Page 26 of Murder in Matrimony
Devotedly,
Dreadful Business
Dear Dreadful Business,
Thank you for your kind words, and thanks to all who have written letters of generous support. I need not tell you how much they mean to me, but they do. Very much. Again, thank you.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
The evening crept by at a lethargic pace. Aunt Tabitha droned on about the wedding breakfast for an hour, and that only covered the topic of the three-tier cake and almond icing. Then it was on to meat: pork, lamb, and fowl. By the time they discussed wine, Amelia had drunk two glasses of her own.
In Amelia’s opinion, which Tabitha did not share, the wedding should be a simple, happy send-off like the one she and Edgar enjoyed. People went to too much extravagance today. Heartfelt congratulations were all one really needed to celebrate the joyous day.
“Heartfelt congratulations—and ten joints of meat.” Tabitha had tsked. “Really, Amelia, thank goodness I am planning the meal.”
Eventually, Amelia escaped the conversation and put on her costume. She checked her reflection in the glass. She really did like herself with blonde hair. Tabitha was right; she was betterat disguises than déjeuner. She enjoyed playacting as much as she had as a child at the Feathered Nest, where they put on weekly skits. Tonight, she was a gin enthusiast by the name of Polly, who liked nothing better than a tipple after a hard day of selling flowers. With her experience, she would slip into the Plate & Bottle without notice. But would Simon? That was the question.
As she stole down the servants’ staircase, she wondered what he would be wearing. If he gave them away with a ridiculous top hat or silk cravat, she would be supremely unhappy. His kid gloves would be a tell of his wealth and finery. She should know. Isaac Jakeman had found her out by the same means. But she knew better now. No detail was too small to escape a criminal’s notice. Underestimating them was a mistake she couldn’t afford to repeat.
Amelia looked left and right. Few pedestrians dotted the area, and those she scanned easily. A man, a man, a man, a woman. She frowned. It wasn’t like Simon to be late. Where was he?
“You make a fetching blonde, but I must admit, I prefer brunettes.”
She spun around, facing Simon—who did not look like Simon at all but a pirate. His black hair was mussed, as if he was just thrown from a ship, and he wore an ordinary white shirt, open at his tan throat, and breeches with a tear at the knee.
She swallowed. Concentration was going to be harder than she thought. “Is that so? I rather like being a blonde.”
“I hired a cab.” He tipped his chin. “There, at the corner.”
“A wise move.” After they entered the cab, however, Amelia wondered how wise she was to enlist Simon in her latest plan to gather more information about the Rothschild family. Isolation sat between them like a loaded gun. They’d been alone together before, but always as themselves. These people they had created, these facades, had somehow done away with the decorum they had to follow. She was left with the shape of his throat, the swoop of his hair, and the cut of his breeches.
“I discovered the Plate & Bottle has been in operation for over a decade.” Simon fastened his shirt cuffs, which were abit too white to look well used. “Meals were once served there, but now it’s a drinking establishment, well known by locals. It should provide a good mix of patrons.”
“Good. Good.” Amelia repeated the word because her mind was blank.
“Good?” Simon pressed. “Not, ‘Where did you get the information?’ or ‘Who did you interview?’ or ‘Why did you not wait for me?’”
“Where did you get the information?”
He smiled, and she came undone a little. “I thought you’d never ask. I found it out by my valet. He’s a bit of a roughneck, if you recall. I found him outside a gaming hall, selling oranges, and I hired him immediately. He knows all the seedy places in town. I don’t know why I didn’t think to inquire before.”
“Did he know the Rothschilds?”
“He knew of Mr. Rothschild, the proprietor. Not personally, of course, but he said the man bartends most nights.” He paused and then continued. “He thought well of him, though. I got that impression.”
“Did he mention his wife?”
Simon shook his head.
“Rose?”
“No one else.”
“Oh.” Amelia let out a disappointed breath.
He frowned. “But still, the father. Open a decade.”
