Otherwise Engaged (5 page)

Mrs. Houston bustled in from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. She was a handsome, robust woman of middle years. Her brown hair was lightly streaked with gray. Penny had hired her after moving out of the large, fashionable house that she had entered as Nigel’s bride.

Penny had set up her new home in a much smaller town house in a respectable but quiet and not particularly fashionable neighborhood. In the process she had dismissed the entire staff of the mansion. Now there was only Mrs. Houston, who had come from an agency.

Amity sensed there was more to the story. It was true, Penny no longer needed a great many servants. Nevertheless, her household staff had been trimmed to a bare minimum. When Amity had asked why Mrs. Houston was the sole live-in employee, Penny had said something vague about not wanting a lot of people underfoot.

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they find the Bridegroom’s body,” Mrs. Houston declared. “I’ve read all the accounts in the papers, Miss Amity. The wounds you inflicted were clearly of a grave nature. Surely he cannot survive them. One of these days they’ll find him in an alley or the river.”

“Those accounts were written by newspaper reporters, none of whom were present at the scene,” Amity said. “In my opinion, it is entirely possible that the monster survived, assuming he got medical attention.”

“Must you be so negative?” Penny chided.

“Medical attention,” Mrs. Houston said. She appeared quite struck by the notion. “If he was badly injured, he would have been forced to seek out the assistance of a doctor. Surely any man of medicine called
upon to tend such wounds would be aware that he was treating a violent person. He would report the patient to the police.”

“Not if the killer managed to convince the doctor that the wounds had been inflicted by accident or by a footpad,” Amity said. “May I have some more coffee, Mrs. Houston? I shall need a great deal of it in order to get through the interview with that man from Scotland Yard who sent a message asking if he could call this morning.”

“His name is Inspector Logan,” Penny said.

“Yes, well, we can only hope that he is more competent than his predecessor. The inspector who spoke with me after I escaped the killer was less than impressive. I doubt if he could catch the average street thief, let alone a monster like the Bridegroom.”

“According to Inspector Logan’s message, he is not due to call until eleven o’clock,” Penny said. “You do not look as if you slept well. Perhaps you should take a nap after breakfast?”

“I’m fine, Penny.” Amity picked up her cup. “I have never been able to nap during the day.”

The muffled clang of the door knocker echoed down the hall. Amity and Penny exchanged startled glances.

Mrs. Houston’s face set in disapproving lines. “Who on earth would be calling at this hour?”

Amity put down her cup. “I expect that will be Inspector Logan.”

“Shall I tell the inspector to come back at a decent hour?”

“Why bother?” Amity said. She crumpled her napkin and set it beside her plate. “I may as well get the conversation over now. No point postponing the inevitable. Perhaps Inspector Logan is early because he has some news.”

“Yes, of course,” Penny said. “Let us hope they found the body.”

Mrs. Houston went down the hall to answer the door.

A hush fell on the room. Amity listened intently as Mrs. Houston greeted the caller. A man’s voice—dark, gruff and freighted with impatience and command—responded.

“Where the devil is Miss Doncaster?”

Amity felt as if she had just been struck by a very large ocean wave.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered. “That’s not Inspector Logan.”

In spite of her sleepless nights and too much coffee—or perhaps because of those two factors—frissons of panic and excitement shivered through her. The little icy-hot tingles of awareness splashed across her nerves and caused her pulse to kick up. In all of her travels she had met only one man who had such an effect on her.

“Miss Doncaster is at breakfast, sir,” Mrs. Houston announced. “I’ll let her know you’re asking for her.”

“Never mind, I’ll find her.”

Boot steps echoed in the hall.

Penny looked at Amity across the table, a delicate frown crinkling her brows.

“Who on earth—?” she started to ask.

Before Amity could answer, Benedict swept into the room. His hair was windblown and he was dressed in traveling clothes. He carried a leather case under one arm.

At the sight of him joy and relief flashed through her. He was alive. Her worst nightmare was just that—merely a nightmare.

And then the outrage set in.

“What a surprise, Mr. Stanbridge,” she said in her steeliest accents. “We weren’t expecting you this morning. Or any other morning, for that matter.”

He stopped short, eyes tightening at the corners. Evidently that was not the greeting he had been anticipating.

“Amity,” he said.

Predictably, it was Penny who took charge of the volatile situation, doing so with her customary grace and dignity.

“Mr. Stanbridge, allow me to introduce myself, as my sister appears to have forgotten her manners. I’m Penelope Marsden.”

For a dash of time Amity did not think that Benedict would allow himself to be distracted by the introduction. Judging by her experience of his company on board the
Northern Star
, he had excellent manners when he chose to use them. For the most part, however, he had little patience for the niceties of Polite Society.

But clearly it dawned on him that he had overstepped the bounds of good manners by invading a lady’s morning room at such an early hour, because he turned immediately toward Penny.

“Benedict Stanbridge, at your service.” He inclined his head in a surprisingly elegant bow. “I apologize for the intrusion, Mrs. Marsden. My ship docked less than an hour ago. I came straight here because I saw the morning papers. I was concerned, to say the least.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Penny said. “Won’t you join us for breakfast, sir?”

“Thank you,” Benedict said. He looked at the silver coffee pot with something approaching lust. “I would be very grateful. I didn’t get breakfast, as we docked earlier than anticipated.”

Penny looked at Mrs. Houston, who was staring, fascinated, at Benedict. “Would you be so kind as to bring Mr. Stanbridge a plate, Mrs. Houston?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.”

Mrs. Houston quickly regained her professional composure but her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She bustled through the swinging door of the pantry.

Benedict pulled out a chair and sat down. He set the leather case
conveniently at hand on the sideboard and examined Amity as though he had her under a microscope.

“You are unhurt?” he asked.

“A few minor bruises, but they have all disappeared, thank you,” she said.

Penny frowned in faint disapproval of her icy tones. Amity ignored the look. She had a right to be annoyed with Benedict, she thought.

“According to the press, you did considerable damage to the bastard with that little fan you carry.” Benedict nodded once, evidently pleased. “Nice work, by the way.”

Amity raised her brows. “Thank you. One does one’s best in those circumstances, I assure you.”

“Right,” Benedict said. He was starting to look wary. “Did they find the body?”

“Not that we know of,” Amity said. “But we are expecting news from an Inspector Logan of Scotland Yard later this morning. I am not hopeful that any real progress has been made, however. Logan’s predecessor appeared to be in over his head.”

“Never a good sign,” Benedict said. He reached out to help himself to a slice of toast from the silver toast rack.

A woman could only take so much.

Amity banged her cup down onto the saucer. “Damn it, Benedict, how dare you stroll into this house as if nothing ever happened? The very least you could have done was send a telegram to let me know that you were alive. Was that too much to ask?”

A
mity was furious.

Benedict was amazed that she possessed the energy for such a heated emotion considering what she had gone through three weeks ago. But the fire in her amazing eyes was definitely dangerous.

This was not exactly the passionate reunion that he had been dreaming about for the past month, he thought.

He used a knife to slather some butter on the toast while he tried to think of the best way to respond to the outburst. Nothing brilliant came to mind.

“My apologies,” he said. “I thought it best to have as little communication as possible until I got back to London.”

She gave him a cool smile. “Did you, indeed, sir?”

This was not going well, he decided. He told himself he had to make allowances for her volatile emotional state. If the press had gotten even half the story correct, she was lucky to be alive. Most women
would have taken to their beds following such an ordeal. They would have remained in those beds for a month, dining on weak broth and tea and periodically resorting to their vinaigrettes.

Then again most women would not have survived the attack, he thought. Admiration mingled with the overwhelming relief that he had experienced when he had walked through the door of the morning room a short time ago. The papers had stressed that she was alive and unharmed, but he knew that he could not rest until he had seen her with his own eyes.

He should have known that he would find her eating a hearty breakfast.

Amity was the most unique woman he had ever encountered. She never ceased to astonish him. From the first moment he had seen her there in that wretched little alley on St. Clare, he had been mesmerized. She reminded him of a small, sleek, curious little cat. The range of her interests intrigued him deeply. One never knew what subject she would bring up next.

During the course of the passage from St. Clare to New York, Amity had turned up in the most unexpected places on the ship. It was obvious from the start that the crew adored her. On one occasion he had gone searching for her only to find her emerging from a tour of the ship’s galley. She was still engaged in deep conversation with the head chef, who had been holding forth at length on the logistics of providing so many meals to passengers and crew over the course of a long voyage. Amity had appeared keenly interested. Her questions were sincere. The chef looked as though he was half in love with her.

And then there was the time he had found her in close conversation with the handsome, young American, Declan Garraway. Benedict had been startled by the sense of possessiveness he had experienced when he had discovered the pair together in the ship’s library.

Garraway was fresh out of an East Coast college and in the process of seeing something of the world before he assumed his responsibilities in the family business. He had seemed quite taken with modern theories of psychology, which he had studied in school. He had lectured Amity enthusiastically on the subject. She, in turn, had taken notes and asked a great many questions. Garraway had been enthralled, not only with the field of psychology but also with Amity.

Over the course of the past few weeks Benedict had pondered his own conversations with Amity on board ship. He had no doubt bored her to tears with his descriptions of such exciting inventions as Alexander Graham Bell’s design for a wireless communications device called a photophone. She had managed to appear so interested that he had been inspired to move on to other subjects. He had held forth at length on how several renowned scientists and engineers such as the French inventor Augustin Mouchot were predicting that the coal mines of Europe and America would soon be exhausted. If they were proved right, the great steam engines of the modern age that powered everything from ships and locomotives to factories would grind to a halt. The need to find a new source of energy was the focus of all the major powers. And so on and so forth. On one less than memorable occasion he had even gone so far as to regale her with a detailed explanation of how the ancient Greeks and Romans had experimented with solar energy.

What had he been thinking?

He had asked himself that question every night for a month. Amity had been trapped on board the
Northern Star
with him all the way from St. Clare to New York. It had been a golden opportunity to impress her. Instead, he had gone on endlessly about various topics related to his engineering interests. As if any woman actually wanted to hear about his engineering interests.

But at the time Amity had seemed keen to discuss his speculations and theories. Most women he knew, with the glaring exceptions of his mother and his sister-in-law, considered the realms of engineering and invention to be beneath the proper interests of a gentleman. Amity, however, had gone so far as to make notes, just as she had when she chatted with Declan Garraway. Benedict conceded that he had been flattered. Afterward, though, on the long train trip to California, he’d had ample time to consider the very real possibility that she had simply been polite.

When he thought of his time with Amity on the
Northern Star
he much preferred to contemplate their last night together. The memory had heated his dreams while they had been apart.

They had gone for a walk on the promenade deck and stopped to watch the celestial fireworks produced by a distant storm at sea. They had stood together at the railing for nearly an hour, watching the far-off lightning flashes in the night sky. Amity had been captivated by the scene. He, in turn, had been enchanted by her excitement.

That was the night he had taken her into his arms and kissed her for the first and only time. The experience had proved more electrifying than the night storm. It was only a kiss, but for the first time in his life he had understood how passion might cause a man to defy logic and the dictates of common sense.

Mrs. Houston swept through the pantry doorway.

“Here you go, sir,” she said. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

She set a plate heaped with eggs and sausages in front of him. He inhaled the aromas and was suddenly ravenous.

“Thank you, Mrs. Houston,” he said. He unfolded his napkin. “This is just what I need.”

She beamed and poured coffee into his cup.

He forked up a bite of eggs and looked at Amity.

“Tell me what happened,” he said. “I trust the press has exaggerated somewhat?”

Penny responded before Amity could say a word.

“Unfortunately, the incident occurred very much as the press portrayed it,” Penny said.

“Except for the bit about me fleeing the carriage in my nightgown,” Amity said grimly. “That was a gross exaggeration. I was fully clothed, I assure you.”

Before he could respond to that, Penny continued with the story.

“A vicious killer they call the Bridegroom seized Amity right off the street in broad daylight and tried to overcome her with chloroform,” she said.

“Chloroform.” Benedict felt his insides turn to ice. If the killer had been able to render Amity unconscious, it was unlikely that she would have escaped. “Damn it to bloody hell.”

He realized that Penny and Mrs. Houston were looking at him.

“My apologies for the language,” he said.

It occurred to him that he had apologized twice before even finishing breakfast.

Amity raised her brows. He got the impression that she was amused. It was, he reflected, not the first time that she had heard him swear. Nevertheless, he was back in London now. There were rules.

“Fortunately, I was able to employ my fan before the chloroform took effect,” Amity said. “I leaped out of the carriage and ran for my life.”

He frowned thinking about it. “Who drove the carriage?”

“What?” Amity frowned. “I have no idea. It was a private carriage so I assume the coachman was in the employ of the killer.”

He gave that some close thought. “It was a private carriage?”

“Yes. In the rain, I mistook it for a cab.” Amity’s gaze sharpened. “What are you thinking, sir?”

“That the coachman is either an accomplice or a member of the criminal class who was hired for the occasion and paid to keep his mouth shut. Either way, he will know something that could help identify the killer.”

Amity’s eyes widened. “An excellent notion. You must mention that to Inspector Logan.”

Benedict shrugged and ate a bite of sausage. “It’s an obvious avenue of investigation. I’m sure the police are pursuing it.”

Amity assumed an ominous expression. “I would not depend upon that, if I were you.”

Penny looked thoughtful. “Until Amity’s escape no one knew how the other brides were taken. They simply disappeared.”

Benedict ate some more eggs while he pondered that. Then he looked at Amity.

“Why you?” he asked.

She frowned. “What?”

“Do you have some notion of why, out of all the women in London, the killer selected you as a victim?”

Amity looked at Penny, who cleared her throat discreetly.

“I assume that you are unaware of the gossip, Mr. Stanbridge,” she said.

“Gossip flows through London like the Thames.” He picked up his coffee cup. “What gossip in particular are you referring to?”

This time it was Amity who answered.

“The gossip about us, Mr. Stanbridge,” she said coldly.

He paused the cup halfway to his mouth and looked at her over the rim. “Us?”

She gave him an icy smile. “There has been a great deal of idle
speculation in certain circles about the nature of our association on board the
Northern Star
.”

He went quite blank. “What in blazes do you mean? We were fellow passengers on board a ship.”

Penny narrowed her eyes. “There have been rumors to the effect that your relationship with Amity was of an intimate nature.”

“Well, she did save my life, which could certainly be viewed as an intimate sort of connection.” He stopped, aware that Amity and Penny were both looking at him in a decidedly odd manner. Belatedly, comprehension finally arrived.

Thunderstruck, he looked at Amity. “Do you mean to say that there are rumors that you and I were lovers?”

Mrs. Houston snorted and became very busy with the coffee pot. Penny’s jaw tightened.

Amity flushed a vivid shade of pink.

“I regret to say that is the case,” she said.

He grappled with that for a moment and decided that it would probably be best not to tell her that he wished it were true. He forced himself to focus on the problem at hand.

“What does the gossip have to do with the fact that you were nearly murdered?” he said instead.

Amity took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “According to the press, the Bridegroom chooses female victims whose reputations have been tarnished by scandal.”

She spoke so quickly—practically mumbling—that he was not certain he heard her correctly.

“Tarnished by scandal?” he repeated to make certain he understood.

“Yes,” Amity said, her tone clipped and brusque.

“You’re telling me that the rumors about you or, I should say, us
somehow reached the killer’s ears and that is why he fixed his attentions on you?”

“That appears to be the case,” Amity said. She poured a little cream into her coffee. “I fear the gossip has been circulating in certain circles for some time.”

“Ever since the Channing ball, to be precise,” Penny added. “As far as I can determine, it started the morning after that affair.”

Benedict frowned. “Did you two attend?”

“No,” Penny said. “But it was not difficult to establish that the rumors began circulating immediately afterward. Polite Society is a small world, as I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Stanbridge.”

“True,” he said. “And an overheated hothouse when it comes to gossip. I do my best to avoid it.”

“I’m not particularly fond of it, myself,” Penny said. “But thanks to my late husband, I spent some time in that hothouse and I still have my connections. That is how I learned where and when the rumors began.”

“Did you discover who was responsible?” he asked.

“No,” Penny admitted. “That sort of thing is more difficult to pin down. Until Amity was attacked our chief concern was that the gossip might cause her publisher to change his mind about publishing her book.”

Benedict looked at Amity. “You’ve finished your travel book for ladies, then?”

“Almost,” she said. “I am making one or two small changes but I had hoped to send it to Mr. Galbraith later this month. Unfortunately, what with the rumors about my association with you and now this situation involving a killer, things have become quite complicated.”

He considered various possible solutions to the problem while he
downed the last of the eggs. Then he sat back to savor the rest of his coffee.

“The problem of ensuring the publication of your book is simple enough to resolve,” he said.

Amity and Penny stared at him.

“What, exactly, do you mean by simple, Mr. Stanbridge?” Amity asked. She was clearly wary. “Do you intend to threaten or intimidate Mr. Galbraith? Because I assure you that, while I appreciate the gesture, I really cannot countenance such an approach.”

“You would appreciate the gesture?” he asked.