She tried again to read a few sentences but gave up. Goodness, it was quiet. The lack of sound was almost making her itch. Tired of trying to force herself to read her current novel, which held no interest, she decided to overcome her fear of the library and search for something from there to read that would take her mind off murder and mayhem.
The carpet on the stairs muffled her footsteps as she made her way downstairs. Lacey was no longer at the door, most likely busy with other tasks. Why had she never noticed how silent the house was? And furthermore, why was it troubling her so much?
Hopefully William’s appointment would end soon and he could keep her company. She stood in front of the library door for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned the latch, swinging the door open.
The room looked the same, smelled the same. It appeared the servants were no longer placing fresh flowers in the room. Although Papa didn’t spend much time in Bath, the room always smelled of him. Tobacco and brandy.
The first thing she noticed when she entered was the soft breeze that blew from the French doors, ruffling the curtains across the room. Someone had left the doors open, perhaps Michael. He might have used Papa’s desk to do a bit of paperwork.
He’d never mentioned how long he planned on staying, but she feared he had been ordered to keep her under lock and key until the murder was solved. Well, if she received the needed proof, and she and William reported it all to the police department, Michael would most likely be on the first rail to London.
She started across the room when a slight sense of unease enveloped her. She chastised herself for being silly, assuring herself that her reaction was merely the unpleasant memory of the night she’d found St. Vincent dead on the floor.
Her heart pounding—such foolishness—she hurried to the doors and closed them. Letting out a puff of relieved air, she came to an abrupt stop, turned, then stepped back. She drew in a deep breath, and her hand covered her mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“You really should be more careful about keeping your doors locked.”
CHAPTER 27
Amy licked her dry lips as she stared at the very frightening gun pointing in her direction. “Perhaps that’s because most visitors come to the front door and drop the knocker to be admitted to my home.”
“Not me.”
“So it seems.” Amy ordered herself to remain calm. She’d written scenes like this in her books, but at the moment she couldn’t remember one single method she’d employed to rescue her main character.
She moved a few steps from the French doors, hoping to make a run for it, or even scramble under Papa’s desk for cover. “I assume you used the French doors the night you killed Mr. St. Vincent?” She might as well get that out there, since she could think of no other reason why the gun, held by a very steady hand, was pointed directly at her. She hated to admit that the detectives were right; this was a dangerous game she’d been playing.
The intruder waved the gun around, causing all of Amy’s blood to race to her feet. “No, Mr. St. Vincent had opened the doors and gone out to the patio when I tapped on the glass to summon him.”
Amy’s eyes roamed the room, looking for anything she could use to defend herself. “He wasn’t surprised to see you standing in my garden? Had you been following him?” Think, Amy, think. Lacey was somewhere in the house and would hopefully wander by the library, since the door to the corridor remained open.
“You might say.”
She silently prayed that William’s meeting was over and he was on his way here. Of course, she didn’t want him to walk into a situation where he would be shot, too. If she could keep the conversation going, she might stay alive long enough to think of a way out of this mess. “Can we sit down and discuss this?”
“No reason to do that, but if you wish, we can chat for a while. I’ve been watching the house and I know Lord Wethington left earlier, and your brother and aunt have gone out. Allowing that most servants use this in-between time to sneak in a nap or run their own p
ersonal errands, I figure we have a few minutes.” She grinned and waved her gun at the settee. “You sit there.”
Amy took the seat facing the library door and tried her best to calm her pounding heart. Her guest remained standing.
“You know, we never suspected you.”
“Maybe not, but you were getting too close. And the crashed carriage didn’t do the job I’d planned.”
Keep her talking, keep her talking. Once her panic eased and she could think clearly, she might figure a way out of this situation. “I assume you hired someone?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I brought a saw with me to the Assembly Rooms?”
Foolish question, foolish answer, her Papa always said. She didn’t care how many inane questions she asked, as long as it held off the gun aimed in her direction, cocked and ready to end her life. “How do you propose to get away with this? Lord Wethington will know precisely what happened to me.”
“I have plans for him, too.”
Almost as if mentioning his name conjured up his presence, William appeared at the library door, took one quiet, cautious step into the room, and stopped. Thank goodness for the thick carpets that lined the corridor and muted his steps.
His eyes grew wide when he viewed the scene. Panicked that he might not realize what was going on, she quickly said, “Do be careful with that gun, Mrs. Miles.”
“I have excellent aim. I’ve been shooting since I was a child.”