Instead it had been the memories of Mr. St. Ives that had haunted her thoughts.
Why did he disturb her so?
He was beautiful, of course. Perhaps the most beautiful man she had ever encountered. More than once she had discovered her gaze lingering upon his pale, elegant features as if she were a moonstruck idiot rather than a sensible woman.
And when he had touched her . . . well, she could not deny that he had made her heart trip and caused the most peculiar sensations to rush through her body.
But it was more than his physical appeal that made him linger in her thoughts.
There was something about him that was unusual, she acknowledged as she slowly pulled on a muslin gown in a shade of pale lemon. Something that she could not precisely pinpoint but nevertheless warned her that he was no common flirt who pursued her for his own pleasure.
The question now, of course, was—what did he want?
And how was he connected with the deadly shadow? A shadow that still remained an unnerving mystery.
Without thinking, Amelia reached up to touch the amulet. The Gypsy had warned of danger.
Now, Mr. St. Ives implied that she was in peril. It made no sense, but she was not willing to dismiss the notion. However absurd, she could almost feel the sense of impending doom. As if it were slowly creeping up behind her.
Amelia shivered.
Enough of this, she sternly chastised herself. She was no coward hiding in her room. If there were danger she would face it squarely.
The brave thought had barely formed in her mind when there was a sudden rap upon the door.
With a faint measure of surprise, she crossed the narrow room to discover her housekeeper standing in the hall with a harried expression.
"Oh, Miss Hadwell, I did not like to trouble you at such an early hour."
"It is no trouble," she assured the elderly servant. Although a dried-up wisp of a woman with a perpetually worried expression, Mrs. Benson had proved to be utterly loyal to both William and Amelia. "Is something the matter?"
"Well, not precisely, although it cannot be good news. I mean it never is, is it?"
Amelia blinked in confusion. "What cannot be good news?"
"That man," Mrs. Benson retorted, her thin hands wringing together. "They always mean trouble. Trouble, mark my words."
"I still do not know what you speak of, Mrs. Benson. What man?"
"That Mr. Ryan."
"Ryan?" Amelia frowned, quite certain that she had never met a Mr. Ryan. "Are you certain he has the right house?"
The tiny head bobbed up and down. "Asked for you in particular, Miss Hadwell."
"That is odd. I have never been introduced to a Mr. Ryan. What would he be doing here?"
"He be from Bow Street, miss."
Amelia felt a chill inch down her spine. Bow Street? What would such a man be doing in her home? How would he even know her name?
"I see," she forced herself to say slowly, careful to keep her unease hidden. The housekeeper was always a breath away from a fit of the vapors. Amelia did not want to get her worked into a pucker. "Did you put him in the front parlor?"
"Aye. Were you wishing me to send him upon his way?"
It was a tempting thought. Amelia did not imagine for a moment that a Bow Street runner could bring anything but bad news. And after her sleepless nights, she felt far from confident that she could deal with any potential problem.
Unfortunately, she feared that by sending him away she was only prolonging the inevitable. If the man de-sired to speak with her, then he would simply return. Perhaps it was best to meet with him and be done with it.