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Amy shrugged. “Well, I obviously can’t show up as E. D. Burton. I haven’t heard from my publisher yet, so hopefully they will be able to come up with something.”
Aunt Margaret shook her head and took a very delicate, feminine bite of toast. “It is too bad you can’t receive the well-deserved recognition for your work. Even though I don’t read your books, I know you have plenty of fans.”
“Yes. I know.” Amy sighed. “But Papa was adamant that if I were to accept the contracts for my books, it had to be under a pseudonym.”
“It will be so nice when women are finally treated as equals and not as children, with men needed to guide them.” Aunt Margaret spread jam on her toast. “I wonder if that day will ever arrive.”
“One can only hope.”
They finished breakfast with innocuous chatter about their day and the coming Assembly dance the next evening.
An hour later, Amy sat by the window in the drawing room that faced the street. It was about four minutes past ten o’clock. William was always on time.
Just as she closed her timepiece, his carriage pulled up. She hopped up and grabbed her gloves and reticule. She had her coat on and fastened before he dropped the door knocker.
Stevens opened the door, and Amy stepped out. “I’m ready.”
William moved back. “My goodness. You are anxious.”
“Not at all. Well, maybe yes, but more importantly, I didn’t want to give you an excuse to leave me behind.” She hurried down the steps, afraid he might change his mind.
William followed and helped her into the carriage. “Are you sure you want to do this, Amy? It can be pretty gruesome looking at a dead body. Especially one that has been floating in the river.”
“Research, my lord. Research.” She settled back and refused to admit to herself that maybe, just maybe, she was a bit nervous.
They were both quiet as the carriage made its way through town, stopping for traffic, weaving in and out, making the ride seem interminable.
“You look a bit nervous,” William said.
She opened her mouth, about to deny it, then changed her mind. “Yes. I will admit I am a bit unsettled.” She held her hand up when he opened his mouth. “But I still want to do this.”
The building where the morgue was located loomed before them. She accepted William’s hand as she stepped out of the vehicle and took a deep breath.
Inside the building, a young man at the desk right by the front door stood as they entered. “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”
“Good morning. I am Lord Wethington, and this is Lady Amy Lovell. We are here to confirm the identification of Mr. James Harding.”
The man nodded, picked up some papers, looked over at Amy, and gulped. “Are you sure you want to view the body, my lady?”
“Yes. I am sure.” No. I am not sure,
but now that I’ve made a fuss over it, I can’t back down and appear a fool.
“Very well. If you will follow me.” He led them down a flight of stairs, around a corner, and then down another flight of stairs. It got darker and damper as they descended. Amy’s heart began to pound, and her mouth dried up. She rubbed her palms over her arms, trying to warm herself.
Finally, after a third flight of stairs, they walked the length of a long corridor, the smells noxious enough that she covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief William handed her.
The man leading them opened a door and stepped aside to let them enter. He pointed to a table in the corner of the room, where a body lay, a cloth of some sort covering it.
Amy glanced at William, who looked quite pale and kept swallowing. She grabbed his hand, and they moved toward the table. The man lifted the top of the sheet to reveal the man’s face.
William glanced at the body, then closed his eyes and opened them again. Looking over at their escort, he said, “Yes. I am afraid that is Mr. James Harding.”
A loud buzzing sound kept Amy from hearing William’s voice very well, which seemed to come from a great distance. The room grew very dim, and she blinked to regain her vision. She noticed that her knees had turned to liquid and her limbs had become quite heavy.
She grabbed William’s arm just as she slid to the floor.
* * *
