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William snorted. “Mild flirtation.” He shook his head as if she were trying to convince him of the truth of a fairy tale. “I wonder what my father will think of this.”
“Your father? He is deceased, is he not?”
He waved his hand. “Yes. But Mother ‘consults’ with him on various things.”
“Seriously?”
“Unfortunately, yes. But believe me, she is not crazy, just a little early for old-age eccentricity.”
Amy picked up a glass of warm lemonade, and they began to stroll the room. Aunt Margaret twirled by, chatting away with Lord Pembroke.
“I had hoped to see Mr. Montrose tonight,” William said. “I know he attends on a somewhat regular basis, but the last few times we were here, he was missing.”
Amy scanned the room. “Your Mr. Harding really was involved in despicable behavior. I don’t wish ill on anyone, but I can’t help but think after speaking to some of his victims that he was lucky to have not been murdered before now.”
“That reminds me.” William cleared his throat as if to make a formal announcement. “I saw Patrick Whitney today.”
Amy drew back and stared at him. “You did? How did that come about?”
“Nick Smith sent me the information.”
She raised her chin, and her eyes narrowed. “And why wasn’t I asked to go along?”
William ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t want you there.” He held up his hand as she felt her anger growing. “Because I had no idea what I was facing. He could have greeted me with a pointed gun.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“But I didn’t know that ahead of time. Seriously, Amy, I decided I would rather face your wrath than put you into a position where you might be harmed. I don’t think my mind is completely recovered from us being shot at.” He shook his head. “I won’t put you in danger again. If that riles you up, then so be it.”
Well then.
“What did you discover?”
“Patrick Whitney is much younger than I had thought. He seemed to be no older than his late twenties. He is staying with a woman, Mrs. Millie Johnson, that he claims is an old friend.
“Do you doubt that?”
“That they are just friends? I’m not sure. However, it seems the very night Patrick threatened Mr. Harding and left Mrs. Whitney’s home, he continued to drink and the next morning found himself lying in an alley somewhere feeling dreadful. He assumed it was merely the results of a night of overconsumption. However, when he got worse instead of better, he made his way to Mrs. Johnson’s home, where he has been quite sick with an ague of some sort ever since.”
“Do you believe his story?”
“After seeing the man? Yes. Even after a couple of weeks, he looked like he’d come close to knocking on death’s door. I didn’t get a chance to speak with Mrs. Johnson to back up what Whitney said, but he told me she works at the pub we visited before.”
“Which one?”
“The one where the man told us an individual—most likely Harding—had met people every couple of weeks for what looked like an exchange of money. The King’s Garden.”
“That was quite a sleazy place, if I recall. Yet we did not meet her then?”
“No. Patrick was a bit nebulous about the hours she works, but since you and I we were at the King’s Garden in the afternoon, I’m thinking she might work mostly nights.”
“I believe another trip to the pub is in order.”
“Yes.” He looked down at her. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay safe at home this time?”
