Aunt Margaret had a man of business. Perhaps Amy should have one too. Right now all her royalties went into the family coffers that her brother managed. It was time for her to be a grown-up and handle her own affairs. Or hire someone to handle her affairs.
Panic again seized her when she realized Aunt Margaret was not going to help. She flew down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen. There was no point in attempting to get her papa or brother to assist her. Perhaps Cook or one of the few maids they employed would be able to help.
“Mrs. Stover, I need your help.” Amy came to a sliding halt at the sight of Cook, busy assembling the family’s breakfast.
The woman offered a cheerful smile. “Good morning, my lady. What is it you need?”
“I need help for Persephone.”
She scowled. “What has that animal done now?” She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her dress.
“She’s giving birth.”
“Ah. Well, as you can see, I am a tad busy right now. Your father would not be pleased if his breakfast isn’t ready because your dog is giving birth.”
Amy wrung her hands—something she never did. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I thought you loaded up your room with books on dogs giving birth.” Michael shook his head as he entered the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was dressed for a day of doing whatever it was businessmen did.
“I did. But reading about it and seeing it are quite different things.”
Michael patted her on the head. “The dog knows what to do.” He left the room.
Whatever was it with this family that they patted her on the head and tapped her nose like she was an urchin? It was becoming mighty tiresome.
“Are any of the maids available, Mrs. Stover? Lacey, perhaps?”
“I’m so sorry, my lady, but I sent Lacey to the marketplace and don’t expect to see her for a few hours. The two others have morning chores to see to.”
Frustrated, Amy headed back to her room and examined Persephone. She was lying in the box now but still shaking. She needed someone to suffer through this with her.
William.
Back down the steps, she asked for the carriage to be brought around. She hurried to the breakfast room, where Aunt Margaret, Papa, and Michael had gathered.
“I am off to see Lord Wethington.” She reached for a slice of toast.
Papa lowered his newspaper. “So early in the morning? I’m not sure that is proper, daughter.”
Amy scooped some jam on her toast. “I need someone to help me with Persephone.”
Her papa raised his brows. “Help your dog?”
“Yes. She is giving birth.”
“And why do you need to help her?”
“She won’t know what to do.”
“And you do?”
“No. That is precisely why I need William’s help.”
“William has given birth to puppies before?”
Amy shook her head and left the room still chewing on her toast, scowling at the sound of Aunt Margaret’s laughter.
She waited about another ten minutes before the carriage arrived in front of her house from the mews behind it. With the driver’s help, she climbed in. “Lord Wethington’s house, please.”
The man tugged on the brim of his hat. “Yes, my lady.”
Of course William didn’t know any more about dogs giving birth than she did, and he didn’t even like Persephone, but just having him there would calm her. When this murder investigation was over and Persephone was the proud mama of new little Persephones, Amy was going to have to give this situation between her and William some thought.
They seemed to be heading in a direction she never would have thought was a good idea. Yet it seemed to grow closer every day.
Once the carriage came to a rolling stop, she hopped out before the driver could help her and paid for her impatience by almost landing on her bum. Straightening herself, she took a calming breath, raised her head, and with as much dignity as she could muster made her way up the steps to William’s townhouse.
“Good morning, my lady. How pleasant to see you.”
“Good morning, Weston. Please tell his lordship I am here.”
He frowned. “Oh, I am so sorry, Lady Amy. His lordship left a little while ago.”
Amy’s shoulders slumped. “Do you know where he went, or how long he will be?”
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
