure my papa would approve.” Lie number three.
The Sign of Death Page 26
