Otherwise Engaged (9 page)

“I have been reading the papers,” Marissa said. “I cannot begin
to imagine what Miss Doncaster went through. She is lucky to be alive.”

Benedict propped himself on the edge of Richard’s desk and folded his arms. “Trust me when I tell you that there is no need to remind me of that fact.”

“You met on board ship?” Marissa asked.

“The story is somewhat more complicated,” Benedict said.

He gave Marissa and Richard a summary of events.

“Good heavens.” Marissa was horrified. “There wasn’t supposed to be any danger involved in that excursion to St. Clare. You were simply supposed to meet with that inventor and ascertain whether or not he had designed a truly revolutionary weapon.”

Richard’s jaw tightened. “You never informed us that you had been shot.”

“Why bother?” Benedict said. “There was nothing either of you could do, and as I survived the incident I saw no reason why the news could not wait until I got home.”

“So Miss Doncaster saved your life,” Marissa said. “That does explain some of the gossip about the two of you. Naturally she would have been seen coming and going from your cabin on board the
Northern Star
.”

Benedict cleared his throat. “We also spent a great deal of time in each other’s company after I was back on my feet.”

“I see.” Marissa’s brows puckered. “I wonder why we never heard that you had been shot. One would have thought that fact would have made it back to London.”

“Good question,” Benedict said. “But you know how it is with gossip. People tend to focus on the scandalous aspects, not the facts.”

“Very true,” Marissa said. “I must say, her bold actions are precisely what I would have expected from the Miss Doncaster who has
been writing the articles on travel that are published in the
Flying Intelligencer
.”

Benedict smiled. “I take it you are a fan of her essays?”

“Absolutely,” Marissa enthused. “I can certainly understand why you are engaged to marry her. She sounds perfect for you. Indeed, I look forward to meeting her.”

“That will be quite soon,” Benedict said. “Meanwhile, my chief concern is that she is still in danger from the man who attacked her. I have told her that I do not want her to leave the house unescorted. When I cannot be with her, someone else is to accompany her at all times. At night a constable will watch the house.”

Richard frowned. “You think the killer is still alive?”

“I must assume as much until his body is found.”

Marissa looked worried. “What if they don’t find him? What if he is alive but the police are not successful in capturing him?”

“Amity and her sister and I intend to give the police some assistance with the investigation,” Benedict said.

Marissa looked intrigued. “How on earth can you do that?”

“Amity gained several impressions about the killer yesterday,” Benedict explained. “Among other things she is convinced that he moves in Society.”

This time both Marissa and Richard stared at him, shocked.

Benedict related Amity’s description of the Bridegroom.

“Given the timing of events, we believe that he may well have attended the Channing ball a month ago,” he concluded. “Or, at the very least, he is acquainted with someone who was present.”

Marissa gave him a knowing look. “You will need the guest list.”

Benedict smiled. “As a matter of fact, Miss Doncaster’s sister has instructed Inspector Logan on how to obtain it.”

“You have set yourself an interesting task,” Richard said. “Hunting
killers is a job for the police. But I take your point. The sort of people who attend balls do not open their doors to inspectors from Scotland Yard. As you are well aware, Marissa and I prefer to ignore the Polite World for the most part, but we do have some connections. If there is anything we can do to help, you must not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you,” Benedict said. “I appreciate that. I may be calling on you.”

Richard glanced at the black leather case Benedict had set on his desk. “What of the plans for the solar engine and the battery?”

Benedict picked up the case and opened it. He removed the leather binder that contained Elijah Foxcroft’s notes.

“After I leave here I will deliver it to Uncle Cornelius. Once that chore is accomplished, my very short career as a spy for the Crown will be concluded.”

“And your new profession as a consultant for Scotland Yard will begin,” Richard said. He eyed the binder with great interest. “I would very much like to take a look at Foxcroft’s notes and drawings.”

Benedict put the binder on the desk. “I am going to show them to you.”

Sometime later Richard closed the binder and sat back in his chair. There was an air of cool satisfaction in his smile.

“I understand now why you made that trip to California. The Russians very likely have the plans for the solar cannon, but you brought back the design for the engine system that is capable of powering the weapon. The cannon is of no use without it.”

“The thing about Foxcroft’s solar engine and battery that is so interesting is that they are just that—an engine and a storage device,”
Benedict said. “The system could power anything, not just weapons. One could use it to operate an oven, a vehicle, a ship or a factory—all using the free energy of the sun. The possibilities are unlimited.”

Richard grinned. “Better not let the owners of the coal mines hear you say that.”

“Mouchot is right, we are going to run out of coal eventually. At the very least it will become increasingly expensive to extract it from the ground. The French and the Russians have been funding solar research and development for the past few years. Several American inventors are working on solar devices. We need to catch up with the rest of the major powers or risk being left in the dust.” Benedict tapped the notebook. “Foxcroft’s system is our chance to do that.”

“I’m not arguing with you. Obviously Uncle Cornelius would not have asked you to go to St. Clare if the Crown was not interested in the potential for solar power.”

“My fear is that all the government will see is the potential to create a new kind of weapon with Foxcroft’s engine. Uncle Cornelius’s associates won’t understand the larger implications.”

“If anyone can convince them to take solar energy seriously, it will be Uncle Cornelius.”

“You’re right.” Benedict looked at the binder. “Before I deliver Foxcroft’s notes and specifications to him, however, I have a favor to ask. I have a plan and I need your help.”

Richard smiled. “You always have a plan. What is it this time?”

Benedict told him.

When he was finished Richard nodded, very thoughtful now.

“Yes,” he said. “That makes sense.”

M
iss Doncaster, I cannot begin to express the depths of my admiration, not only for you, personally, but for your succinct and insightful writing,” Arthur Kelbrook said. “I have read every single one of your essays in the
Flying Intelligencer
. Your descriptions of foreign landscapes are positively brilliant. It is as if I was at your side, viewing the scenes with you. I shall never forget the poetic picture you painted of the sun setting on that island in the South Seas.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kelbrook,” Amity said. She flushed, unaccustomed to such rapturous praise. “Very kind of you to take the time to read my little pieces in the
Flying Intelligencer
.”

The reception hall of the Society for Travel and Exploration was crowded. The guest of honor, Humphrey Nash, had concluded his talk a short time ago and was now holding court at the far end of the room. He was surrounded by admirers and rivals alike. There were, Amity noted, a considerable number of ladies in the group. The
Society was one of the few travel and geographical institutions open to women, but Amity knew that was not the only reason there were so many females at the reception. Nash was a tall, handsome, athletically built man endowed with a patrician profile and piercing green eyes. His curly brown hair was cut short in the modern style.

He was also a very fine photographer. His beautiful pictures of temples, exotic gardens, snow-peaked mountains and ancient monuments lined the walls.

Amity tried not to let her gaze stray toward Humphrey but it was difficult. She had been anxious about attending the reception tonight, but a part of her had known that she needed to see Humphrey again to prove to herself that she had recovered from what, at the age of nineteen, she had considered to be heartbreak.

Tonight, watching him as he commanded the audience from the podium, she found herself wondering what she had ever seen in him. He was still the handsome, dashing explorer who had captivated her at nineteen, but she had realized immediately that she was no longer under his spell. She had to admit that walking into the hall on the arm of her so-called fiancé had provided a great deal of satisfaction.

It was probably quite immature to hope that Humphrey had noticed her sitting with Benedict in the audience and had, perhaps, heard that she was engaged. But she told herself that she deserved to savor the moment. After all, Humphrey had caused her no little humiliation when he had taken advantage of her naïveté to try to persuade her into an illicit affair. Her reputation had taken a blow at nineteen that had destroyed her chances of making a respectable marriage.

It was, she often thought, a good thing that she enjoyed foreign travel, because she’d had little option but to leave the country. She
smiled at the thought. Setting out to explore the world had been the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Penny was halfway across the room. She looked especially lovely tonight in a dark blue gown that complimented her hair. The blue dress was an audacious choice. According to the social dictates of mourning, a wife was expected to spend a year and a day in black. Amity had been both astonished and delighted when Penny had come downstairs in the gown. True, it was a very dark shade of blue but it was, nevertheless, blue—not black or even gray.

Amity had to admit that she was rather enjoying the knowledge that she herself was dressed in a stylish, fashionable manner. The conversation in the dressmaker’s salon came back to her.

“The deep green color will draw attention to your eyes and enhance the drama of your dark hair,” Penny said. “I suspect that Mr. Stanbridge is in for a surprise tonight.”

“Why on earth would he be surprised by the sight of me in a dress?” Amity asked. She touched the delicious, rich folds of the green fabric. “He has seen me on any number of previous occasions and I assure you, I was in a gown each time. It is not as though I go about in the nude when I am abroad.”

The dressmaker lifted her eyes toward the heavens and muttered
“Mon Dieu”
in a very bad French accent.

Penny ignored her to give Amity a severe look. “I expect that on each occasion you were wearing one of those wretched brown or black things you always pack for your travels.”

“They don’t show wrinkles and stains,” Amity said, finding herself on the defensive. “And they launder well.”

“I don’t care how easily they can be washed and dried and ironed,” Penny said. “The colors are not flattering and they don’t show your figure to advantage the way this gown will.”

The gown was simply, elegantly styled with long, narrow sleeves and a snug bodice that ended in a point just below her waist. The skirt was artfully tailored to create a long, narrow line in front that, nevertheless, allowed for relative ease of movement. In the back, the fabric was draped over a discreet little bustle.

The dressmaker had pronounced herself horrified by Amity’s fan. Madame La Fontaine had insisted that it did not enhance the gown. She had suggested, instead, one fashioned of delicate wooden spokes that opened to display an orchid scene. But Amity had held her ground. In that one instance Penny had taken her side. Neither of them had deemed it wise to explain to the dressmaker that the fan was actually a weapon. The poor woman would have been thoroughly shocked at the notion of a lady carrying a blade to a reception. Tonight the tessen was suspended from a silver chatelaine at Amity’s waist.

“I would not miss a single one of your travel pieces,” Kelbrook said. “I assure you, I am your most faithful reader, Miss Doncaster.”

“Thank you,” Amity said again.

She took a step back, trying to put more distance between them. But Kelbrook took a step closer. It dawned on her that the glitter in his eyes was excitement, not admiration, and a rather unwholesome excitement at that.

“I was shocked by the news that you were attacked by that dreadful killer the press refers to as the Bridegroom,” he continued. “I must ask how you escaped. The accounts in the papers were rather vague about that aspect of the affair.”

“Luck had a great deal to do with it,” Amity said briskly. She inched back another small step. “That, plus some experience in getting out of tight quarters.”

She was not about to demonstrate her fan to him. There was little
point carrying a disguised weapon if everyone knew the secret. One did not confide in near strangers, even those who expressed great devotion to one’s writings.

Arthur Kelbrook was in his mid-forties. He was pleasant-looking in a bland sort of way, with a receding hairline, pale gray eyes, a soft mouth, broad hands and very little neck. All indications were that he was fated to expand in girth as the years passed. The buttons that fastened his expensively tailored coat were pulled taut across his midsection.

He was certainly not the handsomest or the most distinguished-looking man in the room, Amity reflected, but his earnest, sincere manner at the start of their conversation had been charming, even endearing. Kelbrook was the only one she had met that evening who seemed genuinely interested in her travel adventures. Everyone else was transfixed with Humphrey Nash.

Which was not to say that she had failed to attract the attentions of several other men in the room, she thought. From time to time she caught a number of males casting quick, speculative glances in her direction. She knew they were wondering if a woman who dared to go abroad on her own was reckless in other ways, as well. It was not the first time she had encountered so-called gentlemen who presumed far too much.

“I hear the police have not yet discovered the body of the Bridegroom,” Kelbrook said.

“No.” She did not add that there might not be a body to discover.

Kelbrook lowered his voice and edged closer. “There was, I understand, a great deal of blood at the scene.”

Whatever charm Arthur Kelbrook had exhibited a short time ago had worn off. She was starting to become more than impatient. A deep unease was stirring inside her.

“Quite true,” she said. She kept her tone vague and pretended to search the room. “I wonder where my fiancé is.”

There was no sign of Benedict. Just when you need a man he disappears, she thought.

“You must have struggled valiantly,” Kelbrook said. “But what could a gentle, delicate lady like yourself do to defend herself against a great, rutting beast of a man?”

Kelbrook’s intensity was increasing. So was the feverish look in his eyes.

A chill iced Amity’s neck. She tried to step around Kelbrook but he was somehow in her path.

“I assure you the matter was resolved in mere minutes,” she said briskly. “I simply jumped out of the carriage.”

“I can only imagine how it must have been for you, pinned beneath that brute, his hands on your maidenly body, your nightgown tumbled about your waist, his trousers no doubt open.”

“Good heavens, sir, I do believe that you are as mad as a hatter.”

Amity whirled on her heel intending to depart the scene. She collided with a large, immovable object.

“Benedict.” Jolted, she stopped short. The little green cap that was angled over her left brow came free of its pins. “Oh, for pity’s sake.” She managed to grab the cap before it landed on the floor. “I didn’t see you standing there, sir. Must you sneak around like that?”

“Who was he?” Benedict asked.

The low-voiced question was laden with a dark, fierce, decidedly dangerous threat.

Amity popped the cap back on top of her head and peered up at Benedict. He was not looking at her. His attention was fixed on the crowd behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Arthur Kelbrook disappearing into the throng.

“Mr. Kelbrook?” She shuddered in disgust and turned back to face Benedict. “A very unpleasant man with a decidedly warped imagination.”

“In that case, why the devil were you talking to him alone in this alcove?”

She was startled by his tone. Surely Benedict was not jealous? No, of course not. His only concern was for her safety. She should be grateful. And she was grateful. Very grateful.

“I assure you, he was properly introduced and our initial conversation was quite harmless,” she said. “Mr. Kelbrook expressed a deep interest in my travel articles. But then he started to ask for details of my encounter with the killer. When I declined to provide them, he resorted to inventing a few outrageous particulars.”

Benedict yanked his attention away from Kelbrook and pinned her with a feral gaze. “What the hell do you mean by invent?”

She cleared her throat. “I believe he was nurturing some dark fantasy that involved me being assaulted by the Bridegroom.”

“You were assaulted.”

“Mr. Kelbrook was enthralled by the notion that I had been assaulted in a more intimate fashion, if you comprehend me.”

For a split second Benedict looked confused. Then cold rage lit his eyes. “He imagined you were raped? He wanted you to describe such a scene to him?”

“Something along those lines, yes.”

“That son of a bitch,” Benedict said much too softly.

The icy fury in his gaze alarmed her.

“I assured him that there had been no time for that sort of thing,” she said quickly. “I told him that I had escaped unharmed. I had just informed Mr. Kelbrook that he was as mad as a hatter and I was about to leave his company when you arrived.”

“I will deal with him,” Benedict vowed in that same too-quiet voice.

In spite of her alarm, Amity experienced a rush of warmth. Benedict really was determined to protect her. She was so accustomed to being on her own and obliged to take care of herself that she was not entirely certain how to respond.

“I appreciate the offer, sir,” she said. “But it is entirely unnecessary for you to take any further action.”

“It was not an offer,” Benedict said.

“Benedict,” she said very firmly, “you must not do anything rash. Do you understand?”

“Mad,” Benedict said, going abruptly thoughtful.

She frowned. “Eccentric, certainly, and cursed with an unwholesome imagination, but I’m not sure one can label Mr. Kelbrook mad. He is not the killer if that is what you are thinking.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. Everything about him was different—his hands, his physical stature, his voice—everything.”

“You said that he was as mad as a hatter.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

“Logan and the press are convinced that the Bridegroom is quite mad,” Benedict pointed out.

“Well, surely no sane man would go about murdering women. What are you getting at, sir?”

“It just occurred to me that we might be overlooking a rather obvious clue. If the killer is truly mad, it is quite likely that someone who knows him well—a member of his family, perhaps—is aware of his unnatural behavior.”

She considered that briefly. “You may be right. But you know how it is when there is a streak of insanity in the family. People will go to
great lengths to conceal it. Rumors of madness in the bloodline can destroy a high-ranking family. The other members of their social circle will refuse to allow their sons and daughters to take the risk of marrying into a clan that is perceived to be tainted by madness.”